Outstanding praise for The Only Suspect!
“Stylish and suspenseful ... will give readers
everything they want in this gripping tale.”
—Jan Burke
“Impressive.”
—The San Francisco Chronicle
“Absorbing reading.”
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
“Jacobs has written a crackling, fast-paced whodunit,
filled with devious turn and lots of possible solutions,
making it hard to tell the good from the bad
until almost the final page.”
—The Orlando Sentinel
“Eerie and provocative, this is an intensely suspenseful novel.”
—Romantic Times
And more praise for the novels of Jonnie Jacobs!
“Jacobs has a knack for pacing and making the law
suspenseful and compelling. A solid series just on the verge
of jumping to the next level.”
—Booklist
“Cold Justice is a thrill ride that gives readers Kali O’Brien at her best.”
—Jeffery Deaver
“Never mind John Grisham; read Jonnie Jacobs instead.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Cold Justice is a tense and clever thriller that kept me guessing to the end.”
—Phillip Margolin
“Cold Justice kept me up late ... with the lights on!
I couldn’t put it down.”
—Lisa Jackson
“Crisp and stylish.”
—John T. Lescroart
“Intricate and compelling.”
—The Piedmont Post
“The characters are fresh, the suspense delicious, and the double solution will surprise everyone.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
THE ONLY SUSPECT
JONNIE JACOBS
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
In memory of my parents
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to everyone who answered my questions and offered encouragement during the writing of this book. In particular, I’d like to thank retired police officer and investigator Robin Burcell for generously sharing her insights about police work; Camille Minichino and Margaret Lucke for their perceptive and very helpful comments on the manuscript; and my husband, Rod, for always being there. I’m grateful, too, for the support I’ve received from my publisher, Kensington Publishing Corp.; my editor John Scognamiglio; my agent Deborah Schneider; and all those readers who’ve taken the time to write.
CHAPTER 1
I had been dreaming of Lisa. It was late spring and we were strolling through Boston Common as we did so many Sunday mornings back then, wrapped in the simple pleasure of being together. I was pushing Molly in the stroller. Lisa circled her arm around my waist and told me she loved me. The joy I’d known—so fresh and boundless—was tempered, even in my dream, with the sorrow of what followed.
I clung to the memory as an intrusive ringing tugged me toward waking. It had been a long time since I’d felt Lisa’s presence so vividly.
The persistent chirping of the phone finally won out. When I groped to retrieve it from the night stand, my hand found nothing but air. In an instant, I was fully awake. I opened my eyes and realized I had not the slightest idea where I was.
Okay, I was in a car; I figured out that much. My car, in fact. In a ditch by the side of some narrow, dusty road. I’d probably spun out in the process of getting here, since the car was facing backward and tilted at an angle. I had a hammering headache and a mouth that felt like the bottom of a bird cage.
I examined myself quickly: limbs intact, no significant wounds or contusions. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t injured. Not badly at any rate. That assessment held even as I became aware of fresh aches and pains, most notably through my back and neck.
Not injured, maybe, but damn addled.
What day was it? What day did I last remember? I struggled to pull anchor points from my cottony brain. They came slowly, when at all.
The sky was clear, with only a few high clouds. That was a good sign, because it felt familiar. I ran a hand along my jaw, discovering yet another spot that hurt. But the stubble from my beard was barely a day old. That was also a good sign. Whatever had happened, I hadn’t been out of commission for long.
The phone, which had stopped ringing before I was fully awake, now started in again. I reached into my jacket pocket and checked the number. My answering service.
“Dr. Russell? I have a call for you. A woman by the name of Sherri Moore. She’s says she’s not a patient but she needs to talk to you.”
Sherri was the mother of Molly’s best friend, Heather. I was relieved to feel the bits and pieces of my life slowly coming back to me. “Put her through.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Sam, but it’s almost noon.” Sherri sounded as though she was working at not being angry. “Where are you?”
“I’m, uh ...” I glanced at the dry, rocky terrain around me. I hoped I was somewhere close to home, though I couldn’t be sure. But I knew that wasn’t what she meant. “There was an emergency,” I offered by way of explanation. Not entirely untrue.
“I figured as much. I wouldn’t have called, but the other girls have left and Molly was getting worried.” Sherri paused. “Maureen said one of you would be by to pick her up at nine.”
“Be by ...”
“Heather’s slumber party, remember? Molly spent the night here.” Sherri’s tone was one I’d heard before from Maureen’s friends. Men, what do they know?
When it came to Molly, I usually did know. But not this time. My mind was in a fog. “Where’s Maureen?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I finally called your service. I tried the house all morning, and no
one answered. She’s not picking up on her cell number either.”
Was I supposed to have picked up Molly? Probably.
Although Maureen and Molly were getting along better than they had in the beginning, none of us lost sight of the fact that she was my daughter and not Maureen’s. Out of necessity, my wife oversaw Molly’s social calendar, but I was often the one who did the “hands-on” stuff. Not that I was complaining. Molly was the center of my universe.
“I’m sorry, Sherri. I think Maureen and I got our wires crossed. I can be there in ...” I looked around again. The terrain was steep and rocky, covered mostly with scrub. Where was I, anyway? “In an hour,” I concluded. It was better than admitting I hadn’t the foggiest idea how long it would take.
“No hurry really. We were just worried. Here, let me put Molly on.”
“Where are you, Dad? Did you forget me?” Her tone was plaintive and maybe just a bit accusing.
“I didn’t forget, honey. I got tied up at work. You know how that happens sometimes.” Unfortunately Molly knew all too well, and I was disgusted with myself for lying to her. For being in a situation where I had to lie. I thought I’d put all that behind me. “I’ll make it up to you this afternoon.”
“It’s already afternoon,” she replied with the cutting clarity of an eleven-year-old going on eighteen.
I ignored the jab. “I’ll be there soon,” I told her. “I love you.”
“Me too. Bye.”
My Audi was at an angle, tail down in the ditch, but the grade wasn’t much. I was able to push the door open and step out. I’d hoped the fresh air would clear my head. Instead, the movement sent my stomach roiling. I leaned over, gripping the car to steady myself, and tasted the bile that rose into my throat. Another sledgehammer blow pounded at my temples.
Jesus, what had I done? Even when I’d been hitting the bottle 24-7, I’d managed to make it home most nights. And I’d rarely had a hangover.
I’d never been a sloppy drunk either. A functioning alcoholic, to use the lingo. Only I’d not been functioning as well as I thought.
I’d been sober now for almost five years. Ever since I’d returned to California. I’d escaped the black hole of anger and despair that descended after Lisa’s death. I had a new life. A different life, but a good one. How could I have been stupid enough to risk losing it?
Because I figured that was what must have happened. Somewhere, probably in the last twenty-four hours, I’d slipped up and taken a drink. And one drink had led to another. And another. And I’d ended up on a hell of a bender.
It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d slipped up, but it was the first since I’d met Maureen.
I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and tried again to pull some memory of what had happened into my consciousness. Nothing. I checked the date on my watch. Sunday, May 5.
Yesterday, being Saturday, I’d have seen patients until noon. But yesterday was a complete blank.
One of the attractions of returning to my hometown of Monte Vista and stepping in when my dad retired had been the chance to practice medicine the old-fashioned way. I knew my patients. I knew their families. In some cases, three generations of family. So why couldn’t I conjure up just one name, one face I’d seen yesterday? Try as I might, I couldn’t.
I must have shown up for work. If I hadn’t, Ira would have sounded the alarm. Ira Kincaid was one of my oldest friends. He was also my partner, formerly my dad’s associate, and he oversaw the day-to-day operation of the practice with the eye of a military sergeant. Sometimes it got on my nerves, but mostly I was grateful I didn’t have to worry about the administrative stuff myself.
With the work hurdle cleared, all I had to do was find a way to explain last night to Maureen. The truth was always an option, of course. Maureen would probably even understand. Oh, she’d be pissed, and disappointed in me—hell, I was feeling those same sentiments myself—but I didn’t think she’d hold my feet to the fire.
Then the significance of the date hit me. May 5. Yesterday had been our wedding anniversary. Only our second. Of all nights to screw up. How could I have done something so stupid?
As terrible as I felt physically, the self-loathing was worse. If my head hadn’t already been pounding, I might have slammed it against the car in disgust. I settled for kicking the tire.
One day at a time.
The words had steered my course over these last few years. I’d dismissed them at first as overly simplistic, but I found they worked. The fact that I was starting over again at day one didn’t make them any less meaningful. I was going to move forward.
And the first thing I needed to do was get out of there and pick up Molly.
I felt wretched, but the chances of that improving without a shower, and probably a heavy dose of aspirin, were slim. I surveyed the damage to the car—not as bad as I’d expected—and the angle at which it was perched. The ditch wasn’t deep. Unless there was damage that wasn’t readily apparent, I thought I’d probably be able to get out without calling a tow truck.
I’d started to ease myself back into the driver’s seat when I noticed my hands. My fingernails, to be precise. They were darkened with what looked to be dried blood.
Taking slow, deep breaths, I tried to ignore the queasiness in my gut, the pounding in my head, and the rising tide of questions that added to my discomfort. I got out of the car again and looked at my reflection in the glass. Disheveled, yes. The top three buttons of my shirt were undone and the left hem had come untucked from my trousers. I had a swollen eye, a bruised lip, and a scratch along my jaw, but nothing that would account for much bleeding.
So why was there blood under my nails?
I gave fleeting thought to driving directly to Sherri’s to pick up Molly, but I realized that in my rumpled, and perhaps rank, state, that was probably unwise. I figured it would also be prudent to approach Maureen first, without Molly around.
The car’s engine started easily, and I breathed a sigh of relief. All things considered, I was damn lucky.
It took a bit of wheel-spinning, but I managed to get the car out of the ditch and back onto the narrow dirt road near a rugged outcropping of rock. The country was steep, mostly scrub mixed with oaks and tall pines. There wasn’t a landmark anywhere that I recognized, but I headed in what I thought was a westward direction toward flatter terrain. I bumped along the rutted road for a good ten minutes despite relentless protests from my head and stomach. Finally, I saw a field of cows and beyond that a truck whizzing along on a crossroad.
Turning north, I meandered another ten minutes or so, through ranch land that was only generically familiar, until I stumbled onto a sign directing me to Highway 193. At last, I was able to orient myself. It took only another twenty minutes for me to reach home, even stopping at the flower stand along the way to pick up a large bouquet of pink and purple tulips for Maureen. I pulled into the garage, nervously rehearsing my apologies. I hadn’t settled on a story yet, figuring it might be best to gauge her mood first.
Maureen’s yellow Miata was in the garage, but I knew as soon as I stepped into the house that Maureen wasn’t there. The stillness was almost palpable. There was no note either, which wasn’t all that surprising given that I hadn’t even come home last night. Pissed probably didn’t begin to describe her mood.
I stripped off my clothes and studied myself in the bathroom mirror. The damage assessment remained the same: except for my face and a bruised shoulder, I wasn’t hurt. I scrubbed my nails hard with hot water and a nail brush and watched with a nagging sense of misgiving as the pink-tinted water swirled down the drain.
Years ago, I’d taken a swing at a guy who was coming onto Lisa. I’d gotten the worst of it and stayed clear of scuffles ever since. Even when I was drinking heavily. Sometimes I would get loud and obnoxious, but when it came to physical confrontation, I was a wimp. Still, if the blood under my nails wasn’t mine—and after examining myself, I couldn’t see how it was—then it had to have come from some
one else. That bothered me as much as anything.
After I’d showered and changed into fresh clothes, I put the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table and left a note. Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it. Can you ever forgive me? I love you. Sam.
Then I went to get Molly.
“You look like you could use some coffee,” Sherri said as she ushered me through the tiled entry and into her granite and chrome kitchen. Sherri lived in one of the posh new developments at the edge of town.
“That bad, huh?”
She poured me a cup without asking if I wanted one. “What happened to your face? You run into a door?”
I rubbed my jaw and laughed self-consciously. “Yeah, what a cliché, huh? Sorry about the confusion over getting Molly.”
“Not a problem. The girls were having a good time.” Sherri brushed a strand of honey blond hair from her face. “I hope you and Maureen made good use of your evening.”
I hesitated before answering. Sherri might know something of our plans for last night. That would be a place to start in reconstructing what had happened. But did I dare ask? It would mean admitting I didn’t remember a thing. I finally decided I couldn’t do it. Not given my personal history, and especially not with Sherri, who would undoubtedly spread the word in short order. I offered a generic nod instead.
“Good. I know Maureen was looking forward to it.” Sherri paused, as if she were about to say something further, then smiled. “I’ll go tell Molly you’re here.”
My life had changed radically and forever the day Molly was born. Not on the surface so much, though there were changes there too: diapers, interrupted sleep, and armloads of baby paraphernalia everywhere we went. But the most significant changes weren’t so readily apparent.
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