by Maggie Price
“Dammit, I didn’t kill Vanessa!”
“I know that, but—”
“Which means there’s no evidence against me for Julia—or any other cop—to find. Stop predicting gloom and doom for me, Rick, and concentrate on finding who the hell shot Vanessa in the back!”
“Look, Sloan, I’m sorry.” Mouth hard and unsmiling, Rick shoved a thick hand through his unruly, corn-colored hair. “I think the cards are stacked against you and there’s no reason to let them stay that way.”
“Let me worry about that.”
Rick stood silent, his sharp gaze shifting from point to point across the crowded room. Finally he asked, “Did you know that Don Smithson found Vanessa’s body?”
“Julia mentioned it.”
“I think he and Vanessa had a thing going.”
The statement brought Sloan’s chin up. “Vanessa and Don?”
“Yep.”
Sloan groaned as he pictured his silver-haired personnel director working at his desk, a photograph of his wife and three children smiling from the credenza behind him. “What makes you think they were involved?”
“I walked in his office without knocking one day. Vanessa was there. Neither of them heard me come in. She was sitting on the corner of his desk, smiling that pouty smile, her skirt hiked halfway up her thighs. Smithson had the look of a starving man who had a strawberry sundae in his sights.”
“If you thought they were involved, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You expected me to pick up the phone every time I suspected Vanessa of sleeping with some guy?” Rick asked with derision. “Hell, Sloan, we’d have been on the phone more than we’d have been off.”
Sloan raised a hand, rubbed his forehead.
“There’s something else,” Rick went on. “One of my men overheard the cops talking. They found one of our employee service pins a few feet from Vanessa’s body.”
“Those pins come from personnel,” Sloan said.
“Right. Smithson’s division.”
“Has anyone reported their pin lost?”
“Not to my people.”
Sloan’s brows furrowed in thought. “All right. It’s possible Don and Vanessa were involved. The police found an employee service pin near her body. In themselves, those two facts prove nothing.”
“I agree. But they suggest quite a lot.”
“Did you tell Julia your suspicions about Don and Vanessa?”
“No. It’s only my guess they were involved.” Rick shook his head. “One thing about having Julia on the case is she’s as relentless as a jackhammer. If Smithson’s the killer, she’ll figure it out.”
Sloan glanced at the now dispersing crowd and set his glass aside. “I need to mingle, thank people again for coming.”
He made his. way through the mass of bodies, shaking hands. At one point, he paused to listen with attentive interest while his father’s longtime golf partner reminisced.
Later, Sloan shifted his gaze to the dais, where a portrait of his parents rested on a spotlighted easel. He expelled a slow breath, hoping like hell the name of Vanessa’s killer was all that Julia figured out.
Chapter 5
Julia wanted coffee. Real coffee. Not the hideous caffè latte she’d forced down between interviews at the art museum.
She wanted a quick, humming hit of caffeine. Then she’d huddle with Halliday to compare notes. After that, they’d go through the manila evidence envelopes she’d checked out from the lab on her way upstairs.
Her thoughts churning with the results of that morning’s interviews, she walked into the squad room, where every desk was occupied and the coffeepot empty.
“Damn.” Scowling, she tossed her leather portfolio beside the stack of phone messages that had collected on her desk since the previous evening. “Where’s Lonnie?” she asked while craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the Homicide detail’s longtime secretary.
“Sick,” Detective Sam Rogers said from his desk behind Julia’s.
“Great.”
She glanced at Halliday’s empty chair. “Any sign of my partner?”
“Called from the M.E.’s office,” Sam replied around the stub of a cigar. “He said not to expect him for a while.” The veteran detective’s loose jowls and protruding paunch lent him a harmless look, but he’d long maintained the division’s highest clearance rate. “A family of four was found in their home last night, dead of who knows what,” Sam continued as he reached for his ringing phone. “Your victim’s autopsy got pushed back.”
“Wonderful,” Julia muttered, then grabbed the empty coffeepot and headed down the hallway. She had her own strong blend brewing in less than five minutes.
Adjusting the holster that held her 9 mm Smith & Wesson on the waistband of her slim, black skirt, she slid into her chair. Questions burned in her mind; foremost was whether Sloan would admit to the argument that had taken place between him and Vanessa West only hours before she’d died.
Julia had interviewed two museum staffers, then gone by the home of a catering employee who’d served champagne during the fund-raiser. They’d all overheard the “furious threats” flung at Mr. Remington by the stunning blonde who moments before had smiled at his side for the newspaper photographer. Mr. Remington, from all accounts, had shown no outward response to the woman’s fury.
Classic Sloan, Julia thought. Cool under fire. Circumspect. Unshakable dignity. Didn’t even flinch when accused of murder.
She checked her phone messages. Eve Nelson, Vanessa’s secretary who’d had minor foot surgery the previous day, had returned the message Julia had left on her answering machine. She dialed the woman’s number and scheduled an appointment to see her that afternoon.
After making several more case-related calls, Julia pushed away from her desk, drawn by the heady scent of real coffee. She wove her way through the maze of battleship gray, city-issue desks, passing by the doorway where a stuffed vulture perched on a dead tree limb. The Homicide Division’s mascot glared at her, its oversize beak lending it a slightly cross-eyed look.
She filled a mug, blew across the coffee’s steaming surface and decided to give up waiting for Halliday. Back at her desk she slit the top of the manila envelope and dumped the contents of Vanessa West’s briefcase onto her desk. A black leather appointment book revealed that the victim typically filled her days with business meetings and corporate lunches. Every morning, she’d worked out in the gym. With Sloan? Julia wondered.
Sipping coffee, she continued flipping through pages, her fingers faltering when she saw the first of many evening entries that included the initial S. Dinner with S. Drinks with S. Spend night with S.
The lurch of her stomach had Julia gritting her teeth. Don’t jump to conclusions, she cautioned herself. The entries could mean Sloan. But he wasn’t the only man at Remington Aerospace whose initial was S.
Ignoring the thick feeling in her chest, Julia continued scanning the pages from which a faint drift of sweet, expensive perfume rose. Vanessa’s scent, she realized. Her lips curved into an ironic arch. The woman who so often bared her fangs went around smelling as sweet as spun sugar.
Hundreds of names filled the book’s address section, written in an all-business methodical script that Julia assumed belonged to the deceased. Most of the names had Houston addresses and phone numbers. Houston, Julia knew from the personnel file Rick Fox had supplied, was where Vanessa had worked prior to transferring to Remington’s Oklahoma City office.
Julia set the book aside, reached into the evidence envelope and slid out a thick printout. Across the front page, the same precise, angular letters labeled the contents: “HELD Wing—Test Stats.” Nose scrunched, she thumbed through the unending pages of charts and formulas, finally deciding Chinese algebra would be easier to figure out. A tape recorder with working batteries and blank cassette, and a file folder labeled “Wind Tunnel Test No. 33” summed up the remainder of the briefcase’s contents.
The second evidence envelope Julia
opened contained a receipt found in Vanessa’s black Jaguar for a cup of carrot juice purchased the morning of the murder from a trendy health food store. A sack from an office supply store containing a box of unused computer disks had been found on the Jag’s back seat. The three-line lab report taped to the envelope reported that the empty paper cup found inside the vehicle had a dozen latent prints on its surface, all too smudged for ID. The only prints found inside the Jaguar belonged to the victim.
Julia tipped the envelope upside down; the gold twenty-year Remington service pin, now officially sealed in plastic, slid out. She nibbled her bottom lip. Did the killer drop the pin before fleeing the scene, or had it lain on the garage floor for some time, lost by some loyal Remington employee who had nothing to do with the murder? She frowned. The city also issued service pins to its employees—pins that came from the Personnel Department. Don Smithson, the man who found Vanessa’s body, headed Remington’s Personnel division. Julia added the service pin to her growing list of items to check.
She glanced at the clock above the assignment board, where red grease-pencil letters displayed each team’s unsolved cases. She scowled at the reminder of the still-open case that had plagued her and Halliday for the past month.
“One thing at a time,” she mumbled, and decided to check Halliday’s progress at the M.E.’s office. Grabbing her phone, she punched in a number every OCPD Homicide detective knew by heart.
“Oklahoma State Medical Examiner,” a cheery-voiced receptionist answered.
Julia gave her name and asked the woman to page Sergeant Halliday.
“I think he’s gone,” the receptionist commented. “But I’m not sure—it’s been a zoo here this morning. Dr. McClandess performed the autopsy on your case. I’ll transfer you to his office.”
Sipping coffee, Julia waited through a series of buzzes and clicks. Her brows shot up when the doctor himself answered. She identified herself and asked for Halliday.
“He left fifteen minutes ago, took his sack of apple turnovers with him,” the doctor said, the deep timbre of his voice booming across the line. Julia pictured the man eternally garbed in a white lab coat, his gaunt face sharpened to the bone, black eyes unnaturally vibrant, gray hair combed back from the temples.
“Your partner consumed two turnovers during the autopsy.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “He has an iron stomach.”
“No doubt,” the doctor agreed. “When Sergeant Halliday left, he said he was on his way to the station.”
“Thanks,” Julia said, then hesitated. She glanced around the busy office, making sure no one was within eavesdropping distance. “Dr. McClandess, do you have time to answer a question?”
“If it’s about your victim, Sergeant Halliday has all the information.”
“It’s not.” Julia knew she was about to blur the fine line between professional and personal interest, but it didn’t seem to matter. “The question does relate to the case, though.”
“Go ahead.”
“I need to know what type of surgery leaves a certain incision.” She then described the scar that extended downward from the base of Sloan’s sternum. The scar that had kept her tossing and turning for hours in her Arabian Nights bed.
“A midline scar of that length could represent removal of an organ, or exploratory surgery, or both. Does that answer your question, Sergeant?”
“Yes. One more thing,” Julia said. “How long does it take an incision to heal?”
“On average a scar will lose its redness and begin to fade in about six months. After a year, it generally appears paler than the surrounding flesh.”
Julia thanked the man, then slowly replaced the phone on its cradle, while Sloan’s words replayed in her head.
Exploratory surgery. No big deal.
Julia closed her eyes, then took a deep breath. What did it matter? she asked herself.
Her fingers tightened on her coffee mug. The fact that Sloan had undergone surgery didn’t mean a thing. Not a thing.
“’Morning, partner.” Grinning, Halliday dropped into the chair at the desk that butted against the front of hers.
Julia gave the crumpled bakery sack he tossed at her fingertips a disdainful look. “Don’t tell me. Apple turnovers. Bet you managed to choke down a couple during the autopsy.”
His eyes widened behind his wire-rim glasses. “That,” he said, “is why you’re the lead detective on this team.”
“And don’t forget it.” She pitched the sack behind her onto Sam Roger’s desk.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, saluting her with his stubby cigar.
She looked back at Halliday. “What did the M.E. say?”
He pulled a small plastic evidence bag out of the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Vanessa died from one shot from a .22.”
Julia nodded and kept her expression neutral. She knew without checking the inventory of Sloan’s weapons that he owned both .22 revolvers and automatics. Her mind went to the parking garage, conjuring up the image of a shadowy killer squeezing the trigger of a .22, Vanessa’s red power suit an ideal target. Julia’s breath stilled. Try as she might, she couldn’t put Sloan’s face on that dark figure.
“You still with me?” Halliday asked.
Her gaze slid back to meet his. “Go on.”
“The M.E. confirmed the shooter stood about five to eight feet from the victim.”
“So it was a lucky shot,” Julia said, aware of the slow velocity of a .22 slug. To kill at a distance, the small shell had to hit the right spot.
“Lucky, or our killer’s a damn good shot.” Halliday cocked his head. “How good is Remington?”
“As good as me,” she said quietly.
“That good?” Halliday asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicious concentration.
“Anything else from the M.E.?”
“Just one minor detail. The bullet’s mangled.”
“Mangled?”
Halliday tossed the plastic bag onto her desk. “A .22 loses its form when it hits something solid. The slug that killed Vanessa smashed into her spine before hitting her heart. The bullet’s deformed.”
“Too deformed for testing?”
“I checked with Gomez in Ballistics on my way in. There are a few striations visible on the bullet. He can probably match them with the murder weapon...if we find it.” Halliday dug through the clutter on his desk until he unearthed the printout Sloan’s secretary had given him the previous day.
“Remington has two .22 revvlvers...a Smith & Wesson and a Colt.” Paper crinkled as Halliday flipped to the next page. “He’s also got automatics—one competition-grade High Standard, a Colt and a Baretta. All have four-inch barrels or shorter. Easy to conceal.” His mouth curved as he tossed the printout aside. “Remington’s an excellent shot. He owns the right type weapon. He arrived in the garage just after Vanessa. There’s a good chance he’s our man.”
Julia stared at the plastic-encased bullet. Halliday wasn’t theorizing about some unknown person; he was talking about Sloan. Sloan as a killer. A man she had once loved. The man with whom she’d felt a closeness she’d never before, or since, experienced.
Her hand drifted up to rub at the pain that had settled in her right temple. For the past twenty-four hours, her thoughts of Sloan as a suspect had been vague, abstract. Now, as she stared down at the deformed bullet, realization hit. Could she do it? Could she coolly read Sloan his rights, then lock him in a cage and walk away without a backward glance?
Wasn’t that, essentially, what he’d done to her? Plunged her into a world of grief, then walked away with no remorse, no regret?
She set her teeth. She was doing exactly what she’d assured her boss and her partner she wouldn’t do. She was letting emotion seep in, color her thinking. She had to get a grip, had to maintain control.
“Julia?” Halliday asked softly.
She met his intense gaze. “What?”
“You have a problem dealing with Remington as a suspect?”
/>
“No.”
“Ryan can assign someone else to work with me on this case.”
She leaned forward, her hand balled around the plastic bag. “Don’t ever imply I can’t do my job, Halliday,” she said, her voice vibrating with temper.
“That’s not what I said,” he countered evenly. “You almost married Remington. The idea of hauling him in on a murder charge has to stir up a hell of a lot of emotion—”
“If we arrest him, it will be because he killed Vanessa West,” Julia said. “The only emotion that’s likely to ‘stir up’ is satisfaction.”
“Okay.” Halliday leaned back in his chair and regarded her while thumping a pencil against a stack of file folders. “If you say you can handle it, I’ll take your word for it.”
“You do that.” She tossed the bag onto his desk. “If you’re finished analyzing me, I’ll tell you what I found out at the art museum.”
“Tell away.”
“They fought,” she said.
“Remington and Vanessa?”
“Yes. After posing for the newspaper picture, they wound up in a display room that wasn’t in use that night. But it’s between the exhibit hall and the kitchen, where the caterer had set up, so a lot of service people and museum staff passed by. I interviewed three of them. They all overheard Vanessa threatening Sloan.”
Halliday’s pencil went still. “What sort of threats?”
“That he’d be sorry. That she’d expose him for what he was, make him and Remington Aerospace pay for what he’d done.”
“Anyone hear what that was?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
“When Vanessa left, she stalked into the hallway and crashed into a waiter with a tray loaded with champagne glasses. The poor guy lost his footing—champagne and glass went everywhere.”
“Let me guess,” Halliday began with a wry look. “Our Miss West had a man lying at her feet, and she left him there.”
Julia nodded. “Cussed him for good measure, then stalked out.”
Halliday stroked his chin. “When you called me last night, you said Remington told you Vanessa had car trouble and hitched a ride with him to the museum.”
