Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  “Don’t say another word, Matt. You need a lawyer.” Heather Cambridge hunched her shoulders and arched her back. Her screeching voice sounded more pissed-­off cat than first lady.

  The governor dropped his head to his chest. “I don’t need a lawyer because I haven’t obstructed justice . . . yet, and because I’m going to tell the truth. I’m sick of lies. Yes. I had an affair with Cindy Langhorne. I’d been after that woman for years, but she never gave me the time of day until about a month ago. Up until that point, she turned away my advances, always maintaining she loved both her husband and Heather.” He turned to his wife. “She said she could never betray you.”

  Heather’s lips went white. “Then why did she?”

  “I don’t know. If you want me to get on my knees and beg forgiveness, I will. I’ll go to counseling. I’ll quit politics—­”

  “Quit politics?” She turned to Sheridan, ignoring Spense and Caity. “He’s overwrought. He has no idea what he’s saying. You can’t leak this to the press. It will ruin his career for nothing. He didn’t kill Cindy. He’s not guilty of anything except behaving like a horny teenager.”

  Just what the country needs in a president. Spense scooted his chair in closer. Sheridan and Caity followed suit. The worm was about to turn. “We know you didn’t kill her, Governor,” he said in a reassuring tone. “Unlike your wife, your alibi is airtight. But I do have a question for you. Did you ask Cindy to meet you at the ball, then stand her up?”

  His hair stood on end from the way he’d been tugging it. “No. I would never rendezvous with her at a fund-­raiser, with the press there, and my wife. For God’s sake.”

  “That’s funny.” Spense tilted his head. “Because Cindy was expecting you to meet her. Someone claiming to be you arranged a meeting.” He pointed an accusing finger at Heather and took another shot in the dark. “How did you do it? Send an e-­mail from your husband’s account?”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Matt Cambridge sounded genuinely confused.

  Spense kept his gaze on Heather, whose rigid posture suddenly crumpled. “You heard the rumors,” he pressed. “But you didn’t want to believe them. You had to see it with your own eyes. So you sent Cindy an e-­mail, pretending to be Matt. You only planned to confront her, to plead with her not to ruin your chances at the White House.”

  Heather’s hand trembled as she brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “That’s preposterous.”

  “Is it?” It was Matt, this time. “Did you do this? If you did, I’ll stand by you. I’m as much to blame as you.”

  “Of course I didn’t do it!” She half rose from her chair, then collapsed back down. Her eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a way out.

  Spense didn’t let up—­she was about to crack. “But when you opened the door to the presidential suite, you never expected to find Cindy lying there, naked—­what a careless risk to take with your husband’s reputation. Your best friend had betrayed you on every possible level. She was not only fucking your man, she was fucking your chance at the White House—­something you’d been dreaming of since you were a young girl. You pulled a revolver—­no one but you or your husband could’ve gotten a gun through security. Then you slashed her dress and posed her body, leaving her humiliated for all the world to see.”

  “You’re making this whole thing up as you go along. You can’t prove a damn bit of it. Have you got a witness?” Heather raised defiant brows.

  “No,” Caity said, rummaging in her purse before pulling out a plastic bag with a huge red evidence label plastered on it. “But we do have a lipstick.” She uncapped the tube and rolled it up. “I believe this is your shade.”

  Heather fell back on the love seat, and, for a moment, Spense thought she’d fainted, but then she sat up straight, rallying. “That’s not my lipstick. I don’t know where you got it, but it’s not the lipstick I had with me at the party. You’re bluffing.”

  “No. We’re not.” Spense took a deep breath, preparing for the big lie. They hadn’t sent any DNA off because they didn’t have a warrant. But Heather wouldn’t know that. “This may not be the lipstick you took to the party, but it is yours. It’s from your personal collection at Karina Peyton’s spa. We pulled a DNA sample from this very tube, and it’s a match.”

  “A match for what?” Sweat beaded around the governor’s hairline, ruining his distinguished air.

  Heather gritted her teeth, apparently prepared to call Spense’s bluff. “Well, Agent Spenser, my husband’s waiting for his answer.”

  “The DNA taken off your cosmetics from the day spa, matches the DNA found on Cindy Langhorne’s forehead. You freshened up your lipstick at least once before using it to defile your best friend with the word SLUT.”

  “We’ve got the goods, Mrs. Cambridge,” Sheridan said. “If you sign a statement today, I think we can work something fair with the DA. After all, it wasn’t like you planned it.”

  “I-­I didn’t,” she said, mouth gaping. She put her face in her hands and started to wail though Spense couldn’t locate a single tear, and her mascara remained perfectly intact. “It was temporary insanity. It was like I was outside my body slashing that dress, writing that ugly word on her forehead. And then . . . I wiped her lips and put my own lipstick on her. Just to make her look pretty.” Heather’s body trembled, but without tears, Spense didn’t know how much of her emotion was real, and how much was a ploy for sympathy.

  But that would be for a jury to decide.

  AS THEY EXITED the mansion’s back entrance, Spense noticed a strange absence of satisfaction. He didn’t have the exuberance in his step that he normally did when they closed a case. He glanced at Caity and noticed the downcast turn of her mouth. Was she not feeling it, too?

  Sheridan certainly seemed pleased. All traces of the man’s nerves had vanished, and he spoke excitedly into his phone, making big confident hand gestures. Periodically, a huge grin split his face. As well it should since he was about to make national headlines.

  So why did Spense have that uncomfortable dryness in his mouth, that restless feeling in his legs? Heather Cambridge had confessed to the murder of Cindy Langhorne. Dutch could now come out of hiding, and surely Jim would forgive them for making an end run around him.

  This morning they’d simply laid the groundwork, getting Heather’s confession. Now it was up to the police and the prosecutor to flush out the whole story. And there was one big question that left the case feeling unfinished for him. After Heather shot Cindy, she had to have been desperate to get her hands on the diary. It likely chronicled her affair with the governor, and therefore could not only ruin his presidential hopes, it would prove Heather’s motive for murder. But . . . “How the hell did a woman like Heather Cambridge get hooked up with the Thresher?” he spoke his mind aloud to Caity.

  “Maybe one of her goons . . . maybe Brian . . . found him for her,” Caity suggested dubiously.

  But that didn’t quite fit. “When we pressed him, Brian told the truth. He didn’t cover for Mrs. Cambridge. If he’d been the one to put her in touch with a hit man, I would’ve expected him to lie and maintain he’d been with her all night.”

  “Sir.” Speaking of Brian . . . the guard headed over with an outstretched hand.

  Spense shook it. “Yeah?” He wasn’t without empathy for him. After all, Brian’s job had been to protect the first family—­and he hadn’t actually lied. But his fellow DPS officers might not see it like that. Depending on how his omission was viewed—­Brian might be looking at formal charges for obstructing an investigation.

  “I just wanted to say I never intended to derail the investigation.” Brian looked Spense squarely in the eyes, then nodded to Sheridan and Caity.

  Sheridan snorted and, turning his back in a deliberate snub, headed back into the mansion, apparently intending to finish his conversation in private. He l
ooked over his shoulder, and said, “I’ll meet you at the car in ten.”

  “You believe me, don’t you?” Brian asked.

  He did. “I’m sure you never thought Mrs. Cambridge could be involved in her best friend’s murder. But what you did was wrong. You had to know your statement would be misinterpreted.”

  “I’m prepared to take the consequences.”

  Caity finally broke her silence. “An innocent man was about to be charged with murder. Think about that consequence. I’m ready to get out of here, Spense.” She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun and scanned the parking area. “Dammit. There’s a van blocking us in.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Brian said, “and then I’ll bring your car around.”

  “Not necessary,” Spense answered, but noted Caity shifting back and forth on her feet. He knew she wanted to get back to Dutch and give him the news in person.

  “It’s the least I can do.” Brian turned to Caity. “Just give me a minute to track down the van’s driver.”

  Spense handed him the keys. If it made the guard feel better to bring their car around, it was fine with him.

  “Back in a flash.” Brian was already on his radio, running toward their car, which was parked in the back section of the lot. As he neared their vehicle, a uniformed man jumped into the van and pulled away. Brian waved to Spense and Caity, then motioned toward their car with the key fob.

  A deafening roar accompanied the ball of flames that burst into the sky.

  Car bomb.

  Spense muscled Caity to the ground, covering her body with his own. The ground shook, and his ears rang. Hundreds of tiny missiles rained down on him. Desperate to protect Caity, he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

  Chapter Twenty-­Seven

  Tuesday, October 22

  10:00 P.M.

  Dallas, Texas

  SPENSE WASN’T SURE what to expect when Jim strode into the conference room of the Dallas field office. Things could’ve gone either way. But he was pleasantly surprised to note the relaxed expression on the SAC’s face.

  “First off, I just got the report on Brian Foster—­his injuries are minor. Thank God he clicked that remote from a good distance, or the news wouldn’t be so happy.” A deep furrow appeared in his forehead as he looked from Caity to Spense. “And thank God the two of you came out unscathed.”

  As Spense’s chest expanded with relief at the news about Heather’s guard, he noted a slight twinge in his ribs. Tomorrow, he and Caity might have some bruises to show for their narrow escape, but Jim was right. This was very good news indeed.

  “And second . . . don’t ever do that to me again, guys.” Jim made the rounds at the table, first shaking hands with Caity, then clapping Dutch, and finally, Spense on the back. He took a seat at the head of the conference table. “You’re not only damn lucky to be alive, you’re lucky you still have jobs.” He directed his words pointedly to Spense. “Going behind my back like that.” Next he speared Dutch with his gaze. “Evading arrest.”

  Dutch shrugged and made a lame attempt at humor. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I was just down at the stockyards taking a break from all the insanity. I even went dancing at Billy Bob’s. Sheridan could’ve clapped me in irons anytime he wanted.”

  “Hiding in plain sight is what you were doing. I’ve sat in on some of your lectures, and I’m well aware that’s one of your pet strategies.” Jim raised his brows at Spense. “And that lipstick stunt . . .”

  “That was Caity’s idea, sir.” Spense was so damn proud of her.

  “You took a hell of a risk lying to the governor like that.”

  “We got our confession,” Caity pointed out. “And the smoking gun.”

  Heather Cambridge had already turned over her revolver to Sheridan. And a DNA sample, properly collected and secured by a warrant, had been sent for comparison to the material extracted from Cindy’s forehead.

  “As far as the Thresher . . .” Jim put his hands behind his head. “I have to tell you Violent Crimes is happy to have that guy off the streets. He was one homegrown, crazy, son of a bitch.”

  There was a long silence, and the mood in the room took a turn.

  “You get one homegrown crazy off the streets, and another springs up in his place.” Dutch finally gave voice to what everyone was thinking. Some questions had been answered, but other, pressing ones remained.

  Jim flattened his palms against his chest. “We’re not going to rest until we find the man who set that car bomb—­believe me. But piecing it all together, it seems probable Heather Cambridge had a backup ready to step in for the Thresher. Now that she’s behind bars, we hope this thing is finished.” He made eye contact with each of them in turn. “But we’re keeping surveillance on Matt Cambridge—­in case he’s involved, and we want the three of you to lay low for a while. We’re prepared to offer you protection—­”

  “No thanks,” Spense interrupted. They all knew adding muscle wouldn’t keep them safe. He and Dutch could handle a direct attack as well as anyone Jim might assign to watch over them. “We need intel, not a bodyguard.”

  “I figured you’d say that.” Jim nodded. “And we’re working to get a bead on the car bomber, but so far, Mrs. Cambridge has only admitted to killing Cindy. We don’t have anything—­yet—­to connect her to the Thresher, or to the attempts on your lives. From what you’ve told me, she had to have been desperate to keep whatever’s in that diary out of the papers. Why else would she have sent the Thresher after it? And even though she’s confessed to Cindy’s murder, I doubt she wants the public to know the sordid details contained in the diary. If we had it in hand, we might have more leverage with her.” He paused, then looked intently at Dutch. “You never found your wife’s journal?”

  Dutch shook his head. “I’m assuming she destroyed it before she died.”

  “Probably right.” After a few pensive moments, Jim stood up. “Need my beauty sleep, kids. I’ve got a meeting with the folks from Washington again, in the morning. But give my best to Yolanda. You’re heading to Jefferson when?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Dutch said.

  “We’re planning on staying several days,” Spense added. “We’ll stick together and lay low.”

  “I’ll do my damnedest to have Heather’s henchman behind bars before you get back.” Jim shook hands with each of them. “I’ll expect a progress report on Yolanda. And if you turn up anything new . . . like say, Cindy’s diary . . .”

  “You’ll be the first to know. You have my word, sir,” Spense squeezed his mentor’s hand, wondering when they were going to get around to having a long-­overdue conversation about Jack. Spense hadn’t told Jim yet, that he’d learned the truth about his father, but sometime soon, he’d like to hear his explanation for keeping it from him all these years.

  Tuesday, October 22

  11:30 P.M.

  Dallas, Texas

  AFTER THEIR MEETING with Jim, Spense, Dutch, and Caitlin had returned to the Langhorne home for a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, they’d drive to Jefferson to see Yolanda. Like they’d promised Jim, they planned to stick together and lay low.

  But then Dutch had called Spense and her to the library. He said he had something to show them. And now here Caitlin stood, center stage, turning over a small volume, with a pink cloth cover, in her trembling hands. Despite its wispy appearance, Cindy’s diary felt heavy—­as if the importance of the words within possessed physical weight.

  “When did you find it? Where did you find it?” she finally managed, after taking a moment to recover from the shock.

  “Hiding in plain sight,” Dutch said. “I should’ve thought of it before. While you two were in Austin taking all the risks, I decided I needed to pull my weight. I swore I’d either find Cindy’s diary, or demolish the house trying. Like I’d done before, I checked every pos
sible hiding place—­but this time, I even pulled up floorboards and checked for hollow places in the walls. I looked absolutely everywhere . . . except the bookshelf. After all, who would hide a diary with all the other books?”

  “A woman who’d heard her husband pontificate that blending in was the best way to become invisible.” Spense let out a low whistle. “You’re right, we should’ve thought of that before. But why did you lie to Jim? You’re not thinking of withholding the diary from the police because I made a promise—­”

  “Not withholding it exactly. I’m just saying we don’t really know what’s in here, so how do we even know it has any evidentiary value?” Dutch brushed his hand through his hair, his eyes glistening with emotion. “You accused me once of hiding the diary to protect my wife, well, maybe that’s the right thing to do. I sure as hell didn’t protect her like I should’ve while she was alive. I don’t want to let her down, now.”

  Caitlin had only seen him like this once before—­the night he’d told her that Spense was his brother. “I agree with Dutch. Since she was his wife, he should read her words before anyone else.”

  Dutch shook his head. “I-­I can’t. The day I found it under her mattress, I thought of breaking the damn thing open. Did she really believe that flimsy lock could keep me out?” His laugh came out as a harsh, choking sound.

  Caitlin lifted the journal and inhaled the musty smell of it. She ran fingers over the worn, cloth binding, stopping at the tiny bit of cold metal that secured Cindy Langhorne’s secrets.

  The lock.

  She frowned down at it. Such a fragile fortress—­one that could be broken into with nothing more than . . . a bobby pin. This was literally a diary meant to hold a young girl’s dreams. The kind you could buy at any five-­and-­dime. It touched Caitlin that Cindy had chosen this, rather than a more impressive journal.