Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  “And Mrs. Cambridge?”

  “Her guard states she was occupied downstairs with guests all evening.”

  “You think the security detail’s word is ironclad, even though, I’m sure, some have been with the governor for years and might be extremely loyal.”

  “Actually, that’s not an issue, unlikely though it would’ve been in the first place if you’re suggesting that the governor’s men would cover for him. Cambridge left his usual protective detail in Austin. He requested Dallas DPS officers, specially trained to assist with visiting VIPs, for security. They did a sweep of the mansion beforehand and were posted at the front and rear exits. Cambridge did bring a personal guard—­who shadowed his wife the entire evening—­but left the rest of the detail behind at the capital in favor of utilizing local resources.”

  “Why the hell would he do that?” Spense asked.

  “No idea,” Sheridan said. “Not my place to ask.”

  Caitlin had a thought. “Matt Cambridge is running for president. I’m guessing he didn’t want the press to accuse him of gouging public funds for his protective detail while he was in Dallas for campaign purposes. It costs more to travel with a detail than to assemble one locally. That way, you avoid hotel and airfare expenses.”

  “See your point, but let’s get back on track.” Sheridan waved his hand dismissively.

  “Okay, under your theory, why did Agent Langhorne follow his wife upstairs? It seems outrageous for him to suspect she’d meet her lover at a fund-­raising ball. Too public.” She stuck her finger in the air and turned to Spense. “And remind me, I want to come back to something very important we haven’t yet touched on.”

  Sheridan hesitated, looking from Dutch to Spense and back again. “At the risk of getting my teeth rearranged, Dr. Cassidy, I’ll take a stab at that one. Cindy Langhorne thrived on notoriety. We’ve interviewed her best friend, Mrs. Cambridge, at length, and we have reason to believe Cindy wouldn’t have minded getting caught with her pants down. She wanted her husband to notice her.

  “So maybe she let him overhear her making plans on the phone. Or perhaps he had her under surveillance. I’m not convinced by Langhorne’s no alibi is my alibi gambit. I think this thing could have been meticulously planned out—­a murder in the middle of a society event—­by someone cold and calculating and intelligent, someone who knew the venue, knew the plans, and had the skill set to pull off something like this.” He cracked his knuckles with finality. “Someone like Agent Langhorne.”

  “If Cindy was fleeing the room, trying to escape an enraged husband, she would’ve been shot in the back, not straight through the heart,” Caitlin rushed in before Spense or Dutch could go off on Sheridan. There was something about being at a crime scene that made it easy to put herself in the victim’s place. And she simply couldn’t picture the scenario described by the detective.

  “We believe he shot her from across the room, just as he walked in the door, before she even had a chance to sit up. Of course, you’d need to be quite a marksman to shoot a woman straight in the heart with one bullet from the doorway, but I understand Langhorne is champ out on the FBI shooting range.”

  “Sure, the person would need to be experienced handling firearms, but come on, Detective, it’s hardly a military-­grade skill to shoot an unarmed woman who’s lying on the bed, possibly with her eyes closed, from a distance of, what, twelve feet. If I’m not mistaken, plenty of Texans know their way around a firearm.”

  “Not wrong about that,” Sheridan admitted.

  What about my dress? The lipsticked ‘SLUT’ on my forehead? Caitlin could practically hear Cindy whispering questions in her ear.

  “He shredded my dress.” Caitlin covered her mouth.

  All three men shot her a questioning look. She shook her head. She was losing it. Overidentifying with Cindy in her efforts to tune in to the scene. “I meant to say the killer shredded Mrs. Langhorne’s dress. That means this was a deeply personal act. He wanted to punish her. Instead of stabbing her again and again and again, he took the scissors to her dress, over and over and over. Whoever killed Mrs. Langhorne intended to shame her, that’s why he posed her like that for the world to see.”

  Spense nodded. “More evidence of crime-­scene precautions. This might or might not have been premeditated, but it was certainly cunning. Had the killer taken out his anger on the body, he would’ve been covered in blood and unable to escape detection for the duration of the party. By stabbing the dress, he gets to vent his rage but keeps his hands, and his clothes, clean.”

  Her throat closed at the idea of a crime so calculated and cold. This was no ordinary killer. This was someone capable of exerting extreme control to avoid detection. Her eyes fell on Dutch. He certainly had both the intelligence and the discipline to pull something like this off. But . . . all she could think about was protecting him. She had to believe in him . . . for Cindy.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined herself lying on the bed, half-­conscious, with the lifeblood seeping from her. Hatred shrouded the room as the attacker ripped up her dress.

  Woosh woosh woosh.

  She heard the sound of fabric tearing.

  “Now everyone will know what you really are,” the killer whispered in her ear.

  Something oily traced her forehead. She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t see her assailant. So she concentrated on the letters being slicked onto her skin.

  SLUT.

  Caitlin’s eyes popped open. “Did you check the forehead for DNA? Lipstick can be a great transfer medium.”

  “She’s right,” Spense and Dutch said in unison.

  “That may be, but shit, it’s Cindy’s lipstick, so if there is DNA, transfer it’d be from her own mouth.”

  “It’s not her lipstick,” Caitlin said, her heart kicking up a gear. “In the crime-­scene photo, the lipstick is red, but Cindy’s lipstick that night was coral.”

  “What color’s coral?” Sheridan looked around the room for help.

  “Orange,” Spense said.

  “Peach?” Dutch suggested.

  “Then no, it wasn’t coral. Cindy Langhorne was wearing red lipstick. Check the photo of her body,” Sheridan insisted.

  Sure enough, in the crime-­scene photos, Cindy’s lips were scarlet—­like the letters on her forehead. Even under different lighting, the pastel coral wouldn’t appear dark red. Her lipstick had been changed. “I suppose she could’ve applied different lipstick right after she went upstairs . . .”

  “Cindy never wore red,” Dutch said. “She thought it made her look cheap, and as I’ve said before, she was very interested in keeping up a refined appearance. She didn’t want anyone recalling that she came from the wrong side of the tracks. I can’t help thinking that whoever did this to her must’ve known how much she’d despise being remembered this way.”

  “Then the killer probably brought the lipstick with him and wiped hers off, replacing it with red,” Caitlin said.

  “Like one of those serial killers who plays dress-­up with his victims—­paints their nails and shit. I see what you’re saying, but we got plenty of suspects”—­Sheridan looked askew at Dutch—­“without bringing a serial killer into this. Even if it wasn’t Langhorne, it could’ve been a jilted lover or a pissed-­off wife. I just don’t buy what you’re trying to sell.”

  “I’m not selling anything, Detective. I’m telling you to be sure the lipsticked forehead gets checked for DNA because it’s not Cindy’s. Take a look at the photos in the Dallas Morning Gazette, and you’ll see I’m right. Cindy Langhorne wore coral to the ball.”

  As the detective pulled out his phone and searched, likely to verify that Caitlin’s memory was correct about the lipstick in the photograph from the Gazette, Spense tapped her shoulder.

  “What?” she asked, still trying to shake off the creepy feeling of imaginary lipstick on her forehead.<
br />
  “You said to remind you to come back to something.”

  She took in a sharp breath. “Something important.” They’d talked around so many things since they’d entered the mansion, and yet somehow the subject of who Cindy’s mystery lover might be hadn’t yet been broached. “We’re all agreed Mrs. Langhorne did not meet Matthew Cambridge in this room. So, Detective, whom do you think she was expecting? You’re laying out your case that this was an illicit rendezvous, but you haven’t told us who you think her lover was.”

  Sheridan’s jaw worked, and he went for the nonexistent goatee one more time. “I got no idea.”

  “Did Heather Cambridge have any thoughts on the matter?” Spense asked.

  “No. According to her, there was nobody at the moment. At least not that Cindy had confided to her. And Agent Langhorne maintains he doesn’t know.” He turned to Dutch. “That is still your statement, right?”

  Dutch said nothing.

  Caitlin searched Dutch’s eyes. “If we had that name, we’d certainly have another direction to look in this case.”

  “Not your case.” Sheridan wagged his finger.

  “I was using the we figuratively. Agent Spenser and I are well aware of the fact we haven’t been invited in on this thing.” She turned back to Dutch, and as she watched his face, she had the sense that he might be holding something back. Did he still want to take care of the killer on his own? She tried to meet his gaze again, but this time he looked away quickly—­too quickly. What was he hiding? “Dutch, I believe you if you say you don’t know about an affair. But looking at this from a woman’s point of view, if I did have a secret lover, and I couldn’t confide in my best friend about him, I’d have to get my thoughts out somehow or other.”

  Spense turned to her, his expression intrigued. “So if you couldn’t confide in your best friend, who would you talk to? A priest . . . a doctor maybe?”

  “Well, I don’t know about Mrs. Langhorne, but if it were me, I’d journal it.” She smiled. She really might be onto something. “You know, like Dear Diary . . .”

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday, October 16

  5:15 P.M.

  Preston Hollow, Texas

  “THE BUREAU MUST be paying you fellas a hell of a lot more than the Dallas PD pays me,” Detective Sheridan spread his arms indicating Dutch’s luxurious Preston Hollow home, then slammed the door to his unmarked cop car and caught up to them as they approached the house from the motor court.

  Sometimes ­people improve on longer acquaintance, but Spense didn’t hold out much hope that Sheridan would turn out to be one of them. The detective had followed him, Dutch, and Caity from the Worthington Mansion. No denying the Langhornes lived in one of the most exclusive suburbs of Dallas—­or the whole of Texas for that matter. The two-­story country French residence sat nestled among mature trees on an acre lot. The motor court had four bays, one of which housed Mrs. Langhorne’s red Maserati.

  “Looks like I went into the wrong branch of law enforcement.” Sheridan didn’t give it a rest.

  “It’s my wife who has the money,” Dutch said.

  Sheridan undoubtedly knew that already, but for whatever reason, he seemed to want to make Dutch say it. From Spense’s point of view, it was just one more of the digs he’d been subjecting Dutch to all day. No doubt a thinly veiled accusation would follow.

  “Your wife had the money, don’t you mean? It’s all yours now that she’s gone. You really married up, man. No wonder you don’t care who she screws.”

  Spense was just about to issue Sheridan his second warning of the day when a dog began barking like he’d cornered a squirrel. Sounded like it came from the south neighbor’s yard. Spense held up one hand in a stop sign. “Everyone stay put.”

  “Just a dog, Spenser. Heard our cars drive up.” But Sheridan halted along with the rest of them, casting a wary glance around. “You always this jumpy?”

  Spense pushed back his jacket but didn’t draw his Glock. “Anything look off to you?” he asked Dutch.

  “Not so far.” Dutch took a few steps closer to the house.

  “A place like this? He’s got a security system. If there was a break-­in, we’d know it. I don’t suppose you called ahead, and now you’re just stalling to give the staff time to hide that diary.”

  “I thought you had a date with October baseball, Detective,” Caity said.

  Her patience with Sheridan seemed to be growing thin. It was obvious she’d been trying to keep the peace all day, but this last accusation, leveled at Dutch, must’ve been the straw that broke her back.

  “I’m the one who suggested there might be a diary to begin with. We offered to look for the journal, and bring it to you if one happens to turn up. But you insisted on following us and poking around yourself. And even though you have no warrant, Agent Langhorne agreed. Now you’re accusing us of obstructing your investigation.” Spense heard Caity’s breath hiss out from between her teeth. “As far as I’m concerned, you can go suck an egg.”

  Sheridan put both hands in the air feigning surrender. “Damn the lady’s got a mouth on her. She sure put me in my place.”

  “Dr. Cassidy is plenty capable of putting you anywhere she wants you.” Spense knew Sheridan could never take Caity in a verbal sparring match—­he didn’t have the vocabulary or the wit. But go suck an egg was the most she’d toss at him because she thought they needed to establish a rapport with the locals. Spense, on the other hand, would take the guy down without a second thought. But at the moment, he couldn’t afford to let Sheridan distract him. “He’s got a point about the security system.” Still something didn’t seem right. That was one, unhappy canine out there.

  “Didn’t set the alarm. And I gave the staff a month’s paid leave. They’re torn up about losing Cindy, and I got nothing for them to do anyway.” Dutch paced back and forth in front of his house. “Looks okay from out here, but Gizmo’s not usually a barker.”

  “Why didn’t you set the alarm?” Sheridan eyed Dutch suspiciously.

  “The security system is there to protect my wife—­not our possessions. And if her killer wants to come gunning for me next, I can handle myself fine. In fact, I hope he does because I’ll be ready and waiting.”

  Spense held out his hand for the house key. “I’m going in first. Everyone stay here until I give you the all clear.”

  “I’ll cover. You clear.” Dutch fished out the keys.

  Spense kept his palm open, waiting. “No. You stay here. It’s probably nothing. This is just a precaution, but in case it does turn out to be real, I need you to stick on Caity.”

  “Consider me Super Glue.” Dutch tossed him the keys. “It’s the one with the Rangers logo.”

  “I can cover you.” Sheridan’s offer came late and halfhearted. Spense ran an assessing gaze over him and decided he looked nervous. He just might be one of those cops who’d never fired his ser­vice weapon outside of the range, in which case, Sheridan would be more liability than help if there was an intruder on the premises. “Like I said, just a precaution. If you wanna help, you can wait here and keep an eye out for a rabbit.”

  Sheridan’s shoulders dropped, and his face relaxed. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” Sure he could handle it better without having to worry about the detective’s doing something stupid, like he’d proven himself capable of doing with Aaron earlier in the day.

  As Spense headed for the door, he tried to tune out Sheridan and Dutch in the background. Their arguing made it hard for him to focus.

  “This is a setup, isn’t it?”

  “No idea what you mean.”

  “You probably tossed the place to make it look like a break-­in.”

  “How’d I get the dog to bark?”

  “I’m just saying it’s convenient. You suggesting I stop by the house, and now something’s
up. I’m just theorizing of course.”

  “You insisted on coming over.”

  “You lured me here with that story about a diary.”

  Spense turned the key and breached the doorway uneventfully, leaving the two men behind, still bickering. He exhaled a long, relieved breath, as their voices faded. His brain sharpened itself on the quiet. One slice at a time, he cleared the downstairs. Cut the pie, his instructor at Quantico used to say.

  Room after room, he made his way methodically through the home. Finally, the downstairs was clear. But this was one mother of a house. Luckily, the upstairs would have less square footage. It should go quick. Especially now he had his rhythm. He heard the whirr of the air conditioner cycling on and ignored it. That was a right sound. He only cared about the wrong ones.

  He started upstairs, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, moving as noiselessly as possible. On alternating steps, he checked back over his shoulder. Yeah. He’d cleared below, but nothing is ever one hundred percent. He kept moving forward. Stairs were tricky. Couldn’t slice them like a pie—­couldn’t always see ahead. At some point, you just had to go.

  He was there now.

  Pistol out front, he dashed up the rest of the steps. Made it safely to the landing. Now for more pie. Leading with his gun and his eyes, he made his way down the hall and into the master bedroom.

  Shit.

  The room had been tossed. A painting lay shattered on the ground, its backing ripped away. He dodged bits of broken glass, the emptied drawers, and overturned chairs. The door to a walk-­in closet stood slightly ajar. He kicked it open the rest of the way, and leapt aside.

  Silence.

  He cleared the closet—­also tossed, before moving on. Upstairs, everywhere he went, the intruder had left his mark. This must’ve taken time. Whoever did this knew Dutch would be gone a good while. Spense stowed that away for future reference. No time to process clues now, but then another salient thought occurred. The intruder started upstairs. The downstairs was clean—­they’d interrupted him before he made it there. Either he’d just left or was still in the house . . . somewhere.