Confessions (10 page)

She was truly tempted to. “Are
you
always such a smart-ass, Sheriff?”

“Some people consider me witty.”

“Some people have no taste.”

“Got me there,” Trace said agreeably.

“The people I talked with in Dallas said police brass found you a bit strong-willed.”

“Actually, if memory serves, the word used most often to describe me was
intractable.
”

She crossed her legs at the ankles. Her thighs were smooth and tan and although he knew better than to allow his mind to go off in that direction, Trace decided Mariah Swann would look terrific in a teddy.

“They also told me that you were a wave maker.”

“I've been known to rock a few boats.”

As Trace remembered a time when he'd routinely created tidal waves without worrying about the consequences, the walkie-talkie he wore on his belt crackled to life.

“Dispatch to sheriff,” the disembodied female voice Mariah had spoken with so many times today called out to him. “Come in, Sheriff.”

“What is it, Jill?” There was no immediate answer. Just a sputter of white noise.

“Just a minute, Sheriff.” Her frustration could be heard over the interference. “I'm looking up the proper code.”

“Why don't you just tell me straight out.”

“Cora Mae said I should always use police codes when I'm talking on the radio.”

“Cora Mae's not the sheriff.”

“Well, of course she isn't.” There was another little sputtering silence. “Are you saying I don't have to learn the codes?”

Jill Winters would never get a job designing fuel systems for space shuttles. But she was enthusiastic and willing to learn. However, it was the fact that she and J.D. were planning an August wedding which had made her such an attractive applicant for the job of day dispatcher. Once she and the deputy were married, the county would save on group insurance coverage. Apparently, when it
came to health insurance, two really could live more cheaply than one.

“I'm saying give it time,” Trace suggested.

“Oh.” Her relief was palpable. “You've no idea how happy I am to hear that, Sheriff. I really have been trying, and J.D. has been coaching me at night, but there are so many and—”

“Jill,” Trace interrupted patiently, “why don't you just tell me why you called.”

“Oh. The senator wants to talk to you. In person. Right away. He says it's urgent. And confidential.”

When Trace felt the familiar prickle at the back of his neck, he knew he was hooked. You can run, he reminded himself. But you cannot hide. He pushed himself off the sofa. “Call the senator back and tell him I'm on my way.”

“Ten-four,” she said proudly.

Galvanized, Mariah stood up as well and stabbed her cigarette out in a ceramic ashtray shaped like a cowboy boot. “It'll only take me a second to change.”

“Change?” His gaze skimmed over her shorts and snug T-shirt.

“I'm coming with you.”

Twice before he'd been assigned to baby-sit some Hollywood type who was doing research for a role. Neither experience had made Trace want to repeat it.

“This is a murder investigation. Not some phony Hollywood made-for-television docudrama,” he said. “I can't allow you to muck around in it.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

“Won't.” He'd pulled out the same calmly authoritative voice he'd used on more than one occasion to convince a perp to put down a loaded gun.

Trace had no way of knowing that Mariah hated his tone. It was the same one her father had always used whenever he'd unsuccessfully attempted to control her.

She decided, in order to avoid precious time arguing, to ignore the sheriff's uncomplimentary reference to her work and concentrate on his refusal.

“I'm painfully aware that it's a murder investigation, Sheriff. Since it's my sister who was murdered. And in case it hasn't sunk in, I take Laura's death very personally.” She lifted her chin in that pugnacious gesture he was beginning to both hate and admire. “So much so that I have every intention of mucking around in your precious damn investigation all I want.”

When he plowed his hands through his hair, Mariah had the impression he'd love to put them around her neck.

“Christ, it must be exhausting,” he said instead.

“What must be exhausting?”

“Working so hard at being so unrelentingly tough.”

“I don't have to work at it,” she shot back with a furious toss of her head. “It's a gift. Did it ever cross your chauvinistic cop mind that I
am
tough?”

At least she hadn't called him a chauvinistic pig. Trace decided that was something.

His answering look was long. And deep. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed, but Mariah refused to look away.

“No,” Trace said finally. “You're not.” His intense gaze slid down to her mouth, lingering there before returning to her guarded eyes. “Not really.”

Mariah's emotions, already frazzled because of her sister's murder, began to unravel.

Deciding that if there was ever a time for caution, this was it, she backed up and let out a slow, quiet breath.

“You can't stop me from visiting my brother-in-law in the hospital,” she muttered mutinously.

Since she'd already revealed her animosity toward the senator, Trace knew damn well that her desire to visit
Fletcher wasn't due to any sudden need to offer condolences or comfort.

“Wrong again, sweetheart. I can, if necessary, put the senator under police protection, effectively cutting off access to all visitors. Including you.”

“I'd love to watch you try explaining that bit of police procedure to the esteemed members of the press clamoring for interviews.” She flashed him a challenging smile. “And call me sweetheart again, Sheriff, and I'll break your kneecaps.”

“Surely a hotshot award-winning crime writer like you must know that assaulting a police officer is against the law.”

“So is police harassment,” Mariah countered without missing a beat. She glanced significantly at an old-fashioned clock on a nearby table. “And far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but we're wasting time here.”

Once again frustration moved across his face. “You're not going to let up, are you?”

“No.” She met his hostile gaze without flinching. “I'm not.”

As another silence settled over the room, Mariah realized that silence wasn't silent at all. It was, instead, an absence of big sounds, which allowed smaller ones to be heard.

The
tick tick tick
of the antique clock seemed as loud as Poe's
The Tell-Tale Heart.
A dove on the balcony outside the window cooed softly to its mate. The soft
ding
of the elevator reaching the third floor echoed down the hallway.

Trace was the first to shatter the suspended silence. “Hell.” In that short, fierce curse, she heard frustration, anger and, most importantly, reluctant surrender.

Having won this round, Mariah had the good sense not
to gloat. “It won't take me more than a couple of minutes to change into a skirt.”

His eyes glittered with a deadly light. “Try for one.”

She practically ran into the adjoining bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Trace heard a drawer open. Seconds later his unruly mind imagined her pulling those brief white shorts down her long tanned legs.

Trace scowled at the errant thought. He'd always prided himself on the ability to remain ice-cool under pressure. Trace Callahan's reputation, both professionally and personally, had always been one of unwavering logic and deliberate action.

But now, against all reason, against his not inconsiderable will, he found himself drawn to a woman who elicited pure emotion.

“Ready.” She came rushing out of the bedroom. Although it only increased temptation, he was grateful to see she'd kept the T-shirt on. The shorts had been exchanged for a skirt created of some gauzy white fabric that swirled gypsylike around her calves. The sun streaming through the balcony's French doors rendered the fabric nearly transparent, allowing an enticing view of her long firm legs.

Once again Trace felt the unmistakable pull of desire.

Once again he forced it down.

“Okay. Here's the deal.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a dark warning look. “You are only along for the ride. And, more importantly, so I can keep my eye on you and prevent you from screwing up my homicide case.”

“I'm not about to—”

“Shut up.”

Although Mariah would throw herself off the rocky Mogollon Rim escarpment before admitting it, his low soft voice proved more intimidating than the loudest shout.

Trace nodded in terse satisfaction when she pressed her lips together. “You should probably know, right off the bat, that I don't give a rat's ass how many crime shows you've written. I don't care if you have a house filled with Emmys or Oscars, or whatever the hell other gold statues you prima donna Hollywood types hand out to pat yourselves on the back.”

Mariah visibly bristled at his uncomplimentary description, but kept her mouth shut.

“Solving your sister's murder is my department. So, listen very carefully, Ms. Swann, because I'm only going to say this once.

“If you interfere in any way in my investigation, if you second guess my motives, or dare question my integrity, I'll toss you in jail for obstructing justice so fast your head will swim.

“And then I will personally throw the cell door key into Whiskey River.”

He put one hand against the wall, effectively cutting off her escape and leaned closer. Their noses were almost touching. His warm breath fanned her lips. “Is that clear?”

Trace Callahan's sheer size overwhelmed Mariah. He was literally radiating a steely, implacable strength she found both appealing and frightening. Even so, she refused to give him the pleasure of knowing he'd intimidated her.

“As glass.” Ducking under his arm, Mariah scooped up her quilted red purse from the desk. “Let's go.” She was out the door before Trace could respond.

He cursed, then followed her to the elevator.

As the ancient cage creaked its way downward toward the lobby, they stood side by side, looking straight ahead, neither saying a word. Her scent, which reminded him of
wildflowers swaying in a sun-filled meadow, bloomed in the confined space.

Trace realized that her stated intention to “muck around in his precious damn investigation” was not an idle threat. Like it or not, it appeared that he was stuck with Mariah Swann for the duration.

With a fatalism that was partly inborn, partly acquired, Trace decided that there were probably worse situations to be in.

B
en Loftin had moved on to
Penthouse
when Trace and Mariah arrived at Alan Fletcher's hospital room.

“Any changes in the senator's condition?” Trace asked.

“He was watching television last time I checked.” Although the deputy's words were directed at his superior, his attention had focused on Mariah's chest. “His assistant left a while ago.”

Trace did not miss either his deputy's unprofessional behavior or Mariah's repulsed shudder. “Before or after the senator called the station?” Irritation caused his tone to be more brusque than usual.

Loftin shrugged. “Beats me. If you wanted me to monitor the guy's phone calls you should have said so. Boss,” he added after a brief, deliberate pause.

Every police department in the country—from NYPD in the east, to LAPD on the Pacific Coast, along with even the smallest two-man force in outer boondocks USA—operated along a military type chain of command. The actual titles might differ, the uniforms varied, they might
uphold different laws written by different legislatures, but the single thing they all had in common was the unquestionable pyramid of power.

As sheriff, Trace sat alone atop his particular tower of authority. And he was getting damned tired of Loftin's insubordination. For not the first time in the past six months, Trace debated firing Ben Loftin on the spot.

It would, he considered, give him a vast amount of pleasure.

It would also get him in hot water with the mayor, the county commissioners and the civil service board.

Under normal conditions, Trace wouldn't mind the fight.

But these were far from normal circumstances and with a high-profile murder to solve, the simple truth was that he needed every man he could get.

Later,
he vowed. As soon as he wrapped up this case. Trace did not allow himself to consider that Laura Fletcher's murder would remain unsolved.

Although his expression remained John Wayne taciturn, Mariah observed the fleeting change of emotions in the sheriff's eyes and wondered if Ben Loftin—who she remembered being a bully—realized how lucky he was not to have been yanked off his chair and thrown bodily through the plate glass window at the end of the hallway.

As their gazes briefly touched, Mariah watched the shutters closing off Trace's thoughts. The lines bracketing his mouth deepened.

“Fletcher asked for confidentiality,” he reminded Mariah.

She'd been waiting for him to bring that up. “So?”

“So, you'll have to wait out here.”

“Why don't I come in with you? Then, if Alan asks me to leave, I will.”

“I won't have you compromising my case.”

“Believe me, Sheriff, if there's one thing I definitely don't want to do it's compromise your case.”

Trace gave her another long look. Then he shook his head. “Lucky for you, cops tend to have a high aggravation tolerance.”

She'd just won another round. The idea, as satisfying as it was, gave Mariah no urge to gloat. Because she knew if Sheriff Callahan truly wanted to keep her out of the hospital room, she'd be forced to cool her heels out in the hallway, subjected to Loftin's licentious leers.

They entered the room together.

The cheating son of a bitch was watching television!
Mariah felt the cold fury surge through her like icy needles stinging at her emotions. His wife was lying cut into little pieces on a cold morgue table and senator Alan Fletcher had the unmitigated gall to be watching C-Span? She had an urge to yank the portable TV from its wall bracket and jam it down the man's murderous throat.

“Mariah?” He pressed a button on the remote, muting a rerun of a recent debate on military funding. “This is a surprise.” His expression, and his tone, suggested the surprise was not a pleasant one.

“Not as much a surprise as I had this morning,” she countered. Frost coated each word, but a flame burned hotly in her eyes. “Arriving at the house and finding Laura dead.”

“The incident is unfortunate.”

“In my book, murder is a helluva lot more than unfortunate!”

When her fingers unconsciously curled around the plastic water pitcher, Trace decided the time had come to interrupt their less than cordial reunion.

“You told my dispatcher you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes.” He slanted a pointed look at his fuming sister-in-law. “I also informed her it was confidential.”

Trace turned to Mariah. “Ms. Swann—”

“All right.” The quiet command in his voice was unmistakable. Mariah sighed, knowing she was licked. “I'll be in the snack bar.”

She shot her brother-in-law one last glance. “I'll be back.” With a theatrical huff worthy of her early soap opera days, Mariah left the room on a swirl of white gauze skirts.

Both men watched her dramatic exit.

“Christ, that woman always has been a handful,” Alan muttered.

“I hadn't realized you were that well acquainted.”

“Fortunately, my wife and her sister were not close, so I wasn't forced into much contact with Mariah,” he allowed. “But I've heard stories. None of them exactly flattering, if you know what I mean.”

Trace did. But not having been any Boy Scout himself in his younger years, he preferred to make his own character judgements. He turned his attention to the matters at hand.

“I assume you asked me here because you recalled something about last night?”

“No. I'm afraid nothing's changed in that regard.” Alan lay his head back on the starched pillow and closed his eyes, as if garnering strength.

Trace wondered if he should Mirandize the senator.

“You mentioned my wife was pregnant.” Fletcher's eyes remained closed. There was a white ring of tension around his mouth.

“Uh-huh,” Trace agreed.

“Two months.”

“Uh-huh.” Trace thought of the letters and figured he knew where this conversation might be headed. “You didn't know.” It was not a question.

“No.” Alan opened his pain-fogged blue eyes and met Trace's inscrutable gaze. “I didn't know.”

With a deep sigh, he turned his head toward the window and stared out at the asphalt parking lot. “Laura and I tried unsuccessfully for years to have a family.”

Trace nodded again. “Uh-huh,” he said, employing a routine, but highly successful interrogation procedure.
Uh-huh
a suspect to death, keep him talking to fill in the silences—civilians inevitably felt the need to fill in silences—and pretty soon there was no need to call for the hangman. Because if the interrogating cop could just keep his mouth shut long enough, the guilty party would eventually end up putting the noose around his own neck.

Another sigh. “To discover, after Laura's death, that she was carrying a child, is proving extremely painful.”

“I can imagine.” Trace waited.

“The baby wasn't mine.”

“Oh?”

Alan turned back to Trace. “I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you earlier,” he admitted reluctantly. “When you asked me about the last time Laura and I had, uh, relations.”

“Uh-huh,” Trace prompted encouragingly.

He was not surprised. The senator's confession only proved a longtime law enforcement axiom:
Everyone lies.

“Actually, the last time my wife and I made love was in December. We'd been to a Christmas party in Alexandria, and we'd both had a little too much champagne, and after we got home, one thing led to another. It was the holidays, after all, and well, you know how it goes.”

“So that would have been six months ago.” Which, if true, definitely took the senator out of the paternal picture.

“Yes.”

“Were you and your wife having marital troubles?”

“No more than anyone else.” The lie—and Trace
knew, with every fiber of his being that it
was
a lie—hovered between them, like a cloud of noxious smog.

“Uh-huh.”

Another, longer, thicker silence settled.

“Shit. All right.” Fletcher dragged his slender fingers through his blond hair. “That's not exactly true…. There
were
problems.”

Trace waited for him to mention Heather Martin.

“You have to understand my motivation. I was only trying to protect Laura,” he said instead.

“Protect her?” Trace thought it was a little late for that.

“Her reputation. But as we watched your press conference, we realized that you may suspect me of my wife's murder, which would keep you from pursuing the real killers.”

When Trace didn't respond, Alan cleared his throat, then said, “That's when Heather advised me to tell you the entire truth.”

“The truth?” Trace wondered what else the senator's lissome young chief of staff had been advising him on. How to murder his wife, perhaps? Trace also figured he was not the only one who knew about the love letters.

He figured right. “Although it pains me to admit it, even to myself, Laura was having an affair.” Another thrust of those long fingers ruffled what Trace estimated to be at least a fifty-dollar haircut. “You have to understand, such behavior was so unlike her, so absolutely uncharacteristic of the sweet, intensely moral woman I married, that I thought, if I merely waited it out, the entire unsavory affair would run its course.”

He looked up at Trace for confirmation that he'd made the correct choice.

“I've heard that's often the case,” Trace agreed obligingly.

He felt no need to mention that in his own situation,
Ellen had gone on to marry the municipal court judge she'd been sleeping with while still married to him, but in truth, Trace had never blamed his former wife. Just as it took two to make a marriage, it took two to break it.

Hell, in his business, which wasn't exactly geared to domestic tranquility, divorce was not only unsurprising, it was almost expected.

The senator cursed and dragged his hands down his face in a weary, defeated gesture. If it was an act, it was a good one.

“And now you tell me she was pregnant.” Alan closed his eyes again, as if the thought were too painful to consider. “With his child.”

She's also dead,
Trace thought but did not say.

“Do you happen to know who the other man was?”

“Yes.” The senator's expression hardened. His eyes turned to chips of blue ice. “Clint Garvey.”

His words confirmed what Jessica had already suggested. If the local rancher had been sleeping with Laura Fletcher, he was probably the man who'd gotten her pregnant.

Was he also, Trace wondered, the man who'd killed her?

 

Mariah was sitting alone at a chipped red Formica table in a corner of the snack bar, a foam cup in front of her. A cigarette burned in the plastic ashtray where an earlier one had been stubbed out. She was staring off into space and from her murderous frown, Trace suspected she was thinking about her brother-in-law. She was so deep in thought, she didn't hear him approach until he was standing in front of her.

“How's the coffee?”

She started at his sudden appearance, then quickly recovered, looking at her half empty cup. “I don't know.”

“Couldn't be any worse than the stuff from the courthouse machine.”

She shrugged disinterestedly as she drew in on the cigarette. When she exhaled, a wispy cloud of blue smoke rose between them.

Trace turned around an industrial plastic chair and sat down, straddling it, his arms folded along the top. “You know, you should probably eat something.”

She flashed him a grim, humorless smile. “Now you sound like someone's mother.”

“But not yours,” Trace guessed.

“No.” She shook her head, sending her hair fanning out in a gilt arc. The scent of flowers wafted on air heavy with the aroma of disinfectant. Her face closed up, like a wildflower sensing an impending storm and she ground out the cigarette with more force than was necessary. “Definitely not mine.”

Her slender shoulders slumped, making her appear smaller and more vulnerable. Rather than meet his steady gaze, she began chipping away at the cup, her scarlet fingernails tearing off pieces of white foam. Her lips had left a scarlet crescent on the edge of the cup. Trace frowned as he found himself wondering if Mariah's lips were as soft and succulent as they looked.

Abandoning her destruction of the coffee cup, she put her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her linked fingers and looked straight at him. “Have you ever killed anyone, Sheriff?”

A dark cloud moved over his face. “If you checked me out, you probably know the answer to that question.”

“I know that your department jacket listed a provoked and justifiable shooting. But I don't know how you felt about it.”

“Too bad you couldn't get anyone to lift the department's shrink's files for you.”

His eyes were flint. His granite jaw could have been carved on the side of Mount Rushmore. Mariah knew she was pushing. But although her professional contacts had assured her that Trace Callahan was a good, albeit unorthodox cop, it was important to her to know what kind of man the sheriff was.

“I'd rather hear it from you,” she said quietly. Firmly. When he didn't answer, she studied him for a long time. “You didn't like it.” While researching her television scripts, Mariah had discovered there were too many cops who got off on the Dirty Harry bravado bandied around local cop bars.

“No.” Trace thought back on the nightmares, the nausea, the discomfort of having to accept the back slaps and congratulations of his fellow cops for successfully taking one of the bad guys off the street. “I didn't.”

Mariah nodded, satisfied again that this was a good man. An honest man. A cop who took his responsibility to society seriously.

They exchanged a long look. Unbidden and unwanted, tension suddenly sizzled, like a downed hot electric wire snaking across a rain-slick street. Mariah was momentarily rattled by the rising heat in Trace's slate eyes. For his part, Trace viewed the answering flames and silently cursed himself for inviting a complication he definitely did not need.