Falling Hard and Fast (12 page)

This was a new side of him—one she couldn't help but be intrigued by. “What did you give her?” At his sharp look she added, “I saw you slip her something.”

He stared past her shoulder pensively. “Nothing I haven't given her before. Just an address and a phone number of a
place that would provide help. If she ever decides to take it.”

She understood his meaning. There were shelters for abused and battered women. But first Stacy Rutherford would have to overcome her fear, or whatever tangle of emotions she felt for her husband, and leave him.

“Women like Stacy,” he continued softly, “sometimes feel like they have no other choices, no one to turn to. I just like to remind her when I can that she has both.” A moment later, his gaze returned to hers, that familiar grin curling one side of his mouth. “You understand why that doesn't make me real popular with Donny Ray.”

What Zoey was beginning to understand, at least about him, was threatening to shred the deliberate defense she'd carefully maintained. It was comfortable to believe in that veneer he affected, the slightly-addled good-old-boy routine that was contrived to disarm. These hints of the man beneath that surface softened something deep inside her—enough to coax an inner door, one she'd thought was tightly closed, to creep open.

She drew a shaky breath. “I'm surprised that he's out of jail. I'm sure that was the truck I saw the night your house was shot up.”

“You're right about that. It is Donny Ray's truck.” A masculine dimple flashed. “The clan must have drawn straws to see who was going to drive. I'll bet Donny Ray was ready to spit glass when he found out he wasn't going to get to take part. Ended up being the only thing that kept him out of jail. We can't prove he was the driver, of course, and since there was no trace of gunpowder residue on his hands, we had nothing on him.”

“That's too bad,” she said grimly. “At least if he were in jail his wife would be safe from him for a while.”

“Not for as long as you'd think.” He watched her closely, wondering at the faint shadows beneath those incredible green eyes. If Oxy had been the cause of a sleepless night, he owed her for more than the cartful of merchandise
before her. “His brothers made bail a few days after their arrest. All except for Carver,” he added. “I did manage to convince the judge that he was a flight risk on the meth charge.”

The outrage on her face was a delight to behold. “They got out? After shooting at you?”

“Darn lawyer is going to make a good case that the boys weren't aiming to hurt me at all, just blowing off steam. He'll go for criminal mischief.” Absently, he crossed one foot over the other, slipped his hands in his pockets. “Guess it will be up to the prosecutor to make something more stick.”

“That is totally disgraceful!” The anger bubbled up inside Zoey and spilled over. “People can't get away with endangering others' lives, or their property. I'd like to talk to that prosecutor myself.”

Something lightened inside him as he watched her work herself into a lather. Her creamy cheeks were flushed with emotion and her eyes were hot. No doubt she'd claim that she was upset about what she considered a miscarriage of justice. It suited him better to believe that her anger stemmed at least in part from concern for him.

“Trial's set for three months from now. You going to be around by then?” Although his tone was casual, his intent wasn't.

The question took her off guard. “I—That depends. Probably.” She shook off the indecision that had colored her answer and added more firmly, “I'll be here until I finish the book. That will take a few more months.”

“And then what?”

Something about his steady gaze was disconcerting, and made formulating an answer difficult. “And then…I'll go back to Chicago.”

“To what?”

Her eyes narrowed. “To my life. My apartment. My friends.”

He nodded, as if accepting her answer, but there wasn't
acceptance in his head, in his gut. She spoke of leaving so nonchalantly, as if Charity had been merely a stopping place—one easily left, easily forgotten. The thought of her leaving burned, and he didn't want to consider the reason for that. “Seems to me there must not be much in Chicago to go back to.”

Because there was more than an element of truth in his words, she angled her chin and straightened her shoulders. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you came here.” His voice was gentle. “You don't leave Chicago to write each of your books, do you?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. He was skirting too close to matters she'd rather not remember, much less discuss. She didn't want to be reminded that the emptiness in her apartment these days reflected a larger void in her life; didn't want to admit just how little appeal going back home actually held right now.

Instead, she avoided the question, and his eyes. “Every book is different.”

“I'm sure it is.” With a slow nod he gave consideration to her words. “And I expect you'd be the one to know if it was only the book that sent you from Chicago, or something more. I do know that there's a damn sight more to be found here than ideas for a new story.”

 

It was probably a rare occurrence for Zoey Prescott to be speechless, and, back at his office, Cage took pleasure in the memory. She'd regained her voice quickly enough when she'd heard him tell old man Kreger to bill her purchases to him, but he'd ducked out the back door again, and had let her argue it out with the store owner.

He'd surprised himself as much as her with his words, but he didn't see much point in denying the feeling behind them. She would probably like to believe that the distance she maintained with him was due to a lack of interest on her part. Hell. His mouth quirked upward. She'd done her best to convince him of that very thing. But she hadn't been
successful—not because he thought of himself as irresistible, but because more than once he'd caught a glimpse of an uncertainty in her eyes that was totally at odds with her usual cool manner. She was a woman who liked—no,
demanded
—control in her life. But she wasn't nearly as certain in her dealings with men. He didn't know why he should find that contradiction so endearing.

There was a rap on his door, and then it was opened by Tommy Lee. “Excuse me, Sheriff. Someone to see you.” He stepped aside to allow the coroner from Baton Rouge to enter the office.

Before requesting assistance from the Baton Rouge Coroner's office, Cage had known Dr. Margaret Wu only by reputation. It was a reputation, he'd since learned, that was totally deserved. She was sharp, efficient, and thoroughly professional. She marched into his office right now, her diminutive height aided by the heels she wore, and took a seat, waving Cage back into his.

“No formalities, Gauthier, it's too damn hot for them.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Despite his agreement, he waited until she'd sat before resuming his seat. Manners were too ingrained in him to be relinquished easily. “I guess that means I don't need to offer you some of that strawberry Nehi we started stocking lately.”

She let out a bark of laughter. It hadn't taken him long to discover her sweet tooth, or to start pandering to it. “Well, I guess I wouldn't turn one down.” While he was sending Tommy to fetch one, she slipped off her shoes and rubbed the arch of one foot. “I'm just on my way home from a conference in Shreveport. There's not another thing in this world that would convince me to put on panty hose and a dress in this miserable heat.” She accepted the bottle from Tommy gratefully and tipped it to her lips.

“I'm assuming you have some test results for me.”

“You'd be right about that, Sheriff. Don't know what you'll make of them.” She put the bottle down with visible reluctance, and opened the briefcase she'd carried into the
room. She withdrew a file and handed it to him, then reached for the bottle again.

“That's the analysis of those fragments we took out of the victim's knees and shins. Some splinters were so deeply embedded, I would have had to do surgery to remove them. Didn't see the point. They certainly paled in significance compared to her other wounds.”

“Redwood chips,” Cage murmured, then lifted his gaze to the doctor.

“That's right,” she affirmed. “The same kind used for landscaping around shrubbery. What do you make of it?”

Cage flipped the file closed and leaned back in his chair, hooking one foot over his knee. “There wasn't anything like that around the apartment building she lived in. It was a condo unit right on the street. No trees, no courtyard.”

Dr. Wu's dark eyes sparked with interest. “You think this guy did her outside his house?”

“If he did, this evidence isn't going to help us locate where he lives. Half of suburbia probably uses redwood chips in their yards. Damn.” He tossed the file onto his desk and raked his hand through his hair. “I was hoping for something that would provide a better lead.”

Dr. Wu grunted. “The only clue this gives you is what the victim was kneeling in hours before her death.” Swallowing the last of the soda, Dr. Wu set the bottle on Cage's desk. “Sorry we didn't come up with anything more substantial. I did find one more thing that was kind of curious. Not sure if it will be any more helpful, though. There was glue residue on the victim's fingernails.” At his uncomprehending look, she explained, “The kind they use to attach false nails.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “The victim wasn't wearing false fingernails.”

Placidly, Dr. Wu raised her eyebrows. “No, she wasn't, was she?”

His mind racing, Cage rose as the doctor did. Taking one
of her hands in both of his own, he bent over it. “Margaret, it's been a pleasure.”

She gave another bray of laughter. “Always the charm, Sheriff. You were born a century and a half too late.”

His gaze shifted to the photo of Janice Reilly hanging above his desk. “I hope for her sake that's not true.”

Cage followed the doctor from his office to the front door. As she exited, he turned to look at Patsy. “Where's a woman go to get her nails done?”

The older woman looked unfazed by the question. “Well, Norma over at the Beauty Mark always does mine. Charges me an arm and a leg for it, too, and truth to tell, she isn't always as careful as she should be. That polish she uses chips so easily, I swear I'm going to start bringing my own—”

“Patsy.”

She blinked at his interruption. “What?”

“Where would a woman go for false nails? The kind they have to glue on.”

Wheeling her chair away from her desk a little, she shot him a frown. “Well, Norma would put those on, too. I just don't go in for that kind of thing myself. But she went to a special class to learn how.”

“What about in the cities? Say, Baton Rouge. Do they still do that kind of thing in the beauty parlors?”

Cocking her head, Patsy considered the question. “I expect so. I know there are some specialty places in the malls and such, but lots of the hair salons have someone, too. It's more convenient for a woman to just have it done the same place she gets her hair fixed. 'Course, most would shop around a bit, look for the best price….” Her voice trailed off as she realized she was talking to his retreating back. “And you're welcome, too,” she grumbled, swinging her chair to face to her desk.

After flipping through the volume of material they'd acquired in the course of the investigation, Cage found the information he was seeking. He reached for the phone and
started making calls. When Delbert Fisher knocked and entered the room, Cage waved him to a seat.

Minutes later he replaced the receiver and sat slowly back in his chair, spearing a look at his deputy. Fisher waited stoically for him to speak.

When he did, his voice was mild. “How are you coming along on the meth investigation?”

“I've got Sutton and Baker tracking down all the suppliers of ether in the state.” Ether was a main ingredient in the manufacture of meth, and its sale was restricted. “They're working their way down the list, contacting every place on the list that's reported a robbery.”

“They're showing pictures of each of the Rutherford boys?”

At the deputy's nod, Cage went on. “If they strike out, have them start contacting the hospitals.” The man nodded again, and Cage switched topics. “I just finished talking to Janice Reilly's hairstylist down in Baton Rouge.”

Placidly, Fisher said, “I spoke to her myself last week, Sheriff. It's in the report.”

Cage nodded. “I saw that, Delbert. What I didn't see in the report was any mention of the fact that the victim also made regular visits to the same establishment to have false nails applied and cared for.”

The deputy looked stunned. “I… That is… The lady I talked to didn't offer that information.”

Cage studied the man soberly. It wasn't his nature to pry, but this was a murder investigation. The stakes didn't get much higher than these. “It's not like you to miss something this obvious, Delbert. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask. I know the last few months have been rough on you. Is your personal life affecting this investigation?”

Fisher flushed a deep, dark red, and his hands clenched around the arms of his chair. “I missed something on that statement. I admit it. But don't tie it to Betsy's leaving, Sheriff. That's a damn cheap shot.”

Cage inclined his head, studying the man closely. “I sup
pose it sounded like it. I hope you realize the reason I asked.” Silence stretched, seconds ticking by in a vacuum. “You still haven't answered my question.”

For a moment he thought the man would explode. Every muscle seemed to tense, as if Fisher was preparing to eject from the chair in a furious burst of energy. Then, just as suddenly, the tension seeped away from the man's body. His wide shoulders hunched, and he seemed to fold in on himself. “It's been three months since Betsy left, Sheriff. That's more than enough time for an intelligent man to figure she ain't coming back.” His jaw worked furiously, and he looked away. “Suppose you heard the story. This damn town always seems to have the details. She's living with some guy in New Orleans.” He let loose a bitter laugh. “A shoe salesman, for God's sake.”