Confessions (19 page)

“No.” She lifted her chin. “Whatever problems I have with Maggie or my father, or once had with Laura, are not for public scrutiny. This is my private life we're talking about, Callahan.”

“Wrong.” He caught her aggressive chin between his fingers and held her gaze to his. “Because as far as I'm concerned, no one who knew your sister has a private life.”

She tried to toss her head and only succeeding in causing his fingers to tighten. He was towering over her in a way that secretly made her mouth go dry. But refusing to
let him see that she was the least bit intimidated, she glared right back at him.

“You're as disgusting as all those reporters. Always mucking around in our lives, delving under rocks, trying to unearth ugly family secrets.”

What ugly family secrets was she hiding? Trace wondered. “The only thing I'm trying to find is Laura's killer. If you didn't pull that trigger, then you don't have anything to worry about.”

Mariah's first thought was that for a supposedly hotshot detective, Trace Callahan didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Because thanks to Maggie's headlong tumble off the wagon, she had a lot to worry about.

Mariah's second thought, and the one that sent shock waves reverberating through her, was that he may actually believe her capable of having murdered her own sister.

“Are you saying I'm a suspect?”

His expression gave nothing away. “I told you, everyone's a suspect.”

“Well, I certainly didn't do it. As
I
told
you,
I was stuck in Camp Verde. Because of your damn barricades,” she reminded him archly. If she'd only gone around them…

“The clerk at the Pinewood Motel agrees with you about the time you checked in. Unfortunately, since you didn't come by the office when you checked out, he has no idea what time you left.”

She couldn't believe this! “You actually checked me out?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Mariah echoed flatly. Deciding that she'd made a mistake coming here, she turned back toward the door. “I think it's time I left.”

“You haven't told me how things went at the lawyer's,” he reminded her.

“Just nifty. My sister died and left me the ranch, which allows me the pleasure of evicting her rat of a husband, who, as we speak, is preparing to announce his candidacy for the presidency on a platform built on top of his dead wife.

“My father, unsurprisingly, nearly had apoplexy, my mother used the opportunity to slash away at him and you've practically accused me of murder.” Her feelings were still stung by his accusation. “So far, it's been a dandy day. I can't wait for tonight's fireworks.”

“I'm sorry.” Trace couldn't stop the sudden surge of tenderness. To make sure he behaved, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “You needed a friend and I acted like a cop.”

“You
are
a cop.”

“Yes. I am.” The message hovered in the air between them, in huge capital letters, too bold and too clear to ignore. She hadn't needed to kiss Trace to know that he was attracted to her. As she was to him. But as much as he wanted her, as many official rules as he'd reluctantly bend for her, he couldn't be anything other than what he was.

“You and Sam Spade,” she murmured.

“Spade was a private detective.”

“True. But he still turned in Brigit O'Shaughnessy. Even though—” When she realized what she'd been about to say, Mariah shut her mouth so quickly and so hard her teeth slammed together.

“Even though he loved her,” Trace said, finishing her thought, his eyes on hers.

He saw embarrassment in those deep turquoise depths. But it was the lambent hunger he also viewed there that was making his blood run a little warmer and his heart beat faster. With the rigid self-determination that had
pulled him back from the edge of the grave after the shooting, he cooled the first and leveled the second.

It might not be love he was feeling for Mariah Swann. But whatever it was, it was dangerous enough to make a careless or foolhardy man forget his priorities. Fortunately, Trace had never considered himself either careless or foolhardy.

“Spade had no choice,” he said. “Brigit O'Shaughnessy was a murderer.”

Mariah knew they were no longer talking about Dashiell Hammett's famous
Maltese Falcon.
She also understood all too well that if he truly believed her guilty of murder, Trace would put aside any personal feelings and arrest her. “Well, I'm not,” she said firmly.

He nodded. “I'm glad to hear that.”

An expectant silence settled over them.

“I should be getting back to the hotel,” she said reluctantly.

“I have to go over to the fairground to boost security for the senator,” Trace said at the same time.

“Too bad you can't call in sick,” she muttered. “With any luck, there really is a crazed assassin out there who'd love the opportunity to get a second shot at the bastard.”

“Not in my county.”

Mariah would have expected him to say nothing less.

They were about to leave the house when the phone rang at the same time his radio sputtered to life. Trace scooped up the phone.

“Callahan.”

As he listened to the caller, Mariah watched the anger move across his face like a thunderhead.

“I'll be right there.” He hung up as abruptly as he'd answered. Then he cursed.

“What's the matter?” Mariah's first worried thought was for Maggie.

“It's Heather Martin,” Trace said, his voice as grim as his expression. “She's dead.”

I
t looked like an accident.

The paramedics had already thrown in the towel when Trace arrived at the lodge. Although they'd pulled Heather Martin's lifeless body from the antique, lion-footed tub, they'd left the rest of the evidence where they'd found it. A lacy bra and panties had been laid out on the lid of the closed commode; a fluffy white towel lay atop a wrinkled terry bath mat on the moss green tile floor. Beside the towel was an antique brass rack. There was approximately a foot of scented water cooling in the tub.

Appearances suggested the aide had stood up, reached for the towel and slipped on the slick oil at the bottom of the tub, which had caused her to pull the rack off the wall before hitting her head on the side of the porcelain tub.

Experience had taught Trace not to trust first impressions. It had also taught him to suspect easy answers.

Like a historical biographer, whose job it is to reconstruct a person's life from boxes of moldy old letters and diaries, in the basement of the Whiskey River courthouse, Dr. Stanley Potter attempted to image the last moments of Heather Martin's life.

“Rigor mortis is present in the extremities,” the physician observed, his flat business-as-usual voice echoing around the cold cavernous autopsy room.

“It's only been a little over two hours,” Trace noted.

“She was taking a bath. You should know as well as I do, Sheriff, that hot water speeds up the process.”

“So does a violent struggle before death.”

The doctor gave him a sideways look. “You're jumping the gun.”

Trace's answering gaze was steady. “Someone's killing people in my town.”

“Someone sure as hell killed Laura Fletcher,” Potter agreed as he returned to studying the body. “But the jury's still out on this one….

“Subject has a tattoo measuring—” he pulled out a clear plastic ruler “—one centimeter in diameter on her left breast.”

From what he'd been able to tell the few times they'd met, Heather Martin had favored a classic, traditional look that suggested private schools, stone houses with rolling green lawns and summers abroad. The gaudy blue-and-red butterfly was definitely a contrast to the congressional aide's professional outward appearance. But then so was having an affair with your married, very high-profile boss.

Still waters,
Trace thought. “There's also some bruising.” He leaned forward to better see the discolorations marring the smooth white flesh of the aide's chest. “But they're whitish, so they're obviously postmortem. From the resuscitation attempt?”

Potter nodded. “That'd be my guess.”

He continued methodically measuring, dictating and cutting.

“Two cracked ribs, which are also consistent with a resuscitation attempt.”

Two hours later, he was finishing up his autopsy. “No
fractures,” he said after examining the skull. “Nothing that would suggest she was knocked unconscious, which goes along with the water in her lungs.”

“Are you saying she drowned? In a foot of bathwater?” Trace's voice was thick with disbelief.

“I'm not saying anything. Yet. But it's not impossible. Hell, 350 people drown every year in bathtubs,” the doctor informed him.

“I know the statistics, Doc,” Trace muttered. He also knew enough to trust his instincts. Heather Martin was no drowning victim.

“Well, well, would you look at this.” Potter had pulled the skin at the back of the victim's head down, revealing two faint bruises at the base of her skull, one on either side of her neck.

It was a handprint, Trace realized. A thumb on the left side, fingers on the right.

“Gotcha,” he murmured.

After holding a brief press conference to state that Heather Martin had died of “undetermined causes,” and to also assure the gathered reporters that his department was not focusing on any one person or motive to the exclusion of others, Trace returned to the lodge, where, after this morning's surprising revelation in the lawyer's office, Alan Fletcher had checked into a room on the second floor.

Only days ago, the senator had been a man sitting on top of the world. He was rich and powerful, had a beautiful, intelligent wife and from what Trace had surmised, an equally beautiful and intelligent mistress. And if that wasn't enough, the presidency of the most powerful country in the world looked within reach.

This evening he looked like a man who'd just discovered the hard way that he'd been living on an earthquake
fault and had awakened to find his entire privileged life turned to rubble.

“I'm sorry to intrude, Senator,” Trace began, “but—”

“You have some more questions.”

“Yes.”

Peter Worthington appeared behind the senator. “I've already told you, Sheriff—”

“No.” Alan shook his head. His handsome face was vacant; Trace could read not an iota of emotion. “It's all right, Peter. I want to talk to the sheriff.”

He moved aside, inviting Trace into the suite. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, gesturing toward the bar. “A drink, or some coffee, or—”

“Nothing, thanks.”

Trace took the small card from his pocket. He'd decided on the drive from the courthouse that it was time to Mirandize the senator. There were now two dead women who'd been involved with the guy. If Fletcher was guilty, or in any way involved, Trace wasn't going to risk blowing his case on a technicality.

After reading the warnings, Trace asked Alan if he was still willing to speak with him.

“I told you, Sheriff, I
want
to speak with you.”

“As your attorney, I must warn you against this, Alan,” Worthington stressed.

“I've nothing to hide, Peter.” Alan sat down in a tub chair and gestured Trace toward the couch facing it.

Trace studied Alan for a moment, looking for some subtle sign, something to tell him that his instincts were more than a cop's justifiable suspicion along with a dislike of politicians in general.

In Trace's world, politicians were the guys who tended either to fuck up investigations in order to protect some high-flying contributor, or who muscled in and took credit once a case turned out well.

He didn't like them. And he didn't trust them. Which was pretty much the way he was feeling about Alan Fletcher. His internal gyroscope was telling him that the senator knew a helluva lot more than he was telling.

During his days in Dallas, Trace had followed a cardinal code: if it looked like a skunk and walked like a skunk it was probably a skunk. And although in Fletcher's case, the putrid scent of skunk lingered over both women's deaths, Trace knew that Jess Ingersoll needed to walk into that Mogollon County courtroom armed with a helluva lot more than a bad smell.

“I know we discussed this earlier, Senator,” he said, “but I'd appreciate it if you could tell me again about how you found Ms. Martin's body.”

“Of course.” Alan looked thoughtful. “We were planning to leave for the rally together. Heather was a stickler about punctuality, so when she didn't answer my knock, I was immediately worried that something might have happened to her.”

His voice cracked ever so slightly. “I was afraid someone shot her. Like Laura.”

“Why would you think that?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I was just worried about her. With good reason, as it turns out.”

“Uh-huh.” Trace took out his notebook, paused and wrote something down. “How did you get into Ms. Martin's room?”

Fletcher's expression gave nothing away. “I had a key. We worked closely together,” he said quickly. A bit too quickly, Trace thought. “There were times when I needed to be able to retrieve things from her briefcase or her desk.”

“I see.” Trace made another notation. “The thing is, Senator,” he said, flipping back through the pages, “we've got a problem.”

“A problem?”

“You haven't been entirely honest with me from the beginning.” He found the page he was looking for. “For instance, at first you told me that your marriage was a happy one. And that you and your wife had engaged in sexual relations only days before she arrived in Whiskey River to prepare for the barbecue you were hosting for friends.

“Then, later, you admitted that your marriage wasn't exactly idyllic, after all. You also admitted you'd hadn't had sex with your wife for six months.”

“I explained about those misstatements—”

“Yes.” Trace nodded, and resumed turning the pages. “You stated that the reason for your
misstatements
—” he laced the pretty word for lies with a slickly sarcastic tone “—was that you were trying to protect your dead wife's reputation.”

Ignoring the bait, Fletcher agreeably nodded. “That's precisely what I was doing.”

“Okay. So whose reputation were you trying to protect when you failed to tell me that you and your aide were having an affair?”

“That's not true.”

Trace resisted rolling his eyes and put on his most sympathetic face. “You have a law degree, don't you, Senator?”

Alan's eyes narrowed, as if seeking the trap. “From Harvard,” he agreed.

“And, if I remember correctly, before being elected to the senate, you were a district attorney in Phoenix.”

“That's right. In Maricopa County.”

“So you know that in the eyes of the law, there's a helluva big difference between first degree murder and manslaughter.”

“Of course, but if you're implying—”

“I'm not implying anything. All I'm doing is suggesting that the two scenarios are not the same. Nor are the penalties,” he commented pointedly, practically inviting Fletcher to choose the lesser now, while the options were still open.

Trace wasn't particularly surprised when the senator managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Perhaps you promised Ms. Martin, during one of your little political jaunts together away from the capitol, that you'd marry her,” he continued to press. “Perhaps, after your wife was no longer in the picture, she reminded you of that promise.”

“That's not—”

“Perhaps—” Trace stood up now, towering over Fletcher, using his superior size to intimidate “—she even threatened to tell things about your wife's murder that would implicate you.”

“That's impossible! I had nothing to do with Laura's death.”

“So you keep saying. But, let's put that aside for now. Let's suppose that you're telling the truth about that night. That your wife's death was just one of those convenient coincidences. Two masked men broke into your home and killed her, leaving you a free man.”

“I was shot, too.”

Trace was rapidly losing patience. He'd also decided that diplomacy was for diplomats. “Give me a break,” he all but growled. “Want to know what I think, Senator?”

The sweat beading on Fletcher's brow was the only sign of his discomfort. “What?”

“I think you got sick and tired of being trapped in a bad marriage, but even though you knew your wife was sleeping with her ex, you were afraid to divorce her because of the political fallout. So, you worked out this plan to get rid of her.

“And Ms. Martin knew about it and decided it was time you made an honest woman of her, which you weren't prepared to do. At first you tried to reason with her, but like most women in love, reason wasn't what she wanted to hear.”

Trace was leaning down, face-to-face with Fletcher. “The lady wanted marriage and she pushed and pushed and threatened to go public and pushed and pushed some more until you were so mad, so frustrated, that you lost control of your senses and to shut her the fuck up, you shoved her head under that bathwater and you held her there. And when she began struggling, you kept her head beneath the water until finally she wasn't struggling anymore.

“Because she was dead. Like your wife. Like Laura.”

Trace saw anger flash across the senator's face before he quickly controlled it. “I didn't kill Laura. Nor did I kill Heather.”

“I suppose next you'll be telling me it was the one-armed man.”

“You're skating on very thin ice, Sheriff,” Worthington interjected quickly. “Any more insinuations like that and I'll be forced to report your cowboy behavior to the governor.”

“Is that a threat, Counselor?” Trace asked in a dangerously soft voice.

“Merely a warning,” the attorney corrected. “Need I remind you that my client is a very important man?”

“Laura Swann Fletcher was important too,” Trace retorted. A memory of Mariah Swann brushing her dead sister's auburn hair from her forehead flashed in his mind's eye again. “And it's my job to find her killer.”

Trace turned his attention back to Fletcher. “Come on, Senator. Let's close this thing up so we can all get on with
our lives. Tell me about Heather. Tell me what happened.”

Alan lifted a brow. “The truth will set you free?”

The guy was damn good. Trace would give him that. He'd never witnessed anyone who could remain so cool under pressure. “Not necessarily. But lying sure as hell won't help, either.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“You tell me.”

The senator exchanged a long look with his attorney. As Fletcher folded his arms over his chest, Trace waited for the inevitable. He didn't have to wait long.

“I believe I've said all I intend to say, Sheriff.”

It figured, Trace thought.

 

Although it was early evening, the room was dark, the silvery twilight shut out by thick wooden window shutters. Clint Garvey was sprawled on his back on the leather sofa in his office, where he'd passed out after polishing off a bottle of Southern Comfort. He was dreaming of Laura. Of the life they'd planned together. The life her father had vowed to prevent.

He was dreaming of their baby, a green-eyed little girl with her mother's soft auburn hair, who'd be able to charm her way around his little finger.