Attempted Matrimony

by Joanna Wayne

  “Does he get angry quickly?”

  “In a heartbeat. And usually over nothing. A minute or two later, it’s over, as if he wills himself to regain control.”

  “And none of that emerged during your courtship?”

  She shrugged. “No, at least not with me. I saw hints of it a couple of times. Once directed at another driver when he’d gotten cut off while trying to make a lane change. Once when a waiter spilled spaghetti sauce on one of his best suits.”

  “But you weren’t bothered by those events.”

  “I was concerned. But he recovered so quickly, and he seemed genuinely sorry that he’d become so upset. Besides, the invitations were in the mail, the honeymoon planned, the reception paid for. Those seem like stupid reasons to go through with a marriage, don’t they?”

  “Somewhat. And you’re not stupid, so there was probably more to it than that.”

  “Malcomb can be incredibly sweet and thoughtful at times. He said I was like a treasure he’d found and wanted to lock away near his heart. He’s different now. Sometimes I hardly recognize him as the man who courted me.”

  She stepped away. “I shouldn’t be saying any of this to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a detective on a murder case and Malcomb is a suspect. He is, isn’t he?”

  “I need to question him, but that doesn’t mean you and I can’t talk honestly with each other. We were friends long before I was a detective and before you were Mrs. Lancaster.”

  “We were never friends, Dallas. I was young, impetuous and infatuated with you from the second we met. I threw myself at you and you finally took advantage of the situation.”

  “That’s not quite the way I remember it.”

  “No matter how you remember it, you’re Dallas Mitchell the detective now.”

  “It wasn’t Dallas Mitchell the detective you reached out to when you were crying.”

  “Touché.” She buried her hands in the pockets of her slacks, then looked up at him, dark shadows of fear in her eyes. “Do you think Malcomb killed Karen?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. It’s so difficult to trust a man who you know has blatantly lied to you.”

  She shuddered, and Dallas ached to just pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, carry her off to some deserted spot and make love with her until Dr. Malcomb Lancaster vanished from her mind. Instead he’d just have to do what he could to assuage her fear.

  “I’m almost certain Malcomb didn’t kill Karen,” Dallas said.

  “Because of what Penny said?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I’ve been thinking about that. Her whole spiel seemed too contrived, as if it had been designed to explain the reason my phone number was in Karen’s pocket. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Malcomb put her up to calling me.”

  “Forget teaching. You’re a born detective.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. But if you agree with that assessment, what makes you think Malcomb isn’t guilty?”

  “I have my reasons,” he said. “I have to leave it at that.” He touched her arm, in the spot where the bruises were, though he couldn’t see them beneath the sapphire-colored cardigan. “But just because I don’t think he’s a killer doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Has he ever hurt you?”

  “Not physically.”

  “But he frightens you. And instilling fear is emotional abuse. If you even think it’s possible your husband could be a killer, I’d say the two of you have some pretty big issues.”

  “I’d say you’re right.” She turned back toward the car. “I need to go home now, Dallas. And please don’t ask me any more questions. I’ve probably said too much already.”

  “No more questions.”

  They said little on the way back to pick up her car. The times she did talk, it was about traffic or Ronnie. Dallas’s thoughts drifted back to the murder scene. A vicious killer. A man who had killed before and would kill again unless he was stopped. Dallas had his work cut out for him.

  But now he had added complications. While his brain should have a single focus, another man’s wife would walk the fringes of his mind, scrambling his thoughts, playing havoc with his emotions. And he had to face the man, hating him already for what he’d done to Nicole and for sharing her bed. Face him and interrogate him concerning the murder of a young nurse.

  And the biggest complication of all—Nicole was back in his life. All indications were that she’d never been out of his heart.

  MALCOMB SAT IN THE PADDED leather chair behind his expensive mahogany desk, admiring the accoutrements of his success. Framed diplomas, certificates of achievement, a bookshelf full of medical journals holding contributions from him on his work in the treatment of post-heart-transplant patients.

  Outside this office, the demons that haunted him could slip inside his mind and claim his mind and body. But not here. Inside these walls he was Dr. Malcomb Lancaster. Inside this sanctuary, he was God.

  And this was where he would face the intrusive detective who was invading his life like cancer. He’d stare the detective down, answer his questions as if he were humoring some lesser life-form, as indeed he would be. His world was accurate, scientific, a universe of scholarly men whose white coats reflected their superiority.

  Cops were mere macho machines who traipsed around digging through blood and bones and the facts behind victims’ meaningless lives, hoping to stumble upon a clue that would make them look smarter than they were. Dallas Mitchell was no different from the rest, though apparently Nicole thought better of him.

  The buzzer on Malcomb’s intercom disturbed the quiet of his sanctum. “Yes, Peggy.”

  “Dallas Mitchell is here.”

  Malcomb smiled and smoothed the fabric of his white coat, the symbol of all that set him apart.

  “Should I send him in?”

  “Please do. I’m quite ready for him.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dallas scrutinized Dr. Malcomb Lancaster, studied his eyes, the bend in his shoulders, the position of his hands. Those were part of any interrogation, basic investigating skills that clicked in automatically now. From all indications, the man was totally composed and unperturbed by the prospect of Dallas prying into his private life. That in itself was unusual. Even innocent men usually showed some signs of uneasiness when questioned by a homicide detective.

  Normally Corky would have come with him for their first interrogation of a possible suspect, but an emergency had come up on another case they were working. Dallas had opted to keep his appointment with Malcomb and come alone. They went through the basic introductions with minimal cordiality on either side.

  Karen’s name wasn’t spoken in the initial exchange, but her death and the past she’d shared with the doctor was prominent in Dallas’s mind, and he suspected in Malcomb’s, as well. Toss in the other three murders that had been committed in a similar fashion, and throw in the subject of the doctor’s wife, and it baked into one hell of a volatile pie.

  Nicole Dalton Lancaster. Beautiful, intriguing, sensual. Nine years after the initial attraction, his one taste of her passion, and she still affected Dallas in ways no woman had before or since.

  Maintaining his professional edge had probably never been more important, or more difficult. Especially when what he’d like to do was jump across the expensive leather-topped desk and twist his hands around Malcomb’s neck, squeezing until his fingers left the kind of purple bruises that colored Nicole’s arm.

  He wouldn’t. The second he made one false move, the good doctor would report him to the chief, who’d yank him off this case before he made it back to the precinct. So Dallas managed a smile and a stab at civility. “I know you’re a busy man, Doctor, so I guess we should get right down to business.”

  Malcomb nodded. “Have a seat, Detective.”

  Dallas took the chair Malcomb motioned toward, the patient’s spot, while Malcomb leaned back in his plush leather swive
l chair, clasping his hands across his stomach.

  “We can get down to your business, Detective. Mine is tending to my patients, keeping their hearts pumping so that they stay alive.”

  “And mine is getting a murderer off the streets so that innocent women stay alive, so I guess our businesses are not so different.”

  “Perhaps in your mind.” Malcomb shifted in his chair, but didn’t break eye contact. “I’m sure you think I have some gem of knowledge to share about Karen Tucker that will assist in your investigation, but there’s little I can tell you other than that she was a very capable nurse.”

  “But you and Karen were friends, weren’t you?” He watched to see if the question made Malcomb squirm. There was nothing. Not even a good eye blink.

  “She was assigned to the ICU, and I frequently had patients under her care.”

  “According to her phone records, the two of you had fourteen pretty lengthy conversations during the last three weeks, some of them quite late at night.”

  “Karen was an emotional woman going through a difficult situation. She sought my advice. I never understood why, except that she seemed to feel comfortable with me.”

  “Do a lot of the nurses call you at home?”

  “Of course not. Karen was distraught and she needed a friend.”

  “But you said you wouldn’t have called her a friend.”

  “You’re splitting hairs, Detective. She’s not someone I would have spent leisure time with, but I tried to help when she asked for advice. I would have done that for any member of the staff.”

  “You must have been upset when she quit her job here to go to work at another hospital, her being such a competent nurse and all.”

  “To tell you the truth, I suggested she leave Mercy General.”

  “Why was that?”

  “For reasons that shouldn’t be spread about the hospital.”

  “I don’t think Karen will mind your telling me.”

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t just concern Karen.”

  “Then it’s even more important that you talk.”

  “Karen was involved with one of the married doctors on staff. He was ready to break things off, and she just couldn’t let it go at that.”

  “Did she tell you who she was seeing?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Quite the contrary. I insisted that she not tell me. I didn’t want the revelation to affect my respect for a man whom I work with in a professional capacity. As I said before, my primary concern, other than my beautiful wife, is my patients.”

  “But you visited Penny Washington the other day and asked her if she knew the name of the guy Karen was seeing.”

  “That was after Karen had been murdered. If Penny knew the name of the guy Karen was seeing, I wanted to encourage her to give his name to the police.”

  “Was Karen close friends with other doctors on staff?”

  “She was friendly with everyone. Dr. Castle called her Tinkerbell because she always seemed to be flitting from one patient to another, taking care of them and brightening their day.”

  “Tell me about Dr. Castle.”

  Malcomb shook his head. “You’re way off base. Jim Castle was not having an affair with Karen. He’s devoted to his wife. In fact, she’s pregnant with their first child.”

  “Did Karen tell you she was pregnant?”

  “Surely she wasn’t.”

  “About four months, according to the autopsy report.”

  “Never said a word, but that does help explain her refusal to just walk away from the affair.”

  “It would make it more difficult,” Dallas agreed, leaning in closer. “In all your talks with Karen, did she ever give you any reason to believe someone wanted to kill her?”

  “Absolutely not. If I’d thought she was in danger, I’d have insisted she go to the police immediately. I still find it difficult to accept that she was murdered.”

  “Did you see her outside the office?”

  “Never. And if you’re suggesting what I think you are, you’re out of line, Detective. I take my marriage vows very seriously.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting anything. But since you’re so adamant in your denial of involvement with the victim, I don’t suppose you’d mind providing a sample for DNA testing.”

  “To prove that I’m not the father of Karen’s fetus?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And if I don’t, I suppose you’ll just run to some judge and get his blessing for forcing the procedure on me.”

  “If it comes to that.” Dallas had been certain Malcomb would have protested at this point, carried on about his rights and the absurdity of the request. Instead he smirked and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I see no reason to put you to that trouble, Detective Mitchell. I’ll stop by the hospital lab and have them swab the inside of my mouth. The sample of DNA they collect should be all you need to ascertain that I had nothing to do with Karen’s pregnancy.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Malcomb got to his feet, straightening his white lab coat as he did and running the fingers of his right hand through his thick hair. “And what do you propose to do after my sample tests negative? Have every doctor at Mercy General go through DNA testing?”

  “No. Just the ones who fall under suspicion.” Dallas stood, appreciating the fact that he was a good three inches taller than Malcomb. He would have hated to look up to the man.

  Malcomb rested against the edge of his desk, as nonchalantly as if they’d been discussing the weather. “I wish you luck, but I think you’re wasting your time looking for the murderer at Mercy General or in the offices of any of the doctors on staff. In any case, I hope you find the killer. No one deserves to die the way Karen did.”

  The sentence struck a nerve. Few of the details of the crime had been released to the news media yet. “Do you think that was a particularly brutal way to die, Malcomb?”

  “At the hands of a killer, years before your time should be up? Without even knowing the type of weapon the man used, I’d call that brutal.”

  A nice recovery—if it had been a slip. The buzzer on Malcomb’s desk sounded. He flicked on the intercom and received notice that his first patient of the day had arrived. Dallas’s invitation to leave. Just as well. He wasn’t going to get any more information out of Malcomb at this point.

  A morning of questions, and all Dallas had gained was more questions. And a stronger than ever hunch that Malcomb Lancaster was not being totally honest. But unless he planned on manipulating the DNA test results, he obviously wasn’t the man who’d gotten Karen pregnant.

  “Detective.”

  Dallas’s hand was on the doorknob. He stopped and turned back to face Malcomb.

  “I’m willing to cooperate with your request for DNA testing,” Malcomb said, his voice harsher than it had been seconds before. “But I expect something in return.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Don’t see or talk to my wife again.”

  “In regards to the investigation, you mean?”

  “In regards to anything.”

  “Sorry, Doc. I don’t make deals.”

  Anger flashed in Malcomb’s dark eyes and his hands knotted into hard fists. Dallas stood in amazement, watching the transformation. A second ago the man had been totally calm, but now the veins in his neck were thick blue cords and his nostrils flared, like a bull about to stomp a fallen rider into the ground.

  It was Dallas’s first peek at the man behind the sophisticated veneer, a disturbing glimpse of the rage Nicole had talked about. Dallas had seen instant rage like that a few times before. Mostly in men on death row.

  But Malcomb wasn’t a hardened criminal. He was the man who slept with Nicole every night. The thought chilled Dallas to the bone.

  MALCOMB CLOSED THE DOOR behind Dallas, walked back to his desk and dialed Jim Castle’s office number. He’d conquered the outward signs of his anger, but it still roa
red inside him, an all-consuming madness that made it difficult for him to think. He deplored these moments, abhorred even more the fact that he’d let that cocky detective provoke one.

  He took deep breaths and willed his pulse to return to near normal as the phone rang. Control was all-important. Control and appearance. A man was measured not by what he was but by the way others saw him. No one ever knew the degree of inner torment that dwelled in a controlled man’s soul, sometimes not even the man himself.

  Malcomb spoke briefly to Jim’s receptionist, then waited for his colleague to pick up. He would warn Jim, but he knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good. Dallas would chew him to bits, gnaw like a dog with a meaty bone until Jim Castle blurted out the whole story of his tawdry affair with the sluttish nurse.

  Which was exactly what Malcomb wanted him to do. But he had to make dead certain Jim wasn’t foolish enough to mention the club.

  One week later

  DALLAS AND CORKY SAT in the chief’s office while the big man flipped though the files they’d given him. Chief of Police Bailey Cooper was in his late fifties, had a full-size spare tire hanging over his belt, sported short, thinning salt-and-pepper hair, with the salt as generous as the helping Bailey sprinkled over everything he ate, along with his Louisiana hot sauce. The chief could be hard as nails when he wanted and swift to come down on an erring detective.

  But the guy knew his stuff, and Dallas respected his opinion. Good thing, because when the chief got ready to give his opinion, he did it whether you wanted to hear it or not. Dallas had an idea this was going to be one of those times, even though they’d been called in to meet with the profiler, who was due any minute.

  The chief took a pair of wire-frame glasses off his ruddy, misshapen nose and lay them on top of a haphazardly stacked tower of file folders. “You two guys seem to be making a few enemies around Mercy General.”

  “Who complained?” Corky asked. “Jim Castle?”