“Not the usual positioning of the weapon for a suicide,” Jack said.
Shrugging, Andy started to collect items from the desktop. “The bullet trajectory pretty much did away with any chance of survival. Which is usually the goal.”
“Damn,” Jack whispered. “What drives a man, a seemingly successful one, to just give away his life?”
Andy picked up a photo that had been facedown on the desk. Blood dripped from the frame edge as he held it for Jack to see. “Maybe losing something like that.”
Both men knew who she was. Andy because he would have seen her when he arrived, and Jack because they’d met once before—under very different circumstances.
The photograph was a close-up and had been cropped so there was no background—just hair and face. An interesting face with a strong chin and steel-gray eyes so direct that some would find them intimidating. Then there was all that dark gold hair, not smooth and neat, but full and, from the looks of it, hard to restrain. What the picture didn’t show was the supple, well-muscled body. Jack’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he tried to forget the warm, satiny skin.
Andy placed the frame in the box with other items that would be transported to the lab for evaluation.
Jack scanned the room again. With the exception of the evidence markers scattered about like a toddler’s toys, the space looked tidy. Definitely no signs of a struggle.
“Were there any indications of forced entry?”
It was Shepherd who responded this time. “No. At least not on the first floor. When I finish up in here, I’ll check upstairs.”
Andy had collected a pile of manila files from one corner of the desk and was placing them in another cardboard box.
“What are those?” Jack asked.
“They look to be patient charts.”
As Jack moved closer to the victim, he was still very aware of where he placed his feet. “It appears as if he may have been sitting here reviewing them.”
On the surface, the pieces seemed to fit, but…
Jack lifted his hand, intending to massage the stiffness in his neck, then realized he was still gloved, and allowed it to drop again. “He brings work home with him, and then stops in the middle to put a gun to his head? Why look over charts if you have no intention of seeing or treating the patients?” Jack paused. “Unless you were being sued?”
“And the charts belong to women who might be called as witnesses at a trial?” Andy had keyed in on the direction Jack was going. “He realizes he’s screwed and reaches into the drawer…. Bam. No suit. No trial.”
“Just happy trails,” Shepherd chimed in.
Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Or he brought the charts home because he hadn’t had time to take care of them at the office. Someone comes in here and puts a gun to his head.” He looked over at Andy. “The powder residue on his hand—any possibility that it got on him when he was trying to grab the gun from someone else at the time it went off?”
“Sure.”
Shepherd moved in closer to the body. “The only entrance is in front of the desk. If he didn’t do this to himself, then whoever did knew him well enough to get in close and personal.”
Jack scanned the room again. Shepherd was right. There was no way anyone could’ve snuck up on him.
Shepherd handed the dusting powder back to Martinez. “My money is on the ex-wife.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. The possibility that the woman in the other room—the same woman who had too briefly shared his bed two months ago and who had haunted his mind ever since—had put a gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger left him feeling exposed.
LEXIE HAD BEEN SITTING in the kitchen’s breakfast nook for nearly two hours now. For the last hour, she’d been answering questions asked by Detective Joe Fitz. He was somewhere deep into middle age and had one of those Moon Pie faces that would go unnoticed in a group photo.
“So you arrived around eleven-fifteen?” Fitz asked.
“No. I arrived at eleven-thirty.” How many different ways were there to ask the same question? She leaned back, pressing her spine against the hard surface of the bench. She was so tired. Not just physically exhausted, but she was weary of answering the unending questions from the police.
“I know you’re just trying to establish when it happened, but I guess I don’t see why it really matters when Dan…when it happened.”
“It’s just routine procedure, ma’am.”
She nodded in understanding, and solemnly waited for the next question.
Fitz glanced at his notes. “You came in through the back door?”
“Yes. It was open.”
“Was it unlocked, or was it open?”
“Unlocked.” Lifting her chin, she massaged the back of her neck slowly. Even without the black tweed jacket that was folded on the banquette next to her, the room was suffocatingly warm. There was blood on the coat, just as there was on one sleeve of her blouse. Unable to face the sight of it, she’d concealed both—that on the jacket by removing the garment and carefully folding it in half, and that on the blouse by turning back the cuffs. But it was still there. Just as the bloody images of Dan were there when she closed her eyes. Just as the smell of blood and death seemed to cling inside her nostrils.
“Was it normal for the door to be left unlocked?”
Shaking her head, she hunched forward, her fingers tightening around the mug on the table in front of her. She didn’t want the coffee, but couldn’t seem to let go of it, either—just as she couldn’t seem to let go of what was happening inside her head.
If she had arrived earlier, would Dan still be alive? Could she have talked him out of it? Or would he only have killed her, too? Was that his intention when he’d called? Had the anniversary gift been a bullet and not signed legal papers?
The thought that Dan had hated her enough to want her dead left her fighting to breathe. How could two people who had once loved each other end up as they had? How did that happen?
“Mrs. Dawson?”
She looked up, realizing Fitz must have asked her another question. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Did you see anyone when you arrived?”
“No.” She pushed the coffee to one side. Obviously, she’d imagined the shadow inside the front door, just as she’d briefly imagined she wasn’t alone in the house. Of course, as soon as she opened the bathroom door and there had been no one waiting for her on the other side, she’d realized her mistake.
Just then the door into the dining room swung open. Her chest instantly tight with renewed apprehension, Lexie looked up, praying that it wouldn’t be Jack Blade.
She relaxed as soon as she realized that it was one of the officers who had been in and out of the kitchen several times in the past few hours.
“Medical examiner’s here for the body,” the officer announced.
Detective Fitz flipped his notebook shut and stood.
She looked up at him. “Can I go now?”
“You’re free to go at any time, though it would be helpful if you could stick around a bit longer.” The detective shrugged. “At least until we finish processing the crime scene.”
Lexie nodded with resignation. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to sleep even if she did go home. Better to stay here. To help as much as she could.
As soon as the detective left the room, she closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the wall behind her. Her backside ached from the hard seating and her head hurt. There would be aspirin in the cabinet next to the sink, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to get them.
She still couldn’t get her mind around it. Dan was dead. He’d put a gun to his head. It just didn’t mesh. He was a doctor. If he’d wanted to take his own life, why not end it with pills?
Lexie let go of that line of thought because it wasn’t helping anyone. Certainly not Dan, who was beyond help, or herself.
For a period of time, in a numb trance, she listened to the c
lomp of feet just beyond the door and those overhead on the second floor. The not-so-quiet opening of doors and drawers as not only Dan’s death was probed, but his life, as well.
She recalled how when they were first married, she’d awaken early on Sunday mornings sometimes. She’d be sitting in the very place she was now, sipping coffee and reading the paper, when Dan, having slept in after a late night at the hospital, would come stumbling downstairs. They’d talk about the baby he’d delivered and about the three or four they wanted. He’d reach across the table, his fingers capturing hers, and he’d tell her that he wanted to make a baby with her, not sometime in the future, but right then. Had that all been an act?
What she wouldn’t give to go back to one of those uncomplicated mornings right now. To feel about Dan the way she had before everything went so wrong between them.
Reaching for her phone, needing to hear a familiar voice, she tried Fleming’s number again. Dan and Fleming were— had been—partners. As it had the last time she’d called, which had been just after she’d dialed 9-1-1, Fleming’s voice mail picked up. She hadn’t left a message before, but did this time. “Fleming, I really need to talk to you. I’m at Dan’s. Something awful has hap—” Voice mail cut off the rest.
And when it did, she realized just how alone she felt sitting there in the kitchen. The house was full of people, but she felt isolated, as if she’d been shut out, shut away.
Lexie scooted to the end of the bench and climbed to her feet. How pathetic was that—feeling sorry for herself? She had a dozen friends she could call. Who would do whatever she asked of them. But she was stronger than that.
She located the aspirin and poured water into a glass. As she took the pills, she thought about what morning would bring. Funeral arrangements needed to be made. And someone should call Dan’s parents. It would be easier on them if the news came from someone they knew and not from the police. Not from her, though.
Up until she filed for divorce, she’d always gotten along well with her in-laws. Better than she had with her mother and stepfather. And because she had, she felt the loss of them in her life more than she did the loss of her own parents, who, when the divorce was announced, had cut off all contact with her, but not with Dan.
Something banged in Dan’s office, a loud sound followed by tense voices. What was going on in there now? Had Dan’s body been carried out? In her mind, she envisioned him being placed in a body bag. She could almost hear the hiss of the zipper closing over his face.
Lexie turned around and stared at the door leading into the dining room. A sense of claustrophobia closed in on her. She couldn’t stay any longer. She had to get out of here. Go anywhere. She crossed to the bench where she’d left her purse and jacket.
Straightening, she came face-to-face with Jack Blade.
A solid jolt of panic shot through her. The last time they’d been this close he’d been smiling down at her, the look in his pale blue eyes… She derailed all thoughts about what she’d seen in his eyes that night.
She had been praying he wouldn’t show up. It was hard enough keeping herself together in the presence of strangers, of people who didn’t know her, who hadn’t seen her without the protective armor of clothing. Hadn’t held her during the most vulnerable moments experienced by a woman.
The warm rush of heat hit her cheeks at the same time that cold dread settled at her core.
“Hello, Lexie.” There was an edge to his voice that had also been absent during their last conversation.
She offered a tight smile and a brief nod, but decided to wait before saying anything. At least he wasn’t pretending they were strangers. It would have been even more awkward if he had.
He motioned for her to sit. “I know you’ve already answered a lot of questions for Detective Fitz, but I need to ask you a few more.”
She slowly sank onto the bench. Instead of also sitting, as she’d expected, Jack crossed to where the coffeepot remained nearly full. He was dressed in a suit. Had he been out on a date? Had he sat across from a beautiful woman tonight in an expensive restaurant?
Lexie retrieved her cold cup of coffee. Where Jack Blade went or what he did when he got there was none of her business. In every way that was meaningful, they were strangers.
So why couldn’t she just forget about that night two months ago? They’d met in a restaurant bar. He’d been wearing faded jeans and an equally faded T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. He’d looked very male, not as civilized as he did now. And by the end of the evening, the T-shirt had been smeared with her tears and makeup.
It had gotten only worse from there. He’d driven her home to her place and taken her to bed. She became uncomfortable at the memory of the gloriously hot sex they’d shared.
He’d phoned several times after that night. Finally, she’d lied, telling him that she wasn’t interested. The pathetic and cowardly truth, though, was that it was easier to pretend she was okay when there was no one there to see her fall apart.
As she watched, Jack poured two cups. Putting both on the table, he slid in across from her, facing her as Fitz had, but because he was taller than the other man, his knee brushed hers. Both of them ignored the contact.
He looked better than she remembered. Blond hair, longer on top and with some darker streaks running through it. Penetrating, deep-blue eyes; a strong jawline. But it was his mouth that was the real attention grabber. No woman would be able to resist imagining how it would feel. And not just on her lips.
Lexie pushed the old cup of coffee to the side and pulled the fresh one toward her, then waited in silence.
“Was your ex-husband right-or left-handed?”
It wasn’t a question that she’d been expecting, so it took her a second to answer it. “Actually, Dan was ambidextrous. He did some things with his right hand and others with his left.” She leaned back. “He was born a lefty and still played most sports that way, but during medical school he trained himself to use his right hand for just about everything else. Said it made things easier for everyone. That nurses didn’t have to spend a lot of time changing setups and rearranging the equipment in operating rooms.”
“How about with a gun? Would he have used his right or his left hand?”
She fiddled with the cup handle. “I don’t know. I never saw him pick one up.”
He seemed surprised by the answer. “There was a .357 found next to the…next to your ex-husband. Nickel-plated, which means it was sort of a silvery color.”
“I’m familiar with the term.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but Lexie wasn’t in the mood to apologize. She took a hurried sip of the cooling coffee. That she hadn’t seen the gun or given any thought to the weapon that had been used bothered her. She should have, she realized. Was the revolver hers? She hadn’t been worried when she’d moved out and left it secured in the gun safe. Dan had never shown any interest in her grandfather’s collection of weapons.
Jack seemed to study her for several seconds. “So, as far as you knew, Dr. Dawson didn’t own a .357?”
“No. But when I moved out I left one locked in the gun safe upstairs.”
“So the weapon may be yours?”
“If it’s the one from the safe, it would be registered to my grandfather.”
“But you had possession of it?” Jack said.
Lexie frowned. “Yes. I suppose you could say the gun was mine.”
“When was the last time you shot it?”
“Never.”
“Why keep it then?”
“Sentimental reasons.” She drew air deep into her lungs, let it back out. The questions were really starting to get to her. She was beginning to wish that she’d left when Fitz had said she could.
“Most people don’t consider guns to be very sentimental.”
“I kept it because my grandfather enjoyed taking it to the range and shooting with his buddies. When I visited as a little girl, he’d take me with him. When I got older, he taught me how to han
dle a gun. After that, it became something we shared. The gun meant something to him, so it means something to me.”
“When’s the last time you saw your grandfather’s gun?”
“Eleven months ago.”
“But not tonight? When you found the body?”
She shook her head. “As soon as I saw Dan, I called 9-1-1.”
“The call came in around eleven-forty,” Jack said. “What were you doing here at that time of night?” Unlike Detective Fitz, he wasn’t making notes, so his gaze never left her face. It had been the same the night they’d met. But it hadn’t been just his eyes that had seemed completely focused on her; it had been everything else, too. Every movement, every touch had seemed meant for her. Had seemed meant to heal her deep down inside. It was no wonder she couldn’t get him out of her head, and yet at the same time couldn’t allow him anywhere near her.
She realized that he was waiting for her to answer, but it took her a moment to recall his question. “I had come by to collect some documents.”
“What type of documents?”
“Property settlement papers,” she said. “Dan called me earlier. He’d signed them and wanted me to pick them up.”
“At eleven-thirty at night?”
Lexie felt her pulse pick up, but tried to ignore it. She had nothing to worry about. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Everyone became a little nervous when a cop asked questions.
“Dan was a night owl,” she said after a several-second hesitation.
“How did he seem when he contacted you tonight?”
“Fine.”
“Who wanted the divorce?”
“This is a no-fault state.” As soon as she said it, she realized that, though she didn’t like the direction the question had taken, it was still a police investigation and personal feelings shouldn’t play into it. “I was the one who wanted out.”
“May I ask why?”
“Irreconcilable differences,” she offered. It was nothing more than a twentieth-century sound bite that explained very little, but then, she’d learned that pigeonholing the reason a relationship failed was nearly impossible.
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