Veil of Night: A Novel

by Linda Howard

“Murder trumps weddings,” he pointed out.

  “Making a living is pretty high on the list, too,” she snapped, feeling her self-control begin to fray again. “Besides, I couldn’t identify the man I saw if he were standing next to me.”

  “You don’t know until you try,” he said, straightening from her car and reaching to open the door for her. “Go on home now, and decompress. I’ll be in touch.”

  She got in the car, still clutching the roll of papers. From those parting words, she thought she could safely assume he was going to completely wreck her schedule for the next day.

  Bright and early the next morning, Friday, Eric made it to work without getting involved in any robberies that ate up half his day. The solution was simple: he made coffee at home, scouted around and found an old thermos, and brought his own coffee. When even a McDonald’s drive-through wasn’t safe for his coffee hit, it was time to come up with another way of doing things. He’d make his own damn coffee from now on. God knows he wasn’t having any luck getting good coffee any other way.

  The first thing he saw when he approached his desk was a manila folder that hadn’t been there the afternoon before when he and Garvey had come in, but it was there now, on top of the stack. No one was in the lab at this hour, so someone must have placed the paperwork on his desk last night.

  That was what he’d been waiting for. Maybe he should’ve swung by the office after he’d left Jaclyn, but he’d been in an irritable, pissy mood after watching her drive out of the church parking lot, and he’d headed straight home so he could lie in bed and not sleep for a few hours.

  The pissiness wasn’t because of her temper tantrum, but rather because he’d been hamstrung by the case and couldn’t do anything about her tantrum—and he’d really, really wanted to. Man, how he’d wanted to. He’d had to fight to keep from simply grabbing her, kissing her until they both fell down, and then he’d kiss her some more. God, who knew a temper tantrum could turn him on so much? It wasn’t the tantrum itself; it was Jaclyn—losing her ladylike cool. Even then … she really hadn’t.

  She hadn’t used a single cuss word. She’d stomped her feet, thrown her keys down, yelled some inventive and amusing … hell, he couldn’t even call them insults, because saying she hoped he got beriberi wasn’t an insult, it was more of a complete lack of good wishes. She’d jammed her shoulder into him—twice—and though technically he could have charged her for that he’d have felt like a fool if he had, because he outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, maybe even a hundred. But she hadn’t poked him, hadn’t hit him, hadn’t tried to bite him. It was as if she had no idea how to physically attack someone, even though she’d admitted being an inch away from punching Carrie Edwards, but that was different because she’d been physically attacked first.

  Making Jaclyn Wilde lose control was fast becoming his favorite thing in the world to do.

  So he’d gone home and not slept while he was thinking about sliding into her, her pussy all wet and slick and swollen, those fuck-me legs wrapped around him, her head tilted back and all but screaming as she came—yeah, that was a good way to not sleep, the best, but he’d paid for it because now he was tired and the day had just begun. Finally he’d tried to get some shut-eye by using the oldest method known to the male persuasion, Mrs. Thumb and her Four Sisters, but while jacking off had relieved some pressure it was a far cry from being as satisfying as coming inside Jaclyn.

  He dropped heavily into his chair and picked up the folder, wrenching his mind from the X-rated fantasies that kept popping into his head.

  He knew what he’d find inside the folder, and still he hesitated for a split second before opening it. The tests would clear Jaclyn; if he’d had any doubt at all about that, last night would have cured him of it. His gut and his brain told him that she couldn’t have killed Carrie Edwards, so the hesitation worried him.

  Maybe he was too certain. Maybe he’d broken his own rule and let his emotions cloud his mind. Maybe—oh, shit!—maybe she’d sneaked in under his guard and he was more than halfway to falling in love with her, like some stupid kid getting a crush in the matter of a few minutes. He was too old and too smart to let one night of great sex affect his thinking … well, maybe not all that smart, since like it or not, he was affected.

  He couldn’t be falling for her like that. He wasn’t ready to give up the single life. He liked being single.

  But … damn. Jaclyn. Long legs, classy, surprisingly funny in an off-the-wall kind of way that he never would have expected. Could he just walk away, give her up, not even try for something more?

  Fuck, no. He was going after her with every ounce of determination he had, and as his mother would attest, when he set his mind to do something then, come hell or high water, he’d do it. He had a mountain to climb in convincing her to give him a chance, but he liked a challenge. And maybe the mountain wasn’t that high; he figured if she truly didn’t give a damn, she wouldn’t get so hot under the collar at him.

  Deeply satisfied with his decision, he poured some coffee from the thermos into his cup, took a sip, then flipped the file open, leaned back, and began to read.

  On television a person could walk into a room and start shedding telling skin cells that would conclusively tie them to the crime, but in real life it wasn’t so easy. The first page of the report recorded greater detail on the trace evidence that had been collected at the scene. The crime techs had found numerous carpet fibers that had clung to people’s shoes and been transferred to the reception hall floor. They’d also found dirt, grass, unidentified fibers, and hair … lots and lots of hair, a shitload of hair, from animals as well as humans. Evidently people had been sneaking their Fluffys and Fidos into receptions, which didn’t surprise him in the least. Cat and dog hair was to be expected. It was when the hair came from goats and other livestock that he began to go a little cross-eyed at the possible scenarios.

  The gray hairs collected had come from seven different heads, according to the lab, which was really a surprisingly low number. Hundreds of people were in and out of that room on a regular basis, and while it was cleaned in between each event, a hair here and there wasn’t something a janitorial crew would notice. Not a single one of the gray hairs had a follicle attached, which meant that even if they had a sample to compare it to, a DNA match was out.

  There were several pages in the report, and after scanning the first Eric started flipping through, searching for that one specific bit of evidence—or lack thereof—that he was most interested in. Four pages in, he found it.

  No blood had been found on the clothes Jaclyn had worn Wednesday.

  A rush of relief filled him. Eric didn’t think he could have felt any more relieved if the evidence had cleared him of suspicion of murder. When Sergeant Garvey and Lieutenant Neille got in they’d talk this over, but this pretty much took Jaclyn off the list of suspects, the way they’d thought it would. He’d give her the good news—

  Whoa. Wait a minute.

  She’d be glad to hear it, but she sure as hell wouldn’t be doing any celebrating with him. Instead, she’d probably let him have it with both barrels for doubting her in the first place. He hadn’t doubted her, but she wasn’t going to see it that way. She’d treat him to an I-told-you-so rebuke combined with a royal ass-chewing.

  Besides, if Jaclyn was no longer a suspect he’d have a tougher time seeing her. She wouldn’t play nice—not that she’d played very nice last night, but that had been so much fun he didn’t mind. She could, and likely would, make his life hell. There were only so many photographs he could produce for her to look at.

  And then she’d order him to leave her alone, and he’d have no choice but to do it. She could even demand that if she was required for any further investigation someone other than he do the questioning, which meant Garvey would be the one handling her from here on out, or maybe Franklin, when he got back from vacation.

  Nope. Not going to happen.

  A slow grin curved his mouth. There wasn’
t any need to share this particular news with her right now. This was something that could wait for a couple of days, until she was past being furious with him. In the meantime, he’d be working to get back in her good graces.

  He finished reading through the report, which was very thorough but not particularly helpful. Too many people had tromped and danced through that room. Besides, if it came down to it, any suspect could probably explain away his or her presence in the reception hall; after all, it was a public venue. There was no skin under the victim’s fingernails, no damning evidence on the body, so essentially he was back to square one. Ruling Jaclyn out as a suspect was the only significant result of the report.

  But then there was the gray-haired man, driving a silver car, who might or might not be Senator Dennison. Even if Jaclyn picked his picture out of a stack, any good attorney could say she recognized him because his face was all over television these days, in his political ads.

  It was blood that would give him the killer, one way or another. The murderer had made a mess of Carrie, and hadn’t walked away in pristine clothes. Whether her killer had been an enraged vendor, a secret lover, the senator, a pissed-off bloodthirsty bridesmaid, or someone as yet unidentified, blood evidence would tell the tale. Even if the killer had disposed of the clothes he’d been wearing at the time of the murder, odds were that no matter how well he cleaned his car some blood evidence would remain—maybe just a single smudge on the carpet where he’d stepped on a drop of blood—something would show up.

  Say the senator was their guy; Eric’s gut was sending out alarm signals on the senator, maybe because he was a cheating shit, but Eric was going to be looking hard at anything out of the way. If Senator Dennison decided to trade cars, well, that would be damn suspicious, so he bet the senator might start driving one of the other cars sitting in that five-car garage but he wouldn’t be getting rid of the silver car. In that case, the blood evidence was still out there, just waiting to be discovered.

  He didn’t have anywhere near enough to convince a judge to give him a search warrant for a state senator’s car, though. As for clothing … almost two days had gone by. The killer had had plenty of time to dispose of that evidence, maybe by burning it, maybe taking it out in the country and burying it, or by simply sponging away the visible blood and giving the garments to some homeless shelter. Finding the clothes now would take a huge stroke of luck. The car was his best bet. All he had to do was build a case.

  Garvey sauntered in and headed for the coffeepot. “No adventures in buying coffee this morning?” he asked.

  “I brought my own.”

  “Smart move, the way your luck has been going. I can’t believe you beat me in today,” the sergeant said as he poured coffee into his favorite mug.

  “Lots to do,” Eric said. “Lab reports are in.” He waved the manila folder.

  “Break it down for me.” Garvey half-sat on the edge of Eric’s desk and took a long sip of the coffee.

  “No blood on Jaclyn Wilde’s clothes.”

  Garvey grimaced, and frowned down into his cup. “This shit’s left over from the nightshift, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Want some of mine?”

  “Yeah.” He went into the break room and poured the offending swill down the drain, then returned and filled up from Eric’s thermos. “Okay, so we call in the senator’s girlfriend and see what we can get from her.”

  “I’m on it.”

  In spite of herself Jaclyn had gotten a few hours of deep sleep last night. Pitching full-blown temper tantrums was exhausting. Well, not completely full-blown; at least she hadn’t thrown herself on the ground and started drumming her heels, or spitting. But whereas a real tantrum-thrower would have considered hers only a halfhearted tantrum, for her it had been an all-out effort. She’d gone to sleep as soon as she tumbled into bed. She didn’t feel exactly well-rested, but at least she wasn’t dead on her feet.

  They were halfway through. This was Friday; if they could make it through today and tomorrow without any major blowups, they’d be on the downhill side of this marriage marathon. They did have the one big wedding on Sunday, an all-out affair, but she and Madelyn were both working it, and Peach and Diedra were available, so they had plenty of womanpower on hand.

  Once again she’d rushed out without eating breakfast. Maybe there’d be some brownies left from yesterday, she thought as she drove to work. She needed more of that chocolate. A brownie and a cup of coffee would be perfect.

  She wheeled into Premier’s parking lot, and blinked in surprise. Even though she was early, everyone else was already in, which was unusual.

  Diedra met Jaclyn in the hallway. Her eyes positively sparkled. “Did you hear?” she asked, excitement in her voice.

  “Hear what?”

  Diedra lowered her voice, as though it mattered if anyone in the office overheard them. After all, it was just the four of them. “How Carrie was murdered.”

  Jaclyn’s stomach did a sick flip. Did she want to know the details? Dead was dead, and how Carrie got that way didn’t seem all that pertinent. Still, since she was smack dab in the middle of this investigation, she was curious. “I haven’t heard anything. What have you heard?”

  “She was skewered.”

  Oh, ick! Jaclyn’s first thought was that a knife was way messier than a gun. A knife was up close and personal. No wonder Eric had been looking for blood on her clothing!

  “Literally skewered,” Diedra continued. “Like, with the kabob skewers that were lying on the table. Not just once, either, but lots of times. Melissa DeWitt found the body. She told her friend Sharon and swore her to secrecy, because she really isn’t supposed to talk about it, but Sharon told Gretchen, Gretchen told Bishop Delaney, and you know once Bishop knows everyone knows.”

  Kabob skewers? Double ick! There had been a lot of skewers there, and now she had the image of Carrie with kabob skewers sticking every which way out of her body, and that was just gross.

  Peach joined them, a china cup of steaming coffee in her hand. “Makes you wonder why they didn’t immediately question the caterer. Surely the police consider the weapon when making their list of suspects.”

  “So, if she’d had a glob of fondant icing shoved down her throat, they’d go directly to the cake decorator,” Diedra said, looking thoughtful.

  “Exactly,” Peach responded. “And if there were a hundred floral picks driven into appropriately vulnerable areas, a florist.”

  “Choked with a length of white satin, the seamstress.”

  “Meatballs in each nostril and shoved into her mouth, caterer again. I’m thinking the caterer is looking better and better for this,” Peach said.

  “How about a little bride and groom shoved—”

  “Y’all stop it!” Jaclyn said, but she couldn’t help laughing. “That’s terrible. Carrie might have been—well, Carrie—but she’s dead.”

  “I like her better that way, too,” said Diedra. “Just saying.”

  “It’s not like there weren’t plenty of vendors who wanted her that way,” Peach said with a smile. “Maybe most of them just wished the deed done, but one of them might’ve actually done it.”

  “Not with fondant or floral picks, thank goodness.” Jaclyn headed toward her mother’s office, trying to dismiss the idea that someone she knew well, someone she worked with, might’ve skewered a difficult bride. “Y’all do know there’s an old saying about not speaking ill of the dead,” she called back.

  Diedra responded quickly. “There’s also an old saying that says honesty is the best policy. In this instance, the two old sayings don’t work well together.”

  And wasn’t that the truth.

  Taite Boyne was annoyed as hell that the Hopewell Police Department wanted to interview her, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been expecting the call. Doug had called her in a panic, but she’d calmed him down, told him she’d handle things. She had better things to do with her time, but for now, she’d play nice. After all, it was in her best
interests not to piss off the investigators.

  Detective Eric Wilder had called both her cell and her home phone the night before, but she hadn’t answered because she’d needed time to think things through, to get herself into the proper frame of mind. When he’d called early that morning, she had finally been ready to answer, and they’d arranged a time to meet. She’d suggested her home instead of work, because she didn’t want cops in and out of the boutique where she worked as a buyer. It was the perfect job, because she made her own hours and was often out of town. That left plenty of time for the senator, and he took a lot of time.

  When the doorbell rang, she was ready. This was a bit like being in a play, she thought. Get into the role, practice your expressions and tone of voice, immerse yourself in the character. A lot was riding on how well she balanced several different things.

  She answered the door of the twenty-eight-hundred-square-foot lake house Doug had bought for her. The lake was a private one, with only eight building sites around it, and three of the sites were still unsold. The acreage was sufficient that her neighbors weren’t close enough to see who came and went, plus Doug always simply pulled into the three-car garage and got out of his car there. It wasn’t as if he was ever outside doing yard work. The house was in her name, the utility bills were in her name, and she paid for everything from her checking account. A nosy reporter would have to dig very deep, or get very lucky, to connect Doug to any of this.

  All of this was in jeopardy now, because Carrie had been a greedy bitch.

  Her expression was calm but sad as she led the two cops—Wilder and Garvey—into the den. From the den you could see the sparkling pool through the double French doors, and fifty yards beyond the pool, there was the lake, the blueness of the cloudless sky reflected on the surface. She saw them looking around, noting every detail—one of which was a photograph she’d dug out of the back of the closet, one of her and Carrie with their heads together, laughing. In any play, the props on the set mattered because they set the mood. The mood she was going for was bereaved but not hysterical.