Night Whispers (40 page)

"Then let's help them find a better choice." Noah slid a list made up by Sloan across the desk and Robbins picked it up. "Those are the names of the people who were at the house that day and evening. One of them either murdered Edith or they let the murderer inside the house. Use your connections, run them through the system. One of them will turn up dirty if you dig deep enough. I'm afraid the local cops will decide Sloan is their murderer and stop digging. I want you to dig and keep digging until you find dirt, and I want it done fast."

Finished, Noah waited for Jack to stand up and get at the task. "Any questions?" he asked.

"Yeah, one—" his friend said with a grin. "Do you happen to have a picture of this woman?"

Noah misunderstood his reason for asking that. "I don't need you to check Sloan out," he said impatiently. "I want you to check out the others. Sloan couldn't hurt a fly. Hell, she's afraid of guns when they're locked in a room."

"I don't want to check her out; I just want to have a look at the woman who finally got under your skin."

"Get out of here and get busy. I don't even want Sloan's name bandied around in the press as a
possible
suspect." Despite his last statement, Noah had a sudden impulse to show off the woman he loved, and he reached into his desk drawer. "On the other hand," he said as Robbins stood up, "I don't want your curiosity over Sloan's appearance to distract you from your work." He slid the newspaper story about Sloan's party across the desk. At the top was a wide-angle picture that took in much of the general scene that night. Sloan was in the foreground with her father.

"Blond, huh?" Jack joked. "I thought you liked brunettes."

"I like that blond."

"Where's she from?"

"Bell Harbor. She's an interior designer."

"Whoever designed her exterior did a spectacular job," Jack said admiringly. "I see Senator Meade graced the affair with his crooked political presence."

"Naturally. He and Carter find each other eternally useful," Noah added, but Jack wasn't listening. He slid the clipping toward Noah and pointed to a couple who were dancing in the background.

"Paris, Sloan's sister."

"I know Paris. Who is the guy she's dancing with?"

"A friend of Sloan's who came along with her to lend moral support while she met her family for the first time. He's in the insurance business."

"What's his name?"

"Paul Richardson. Why?"

"I don't know. He—looks familiar."

"Maybe he sold you insurance. Check him out along with all the others on your list."

"Will do."

"Mrs. Snowden will show you up to your room. Do you need a computer to use?"

"No." Jack lifted his briefcase, which contained his laptop computer. "I never leave home without it."

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A
ndy Cagle slouched contentedly in the passenger seat as Dennis Flynn put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb in front of Grant Wilson's building. The attorney had been delayed in probate court, and they'd had to cool their heels for over two hours in his office before he returned, and then they had to convince him he was in possession of material evidence that would help solve this murder.

The effort had been worth it. What they'd discovered had them both in a state of excited disbelief, because making an arrest in this case was going to be much easier than they'd imagined.

"I'm almost afraid to believe it," Flynn said. "Why do you think Edith Reynolds didn't tell Carter that she'd changed her will and made Sloan an heir?"

"I don't know. Maybe she thought he'd argue. Maybe she didn't think it was any of his business. Maybe she never got around to telling him."

"It doesn't matter," Flynn said with a grin. "All that matters is that Wilson said Edith assured him she'd discussed the new will with Sloan."

Cagle shoved his glasses up on his nose and nodded with satisfaction. "Yep. And the only way Sloan could make sure that Great-grandma didn't change her mind later, when Sloan was gone, was to bump her off right now."

Flynn nodded. "We've got motive and opportunity. We need the weapon. Should we bring her in for questioning and see if we can drag the location out of her, or should we notify the team at the house and tell them what we know? They can start combing her room and keep going from there."

"Let's try to find it without alerting her that we're onto her."

Flynn picked up his cellular phone, called Lieutenant Fineman at the Reynolds house, and filled him in on the latest development.

As Flynn was about to hang up, Cagle had an inspiration. "Tell the boys to be sure and search the shrubbery line along the north side of the property all the way down to the beach. Maitland said she was coming from the north when he saw her that night She probably wasn't stupid enough to hide the weapon in her suitcase or somewhere we'd be able to find it easily. And tell them to make sure she doesn't catch on to what they're doing. I don't want her moving the weapon."

Flynn spoke into the telephone and relayed that message along with a suggestion: "Keep her busy writing out her recollection of the night or something." He hung up. "Let's go make the captain's day," he said dryly. "If they find the weapon in time, Hocklin will have time to primp before he faces the nation on network news."

News of the early breakthrough in the Reynolds murder spread through the police department and brought on a mood of pure elation.

"Pure luck, you guys," the sergeant joked as he walked by.

"Congratulations," Hank said as he dumped an armload of DBT reports on the former suspects onto Andy Cagle's desk. "I guess you won't be needing these anymore."

Cagle sorted through the reports and pulled out the only file he was interested in; behind him, Flynn answered his telephone. "We'll be right there!" Flynn shot out of his chair and grabbed his jacket. "They found the murder weapon," he told Cagle. "Nine-millimeter dock, and one round is missing from the magazine. Let's go get a warrant signed."

Cagle was already on his feet, pulling on his jacket. "Where was it?"

"You aren't going to believe how dumb this broad is," Flynn said, shaking his head. "She had it stashed under her mattress. Like, we'd never think to look there."

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S
loan was in the dining room with Paris, trying to write out a longhand report on the events of the night before, which struck her as an absurd waste of time, while Paris answered constant telephone calls from horrified family friends. Lieutenant Fineman was hovering in the hallway talking quietly to someone from the crime investigation team. The front doorbell rang, and Sloan glanced up as Nordstrom walked down the hall to answer it. When she looked up a moment later, Detectives Cagle and Flynn were walking swiftly into the dining room.

Sloan saw the cold, determined expressions on their faces, and the ballpoint pen slid from her fingers.

"Sloan Reynolds," Flynn said, pulling her out of the chair and shoving her to the wall. "You're under arrest for the murder of Edith Reynolds." He yanked her arms behind her and cuffed her. "You have the right to remain silent—"

"No!" Paris screamed, bracing her hands on the table and swaying as if she were about to faint. "No—"

"It's a mistake," Sloan promised over her shoulder as she was rushed outside. "It's a mistake. It will be all right." Two police cruisers were waiting in the driveway, engines running, and Sloan was shoved into the backseat of one of them.

The press were staked out at the street, and a commotion went up when they realized the police were taking someone from the house. As the car passed through the gates, cameras were aimed at her in the backseat and Minicams were shoved at the car windows.

In the front seat, Andy Cagle turned around and eyed her as if she were some sort of deadly bacteria. "Interested in talking, or would you prefer to wait until after we book you?"

The phrase
You're making a mistake
leapt to Sloan's lips, but she bit it back because it was just too trite to be uttered. She'd heard it hundreds of times from every guilty creep who'd ever been brought in for questioning or to be booked, and she couldn't bear to hear herself say it.

They drove past Noah's house, and she saw the fountain splashing over the sailfish behind his gates. She wondered how long it would be before he heard the news.

Paul had left the house on some sort of urgent errand and had said only that he'd be back "later." Cagle and Flynn obviously didn't plan to question her before they booked her, so Paul wouldn't get to her before she was processed through the system, and that made her furious. She did not relish being fingerprinted and photographed with a number in front of her chest one damned bit! That hadn't been part of the deal when she agreed to come to Palm Beach.

What she couldn't understand was why they didn't seem to think they needed to question her. She forgot Cagle had asked her a question until he reminded her: "Does your silence mean you'd prefer to talk after you're booked?"

"No," Sloan said as calmly as she could. "My silence means I'm waiting for some explanation about why you don't seem to think you need proof."

Flynn looked over his shoulder while he waited for two trucks to respond to his siren and clear out of his path. "Now, what makes you think we'd do a nasty thing like arresting you without any proof?"

The gleeful arrogance in his tone caused Sloan to enjoy a brief fantasy about doubling up her fist. "You can't have any proof because I didn't commit the crime."

"Let's save this little chat for a few minutes until we can do it face-to-face," he responded, stepping on the accelerator and swerving around the trucks.

The front entrance of the police station was surrounded by a mob of television crews, newspaper reporters, and photographers, and Sloan was certain that was precisely why she was taken in through the front of the building instead of another entrance: Flynn and Cagle were parading their prize in handcuffs for the mob to photograph and film.

Sloan had a fleeting thought of her mother seeing this on the evening news, and that made her feel worse than anything else… until Flynn and Cagle put her into a room with a two-way glass window and shoved a plastic bag with her gun in it across the table at her. "Recognize this?"

After she got over the shock of seeing it, Sloan was almost relieved that her gun was all they were hanging their arrest on. She opened her mouth to say that it was hers and she had a permit to carry it, but before she could, Flynn robbed her of the ability to speak: "Guess where we found it—under
your
mattress! Now, how do you suppose it got there?"

She'd hidden the weapon in a much less obvious place than under a mattress, and she'd checked that morning to make certain it was still where she'd left it. "I don't"—she leaned forward, gazing at her own nine millimeter Glock—"know how it got there," she said honestly. "That isn't where I had it hidden."

Flynn turned all warm and friendly. "Now you're doing this the right way." Sliding his chair forward, he glanced at Cagle. "Why don't you get Miss Reynolds a glass of water."

"I don't want a glass of water," Sloan informed Flynn, but Cagle ignored her and left the room. "I want answers! You found that under my mattress?"

Flynn gave a shout of laughter. "You're something else, lady. This is a first. Let me explain how this works, Miss Reynolds.
We
ask the questions.
You
give the answers."

Sloan's mind was whirling with shock and alarm as she reached an unthinkable conclusion. Ignoring his lecture on protocol, she said, "How many rounds were in the magazine?"

"Nine. One round is missing. Isn't that a coincidence? And you want to hear another coincidence? I think ballistics is going to tell us that the slug that killed Mrs. Reynolds came from this gun."

Sloan stared at him, chills beginning to slither up her spine. This morning she'd checked to make certain the weapon was still where she'd hidden it, but she hadn't seen any reason to check the magazine to see if it was still full. "Oh, my God!" she whispered.

Andy Cagle slid into the chair at his desk and reached for the DBT data on Sloan Reynolds. Something was bothering him about the way she'd reacted to seeing the gun—no, something about the way she was reacting to the whole ordeal of being brought into a police station for booking. He began scanning the file.

"Nice work, Andy," Captain Hocklin said as he strolled back into the building after having made a brief statement to the press announcing the arrest of Sloan Reynolds for the murder of Edith Reynolds. He patted Andy's shoulder to show his appreciation; then he stopped when Cagle looked up at him, his expression dazed and alarmed. "What the hell's the matter?" Hocklin said, instantly anticipating the worst because Cagle never looked alarmed about anything.

"She's a cop," Cagle said.