He then explained to Seth about the plan to fly to Denver in the morning.
“Can I go?” Seth asked, his eyes wide with the excitement of a possible trip to a new city.
“This is business. You’d be bored. I’ve asked Brett to keep an eye on you.”
Seth drooped in his chair, clearly disappointed.
“I want you to mind Brett and help him with chores. Understand?”
Seth nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy. Now take your plate to the sink and get in your pajamas. I’ll be up in a minute to read you a book.”
“Can Tracy read to me tonight?” Seth asked, casting her a hopeful glance.
She consulted Jack, who dipped his chin in agreement, before sending Seth a broad smile. “I’d love to, sweetie.”
Her heart clenched knowing that if Jack had his way, she’d be living under the same roof with the father and son, sharing more dinners, more bedtimes, more familial moments in the coming days. How wonderful it would be to feel this warmth, this bond, the peaceful routine that was family life every day. A poignant longing tightened her chest, and she did her best to shove it down.
Before she could dream of home and hearth, she had to rid herself of the menace that had invaded her life. Her priority had to be keeping Seth and the rest of the Coltons safe from the assassin bent on killing her.
* * *
Early the next morning, Jack, Ryan and Tracy disembarked at the Denver airport and took a cab straight to the Denver PD station. The Baxters were being brought in for questioning, and according to Ryan’s contacts in the department, the couple had immediately called their lawyer to meet them at the station.
“Interesting,” Jack said, arching an eyebrow when Ryan relayed this tidbit.
“Actually, not so interesting. The Baxters are on a first-name basis with their lawyer. They don’t scratch their noses without asking Mr. Rampart’s legal advice.” Now Ryan arched a dark eyebrow. “Are they paranoid or do they have something to hide?”
Tracy shrugged. “I don’t know. Honestly, I tried to avoid spending much time with them. They’re not exactly pleasant people to be around. But you’ll see that for yourself soon enough.”
Jack and Ryan exchanged a look but said nothing. As their taxi approached downtown Denver, Jack called Brett to check on Seth. While Edith would likely manage most of Seth’s care while he was gone, Brett had promised to oversee Seth’s protection in light of the gunman’s attack. If there was trouble, Jack knew Brett could handle it.
“We’re playing Sorry, and Seth is kicking my tail. Your kid is merciless, man!” Brett said, and Jack heard Seth’s laugh in the background.
Jack tugged his cheek up in a half grin, and chuckled softly. “If you’re gonna play, you might as well play to win.” Assured that Seth was fine and all was quiet at the ranch, Jack signed off and clipped his phone back on his belt. He caught Tracy looking at him with a bemused expression and asked, “What’s that look for?”
She blinked as if startled to have been caught staring. “I...uh, nothing.” A tantalizing pink flush stained her cheeks. “I just...so rarely see you smile.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but not that. He glowered at her. “I smile.” He watched as Tracy and Ryan exchange a look and realizing his current countenance contradicted his assertion, he grumbled, “When it’s warranted.”
The taxi pulled up in front of the police department at that moment, and the subject was put on hold for the moment. But as Tracy swept past him into the bustling police station, she leaned close and said, “Perhaps you should consider what warrants a smile more often. Yours is quite stunning.”
Her compliment was unexpected, and it rattled him. Discomposed was not a good state for the business at hand, but he couldn’t deny the warmth that settled in his core as she tossed him a sideways grin and sashayed inside.
Was he really as dour as she made him sound? Granted, he didn’t smile much. He’d found it hard to smile after Laura ditched him, Seth and the ranch, and perhaps he’d made little effort in more recent years. Seth had been his only source of real joy, his only reason to smile in the past few years.
Ryan showed his badge at the front desk, and a few minutes later, a plain-clothes detective with auburn hair and friendly smile appeared from the back offices to meet them. Ryan introduced the man as Detective Ron Hunnicutt, and Jack and Tracy both shook the detective’s hand as Ryan gave their names. Genial questions about their flight and formalities concerning signing in to the police department and acquiring visitor tags were dispensed with in short order, and the group filed back toward the interrogation rooms.
“So here’s how this will work,” Detective Hunnicutt said as they walked, “I will question Mr. and Mrs. Baxter separately. Detective Colton will sit in and is free to ask any questions he has. My understanding of your case is you haven’t any evidence they are tied to the shooting at your ranch. You are just looking for any information that might be helpful?”
Ryan nodded. “That’s right. Ms. McCain had a contentious relationship with her in-laws before her husband died, and they are the only people she could think of who had any kind of beef with her.”
The detective directed his next statements to Tracy. “So you understand, your in-laws are not under arrest. They are here voluntarily for questioning and are free to leave at any time. Without any evidence of their involvement, we have no legal grounds to hold them.”
“It’s a fishing trip, for sure,” Ryan added, “but we have no other leads except the sketch of the suspect Jack helped us draw up last night.”
“You’re the only one saw the shooter?” Hunnicutt asked Jack.
“I saw him, too,” Tracy volunteered, “but only from a distance. I had nothing to add to Jack’s description that would be helpful.”
Ryan paused long enough to open a satchel he’d brought with him and took out a file. Flipping the file open, he extracted a stiff sheet of paper. “I faxed this to you last night, but this is the original if you’d like to make copies.”
Hunnicutt stopped walking and turned his attention to the sheet Ryan passed to him. Jack glimpsed the surly face of the man in the sketch the police artist had composed with his direction, and his gut soured. With his thumb, he stroked the still-sore and swollen knuckles of his opposite hand, remembering the hatred in the shooter’s eyes. A killer’s eyes. Jack had no doubt the man harbored no compunction for his crime, would feel no guilt for murdering Tracy and anyone else who got in his way.
He glanced at Tracy, whose face had paled since Ryan had produced the police sketch. “You don’t recognize him at all? Have you thought of anything since last night?”
She tore her gaze from the image to face Jack. “No.”
“You’ve never seen him before yesterday? You’re sure?” Hunnicutt asked, handing the sketch back to Ryan.
She shook her head. “Never. I’d remember that face, those eyes. He looks...evil.”
Tracy chafed her arms as if chilled, and the Denver detective twisted his mouth in thought. “Well, let’s see if your in-laws recognize him.”
“Ex-in-laws,” Tracy corrected.
“You divorced your husband before he died?” Detective Hunnicutt asked.
“Well, no. But I’d left him...and since Cliff died, they’ve wanted nothing to do with me and vice versa.”
A uniformed officer poked his head out of one of the doors along the corridor where they stood and announced, “We’re ready when you are, Ron.”
Hunnicutt nodded to the officer, then to Ryan. “Shall we?” Turning to Tracy and Jack, he aimed a finger further down the corridor and said, “There are some chairs down the hall where you can wait.”
Jack squared his shoulders. “No.”
Detective Hunnicutt blinked and angled his head. “Excuse me?”
“We came to observe the interview.”
The Denver detective glanced at Ryan, whose jaw tightened.
“I’m sorry, tha
t’s not—”
“The interrogation room has an adjoining area where we can observe, doesn’t it?” Jack interrupted. “We don’t want to interfere with the questioning. We just want to observe.”
Hunnicutt propped his hands on his hips and twisted his mouth again, dividing a look between Jack and Ryan.
“I told him before we left he wouldn’t be allowed access to the interview room, but he insisted on coming.”
Detective Hunnicutt appeared to be looking for the most tactful way to tell him to take a hike, when Tracy said, “Isn’t it possible that I could have information that would assist in your interview? Or something they say may trigger a memory I’d forgotten, something that might help the investigation.”
“If this were an official interrogation, my hands would be tied. I couldn’t—” Hunnicutt fell silent and nodded a greeting as another officer passed them in the hall. When they were alone again, he finished. “You can watch from the observation room, but you may not do or say anything to influence the interview of either interviewee. And you will have Officer Grunnel in the room with you at all times.” He marched to the next door and opened it.
“Got it.” Jack placed a hand at the small of Tracy’s back to usher her inside. “Thank you, Detective.”
* * *
If the enticing presence of Jack’s possessive hand at the base of her spine weren’t unsettling enough, the sight of her former mother-in-law sitting behind the small table in the interview room, scowling, shook Tracy to the marrow. Irene’s hair, a golden brown with subtle highlights, thanks to the help of her hairdresser, was worn swept up in a loose, stylish twist, and she’d accented her aqua silk pantsuit with chunky turquoise jewelry. Despite her advanced years, her cheeks were facelift-smooth and her makeup impeccably painted on. For all her style and attention to her appearance, she radiated a coolness that went beyond her glacial gray eyes.
The balding man in the crisp business suit next to her was equally menacing with his hard jaw and heavy brow over dark eyes. She’d met the Baxters’ lawyer on more than one occasion, and each time she saw him, he seemed more intimidating than the last. Hovering at the edge of the crowd at her wedding, meeting with Cliff in their home behind closed doors and reading the terms of Cliff’s will after the funeral. She remembered thinking at one point during her marriage that Rampart made Ebenezer Scrooge seem warm and cuddly.
Icy tingles nipped her neck as the ghostlike images flickered in her mind’s eye. By sheer force of will, she held the flood of nightmarish memories at bay.
Wiping sweat from her palms onto her slacks, she moved closer to the one-way window.
She could imagine Jack and the uniformed officer in the observation room were both watching her closely, as if she were the suspect with something to hide. Taking a breath and digging up courage, she focused on the activity in the next room.
Detectives Hunnicutt and Colton entered and shook hands cordially with both Irene Baxter and her attorney, Joseph Rampart.
Once introductions were made, Joseph Rampart asked, “Would you mind telling us what this is about? Why have you dragged my clients down here?”
“Certainly. As I explained to Mrs. Baxter when I called her home, there was an incident at a ranch just outside Tulsa, Oklahoma, that we feel Mr. and Mrs. Baxter may be able to help us with.”
“I haven’t been to Tulsa in years, and neither has my husband! Whatever happened down there, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Irene said, then pressed her mouth in a taut line of disapproval.
“I didn’t say we thought you were there. As for your husband, we’ll let him talk for himself when we interview him.”
“About that,” Irene snapped, “this business of separating us for questioning, like we were common criminals. It’s insulting! I don’t see why we couldn’t be interviewed together.” She infused the term with disdain.
“Standard procedure, ma’am. No insult intended,” Hunnicutt replied with a patient smile. Hunnicutt pressed a button on the recording device on the table, then pulled out a chair and sat. Ryan remained standing, leaning against the wall by the door with his arms folded over his chest.
“Do you know a woman named Tracy McCain?”
Irene blinked, glanced to her lawyer for a nod of permission to answer, then narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “You know I do. That information is easy enough to obtain.”
Tracy shook her head in disbelief. Irene was seeking guidance from Rampart about a question as basic as her acquaintance with her former daughter-in-law?
Hunnicutt rolled up a palm. “Again, just standard procedure. We need your response stated for the record.”
Mrs. Baxter shifted her gaze to the recorder and wrinkled her nose in distaste as if the device were a foul-smelling baby diaper. “Tracy was my son’s wife.” She paused a moment before adding, “Though apparently the marriage meant so little to her, she didn’t deign to keep my son’s name after he died.”
Tracy tensed. Irene was partially correct. Tracy had reverted to her maiden name after Cliff’s death, but not because she didn’t respect the sanctity of marriage. She had simply wanted a fresh start. She hadn’t wanted the reminder of the years of agony that Cliff had put her through.
She glanced at Jack and found him watching her. She opened her mouth as if to defend herself, but before she could, Jack muttered, “Charming woman. Guess I’d change my name back and disassociate myself from her, too.”
An odd warmth spread through Tracy’s midsection. Jack had probably meant the comment as a throwaway, but Tracy appreciated the support underlying the snark. Pressing a hand to her swirling stomach, she returned her attention to the interview room.
“When’s the last time you spoke with Tracy?” Hunnicutt asked.
Mrs. Baxter frowned, glancing to Rampart again. When he inclined his head, she wrinkled her brow in thought. “I don’t know. Probably Cliff’s funeral. Why?”
Hunnicutt flashed her a wry smile. “Mrs. Baxter, the way this works is this—I ask the questions, and you give me concise, honest answers. All right?”
Rampart sat forward and waggled a finger at Hunnicutt. “There’s no need to be patronizing, Detective.”
Hunnicutt raised a hand and flashed a quick smile. “My apologies. No offense intended.”
Irene lifted her nose and gave a haughty sniff. “Fine. Get on with it, then. I don’t have all day.”
Beside her, Jack grunted.
“Told you,” Tracy said softly without looking at the imposing man beside her. Bad enough that his distractingly virile scent filled her nose and teased her with memories of their kiss.
“How would you characterize your relationship with Ms. McCain?” Ryan asked, drawing Irene’s hostile gaze.
After consulting Rampart again, she said, “I wouldn’t say we have a relationship at all. We were never close when she was married to my son, and I haven’t spoken to her since his funeral. As I just said.”
Hunnicutt laced his fingers, rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Would you say that the two of you are on good terms? Was there any bad blood between you?”
Irene, predictably, glanced to Rampart before she answered. He hesitated, then gave a subtle flick of his fingers. When she spoke, it was clear she was choosing her words carefully. “It was...indifferent. I know that sounds harsh, but—” she shrugged “—I really had very little chance to get to know her before Cliff was murdered.” The hand Irene rested on the table fisted, and she drew her shoulders back. “I really don’t know what you want me to say, Detective. I can’t characterize our relationship because I really had none with her—good or bad.”
Hunnicutt made no comment but kept a level gaze fixed on Mrs. Baxter. When it was clear Irene would add nothing else, Ryan stepped forward and joined the group at the table, straddling a chair he’d turned backward.
“Mrs. Baxter,” Ryan said, “yesterday afternoon, someone shot at Tracy McCain while she was visiting my family’s ranch outside of Tulsa.”
Chapter 14
Tracy swallowed hard, her eyes locked on Irene, and tried to interpret every subtle facial expression and gesture the woman made.
Mrs. Baxter’s sculpted eyebrows shot up. Tracy would have sworn she saw the tic of a smug grin at the corners of Irene’s mouth, but it was gone so quickly, she couldn’t be sure. Or perhaps she was seeing what she expected to see.
Irene sat back in her chair, her eyes darting from one detective to the other before she pressed a hand to her chest, as if remembering the proper response to such news was shock or grief. A deep V furrowed her forehead, and she made the appropriate sounds of dismay in her throat. “Oh, dear. That’s terrible! Have you caught the man responsible?”
Ryan kept his expression neutral. “I didn’t say that the shooter was a man.”
Irene flinched, then glaring at Ryan, snapped, “Surely you’re not implying that you think I did it! I told you I haven’t been in Tulsa for years. I was home all day yesterday. You can ask my husband.”
Hunnicutt nodded. “We will. Were you with your husband all day yesterday?”
“Yes.” Once again, Mrs. Baxter stiffened in the chair and lifted her chin. “We are well-respected members of this community,” she added tapping the table top with a salon-perfect French-manicured fingernail. “It is preposterous to think that either of us could be responsible for anything as heinous as murder.”
“No one is accusing you of murder, ma’am,” Ryan said calmly. “In fact, I never said Ms. McCain was killed.”
Irene shifted nervously on the chair, dividing a confused look between Ryan and Detective Hunnicutt. “Yes, you did.”
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