by Maggie Price
But losing that important function in your right hand wasn’t all you lost that night, was it? I smile when I conjecture what a blow that must have been to your pride. Your womanhood. How satisfying for me, knowing my actions brought you such personal humiliation.
In no way will I think it rude if you choose not to respond at this time. I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I have placed myself. I am anticipating the day you will answer to me in person.
Hands shaking, Paige managed to set her cup on a nearby table without spilling the steaming latte. Her mind worked automatically to analyze Isaac’s words, but this time they were personal. Too personal. Words directed at her by a madman who made no secret of the fact he intended them be together soon. The fragmented thoughts spinning off from Isaac’s words hurtled through her brain, bouncing off the edges like bumper cars. She felt both cold and numb, and faintly sick.
Her gaze swept the lobby. The same men were still ensconced behind their newspapers. Bellmen continued to deal with luggage; the clerks behind the counter assisted guests.
No one seemed to be paying her a bit of attention.
You can handle this, Paige told herself. You found Isaac once. You can track the bastard again. Deal with it.
Those words were still scrolling in her brain five minutes later while she sat in the passenger seat of McCall’s idling cruiser, parked beneath the hotel’s porte cochere. Her initial shakes were gone. She had a choke hold on her emotions now, studying his profile as he read the e-mail. He looked more banker than cop in a dark, conservative suit and gray tie.
He looked up from the PDA. “When did this come through on your e-mail account?” McCall’s tone was all business, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes hard.
“Sometime after I checked my mail last night. That was around ten. It’s one of the messages that downloaded from my laptop this morning.”
“We need to go to your room and get your computer.”
“And take it where?”
“To Wade Crawford, the department’s Digital Evidence Examiner. Otherwise known as our gizmo whiz. With luck he’ll be able to tell us where Isaac’s e-mail originated.”
“Don’t count on it. Remember I told you Isaac’s father was a genius computer geek? When we arrested Isaac, we found five computers in his home. Each had layers of encryption. We sent the hard drives to the FBI. Three years later, there are still files they haven’t figured out how to access.”
“Crawford’s better than a lot of feds I’ve run across,” McCall said. “So he gets the first shot at Isaac’s e-mail. Since we’re pressed for time to get to LeMonde’s, I’ll have a patrol cop meet us here and take your laptop to Crawford. I’ll call Crawford and give him a rundown on Isaac and the e-mail.”
“All right.”
McCall glanced back at the PDA’s display. “What does this symbol at the bottom of the e-mail mean?”
“Isaac sent an attachment. No way am I going to open it. It could be a virus.”
“Crawford can deal with it.” McCall gave her a long look. “You okay, Carmichael?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to call you a liar, but…” He dropped his gaze to her hands. Paige hadn’t realized she’d pulled off her gloves and was using her left thumb to do a slow massage of her scar. With the nerves damaged and numbed, she barely felt it.
“I’m fine.” So much for control. She jerked on her gloves, angry with herself for the outward show of weakness. Isaac’s goal was to rattle her. Make her feel vulnerable.
“Fine, huh? If I’d gotten that e-mail, I’d be shaking in my shoes.” McCall dipped his head. “Like I figure you are right now.”
Paige blew out a breath. “It’s not just what Isaac said.”
“Go on.”
“Last night, I played the tape of his voice for the two hookers. When I read that e-mail, I could hear Isaac recite the words in that cultured tone of his.”
McCall looked down at the PDA’s screen. “I have to admit, this is the most polite threat I’ve ever run across.”
“Above all else, Doctor Isaac detests discourtesy.”
“So you’ve said. Makes me wonder how polite he was when he murdered those five hookers.”
“He told me he apologized to each woman before he killed her.”
“Let’s get his name on the social register. Is your e-mail address on the Lassiter Group’s Web site, along with your schedule?”
“Not the address Isaac used. It’s one I reserve for friends and relatives.” She furrowed her brow. “I have no idea how Isaac got it.”
“Maybe Crawford can give us an idea on that.” McCall gave the message a final look before returning the PDA to Paige. “Not that I for one minute take what Isaac says at face value, but it’s clear he wants us to believe he’s in some sunny paradise, catching rays.”
“That’s what he wants,” Paige agreed. “But that isn’t what he told us.” She scrolled through the text. “What he said is, ‘After three years I can again relish the glorious heat of the sun against my face.’”
“Right.”
“I can again relish, not I am relishing.” She scrolled the text, then read, “‘I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I have placed myself.’ Isaac isn’t saying he went to this Eden. He placed himself there. It’s possible he put himself there in his mind as part of his plan to make us think he’s a world away. And he might be,” she conceded. “It just isn’t the linguistic message he’s sending.”
“Hell.” McCall scrubbed a hand over his chin.
“You disagree?”
“No.” He let his hand drop. “It’s just that sometimes I think statement analysis has an element of voodoo to it. Other times, it makes perfect sense.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“Maybe.” He turned off the car’s ignition, but made no move to get out. “What else did you pick up in that e-mail?”
She looked back at the display. “He wasn’t blowing smoke when he said he often thinks of me on a personal level.”
“What tells you that?”
“Isaac referenced our relationship. In his mind, what’s between us is personal.”
“What else?”
“He asked if I’m enjoying Oklahoma’s frozen wasteland for now. That tells me he intends for things to change.”
“Which is a damn good reason for you to rethink going into protective custody.”
“I told you, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life checking over my shoulder to see if Isaac is closing in. That could very well happen if I go into hiding.”
“Dammit, Carmichael, you’ve got a psycho drooling over some perceived relationship he has with you. And I’m not so thickheaded that I didn’t pick up what he said in his last sentence. ‘I am anticipating the day you will answer to me in person.’ He intends to make you answer for destroying his life.”
Dread tightened Paige’s chest. McCall was dead-on.
When she remained silent, he arched a brow. “Most women would be impressed with my detecting skill.”
“I’m not most women.”
“That’s another thing I’ve detected. I do admit, though, there’s a couple of things in Isaac’s message I need you to decipher.”
“Such as?”
“When he mentioned the blow to your pride. Your womanhood. What did he mean when he said you lost more than just some of the use of your right hand the night you were shot?”
The tightening in her chest hardened into a knot. Isaac’s arrow had been well aimed.
McCall hooked a finger under her chin, nudged it sideways until she met his gaze. “My mentioning that made you go as pale as ice, so I figure Isaac knows your Achilles’ heel. I’m the cop on this case, and I need to know it, too.”
“Later,” she said, aware of the thready nerves in her voice. “We’ll talk later.” She nodded at the clock on the dash. “We need to hurry if we’re going to get my laptop and still be on time to interview Elizabet
h LeMonde.”
With time, Paige hoped she could get control over the vicious memories.
Chapter 10
Paige and McCall cooled their heels in Elizabeth LeMonde’s pink marble foyer where hand-painted vines of ivy crept up the linen wallpaper. In the foyer’s center, a dark wood table held a massive vase with sprays of gladiolus, snapdragon and baby’s breath that ripened the air with a heavy funereal scent.
“Think she’s ever coming back?” Paige asked.
McCall shot a dark look up the horseshoe-shaped double staircase that swept up three levels. “She damn well better.”
The “she” was the gray-haired housekeeper who had answered their knock at the front door of the LeMondes’ sprawling residence. The housekeeper had informed them that “Madam” had returned home from the West Coast last night and had a morning filled with appointments. McCall had politely explained that “Madam” could either talk to them now in the comfort of her own home, or in an interview room at police headquarters.
Paige knew McCall’s either/or comment was lip service. Although the cops could ask or even insist that a person talk to them at the station, it remained only a request unless the police had probable cause and were prepared to make an arrest. At that point, the subject was considered “in custody.”
Elizabeth LeMonde’s current status was that of a murder victim’s friend who might have information about the deceased’s activities. It was curious that the so-called friend had chosen to ignore the messages McCall had left her.
McCall’s cell phone trilled. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and answered. After a short conversation he disconnected and turned to Paige. “That was Wade Crawford. The patrol cop just delivered your laptop to his lab. He’ll let us know if he can trace the origin of Isaac’s e-mail.”
“I hope Crawford’s as good as you say he is.”
“He is.” McCall’s gaze dropped to her hands. “You okay, Carmichael?”
“I’m fine.”
“That so?”
Only then did she realize she was again rubbing her thumb over her scar. She imagined she looked something akin to Lady Macbeth, trying to rid herself of that damned stain.
I am anticipating the day you will answer to me in person.
She shoved her hands in her coat pockets while Isaac’s message continued to tap a menacing rhythm in her thoughts.
The sound of footsteps had Paige looking up just as the housekeeper appeared on the second-floor landing and began descending the staircase. Tall, bone-thin and dressed all in black, the woman resembled a stiff-spined crow.
“Madam will see you now.”
McCall gave a curt nod. “Smart choice.”
“You are to wait in the drawing room.” Her movements crisp, the housekeeper led them into a spacious room reeking of style and obvious wealth.
“I will take your coats, if you wish.”
Paige shook her head. “We’ll keep them, thank you.”
As the double doors clicked shut on the woman’s retreating form, Paige settled her purse beside a wingback chair upholstered with needlepoint roses. Facing the chair was a massive couch sprouting identical blooms.
McCall directed a scowl toward the doorway. “I thought the hired help was supposed to be nice to guests.”
“Think your threat to haul her boss in for questioning turned the encounter sour?”
“Yeah, well, if LeMonde had returned any of the messages I left her at the L.A. spa where she was staying, I’d have been my usual charming self.”
He tossed his dark coat across the back of an armless French antique chair then moved to the far side of the room, pausing in front of a fireplace of gray marble where flames blazed. Shoving back one flap of his suit coat, he rested his hand beside his gold badge and holstered automatic while he studied the oil portrait hanging over the carved mantel.
“‘Madam’ might be full of herself, but she’s easy on the eyes,” he commented.
Paige draped her coat on the wingback chair, then stepped around a coffee table polished to an almost painful gloss. The closer she got to the fireplace, the stronger the scent of fragrant wood.
No ceramic logs for the well-heeled LeMondes.
She scanned the portrait. Elizabeth LeMonde, gowned in mauve silk, stared out at the world through emerald-colored eyes. Raven-black hair framed a creamy-skinned face with classic cheekbones. A choker of diamonds blazed at her throat. Gorgeous and refined were terms that materialized in Paige’s mind.
Just then, the doors slid open. She and McCall turned in unison.
As her portrait hinted, the mistress of the house was tall and elegantly thin, clad this morning in a jacket and trousers in a rich green wool that matched her eyes. Her dark hair was swept up into a sleek coil; discreet daytime diamonds winked from her earlobes.
LeMonde gave Paige a cursory inspection. “Are you Sergeant McCall?”
“I’m Paige Carmichael. This is Sergeant McCall.”
LeMonde shifted her gaze. “I understand you left a message for me at the spa, Sergeant.” She settled on one end of the couch and waved a hand. “Have a seat.”
Paige sat on the opposite end of the couch.
“I left several messages.” McCall remained standing, giving himself the automatic advantage of height during the interview. “Why didn’t you return them?”
“I was in seclusion mode, undergoing a week of herbal detoxification and lymphatic drainage.”
His forehead furrowed. “Lymphatic drainage?”
“That’s correct. Understandably, I didn’t even speak to my husband during that time. He did call and leave a message that Lauren had been murdered and found in that warehouse freezer.” She shook her head. “Terrible.”
“You knew your friend had been murdered,” McCall said. “But you didn’t bother returning calls from the police.”
“By the time I heard about Lauren, I had been out of town half a week. I hardly have any idea about what might have happened to her.”
The analyst in Paige jumped on the word, hardly. She glanced at McCall, lifted her chin minutely. He gave her an imperceptible nod that told her he’d caught it, too. Paige eased back against a cushion, choosing to remain silent. At this point, she could be more effective by paying close attention to every word the woman uttered.
“Maybe you don’t know for sure what happened to Lauren Gillette,” McCall continued. “But you do have a theory. Suppose you share that with us.”
LeMonde angled her chin. “Let’s just say Lauren was adventurous. She didn’t let being married stop her from having a variety of sexual partners. I assume one of the men she was seeing is responsible for her death.”
Paige mentally reviewed the reports she’d read on the case. None of the people interviewed to date had mentioned this “adventurous” side of Lauren Gillette. If what LeMonde said was true, it could send the investigation into an entirely different direction.
McCall crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know the name of any of those men?”
“No. I didn’t ask.”
“According to Davis Gillette, his wife often disappeared and for lengthy periods of time. During some of those instances she told him she was with you. Was she?”
“No.”
“Did you know about those absences?”
LeMonde shifted on the plush cushions. “Yes.”
“What was Mrs. Gillette doing?”
LeMonde raised a shoulder, her tailored jacket flowing with the movement. “She was meeting someone. To have sex.”
“Did you ask Mrs. Gillette who she was meeting?”
“No, it was none of my business.”
“What were you doing during the times Mrs. Gillette used you as an alibi?”
“Tending to my own business.”
“Which is?”
“In addition to overseeing the operation of this household, I have a full social schedule. I serve on several boards. I do volunteer work for a museum and I oversee the annual arts fes
tival. Then there’s the fund-raising for the symphony. All of that takes a great deal of time.” She slid back a cuff, checked her diamond-encrusted watch. “I have a meeting in half an hour. You’ll have to excuse—”
“This shouldn’t take long,” McCall said. “Were you worried about running into Davis Gillette during those times you were supposed to be with his wife?”
LeMonde eased out an impatient breath. “Not at all.”
“You say you didn’t ask Lauren who she was meeting,” McCall continued. “Did you discuss what she did during those times?”
“You mean, did I ask her what positions she favored? No, Sergeant, Lauren and I never really talked about sex.”
Several red flags had popped up in Paige’s brain and were waving madly. Leaning in, she went for the bluff. “Mrs. LeMonde, Sergeant McCall and I have information that you did, in fact, talk with Mrs. Gillette about sex. And the reason you weren’t worried about running into Davis Gillette while Lauren used you as an alibi was because you were also using her as one.”
Astonishment crossed LeMonde’s perfect face. Replaced by uneasiness. “Who told you those things?”
“How we obtain our information isn’t important,” Paige said, certain now her statement analysis skills had ferreted out LeMonde’s Achilles’ heel. She glanced at McCall, hoping to gauge his reaction to her taking over the questioning. He might as well have been sitting at a poker table for all she could tell from his expression. If he didn’t like it, he could jump back in. “What is important is that you tell us the truth. I’ll ask you again. Do you know the names of any of the men Lauren Gillette was involved with?”
“No. I didn’t want to know.”
“Did you ever see Lauren with any of the men she met on the sly?”
“No, never.”
LeMonde’s last two answers were strong denials and Paige believed her. Time now to refocus on areas of deception. “Let’s get back to the discussions you and Lauren Gillette had about sex. What specifically did she say?”
