Same Place, Same Time

by C. J. Carmichael

  “You may know that. I’m not sure that I do. I love you, Trista. Even when I was hating you for leaving me, I was still loving you, just not able to admit it.”

  “You feel sorry for me,” Trista said softly. “You feel like you need to protect me. That’s not necessarily love.”

  He took a step toward her. “Don’t tell me what I feel. When we made love the other night, did that seem like protectiveness to you?”

  She shook her head, blood rushing to her temples at the memory.

  “So answer my question. Do you love me or not? Tell me, dammit!” He closed the distance between them, lifting a hand to her chin and forcing her face toward his.

  She twisted away, wrapping her hands tightly across her chest. “I don’t know, Morgan.” She choked out the words. “I just don’t know.”

  Silence. She took several deep breaths, fighting to regain control. Finally, when she thought she could trust her voice to speak again, she turned around. The space where he’d been standing was now empty. He was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TO HELL WITH this paperwork. Morgan was at his desk and it was Saturday. He’d phoned Trista that morning to ask her to lunch. Now he wasn’t sure why he’d bothered. He wasn’t going to get her to change her mind about the two of them. Maybe it was time he accepted that.

  “Hear you made an arrest. Good going!” A fellow officer slapped Morgan on the back as he walked by.

  Good going. Morgan stared blankly at the forms in front of him. Normally he felt on top of the world after an arrest. But not today. And it wasn’t just because of the way he’d botched things with Trista yesterday. He didn’t have the same feeling of confidence, of justice well served, that he normally did.

  And he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. Was Trista getting to him with her insistence that he’d arrested the wrong suspect? Was it possible that she was right, that he’d been so anxious to wrap up the case that he’d missed something important?

  Normally Morgan trusted his instincts. But he was too involved in this mess to trust them this time. Solving the case meant protecting Trista—no longer could any sliver of doubt point her way.

  But did he really have the right woman? The evidence said yes. And Zarowin was pleased as punch. Yet, he was beginning to have his doubts.

  It was those office break-ins. They only made sense if Suni knew that the Walkers and Hawthornes were Trista’s clients. Trista’d said she told Suni shortly after Daniel’s death. But by then her office had already been broken into once, and an attempt had been made at her house.

  When the phone rang he answered gruffly, annoyed at the interruption. Hearing Sylvia Hawthorne’s voice on the other end, he wished he’d let it ring.

  “Detective Forester. I read in this morning’s paper that you’ve arrested my husband’s murderer.” She sounded pleased.

  And why not? Justice was being served. Or so the article had said. MP Shoots Ex-Lovers, had blared the headlines of the Toronto Star.

  “There is one thing I don’t understand,” she continued.

  “Yes?”

  “Your ex-wife phoned me last night with some questions about Daniel. Why would she be doing that, do you think?”

  Morgan slammed his fist onto the desk. Damn Trista, she just wouldn’t give up. “What sort of questions?”

  “Questions that sounded like she didn’t think Suni Choopra was guilty. But of course, she and Suni are friends. She wouldn’t want to believe the truth about that woman.”

  “Well, try not to worry about it, Mrs. Hawthorne. I’ll make sure Trista doesn’t bother you anymore.” He’d put Trista behind bars, if he had to. The damn woman was so determined to free her friend, she hadn’t thought about the danger to herself.

  What if the real murderer found out she was playing Nancy Drew?

  TRISTA WAS in the kitchen, trying to decide how to spend the hours before her lunch with Morgan when the phone rang. It was Sylvia Hawthorne.

  “Oh, Trista! I’m glad I caught you at home.” Sylvia spoke in a breathless rush.

  “Sylvia! What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing and it’s everything. After I talked to you last night, my in-laws told me they want some keep-sakes of Daniel’s. His father wants his fishing gear, and his mother wants a set of books they gave him when he went away to university. All that stuff is at the cottage, and as they’re planning to leave tomorrow, I only have today to get it. I don’t want to put it off and give them a reason to come back soon.”

  “Okay.” Trista couldn’t see what any of this had to do with her.

  “The problem is, there are so many memories wrapped up in that cottage for me. I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to go on my own.”

  Trista knew her problem of how to spend the day was now solved. “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “Oh, you’re so kind. Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  She would have to cancel her lunch with Morgan, since the Hawthornes’ cottage was a two-hour drive away. But maybe that was for the best, anyway.

  “I’ll come by and pick you up,” Sylvia said. “What’s your address?”

  Trista recited her street name and number mechanically, thinking that perhaps this would give her the opportunity to do a little more investigating for Suni. Although truthfully, she didn’t think it would do any good. She’d called both Nan and Sylvia last night, hoping against hope she could dig up something that would convince Morgan he’d arrested the wrong woman.

  But she’d found nothing.

  Trista roamed her living room restlessly after hanging up the phone. If she was fair, she had to admit that arresting Suni had been a logical move on Morgan’s part. It was only because she knew Suni that she felt he was making a mistake. If she could find even one shred of hard evidence to make him reconsider his conclusion…

  On impulse Trista pulled her briefcase out of the closet and retrieved the files Morgan had returned yesterday. She’d brought them home, thinking she might find something she’d missed before, but upon rereading them last night she’d been as discouraged as ever.

  First she glanced through the Hawthornes’ file, then the Walkers’. She’d barely got past the first page when one of Nan’s comments leaped off the page at her.

  It was the session when Nan had let her anger out, and Trista wondered why she hadn’t focused on it earlier, when Morgan had mentioned the gun. Sometimes I feel like taking that gun out of his night table and shooting the television! Right in the middle of Star Trek!

  Hadn’t Nan told Morgan she had no idea where her husband kept his gun?

  Trista was certain she remembered Morgan telling her that. If Nan knew about Jerry’s gun, why would she have lied? There was only one answer that Trista could think of, and it was an answer that would set her friend free. She reached for the phone.

  She got Morgan’s answering service, and bit her lip in frustration as she waited for the recorded voice to stop and the beep to sound. When it did, the words came pouring out.

  “Morgan, it’s me. I was just looking over my notes from my sessions with the Walkers and I came across something you should know. You told me Nan said she didn’t know where her husband kept his gun. Well, she was lying. In one of our sessions she said he kept it in his night table. I can go over the file with you when I get home later tonight. I’m sorry I have to cancel our lunch, but Sylvia’s asked me to go with her to the Muskokas. She and Daniel had a cottage up there and Sylvia wants to bring back some of Daniel’s things.”

  Trista hung up with a sense of satisfaction. When Morgan heard that, he’d be forced to consider other options. Like the possibility that Nan and Lorne Thackray had planned the entire thing. Maybe Nan had known about Jerry’s affair. Maybe she’d asked for a divorce, and like Suni had said, Jerry had refused, giving her only one way out. Looking at it that way, Nan had a motive. And Daniel’s murder had been part of the cover-up. To frame everything on Suni.

 
The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. True, Nan didn’t seem to have the psyche for murder, but she was the type to be dominated by someone stronger. Someone like Lorne Thackray? Trista collected her purse and keys and headed out the door to wait for Sylvia in the lobby.

  Nan Walker and Lorne Thackray were in love. That much had been proven by Morgan, who’d caught them in bed in the middle of the afternoon. Lorne wanted to run the stores—he was already doing it, so that had to be right, too. According to Suni, and Trista was inclined to agree, Jerry would never have agreed to a divorce. The perfect solution to Nan and Lorne’s dilemma? Kill Jerry.

  Of course, Trista mused as she walked down the stairs to the front entrance of her apartment building, Nan had an alibi for Jerry’s murder. But Lorne didn’t. And with Lorne’s high voice, he could easily impersonate a woman if he were wearing a trench coat, sunglasses and hat.

  Across the street she saw Sylvia’s navy Volvo pull to a stop. She waved her hand to draw Sylvia’s attention, then watched as Sylvia negotiated a tight U-turn and managed to stop her car by the front doors. Trista opened the passenger door and slipped into the soft gray leather seat.

  “Hello, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia was looking peaked, and unnaturally agitated. Her fingers drummed rapidly against the steering wheel as she drove, and her eyes kept flashing between Trista and the road as if she couldn’t settle on which was the most important.

  “Thanks for coming,” Sylvia said, shoulder-checking as she changed lanes. They drove along Bloor to Westen Road, where they merged onto the highway system that would take them north into cottage country.

  “I’ll be so glad when Daniel’s parents have finally gone back to Timmins,” Sylvia confided once they were settled on Highway 400 and the traffic wasn’t so intense.

  “I guess they feel pretty upset about losing their son,” Trista murmured.

  Sylvia’s dark eyes glittered. “A son they saw maybe five days out of the year. Really, what is their loss compared to mine? Neither of them seem to have one ounce of appreciation for the fact that I’ve lost my husband.”

  “Well, in times of grief we don’t always see things very clearly.”

  Wasn’t that an understatement. She’d fallen apart after Andrew’s death, and she’d destroyed her marriage in the process. Now her new life seemed to be crumbling around her, too. Her close friend had been arrested for murder, and her secretary had turned out to be someone she barely knew.

  Trista stared out the side window, watching as they left the industrial buildings of the city behind. Ahead was Canada’s Wonderland, the steel frame of the roller coaster weaving a convoluted figure eight against the hazy blue sky.

  When she considered her life dispassionately, she had to admit she’d made a real mess of things. Which made her wonder why was she so adamant about refusing Morgan’s offer to try again. It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose.

  MORGAN WALKED UP to the motel clerk at the Moondust Motel, publicity photographs of Suni Choopra in hand. He wanted peace of mind, and he was hoping this gambit of his was going to provide it. If, by some stroke of luck, the clerk could identify any similarity between the woman he’d seen last Wednesday afternoon and these pictures of Suni Choopra, he’d be able to set his conscience at ease, knowing he’d done everything possible to make sure he had the right woman. And then he’d be free to focus his energy on Trista. To convince her that they belonged together.

  Ted Sanders looked eager to see him. Morgan had called earlier to make sure he was on duty.

  “You found her, hey, Detective?”

  “We think so. Here.” He slapped the three eight-by-ten glossies he’d managed to collect, on the counter in front of Ted.

  “Ring any bells?” He watched the other man carefully as he examined first the close-up picture, then the one of Suni at her desk, and finally, a distance shot of her walking across a street.

  Sanders took a long time. He studied each picture in turn, then focused on the middle one—a shot of Suni sitting at her desk, one hand on the telephone in front of her, the other holding a pen poised above a pad of paper.

  Sanders’s forehead creased in a frown. “I guess it could be her, but you’ve got to remember—her hat was low, and her sunglasses covered half of her face. It isn’t exactly bright in here, either.”

  Morgan put out a hand to collect the pictures.

  “Wait a minute.” Sanders examined the photo of Suni at her desk again. “I remember when I passed her the key, her nails were a real mess. Bitten to the quick, and ragged. Not long and shiny like these.” He pointed to the perfect ovals in Suni’s publicity shot.

  Morgan’s gut tightened, remembering the perfect manicure he’d noticed on Suni yesterday. Could a woman grow nails like that in a little over a week? No. He knew it was impossible. Unless she had those fake ones, the kind that were glued on. He’d have to check into that, because assuming they were real, his case was in deep trouble.

  “You’re sure about the nails?” he asked the clerk.

  Sanders nodded again. “I’m sure.”

  The trip back to headquarters went by in a flash. He knew of only one suspect who chewed her nails, and that was Nan Walker. He remembered noticing it the first time he’d met her, when she was wearing her widow-black dress, acting the part of a bereaved spouse.

  Obviously Nan was a better actress than any of them had suspected.

  Apparently she was much smarter than any of them had guessed, as well. He never would have thought she could plan and carry out murders as complicated as these, plus manage to frame her husband’s mistress in the bargain.

  Of course she’d had help. She must have, since she’d had an alibi for her husband’s murder. Lorne Thackray would have done that one. Then later, Nan had killed Daniel, in an attempt to camouflage Jerry’s death, and focus attention of the mystery lover—Suni Choopra.

  She and Lorne had planted a note in Hawthorne’s papers. As for the gun—Nan, after all, was the one with the easiest access to the murder weapon—they’d hidden that at Suni’s. Then they’d sat back and laughed, because he’d done exactly what they’d expected, and arrested the wrong woman.

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced Morgan became. The fact that the murders had been committed by two people explained why one shooting had been so precise and tidy, while the other was sloppy and amateurish. It hadn’t been the steamy room, the bubble bath at all. It had been the marksman. Or woman, in this case.

  At headquarters Morgan jumped out of the car and loped into the building. First he would have someone check to make certain that Suni’s nails were her own. Then he was going to pay a call on Nan Walker. Two hours alone with the woman and he was sure he’d have her ratting on her partner.

  Ten minutes later, it was confirmed. Suni’s nails were real. He dispatched some men to pick up Nan Walker and bring her in for questioning and began the paperwork that would set Suni free. Half an hour later, the former member of Parliament for Toronto West was standing by his desk.

  “I owe you an apology,” he began, but was interrupted by a young woman from the front desk.

  “Detective Forester? You have a message.”

  Morgan turned impatiently. “What is it? Who’s the message from?”

  The young woman consulted the piece of paper in her hand. “Trista Emerson.”

  “Let me see that.” He grabbed the note and scanned the contents briefly. The first bit of information confirmed his new theory. Nan Walker had lied about not knowing where her husband kept his gun.

  The second piece of information gave him pause. Trista couldn’t meet him for lunch because she’d gone to the Hawthornes’ cottage with Sylvia.

  “Phone call, Detective.”

  Morgan scowled. “I can hear, thank you.” He grabbed at the phone on his desk. “Forester here.”

  It was one of the officers he’d asked to bring in Nan Walker. “We can’t locate her, sir. We’ve been to her home and to the store. N
o one seems to know where she is.”

  “Have you talked to the son?”

  “Yes. And the store manager, too—Lorne Thackray. He said she usually works Saturdays, but that she called to say she wouldn’t be in today. She didn’t give any explanation. He seemed mildly worried about that himself.”

  “Damn.” Morgan slammed a fist onto the desk beside him. “Keep looking. Check with friends, neighbors, anyplace you can think of.” He hung up, wondering if he should call in Thackray for questioning. If Nan was working with a partner, he was the most likely suspect….

  But neither of them had been on Brenda’s list of people who’d been in the office in the proper time frame to have stolen Trista’s office key. Nan hadn’t been in the office on either Monday or Tuesday. And Lorne had never been there.

  Was it possible Trista had been right again? That her office break-ins were completely unrelated to the homicides?

  Then a new possibility occurred to him.

  Sylvia Hawthorne.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MORGAN CLASPED Suni by the shoulder. He must have used more pressure than he’d thought, because she winced and pulled away.

  “Do you have any idea where the Hawthornes’ cottage is?”

  Suni’s eyes widened. “Yes, I do. Daniel and I spent a day there once. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Sylvia’s taking Trista there. And I have a feeling Trista’s about to get more than she bargained for.” As he was speaking, Morgan was preparing to leave. He pulled on his jacket and groped for his keys in both jacket pockets before he found them in his pants pocket.

  “Is she in any danger?”

  “I think she might be. Can you write out those directions for me?”

  Suni was silent for a minute. Then she shook her head. “I was only there once. I’m not sure I could give adequate directions. But I’ll remember when I get there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Morgan patted his pocket, feeling for his gun. “This is official police business.”