Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  One brow raised heavenward. “Who hit you, LeAnne?”

  “No one.” She laughed nervously. “I ran into a door, is all. Clumsy me.”

  She knew by the look on Joe’s face he hadn’t believed her any more than Bob had. But her personal life was none of their business.

  “What I’m saying is, I have poured my heart into this case. We had a suspect—Marcus Gallego. At the time, he looked like a damn good suspect.”

  “And if it weren’t for Debra Lewis, we would have sent an innocent man away for a very long time. Any more brilliant ideas?”

  LeAnne squared her shoulders. “I really don’t think that was fair, sir, as a friend or a colleague.”

  Joe started pacing again, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “You’re right. It was a potshot. Tell me what we do have.”

  “Three good suspects. Allen Wymer was seen with and has admitted to sleeping with Jillian Gallego. Now we can also link him to Miranda Holliday.”

  Joe stopped; his eyes widened. “Wymer was dating the Holliday woman also?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Knock off the sir bullshit.”

  “When you treat me like an equal.”

  “All right, I’m sorry for the shot, but, dammit, LeAnne, we need to get this case solved and fast. Before…”

  “It hurts your election next term?”

  Fire radiated in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “I guess it’s my turn to apologize for the potshot.”

  He leaned against the window casing and crossed his arms over his chest. Her apology had not placated him. She would pay for her comment—probably dearly. “I was going to say, before anyone else wound up dead. What else do we have?”

  “Blade D’Angelo. He’s a fellow biker and a friend of Snake’s. One who is known to have no love lost for his buddy’s wife.”

  “Can you connect him to Miranda Holliday?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

  “You said three suspects. Who’s the third?”

  She stiffened her shoulders. LeAnne knew the sheriff would not like this one at all, especially if he was concerned about that election.

  “Anthony Hargrove.”

  “What?” Joe nearly shouted. “If the judge knew you added his boy to our list of suspects, he’d be down here so fast he’d make your head spin. Where the hell did you pull this idea from? A magic hat?”

  LeAnne stood, braced her palms on the shiny surface of the sheriff’s oak desk, and glared at him. “I’m tired of the insinuations today that I’m incompetent. You realize, I’m not the only one running this case. Are you going to make these same insinuations to Bob Reese when you see him?”

  “No,” Joe stammered.

  “Then what the hell just crawled up your butt?”

  “Look, LeAnne. I’ve got pressure coming from all sides to solve this case, and fast. The public wants answers; the press is hounding me. We got three dead people now in this county, and one in Defiance County. Three of the four we believe to be connected. I want some good suspects, not some cockamamie bullshit idea about Judge Hargrove’s son.”

  “I saw him the other day at the Harley shop, two holes in the knees of his jeans and one leg of the pants had red paint on it.”

  “And?”

  “He’s very promiscuous.”

  Joe chuckled. “He’s promiscuous. That’s it?”

  “He lives near Jillian Gallego.”

  “So does Chad. Are you going to hold that against him as well?”

  “No,” she scoffed at the absurdity. “Tony Hargrove has admittedly slept with married women.”

  “Jillian? Miranda?”

  “Well, no. I can’t tie him to the two just yet.”

  “Oh, for chrissake, LeAnne. What you have is red paint on his knee, torn jeans, and an attraction for married women—which, at this point, does not include the murder victims. If Judge Hargrove got wind of this, he’d be after me to demote you. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I suggest you go back and reexamine your facts. Blade D’Angelo might be a good start. See if you can’t connect him with Miranda Holliday. And Wymer might not be a bad idea either; that is, as you say, you can connect him with both women. I suggest you work both angles—but stay away from Tony Hargrove.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  LeAnne’s ire rose, as did the heat in her face. She spun on her heel to exit the office. When she got to the door, he called out. She turned and glared at him.

  “Take care of your personal life, LeAnne. Don’t let it affect your work.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” And she stomped off down the hall.

  Chapter 19

  Samantha Duncan sat in the metal chair at the long table in the conference room of the sheriff’s office, her husband Hank at her side, his arm extended over the back of her chair. Her eyes looked red and puffy from a long day of crying, her nose sore from countless times of blowing it.

  LeAnne stepped further into the room and took a seat opposite the couple. She moved to the side the large stack of papers and files she had been looking over, hoping somewhere in the pile she’d find the answer she sought.

  “Mrs. Duncan, Mr. Duncan. I’m glad you could make it.” She glanced down at the thin wristband watch. “And, I see, right on time.”

  “We’ve been waiting nearly fifteen minutes,” Hank said, his tone testy.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Duncan. I was just informed that you were in this room. Please accept my apology.”

  “We’ve only arrived in here,” Samantha clarified. “We were waiting downstairs for you.”

  “Then I owe you a bigger apology. You should have been led here at the time of your arrival.” LeAnne thought of Suzy Lawson and made a mental note to inform the woman that she should alert LeAnne the minute someone arrives. “I will see that this problem is corrected.”

  “What is it you want, Detective?” Hank asked, shifting in his chair. “I really am a busy man, and I don’t have time to be ushering my wife around. Can we get this over with? Samantha has been through enough already.”

  “Of course,” LeAnne agreed. Jerk. Hank Duncan was about as personable as a pit bull. “Samantha, did you compile that list of men you know to have dated Cora in the last six months or so?”

  Samantha reached into her purse and extracted a neatly folded paper with about twelve names listed. “These are the ones I know of. But I’m certain there are a few she didn’t tell me about or that I’ve forgotten.”

  LeAnne scanned the paper. Quite the list for only six months; imagine if she would have asked for a couple of years. LeAnne recognized a few of the names, but no one stood out in particular.

  “Why wouldn’t she tell you about someone she might have been dating? You two were friends, weren’t you?”

  “Well, yes,” Samantha stammered. “I mean we talked about a lot of guys she liked, maybe even dated just once—but those were the only ones I could remember. Cora liked men and they seemed to like her even more.”

  “I see. Did any of these men seem angry when she stopped dating them?”

  “Not that I know of. Most of them were like Cora herself. They were out for a good time, not much else.”

  “Not a real good thing to do in these days. Did she always make them wear condoms?”

  “Pardon me?” Samantha asked, her brows meeting above the bridge of her nose.

  “I’m trying to establish a possible reason for killing her—a motive. Somebody was real upset with Miss Smith, enough so to kill her. With HIV as a possibility…”

  “Oh, no.” Samantha shook her head from side to side. “Cora didn’t have HIV, Detective. That she would have told me.”

  “I’m sure she would have. But what if one of the men sleeping with her got upset about her multiple partners, worried about her contacting HIV and not telling him?”

  “Most men that went o
ut with Cora knew she was promiscuous. I don’t think that sounds like a reason someone might kill her.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “You know, there was one person she went out with I forgot about. She said she slept with him just once. He said he was going to be a big-time lawyer someday. She laughed him off, told him she was far from impressed. With a daddy like his, anyone could be a lawyer.”

  LeAnne leaned forward; anticipation snaked up her spine. “His name? Do you remember it?”

  “She never told me, Detective. She said he was some spoiled rich kid, was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Cora never was one to be impressed by money, not that kind, anyway. She had a thing for doctors, like I told you before.” Samantha blushed as she looked to her lap. “Besides, she said he wasn’t very big. She said if she was going to screw something, she should at least be able to feel it.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Hank spoke up, pushing back his chair from the table, the legs screeching against the tiles. “What the hell does that have to do with Cora Smith getting strangled? Hell, the way I look at, she had it coming. She slept with half of Henry County, for crying out loud!”

  “That doesn’t get someone murdered, Mr. Duncan,” LeAnne said. “I’m trying to establish a motive and if her sex life figures into the maze, then I want to know about every aspect. Somewhere along the line, Cora Smith made someone angry enough to want her dead.”

  Disgruntled, Hank settled back in his chair. Samantha patted his knee. “It’s all right, Hank, really.”

  “This boy,” LeAnne broke in, “you don’t know anything more about him? Who his daddy is?”

  “He rode a Harley.” Samantha brightened up. “A red one. I remember Cora saying the best thing between his legs was his red Harley.”

  Tony Hargrove.

  Red flashing warning signs flickered like neon in her head. Sheriff Drake had specifically asked her to stay away from him. Now, here Tony was, his name popping up into yet another murder case. This time, she could link him. Or could she? A red Harley-Davidson could hardly be called substantial evidence. But how many prominent men’s sons, who wanted to be a lawyer in this area, rode red Harleys? According to Sheriff Drake, probably too many to warrant an investigation.

  Yeah, when pigs fly.

  * * *

  A red bandanna, torn in two and sealed tightly in a plastic bag lay beside LeAnne on the seat of her car. She headed north on County Road 13 in the direction of Snake Gallego’s’ house, with Tony Hargrove still fresh in her mind. Joe Drake had asked, no, told her to stay away from Tony in her investigation.

  And of course, she would.

  But the Hargroves better pray that Anthony’s name stayed clear of her investigations from here on out. Should his name pop up again, the gloves would come off, and she would microscope every aspect of his life.

  As it stood for now, she wanted to concentrate on where the bandannas came from. If she could prove the murderer took the rag from the Gallego household and had not come from just any mechanic, then she would be able to link Jillian’s, Miranda’s, and the caretaker’s deaths. Although, she knew in her gut, the same person took the life of all three victims.

  She just needed proof.

  The sun descended the horizon as she pulled into the long drive of the Gallego household. The gravel crunched beneath the sedan’s wheels. A lone light glowed softly in one of the front windows. LeAnne hoped that meant Marcus was indeed home, because if she were completely honest with herself, her other reason for coming here had nothing to do with the case. She needed to see for herself that Marcus had survived yesterday’s beating.

  Not to mention the news she had of Bull Grant’s arrest.

  LeAnne wanted to deliver that in person. Bull had spent few hours on the outside before breaking his parole. The city police took him back to CCNO on a domestic violence charge. Seems Bull had a beef with his girlfriend, too.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, she lightly ran a hand over her swollen cheek. Marcus would notice. Hopefully, though, he’d keep his comments to himself, for the last thing she wanted to do was make excuses for her or Chad’s behavior last night.

  The car door closed and she walked up the cobblestone to the rear of the house. With no sidewalk to the front, LeAnne knew all visitors used the rear entrance. The wooden screen door slapped loudly against the frame as she knocked. Shuffling of papers could be heard from inside and what sounded like a recliner’s foot rest slammed down.

  Marcus’s silhouette advanced toward the back door and was nearly upon her before she could see his dark, brooding expression. Snake did not appear too happy about her sudden presence.

  His gaze lowered; his brows met over the bridge of his nose. “What the hell happened to you?” he grumbled as he opened the screen door.

  LeAnne self-consciously rubbed the swollen area. She heard herself give the same bad excuse, “I ran into the door,” as she looked quickly to the ground.

  Snake’s fingers touched her chin and brought her gaze up. “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You may be able to use that bullshit line on everyone else, but I was there last night. Remember?”

  “I did it after you left.”

  “I’m not saying it didn’t happen after I left. I’m saying you didn’t run into the damn door. You ran into…”

  “Please, Marcus.”

  He studied her face before stepping aside, thankfully letting the subject drop. LeAnne entered the barely-lit kitchen, her eyes darting about.

  Jillian’s prone body flashed through her mind.

  Sprawled face-up on the white sheets. Eyes wide and sightless.

  Hands bound to the bed posts. Legs askew.

  LeAnne shook off the image, but not the fact that Jillian’s stamp seemed everywhere. The ecru lace curtains in the kitchen window; the ducks with blue ribbons about their necks, marching in a line along the wall border; the jars filled with flour, sugar, and coffee. Though spotless and dust free, the room looked as if it hadn’t been used since Jillian’s death.

  Snake walked into the living room, leaving LeAnne to follow quietly. A crocheted quilt draped the back of the floral sofa, while a large wreath with dried flowers hung above it. A mauve recliner sat by an end table with an attached lamp.

  The glowing light she had seen coming up the driveway.

  The only disorder to the room were newspapers scattered to the side of the chair. A thirty-two inch television sat on about twenty feet away, muted. Above it, a sixteen-by-twenty wedding picture hung of Snake pledging his vows to Jillian, Snake’s motorcycle silhouetted in the background. Unique as wedding photos go, but stunning nonetheless.

  The thing that caught LeAnne’s eyes, though, was the devotion she saw in Snake’s gaze as he looked at his lovely bride.

  Jillian’s touch surrounded the house; her presence snaked up LeAnne’s legs and curled around her body like a mighty python, threatening to choke the life from her.

  “Is something wrong?” Snake asked, obviously seeing LeAnne’s distress.

  She had never been good at hiding her emotions. And this—this she had no business feeling distraught over. Jillian Gallego had been Snake’s wife, and LeAnne would soon be Chad’s.

  Clearing her throat, she turned to face Marcus. His arms crossed over his bare chest. He wore nothing more than cutoffs. She couldn’t believe she had not noticed the moment she arrived.

  “Don’t you ever wear clothes?”

  A smile itched at the corner of his lips. The swelling had alleviated somewhat. “I am. Why? Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  “Yes—I mean, no,” she stammered, heat rising to her ears. “What I mean is, this is your house.”

  “For a minute there, the way you looked around, I didn’t think you realized.”

  “It’s just that you’re a mechanic…a man.”

  “Jillian decorated the house.”

  “That’s pretty obvious.”

  He laughed. “Did you expect to find motorcycle pa
rts littering the carpet and grease on every clean surface?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what did you expect, LeAnne? Jillian lived here, too.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  A lengthy pause followed. “Is there a reason you came?”

  LeAnne reached a shaky hand into her jacket pocket and extracted the plastic bag tagged as evidence. “Have you ever seen this?”

  Snake laughed again. “Yeah, and several more like it. My drawers are full of them upstairs.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if one of them were missing?”

  “Not likely.”

  “No way of telling if this came from your house?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “We found this at another murder site…”

  “The Doc’s wife?”

  “Yes. Frank said that Miranda and he owned none like it. This is what tied Miranda’s wrists to her bed.”

  His expression darkened. “I know what you’re thinking. I was at CCNO at the time.”

  “I know—talking to me. I’m your alibi.”

  “I guess I couldn’t have asked for a more airtight one.”

  LeAnne grinned. “I’m just trying to see if there’s a possible connection between the two cases. If the killer took this from your house, then I can connect them.”

  “What made you think the bandanna came from here? It’s not like they’re unusual.”

  “The BCI lab in Bowling Green found Hylomar.”

  “A gasket adhesive.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not the only mechanic to use the stuff.”

  “I know. That’s why I brought the bandanna out for you to look at.”

  “I wish I could tell you positively that it’s mine, but I’d bet a dozen other mechanics in this area use some just like it.”

  LeAnne’s shoulders dropped in defeat. It’s not like she hadn’t expected that answer. Maybe hoped…

  Snake took a few steps in her direction. “What else brought you here, LeAnne?”

  Her eyes widened. “Um—I wanted to tell you Bull Grant was arrested this morning. Seems he used his girlfriend’s face as a punching bag as well. He went back to CCNO for a parole violation.”