The very last thing she wanted was for Spense to lose his image of his father. If Jack Spenser had been standing in front of her, she might’ve punched him in the face. She wanted to stomp the ground and scream at him for the pain he’d caused his sons. But she forced herself to stay rational. “I’m sure Jack was a good man in many ways. One mistake doesn’t define his entire life. None of us are perfect.”
“One mistake? Jack Spenser was living a secret life, and his wife and son knew nothing about it. I may not have had a perfect father, but Spense did. And now you want to take that away from him for no good reason.”
“I’m not robbing him of his perfect father. It’s Jack who’s doing that.” Her nails dug into her palms. “Spense has a brother, and he deserves to know.”
“Even if it kills him?” Dutch dropped his head into his hands and tugged at his hair. He was drunk.
And she was half-sideways herself. It took a few seconds to process what she’d just heard. Dutch obviously thought he was protecting Spense. But from whom?
“Cindy may have had enemies. I’m not saying she didn’t. But over the years, I’ve made far more. The men I’ve crossed are ruthless, capable of murder and much, much more. Surely it’s occurred to you that whoever did this to Cindy might’ve been trying to get back at me.”
“That’s one theory, certainly. But so far the investigation suggests—”
“That I did it.” He sighed heavily. “If I were Sheridan, I’d probably think the same damn thing. But I didn’t kill my wife, and if someone’s looking to take revenge on me by targeting my family . . .”
Her head was throbbing, from lack of sleep, from liquor, and from confusion. “You think if word got out that Spense is your brother, it would put him in danger.”
“I might have put you both in danger already. I just don’t know yet if this was directed at me, or if Cindy was in fact the real target. But yeah, my worry is that things could heat up fast. Until I figure out who did this, and why, I don’t want anyone to know Spense is my brother. Especially not Spense.”
The idea of lying to Spense turned her stomach. But what if Dutch was right? No matter how angry Spense might be when he found out, she couldn’t risk his life. She took a drink, then another. The issue wasn’t coming into clear focus. “We’ll tell Spense, then tell him not to tell anyone about it for his own safety.”
Dutch arched an eyebrow. “Say that again. The part about instructing Spense not to tell anyone we’re brothers—for his own safety.”
The lining of her stomach was on fire. She’d had too much whiskey. “Oh, Lord. I see your point.” Not half an hour before, she’d been thinking about the fact that Spense was just the type to run toward trouble instead of away from it.
“No one can tell Spense what to do. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he decided to test the theory that someone was after my family by setting himself up as bait. Or suppose he decides his mother deserves to know the truth? Fears for his own safety won’t keep him from telling her if he feels it’s his duty. Then suppose she tells a friend . . .”
Caitlin nodded. She was beginning to see the wisdom of waiting. The more people who knew, the more likely the word could get out, and maybe Spense’s life really would be endangered, all because she didn’t have the will to keep a secret a short while. Jim Edison had kept the secret over thirty years. She at least needed to take time to think through the consequences.
“We have to tell him, Caitlin. But we don’t have to tell him tonight, or tomorrow, or before it’s prudent to do so.”
She swallowed hard, then nodded. “Okay. For now.”
“Good enough. So here’s what I need you to do. You have to convince Spense to leave Dallas. Just go with him to Tahiti, like you planned. Bringing you both here was a terrible mistake. I can take care of things on my own. This is my problem, not yours.”
That wouldn’t work. “Spense may forgive me, eventually, for keeping this secret—I hope. But if I ask him to walk away from you now, when he finds out he abandoned his own brother, he’ll never forgive me. And worse, he’ll never forgive himself.” She shook her head. “As long as no one knows that he’s your brother, he’s not a target. And if you really are in danger, you need us now more than ever. The police certainly aren’t going to watch over you.”
He leaned forward, listening intently.
“I think we should compromise,” she said.
“What do you have in mind?”
“You promise not to hold anything back from either Spense or me about the case, and I won’t tell Spense about Jack until we have a handle on the killer’s motivation.”
“I guess that’s the best deal I’m going to get.”
“It’s the only one I can offer. And the minute we know it’s safe to do so, we tell him the truth about his father.”
Dutch grunted.
“I’ll take that as a yes. And you need to hold up your end of the bargain, starting right now.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did Cindy keep a diary? You told Sheridan you had no idea, but frankly, I don’t believe you. I think you’d know if she kept a journal.”
“Yes. My wife kept a diary—she has ever since I’ve known her. I have no idea where it is.” He turned his empty tumbler upside down and set it on the desk with a thunk. “But if I could get my hands on it, I sure as hell wouldn’t turn it over to Detective Monroe Sheridan.”
Chapter Nine
Thursday, October 17
12:00 P.M.
Austin, Texas
SPENSE TRIED NOT to smile as Caity tiptoed up the steps of the Texas Governor’s Mansion. Holding one hand to her forehead and the other out for balance, she looked like pickled death. Just north of Austin, she’d gone green as the rolling hills, even demanded a barf stop—but luckily that turned out to be a false alarm.
“Someone’s got a hangover,” he whispered, as the door to the impressive Greek Revival-style building swung wide, and the first lady, herself, Heather Cambridge, motioned them inside.
Though they’d never met, she greeted them with a hug, as if they were old friends. “Hope you enjoyed the ride down from Dallas.” Her smile was warm and genuine. “The hill country leading into the city is one of my favorite scenic drives.”
“Hers too.” Spense winked at Caity.
“Beautiful.” Somehow Caity managed to sound sincere—and look gorgeous, despite skin paler than cat’s cream and heavy shadows beneath her eyes. She wasn’t much of a drinker, so he’d been taken by surprise this morning when he’d caught a faint scent of whiskey on her breath—and on Dutch’s. Apparently, the two of them had quite a party last night while he slept. But Caity refused to talk about it, claiming a headache. During the three-and-a-half-hour ride from Dallas to Austin, she’d not only been suspiciously taciturn, she’d barely made eye contact with him.
He’d never seen anyone act so damn guilty over an innocent late-night bender. His fingers curled tightly. If anyone was going to keep Caity up all night, it should be him. But she’d seemed taken by Dutch from the start—and that stuck in his craw more than he cared to admit.
“And here”—the first lady swept out her arm—“is the notable U-shaped staircase.” Her smile broadened. “These marks”—she tapped her finger on several imperfections in the wood railing—“represent a fun little bit of Texas history. Governor Hogg pressed tacks into the banister to keep his children from joyriding down it. The scars have never been sanded out.” She clapped her hands together in delight. No denying it: Heather Cambridge was a gracious hostess and pretty to boot. No wonder she was one of the most admired women in Texas. But her impeccable manners didn’t extend to Dutch. She’d flatly refused to allow him to take part in today’s interview, insisting he would never be welcome in her home again.
When Caity protested, Heather had t
hreatened to withdraw from the interview altogether, pointing out that neither she nor Spense had any official standing in the case. Heather said she’d only agreed to talk to them because of their reputation, and because, for Cindy’s sake, she hoped they could get to the bottom of things fast.
As they wound down various hallways, the first lady continued to pepper them with anecdotes about the mansion. Then, finally, they entered a library with hardwood floors and walls painted a rich forest green. “We can talk in here.”
Spense liked the portrait of a man dressed in fringed buckskin and carrying a musket. Looked like a cool guy to him. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“That gentleman is Davy Crockett,” Heather responded with a lilt in her voice. It was obvious the she took pride in her state’s history. As a governor’s wife should.
As she took in her surroundings, Caity’s eyes brightened. Either she’d overcome her seasickness after a few minutes on solid ground or she was putting on a very good face for Heather. “Is this an antique?” Caity crossed to a small desk, loaded with cubbyholes and drawers.
“Goodness yes. It belonged to Stephen F. Austin himself. It’s been here since 1923.”
A number of candles, green, like the walls and carpet, adorned most of the available surfaces in the room. Probably why the library smelled like apples.
“I won’t be needing you this afternoon, Brian.” Mrs. Cambridge waved away her escort, a brawny, well-dressed man who’d been following them at a respectful distance. One of the governor’s protection detail, no doubt.
Now that the tour had ended, and the bodyguard had been given his walking orders, the real fun was about to begin.
The first lady settled into one of the many armchairs—upholstered in green, of course. Spense and Caity followed suit. “I’m so sorry Matt won’t be able to join us, but there’s a bill coming up, and duty calls. I’m sure you know all about duty and sacrifice, Agent Spenser.”
“Call me Spense.”
“If you’ll call me Heather.” She included Caity with a smile. “That goes for both of you, naturally.”
“Not a problem if the governor can’t be here. It’s you we were hoping to see, Heather,” Spense said, hoping to set her off guard by bringing out an informal tone and taking her up on the offer to call her by her first name.
“Oh? Since Matt and I both attended the fund-raiser, I just assumed you’d want to meet with him, too.”
“If the governor has anything he’d like to tell us, we’ll be happy to arrange a separate meeting at his convenience.”
“Separate.” She tapped her fingers together. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.” Her laugh seemed surprisingly nervous. “This isn’t like on television, where they separate the suspects and try to get them to turn on each other? Surely my husband’s not . . . a person of interest.”
“We’re not trying to pull any stunts. It’s just that we already have an accounting of your husband’s movements the night of the fund-raiser,” Caity reassured her.
A look of relief came over Heather’s face. “I see. Well, I’d be happy to list all my movements for you, even though I think I’ve done so for the police already. Frankly, I don’t know where in blazes I was during the party. My husband likes to say I go into first-lady mode at these events. I barely remember a thing. But Matt had Brian on me the entire night. He worries too much about me. He left his own men behind in Austin but insisted on bringing my personal guard—when he’s the one who needs protection—so silly. Anyway, Brian will know every step I took. I’ll call him back in.”
“We can get Brian’s report from Detective Sheridan. He’s already met with the security detail,” Spense said.
Caity leaned in, her expression earnest. “Mrs. Cambridge, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Agent Spenser and I are in Texas on behalf of Dutch Langhorne.”
Heather’s jaw tightened. “You said you were family spokespersons.”
“We are,” Caity replied.
“Well, then, I’d think you’d be here on behalf of Cindy.” Heather’s posture stiffened, and a small line appeared between her eyebrows. Barely noticeable, due to her Botox, but real nonetheless. This was probably as mad as the first lady was capable of looking. Either she simply didn’t care for Dutch, or she was one of the legion of individuals who’d already concluded he had murdered his wife.
“Don’t twist my meaning. We’re here on behalf of both Cindy and Dutch. I simply want to reiterate that the FBI is not officially involved in the case, that you’re under no obligation to answer any of our questions. But we do have experience in murder investigations.” Caity’s tone turned tough.
Did she intend to play the bad cop? That’d be a fun change.
“I know exactly who you are. You’re the profilers who worked that Fallen Angel Killer case in Hollywood.”
“Spense is the profiler. I’m a psychiatrist. We do work together though, developing profiles for the police.”
Heather crossed her feet at the ankles, and that little line between her brows disappeared. She smiled, only a little less warmly than before. Spense had a feeling they’d just witnessed her slip out of first-lady mode, then force herself back into it again. “Shall I ring for tea?”
Caity’s face went gray at the suggestion. She must still be nauseous, but he was hungry—as usual, and some of those bland finger sandwiches might help settle Caity’s stomach. She hadn’t touched her breakfast this morning. Also, tea might bring back the earlier collaborative atmosphere. At the moment, Heather was surveying them like a fly circling warily above a spiderweb.
“That would be awesome,” Spense said before Caity could object.
Heather walked over to a small desk. The feminine knickknacks and the neatly ordered boxes—one red, one yellow, and one green, marked the desk as the first lady’s personal workspace. She picked up the phone and requested watercress sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, and coffee. Then she pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. “I forgot the tea. I’ll call back.”
“Please don’t bother,” Caity said. “I’ve never once heard Spense complain about a lack of tea, and I’m going to pass on all of it.”
“You should eat,” Spense said. “It’ll help what’s ailing you.”
Heather returned to her armchair. “Are you ill?”
“No,” Caity said firmly.
“Because if you want to postpone . . .”
“Mrs. Cambridge . . .”
“Heather.” The first lady shot Caity a saccharine smile.
“Heather, we didn’t drive all the way from Dallas to Austin to postpone.”
“Then I’m at your service, but I’m afraid I’m not clear what you want from me.” She crossed her arms high on her chest.
“Even though Spense and I aren’t assigned to the case per se, we’ve developed certain habits that are hard to break. For one, when a murder’s taken place, we like to learn as much about the victim as possible.”
“Victimology.” Heather dropped her arms. “Don’t look so surprised. I watch those crime shows like everyone else. The more you know about Cindy, the more you’ll learn about her killer. Have I got that right?”
“Perfectly, and that’s where you come in. According to Dutch, you were Cindy’s closest friend,” Spense said.
Heather averted her gaze. “Best friends since third grade. We used to have one of those necklaces—a heart split in two pieces—but I’m afraid I lost my half years ago.” When she looked back, her eyes had grown moist. “I’d give anything to have taken better care of it. How I wish I had that necklace now.”
“I’m sure you do, but . . .” Caity softened her voice. She seemed genuinely moved by Heather’s emotion. “No one can be expected to keep up with a necklace since the third grade. The important thing is you kept up with the friendship.”
So much for
Bad Cop Caity. She couldn’t maintain a subterfuge of any kind for long—and he loved that about her. He never had to worry about her keeping secrets.
Heather pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “What a lovely thing to say, Caitlin. That makes me feel much better.”
A server entered and set out a tray, laden with goodies, waited for Heather’s signal, then quickly disappeared.
“You come from a rich family,” Spense said, and by the look on Heather’s face, he knew she didn’t much like his bringing that up. “Not an accusation. Just stating a fact.”
Heather’s lips flattened. “I don’t see how it’s a relevant one.”
The press had lambasted Matt Cambridge and his wife for coming from wealth and privilege. They’d dubbed them the spoiled rancher and his princess bride. To her credit, Heather seemed to take it all in stride, laughingly referring to herself and her husband as “the brats.” Her easygoing personality played well with the public. She’d one-upped the press and turned their dig in her favor. “I only mention it because Cindy’s family . . . wasn’t. Her youth was spent in mobile-home parks, bouncing from relative to relative.”
“True.”
“So, it just seems an odd pairing. I’m wondering how you and she came to be such good friends.”
A nostalgic look came over her face. “You want to know how Cindy and I became friends?” Then she smiled, the same way she had just before she’d relayed the story of Governor Hogg pressing tacks into the banister to thwart his children. “We met,” she paused, to great effect, “by bobby pins.”
Spense leaned forward. “I bet there’s a great story behind that.”
Heather needed no more encouragement. Her voice was animated, and she gesticulated while she spoke. Spense got the feeling she’d told this story many times, that it was a favorite of hers.
“My parents believed that even though they were wealthy, their children shouldn’t be sheltered from the real world. When she met my father, my mother was a teacher, and she believed private schools segregated the rich from the poor. She was quite the advocate for public schools.”
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