by Alicia Scott
“And what about Olivia Stuart’s case? Want to lend your ‘expert opinion’ to an overworked detective?”
Martin smiled. “I don’t think my expert opinion is worth that much. But since you asked, I don’t think Josie did it.”
“You’ve been talking to my father, haven’t you,” Jack murmured.
Martin took him seriously and shook his head. “Fundamentally, I think there’s a problem of motive,” he said immediately.
“Fundamentally?”
“Absolutely. They’ve been auditing the books all day, but I’ve been asking around and no one believes for a minute that Josie was skimming off the top. For starters, all the storm fund-raising money has been publicly accounted for. Other people worked on the committees and reported the money that came in. The farmers and businesspeople have confirmed receiving what the books said they received, so all that money is accounted for to the dime. It will take a bit longer to look at the entire Grand Springs budget, of course, but look at Josie’s lifestyle. She lives in a modest neighborhood, drives an economy car and wears sensible clothes. If she was taking money, where does it go? Certainly she isn’t stuffing her mattresses with it—you guys already searched her house. She doesn’t party, travel or appear to have any gambling or drug habits. At least not that anyone knows of. Have you heard of any gambling or drug habits?”
“No,” Jack admitted, intrigued by Martin’s analysis. For a layman, he made a good cop.
“Then you have Josie herself. She’s a smart woman, everyone agrees on that. Yet, you’re saying the murderer was intelligent enough to research pure potassium, arrive at Olivia’s when she was alone and inject a needle in a struggling woman. This same smart assassin then hung on to the syringe and drug for three months, with the detective in charge of the case visiting her home.”
“Josie makes the same argument.”
“And think of the injection spot itself,” Martin continued, unperturbed. “Back of the knee. In Jessica’s vision, she sees the woman in black come up behind Olivia, pinning a fighting Olivia in place with one arm while injecting her with her free hand. Face it, Josie would never have had to do that. Any of it.”
Jack’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”
“Josie was Olivia’s best friend. They were together all the time. Why wouldn’t Josie just come over to Olivia’s house dressed for the wedding? She could have the prepared syringe in her purse. She could wait until Eve left, then the moment Olivia turned away to do anything, simply stab the syringe in Olivia’s upper arm, catching her off guard. The cardiac arrest would be immediate. Josie could recover the syringe, tuck it back in her purse, then call the EMTs. She could just say she was talking with Olivia when Olivia clutched her heart, and ‘boom.’ Very simple. No one would question anything.”
“But if Olivia somehow lived, she could identify Josie.”
“Then, she waits until Olivia is dead, then calls the EMTs. Again, cause of death appears to be a heart attack. She would call less attention to herself that way than skulking around a house dressed in black and fighting with Olivia. No, I think Jessica’s vision suggests Olivia was attacked by a stranger.”
Jack frowned. Martin raised some good points. Or maybe he was just telling Jack what Jack already wanted to hear. “What do you know about gardenias?” he asked Martin abruptly.
“Gardenias?”
“Yes.” Jack hesitated, then said slowly, “For some reason, gardenias keep popping up in this investigation. Josie said she smelled gardenias when she discovered Olivia’s body. Someone sent a bowl filled with gardenias as a funeral arrangement. Friday night, Josie said she smelled gardenias in her bedroom when she returned from the fund-raiser.”
“Gardenias, gardenias, gardenias,” Martin agreed. He was frowning, too. “Gardenias don’t grow in Grand Springs. Did you try to trace the bouquet sent to Olivia’s house?”
“They didn’t come from a florist. They were hand-delivered without any card.”
“Don’t all flowers symbolize something? Are gardenias peace? I can’t remember.”
“I can’t, either, but I could ask a florist.”
“What about the drug gangs or strip mining companies?” Martin asked abruptly. “Now, there are two groups with motive. Do any of the gangs have a gardenia as a symbol?”
Jack raised a brow. “Oh, sure. And the Bloods are about to turn in their bandannas for daisies.”
Martin chuckled. “All right, dumb question.”
“But the strip mining companies,” Jack mused. “That’s worth looking into.” He studied Martin for a moment. “You know, you’re very good at this.”
“Almost a natural,” Martin said dryly. “Makes you wonder, huh?”
Jack nodded. “You think like a cop,” he said quietly. “But if you were a cop, your fingerprints would’ve registered.”
“Yes. And they didn’t. And no one recognized my picture, either, which you’ve posted all over hell and back. So I’m probably not a cop. On the other hand, I seem to know this stuff very well. Maybe I’m head of the Russian Mafia, after all.”
“You can always change. It’s the advantage of amnesia. Your past is gone, a clean slate. Now you start again.”
“True.” For a moment, Martin appeared tired and frustrated, then he simply shrugged. “Then again, maybe I’d finally won the lottery. It would be a damn shame to lose those millions now, don’t you think?”
“Good point. Well, good luck, Martin. And thanks for the conversation.”
“No problem. Good night, Detective.”
Jack walked away. The last time he turned around, he saw Martin sitting alone on Olivia’s park bench, stroking the wood and gazing at the half-moon.
* * *
Tuesday morning, Jack pulled up in front of Josie’s house. He called himself a fool several times, then gave up and climbed out of his car. No lights were on, of course. The house was locked and silent and would be for as long as Josie was denied bail—or found guilty.
Jack didn’t need to go inside the house, however. He just wanted to search the outside. He started with the back sliding glass door. No indents of footprints on the ground, no scratches around the lock. He moved to the windows, inspecting the ground, the casing, and then the glass. No footprints, no fresh cracks or chipped paint along the window edges, no fingerprints on the glass. Everything was locked up and undisturbed.
He examined the roof of the one-story house. The rim was slightly mossy from all the rain. Josie should have her gutters cleaned and replaced soon, he thought idly. Then his methodical mind turned to more important matters—any sign of trespassing on the roof. But the moss was a smooth, undisturbed green carpet.
Walking slowly, Jack returned to the front door. He almost couldn’t bring himself to look at the lock. Would it be forced open or not? Would there be some evidence to back up Josie’s allegations, or would he be back where he started from, wondering how he could want a woman so much when she’d most likely committed murder?
Straight Arrow Stryker. What had he done to get into this position? Why didn’t his cool, rational mind carry over to his personal life, as well?
Why couldn’t Josie be who he wanted her to be?
He looked at the lock. He studied the front door for twenty minutes. It did him no good.
He couldn’t find any evidence of someone breaking and entering. None at all.
* * *
“Oh, look, it’s the dynamic duo.”
Stone turned to Jack as they walked down the corridor of the county jail. “Confinement hasn’t done wonders for her temperament.”
“Hey, I can still hear and think. You don’t have to talk like I’m not even in the room. I’m in the damn room, all right! No one will let me go anyplace else.” Josie almost rattled the bars of her cage in frustration, but having tried that earlier in the week, she knew by now that it didn’t work the same way as in the movies. Those bars shook a little, giving a nice melodramatic flair. The bars of her jail cell, on the other hand, did
n’t budge at all. Colorado seemed to produce some mighty fine steel.
It was Wednesday morning now. Day five of the Great Fiasco as Josie had dubbed it in her mind. Five days of wearing orange jumpsuits and lying alone on her bed. Five days of eager Edward Finnley becoming less and less eager. Every day, he paid her a visit and brought her the slew of papers he was collecting for the change of venue hearing. The press dutifully reported all the evidence found in her house and the ongoing audit of the town records. Then the media had gleefully pursued any rumor, allegation or sighting of an alien spacecraft in Josie’s backyard that it could.
“We’re not ready to make a statement just yet,” Hal Stuart had told the Grand Springs Herald, “but certainly every penny Josie Reynolds has ever touched is undergoing careful scrutiny. If there were any funny games with the town finances, we will catch them and, of course, action will be taken.”
“I don’t know,” Eve Stuart was quoted as saying. “My mother considered Josie to be a second daughter. I would hate to think Mom was harmed by someone so close to her.”
That quote was in an article calling Josie Grand Springs’s very own Jezebel. Others carried quotes from anonymous “insiders” who reported Josie spent an undue amount of time at City Hall. They figured she was up to something a long time ago. After all, how many Saturdays did one public servant really need to work?
Josie had her supporters—Finnley said her defense fund had risen to five thousand dollars, and certainly Rio Redtree was raising some good questions in his articles for the Grand Springs Herald—but at this point, Josie figured the mob would arrive with torches and a rope by nightfall.
Yesterday, Finnley had explained the change of venue hearing to her. His mood had been the grimmest ever, and Josie had read between the lines all the things he wasn’t telling her—the case against her was strong, the battle before them long.
Maybe even he wasn’t quite so sure of her innocence anymore.
When he’d left, Josie had lain down, thinking she would cry. But she hadn’t. There were no tears inside her anymore, just anger and frustration. Because she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, she knew she was being framed. And dammit, somehow she was going to get herself out of this, if she had to take on the whole state of Colorado to do it.
“We’re to escort you to the courthouse,” Jack said stiffly. She figured that meant he still considered her guilty. That probably hurt her the worst, though she wasn’t sure why. She’d never actually spent much time with Jack Stryker. One night of passion hardly equaled deep and meaningful commitment. During the long nights, she consoled herself with the fact that they hadn’t actually had sex. She hadn’t quite given that much of herself to him. She hadn’t quite been that big of a fool.
Now she delivered her grimmest smile to him and kept her chin in the air.
“Gonna search me first, Stryker? Oh, wait, male cops can’t handle female suspects. Too bad we didn’t think about that Friday night.”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t blink. She dug in her heels and prepared for out-and-out war.
“How’s life on the outside, anyway? Eat any good doughnuts, boys? Frame any sweet old ladies? I’d hate for you to get bored.”
“If we ignore her,” Stone murmured, “maybe she’ll tire and shut up.”
Josie switched her disdainful glance to him. She’d liked Stone once. When he’d first questioned her about Olivia’s death, his gaze had held honest compassion. Now she saw only remote professionalism in his gaze. She was the prisoner, and like Jack, Stone had tried her and found her guilty. One good fool deserved another.
“She doesn’t shut up,” Jack said. “She’s right about the search, though. We need to get a female officer down here.”
“Hang on.” Stone walked to the end of the short corridor to call for a female cop. He didn’t leave the area, because the stationed officer had already walked away, and as Josie had learned, a male cop wasn’t allowed to be alone with a female prisoner.
Still, Josie leaned forward and said low enough for only Jack to hear, “Did you check out anything, Stryker? Did you at least grant me that much?”
“I checked things out, Ms. Reynolds.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I didn’t discover any signs of forced entry.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But…but there had to be forced entry. Someone had to plant…” She rubbed her temples, even more frustrated and now also scared. Just who were these people and how good were they? Could they float in and out of houses like phantoms, or did they just have the funds to buy the stories they needed, or a good, old-fashioned cop like Jack? No, she dismissed that theory. Jack Stryker was too much of a stubborn mule to be bought.
“If they picked the lock, would you be able to see that?”
“There were no fresh scratches around the lock.”
“Yes, but there would only be fresh scratches if they were harsh about it. A real pro…they could do it without leaving behind any marks, couldn’t they? They’d manipulate the lock just as if they’d used a key.”
“Josie, you’ve seen too many movies.”
She opened her mouth to argue it further, but the end of the corridor slid open and the female officer arrived. She entered Josie’s cell all business. Josie had gone through this drill before, too, but that didn’t make it any easier.
She lifted her arms up into a T. She spread her legs. And she stood there like a human sacrifice, keeping her chin up even as her eyes burned with tears of humiliation. Jack and Stone appeared bored, like doctors with a patient. The female cop was equally quick and dispassionate. Josie wasn’t, though. The thirty-second pat down seemed like an eternity to her, and in that time, she cursed Jack Stryker again because he’d brought her to this horrible place. Because he thought she deserved to be treated like this.
“She’s clean,” the female officer said briskly, already heading back down the corridor to the main police department.
“Oh, goody,” Josie muttered, “she didn’t find the lock pick I made from bent paper clips and tucked beneath my tongue.”
“Jokes like that will earn you a body cavity search. Do you really want a body cavity search?”
Josie recoiled physically, appalled by Jack’s suggestion and cool tone. “You are despicable!”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Yes, well, Torquemada probably thought the same!”
Jack ignored her. He took her arm, pulling her toward him. For a moment, she fought it. She was angry and she was frightened. And she would rather be alone than next to him again. He wore a navy blue suit and a gray striped tie. His hair was smooth, and he smelled of fresh air and clean soap. He was Jack Stryker, handsome, strong, and invincible.
And she didn’t understand how he could’ve once held her so tenderly, then look at her as coldly as he did now. And she didn’t understand how she could look at him and still want him. How she could look at him and still see the shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of strain on his forehead, and want to smooth them away.
I really liked you, Jack. I really, really did.
He and Stone flanked her sides. The three of them walked down the corridor. Outside, the reporters waited with cameras. Her lawyer had warned her about all this.
They came to the closed door. She could already hear the dull roar of pushing, prodding people, the clicking of cameras.
Town Treasurer on Trial! Reynolds Rapped for Murder!
Stone grabbed the door handle. “Ready?” His gaze was on Stryker.
There was a small pause. Suddenly, Josie felt Stryker give her arm a gentle squeeze. “Just keep your head low,” he said quietly. “We’ll get you through quickly.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say. Jack turned to Stone. “Ready,” he said.
Stone opened the door and the cameras began to click.
* * *
Jack didn’t relax until they pulled away from the police department and the media horde.
He had a feeling the courthouse would be little better, and there was nothing to do but plow through.
Stone sat quietly beside him in the passenger’s seat, looking grim and serious. It was a bright sunny day and the car was stifling for all three of them in their long-sleeved suits. Stone fiddled with the air-conditioning, then swore.
“Damn car pool. Just ensures that none of the vehicles work.”
Jack tried the knob, as well. The air-conditioning was definitely out.
“The old-fashioned way,” he said, and rolled down his window halfway. With more grumbling, Stone followed suit.
“What, you’re not going to roll down my windows?” Josie called from the back. She added with saccharine innocence, “Don’t you fellas trust me?”
Stone started to smile, of course. Jack gave his partner the sternest look possible, and the smile turned into a halfhearted cough.
“Don’t encourage her,” he said. “She doesn’t need encouragement.”
Stone nodded dutifully, but Jack’s look wasn’t nearly so effective on Josie. Sitting squarely in the middle of the back seat with her hair pulled back from her delicate, unmade-up features, she met his gaze with hot blue eyes that immediately tightened his groin. God almighty, nothing in the world had prepared him for the impact of Josie Reynolds.
Even in prisoner’s orange she was not cowed or ashamed. He’d avoided her because he hadn’t want to see her hurt. She was down and injured, and he associated that with his mother and the demons he could never slay for her no matter how badly he wanted to. He’d forgotten, however, that Josie was nothing like his mother. Josie came out swinging.
“Stop staring, Stryker,” she said. “My hair’s not even done.”
She turned away haughtily and he wasn’t sure whether to applaud or chastise.
“Did you see all the reporters outside of the jail?” she spoke up abruptly, her voice outraged. “Vultures! The whole lot of them are vultures.”
“They’re the media,” Stone said lightly. “It’s what they’re paid to be.”