Veil of Night

by Linda Howard

  After tomorrow, things should get easier. Franklin would be back to work in the morning. If necessary, Eric could hand over the Edwards case and take on guarding Jaclyn full time, though it would be better for continuity if he stayed on the case. But Franklin would be there, Garvey could go back to the sergeant’s desk, and they’d get a little slack in the schedule.

  Today though, today was hairy. Senator and Mrs. Dennison were here, guests at the wedding. Eric had no idea what would happen if the senator saw Jaclyn or she saw him, but so far neither had happened. The church was big, and Premier had all four women working, plus the Dennisons were seated at the front of the church. The enormous sanctuary had stadium seating so everyone had a good view of the altar, but people sitting at the front literally couldn’t see what was happening at the very back of the church. He’d like to maneuver Jaclyn so she had a good look at the senator—without telling her what was going on—to see if actually seeing him again triggered enough memory for her to identify him. What he didn’t want, under any circumstances, was for the senator to see her.

  It helped that people on the Dennisons’ level almost never paid attention to how things got done around them. They noticed only that the things were either done or not done.

  At the moment Jaclyn was talking to the wedding party, arranging the line at the door of the reception hall, giving them last-minute instructions. Diedra and Peach were overseeing the layout of the food, and Madelyn was talking to the bandleader. She was safe enough for now, with the bulk of guests outside awaiting entrance.

  The reception hall in Hopewell was very nice, yet this one in Buckhead almost put it to shame. The main hall was more than twice as large as the one where Carrie Edwards had been murdered. The parking lot was three times as big and surrounded by trees, providing precious shade on a hot summer day, and from the front entrance the hall looked like an antebellum mansion. If they’d been going for the look of Old South and Old Money, they had definitely achieved it, on both fronts. At the moment the room was decorated in the same colors that had been used at the wedding. It was all a little froufrou for his tastes. Personally he’d preferred yesterday’s barbecue at the farm, a confession he wasn’t about to share with Jaclyn. But this was nice. For froufrou.

  The bride and groom were still being held hostage by the photographer, who insisted on snapping a jaw-dropping number of pictures, so there weren’t many people in the reception hall yet. Soon the doors would be opened to the crowd for a well-mannered celebration. He could relax for a few minutes, at least until the doors opened. Nothing was going to happen right now, with no one other than the wedding party and a few workers present. He figured the Premier bunch would all be even busier once things moved into full swing, but now was the perfect time to do something about the hostile situation he found himself in.

  Madelyn shook the bandleader’s hand and turned away. She took a deep breath and surveyed the room with a critical but approving eye. Eric took his own deep breath—fortification was needed for this confrontation—and headed in her direction. As he got closer, she turned that critical eye on him, and there was nothing approving in it.

  “Everything looks great,” he said in an attempt at an icebreaker. “I like the orange.”

  Her chin came up, and ice filled her gaze. “It’s peach and salmon, not orange,” she said, as if he’d just presented her with a pile of dog shit on his outstretched palm.

  Okay, so peach and salmon looked like shades of orange to him; so sue him. It was obvious beating around the bush wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and just as obviously he was a failure at small talk, at least as far as Madelyn Wilde was concerned. Eric figured he might as well take the metaphorical bull by the conversational horns, or something like that. “I like your daughter,” he said bluntly. “When this is all over, I’d like to take her out, see where it goes.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind?” she snapped.

  “It’s possible,” he agreed, “but I don’t think so.”

  Amusement was the last thing he wanted to see on Madelyn’s face, but there it was, chasing out the astonishment. “Do you really think Jaclyn will go out with you after the way you’ve treated her?”

  Eric had to tamp down the rush of anger. It wouldn’t help his case to go off on Jaclyn’s mother. But at the same time … to hell with it. “The way I’ve treated her? I’ve busted my ass to make sure she was cleared and protected, and done the best I could in a bad situation. Because we dated once, I—”

  Madelyn’s head jerked back. “Dated? What’re you talking about? Jaclyn would have told me if she’d dated you.” The tone was very much the same she would have used if she was telling him her daughter would have told her if she had a fatal disease.

  Probably Jaclyn had kept the news of their night together to herself because it hadn’t really been a date, and because she wasn’t the kiss-and-tell type—not that he could say that to Madelyn. “We’d just met,” he explained. “But because I knew Jaclyn personally, I had to be even more objective with her than I would have with anyone else, or I’d have been jerked off the case faster than you can spit. We’ve been shorthanded, so I did what I had to do. That doesn’t change how I feel. I’m interested in her—hell, I care about her—and when my partner gets back from vacation tomorrow, if I have to, I’ll take myself off the Edwards case so I can keep an eye on Jaclyn full time until the killer is caught.”

  Was it his imagination or was there a subtle softening of Madelyn’s eyes? She was easy to read, more open in her expressions than her daughter. “Will the Hopewell P.D. approve that particular duty?”

  “If they don’t I’ll take my vacation and do it on my own time.” And he would, too. He just hadn’t realized it until the words left his mouth. Like it or not, Jaclyn had become important to him.

  Maybe Madelyn saw that, because her mouth relaxed, though a touch of sadness filled her eyes. “All right,” she said, then repeated it more firmly. “All right. I believe you. Go for it, young man, but I think you should know that Jaclyn has real trust issues.”

  A jolt of anger made Eric’s spine stiffen, because too often, in his world, “trust issues” were directly related to physical abuse. “Her ex?” he growled.

  Madelyn sighed and shook her head. “Nothing so dramatic, just a lifetime of dealing with her father. Maybe she’d have been better off if I’d divorced Jacky when Jaclyn was still a baby. I knew even then that, well, let’s just say that Jacky Wilde is a walking emotional disaster. Not to himself—Jacky always looks after number one—but to everyone around him. All her life Jaclyn has been collecting broken promises from her father, and that’s something that’s hard for a child to get past even when she’s all grown up. Then her own marriage fell apart so fast … She’s afraid to trust herself, much less a man.”

  And in Jaclyn’s eyes, he hadn’t exactly proven that he trusted her, or that she could trust him. In fact, the opposite was true, not that he could have handled the situation any differently. Still, he felt as if he was on more solid ground now, because he not only understood exactly what he was up against, but maybe now he had someone on his side. He probably wouldn’t have stood a chance if Madelyn disapproved of him, but with her understanding and support he at least wasn’t going under for the third time.

  As the photographer was finishing up, Jaclyn saw Eric talking to her mother and a stupid but powerful rush of panic made the blood roar in her ears. The only thing they could possibly have to talk about was her, which made her feel as exposed and vulnerable as if someone had walked in on her in the shower. Lovely. She’d feel a lot better about it if her mother continued to scowl at him, but even as she watched, Madelyn’s expression changed, softened.

  Great.

  Then the doors were opened, and the guests began to file into the room. Instead of a sit-down dinner there was an impressive hot buffet, and round tables, each seating eight, were arranged around the glossy hardwood dance floor. The bride had suggested
the more informal setup so her friends and family would be able to mingle, visit, have a good time. There was informal, and then there was so casual shoes weren’t required. She couldn’t help contrasting this reception with the one the day before, and an unwilling smile tugged at her lips. She had regaled the others with tales from Hee Haw Hell, as Bishop had named it, but she’d also had to admit that in the end she’d had a blast.

  For a while Jaclyn was too busy with her duties to think about Eric Wilder … almost. Every time she turned around he was there, directly in her wake or just a few steps away, watching. His alertness worried her, made her wonder if he knew something he hadn’t told her. He had a history of not telling her stuff.

  She took a quick survey of the crowded room and had an unpleasant surprise. Movers and shakers stuck together, so she should have expected that she’d recognize two of Carrie’s bridesmaids. If they were here—and that struck her as kind of cold, considering tonight was the funeral home visitation for Carrie—then how many other people in the room had been connected to Carrie? That gave her a chill, because likely Carrie’s killer had been someone connected to her.

  Suddenly she felt hideously exposed again, but this time in a very real, imminent-danger kind of way. Her head kept swiveling as she looked from face to face, until finally she thought she had to take a break or scream from the tension. The reception was proceeding well, people still filing in and offering congratulations to the bridal couple, and until it was time for the cake to be cut her duties were on hold. She grabbed a cup of punch, nonalcoholic, took a long sip, and retreated to a quiet nook where at least she didn’t feel as if a gun was pointed at her back. All she wanted was a minute of solitude to get her nerves under control—

  As if Eric would allow her that luxury.

  He walked up, leaned against the wall beside her. “We need to talk,” he said in a lowered voice.

  How many times had he said some variation of that?

  “Something’s going on, isn’t it?” she asked nervously.

  “Yes.”

  She sucked in a quick, shallow breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

  “Just watch everyone as they come through the reception line. That’s all. Tell me if anyone rings a bell.”

  She went pale. So she was right. The killer was here—at least, the person Eric thought was the killer was here, and what he thought was good enough for her to be scared.

  “I can’t stand here forever,” she muttered some time later. “I really, really need to visit the ladies’ room.”

  “Okay,” he said, his expression unreadable, but Jaclyn thought he was disappointed. He’d hoped she would recognize someone—the gray-haired man, obviously—but the only people she’d definitely recognized were the two bridesmaids. She had carefully examined everyone, not just the gray-haired men, but no one had seemed familiar to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she’d been a better witness. More than anyone, she wished she’d been a better witness! “I know I’m no help.”

  “I wish you could make an identification,” he said, “but I definitely don’t want you to say you recognize someone when you don’t. That would hurt the case, not help it. And sometimes, eliminating people is as important as including them, because that helps you know who’s left.”

  That made sense. She didn’t think he meant it, but it made sense.

  She wound her way through the knots of wedding guests as she made her way out of the main ballroom. Long before she reached the doorway, he was following in her footsteps, watching.

  And he saw her walk past Senator and Mrs. Dennison. Not close by them, but close enough that Mrs. Dennison saw her, recognized her as one of the event planners. It figured that she would notice things like that. The senator’s back was turned; he didn’t see Jaclyn and she didn’t see him. Eric held his breath, hoping Jaclyn made it past without being spotted, because while he’d wanted her to see the senator he sure as hell didn’t want the senator to see her, especially this close to him.

  Mrs. Dennison gave a quick smile, reached out, and caught Jaclyn’s arm, stopping her. Eric picked up his pace, all but shoving his way through the crowd. Senator Dennison continued talking to some other man and for a second Eric thought Jaclyn would make it through, but then Mrs. Dennison reached for her husband’s arm, getting his attention so she could introduce the two.

  Eric wasn’t close enough to hear what was said, but he was close enough to see the senator lose every bit of color in his face. And Jaclyn was smiling, her calm, gracious manner never revealing that she was dying to pee. She even chatted for a few minutes, before excusing herself and continuing on toward the bathroom.

  Senator Dennison stared after her with an expression gone as cold and blank as a statue’s.

  Since Friday night’s failed attempt, it had been impossible to find another opportunity. Jaclyn hadn’t been back to her town house; she was staying somewhere else, and locating her during the day so she could be followed hadn’t worked out. No one seemed to know what event she was working; either that, or no one was saying. But now here she was, and following her from here would be easy.

  In a way, it might make sense to wait a while longer before trying again. Locating her was the hard part. Just find out where she was staying, then let things rest. Eventually the cop would let his guard down; he’d have to leave Jaclyn on her own at some point. Eventually she’d go home. But what if Jaclyn remembered what she’d seen Wednesday afternoon before that happened? What if something—a visual, a scent, a dream—jogged her memory? The cops might try hypnosis or something, and then it was over. Done and done. Once the cat was out of the bag, it couldn’t be put back in.

  Today. Like it or not, complications or not, Jaclyn Wilde had to die today.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  TAITE SAT IN THE BORROWED CAR, WHICH WAS IN THE shade of a tree across the street from the huge church and reception hall. The businesses in the redbrick building behind her were all closed on a Sunday afternoon, so she had the parking lot to herself.

  She kept her eyes on the building across the street, waiting and watching. Discovering that Jaclyn Wilde would be there hadn’t been nearly as difficult as finding her Friday night. This was a big wedding, perhaps the wedding of the summer now that Carrie’s had been called off. She supposed you could say the wedding had been called off, given that the bride had been killed. Anyway, a lot of the people who came into the boutique talked about their plans as they shopped, which was how she’d found out Premier was handling this wedding, and that meant Jaclyn would be there.

  For the first time since this had all started, Taite was worried. Since yesterday morning, the Hopewell cops had been calling her again. Detective Wilder had left three messages, and the other one, Sergeant Garvey, had left one. Why were the cops calling her again? They couldn’t know about Friday night. There was no way.

  Was there? How could there be? She’d been so careful. But for the first time, a trickle of uncertainty made her doubt herself and her plans. Damn Douglas and his fucking fund-raiser, his airtight alibi. His Friday-night appearance had been so public, he couldn’t offer her an alibi when she needed one. She’d provided him with one when he’d screwed up and was in a total panic, but when she needed him, was he able to reciprocate? Of course not. And this was all because of his stupidity, his lack of control. Douglas had his weaknesses—every man did. But she’d had no idea he could be so violent when pushed to the edge. If he’d only told her what was going on, she could have helped him. They could have come up with a plan, a good plan. Instead she was having to act spontaneously, and that was always dangerous.

  Taite hadn’t been home since yesterday afternoon, and she’d turned off her cell phone hours ago, tired of hearing it ring and seeing the same numbers come up on the display. If the cops kept calling they’d eventually just show up on her doorstep, and she couldn’t be there when that happened. She needed time to construct an unshakable out-of-town timeline before she return
ed any of the official calls. She needed to psych herself up to present a completely provable case. A few phone calls, a few favors called in … she could make it work. Chicago, maybe. She made several trips a year to the city, and there were people there who owed her. The big thing was, she would have had to drive, because obviously her name couldn’t appear on a passenger list anywhere, which meant she had to come up with a good reason for driving.

  Or Jaclyn Wilde had to die. Without her, anything they had against Doug would just fall apart. Taite had had his car cleaned, because he’d been stupid enough to park at the reception hall, stupid enough to let himself be seen, stupid enough to act without thinking and risk everything she’d worked so hard to build. Being his mistress had worked out better than she’d ever thought it would. She had his balls in the palm of her hand, and they both knew it. The fool had actually fallen in love with her, gave her everything she wanted, and now she was in danger of losing everything. But Taite thought she’d covered his tracks fairly well. Unless Jaclyn could identify him, no judge would risk making an enemy of a future U.S. senator by issuing a search warrant without overwhelming cause.

  For Taite, the solution was very simple. Eliminate Jaclyn, the only person who could put Doug at the reception hall when Carrie had been killed, and her very nice life could go on without disruption.

  She wished she could simply have hired someone to do the job, put a layer of deniability between herself and the act, but it wasn’t as if she had “hit man” on her speed dial. Besides, what assurance would she have that she could trust a hit man? Anyone who chose that line of work was automatically untrustworthy. Every so often a murder-for-hire would be reported in the news, and invariably it was some undercover cop a nitwit had tried to hire. She was determined not to be that nitwit. Besides, if she went that route she’d have to get rid of the hit man, too, once the job was done, and then she’d be back to square one. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.