She risked a glance at Betancourt. He stared back at her with such intensity that it was difficult for her to hold his gaze. His face was set in a scowl. His mouth was thin and unyielding. Turbulent gray eyes she couldn’t begin to read assessed her. He was standing so close she could smell his aftershave, a clean woodsy scent that made her feel like she’d just stepped off a roller coaster.
Turning, she started toward the hotel.
“Michelle?”
It was the first time he’d used her first name. She looked at him over her shoulder, refusing to admit she liked the sound.
“Call me if you remember something,” he said. “Even if you don’t think it’s important.”
Without another word, he got into the car and pulled onto the street. Michelle stared after him. Her knees were shaking. In the backwaters of her mind, she acknowledged her attraction to him. The insaneness of it made her want to laugh—or cry. She was attracted to a man, a cop no less, who was about to ruin her life.
A sense of déjà vu engulfed her, along with the bitter taste of a betrayal she’d long since buried. She hadn’t forgotten the lessons the past had taught her. No matter how far she traveled or how fast she ran, the secrets she’d left in that little town followed, clinging to her like a bad smell. Michelle knew she couldn’t trust Betancourt, or risk making herself vulnerable. She’d vowed years ago never to make herself vulnerable to another man, especially another cop.
Chapter 5
Twenty minutes later Philip strode through the double glass doors of the Broad Street Station and headed for the homicide division. “Get your feet off my desk, Sanderson.”
Cory jumped, then lowered his feet to the floor. “I thought you’d be home sleeping, Betancourt.”
“Maybe in my next life.” Philip’s voice was clipped. “What have you got for me?”
“Plenty if you like Alfred Hitchcock.” Cory slid a manila folder in front of him.
Arching a brow at his partner’s cryptic answer, Philip reached for the folder. “I always preferred cops and robbers over mysteries.”
“Then you’re not going to like this one.”
The first sheet of paper contained the medical examiner’s report. Philip quickly scanned it, his eyes cutting directly to the cause of death. Armon Landsteiner had died of a single gunshot wound that pierced his heart’s left ventricle. He’d died instantly.
“What a way to go.” Philip set the folder on his desk for later, preferring to hear Cory’s take on the ballistics and lab reports before reading them himself. “What about the slug?”
“Nine millimeter.”
“From the Beretta?”
“Yeah.”
“Her prints on the gun?”
“All over it.”
“Blood from her sweatshirt match the vic’s?”
“Yep.”
Dammit, he didn’t want to arrest Michelle. “What about powder burns?”
“That’s where old Alfred comes in.” Cory frowned. “There were no powder burns on her shirt or her hands.”
“So she didn’t fire the gun.”
“If she did, she would have had to wear gloves, dispose of them, then change shirts before we got there.”
“Then she would have had to touch the body to get the blood on her shirt.”
Cory sighed. “Yeah. Doesn’t fit, does it?”
“Seems unlikely.”
“But not impossible.”
That was what bothered Philip the most. “Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah.” Cory grinned. “It seems old man Landsteiner provided for Miss Pelletier with a nice little life insurance policy to the tune of $100,000.”
The information broadsided Philip with the force of a speeding truck. Another nail in her proverbial coffin. “He was worth a lot more.”
“A couple of million. I’m still looking for the will.”
“He’s got to have one. Anyone worth that much has a damn will. The man has assets. Did he have a lawyer?”
“He used a firm over in Metairie. I’m waiting for a call back to see if the lawyer drew up a will.”
“I went to see the Landsteiners, but they stonewalled me.” Philip looked at his watch. “I’m going to question them separately, starting with Baldwin.”
“That ought to be fun.” Cory laughed. “What about the suspect? Has she, uh, remembered anything?”
Tension crept into Philip’s shoulders at the mention of Michelle. All the way back to the station, he’d been aware of her scent in the car. “She claims she had a dream about a man in black.”
“You think she’s in cahoots with her neighbor?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”
His partner’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Because every time Philip looked at her he couldn’t think of anything except those bottomless brown eyes. Or the way that suit swept over a body that heated his blood and damn the consequences….
Irritated with the direction his thoughts had taken, Philip expunged them. “I spoke with the neighbor again. She substantiates the claim. Says she saw a man in black running through the courtyard a few minutes before the police arrived.”
“So their stories match. They could have corroborated.”
“What would the neighbor have to gain?”
“Part of the insurance money.”
“That’s a stretch, Cory.”
“Just throwing out possibilities, my man.”
Philip opened the manila folder again and scanned the ballistics report. “So if she’s sleeping with the old man, why isn’t she living high on the hog? Why is she living in a bad neighborhood and wearing secondhand suits?”
“Maybe he was cheap.” Clasping his hands behind his head, Cory leaned back in his chair. “On the other hand why would a high roller like Landsteiner leave that kind of money to a woman he wasn’t intimate with?”
Philip hated it when things didn’t add up. Nothing added up when it came to Michelle Pelletier. “Did the background check reveal anything interesting?”
“Real interesting.” Cory leaned forward and reached for a legal pad on his desk. “She was born in Bayou Lafourche—”
“Where is that?”
“I checked the map. It’s a small town in bayou country, about fifty miles southwest of here. Mother’s name was Blanche Pelletier. Her father wasn’t named on her birth certificate.” Cory looked at Philip and frowned. “Her mother worked at the Fortrex Chemical Plant. Died of cancer when our suspect was seventeen. Then Miss Pelletier went to work at the plant, spent five years there. Good work record. Went to the community college and earned some kind of a scholarship to Tulane.”
“Lucky break.”
“I’ll say. I haven’t met many folks who grew up poorer than me, but this one did. I haven’t been able to dig up the details yet on that scholarship.”
Philip listened, fascinated and strangely touched by Michelle’s past. One thing was obvious. She hadn’t had an easy life. He knew what the working conditions were like in some of the plants in south Louisiana. Hot. Dirty. Backbreaking. Most would keep the Occupational Safety and Health Administration busy for decades. Yet she’d endured. What kind of woman survived those kinds of odds and ended up at Tulane with a job at one of the most prestigious law firms in the city?
“She’s got a brother,” Cory continued. “Nicolas. Convicted of murder ten years ago. Just released from Angola Prison.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“This is where it gets interesting. She’s got a record.”
Philip went perfectly still as a thick wave of disappointment washed over him. Muttering a curse, he rubbed his hand over his jaw. His eyes felt gritty. He needed coffee. Dammit, he needed a break in this case. One that didn’t point to Michelle. “What charge?”
“Not sure yet. It’s a juvenile offense, so the records are sealed. We can get a subpoena, but it’ll take some time.”
“Get the damn subpoena.” Anger that Michelle hadn’t b
othered to mention her record rumbled through Philip. He wondered what else she was hiding.
“She didn’t tell you about it, huh?”
Philip scowled at his partner. “Would you?”
Cory grinned. “If I was in her shoes I definitely wouldn’t tell you. Now, I might tell me, since it’s common knowledge I’ve got a heart.”
Despite his efforts to control it, Philip’s temper simmered. Stuffing the reports into his briefcase, he started for the door. “I’m going to go talk to the Landsteiners, then try to grab a couple hours of sleep. I’ll be back in time for the psych evaluation. You going to be here?”
Cory leaned back in his chair, then put his feet back up on Philip’s desk. “I’ll be here later. Right now, I’m going over to Metairie to see about the will, then I’ve got a dinner date. You should try it some time, Betancourt. Might improve your outlook on life.”
“Not likely.” Philip reached the door and turned. “And keep your damn feet off my desk.”
Michelle’s leather pumps clicked smartly against the tile floor as she left the elevator and headed toward interview room 3 of the Broad Street Police Station. Knowing she would need every ounce of confidence she could muster in the coming hours, she’d spent a few extra minutes primping. Her suit, albeit not brand-new, was made by her favorite designer and fit her well. Hibiscus-colored lipstick slicked her lips. Her hair curved into a conservative chignon at her nape. She’d gone to the extra trouble, figuring that even if she didn’t feel put together, at least she would look it.
But, damn, she didn’t want to be here. An inherent mistrust of doctors had kept her away from them over the years. Her mistrust of cops in general made the situation doubly worse. Just because Betancourt had been civil to her over coffee didn’t mean he cared about the truth—or the outcome of this evaluation. Michelle knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d made an arrest. If that meant sacrificing her in the process, no doubt he’d do it. He was like a predator waiting to pounce. He wanted one thing, and that was to nail her for Armon’s murder. She’d be wise to remember what had happened the last time she’d trusted a cop.
It didn’t matter that his smile had touched her for a brief moment this morning. Or that his eyes reminded her of a gulf storm that was as breathtaking as it was treacherous.
Michelle shoved the thoughts aside. She couldn’t think of Betancourt in those terms now. Regardless of the kindness he’d shown her, regardless of how his gaze affected her, she couldn’t let her guard down. Betancourt would stop at nothing to solve his case. He would use her, then he would destroy her—just as Deputy Frank Blanchard had all those years ago.
Only Michelle wasn’t the girl she’d been back in Bayou Lafourche. She was a woman now. Stronger. Smarter. She damn well knew how to fight back. The past had immunized her to Betancourt’s unique brand of charm. She would deal with him just as she’d dealt with all the other problems that had cropped up in endless supply in her life. Identify and eliminate. Simple.
Trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach, Michelle stopped outside the interview room door. “You can do this.” Her voice sounded high and tight in the silence of the corridor. Anxiety pumped through her with every beat of her heart. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she forced her hand to the knob and opened the door.
Betancourt’s powerful presence immediately drew her gaze. Facing the single window, he stood with his back to her, his hands in his pockets. When she stepped into the room, he turned and hit her with a look that stopped her heart dead in her chest. His expression wasn’t friendly. Michelle held her breath as that lethal gaze skimmed down the front of her. She wasn’t accustomed to being scrutinized, and the act unnerved her, despite her best efforts to stay calm. She returned the stare, hoping he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart as clearly as she did.
He’d shaved since she had last seen him, but he didn’t look clean-cut. The word predator came to mind, but she quickly shoved it aside. She didn’t want to think of predators when she was feeling so damn vulnerable.
He’d changed into a black suit. The color agreed with him, she thought, enhancing eyes that were nearly as dark and every bit as forbidding. She wanted to say something to let him know she didn’t appreciate the scrutiny, but her voice failed her.
“Ah, you must be Miss Pelletier. Thank you for coming.”
The words jump-started her brain. Michelle tore her gaze from Betancourt. A balding man with friendly blue eyes approached her with his hand outstretched. “I’m Dr. Lomas Witt. Detective Betancourt and I were just discussing the case. How are you feeling?”
She wondered if Betancourt had filled the good doctor’s head with suspicion. “Much better.” She extended her hand.
“Good.” He motioned toward the sofa. “Please, have a seat.”
Michelle felt Betancourt’s gaze as she crossed the room and lowered herself onto it.
The interview room was larger and not nearly as unpleasant as the one she’d been detained in the night before. An arrangement of silk flowers sat atop an oblong table in the center of the room. To her left, a tarnished brass lamp on an end table cast yellow light in a circular pattern on the floor.
Betancourt moved from his place by the window. “Hello, Miss Pelletier.”
Was she imagining it, or did he look angry? “Detective.”
“I’m bound by law to inform you that this session is being recorded,” he said.
“I’m familiar with the routine.”
Removing a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket, he placed it on the table, then punched a button. His gaze latched on to hers. “You’ve chosen not to have your lawyer present during this interview?”
“That’s correct.” Her voice seemed small and inconsequential compared to his.
Dr. Witt cleared his throat. “Detective Betancourt briefed me on the situation, Miss Pelletier. He also told me about the nightmare you suffered. Have you had any glimpses or flashbacks of memory since last night?”
Michelle shook her head. “No. Just the nightmare.”
“What we’re going to do today,” the doctor said, “is attempt to induce hypnosis to help you remember what happened on the night of Monday, January 10. Are you familiar with hypnosis?”
“No.”
“Unlike television’s depiction, true hypnosis is basically a state of complete relaxation where you, the subject, can focus fully on what is being said and ‘let go,’ so to speak, of your repressed memories if, indeed, you’ve suffered some type of memory loss.”
“What can I expect?”
Dr. Witt smiled reassuringly. “Some of my clients have mild feelings of floating, sinking, anesthesia, or separation from their body, but their personal experiences vary widely. You will remain aware of what’s going on. All of your senses will remain intact. It always makes my patients feel better when I tell them they can stop anytime they wish.”
Michelle looked from Dr. Witt to Betancourt. “Will it help me remember what happened?”
Leaning his hip against the table, Betancourt folded his arms over his chest and returned her gaze with an unsettling intensity.
“I can’t guarantee it,” Witt said. “But many times hypnosis does help restore lost memories. In most cases people who seek hypnosis want to remember something so they can deal with a personal issue. Your case, Miss Pelletier, is different. We may be able to break through your memory barriers with just one session, or it could take a dozen. About twenty-five percent of the population are resistant to hypnosis, and can’t be hypnotized at all. Only four out of ten people are good subjects.”
“Hopefully, I’m one of those four in ten.”
“You’re going in with the right attitude.” Rising, Dr. Witt pulled a chair closer to the sofa. “Are you ready to begin?”
Michelle swallowed to ease her tight throat. “Yes.”
“Would you prefer to lie down?”
“No.”
“All right.” He opened a file on his lap and paged through several s
heets of paper. “Are you comfortable?”
Michelle almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. No, she wasn’t comfortable. Cops trying to nail her for a murder she hadn’t committed made her nervous as hell. “I’m fine.”
“I want you to try to relax, Michelle. You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
The observation made her feel transparent, as if the emotions roiling inside her had been bared for the world to see. “A little.”
“Set your bag on the floor. Relax your hands.”
Michelle did as she was told, resting her hands easily in her lap.
“That’s good. Now, I want you to lean back against the sofa cushion. Take a deep breath and close your eyes.”
She didn’t want to close her eyes. Not being able to see would only make her feel more vulnerable. Relaxation seemed next to impossible at this point. Still, she had to try. If she wanted to find out what had happened to Armon, she had to go through with this.
She closed her eyes.
“Very good. Now, take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Concentrate first on relaxing your hands. Imagine all the tension in your body leaving you through your fingertips.”
Even with her eyes closed, Michelle was starkly aware of Betancourt’s presence. Was he watching her? Judging her? Wondering if she’d murdered a man in cold blood?
“Now, I’m going to take you into a state of total relaxation. I want you to clear your mind. Focus on my voice. Are you with me?”
Not sure if she was supposed to speak, she nodded.
“All right. That’s good. The tension is draining from your body. Your eyes are tired. So tired you can’t open them. You feel warm. Safe. Sleepy. Relaxed. Your body feels heavy. So heavy you can’t move.”
The doctor’s singsong voice lapped over her like gentle waves over sand. Michelle focused solely on his words. For Armon, she thought. She was doing this for him.
She concentrated on the tension leaving her body through her fingertips. Slowly, her churning thoughts eased. She was tired, she realized, but then she hadn’t slept more than an hour or so the night before.
Remember the Night Page 7