Confessions (6 page)

He stared off into the middle distance as he considered that. His eyes were the color of steel, set deep in his unshaven, hollow-cheeked face. “I suppose I believe in what AA would call a higher power. Why?”

“I didn't think I did. Not anymore, anyway.” She drew in on the cigarette, thinking that the fiery hell she'd been taught to fear during her catechism days was too good for the man who'd murdered Laura. “But I realized, down in
that room, that I'm not nearly the agnostic I thought I was.”

She took another drink as she tried to put what she was feeling into words. “It's not that I want to believe Laura's in some mythical wooded glen like all those near-death experiences people describe, visiting with all our dearly departed relatives, listening to some heavenly choir,” she stressed. “It's just that what's down in that room—her body—isn't her.”

She shook her head in mute frustration. “Does that make any sense?”

Trace put his cup on the desk and locked his hands behind his head as he remembered an instance, during his days as a rookie cop, when he'd gotten into a similar theological discussion with a sergeant who, whenever he looked at all those bodies in the morgue, saw nothing but dead meat.

At the time Trace had disagreed. He still did.

“You look at the faces,” he said quietly. “And they're empty.”

“Exactly. Everything that made Laura who she was, everything that made her special is gone,” she stressed. “So where did it go? It couldn't just disappear into thin air.”

“All souls go to heaven?” Trace asked.

Thinking that he was being condescending, she bristled. “Why not?”

She'd expected a smirk. Instead he smiled and she was surprised to note that it held considerable charm. “Sounds good to me.”

Mariah was in no mood to be charmed by some small-town, black Irish cop. Even if his firmly cut lips did remind her of a Celtic poet.

“Callahan,” she murmured, “wasn't that Dirty Harry's last name?”

He didn't directly answer her question. “You know,” he mused out loud, “sometimes I think I should have become a chiropractor.”

“A chiropractor?”

“Or a dentist. Going through life as a cop with the name of Callahan isn't always easy.” This time the smile reached his weary eyes, turning them a gleaming pewter.

Even as Mariah found herself momentarily intrigued by their warmth, she shook off the feeling. “So, when are you going to question Alan?”

“As soon as he's out of surgery.”

“Too bad you can't do it while he's still under the sodium Pentothal.”

“Are you insinuating that the senator is a liar?”

“He's a politician, isn't he? It comes with the territory.” Her gaze turned serious. “You realize, of course, that this is going to turn out to be a media circus.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“Are you also aware that Alan Fletcher has a great many powerful friends? Not only here in Arizona, but in the rest of the country as well?”

“You don't get to be chairman of the Armed Services Committee without some powerful friends.”

His easy drawl irritated her. Her gaze met his and held. “I just thought I should warn you.”

“Consider me warned.” His gray eyes darkened, but his tone remained mild. Only a well-honed ear could have detected the steel in it.

Mariah swallowed the rest of the thick brown brew and stood up. “Well, thanks for the coffee, Sheriff. I'd better check into the lodge. I've got a lot to do.”

“Before you go, I need to ask you a couple of questions. About your sister.”

She sat back down. “All right.”

“Were you close?”

“When we were kids, we were as close as two people can be.”

“And later?”

Mariah sighed. “Not as close as I would have liked.”

She'd never forget the knock-down-drag-out fight between them on her last night in Arizona. Laura had only been attempting to soothe the always turbulent waters between father and daughter when Matthew Swann had discovered her intention to become an actress, like her mother.

But at the time, Mariah had viewed Laura as a traitor. Embarrassed, angry and young, Mariah had struck out with her most powerful weapon—words. She'd flung hurtful accusations like bullets, claiming Laura had abandoned her the same way she'd abandoned Clint Garvey on their wedding night.

Knowing that her sister had never gotten over the painful events of that disastrous night, Mariah had gone so far as to suggest that Laura would never marry any man because of her unhealthy relationship with her own father.

The word
incest
was never spoken, but the unpalatable suggestion had hovered over the room like a deadly cloud.

When an apoplectic Matthew had demanded Mariah apologize, she'd refused. It was the last time she was to see her sister for a very long time.

Then, two years ago, during a trip to California, Laura had surprised her by showing up on the set of a made-for-television movie. Their first meeting had been cautious. Their stilted conversation had reminded Mariah of two boxers, circling the ring, feeling each other out in the early rounds.

Gradually, emotional walls began to go down. Enough so that Mariah believed that while they'd probably never regain the relationship they'd once shared, perhaps, if they
both continued to try, they'd be able to create something equally satisfying.

She began turning the empty cup around in her hands as she considered bleakly how she'd thought they would have time to patch things up.

“Did she happen to discuss her marriage with you?”

“Only in passing.”

“Did you get the impression her marriage was a happy one?”

“How could it be? Considering who her husband was.”

“That sounds a lot like conjecture.”

Mariah swore. “All right, I'll admit to being prejudiced. But that doesn't mean the man isn't a rat. And although Laura never got into specifics, whenever the conversation would drift Alan's way, I received the definite impression that she was far from happy. Which wasn't that surprising, considering all the rumors about his infidelity.”

“Rumors aren't necessarily fact.”

“True. But believe me, Sheriff, in Alan's case, they were more than true. In fact, the worm even hit on me once. During one of his political fund-raising trips to California.”

She scowled. “He actually had the gall to invite me up to his hotel suite. Allegedly to discuss my relationship with Laura, but since his hand was on my knee at the time, I had the impression that his wife wasn't uppermost in his mind.”

The senator was either incredibly nervy. Or stupid. “You didn't take him up on his offer.” It was not a question.

“I assured him that if he ever touched me again, he'd learn exactly how a bull feels when a cowboy with a pair of nutcutters turns him into a steer.”

Trace inwardly flinched. “Did you tell your sister about the incident?”

“Of course not. I figured she had to know what kind of man she'd married. Why should I make her feel worse?”

“Did she ever mention another man?”

There it was again. That not very subtle accusation. She lifted her chin and met his veiled gaze straight on. “My sister would not sleep around.”

“You're sure of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Would you happen to know if she had a friend whose name began with the initial
C?
”

C?
Clint Garvey immediately came to mind. Deciding that Laura's brief, disastrous elopement was none of this man's business, Mariah said, “No.”

From the way she'd begun tearing that cup into little pieces, Trace knew she was lying. He'd bet the Suburban, along with a year's pay on it.

“Your sister and her husband have been married a long time not to have children.”

She arched a brow. “I believe that's what they call a leading question, Sheriff.”

“I suppose it is,” Trace said agreeably.

“Not that I can see what bearing it would possibly have on this case, Laura always wanted a large family. But things didn't work out.”

Trace decided against mentioning the home pregnancy test the evidence unit had found in the bathroom wastebasket. “One more question.”

Something new had crept into his voice. Something that had her instantly on alert. “All right.”

“Your earlier comment about all the senator's powerful friends—” he braced his elbows on the scarred wooden arms of the chair, linked his fingers together and eyed her over the tent of his hands “—were you concerned about my competence to investigate this case?

“Or were you worried that when push came to shove, I'd turn out to be just one of those stereotypical, corruptible rube cops you write into your television programs?”

Mariah had the grace to flush. A band of tension tightened at the back of her neck. But she held her ground.

“I'm not sure.”

The answer wasn't the one Trace would have preferred to hear. But he couldn't help respecting her honesty. He pushed himself out of the chair. “When you decide, let me know.”

“I'll do that.” Mariah stood up as well and tossed the tattered pieces of cardboard into the metal wastepaper basket. “Are you finished questioning me?”

“For now. I'll drive you to the lodge. When J.D. arrives with your Jeep, I'll have him drop it off there.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Silence settled over them on the short drive. Suddenly exhausted and emotionally drained, she leaned her head against the passenger window.

When he pulled up in front of the lodge office, she unfastened her seat belt and opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.” She was already on the curb. “Oh, one more thing, Ms. Swann.”

Mariah glanced back over her shoulder and found herself staring into a rigid, determined face that was a dead ringer for Dirty Harry. His heavily lidded eyes were hard gray stones, his poet's mouth was pulled into a grim line.

“Yes?” Her voice was neither as strong or self-assured as she would have liked.

“You don't have to worry about me bowing to political pressure.” Deep hash marks like goal posts slashed their way between his dark brows. “Because if the senator does turn out to be the one who killed your sister, I will personally nail his balls to the jailhouse door.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” Mariah refused to flinch at the crude cop language she suspected he'd deliberately chosen to shock her. “And when you do,” she shot back, “I want to be the one swinging the hammer.”

With a toss of her head, she turned on her heel and marched away.

 

Trace returned to the Fletcher ranch, where the evidence team was methodically continuing their investigation.

The crew would never be given a
Good Housekeeping
award for neatness. Papers and other items were strewn throughout the house, fingerprint powder clung to furniture and doorframes.

He climbed the stairs to the bedroom, careful not to touch the bannister. The room, which had been messy earlier, now looked as if a hurricane had blown through it.

He bent down, picked up the towel he'd noticed on the floor the first time he'd been in the room, and lifted it to his nose. An exotic oriental scent rose from the still damp terry cloth.

“Shalimar perfume,” a female voice offered behind him. Trace turned around and saw Jessica Ingersoll, Mogollon County Attorney standing in the doorway. She looked cool, crisp and professional in a white linen suit.

“There were bottles of bath oil and cologne in the bathroom,” she informed him. “Along with some talc. It appears to have been the late lady's signature scent.”

He bagged the towel. Then, using the edge of his hands, he carefully unscrewed the top of a turquoise jar atop the dresser. The scent of the fragrant pink cream matched that on the towel.

“Does that mean it's the only one she wore?”

“Very good, Callahan,” she said with a nod. Her hair, the tawny hue of autumn leaves, had been pulled back with a gold filigree clasp at the nape of her long, slender
neck. More gold gleamed warmly at her earlobes and wrists.

A Philadelphia-born graduate of University of Pennsylvania and Harvard Law, Jessica Ingersoll was thirty years old and as smart as a whip. She was also a tigress in bed. Their affair had begun his first week in town. It had been as hot as it had been brief and when it was over they'd remained friends.

She glanced around the room with disdain. “Christ. It's a good thing Fletcher's going to be able to afford an army of maids when he gets out of the hospital. This place is a pigsty.”

“It wasn't all that neat before the ETU guys got here.”

“So they tell me. So, what do you think we're looking at? A B&E gone bad?”

“Perhaps.” He squatted down and began going through Laura Fletcher's underwear again, lifting each piece to his nose. “Perhaps not.”

“Gracious, Callahan,” she drawled on the unmistakable Main Line accent that always reminded him of Katharine Hepburn in
Philadelphia Story,
“if I'd known you were so kinky, I wouldn't have let you get away.”

“Give me a break. I'm looking for the nightgown the victim wore to bed.”

She arched a brow. “I was told she was nude.”

“She was when we found her. But I've got a hunch…. Jackpot.” He held the seafoam gown out to her.

“Nice,” she murmured, running her fingers over the sheer lace insert. “But not my size. In case you've forgotten, sweetheart, hidden beneath my staid, Philadelphia lawyer suits are breasts Miss Universe would kill for.”

“And she's modest, too,” he muttered, feeling that familiar tightening in his groin. “Would you quit trying to turn me on for old time's sake and just smell the damn thing?”