“And you didn’t have time to change afterward?”
His expression shuttered. “I had things to do.”
What things? she wanted to demand. But he had already retreated someplace she didn’t know how to follow. Maybe he wasn’t that different from Paul after all, she thought in despair.
And maybe she was the one who hadn’t changed.
Who needed to change.
She thought about it as she cleared a space on the brown quilted spread to sit and he pushed the table closer to the bed. She popped the lids from their sweet tea and spooned coleslaw onto paper plates while he shifted the evidence box to the floor.
Like an old married couple, dividing chores without speech. She flushed.
The spicy aroma of good barbecue filled the room. She waited until he had worked his way through half a pile of barbecue before she dragged a hush puppy through ketchup and pointed it like a gun.
“Tell me about your day.”
His mouth quirked. “Or you’ll shoot?”
Biting the end off the hush puppy, she wagged the stump at him. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“Obviously not,” he murmured. Now that he’d eaten, he looked . . . not relaxed, she thought. But more approachable. “Tell me about this book deal.”
She accepted the change of subject. For now.
“It’s not a deal yet.” She chewed and swallowed. “I haven’t decided whether I want to do it.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“No good reason. The advance would pay my bills. I’d be able to stay in Stokesville while I figure out my next move. Or at least until the sublet on my apartment is up.”
“Would it be under your name?”
“What?” Now how had he zeroed in on the thing that bothered her most?
“The book. Would your name be on the cover?”
“Yes.” She dug her plastic fork into a heap of barbecued pork. “Somewhere. Paul’s agent suggested ‘by Paul Ellis with Bailey Wells.’ ”
“Don’t do it.”
She felt a flare of resentment. What did he know about it? “It’s more acknowledgement than I’d get if Paul had written the book.”
“Paul isn’t writing the book. You are.”
“But his name is established. His name sells. And anything I wrote would be based on his work. His ideas.”
“Then write something based on your own ideas. Sell that. I thought you were working on a kids’ book.”
She scowled. “It’s not that easy. Although . . . I did pitch my YA book to her.”
“Good for you.” His approval warmed her all the way through. “And?”
“And she asked to read the complete manuscript.” Impossible to contain the glow of pleasure.
“That’s good, right? That she wants to see the whole thing.”
She allowed herself a small smile. “It’s very good.”
“So why are you even thinking about the other job?”
Because she was terrified of failing.
“Well . . . it would pay more.”
“In the short term, maybe. You need to think long term. Look at this as an investment in yourself and your career.”
“What if she doesn’t like it?”
“What if she does?” he countered. “Do you really want to be stuck finishing Ellis’s book when you could be working on your own?”
“No-o.”
“Then leave it. Put all this behind you.”
“I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because even if I don’t write the book, I need to go through Paul’s files. I have to find what he knew that would lead someone to kill him.”
His face was unreadable. “Sugar, there may not be anything. Not if we can’t turn up his interviews with Billy Ray.”
“I have the interviews.”
Steve went very still. “You have transcripts?”
She shook her head. “Paul never gave them to me to transcribe. But I should have the original files.”
“You have the tapes.” Steve bit the words out. “And you never told me.”
“They’re not tapes,” she hastened to assure him. “They’re audio files. On his computer. Paul never went anywhere without his laptop. Most come with built-in microphones now to enable Internet conferencing, but he actually used a microphone jack—you know, like some students use to tape their professors’ lectures? He recorded the interviews directly onto his hard drive.”
A muscle jumped beside Steve’s mouth. He pushed away his half-empty plate. “Let’s hear ’em.”
He went out to the truck.
So much for sharing the news of their day over dinner.
She was clearing away the remains of their meal when he returned with a slim black laptop.
“I’ve got this,” he said, taking hold of her plate.
Her hand instinctively tightened. She wasn’t used to accepting help. Particularly domestic help from a man. “I can do it.”
“So can I. What I can’t do is access your boss’s files. Sit. Work.”
She sat. While the computer booted, she retrieved her flash drive from her purse and plugged it into the USB port. The contents flashed on the screen.
“What’s this?” Steve stood by the bed, her penciled list in his hand.
“All the names and abbreviations I could remember from Tanya’s diary. Not very many, I’m afraid.”
“Mind if I copy it?”
“Of course not.”
The mattress dipped under his weight. Bailey glanced at the stretch of his suit pants over his thighs and then away. It just figured that the first time she was alone with a man in a motel room, they’d both be doing paperwork.
She hadn’t come home to find romance.
She hadn’t made love with him expecting to find her happily ever after.
But now that they were here, she wanted to touch him. She wanted to burrow under his cop suit and find the man inside.
Put all this behind you?
She only wished they could. Sighing, she turned her attention to the computer screen. Fortunately, the laptop Steve had provided had a sophisticated sound card.
She searched Paul’s files using keywords. Dawler. Billy Ray. Interview. Nothing.
She scrolled through his documents, looking for unfamiliar icons or names. Nothing.
She tapped softly on the base of the keyboard. Paul was brilliant and computer savvy, but he wouldn’t waste his time with an elaborate retrieval system.
“If I were an audio file,” she murmured, “where would I be?”
Music, she thought. She clicked on his music folder. A window opened with a list of song titles, dates . . . Dates.
“Found them,” she announced.
Steve leaned over to look. She could smell him, musky and male, and feel him, hard and warm against her shoulder blade. “How many?”
She scrolled. “Three since we moved here.”
“Try that one. The most recent.”
She clicked. And flinched as Paul’s smooth, remembered voice flowed from the tiny keyboard speaker.
It was obvious from the nature of his greeting and the tone of Billy Ray’s reply that they had met before. Paul started the interview with simple, seemingly caring questions. How had Billy Ray been? Did he need anything? Was he sleeping?
Bailey forgot to take notes. She was helpless to do anything but listen, fascinated and repelled, as Paul wielded his voice like an oyster huckster’s knife, prying and sliding, seeking the weak spot that, with the right pressure, would yield the juicy meat inside.
The questions became more pointed.
Did you know your sister was pregnant when she died?
She deserved to die, Billy Ray’s voice said. Whore.
Bailey bit her lip.
But the child—your nephew—was innocent. Did he deserve to die?
Billy Ray muttered something that sounded like, Son of a whore.
That’s not his fault, Paul sai
d smoothly. Any more than it was yours.
Bailey recoiled from his insinuation. She had never realized before how manipulative he was. Was it death or distance that made her finally hear him this way?
Did you know she was pregnant? Paul repeated.
Billy Ray was silent. Maybe he nodded, because Paul asked, Who told you?
Everybody would laugh at me. She’d come to school with her belly sticking out, and everybody would laugh, he said.
Who said?
Silence.
Who told you she was pregnant? Paul pressed. Tanya?
No.
Who was the baby’s father?
Not me. The words burst out. He said they’d say it was mine. But it wasn’t. I never did. Not with my sister.
No, of course not, Paul soothed. Only someone who knew him well would hear his revulsion. Or his excitement. Bailey knew him very well. She shivered.
A friend would tell you if your sister was going to have a baby, Paul said. If she was going to shame you.
He did. He told me. My only friend.
And so you never told the police.
No.
All these years, you were silent to protect him.
Bailey’s nails dug crescents in her palms.
He didn’t do it, Billy Ray insisted. It was me. My responsibility. He understood.
But he was there.
Not then. Not when I did it. Before.
He brought you the whiskey.
He was my friend.
Who was it, Billy Ray?
Bailey held her breath. Behind her, Steve tensed.
Can’t tell.
Can’t, or won’t?
Billy Ray remained stubbornly silent.
Paul switched tacks. He told you to do it, didn’t he? He told you to kill your sister.
Because he cared about me.
He didn’t care about anybody but himself. Or why are you in prison alone?
He was my friend.
He was the baby’s father.
Billy Ray howled, an animal sound. Nn-oo.
A scrape, a crash, and the guard’s voice, jumbled together.
Everything’s all right, Paul said, sounding breathless. Thank you, officer.
But everything was not all right. In the background, Bailey could hear Billy Ray weeping. She felt sick.
You think about what I said. Paul’s voice was flat. Calm. Cruel. I’ll be back. You think about if you really want to be locked up for the rest of your life because your “friend”—the word was vicious—fucked your sister and duped you into getting rid of his little bastard by murdering them both.
Bailey twisted her hands together, not daring to look at Steve. She was shaken and angry and ashamed. “He should have gone to the police.”
Steve didn’t say anything.
“Or Billy Ray’s lawyer.” She knew she was reaching, but she wanted—too late—to do something that would help the situation. That would excuse her own part in it. “I mean, he might have had grounds for a new trial.”
“That would have helped book sales.” Steve’s tone was dry.
“It would have helped Billy Ray!”
“Unless he was killed to prevent him from giving Ellis a name.”
She twisted in the chair to face him. “But then why was Paul killed? If he didn’t know who Billy Ray’s ‘friend’ was . . .”
“Maybe our mystery killer was afraid he’d figure it out.”
Bailey exhaled. That made sense. “You need to tell Chief Clegg. Once he sees the interview—”
“I can’t.”
“I’ll make a copy of the file.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Steve’s face was set. His eyes were like stones. “The Dawler case is closed. Sherman is going to the DA tomorrow to request Ellis’s death be ruled a suicide. According to Clegg, it’s over. I’m done. I go to him with new evidence now, and I can kiss my job good-bye.”
TWENTY
BAILEY didn’t believe him. Steve wouldn’t drop the investigation. He was too good a cop. And too honest a man.
“Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Because you’re in danger whether the chief wants to admit it or not.” His face was gaunt, his tone harsh. “Whether he wants me to investigate or not.”
Warmth enveloped her heart and weighted her chest. He was doing this for her. Risking his career, his future, his daughter’s well-being for her.
“Why doesn’t he want you to investigate?”
Steve paced, only to be brought up short by the bed. “I got the notes of the responding officer today. Not police reports, not case summaries, but the actual notes from the officer who canvassed the neighborhood. And two things stuck out. One, no attempt was made to follow up on the anonymous caller who reported the murders of Billy Ray’s family. And two, a vehicle was spotted in the Dawlers’ driveway not ten minutes before the call came in.”
“Billy Ray’s friend,” Bailey whispered.
Steve’s expression closed. “I don’t think so.”
But she was reluctant to give up on a lead or hope. “Did the officer get a license number?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know? Maybe—”
“The neighbor described the vehicle as a blue Dodge Diplomat four-door sedan. He particularly remembered it because it looked like an unmarked police car.” Steve met her gaze. “Right down to the prisoner cage and the light on the dash.”
Oh, shit. Bailey’s stomach dropped. “Could the neighbor be wrong about the time? If the police had already arrived on the scene . . .”
“The first car on the scene was a black-and-white. Apparently, the neighbor liked to keep track of the action next door. He claims he was watching TV when he saw headlights and looked out the window. The responding officer was interested enough in the guy’s story to check the TV listings for that night. His story checks out.”
“Maybe the officer in the car—the unmarked car—was simply patrolling his friendly neighborhood whorehouse.”
“And maybe he was a patron. Or a witness. We can’t know because the investigating detective didn’t follow up.”
Bailey had a very bad feeling about this. “Who was the investigating detective?”
But she knew. She had read the police reports.
Steve’s face was bleak. The muscle worked in his jaw. “Walter Clegg.”
“Okay,” she said carefully. “I can see you wouldn’t be stupid enough to confront him on that one. But—”
“Wrong. I am exactly that stupid. I drove to his house on a Sunday afternoon and demanded—hell, I practically begged him for an explanation.”
“And?”
“He told me to drop it.” Bitterness flattened his voice. “The crime was reported. The criminal was caught. The case is closed. Nothing I can do.”
“There must be something.”
He paced the strip of carpet between the dresser and the bed. “Not without getting the court involved. Which would take a hell of a lot more evidence than we have now.”
“But Paul’s murder—”
“Is Sherman’s case. The best I can do is try to convince him to keep it open a little longer.”
“Will he listen?”
“To what? All I’ve got is an interview with a dead convict and a hunch. If I could give him a name . . .” Steve shrugged. “Then maybe.”
Bailey sat with her hands folded and her mind racing. In books, the identity of the bad guy always seemed obvious to her. But even Paul hadn’t figured out the name of the “friend” who got Billy Ray drunk and his sister pregnant. Who had played on the troubled teen’s outsider status until he was willing to commit murder.
“Everybody knew Paul was seeing Billy Ray to get him to talk,” she said slowly. “Maybe somebody else tried to reach him to shut him up.”
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll go to the prison tomorrow to check the visitors’ record.”
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