by JoAnn Ross
Mariah felt her shoulders sag as she watched the chic Realtor dash back across the lobby, headed in the direction of the meeting rooms.
"You should have told her," she said out loud.
Reminding herself that Freddi had always been Laura's friend, not hers, Mariah took the old-fashioned gilt cage elevator to her suite on the third floor.
She had to call her mother. Mariah definitely didn't want Maggie to learn the tragic news from some reporter. But first she had something even more important to do.
As soon as she entered the spacious room loaded with what appeared to be genuine antique furnishings, she placed a call to the sheriff's office, gave her name and was frustrated to learn he wasn't there.
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Well, he's got a press conference scheduled at noon. So I guess he'll be back by then." The voice sounded young. And vaguely bored. Mariah heard the unmistakable snap of bubble gum.
"It's urgent that I speak with him."
"I can try to radio him and have him call you," the dispatcher said obligingly.
Mariah bit back her frustration and raked her hand through her hair. "I suppose that'll have to do."
"When I do track Trace down, want me to give him a message?"
Mariah's mind was still reeling from her earlier conversation with the desk clerk. "Tell him I have evidence that will prove who killed my sister."
Jessica had definitely called this one right. Trace leaned both hands against the porcelain rim of the bathroom sink, grimly studied his reflection in the mirror and decided that the hollow-eyed face looking back at him was not a pretty sight.
He looked like the head doorman at the Whiskey River drunk tank. He ran his tongue over his fuzzy teeth. Coffee and not enough sleep had left him feeling as if the Persian Gulf war had been fought inside his mouth.
After brushing, he gargled with cinnamon-flavored mouthwash. While waiting for the water to warm in the shower, he stripped, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.
When clouds of steam began fogging the glass door, he stepped into the stall, soaped down, shaved, then leaned his head against the brown-and-cream tiled wall. He thought back on the autopsy which had left him with more questions than answers and fell asleep. Standing up.
A sudden jolt of icy water woke him. Trace cursed, twisted the faucets shut, then shook himself off like a dog who'd just had a hose turned on him. Making a few halfhearted swipes at his wet body with a towel, he went into the bedroom and surveyed his closet.
The uniform he'd been given the first day on the job was still in its plastic dry cleaner's bag. Trace had never worn it, knowing that the khaki symbol of authority J.D. so obviously relished would make him feel like he was six years old again, playing cops and robbers on south Dallas's mean streets.
Back in his old neighborhood, there'd admittedly been a lot more kids who'd wanted to be the robbers. Trace decided things hadn't changed all that much. The only difference was that these days, instead of cap pistols, kids were packing real guns.
The blue suit he used to wear to testify in court hung in a similar plastic bag beside the uniform. Though it looked presentable on TV, it was definitely overkill for Whiskey River.
Opting for the middle ground, jeans and a sport coat, he'd just finished dressing when the phone rang. "Callahan."
"Hasn't your office gotten hold of you yet?"
Trace dragged a hand down his face. All he needed was an amateur sleuth trying to solve his crime. "Yes, Ms. Swann."
"You haven't called back."
"I've been a little busy. I spent the last two hours attending an autopsy." He did not mention stopping by the Garvey ranch and learning from a hired hand that the rancher had ridden off into the hills around dawn.
"What time did Alan say he arrived home?"
"Why?"
"Because Heather Martin checked into the Lakeside Lodge at ten o'clock last night." Her tone was smug.
He rubbed his hands over his face again. "Okay. I'll bite." His words were muffled by his palms. "Who's Heather Martin?"
"His so-called chief of staff. Although mistress is probably a better job description. Room service sent up a bottle of Chivas and two glasses at ten-oh-five. Alan was seen leaving the lodge at midnight. So what time did he tell you he got to the ranch?"
"I can't answer that. Not while—"
"There's an ongoing investigation," she finished up for him. "Shit. I've probably written that line myself a hundred times."
"Then you should know it by heart."
"Are you always this sarcastic, Sheriff? Or do I just bring out the worst in you?"
He silently admitted he wasn't going to win the Mr. Congeniality award. But the clock was ticking down and he still had to get to the hospital in Payson and interview Fletcher again before the press conference. And then there was the scorned beautician with the scissors.
"Neither. Is there a third choice?"
Her curse was short and imaginative. He wondered if she could get away with using it in her TV shows.
"Look, I'll bet my last Emmy that Alan's sleeping with his assistant. That gives you the motive."
"Motive's for trial lawyers, crime novelists and you Hollywood writers. To tell you the truth, Ms. Swann, in real life cops don't spend a helluva lot of time looking for motive."
"You don't?"
Trace could tell he'd momentarily sidetracked her. "Sometimes the motive behind a crime can be interesting. Sometimes it's even helpful. But it's usually beside the point."
"For future reference, forget the why. Worry about finding out the how and nine times out of ten it'll give you the who."
From the silence on the other end of the line, Trace suspected she was thinking that over. He was right.
"That's very interesting." Another little silence. He strapped on his watch and decided if he didn't wind this up soon, he was never going to make his appointment with Jessica.
"I'm glad you think so. Now, if you don't mind—"
"So, what I have to do is figure out how Alan killed Laura."
"What you have to do is be a good girl and let me do my job," he corrected.
"In the first place, I'm no longer a girl, Sheriff. And in the second place, even when I was, I was never, ever good. Ask anyone in Whiskey River." Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, he thought he detected a bit of wry humor in her tone. "I'll get back to you."
"I'll be waiting with bated breath." He wasn't usually rude, although he could admittedly be so when it suited him. Fatigue had made him speak his mind and now that he had, Trace was considering whether or not he should apologize when her next statement stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks.
"You're a sarcastic son of a bitch, Callahan. But since my sources in Dallas tell me you were one of the best— in your day—I'll forgive you."
"You had me checked out?" Surprise and irritation made him ignore the crack about in his day.
"Of course. I told you, I pride myself on my research. I'll be watching your press conference on the tube." She hung up.
As he drove to Payson for a little heart-to-heart with the senator, Trace considered that Mariah Swann was turning out to be a royal pain in the ass.
At the same time, in his mind's eye he could see her struggling to be brave when she'd viewed her sister's body. He remembered the infinite tenderness with which she'd brushed away her sister's hair from her face. He thought about how she'd thrown up afterward.
And now he had the discomfiting feeling that she had no intention of leaving this investigation—or him alone— until she'd achieved justice for Laura.
That she was stubborn was obvious. She was also intelligent. And, although he'd tried like hell not to notice, she was also more than a little sexually appealing. There had been a couple of suspended moments, back in his office, when he'd felt the age-old stir inside him—man for woman.
When his mutinous mind conjured up, without difficulty, her springtime scent, her expressive tur
quoise eyes, her full ripe lips, Trace cursed. He couldn't discern all the emotions working through him, but he knew damn well that they weren't comfortable.
J.D. had been right. Mariah Swann was definitely trouble.
After breezing through the brief surgery, Alan Fletcher had been wheeled into a private room. Ben Loftin had arrived, as ordered, crowding his considerable bulk into a molded vinyl chair outside the senator's hospital room door. He was eating a Granny Smith apple while pondering the gynecological mysteries in this month's issue of Playboy.
"How's the patient doing?" Trace asked.
"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." As Loftin turned the magazine sideways and nodded his approval of the centerfold, Trace wasn't certain whether he was referring to Fletcher or the voluptuous blonde clad in red hooker high heels and a fire helmet.
"Did the doctor say what he was shot with?"
"Yeah," the deputy managed around a huge bite of apple. Most of his breakfast appeared to have spilled onto his tie and rumpled shirtfront. "It was a .25."
"The autopsy showed the wife was shot twice with a .38." Which, Trace supposed, added credence to the senator's allegation that there were two men in the house.
Loftin's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Too bad for the lady the guy with the peashooter wasn't the one who went upstairs."
"Isn't it?" Trace agreed dryly.
He entered the hospital room and found Fletcher sitting up in bed with an IV attached to his right arm. An attractive brunette Trace guessed to be in her late twenties was sitting in a chair beside the bed. She was wearing a V-necked white silk blouse, a short navy skirt and navy and white spectator pumps.
Her hand was currently enclosed in the senator's. He didn't need a scorecard to figure out that this was the chief of staff with a liking for expensive Scotch.
Trace doffed his hat. "Good morning, Senator."
"Good morning." The senator flashed the standard politician's smile—quick, seemingly sincere and disarming as hell. He reminded Trace of Redford, back in his Sundance Kid days, before the unrelenting western sun had turned the actor's face to spotted boot leather.
"Oh. You're the sheriff." The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.
Trace nodded. "You've got a good memory."
"Occupational necessity. I never forget a face. Or a name." This time the smile, which Trace realized was automatic, died half born. "How is Laura? I've asked the nurses, but they refuse to tell me a thing."
Trace glanced over at the woman. "Excuse me, but—"
"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Heather," Alan said.
The woman stood and extended her hand. "Heather Martin," she said. Her light brown eyes were friendly and intelligent. "I'm the senator's chief of staff."
"Trace Callahan." He shook the hand the senator had been holding.
She quirked the inevitable brow upon hearing his name, but did not comment. "How is Laura?" she repeated Alan Fletcher's question. "We've been so horribly worried."
The senator was looking up at him expectantly. Right in the eye. Trace had always figured any guy who wouldn't maintain eye contact had to be guilty of something.
Of course, he allowed, sometimes it went the other way. The science teacher-serial killer had maintained dynamite eye contact even while insisting he knew nothing about the various body parts soaking in a barrel of hydrochloric acid in his basement.
"I'm afraid I have bad news, Senator." After years of practice, he'd come to the conclusion that there was no easy way to say this. "Your wife is dead."
Alan Fletcher blanched. "Dead?"
"She died at the scene. There was nothing anyone could do."
"Dead?" the senator repeated blankly. Alan looked up at Heather, who'd gone pretty pale herself.
"Oh, my God!" He began to tremble.
"I understand that this is difficult for you," Trace began slowly. Carefully.
"Difficult doesn't begin to describe this outrage. It's horrendous!" The senator took the tissue Heather was offering and blew his nose. "When may I see my wife?"
"Her body's going to be released to the funeral home later this afternoon."
"Her body." He shuddered. "God, that sounds so final."
"I was hoping you might remember something else about the intruders." Trace pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket.
The tanned brow furrowed. "I'm afraid no more than I've already told you. It was all so sudden, and I'd been sleeping."
"No distinguishing marks? Tattoos, moles, warts? Anything like that?"
Alan shook his head. "I don't think so."
"How about what they were wearing?"
The senator shook his head again. "I'm sorry."
So much for the dynamite memory. Too bad the gun-men hadn't offered to contribute to the senator's presidential campaign. Trace bet the senator's memory would have instantly improved.
"Well, if you think of anything, let me know."
"Of course."
"In the meantime, my deputy will bring by some mug books."
"Do you think my wife's killers will be in there?"
"We can always hope. You may see something that strikes a chord."
"I'll try my best."
"I know you will, Senator. In the meantime, are you acquainted with Clint Garvey?"
"Acquainted?" Alan's expression and his tone were calm, although slightly puzzled. "Of course. He's a neighbor."
"Would you call him a friend?"
"Not really. The man's a loner. I doubt if I've run into him more than two or three times."
Trace made a notation. Then paused again. "There's no tactful way I can ask this. Do you happen to know if your wife had been unfaithful?"
"No." Alan's voice regained its earlier strength. His gaze did not waver. "My wife was a saint. Ask anyone who knew her. Why, the work she did arranging medical care for impoverished children of the Third World received U.N. recognition."
"Laura was dedicated to the poor," Heather agreed. Her voice cracked a little. Her whiskey-colored eyes misted.
"Those children were her life," Alan said.
"Speaking of children—" Trace took his time, flipping through the pages of the notebook "—did you know your wife was pregnant, Senator?"
"Pregnant?" Surprise flashed across Alan Fletcher's handsome face. "No."
He lowered his gaze. His hands clutched at the starched white sheets. When he lifted his eyes again, Trace could read doubts in those deep blue depths. "Are you sure?"
"We found a home pregnancy test in the bathroom wastebasket. The autopsy revealed your wife was approximately eight weeks pregnant."
"Eight weeks," Fletcher echoed.
"Approximately."
The senator leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Heather Martin walked over to the window and studied the parking lot with unwavering interest.
Silence settled over the hospital room.
Trace let it linger.
Watching Heather he said, "According to my notes—" he was reading from the notebook again "—you arrived in Whiskey River around midnight."
The senator coughed, then grimaced, as if in pain. "Did I say that?"
"Yes, sir. When the paramedics were working on you at the house."
"Ah." The reassuring smile returned, looking as out of place as it had earlier. "That probably explains it. I'd been shot, I was in terrible pain, I was frantic about Laura. I guess I wasn't thinking straight."
"The fact of the matter is, after driving up from Phoenix, I reached Whiskey River sometime between ten and eleven. I returned home to the house around midnight."
"I see." Trace jotted the correction down. "Mind telling me what you were doing between ten and midnight?"
"The senator was with me," Heather offered quickly. A bit too quickly, Trace thought. "We were working on his speech."
"I'm giving a speech on law and order at the Fourth of July rally," the senator explained. "Heather was helping me fine-t
une it. We're announcing my run for the presidency here in Whiskey River before making a fund-raising swing through the southwest." He glanced up at his chief of staff. "I suppose we'll have to make some changes to include this horrible thing that has happened to Laura."
"Don't worry," she assured him. "I'll take care of it."
Alan Fletcher was looking off into some middle distance. "I'll also need to come up with something appropriate for the funeral." His gaze cleared as he met Trace's inscrutable one. "My wife was a wonderful woman. She deserves a proper eulogy."
Once again he turned to his aide. "You'll take care of the rough draft, won't you, Heather?"
"Of course."
"You know," he mused, "though Whiskey River was Laura's home, I was, after all, elected by people from all over the state. The funeral should be held in Phoenix." He nodded, apparently pleased with his decision. "The central location would make it a great deal easier for out-of-town visitors. What with the airport and all."
"I'll start making the calls right away."
"You should also call the office and have them fax you a list of Breakfast Club members." Trace vaguely recalled that the wealthy group of financial contributors the senator wanted to invite to his wife's funeral had been publicly disbanded after allegations of influence buying had appeared in the Washington Post.
"Of course." As if realizing the inappropriateness of that particular suggestion, the chief of staff studiously ignored Trace's steady gaze. But embarrassed color darkened her cheeks. "I know this has been a terrible shock to you, Senator."
It wasn't a bad save, Trace allowed. At least she was trying. Heather Martin was obviously efficient and loyal. There was also a good chance she was sleeping with the victim's husband. But that didn't make her a murderer.
Any more than Senator Alan Fletcher's apparent self-serving shallowness made him a killer.
"So," Trace confirmed, "you arrived at the ranch house around midnight."
"Yes."
Trace referred to the notebook again. "And I believe you told me that you didn't go upstairs."
"That's right. I didn't want to wake Laura." His voice cracked the slightest bit on his wife's name.
"That's what you said," Trace agreed. "My deputy was told by witnesses that your wife arrived in town two days ago."
