The Switch (14 page)

It took several moments for the words to sink in, and even then he couldn't make sense of them. "Gillian? No, Detective.
I was with Melina." He looked at her for confirmation. "Tell him."

She held his stare for a moment, then slowly shook her head.

When he got it, when all Lawson's snide little hints and Melina's unaccountable aloofness toward him finally coalesced into an explanation, he felt his features go slack. He took in her face, her mouth, her hair, her figure. He peered deeply into her eyes and was convinced that this was the woman he'd been with last night. "It was you," he declared in a raspy voice. "It was you."

"It was Gillian," she said quietly, as though speaking to him alone.

He didn't believe it. It simply couldn't be true. The woman looking back at him now was the woman who... who... Memories washed over him like a tidal wave. In one instant he recalled every smile, every sigh, every expression and nuance,
every touch. He couldn't mistake that woman for another. It wasn't possible.

She stood and came toward him, extending her hand. "I'm
Melina Lloyd, Colonel Hart. I was retained to be your media escort last night, but my twin went in my place."

He stared at her hand as though he didn't know what to do with it. Finally he recovered enough to reach out and take it. It felt the same, dammit. The texture of the skin, the size, the way it fit inside his. "I don't believe it," he said, not even realizing that he'd spoken out loud. "The resemblance is uncanny."

She smiled. "We've been told that since the day we were born."

"But your voice, it—"

"No one could tell our voices apart, either."

Dumbfounded, he continued to stare. The hair, the eyes, the lips, were all the same, except that last night she'd been wearing makeup. Or rather, Gillian had been.

Gillian.

Who'd been found murdered that morning.

He sucked in a harsh, painful breath. "She's dead?"

Sadly, her replicate nodded. "I can't believe it, either. But she is."

Suddenly things were clear. Now he understood why Lawson wanted to question him. He was one of the last people to have seen Gillian Lloyd alive. Maybe the very last. Other than her killer.

Realizing that he was still gripping Melina's hand, he let it go and she resumed her place near Jem Hennings. Had they introduced him as Gillian's
fiancé
? Her,
fiancé
?

Chief looked at him with renewed interest. He was glaring back at Chief, and resentment radiated off him like heat waves. He was red in the face and seemed to be vibrating somewhere deep within himself, like a kettle about to boil.

Though only Chief knew it, the man was due an apology. "I'm sorry." Then he added, "For your loss."

"You son of a bitch," Jem snarled.

Then he launched himself at Chief.

CHAPTER 10

No one expected the attack, although, having noticed Hennings's suppressed anger, Chief should have seen it coming. He'd never been one to go looking for trouble, but if it came looking for him, he had never backed down. He'd been in his fair share of fistfights and should have recognized the warning signals.

Melina and Birchman reacted with outcries of astonishment. Lawson grabbed Hennings by the shoulder and tried to pull him back, but the man was throwing wild punches. Chief managed to deflect the first several swings, but Hennings's fist finally connected with his cheekbone. That pissed him off enough to retaliate. He took a swing at the other man, but Lawson yanked Hennings out of the way in the nick of time.

"Cut it out! Now! Hennings, what the hell?" The detective struggled to subdue him and eventually his brute strength won out. Pushing Hennings hard, the detective sent him reeling backward. Off balance, he landed ignominiously in a chair. Lawson yelled at him, "You pull that shit again and you'll be cooling your ass in a holding cell!" Then he tugged on the hem of his, ill-fitting jacket, ran his hand over his flattop, and composed himself. "Excuse the rough language, Melina."

"You're excused. I was about to use some much rougher than that." Furiously bearing down on Hennings, she said, "What do you think you're doing, Jem? What's the matter with you?"

"I'll tell you what's the matter with me. If it weren't for him," he cried, jabbing his index finger at Chief, "Gillian would be alive. She was killed on account of him." His voice cracked on the last word. Burying his face in his hands, he began to sob.

Chief rounded on Lawson. "What the hell's he talking about?" he demanded. "And why didn't you explain the situation to me earlier? You could've told me about Melina and Gillian switching. I'd have been prepared—"

"Which is why I didn't tell you. I needed to see your reaction, needed to learn how much you knew."

Chief made no secret of his disgust with Lawson's tactics. "Or you knew it would make one hell of a show. Hope you enjoyed it."

Lawson ignored the insult. "Everything will be explained to you. But maybe we should postpone this until tempers have cooled."

"No."

It was Melina who dismissed the detective's suggestion. Chief saw tears standing in her eyes, but they were also filled with steely determination. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.

"I feel like doing what Jem's doing," she said. "I feel like crying my heart out. I don't want to be here. I especially don't want to be here for the reason we are. None of us does. But if this meeting will produce valuable leads, if it will help find my sister's murderer, then I'll cry later. I'd just like to get on with it so we can leave."

"Understood," the detective replied. "I'll make it as brief as I can. Thank you for indulging me."

"Thank me by finding and arresting the person who brought us to this," she said curtly.

The tight skin across Chief's cheekbone had been split open when Hennings hit him. He had stanched the blood with a handkerchief that Birchman had given him. It hadn't hurt at first; he'd been too stunned by Hennings's attack to feel it. Now the numbing shock had worn off. His mind was free to register pain, and that entire side of his face was throbbing.

Over the course of the last few minutes, he'd been bombarded, each volley more stunning than the previous one, leaving him no recovery time in between. The cut on his cheekbone had caused a delayed pain. So had learning that Gillian was dead.

At first he'd been temporarily shell-shocked. The twins' switch. Gillian's murder. It had been too much information to absorb at once. But he was now feeling the loss acutely, and it was far more painful than the bleeding wound on his face.

She was
dead
. That beautiful, exciting woman was gone, lost to him forever. One night. Not even a whole night. Only a few hours. But incredible hours. He wanted them back. He wanted her back.

It would be almost a sacrilege to weep for a woman he hardly knew. He hadn't earned the right to grieve her as Melina was. Or even Hennings. So he released his turbulent emotions in the only way available to him. He lashed out in anger. "What the hell did he mean by saying that it was on account of me that Gillian was killed?" He jutted his chin in the direction of
Jem Hennings.

"Need something for your face?" Lawson asked with irritating calm.

"No! Hell, no. Like Melina, I'd like to get this over with sooner rather than later. For starters, tell me why this asshole thinks I'm responsible for Gillian's murder." He was surprised to hear his own voice crack. Maybe he was more bereft than he wanted to acknowledge even to himself.

He glanced at Melina and was surprised to find her watching him closely, as though she were trying to read his mind.

"Colonel, why don't you sit down and talk us through your evening with Gillian?"

Lawson directed him to a chair and gratefully he plopped down into it. The detective asked again if he wanted anything for his face, but he shook his head. "What do you want to know?" he asked dully.

"Before commencing, I'd like a word with my client," Birch-man said. "We haven't had a private consultation. I insist on one before he answers any questions."

Lawson considered the attorney's request, then shrugged. "Sure. We could all probably stand a break. Clear the air. Hennings. Melina." He motioned them toward the door and they filed out.

Birchman pulled a chair close to Chief's. "How's the cheek?"

"I'll live. What do you want to talk about?"

The attorney took umbrage at his tone. "I advise you not to cop an attitude with me, Colonel Hart. You might be a top gun in your field, but I am a top gun in mine. You've flown rockets in space and you've been NASA's fair-haired child." He glanced up at Chief's ink-black hair. "In a manner of speaking."

"Get to the point."

"The point is that it won't sit kindly with the astronaut office if you've fucked up."

Chief was surprised by the man's blunt terminology. He was accustomed to foul language. Vulgarities were the second language of most military personnel. But he hadn't expected it from the natty attorney. He assumed that Birchman had used it to get his attention, and the strategy had worked.

"I'm listening."

"The image of a NASA astronaut is squeaky clean. Always has been. Sure, there've been a few renegades over the course of the space program's history, but their shenanigans have been kept under wraps."

Chief didn't offer an editorial comment and apparently none was expected.

"I had time to do minimal research on you before coming here," Birchman continued. "From what I can tell, your record is impeccable. You're popular with your supervisors and crew, male and female. You've got a hot temper, but once it flares, it dies quickly, and you're equally quick to apologize and accept responsibility for your mistakes."

"Please, I'm blushing."

The attorney frowned at Chief's smart-ass remark, but continued without breaking stride. "You're heterosexual. Never married. But you've kept your relationships with women—rumored to be many private. Your longest-lasting romance has been with the media, which has covered you favorably from the get-go. Every time you appear on TV with your Hollywood good looks, natural charm, and articulate speech, NASA creams. You're their current poster boy. You make them look good, and they want to keep on looking good so taxpayers won't bitch to their congressmen about the big bite the space program, and especially its colossal flops, takes out of the national budget, money that could be spent on programs to house the homeless and save the redwoods."

"You're very thorough, Mr. Birchman, but all of this is moot since I'm retiring from NASA soon."

"Which brings me to what should be your primary concern—your future. Whatever field you intend to enter—" "Undecided as yet."

"I respect that. Respect me for advising you not to make a mistake now that would obliterate, like that," he said, snapping his fingers loudly, "your image as a national hero. I assume you enjoy all the perks that go with that distinction?"

Chief gave a terse nod.

"You're a talented man, Colonel Hart. Intelligent. A valuable commodity on the open market. But let's be frank. A great part of your allure in the job marketplace will be your previous career as an astronaut. More than your talent and charm, et cetera, that's what you'll be peddling to the highest bidder. Go out with NASA's blessing, and any future you de-vise for yourself will be secure. Retire under a cloud of scandal, and it'll cost you dearly, every day, for the rest of your life."

Birchman paused to take a deep breath before going on. "Now, I don't know what kind of switcheroo those twins pulled last night. Or why they switched places. Furthermore, I don't care. All I want to know from you—now—is if I should be nervous about this fact-finding mission of Lawson's."

"No."

He studied Chief for a long, careful moment, then leaned back, obviously relieved. "Excellent. Here are the ground rules. Volunteer nothing. Absolutely nothing. Exercise word economy. Don't elaborate. Don't tell them anything that isn't pertinent to this woman's murder. Got it?"

"Got it."

Birchman moved toward the door but paused before signaling the others back in. "Just to satisfy my own curiosity, did you realize when you walked in here that you'd never met Melina Lloyd?"

Chief shook his head.

"The resemblance between them was that remarkable?" "You can't imagine."

"Melina, why don't you take this extra chair?"

Lawson held it for her and she accepted with a nod of thanks.

As soon as everyone was settled, he started with Christopher Hart. "You're not a suspect, Colonel." The detective paused, allowing Chief to respond. When he declined to take the bait, Lawson added, "Your footprint is much larger than the one we found outside the victim's house."

Christopher Hart's jaw knotted. Even from where she sat, she could tell he was incensed by Lawson's sly implication that if not for shoe impressions, he could be a viable suspect. But he was too smart to let the detective provoke him.

His attorney's pep talk had changed him. He seemed calmer than before, more contained. And something else—he was detached. Earlier, his disquieting blue eyes had revealed shifting emotions. Now they were inscrutable. Just as vibrant, but cool.