Confessions (9 page)

“Laura's flight left National at 8:45 in the morning. I dropped her off at the terminal myself on the way to the Hill.”

“I see.” Trace nodded. “So, since you didn't want to wake her last night, you're also telling me that it's been at least two days since you and your wife had relations.”

“Relations?” Alan repeated blankly. “You mean sex?”

“Yes.”

“Really, Sheriff, that's a rather personal question.”

“I'm afraid your wife's murder has made it a matter of public interest, Senator,” Trace corrected politely.

What he didn't divulge was that the autopsy had revealed the presence of semen. He couldn't discount the possibility that whoever had been with Laura Fletcher last night could have been the last person to see her alive.

“I don't keep track of my wife's and my lovemaking in a little black book.” Fletcher's voice turned decidedly cool.

“Could you venture a guess?”

“We've both been quite busy lately. But, if I were forced to pinpoint a day, I'd say sometime last week. Tuesday, perhaps. Or Wednesday.”

Trace noted the answer on a clean page. “Thank you, senator. You've been a big help.”

The alarm on his watch sounded. Trace closed the notebook. “I have a press conference scheduled, but I'll be back this evening.”

“A press conference?” It was the first sign of acute interest Trace had witnessed.

“You're a famous man, Senator,” Trace reminded him needlessly. “This time tomorrow, the media's going to be crawling all over this place.”

“They will, won't they?” Fletcher rubbed his square jaw. He turned again to his aide. “I'll need my razor. And a change of clothes.”

“The house is still taped off,” Trace informed him. “But I'll arrange for Ms. Martin to have access.”

“Thank you. And please, Sheriff Callahan—” his handsome face turned campaign poster sincere “—find the men who killed my wife.”

“Don't worry.” Trace returned the notebook to his pocket. “I have every intention of doing just that.”

Trace left the room, stopping on the other side of the door to check a note and to hear Heather Martin's angry voice. “Laura was pregnant?” Her palm connected with the senator's firm jaw, sounding like a gunshot.

The two cops on the other side of the hospital room door exchanged a look.

Ben Loftin belched, took a bite of the Snickers bar that had replaced the apple, and returned to his magazine.

As he drove back to Whiskey River, Trace damned whoever the hell it was who'd killed Laura Fletcher.

He'd thought he was beyond caring. He'd honestly believed that his ability to care had been burned out of him by the corrosive, acidic quality of experience. Which was why he'd come to Arizona. He'd been foolish enough to believe that he could sit in a rocker on the jailhouse porch and spend his days whittling toothpicks, waiting for his monthly paycheck to arrive.

Trace's fingers tapped a thoughtful tattoo on the steering wheel. He'd chosen what he thought would be a solitary existence. But he'd been wrong. Other lives had drifted down Whiskey River's currents and collided with his.

A woman was dead.

So now, like it or not, he was going to have to get back in the saddle again and track down her killer.

He owed it to Laura Fletcher.

He owed it to her husband—so long as the guy turned out to be innocent—Trace amended as an afterthought.

He owed it to Mariah Swann, to the residents of Mogollon County whose taxes paid his salary, and to society in general.

Surprisingly, Trace realized he also owed it to himself.

J
ust as Trace had feared, the crime quickly gained Roman circus appeal. By noon, Main Street was jammed with television vans. Thick cables ran across the pavement; the satellite dishes atop the vans were capable of transmitting the press conference live to a vast national audience.

Uniformly attractive reporters who had taken over the courthouse steps were recording their stand-ups in front of videocams. Trace saw one brunette he recognized as being a morning anchor from a Phoenix station doing some last minute repairs to her hair with a portable butane curling iron.

The sidewalks, unsurprisingly, were packed with looky-loos. An enterprising hot dog vendor had set up an umbrella-topped stand across the street in the park. Nearby another entrepreneur was doing a brisk business in Italian ices and espresso. Rather than try to drive through the uncharacteristic crush of traffic, The Good Humor man had brazenly parked his truck in a fire tow-away zone. The line for Popsicles, ice cream bars and soft drinks extended around the block.

“Apparently murder is good for business,” Trace said as he entered his office ten minutes late and found Jessica waiting. Her white suit looked as crisp and tidy as it had hours earlier, making Trace wonder if she'd had the material coated with Teflon.

“I recall reading that back in the sixties, when Reno was declared Murder Capitol of the country, tourism hit an all-time high,” she said.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Perhaps someone ought to suggest a new ad campaign to the chamber of commerce.”

“Visit Whiskey River—the west's most Western town. Where the shoot-outs aren't faked,” she suggested as she made another pass at the coffeepot herself, then sat back down.

When she crossed her legs, the enticing sound of silk on silk drew his attention. Trace wondered if he'd ever outgrow checking out a woman's legs and sincerely hoped not.

“Have I ever told you that you've got dynamite legs, Jess?”

“I believe the term was ‘wraparound,'” she corrected as she adjusted her skirt over her knees. “But that was in another time.” She took a sip of coffee. “In those carefree, halcyon days of yore before we landed ass-deep in reporters.”

“I've always liked your ass, too.”

“Thank you. I like yours as well.” She smiled at him over the rim of the chipped mug. “And as much as I'd love to spend the rest of the afternoon strolling down memory lane with you, Callahan, I suppose you'd better tell me what you've got so far.”

He did. What little he had.

“It's not a lot to go on,” she mused, skimming over the notes she'd taken.

“No. It's not.”

“But you'll get more.”

“Yes. I will.”

She sighed. “We're going to have to give that mob out there something to sink their teeth into.”

“How about the 911 tape?”

She considered that. “Not bad. It's definitely dramatic enough to keep them occupied while you do whatever it is you intend to do.”

“As a matter of fact, I intend to detect.”

She lifted a brow. “Detect?”

“That's what we detectives do,” he reminded her.

“Ah, but you're not a detective anymore,” she reminded him back.

Trace shrugged. “That's what I keep trying to tell myself.” He stood up. “Ready?”

She rose and brushed at the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. “As ready as I'll ever be.”

Folding chairs had been set up in a conference room. Television lights were pointed at the podium. Although Trace and Jessica entered the room together, she stood aside, inviting him to open the proceedings.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the bank of microphones. “My name is Trace Callahan. I'm sheriff of Mogollon County and I'm in charge of the investigation into the shooting death of Mrs. Laura Swann Fletcher.”

An interested murmur rippled through the room. The audience leaned forward. Several of the faces could not contain their excitement. After all, a murder in Whiskey River was news in itself. Having the victim turn out to be the daughter of the most influential man in town and the wife of a U.S. senator rumored to be on the fast track to the White House cranked up the interest level considerably.

“Mrs. Fletcher was mortally wounded at her ranch house early this morning. The senator was also wounded, but he was taken to Louis R. Pyle Memorial Hospital where he is resting comfortably and is expected to make a full recovery.

“The County Attorney—” he tilted his head in Jessica's direction “—Ms. Ingersoll, wants me to assure you that every resource of Mogollon County has been placed at my disposal until the killer or killers are apprehended. Are there any questions?”

“How, exactly, did Laura Fletcher die?” a twenty-something blond television reporter from the city asked.

“The autopsy revealed that Mrs. Fletcher received two wounds from a .38 caliber revolver, one in the left temple, the other in her chest. The bullet that penetrated her head killed her.”

Another reporter called out, “Is it true Middle East terrorists tried to assassinate the senator for his stand on the peace talks?” A buzz ran through the crowd. Terrorists were about on a level with space aliens in the high country. Neither were likely to be seen on Main Street.

“Not that we know.” Trace pointed toward a young print reporter clad in khaki who looked like a walking advertisement for an Eddie Bauer catalog.

“There's been a report that it was an Earth First eco-terrorist group, protesting the senator's prodevelopment policies,” the reporter, who worked for Flagstaff's
Coconino Sun
said.

Development was as hot a topic as grazing fees and water rights in Whiskey River. Old-timers and environmentalists liked the town just the way it was; yuppies fleeing crime and other problems found in urban areas were pushing for something called “managed growth.” Growth was growth, the natives mumbled over morning
coffee at The Branding Iron Café. And they didn't like it. Not even a little bit.

“Again, that remains unsubstantiated.”

“How about rumors that it was a pro-choice feminist coalition angry about his campaign to outlaw abortion?” another television reporter questioned.

“We intend to check out all rumors, but at this time, there is no indication that was the case.”

“What steps do you intend to use to apprehend Laura Fletcher's killer?” This from Rudy Chavez.

Trace's face hardened. “All.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Chavez's pugnacious attitude and challenging tone revealed he was still pissed about being forced away from the crime scene.

“Not at this time.”

“When can we talk to the senator?”

“Whenever he and his attending physician say you can. That's not my decision to make.”

“If the senator and Mrs. Fletcher were both shot, who called the crime in?” a reporter Trace vaguely remembered being from the Camp Verde
Bugle Call,
asked.

“The senator placed the call himself after having been wounded. The 911 tape will be available to the press after this press conference is concluded.

“Now, since that's all I have to say at this time, I'm going to turn the microphones over to Ms. Ingersoll.”

As he passed Jessica, Trace murmured, “Have fun, Counselor.”

 

“What kept you?” Mariah said ten minutes later when she opened the door of the suite to Trace.

“Couldn't find a parking space. Every damn space in town is filled up with rental cars.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Seems to me a
sheriff could park anywhere he wanted. Even in a red zone.”

Trace shrugged and did his best not to notice that she smelled like Eden in springtime. “Wouldn't want to set a bad example. And didn't your mother ever warn you to ask who it is before you opened your hotel room door?”

“I knew it was you.” She stepped aside. “How about a beer? You look as if you could use one.”

Trace thought about assuring her he never drank on duty. Then he remembered the beer he'd left on the counter. Had it only been nine hours ago? It seemed a lifetime. “A beer sounds great.”

“Sit down.” She gestured toward the couch which was covered in some material designed to resemble a Navaho blanket, then retrieved a beer from the compact refrigerator beside the bar and took out a bottle of designer water for herself. The television was on with the sound turned down.

“There are some nuts. And crackers, if you're hungry. Or I can order us lunch from room service.”

“Beer's fine.” Trace watched a buffed up soap opera guy and a gorgeous young thing who didn't look old enough to be legal swap spit.

“Whatever.” She handed him the beer, then sat down in the tub chair opposite the couch and put her bare feet up on the coffee table. She'd changed into a red-and-white striped T-shirt and white shorts. Her toenails had been painted the soft coral color of the underwater reefs where he and Ellen had gone scuba diving during their Hawaiian honeymoon. “Thank you for coming.”

“I had the feeling that if I didn't you'd just track me down.”

“You're right. I would have.”

The hunk on the screen began to undress the girl. Trace
tilted the beer back and swallowed. It was cold and went down real fine. “This hits the spot.”

“I'm so pleased.” He'd obviously showered and changed since she'd seen him last, which made him a bit more presentable.

Up close, the man appeared even larger than he had earlier. Overpowering. The breadth of his shoulders seemed almost too wide for the tweed sport coat.

Having learned that he'd spent much of last year in the hospital, she was surprised that his build was so muscular, his stomach so taut. When Mariah caught herself wondering if the male body sitting across from her was as hard as it looked, she immediately dragged her gaze back to his face.

His eyes were intent. And unnervingly watchful.

“Did you get hold of your mother?”

Mariah frowned. “Yes. She's flying into Phoenix later this afternoon.”

“You going to meet her plane?”

“I offered. But she insisted on hiring a car.” Trace heard her soft sigh and decided that the Swanns weren't exactly the Cleavers. Then again, what family was?

His attention drifted toward the TV where things were progressing nicely. The girl was down to a silky red thing Trace now knew was a teddy. The guy's shirt was gone. The jeans followed. Trace took another longer swallow of beer as the couple fell onto the bed.

“You handled that press conference very well,” she said.

“I've had a lot of practice.”

“So I was told.” She followed his glance. “I wonder if Jimmy still eats those sausage sandwiches for lunch before all his love scenes.”

“Jimmy?”

“Jimmy Masters.” She gestured toward the man whose
lips were currently working their way down the woman's throat. “I lured him away from his pregnant wife years and years ago. When I first moved out to Hollywood.”

“I suppose that's what earned you the title of the Vixen of Whiskey River,” he said easily.

She frowned over the rim of the green bottle. “Doesn't anything shock you?”

Trace shrugged. “Not much.”

“Not even murder?”

“Murder doesn't shock me,” he corrected. “It disappoints me.”

“Is that why you quit the force?”

“No.” Trace tipped the beer again. He'd made some progress since the shooting, but thinking about those days still made him thirsty. “And by the way, J.D. filled me in on your early acting career. He says you were a very convincing daytime villainess.”

“I should have known better than to try and put something over on a cop.” Amusement touched her eyes, which reminded him once again of her mother's. They were the type of wide, liquid eyes a man could fall into and drown, if he wasn't careful.

Trace had always considered himself a careful man.

“You should have known,” he agreed.

He sneaked a quick glimpse at the television again. The amorous pair had moved under the sheets. The scarlet teddy was on the floor.

“You know, you're a lot better-looking than her.”

She glanced up at him, clearly surprised. Not as surprised, Trace considered, as he was to have said it.

“Thank you.”

“It's the truth.”

Mariah felt a little jolt inside, but managed to smooth it over.

Silence settled over the room.

“Why did you come here?”

“Because you've left a zillion messages. Because I've got some more questions to ask you.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Because I wondered how you were holding up. And because I thought I'd fill you in on the investigation. So far.”

“Gracious. Why on earth would you want to do that? Since I'm not technically Laura's next of kin?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, the way she had of jutting her chin forward as she tossed his own words back in his face amused him.

“Are you always such a hard-ass, Ms. Swann?”

“It's Mariah. And yes, I'm usually assertive.” She put the bottle down on the table, took a cigarette from the pack beside it and lit it with a haughty-as-hell gesture reminiscent of Maggie McKenna in her prime. “As a woman working in Hollywood, I've had to be.”

“Yeah, it must be difficult to be taken seriously when those same producers you're trying to sell your scripts to have seen you cavorting around on the tube in your underwear.”

His smile, meant to annoy, was deliberately insolent. It also, she admitted reluctantly, added a wicked charm to his face.

Mariah absolutely refused to be baited. “Don't knock those subliminal powers of persuasion until you've seen me in my underwear,” she suggested sweetly. “May I ask a question?”

He leaned back and put his feet up on the table beside hers. “Shoot.”