Trigger Effect

by Maggie Price

  “Ask away.”

  “How did you come up with Lauren and the waiter hooking up in the pantry?” As he spoke, his breath made small puffs of steam on the still air. “In the dark?”

  “Because in his statement, Ramirez wrote that the last time he actually saw her was in the hallway near the door to the pantry. He didn’t need to include the word ‘actually’ for the sentence to make sense. So, why had he?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. By the time Ramirez mentioned the pantry, he’d gone from calling Lauren ‘the hostess’ to ‘the lady.’ Like I said earlier, that’s a flag—it told me something happened to change his perception of her. Also, Ramirez could have just said he saw her in the hallway near the kitchen. But he added her exact location, so that made me suspect the pantry held some meaning for him. Now, keep in mind we’re talking about a woman who’s as loose as ashes in the wind. So, I asked myself, what if Lauren and the waiter had been in the pantry together with the lights off? He wouldn’t have actually seen her in there while they engaged in some major groping.”

  “Amazing.” McCall lifted his bare hand, feathered snow off her hair.

  In the wash of light from the carriage lamps, she saw a new kind of intensity in his eyes.

  Wary, she took a step back. “What’s amazing?”

  “For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to admire a woman’s mind almost as much as I do her legs.”

  Just then, a dog in a nearby yard issued a flurry of gruff, threatening barks. Then fell abruptly silent midbark. Paige looked across her shoulder. A deep, intuitive disquiet had her sliding her right hand into her coat pocket.

  Gripping the asp, she glanced at McCall. He’d shoved one side of his coat back and had his hand resting on his holstered automatic. His gaze shifted from point to point along the shadowy street.

  “Spot something?” She strained to catch movement near the sprawling homes now dusted with powdery snow.

  “No.” Reaching past her, he pulled open the cruiser’s passenger door. “Let’s get out of the snow.”

  She met his concerned gaze, uneasiness gripping her. “You sensed something, too, right?”

  “Yeah.” He gave the street another quick scan. “Don’t know what. Just…a feeling.”

  She slid into the car. McCall moved around the cruiser and climbed in behind the wheel. He set the locks, twisted the key in the ignition, then shifted the cruiser into gear.

  As he steered out of the mansion’s driveway, Paige kept her gaze on the far side of the street. She saw no movement, nothing that looked out of place. Spooked, she thought. Now Isaac had them both spooked.

  McCall broke the silence. “You were saying the waiter wouldn’t have actually seen Lauren Gillette while they were going at each other in the dark pantry.”

  “Right.” She shifted slightly, trying to shake off the disturbing sensation of being watched. “Without realizing it, Davis Gillette backed up what the waiter said. According to Gillette, he saw Ramirez exit the pantry, still zipping up while he headed down the hallway in the opposite direction. Lauren slunk out seconds later. Gillette told us the pantry light was off. And it’s very possible Ramirez didn’t lay eyes on Lauren again that evening. She was a busy lady, what with her hostess duties and that big blowup she and hubby had in the study. On the surface, it looks like Ramirez told the truth about what happened at the party.”

  “Being, the last time he saw Lauren was in the hallway outside the kitchen before they slipped into the dark pantry.”

  “Exactly. The big question is, did Ramirez and Lauren hook up after he and the other catering personnel left the mansion?”

  “We’re on our way to ask him.”

  “Are you sure you have time before the bachelor party?”

  “Doesn’t matter if I’m late. I just have to show up in time to do the designated driving bit.” He kept his attention on the traffic. “What tipped you to the fact Lauren was molested while she was growing up?”

  “Gillette said Lauren told him her addiction to sex stemmed back to when she was a child. That sounded like he was quoting her.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because when most people talk about their early years they say stuff like, ‘when I was a kid’ or ‘I used to do this when I was little’ or ‘while growing up, I.’ In theory, when a person refers to him or herself as having been a ‘child,’ it can mean he or she was abused earlier in life, and it was very likely sexual abuse. That’s no doubt where her addiction to sex stemmed from.”

  “Yeah.” McCall rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. “Give me your take on Davis Gillette.”

  With her nerves leveled out, Paige settled back in the seat. The roadway was covered with a wet sheen that reflected the brake lights of the cars ahead of them. “I got a blip on my radar screen when he told you his story hadn’t changed. The word ‘story’ can be used to describe a created tale. You don’t expect a truthful person to focus on the lack of change in their stories, since truthful accounts don’t change.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But,” she obliged, “Gillette recounted the events of that night and the following day chronologically and concisely. That’s one indicator of a truthful statement.”

  “I’ve had stone-cold killers give me statements that were chronological and concise.”

  “So have I, which proves there are exceptions to everything.” Paige paused to do a mental replay of the interview. “Here’s another deal about Gillette. When it comes to Lauren’s murder, he didn’t say he was innocent. Or that he wasn’t guilty. He said, ‘I didn’t do it.’”

  “Are you about to tell me there’s a difference?”

  “A huge one. Remember, with statement analysis you view things with the mind-set that people tell the truth. Suppose a suspect who has yet to go to trial claims he’s innocent. Not guilty.”

  “Happens all the time with scum-sucking dirtbags.”

  “And they’re technically telling the truth. Because according to our legal system, a suspect is innocent until proven guilty. So someone who hasn’t been tried yet truly is innocent. Legally, anyway.” With the heater now blowing warm air, she slipped off her gloves. “Davis Gillette’s ‘I didn’t do it’ is a strong denial. In my opinion we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Not a problem.” McCall kept his gaze focused forward where snow danced crazily in the beams of the headlights. “Just don’t take it personally that I insist we eliminate him as a suspect the old-fashioned way.”

  “We’d be idiots not to.”

  A little over an hour later, Paige felt vindicated where Leandro Ramirez was concerned. The waiter had verified his rendezvous with Lauren Gillette in the pantry during the party. And that an angry Davis Gillette had crammed money into his hand, warning Ramirez to keep his mouth shut about Gillette’s wife.

  Ramirez had claimed he hadn’t met up with Lauren Gillette after leaving with the rest of the catering crew. A phone call had confirmed Ramirez’s alibi that he’d gone to a party with one of the other waiters.

  Now, back at the cop shop, she and McCall walked through the main door and were hit by a wave of heat.

  “It feels like Texas in summer,” Paige said.

  “At least eighty degrees.” He’d shrugged out of his coat before they made it halfway to the elevator.

  “Eighty-four,” the heavyset cop manning the information counter informed them. “The entire building’s a sauna.”

  “Anybody call maintenance?” McCall asked.

  “Yeah, me.” Sweat stains formed darkened pools on the cop’s gray uniform shirt as he fanned himself with a magazine. “All those geniuses could tell me was the heating system’s gone haywire. Never would have sleuthed that out by myself.”

  Her coat draped over one arm, Paige stepped on the elevator. The small cubicle was even steamier than the lobby. “I bet you’re sorry you decided to check your messages before
heading to the bachelor party.”

  “Real sorry.” McCall jabbed the button for Homicide’s floor. “I won’t hold you to your offer to start working on the Gillette and Ramirez interview reports tonight.”

  “Not here,” she said as they stepped off the elevator. “I’ll get my laptop from our office and work in my hotel room.”

  He paused at Homicide’s door, tried the knob. “Locked.” He pulled out his keys. “No surprise the night team got out of this heat.” He swung the door open, letting Paige pass through first into the empty squad room.

  While he headed for his desk, she retrieved her key card. Seconds later, she stepped into the office assigned to her and McCall. With the blind closed on the glass panel that looked out onto the squad room, the small space seemed even more cramped.

  She picked up her laptop, thinking it felt like days instead of hours since she’d retrieved it from Wade Crawford’s basement lab. She considered checking to see if Isaac had sent a second e-mail. The dry-as-old-bones heat, along with the dread that settled in her stomach, changed her mind. She would download her e-mail at the hotel.

  “If you’re ready to go, I’ll give you a ride to your car,” McCall said, stepping through the doorway.

  “I am.” She noted the stack of pink phone messages in his hand. “Since you’ll be off tomorrow for all the wedding festivities, is there anything I can take care of for you?”

  “Call the lab and give them another nudge on processing the fibers found in the box with Lauren Gillette.” He tossed the stack on the desk. “Everything else can wait.”

  When her gaze flicked across the top message, Paige’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute.” She picked up the message for a closer exam of the spidery handwriting. “Hugh Henderson wrote this, right?”

  McCall glanced down. “No, Kidd.”

  “Steve Kidd? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  She hesitated, knowing McCall and Kidd were close.

  “Spill it, Carmichael.”

  She eased out a breath. “Do you remember me telling you about the what-I-did-yesterday assignment from the workshop?” She laid the message aside. “The one that creeped me out?”

  “What about it?”

  “I thought Henderson wrote it. I mean, it goes with his personality. The way he keeps hitting on me, asking me to join him for a drink, saying his wife is understanding.” Paige shook her head. “All along, it was Kidd who wrote that assignment.”

  “So?”

  “What reason would he have for being deceptive about what he did on Sunday?”

  “Beats me. Maybe he thought what he did was no one’s business but his own.” McCall sent her a pointed look. “In retrospect, I wish I’d fictionalized my entire assignment.”

  She ignored the jibe. “Whatever Kidd did, he made a huge effort to conceal it.” Looking back at the message’s hurried scrawl, Paige attempted to recall as much of his language as possible.

  “He was under mega stress,” she said after a moment. “Neglected to account for blocks of his time. And some events were out of sequence. He made a point to distance himself from both his wife and their home.” She tapped a fingertip against her mouth. “He mentioned a restaurant that had the word ‘Ale’ in its name. Only he spelled it A-I-L. It’s like he was unconsciously saying he felt sick. And he didn’t mention it, but I could tell he was with someone that morning. It may have been his mistress because I picked up on some sort of sexual overtones.”

  “Steve Kidd is the last guy who’d have a mistress. About the only bad habit he has is chewing on plastic toothpicks.”

  “All I know is, on Sunday morning he was with someone else.” She furrowed her brow. “For a while, anyway.”

  “You know that how?”

  “He wrote that he left his house and had breakfast by himself. And he drove to the perfect place. Then he went for a drive in the country.”

  McCall crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting for the punch line.”

  “Kidd mentioned that later in the day he drove his wife to the restaurant. Then they drove to Wal-Mart, then drove home. Drove. Kidd habitually uses that verb when he’s with someone. That morning, he drove to the perfect place. Then went for a drive in the country. His change in verbiage indicates a change in reality. He was with someone, later he was alone. Who was he with and what happened to them?”

  McCall took a step toward her. “Carmichael, the reality is you need to chill. The assignments were stolen. Your workshop’s over. Why Kidd wrote what he did doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe not, but it snagged my interest.” She patted her laptop. “Enough that I recreated as much of his language as I could. The syntax. Something…I don’t know, weird’s going on with him.”

  “You’re off base.” McCall’s voice had gone toneless.

  “I don’t think so.” She angled her chin. “Earlier this evening you told me you buy into statement analysis one hundred percent.”

  “And you admitted there were exceptions to everything. This is one.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  He moved toward her, his face tense in the harsh fluorescent light. “This skill of yours has merit when it comes to bringing down bad guys. Do-wrongs deserve having every word they utter put under a microscope for you to pick at and tweeze apart. That’s your job.”

  “And I’m damn good at it.”

  He closed the distance between them until he was inches away, looming over her. “No one’s debating that point.”

  Paige recognized the move as a typical cop tactic, attempting to physically dominate, to show who was in control.

  She countered by stepping around him to put herself between him and the doorway. “You sure know how to make a girl feel hemmed in, McCall.”

  “Ever think you might be too damn good?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “When it comes to detecting lies, a person can’t be good enough.”

  “You look for a hell of a lot more than lies. The first day of your workshop, I pissed you off by, as you termed it, ‘leering’ at your legs. I reminded you of your bastard of an ex-husband, so you used your expertise to get back at me. That had nothing to do with the job. It was personal.”

  Okay, he had her there. “It was,” she conceded. “And I apologized.”

  “Yeah, you did. So, before you wind up having to apologize to Kidd, here’s something to mull over in that amazing, maddening mind of yours. Steve Kidd has certain unfortunate personal issues he has to deal with every day. Day after day. Gut-wrenching issues that I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to handle. Trust me when I say you don’t want to put Kidd’s life under a microscope. It’s none of your business, Carmichael. Do everyone, including yourself, a favor and leave it alone.”

  She glanced again at the handwriting on the message slip. Despite what McCall said about his co-worker, she was a firm believer that when a smoke alarm went off, that meant there was a fire.

  “Delete the file off your laptop,” McCall said, pulling her gaze back to his face. His dark eyes telegraphed the annoyance in his voice. “Forget about that damn assignment. Concentrate on Gillette’s murder, for which we have no viable suspect.”

  “I’ll consider your advice.”

  When she turned toward the door, Paige thought she glimpsed movement near the squad room’s entrance. But when she stepped out of the small office, no one was there.

  Great, her nerves were still sending echoes of the spooked feeling she’d gotten outside Gillette’s mansion.

  She looked back at McCall. He was still scowling.

  She sent him a mild smile. “Let’s just agree to disagree on the Kidd issue.”

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Paige checked her e-mail. One of the messages stopped her heart.

  After placing an urgent call to her grandfather, she stabbed in the private number for Holden Lassiter’s office.

  “Be there. Be there. Be there.” She whispered the words like a plea, her gaz
e going to the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly eight; she should be on her way to the PD by now. Instead, she still wore the red camisole and boxers she’d slept in. Her hair was disheveled, her stomach knotted, her legs unsteady from a black, engulfing fear.

  Fear not for herself, but for the people she loved.

  “Lassiter here.”

  Hearing Holden’s faintly British accent had a steadying effect on her pulse. Thank the gods the former CIA operative was in Dallas, not on the other side of the globe where he’d be less able to deal with this personally.

  “Holden, it’s Paige. I just received another e-mail from Isaac.”

  “The second one in as many days. Have you forwarded it to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me a moment to pull it up.”

  Listening to the muted click of a keyboard, Paige settled on the bed beside her laptop. Her mouth dry, she stared at Isaac’s e-mail.

  “I have it on-screen, Paige.”

  “Read the last paragraph.”

  “‘While you still can, bid farewell to Tate and Sara Sue.’”

  Holden paused, then said, “I’ll put protection on your grandfather and mother immediately. Do you know if they’re both presently at your grandfather’s ranch?”

  “They’re there and they’re okay.” Paige closed her eyes. “I didn’t tell Grandpa about the mugging, the attempt on my life with the tampered fruit or Isaac’s first e-mail. I knew if I did he’d strap on his revolver and show up here to do bodyguard duty. That’s exactly what he wanted to do this morning when I called and told him about this e-mail. It took some fast talking on my part to get him to agree he needs to stay there to protect my mother.”

  “I agree, the ranch is the safest place. I’ll make sure they’re both looked after. It will be the type of protection they won’t know is there. Nor will anyone else, unless it becomes necessary to step out of the shadows.”

  Paige felt a measure of relief. She fully trusted in Holden’s ability to provide an impenetrable shield of covert security around her family.

  “I owe you, Holden.”

  “Consider this a perk that comes with your employment by Dallas’s most elite security, protection and private investigations firm.” Additional clicks of computer keys sounded across the line. “Paige, I’ve now read the complete text of Isaac’s e-mail. Do you agree that I’m the mentor he mentioned in his first paragraph?”