Jude Devine Mystery Series (85 page)

“You need to rest so I can pick your brain in the morning. I want to catch the guy who killed your uncle.”

Pippa took the pill and flopped dejectedly onto one of the armchairs in front of the TV. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this will all be a horrible nightmare.”

“Take a shower before that pill makes you woozy, then get into bed and close your eyes,” Jude instructed, surprised at herself. She sounded like someone’s mother.

The young woman nodded absently. “He spoke to me before he died. I asked him who did it but he didn’t say. All he talked about was Oscar.”

“You were there with him at the end.” Jude soothed her as best she could. “The last thing he saw was the face of someone he loved. I know it’s not much, but most victims of violent crime are not so fortunate. I’m sure it was a comfort to him.”

Tears drenched Pippa’s deep-sea eyes. “Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks, Detective Devine. You’ve been really nice.”

Amazing
, Jude thought cynically,
some of us are human beings
. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Jude wrote her room number on the hotel notepad and said, “Just in case.”

As she left, she glanced back before closing the door. Pippa was hugging herself like a hurt child, tears rolling down her face.

*

“What does it take for you to answer your phone?” Mercy’s throaty tease made Jude’s skin prickle. “I’ve been calling all day.”

Jude deleted the voicemail message without listening to the rest of it. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with her ex. Not today, and probably not tomorrow, either. Mercy had been phoning her and stopping by the stationhouse on flimsy pretexts ever since she returned from her honeymoon in March. Jude wasn’t sure why Mercy wanted to pretend they could be friends. She’d never been suckered into that lesbian daydream, herself. When it was over, it was over. Whatever “it” was.

By any definition, she and Mercy didn’t have a “relationship.” A relationship implied emotional connection, a togetherness that existed on more than one plane. Jude didn’t know how to categorize their liaison. She supposed the term “hookup” could be applied to a series of nonexclusive sexual encounters with the same person. Zero commitment. Fun while it lasted. Anyway, she was a free agent now.

Unenthralled by the thought, Jude tossed her cell phone on the bed and stalked into the tiny bathroom. She turned on the shower, stripped, and stuffed her dirty clothes into the laundry bag she’d brought with her. She always felt disgusting after walking a crime scene, as if death had soaked into her pores. For that reason she kept a scrubbing brush and loofah mittens in her overnight bag.

After she’d gone through the motions of cleaning her body, she toweled off and checked out her physique in the mirror, a habit she ascribed to common sense, not vanity. If she wasn’t well toned, she was vulnerable, and Jude didn’t like feeling subpar. She turned slowly and saw powerful shoulders and arms, but a belly and hips that needed work. Since her broken ankle she’d slacked off and it showed.

Irritated, she scrubbed her teeth. She needed to get back into her old routine, taking long hikes whenever she had a couple of days off. That was one thing she loved about living in the Southwest. There was always something new and wonderful to explore. She could always find solitude and silence.

Her cell phone rang, and she spat the foamy toothpaste and rinsed hastily. It was probably Koertig or Pratt calling to see how things were going with Pippa Calloway. She rushed to the bed and flipped the phone open before voicemail could pick up.

“Jude?” came a soft query.

Horrified, Jude lowered the phone from her ear and peered at the caller ID. In her haste to take the call, she hadn’t checked before answering.

“Is this work related?” she asked, just in case the Fates had decided to torture her and Mercy had been assigned to conduct the autopsy on Fabian Maulle.

“If I say yes will you talk to me?”

Jude hated Mercy’s habit of answering a question with a question. “I don’t have time for this. What do you want?”

“Why won’t you come to the soirée?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Jude plunked herself down on the bed. “Is that what you’re calling about?”

“Jude, we have to move beyond this. It’s been months since the wedding. Your behavior only draws attention and makes people wonder.”

“Like attention is a problem for you. Was I on drugs or did you and Elspeth go on TV to announce your wedding?”

“I wasn’t referring to myself,” Mercy said. “You’re the one who’s paranoid about being outed.”

“Funny, that’s not how it seemed when we were seeing each other.”

Mercy had flatly refused to go on social outings in case they were spotted together. Jude had respected her wishes. After all, they didn’t live in San Francisco. This was the Four Corners, right next to Utah, not exactly a bastion of tolerance and diversity. The few gays and lesbians Jude encountered were not out publicly, although friends and family usually knew. Durango had a visible LGBT community and a PFLAG branch, adding fuel to the widely held view that the place was a hotbed of liberals and rich lefties, destined to become just like that hippy-infested Sodom in the east, Boulder.

Jude didn’t have a problem with being discreet, and besides, it suited her agenda. Being open about her sexual orientation would compromise her undercover operation. There was no way Harrison Hawke would bare his soul with a lesbian, so Jude had gone to some trouble to establish heterosexual credentials, including a bogus boyfriend. The mutual “beard” arrangement she had struck with Bobby Lee Parker was in part to help her cover, but she had also gone that route to shield Mercy. Not that it made any difference. Mercy still wouldn’t share even the kinds of social outings that were normal for women whose paths crossed professionally. Now, all of a sudden, she was out and proud. Married, no less, to the woman she’d been sleeping with throughout her nonmonogamous unrelationship with Jude. Elspeth Harwood, phoniness personified.

“Elspeth and I are willing to let bygones be bygones,” Mercy said.

Jude was ready to puke. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“No! Please. Wait.”

A soft rush of breath poured into Jude’s ear, filling her with unbearable longing. She still missed Mercy so badly she could forget to breathe. Hating that sorry fact, she forced her lungs to process air and said, “Could we just let this go? I’m not coming to your party. I’m not into the movies your wife makes. I have nothing in common with her or her friends. Why would I torture myself by spending a whole evening with those people?”

“To see me,” Mercy said.

“Are you serious? You think I’m that desperate?”

“Yes.”

Infuriated, Jude said, “Fuck you.”

“Yes, fuck me.”

The husky reply made the blood rush to Jude’s head. She sagged back against the pillows, willing herself not to hear Mercy repeating those very words as their bodies danced in carnal rhythm. She wanted to hang up, but the sound of Mercy’s breathing stopped her. Thanks to a marvel of technology, their voices could bounce from earth to space and back again. Yet they still weren’t communicating.

Jude forced herself to lower the phone before Mercy could speak again. Staring at the display, she placed her finger on the End button and severed the electronic pulse that connected them.

*

Lone turned in her rental Toyota at Provo, took a cab to one of several Starbucks in the vicinity, and walked for twenty minutes to reach the garage she’d leased for the past year under the name “Houseclean Enterprises.” She swapped the plates on the Honda Accord she’d left there on Thursday, then drove to Monticello, not stopping at any time during the four-hour trip. As she approached Madeline’s tidy suburban house, she checked her wristwatch. Taking this route, the trip home from Jackson Hole was around seven hundred miles, just over twelve hours on the road, counting the stopover in Provo. It was now 0320 hours. With the final leg to Rico, she would be home before six in the morning, exactly according to plan.

She parked in the garage and closed the door by remote. At this time of night the neighbors were all asleep. Hopefully no one would notice her arrival and even if they did, they wouldn’t think twice about it. She made a point of visiting the house at least once a month, like any absentee owner, staying for a couple of days to make sure her property was in order. During that time, she would come and go occasionally, including late at night. Routines were important. People paid no attention when they seemed familiar.

The house was silent and had a musty, unoccupied smell. Lone turned on the kitchen light, took a bottle of juice from the fridge, and sat down at the table. As she drank, she reviewed her decision to execute the first phase of her mission at an event instead of at one of the three Cheney residences.

The drawbacks were obvious. Heightened security. Greater risk of collateral damage. Late notice—most Cheney appearances weren’t announced publicly until close to the date, so last-minute logistics hassles were inevitable.

Yet there was an upside. Security would be tight. It always was when the VP left a secure location for one of his carefully orchestrated glimpses of the outside world. Yet the Secret Service’s successful record in protecting vice presidents could create a chink. Cheney’s detail thought they had the threat assessment formula down. They believed they could single out the kind of individual who could be gunning for their man. Audiences were handpicked and subject to intense screening. Only the party faithful and big donors were allowed up close.

By controlling access, the Secret Service had the battle half won. Their man would never veer off script and break through the perimeter of his protection on some random whim to speak to a veteran in a wheelchair, or kiss a baby. Such impulses were driven by curiosity or an innate empathy for others—human sentiments that would never afflict the Dicktator. This was a man who shot captive quail from the safety of his car: why not stalk hamsters? If there was one thing Lone could count on, it was that Cheney’s actions in a crisis would be driven by self-interest, cowardice, and paranoia. He was completely predictable, and that made her planning easier.

To neutralize him, she intended to exploit the one vulnerability all high-profile targets shared. Arrival and departure. The Secret Service could control access in a contained space, but out in the open the environment was unpredictable. Massive advance planning was always undertaken and plans were made for all kinds of contingency. Routes were kept secret and streets and buildings around the venue were cleared. But there was no way to guarantee security. The unexpected could happen and Lone planned to make sure it did.

She knew exactly how to create the opportunity she needed. Chaos would be a factor. Wherever Cheney went, there would always be protestors, and in certain cities the turnout would be optimum. A frightened crowd could be counted upon to create a commotion. A van full of plastic explosive would deliver mayhem, even if no one was hurt. Lone had spent the past year observing the security measures at Cheney appearances and making advance plans of her own for five potential venues. By her calculations, he would appear at one of these in the near future, and she would be ready. She even knew where she would park the van and which building she would hide in ahead of time.

Lone poured the rest of the juice down the drain and walked through the house, making sure all the doors and windows were secure. She paused in the bedroom she’d shared with Madeline and picked up a framed photo from the dresser. Madeline and Brandon, heads tilted close. From each face, the same serious brown eyes regarded her with deep affection. Mother and son smiled with the joyful surprise of people whose lives hadn’t been easy and who cherished the good times when they came along. Lone dusted the picture against her T-shirt and replaced it on the wood surface. Despite her lack of faith, she believed they were together now, in heaven. Surely, if there was a higher being, they had been granted peace.

Sitting on her side of the bed, Lone dwelled on her undertaking. She knew it was wrong to take the law into her own hands. But the men of the evil alliance did not respect the law or the constitution. They were bereft of honor or conscience, and entirely corrupted by power. Their stranglehold on the country had to end, and surely it was the duty of any true patriot to see that it did. Lone took that duty seriously. Operation Houseclean was now in transition. Her planning was complete, her rehearsal phase was in its final stages. Within weeks, she would be ready to execute.