Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  He saw her legs first. His gaze stayed on them only briefly, then swept up her lean body past her hips to her breasts, and finally came to rest on her cool green eyes. Definitely an attractive woman.

  She cleared her throat. “Mr. Gallego.”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. One side of his lips quirked upward. “Stop with the bull, Detective. The name’s Snake.”

  “Okay, Snake.” She slightly nodded her head. “In a few minutes, we’re going to take you to CCNO where you will be booked. You are charged with the—”

  “So, you told me.”

  “You have a right to seek council,” she reminded him.

  He had been wrong. She wasn’t merely a pretty face, she was downright stunning.

  “I told you, I didn’t do anything.”

  “Then one will be appointed for you.”

  He shrugged. “All right, we can do this your way.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “You can make this easy on yourself, you know.” He raised one brow. “And how’s that, Detective?”

  “Confess.”

  Snake chuckled, his lips curving upward, then he tilted back his head, chortling loudly. But as quickly as it began, it ended; his facial muscles tightened as he glared at the female deputy. He approached the bars and slammed his palms against the cool metal, making her jump.

  “Get this straight, Detective.” He hissed, feeling the ache of his jaw clear to his temples. “I didn’t kill my wife. So stick that in your pretty little derriere a while and contemplate it.”

  Her cheeks reddened as her chin lifted a notch. “Well, that’s not the way I see it, Snake. And what I say is going to count. Winning over my opinion can only be a plus to you, so I suggest you keep your crude comments to yourself. Now is there anything you might want to tell me and save me the trouble of having to find out on my own?”

  Snake considered telling her the truth. But what good would it do?

  In her mind, he was already guilty without the benefit of trial. “I told you, I have nothing to say.”

  * * *

  LeAnne clenched her jaw. This man infuriated her, and she would be damned if she knew why. She gave him every opportunity to prove to her she had been wrong. And yet here he stood, refusing to say a word. For some reason she wanted him to prove her wrong, wanted him to be innocent, and just maybe it was for nothing more than wanting to champion the underdog.

  She knew all the evidence in the case pointed to him. In a homicide, a good detective always looks first at the spouse, should there be one. Overwhelming statistics proved this theory more times than not. He had no alibi, his DNA and fingerprints were at the scene, no sign of a struggle, and he had motive—one hell of a motive.

  Snake Gallego’s wife had been messing around behind his back, making a mockery of both him and their marriage. He had even been overheard telling his boss how much he wanted to strangle the life from her.

  “The way I see it, Gallego,” LeAnne said, beginning to pace in front of his cell, “you found out Jillian was sleeping around on you. Not only that, but she wasn’t even trying to hide it. You couldn’t handle the fact she had been warming someone else’s mattress, or that all your friends knew about it as well. You were being made a laughingstock.

  “You went home on the day in question; she had on a slinky little number, because she knew you had found out. She wanted to seduce you out of your anger.”

  LeAnne stopped pacing and looked at Gallego. His face was taut with suppressed rage.

  “Am I close so far?”

  “Go on,” he said tightly.

  “I think you argued, threw things around the house, broke a few framed pictures, a couple of lamps, and some dishes. The more she cried, the angrier you got. But that excited her, didn’t it?”

  “Would you like to find out, Detective?”

  LeAnne’s gaze snapped up to his. “I think I could live without your kind of seduction, Gallego.” She stiffened her shoulders. “The way I see it, Jillian got more than she bargained for.”

  “Which part, Detective? The foreplay…or the climax?”

  His unruffled composure grew to one of malevolence. A shudder passed through her. She suddenly felt blessed for the steel bars separating them.

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “I think the foreplay was what she asked for, after all—she liked it rough.”

  Snake grinned. “And you would know this?”

  “There wasn’t any marks on her body indicating a struggle, no defense wounds, Snake. But what she hadn’t bargained for was the climax. You tied her wrists to the post of the bed with your bandannas.”

  “Her wrists were tied to the bed?”

  LeAnne could see the unanswered question in his eyes, telling her he might not have known that fact. Nothing more than a good job of acting. “As if you wouldn’t know.”

  Again, he slammed his palms against the bars, rattling them.

  LeAnne’s heart thudded in her chest.

  “I said I didn’t know,” he gritted through clenched teeth, moisture gathering in his eyes. “The last time I saw her, she was alive.”

  “As I was saying,” LeAnne turned her back on him and resumed pacing, “you tied her wrists, had intercourse, then in the process, wrapped your fingers high around her throat, eventually snapping the hyoid bone. In fact, I think you enjoyed it so much that you tortured her first.”

  “What?” He yelled loud enough to bring her to a standstill and make her gape at him. “You think I tortured her? You’ve really gone too far. Lady, you’re delusional.”

  LeAnne stepped up to the bars, yet far enough away that he would not be able to grab her, had he the inclination to strangle her next.

  “The autopsy shows there were slight hemorrhages inside Jillian’s eyelids.”

  Snake’s fingers curled around the bars. LeAnne could easily imagine them wrapped around Jillian’s throat. “Meaning?” The word was husky yet controlled.

  “Meaning the killer took his time strangling her. Tightening his hands around her throat to near unconsciousness, then allowing her to breathe again, only to start all over. We estimate the torture went on for a period of forty-five minutes to an hour—no sign of struggle, no defense wounds.”

  Snake stumbled backward, looking as though he had just received a severe blow to the stomach. Falling heavily onto the mattress, he hid his face in the palms of his hands, saying nothing.

  After a few moments of silence, LeAnne whispered his name, thinking maybe he had thought her gone. He turned to look at her, his gaze haunted.

  “Do you have anything you want to tell me before going to CCNO?”

  Snake jumped to his feet and approached the bars, wrapping his fingers once again around the yellow steel.

  “Yeah,” he hissed. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter 2

  “So what did he have to say for himself?” Joe asked.

  “Nothing,” LeAnne grumbled as she took a seat in a finely-crafted leather chair opposite the sheriff. A large oak desk separated them.

  Certificates and plaques littered the papered walls as well as a painted picture of the sheriff, given to him as a gift. The portrait, with its incredible likeness, seemed to capture his warm demeanor.

  Joe smiled pleasantly. His classic good looks had earned him his fair share of women, but LeAnne had never been one of them.

  They had been friends for years, since she joined the force, but that was as far as it went. LeAnne couldn’t get beyond their relationship as it stood. And friends did not make great lovers, at least not in her past experience. Besides, once you slept with someone, there was no turning back. She had made it clear to Sheriff Joseph Drake, there would never be any more between them. And now she had a fiancé to consider.

  “You know I don’t believe you for a minute,” he said. “I’ve known you for too long, LeAnne, not to know when something is bothering you. Marcus Gallego has rattled your cage. Wh
at did he have to say?”

  LeAnne released a shaken breath, glanced down at her feet, then back at the sheriff. “I’m not so sure he’s guilty.”

  Joe snorted and rolled his eyes. “Good God, LeAnne, don’t let his handsome face distort the facts. I’m sure he’s charmed many women with those looks, but don’t allow it to keep you from seeing what’s right in front of your face. We can place him there—DNA, prints.”

  “He lived there. Christ, Joe, if you go through my house, I bet you’ll find my prints all over the place, too.”

  “True enough, but what about the seminal fluid? We found stains on the sheets; granted it wasn’t a neat sample, because it had been mixed with the victim’s own body fluids, but the standard blood and saliva tests of both parties were done—the rape kit proves they had sex. Found pubic hairs were consistent with his.”

  “So, they had sex. It was his wife, for crying out loud. Why do you think he volunteered the samples?”

  “It was a smoke screen. Of course we’re to assume they had sex. That’s what husbands and wives do. So by volunteering his samples, he’s not saying they didn’t have sex. He’s trying to make us think he didn’t kill her. Why would the killer volunteer what would ultimately convict him?”

  Joe stood and walked to the window, glancing out at the Henry County Bank across the street. “What I don’t buy is this man made love to his wife after he found out she was having an affair. Sex, maybe, but there was no love involved. He wanted to punish her.” He looked over his shoulder at LeAnne, his eyes incredulous. “I sure in the hell wouldn’t want to make love with my wife, after hearing she was screwing half the county.”

  “You’re not even married,” she scoffed. “Anyway, it wasn’t half the county.”

  “That’s beside the point.” He rested one shoulder on the window frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “If it were Chad, your fiancé, what would you do? Hell, AIDS is always an issue. I don’t know, seems a bit of a stretch to me to believe Marcus and Jillian were having casual sex, when he knew she was sleeping with someone else.”

  “I don’t think anything was casual about Snake and Jillian’s relationship, least of all the sex.” LeAnne leaned back and rubbed her jaw. “Besides, what about the third pubic hair we found? It wasn’t consistent with either Snake or Jillian.”

  “So, it was her boyfriend’s,” he replied, causing her gaze to flit back to his.

  LeAnne looked at him in awe. How could he possibly suggest…

  “She had sex with him, too? Same day? Didn’t shower between her lover and husband? Come on, Joe.”

  The sheriff glanced back out the window. “It’s not only possible, it’s probable.”

  “Then what about DNA? The only seminal fluid found was Gallego’s.”

  Joe retook his seat in the high-backed leather chair. He took a sip of coffee from the green ceramic mug on his desk, then returned his attention to LeAnne.

  “That’s where the latex residue the lab found comes into play. The boyfriend wore a condom. Still proves nothing. Look, LeAnne,” he tapped his finger on the desktop, “the motive proves everything. Gallego had one—we don’t know the boyfriend did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If you’re so sure Gallego didn’t do it, find the boyfriend. Prove he had a motive and then we’ll talk again.” He raised his palms and shrugged. “Otherwise, we have an open-and-shut case. Marcus Gallego was pissed off at his wife for sleeping around, had sex with her and, in the process, strangled her to death. It’s in the prosecutor’s hands now.”

  “Marcus Gallego must be a sadist, then.”

  Joe’s gaze snapped up to LeAnne’s. “Excuse me?”

  “A sadist,” LeAnne repeated. “The autopsy shows he strangled her off and on for a period of over forty-five minutes. That’s torture in anyone’s book.”

  “So, he tortured her. That fact has already been proven. I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “I don’t know.” She drew her lower lip into her mouth, biting it. “I was just thinking back to some of the courses I took. It seems, in similar cases, the killer’s sexual draw comes from being in control, manually strangling the victim. I mean, why take forty-five minutes to do it? If it was Marcus, then why not kill her immediately? He’s ticked off, remember?”

  Joe took in a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “You might have something. I’ll go with you on this one. Check out some of Gallego’s old girlfriends, see if he had any sexual oddities. Something about this torture doesn’t sit right with me, either. Call it intuition, but I don’t think a man just starts torturing women overnight—even if he is severely ticked off at his wife. Meanwhile, I’ll check Gallego’s past records.”

  * * *

  Marcus sat in the back of the deputies’ cruiser, watching the houses and businesses turn into trees and vast flatland as they traveled down State Route 6 to 34. Cornfields scattered one side of the road, beans rose on the other.

  His ankles were shackled together, while a chain led from them up to his arms, where it connected with the cuffs on his wrists. Wire mesh separated him from the two deputies in the front seat and the back doors opened only from the outside.

  Once again, Marcus was completely alone.

  He had been for most of his life, having no family to speak of. His mother and father had divorced when he was at an early age, his mother leaving for California, thinking to find a better life. Which she must have found, for he never heard from her again.

  His father tried his best, but he worked around the clock, placing Marcus at his grandparents’ most of the day, when he wasn’t at school. Grandma and Grandpa had both passed away before his graduation. He had no brothers or sisters, and his father died from a heart attack nearly a year ago. Probably worked himself to death, the doctor figured.

  Other than Jillian, his family had been his friends, and now he was alienated from them as well. Snake shifted in his seat, rattling his chains, causing one deputy to glance behind.

  “Don’t get any wise ideas, Gallego,” he said with an annoying laugh.

  “What the hell do you think I can do from back here?” Marcus asked sarcastically, earning him another snigger from the deputy in the passenger’s seat.

  “This one’s a real wise guy,” he said to the driver, slapping him with the back of his hand in the upper arm. “With a face as pretty as his, he’s going to need his wits, where he’s headed, or he’s liable to wind up someone’s back door.”

  “Screw you,” Gallego said, laying his head back on the seat, closing his eyes.

  Both deputies chuckled.

  How in the hell did he get himself into these situations? Damn Jillian for not using better judgment. If she would have just kept her legs closed for once in her life…

  Long, silent moments later, aside from the occasional squaw from the police radio, the driver said, “You’re home, Gallego,” and pulled the car around to the sally port of the correction center.

  Large fenced gates, trimmed with razor wire, opened to allow the cruiser passage, clanging loudly behind them as they sealed off any possible exit, much like a large boulder rolled in front of the opening of a cave.

  A cold shiver passed down Snake’s spine. He had been in for misdemeanors before, but never for something as serious as murder. Never for hard time. Snake wondered if he would ever be free to ride his Harley again, or if the rest of his days would be spent inside the razor-wired fence of some state pen. He vowed, if he ever got out and found Jillian’s real murderer, he would jump on his Softail and never look back. It was time to leave Henry County and their judgmental attitudes far behind. Too bad he hadn’t realized it sooner.

  One of the deputies opened the door and, grasping him by the upper arm, assisted him out of the car. Snake stood, looking at the red-bricked prison.

  Corrections Center of Northwest Ohio. CCNO, his new home.

  The doors to the intake vestibule buzzed. One deputy ope
ned them and allowed the other to escort Snake inside. He took small steps, the chains rattling with every movement, reminding him how dire his present situation actually was.

  The officers quickly patted Snake down, then took him to a holding cell where they removed his constraints, and he awaited the booking process. He had been through this before, except this time it called for him to sit in a cell rather than the waiting area. This time, murder one loomed over his head like a vulture circling in for the kill.

  The cell seemed smaller than the one at the sheriff’s office. One corner sported a shiny metal cot with no mattress, while the other had a toilet combination sink and a piece of steel bolted firmly to the wall for a mirror.

  Here they had no bars, but white cement blocks for walls, and a steel door with a long, thin window. Everything appeared sterile. Snake supposed the chalky color lent to the illusion.

  He sat on the cold, steel bed, raking his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, and leaned against the cool cement-block wall. Surely, they couldn’t prosecute an innocent man. Something had to point to his innocence. But at this point, he had no alibis, no one to count on.

  Maybe the time had come to seek a lawyer and not some court- appointed patsy. But he had little money—not the kind of money a lengthy trial would require.

  The detective running the case slammed into his thoughts. LeAnne McVeigh. She wanted him put behind bars for the rest of his life. There was no doubt, in her eyes, that Marcus Gallego had strangled his wife to her death on the night in question. She would be the one presenting the case to the prosecutor.

  Now, three long months past Jillian’s death, Snake sat alone and glanced upon his hands. His fingers were long, his hands rather large. Large enough to wrap around even the thickest of throats; strong enough to squeeze the life from someone.

  But of course he hadn’t, nor had he ever possessed the inclination. Somehow, he needed to convince Detective McVeigh of that.