by Maggie Price
“No.” As a matter of prudence, she slid closer to the passenger door. “We’re on city time. We should talk about how things went with LeMonde after I left the interview. Specifically, how did you deal with her insistence on keeping the identity of her lover secret?”
McCall hooked a brow. “All right, we’ll shelve the personal topic for when we’re off the city’s clock. As for LeMonde, how do you think I dealt with the matter?”
Thankful to have the topic of conversation back in a safe area, Paige pursed her mouth. “I think you reminded her she’d already trusted you with her secret about having a lover. And it didn’t make sense not to reveal his name so you can keep things quiet when you talk to him. After all, if he’s not a suspect, LeMonde’s husband doesn’t need to find out about him. If that didn’t work, you probably got tough. Reminded LeMonde that Lauren Gillette is dead, and you’re not worried about whose feelings you hurt. Then you clued LeMonde into the fact that if you have to do things the hard way, it will be just that—harder for you, harder for her. That when, not if, you find out who she’s screwing on the side, you might not be inclined to be as discreet in interviewing him. And she could have prevented all that, if only she’d told you his name.”
McCall nodded. “Bingo. Her lover happens to be a criminal defense attorney, with an office near the courthouse where I’ll be this afternoon. If I finish testifying in time, I’ll drop in on him.”
McCall bounced a palm against the steering wheel. “As for our victim, we now know Lauren was far from a faithful wife. Whether hubby knew that is still up in the air.”
“LeMonde is the only acquaintance of Lauren’s you’ve interviewed who’s said anything about her sleeping around. Of course, if she was sleeping with the interviewee, they’d keep quiet.”
“True.” McCall paused, then shook his head. “I haven’t gotten any vibes that anyone else I’ve talked to is holding back information about Lauren. That’s just my gut feeling, though. You might think differently after you’re finished analyzing the statements from everyone who attended the Gillettes’ party.”
“So, are you changing your tune?” she asked. “You think my using statement analysis just might be the thing that helps break the case?”
“I think old-fashioned police work is what will do the trick. But since the chief stuck me with you, you might as well have a go at those statements.”
“Oh, I will,” Paige said. And hoped like hell she found something that would make McCall eat his words.
Chapter 12
Paige spent the next three hours working in a small office just off of Homicide’s squad room. According to McCall, the office was used as an overflow area to conduct interviews, as well as a temporary workplace for detectives assigned to sensitive investigations. Not only could the door to the soundproofed office be opened only with a special key card, it held several file cabinets with combination locks that were immune to picking. The thick glass pane installed in the wall facing the squad room saved the windowless office from a toiling-in-a-cave atmosphere.
Presently, the thin-slatted blind over the pane was open, allowing Paige to see out into the squad room.
Approximately half of the desks were now occupied. And, although the only Homicide detectives she’d officially met were Steve Kidd and Hugh Henderson, Paige had no doubt the majority of the detectives knew who she was and why she was there. Homicide cops possessed an insatiable curiosity that veered to nosiness. Still, due to the tight lid Chief Quaid had clamped on the Gillette investigation, it was a sure bet every cop in the unit was doing their best to respect her privacy.
Paige’s gaze drifted to Hugh Henderson’s desk. Detective Sleazoid hadn’t asked her about the Gillette case today when she’d run into him at the unit’s coffeemaker, but he had hit on her again. Steve Kidd had just rolled his eyes at his idiot partner and popped yet another plastic toothpick into his mouth.
She thought again about the what-I-did-yesterday workshop assignment she suspected Henderson had written. Something more than just cheating on his wife was going on, she suspected. But what?
Finding no answer, she shifted her attention back to analyzing the remaining statements from the guests who had attended the Gillettes’ party on Saturday night.
When she finished reading all of them, she stretched, then dug a fist into the small of her back to try to ease out the stiffness in her lower spine. Dammit, she’d found nothing in any of the partygoers’ statements that raised red flags. Oh, she’d spotted a couple of unconscious references to guests who’d had a tiff with their respective spouses. Several people had been running late to the Gillettes’, and the strain of that had been reflected in their word usage. A few would have rather been elsewhere instead of attending the party.
But she’d seen no hint that anyone harbored a grudge or ill feelings toward either of the Gillettes. Which wasn’t a surprise, since they’d invited friendly acquaintances to witness Davis Gillette’s announcement that he planned to run for governor.
Still, he and his wife hadn’t been on the best of terms, considering the argument various guests had mentioned in their statements. Too bad none of them overheard what the Gillettes had been arguing about.
Paige jabbed a hand through her hair, then loosened the clip on the statements taken from the catering crew. The first handful provided nothing relevant.
Easing out a breath, she flipped over another statement, written by one of the male waiters. Her initial read-through started a pinging in her brain. Turning her pencil end-over-end, she reread the man’s words.
I saw the party’s hostess several times off and on throughout the evening. During that time I was carrying around trays of champagne, serving canapés, picking up empty glasses. I didn’t pay her a lot of attention.
A few paragraphs later, the waiter related:
The last time I actually saw the lady was in the hallway near the door to the kitchen pantry.
Paige checked the top of the statement that listed the waiter’s name. Leandro Ramirez. She jotted her comments on a sticky note, then affixed it to the page. As soon as McCall returned from court, she’d tell him about Ramirez’s statement. And recommend a follow-up interview.
The telephone on the desk trilled. Paige reached for it, thinking the caller must be McCall. When she answered, however, the male voice that responded was one she’d never heard.
“Is it true what Daphne said? That McCall left you there to slave while he’s at the courthouse, chasing skirts?” The deep voice had a low, rich accent, and came from farther east than Texas.
Daphne, Paige knew, was Homicide’s attractive auburn-haired secretary. “It’s true I’m slaving. As for McCall, I can’t vouch for what he’s up to at the courthouse. To whom am I speaking?”
“Wade Crawford. Do you have time to visit my digs? Daphne can point the way.”
“Sure.” Paige felt her chest tighten. “I take it you have information about the e-mail I received this morning?”
“Yeah. I think I know where Dr. Isaac is.”
The audiovisual/digital evidence examining services lab of the Oklahoma City PD was housed in the basement, two flights directly below Homicide. Paige pushed open the door and stepped into a room crowded with a vast assortment of video and computer equipment, some recognizable to her, some not. The air in the lab held a definite chill, and she gave thanks for the red cashmere sweater she’d pulled on that morning over her thin white wool turtleneck.
Her gaze went to the room’s sole occupant, a man with one hip propped on a long-legged stool. He was leaning over a workbench, soldering small pieces of metal.
“Sergeant Crawford?”
“Yo.” He looked up, a smile spreading across his face as he rose off the stool. “You must be Carmichael.”
“Must be.”
He was in his early thirties, Paige judged, tall, lean and lanky. He wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt; his long coal-black hair was tied back with a leather thong. Like McCall, he was olive-comple
cted, but a shade darker, as if Crawford had found a source of sun to bask in during the winter months.
He stepped to her, shook her hand. “Welcome to the dungeon.”
“Thanks.”
His brown eyes narrowed on her face. “Do I hear Texas in your voice?”
“You do.” She returned his discerning look. “Louisiana?”
“Bingo. New Orleans, to be exact.” He gestured her across the lab to a desk on which a computer sat. “So, how’d McCall get lucky enough to get you as a partner?”
“I don’t believe he’d consider himself lucky. Your chief ordered him to work with me.”
“McCall’s one of those guys who always snags a break. If Quaid did that to me, I’d wind up with some overweight male tech with plastic protectors in his shirt pocket.” Crawford rolled an extra chair up to the one already at the desk. “Have a seat,” he said, settling into the extra chair.
He toggled a few buttons then began typing commands. His fingers raced across the keyboard with such speed it was like watching a spider spinning a web in fast-forward mode. “So, have you met the sisters?” he asked.
“What?” Distracted, Paige looked his way. “What sisters?”
“The McCall sisters.”
“No.”
Crawford entered a command, then muttered under his breath when the computer beeped. He typed another line of code, then hit the enter key. His satisfied grunt told Paige he’d won the match. “The sisters are all gettin’ hitched on Valentine’s Day.”
“McCall mentioned the wedding.”
“Damn,” Crawford said while he continued typing. “Three gorgeous women and I let ’em all slip through my fingers. Shows how rusty I am.”
Paige smiled. She couldn’t help but like Crawford. “Maybe you should get out of your dungeon more often, Sergeant.”
“Wade. You’re right, I should.” He slid her a look. “How about getting out with me, Ms. Carmichael?”
The question shot Paige’s thoughts back to the instant McCall had pulled her closer in his cruiser. To the heat that had flickered deep inside when he slid a fingertip down her cheek. She couldn’t even pretend she hadn’t liked him touching her. But, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to act on the strong attraction that was too close for comfort to what she had once felt for the man who’d betrayed her.
She met Crawford’s gaze. “Call me Paige. And I’ve got a full plate these days, Wade. Sorry.”
“Had to give it a shot,” he said amicably, then looked back at the monitor.
The screen was now filled with symbols, a mix of letters and numbers. Paige shook her head. “I hope you don’t expect me to know what that means.”
“Nope.” He leaned back in his chair. “Just wanted to show you the route Isaac’s e-mail took to get to you.” He flicked a hand toward the screen. “It bounced between a handful of countries. I had a hell of a time tracking its route since a series of anonymous remailers got tossed into the mix.”
“I’m not surprised at anything Isaac does on a computer. His father was a programmer, so he learned from an expert.”
“The doctor’s good.” Crawford gave her a smug smile. “So am I.”
“That’s what McCall said.” Paige glanced back at the monitor. “When you called, you said you think you know where Isaac is?”
“I should have said I know where the e-mail originated. Whether he’s there or not, or ever was, is something I couldn’t swear to in court, but I’d be willing to bet on it.”
“Okay, what’s your best bet?”
“Egypt.”
Paige blinked. “Egypt?”
“More specifically, a cybercafe in downtown Cairo.”
Paige thought for a moment. “Can you pull up Isaac’s e-mail?”
“Sure.” Crawford tapped keys. “There.”
Just rereading Isaac’s polite references to their meeting at a future date had Paige’s flesh prickling. “Scroll to the last paragraph.”
“Done.” Crawford shook his head. “Nate gave me a rundown on Isaac. And I read this e-mail a couple of times. Your shrink doctor sounds warped to the max.”
“An accurate description.”
“So, what’s with the last paragraph?”
“I wanted to make sure I remembered exactly what he said about Eden.”
“‘I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I placed myself,’” Crawford read. “I’ll bite. What about it?”
“Besides having a passion for torturing and killing hookers, Isaac loves to delve into religious theories. In fact, he regularly spoke to theology classes at several universities. When I had him in interrogation, he quoted a lot of religious references to try to get mind games going with me. Your mentioning Cairo reminded me he’d said something about the Garden of Eden.”
“What about it?”
“That some people believe it was located in the land of Goshen. Wasn’t that supposed to be Egypt? Or nearby?”
“You got me. But if that’s the case, sounds like the doctor was sending you a clue.”
“Maybe. If he has left the country, his winding up in Egypt makes sense, in his own twisted way of thinking.”
And if Isaac was thousands of miles away, had it been his shadowy accomplice who’d mugged her? Injected the peanut oil into the fruit that had nearly killed her? Slipped Isaac’s mug shot under her door? Then boosted her billfold and the workshop assignments? Or, it could be Isaac’s accomplice who was in Egypt, and Isaac was here.
“The attachment to Isaac’s e-mail didn’t contain a virus,” Crawford said. “It’s a photo. Of you.”
“Me? Where?”
“Sitting at a table with an umbrella spiked through it. Looks like some outdoor restaurant. Give me a sec and I’ll pull up the pic.”
While she waited, Paige’s stomach knotted. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten at an outdoor restaurant.
The photo winked on the monitor. Paige stared at her own image sipping from a tall glass containing a frothy beverage. Her hair was long and loose, and her skin looked bronze against the hot-pink sundress she had bought only days before. The time and place flooded back from a distant memory. She’d been on vacation in Hawaii, a badly needed respite after a heavy workshop schedule.
By then, Dr. Edwin Isaac had been in prison a year.
“Jesus.” She felt faintly sick.
“Hey, you don’t look so good,” Crawford said, his eyes crimped with concern. “Can I get you some water?”
“No.” She dragged in a deep breath. “Thanks. I’m fine.”
“Okay, if you say so.” He glanced back at the screen. “I take it you know when the picture was taken?”
“About two years ago.” She sent Crawford a grim look. “Which means Isaac has had me under surveillance for a long time. Maybe for as long as he’s been locked up.”
“Guy’s a badass, all right. I guess you’re watching your back?”
“As best I can.” She patted her cell phone, clipped to the waistband of her slacks. “I’m flagged to get notified of any NCIC off-line searches on Isaac. I keep hoping he’ll get stopped for some traffic violation and I’ll get a call saying he’s back in custody. That won’t happen if he’s in Egypt.”
“Afraid not.” Crawford retrieved a business card from the desk’s center drawer. Turning the card over, he jotted on its back. “If you get another e-mail from the bastard, forward it to this address. Then call my cell to let me know you sent it. Day or night, I’ll drop what I’m doing and start a trace.”
“Thanks, Wade. I appreciate it.”
“Glad to help. I’ve got your laptop over on the workbench. You can pick it up on your way out.” The telephone on Crawford’s desk rang. He snatched it up, answered. “She’s still here.”
“For you,” he said, handing Paige the receiver. “It’s Ryan.”
She gave Crawford a quick, searching look. “Ryan, who?”
Crawford grinned. “Captain Ryan. Nate’s boss. Yours, too, for
the duration.”
Paige gave herself a mental kick. She had yet to meet the captain of Homicide, who’d been attending a law enforcement conference at the State Bureau of Investigation. “Captain Ryan, this is Paige Carmichael.”
“Sorry I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself, Ms. Carmichael, but that’s about to change. A patrol cop just found Lauren Gillette’s Jaguar ditched in the country. McCall’s still testifying in court, so you and I need to get to the scene.”
Paige knew that protecting the murdered woman’s car—and whatever evidence it might contain—was paramount. She also realized that due to the gag order on the case, Ryan couldn’t send another team of detectives to the scene.
“I’m on my way to your office, Captain,” Paige said, ending the call. Anticipation charged through her at the thought the Jaguar might hold the evidence to the killer’s identity.
Chapter 13
“Let’s hope the weather holds until we’re done,” Captain Michael Ryan said while steering his unmarked cruiser along a graveled country road.
“It looks iffy.” Leaning forward, Paige gave the sky a dubious look. The day had started out bright and sunny; the sky was now gray and the smell of snow was in the air. “McCall said Oklahoma City’s had a brutal winter. Which is probably why Lauren Gillette’s killer stashed her body in that warehouse freezer instead of burying it.”
“Ground’s so frozen, he would have had to use a back-hoe just to dig a couple of inches,” Ryan commented. He was a tall man with a rangy build, handsome face and brown hair just beginning to gray at the temples.
The cruiser bounced over a pothole, causing Ryan to wince. The road they’d turned on several miles back was lined with leaf-barren trees, and pockmarked like a lunar landscape.
Even though Ryan kept the speed to a minimum, the next rut the cruiser went over jarred Paige’s teeth.
He shot her a look. “Sorry about the rough ride.”