Between the children and her business, Samantha was busy, but she had turned the cafe’s management over to someone else and now focused primarily on the Bella Café products that were being sold in upscale grocery stores and gift shops. Upon Mercer’s return home, she and Samantha had resumed their regular runs on the beach. Quinn often joined them when she was in town.
“It was a good distraction. Sam picked my brain about some marketing ideas. I’m going to help her get ready for that trade show in New York.”
Mark picked up a mock-up of an ad for the hotel from Mercer’s desk.
“I’m placing that in Southern Living’s February issue,” she said. “It’ll run when people are getting sick of cold weather and are starting to make spring break plans.”
He laid the ad back down. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Aware that she was fidgeting, Mercer stood and walked to the nearby window that was framed by coral, raw-silk drapes. It provided a view of the landscaped terrace with its Olympic-size swimming pool and, beyond it, the gray-green ocean. The midday sky was a vibrant blue. Arms crossed over her chest, she looked out at the picturesque scene, wishing that she could concentrate on something else.
“You don’t have to be here,” Mark reminded gently. “There’s nothing you’re doing that can’t wait.”
“I’m still trying to get everything prepared for that sandcastle-building workshop this weekend,” she argued, turning back to him. Since resuming her position at the hotel, Mercer had been coordinating activities that would attract guests during the slower fall and winter seasons. “There’s also the sea turtle recovery project with the South Carolina Aquarium. I have a meeting for it the day after tomorrow and I need to—”
Her words halted as her cell phone that lay on her desk sprang to life. Anxiety traced over her skin. Charleston Police Department. Mark’s tense expression told her that he had seen the caller’s identity, too. Her chest tightening, she picked up the phone and answered, hearing Noah Ford’s voice.
“It’s Detective Ford. How’re you this afternoon, Ms. Leighton? I hope you were able to sleep last night?”
“I…did,” she fibbed.
“That’s good. I’d like to get you with our forensic sketch artist today. Maybe around four?”
“All right,” she managed, glancing at her wristwatch. Mark had sent two of the hotel employees for her car that morning, so she had transportation. She smoothed her hair, trying to tamp down her nervousness. “I’ll be there.”
“I’d prefer it if we came to you, actually. We’re trying to keep your involvement off the radar.”
“Oh. Four o’clock is fine, then.”
“I’ll see you then, Ms. Leighton.”
Her throat dry, she said goodbye, disconnected and met Mark’s searching gaze. “Detective Ford’s coming here in a few hours. He’s bringing a sketch artist with him.”
Mark frowned. “Call him back and tell him today’s not good.”
“No.” Mercer shook her head, then absently chewed on her fingernail as Mark began to pace the room.
“I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow with an attorney. I want him to advise you before you talk to the police again.”
“Mark. It’s not like the attorney’s going to tell me not to cooperate with the sketch artist.” She swallowed with difficulty, her voice sounding a bit breathless. “If they find this man, they can and will serve me with a subpoena to testify. We both know that’s the case. I love you…but you can’t protect me from this.”
Gray-haired, barrel-chested, and nearing retirement age, Captain Walter Bell had requested an update on the case and now stood inside the debriefing room with Noah and Tyson.
“If this does turn out to be a hit on a federal judge, expect more hands on it,” Bell said as he brushed at a piece of lint on his uniform shirt.
Noah capped a marker that he had been using on a dry erase board to list the facts of the investigation, at least what they knew so far. “That’s what it’s shaping up to look like, Cap. The gallery’s inventory is valued at nearly a million dollars according to insurance assessments, but nothing was taken. Both victims still had their cash, credit cards, and cell phones, so robbery doesn’t appear to be a motive.”
“Unless it was a robbery gone wrong. Maybe the gallery owner or the judge resisted?”
“That doesn’t match the eyewitness account, or the fact that Deveau had a concealed gun that he never got a chance to pull.” Noah replaced the marker on the board’s tray. “Ms. Leighton said that the perp walked in and just started shooting. No hesitation, no demand for money—”
“Then this cat puts two more bullets into Deveau for good measure before taking a stroll through the gallery, looking for others,” Tyson chimed in from where he sat on the edge of the conference table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He and Noah had already discussed, in theory, the possible reasons why Deveau had been targeted inside the gallery rather than the courthouse or his home. It was most likely to avoid the high security at both places. When they had visited the gated community where the judge lived, they’d seen firsthand the guards patrolling the neighborhood on golf carts, as well as myriad security cameras. The gallery had only required taking out two cameras—one in the foyer and the other in the main room.
“It takes some stones to plug two people in Gallery Row in broad daylight.” Tyson crossed his arms over his chest. “The smooth way he slid in and out points to a real pro.”
“What about the security company?” Bell shifted his stance. “Did they have an explanation for the cameras going down?”
“They were alerted by the system when they went out, but they haven’t been able to identify a reason for it,” Noah said. “We think the perp knew that Deveau was carrying, so instead of wearing something to conceal his face that would be a tip-off, he took the cameras out instead.”
Bell appeared to consider this. “Maybe someone at the security company was in on it.”
“We’re looking into that,” Noah assured him. “Although the company said that they do background checks, we’re running employee names through the database to see if anyone has a record.” His cell phone beeped, indicating that he had a text. He looked at the screen and, seeing that it wasn’t urgent, decided to respond to it later. “Bruce said it’s also possible for someone to hack in and take out the wireless transmission remotely. Either way, we’re still looking at all the angles and possible other motives, although considering who the male vic was, retribution is high on the list. We need to get access to Deveau’s docket. We also want to look at recent judgments as well as past cases, see if anyone sticks out.”
Bell gave a nod. “Keep me in the loop, detectives.”
Once the captain left, Tyson spoke. “What doesn’t make sense with this payback is hell theory is how the shooter would’ve known in advance that Deveau was coming into that gallery. Taking out those cameras required planning. You think someone in Deveau’s office with access to his calendar told the shooter where he would be and when?”
“It’s a possibility, but a remote one,” Noah said. “The people around Deveau have worked with him for years. They’re devoted to him. But we should still interview them.”
Tyson paused thoughtfully. “So, let’s say it wasn’t someone in the judge’s office. Maybe some kind of spyware was used to access Deveau’s computer or cell phone? His wife said that he had a scheduled appointment at The Bluth Studio—he was commissioning a painting of his hunting dogs. I bet that appointment was on his personal calendar.”
“You’d still need access to the devices to install spyware,” Noah reminded. “And it can be removed remotely once it’s done its job.”
Tyson pushed off from the table. “Worth a look, though, right? Deveau’s cell is in the evidence room. I’ll check it out and take it to Bruce. I’ll try to get access to the judge’s laptop, too.”
“As far as courthouse employees go, I’m sure Deveau had a secretary—most judges do. She prob
ably kept up with his schedule.”
“I’ll pay her a visit while you’re having high tea in the St. Clair ballroom.” Tyson smirked as he departed. “Keep it classy, Noah. Make sure you stick your pinky finger out while you’re holding that china cup.”
Noah tried not to smile. “Kiss my ass, Ty.”
His partner’s chuckle echoed down the precinct’s hall. They had already decided that Noah would go with the forensic sketch artist to the St. Clair while Tyson would remain here to handle other aspects of the investigation. There was no point in both of them traveling to Rarity Cove and Noah had already established a relationship with Mercer Leighton. He could have had her come here, which was the usual protocol, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing her walk in and put two and two together. Maybe he was being overly cautious, but reporters hung around here in hopes of getting a sound bite from a detective, or seeing something that would make them first to report breaking news. And the Gallery Row double homicide was the story du jour. If she showed up here, and especially if she had her prominent civic-leader brother with her, as Noah suspected she would, it would be too easy for a reporter to recognize him in particular and start wondering why the St. Clair family had business with the Charleston Police.
Chapter Six
“Is that him?”
At Noah’s question, Mercer looked up from the drawing that the forensic sketch artist—a bespectacled, middle-aged man named Jim—had created based on her description. She sat with him in the twin upholstered wing chairs in her office while Noah alternately stood or paced in front of the window. While his attire had been casual last night, he now looked more official in dark trousers, blue dress shirt, and tie. He waited for her answer, his hands planted on his lean hips just above his badge and holstered gun. Mercer looked again at the sketch, a knot in her stomach.
“Not exactly, but it’s closer.” They had been working on the drawing for well over an hour. She had asked for repeated adjustments—to the receding hairline, the eyes, eyebrows, nose, and jaw.
“What happens now, Detective Ford?” she asked once they had taken the sketch as far as they could. Mercer rose to her feet as the artist began gathering his materials.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby, Noah.” Tucking the drawing pad under his arm, the artist slipped from the room.
“That’s it, for now,” Noah said once they were alone. “You have my card, so if you remember anything else that you think might be helpful, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“But what exactly happens if you find him? I’m not a fan of the unknown. I want to be prepared.”
He appeared to measure her for a moment. “If we identify a suspect, we’ll come back to you. Probably with a photo array to see if you can pick him out from a group.”
“There won’t be a line-up with me behind a two-way window?”
His faint smile, a surprise to her, caused attractive crinkles to form at the corners of his eyes. “You see that a lot on television, but it doesn’t happen as often as you think. It can be hard to get that many people together with similar physical characteristics. A photo array is easier.” He paused, his trademark seriousness back into place. “We do appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Leighton. You’re no doubt still trying to deal with what happened yesterday. I know a little about post-traumatic stress disorder and I encourage you to seek out counseling if you’re having a hard time.”
“Thank you for the advice.” Mercer moved restlessly, still unable to stop thinking about the what next of her situation. “If you do find this man, I’ll be expected to testify against him. I know that. He’ll be there in the courtroom when I do.”
“That’s a long way off,” he said gently, apparently sensing her trepidation. “But yes, you’ll be asked to point him out in front of a jury. In addition to telling the court what you witnessed, you’ll be cross-examined by the defense. Eyewitness testimonies can be tricky. The DA’s office will put you with the prosecuting attorney beforehand to help you prepare.”
She nodded her understanding, although she felt disquieted at the prospect. Trying to ease her nerves by lessening the formality between them, she changed the subject. “I can’t believe you used to work here. I guess it’s true about it being a small world.”
“Your father was a good man.”
Mercer’s heart pinched. She had been away at college in Atlanta when Harrison St. Clair—whom she adored—had passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack.
“He was. I still miss him,” she said softly, then hesitated before speaking again. “Considering things, I’d really prefer it if you’d call me Mercer. Chances are that we met here years ago.”
She felt the beat of her pulse inside her throat as that intense, amber gaze held hers for several seconds. He didn’t take her up on her request, however.
“It was nice to see you again, Ms. Leighton, although I’m sorry for the circumstance.”
His dark lashes flickered downward, and she realized that she had been absently fiddling with the rings she wore on a chain around her neck.
“I’m also sorry for your more recent loss,” he rasped. He bid her a polite goodbye and departed her office.
“Detective Ford.”
As Noah walked out through the luxurious, marble-floored lobby, he turned to see Mark St. Clair headed toward him.
“Go ahead, Jim. I’ll catch up to you outside.” As the sketch artist continued on, Noah repressed a sigh. He was good at reading faces, and tension was etched onto the approaching man’s features.
“Could we have a word in private?” Mark inquired when he reached him. When Noah agreed, he was led from the lobby back to a corner office that he knew had once belonged to Harrison St. Clair. It had been redecorated, the paneled walls now painted in neutral tones that complemented the rich, Oriental carpet covering the hardwood floor. There was also leather-upholstered seating and a barrister’s bookcase, although the large, antique mahogany desk was the same one that Noah recalled. The space was as masculine as Mercer Leighton’s office had been cheerful and feminine.
“Did you get what you wanted?” Mark asked, his tone somber, once he had closed the door behind them.
Noah gave a faint nod. “We have a sketch to work from now.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Not at this time, but we’re hoping that will change soon.”
Mark paused for several moments before speaking again. “I’m concerned about my sister’s role in your investigation, Detective.”
Noah had a sister, too, and he empathized. “I understand.”
“This man committed a double homicide without qualm. Based on the news reports, it’s starting to sound like it was an assassination on a federal judge. What’re the chances this man will come after Mercer if he finds out there’s a witness?”
Noah had expected the question. “Mr. St. Clair, I want you to know that we’re doing everything we can to keep your sister’s identity confidential. We had her escorted from the crime scene last night before reporters arrived and a crowd gathered. It’s why I had you leave the Fleur-De-Lis with her through the back entrance, and it’s why I came here today to see her instead of having her come to the precinct.”
The assurance seemed to calm him somewhat. He tiredly rubbed at his brow. “You need to understand…Mercer’s been through a lot. She lost her husband to cancer just a year ago. She moved back here from Atlanta to try to pull her life together, and now this.” His shoulders slumped under his white dress shirt. “My sister’s a good person. She took care of my daughter and me during a rough patch several years ago, and she single-handedly cared for her husband during his illness, which wasn’t easy on her. If I could change places with her on this, I would.” His voice roughened, but his gaze remained direct. “I need your word that you’ll protect her.”
“You have it,” Noah promised.
A short time later, he walked back through the lobby, his thoughts occupied with what Mark St. Clair had told him about his si
ster. But as he pushed through the revolving doors that led outside, Noah’s cell phone rang. Walking past a uniformed valet who was packing luggage onto a brass pushcart for arriving guests, he fished the device from his pocket. He could see Jim awaiting him in the distance, leaned against the side of Noah’s black Ford Explorer in the parking lot. Noah put the phone to his ear and answered.
“How’d it go?” Tyson asked. “Do we have a likeness of our shooter?”
“Let’s hope so.” Human memory was malleable. As a detective, Noah had had training in reconstructed memories. The brain had a way of filling in missing gaps with false information, which was why he had wanted to get Mercer with a sketch artist as quickly as possible.
“You were on the money, Noah. Deveau had a secretary. Her name’s Anne Sheridan. I paid her a visit at her home. She’s pretty broken up—she and the judge were tight. They worked together for over twenty years. Ms. Sheridan was responsible for keeping up with Deveau’s schedule and kept his calendars, both business and personal, on her cell phone and laptop. I asked if we could get a look at them to check for spyware.”
Noah had already learned from an earlier conversation with Bruce that no spyware had turned up on the judge’s cell phone. Nor had the phones in his home or office been tapped. Nearing the SUV, he used his key fob to remotely unlock the doors. Although Jim went around and got in on the passenger side, Noah remained standing outside the vehicle. The pleasant, briny sea air that carried inland on the breeze ruffled his hair and made his tie flap against his shirtfront.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“Both her laptop and cell phone were clean.” There was a loaded pause over the airwaves, however. “But you should know that she’s only had the phone for a couple of weeks.”
“What happened to her old one?”
“Weekend before last, Ms. Sheridan took her seven-year-old grandson to the Mount Pleasant Towne Centre to buy him some new clothes. They had lunch in the food court, and she placed her cell phone on the table—said she’s positive of it. When she turned her back to look through her shopping bags, the phone disappeared. Looks like someone lifted it right off the table.”
In Dark Water (Rarity Cove Book 3) Page 4