by Irene Hannon
Once more, the man broke down.
Cole stood, murmured a few words to the two men in the room, and exited. Thirty seconds later, he joined Jake and Mark.
“What’s your take?” He closed the door behind him.
Mark deferred to Jake.
“We’re not getting good vibes from this.”
“Me neither.” Cole turned to Mark. “This investigation might be moving into your ballpark.”
“Looks that way.”
“You want to take over the interview?”
“I doubt I’m going to get any more than you did, but it might not be a bad idea to let Mr. Long know the FBI has an interest in this too. If he is covering up anything, that might shake him up a little.”
“It’s worth a try.”
Cole stepped away from the door, and Mark exited.
“He doesn’t strike me as a murderer.” Cole perused the man on the screen. “He has a good job as an engineer, very few debts, no love interest on the side that we’ve been able to determine. And he appears to be genuinely upset about his wife.”
“But I saw Stephanie’s black eye.” Jake watched the screen as Mark entered the interview room. “Anger can turn normal people into abusers. Or killers. I agree, though. Something doesn’t feel right here.”
Mark introduced himself, and as he took the seat Cole had vacated, Jake gave the conversation taking place down the hall his full attention.
“Why is the FBI involved in this?” the attorney asked.
“The murder took place in the home of a federal judge. That could move the investigation into our jurisdiction.” He addressed his next question to Alan. “Mr. Long, how did you feel about your sister-in-law?”
Alan looked at his lawyer.
“How is that relevant to this investigation?” the man asked.
“It could be very relevant, if she was also a target.”
“You think I’d kill not only my wife but Liz too?” Alan stared at him.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
He muttered a coarse word. “Look, she wasn’t my favorite person, okay? She was always after Steph to leave me. But I didn’t hate her. I knew she loved Steph and that she thought she was doing the right thing. In hindsight, maybe she was.” He choked on the last word.
“Based on our conversation with Detective Taylor, it doesn’t appear to me you have one bit of hard evidence linking my client to this murder.” Andrew Thomas folded his hands on the table. “All you have is supposition, which, as we both know, isn’t sufficient for a warrant, let alone a conviction. So unless you have more than that, I assume my client is free to go.”
Mark took his time answering. “That’s correct, Mr. Thomas. However, your client needs to be aware that he will continue to be a person of interest in this investigation. We may have further questions as it progresses.”
“I’ll help in any way I can. I want Steph’s murderer found as much as you do.” Alan turned to his attorney. “What about arrangements for my wife’s funeral?”
“I understand they’re being handled by her sister,” Mark offered.
“That sounds like my cue.” Jake glanced at Cole. “You staying here?”
“Yeah.”
Thirty seconds later, Jake pushed through the door to the interview room. All three occupants shifted their attention to him.
“We were just discussing the funeral plans,” Mark told him. “Gentlemen, this is Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Taylor.”
Jake nodded at them. “Judge Michaels has made arrangements for her sister to be interred near her parents in Kansas City. A service is scheduled in the cemetery chapel on Wednesday.”
“No!” The word exploded from Alan, and his complexion grew ruddy as he vaulted to his feet. “She’s my wife. I want her buried in Springfield. And I want the service at our church.”
“Alan.” The attorney put his hand on his client’s arm.
He shook it off. “This isn’t right, Andrew. I’m her husband. I should have the final say on this.” He glared at Jake and Mark, bristling with rage.
“Alan.” The attorney rose and waited until the man looked at him. “We can discuss this later. In private.”
Andrew Thomas’s words were measured. Calm. But his eyes were intent. Jake wondered if his client would get his silent “cool it” message.
He did. With what appeared to be a supreme effort, Alan reined in his temper. “Are we finished here?” He kept his gaze on his attorney.
“I believe we are.” The attorney looked at Mark, then Jake. “Is there anything else today, gentlemen?”
“No.” Mark stood. “But I would strongly recommend your client remain available—and in town—for the immediate future.”
Inclining his head in acknowledgment, Andrew Thomas ushered Liz’s brother-in-law from the room.
The door had no more closed behind them when Cole stepped inside. “I’d say the man has a definite anger problem.”
“No kidding.” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “But that doesn’t make him a murderer. So where are we on this?”
Mark gestured to the table and retook his seat. Jake and Cole followed his lead. “Here’s my take. It’s possible he’s still our man. But he did an amazing acting job if he is. Which, as we all know, is very possible. Meaning we can’t slack off on our investigation of him. Cole, St. Louis County should probably take the lead on that. We’ll assist as needed, since the victim was the sister of a federal judge. Make sense?”
“Yes.”
“I’m beginning to think Stephanie Long might not have been the intended victim. That she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That puts Liz Michaels in the crosshairs. Jake?”
Much as that possibility disturbed him, Jake found Mark’s logic sound. “I agree.”
“We asked her early on if she had any enemies, knowing this was a possible scenario. But she said no.” Cole tapped his index finger on the table as two parallel grooves creased his brow.
“Known enemies and enemies are two different things,” Jake noted.
“And unknown enemies are a lot more dangerous.” Mark frowned. “My wife was stalked by one a year ago. He almost succeeded in taking her out, despite our best efforts to protect her.”
A chill rippled through Jake. “We need to get with the judge as soon as we return and revisit the enemy discussion.”
“Agreed.” Mark stood. “You two ready to head back?”
“Yeah.” Cole rose. “Let me thank the Springfield guys. I’ll meet you at the car.”
Fifteen minutes later, as Cole merged onto eastbound I-44 and Mark responded to emails on his BlackBerry from the backseat, Jake watched the passing scenery. The fields were baked from the relentless sun and humidity of a Missouri summer, the parched cornstalks dried and shriveled. A single spark would set the whole field aflame.
That’s how he felt about the situation with Liz. Their most promising lead had shriveled and dried up, leaving them with a volatile situation that could explode at any moment.
And he didn’t look forward to sharing that news with the woman whose security had been placed in his hands.
8
______
Jake met Spence in the hall outside the CP as the marshals were changing shifts.
“How’s everything here?”
“Quiet as a morgue.”
Jake winced at the analogy.
Pursing his lips, the other marshal assessed him. “I’m getting the feeling it didn’t go well in Springfield today.”
“If by well you mean we got a confession, the perpetrator is in custody, and this protection gig is over, no, it didn’t go well. In fact, all three of us have serious doubts Alan Long is our man. And the lack of evidence linking him to the scene isn’t helping.”
The other man squinted at him. “So you think the judge was the target?”
“That’s looking more and more like a serious possibility. Mark Sanders from the FBI is on his way here to talk to Liz.
You know him?”
“We’ve met. He’s been assigned to the St. Louis field office for about a year. Came from the HRT.”
“So I heard.”
“He seems to be a good guy. You need anything before I call it a night?”
“A suspect in custody?”
“I wish.” With a rueful shake of his head, he gestured toward the CP. “I’ll alert the guys to be on the lookout for Mark.” With a mock salute, he turned back toward the command post.
A quick check of his watch propelled Jake farther down the hall. He had fifteen minutes until Mark showed up. They’d agreed it would be better for Jake to share the outcome of their trip to Springfield—as well as their suspicion—with Liz. And lay the groundwork for the appearance of the FBI.
Wishing he had better news to relay, Jake rang the bell.
Unlike his visit last night, when Liz’s slow response had set his adrenaline pumping, she pulled the door open mere seconds after he pressed the button to summon her.
As if she’d been waiting for him.
Ignoring the pleasant little trill that skittered along his nerve endings at that thought, he stepped inside.
“Your timing is good.” Liz bolted the door. “I just finished off your sister’s lasagna. Please thank her again for me.”
“I’ll do that. Everything okay?” He studied her. The dark circles under her eyes had diminished, but he couldn’t be sure if that was due to restful sleep or skillful application of makeup.
“It’s been quiet, if that’s your definition of okay.” She motioned him toward the living room. “I spent the morning going through Stephanie’s bags and picking out some clothing. I also conferred with the funeral director by phone. Everything’s set for Wednesday, and I told him you or someone in the Marshals Service might want to discuss security issues.” She picked up a slip of paper from the coffee table as she sat on the couch. “This is his cell number. He said to call anytime.”
Jake pocketed the number as he opened the button on his suit jacket and took the chair beside the couch. At least the funeral plans wouldn’t be disrupted. During the drive home, Andrew Thomas had called Cole on his cell to say his client had had a change of heart and wouldn’t interfere with the arrangements Liz had made. Jake assumed the attorney had suggested to Alan that he rock the boat as little as possible.
The bad news was that Stephanie’s husband planned to attend the service.
Jake didn’t even want to imagine what Liz’s reaction would be when he passed on that incendiary tidbit. But they had other ground to cover first.
“I’ve already spoken to our KC office and they’re checking out the location.” He’d spent a good part of the ride home, phone pressed to ear, coordinating security plans with his colleagues on the far side of the state. “They’ll also give us backup on site during the service.”
“Is that really necessary, with Alan accounted for?”
Now came the hard part.
Clasping his hands, Jake leaned forward. “After meeting with him, we have some serious doubts about his guilt, Liz.”
She gave him a blank look. “What do you mean?”
“Aside from the lack of evidence linking him to the crime scene, his remorse about Stephanie was very convincing.”
Anger flared in her green irises, turning the flecks of gold in their depths into sparks. “You believe him?”
“Let’s just say I’m not convinced he’s guilty. And neither are Cole or Mark Sanders, the FBI agent who went with us. He’s en route here as we speak, by the way. We need to start taking a serious look at other scenarios.”
“Like what? You ruled out robbery, didn’t you?”
“It’s low on our motive list.”
He waited, giving her a chance to process all he’d said and come to the obvious conclusion. He knew, from the sudden widening of her eyes, the instant she did.
“You think I was the target?”
“You said yourself your sister had no enemies.”
“I don’t, either.”
“Most judges do.”
“Jake, I’ve never even gotten a hate letter, like some of my counterparts have!” She rose, her agitation palpable as she folded her arms tight across her chest and began to pace. “This doesn’t make sense. If I was the target, why did the person kill my sister?”
“It may have been a matter of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He tried to say the devastating words as gently as he could, tried to steel himself against the reaction Liz was certain to have once the implication registered.
But the way her face crumpled twisted his gut.
“Dear God!” The anguished words, half rebuke, half plea, seemed torn from her throat. “If that bullet was meant for me, I should be dead! Not Stephanie.”
All at once, her cheeks blanched. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she half ran, half stumbled down the hall toward the master bedroom.
Jake rose, unsure whether to follow or give her a few moments alone. Seconds later, the muted sound of violent retching echoed in the quiet room as she lost the lasagna she’d just eaten.
Torn between compassion and respect for Liz’s privacy, he opted for the former and started down the hall.
Halfway to her room, the doorbell stopped him.
Mark.
Detouring to the foyer, he used the peephole to confirm it was the agent, then flipped the dead bolt. Silence descended again in the condo as the man crossed the threshold, and Jake kept his voice low as he brought him up to speed on what had transpired in the past few minutes.
A flash of compassion echoed in Mark’s eyes. “Hopefully she’ll accept in time it wasn’t her fault. But guilt—even the misplaced variety—can be overwhelming.”
“Yeah.” Jake knew that firsthand. And some nuance in Mark’s tone told him the other man did too.
He gestured toward the living room. “Have a seat while I check on her.”
As he traversed the hall, Jake passed one bedroom with open suitcases on a queen-size bed. Otherwise, the room appeared to be unlived in.
Pausing at the entrance to the master bedroom near the end of the short hall, Jake gave the space a quick scan. The bed was made, and three pairs of shoes were lined up in a neat row beside the chest of drawers. The closet door was half ajar, and a few of the hangers wore garments. Most were empty, as if Liz didn’t expect to be here long. A pair of reading glasses lay atop a book on the nightstand.
It was the framed photos on the dresser that captured his attention, however.
There was a small cluster of them, in varying sizes. Based on the attire of the couple in the first one, Jake estimated its age at thirty years. Must be Liz’s parents. There was also a picture of Liz and Doug, flower-bedecked drinks in their hands as they stood in front of a backdrop that featured palm trees, a white sand beach, and blue ocean. A honeymoon shot from Hawaii, perhaps? If so, that made it ten years old.
But it was the third shot—an eight-by-ten image of more recent vintage—that sent a wave of adrenaline surging through him.
A smiling Liz was sitting on a boat dock, a large expanse of tanned skin set off by a white tank top, the thin gold chain around her neck glinting in the sun. She had her arm around the shoulders of another woman whose right cheek bore a very faint purple tinge.
Stephanie.
Even without the subtle evidence of abuse, Jake wouldn’t have had any problem identifying Liz’s sister.
Because the two of them shared the same green eyes. Same generous lips. Same high cheekbones. Same long, wavy blonde hair.
The resemblance was remarkable from the front.
From the back, he suspected it would be impossible to tell them apart.
And a back view was all the killer had had.
The theory that Liz had been the target went from possible to probable in a heartbeat. Leaving him with a knot in the pit of his stomach. And three key questions.
Who was the perpetrator?
What wa
s the motive?
And would he or she try again?
Liz wrung out the cool washcloth, pressed it to her forehead, and willed the shaking in her legs to subside as she eased down onto the closed toilet seat.
She should be dead. Not Stephanie.
Lord, how am I supposed to live with that guilt?
Drawing a shuddering breath, she leaned against the wall and stared at the tiles in front of her.
“Liz? Are you okay?”
At Jake’s concerned question, she closed her eyes and stifled a groan. How long had he been on the other side of the door? Long enough to hear her emptying his sister’s lasagna into the toilet?
If ever a person had seen Judge Elizabeth Michaels at her worst, Jake was it. He’d gotten an eyeful in the past seventy-two hours. No doubt he was ruing the day he’d been assigned to head her security detail.
And she couldn’t blame him. She wouldn’t wish the past three trauma-fraught days on anyone. Either as victim or protector.
“Yes. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Take your time.”
If she took her time, she’d be in here all night. Hiding in embarrassment. She’d never been prone to public displays of emotion. Had become a master of presenting a placid, calm façade to the world. Strangers weren’t privy to her private grief and insecurities and regrets.
Her only consolation was that Jake didn’t seem like a stranger. And that was odd. Two meetings in five years and a few stories Doug had told shouldn’t have bred the kind of familiarity and sense of closeness she felt with him.
But shared trauma could engender that feeling, she supposed, gripping the edge of the vanity to steady herself as she stood. And they’d had plenty of that during the past three days.
Liz reached for her toothbrush, trying without much success to rid her mouth of the bitter, lingering taste of vomit, wondering if all the subjects Jake guarded felt this way. Relying on someone for both emotional support and physical protection could accelerate a feeling of intimacy that would take far longer to develop under normal circumstances. And it could very well be one sided.
When she opened the door, however, she intuitively knew the warmth and caring in his eyes wasn’t his standard operating procedure.