Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  LeAnne placed her hand above the fly of his jeans, rubbing with a painfully patient stride. “This slow enough for you?”

  “God, honey, any slower and you’ll have me tossing you on your back right here.”

  A wanton grin raised her cheeks. “Not this time. I have a better suggestion.”

  “What’s that?”

  She stepped from his embrace. “We use the bed,” she said, then disappeared through the bedroom door, leaving a trail of discarded clothing.

  As he said before, he need only be asked once. Snake pushed the jeans off his hips, stepped out of them, and followed her to the opened door.

  On a stand beside the bedroom, Snake’s gaze landed on a small framed picture of Chad Baker. He carefully laid it face down.

  “You can stay out here,” he said, then disappeared through the same doorway.

  * * *

  LeAnne lay in the crook of Snake’s arm as he wrapped it around her, holding her tightly even in his sound sleep. His slow, even breathing seemed to indicate his recent satisfaction. After making love to her, he had pulled her against him and promptly fallen asleep.

  His soft snore soothed away her apprehensions and feelings of guilt as she cuddled next to him. She closed her eyes. This, she could get used to. Chad hated to cuddle. He preferred more to roll on his side and give her his back. LeAnne never questioned it, merely accepted it.

  Now, she wondered about her and Chad’s relationship—or if they even had one to go back to. Surely, Marcus would be no more ready to offer her anything other than what they already had. A quick jump in the sack.

  But after all that had transpired, it would be wrong of her to continue with Chad as if nothing had happened. The decision was made. As soon as he came home from Boston, she would have no choice but to break off the engagement. With that conclusion, she snuggled into Snake’s embrace, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Moments, or hours later, she could not be sure, the phone rang, startling them both. But before LeAnne could stop him, Marcus grasped the receiver.

  “Hello?” he grumbled sleepily into it. “Yeah, yeah…it’s okay,” he said, then replaced it in the cradle.

  “Who was it?” LeAnne asked, her heart thudding like a jackhammer.

  Marcus pulled her against him. “Wrong number,” he whispered, stirring the hairs at the top of her head.

  LeAnne slipped her arms around him. Dread sat in the pit of her stomach. “You really shouldn’t have answered the phone.”

  “I’m sorry.” He yawned into the back of his hand in a languid stretch. “I grabbed it before I knew what I was doing. Hell, I thought I was home, in my own bed.”

  “It could have been Chad,” she whispered in guilt.

  He moved with a swiftness that moments ago she swore he didn’t possess and set her slightly away. “And what if it was?”

  In all honesty, LeAnne said, “I don’t know.”

  “He’s bound to find out sooner or later.” His tone spoke of his rising agitation even if she could not see it.

  “It’s just not the best way for him to find out.”

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself. “Does it really matter to you?”

  Snake crossed his arms behind his head, staring at her, unconcerned about his nudity. “Should it?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Marcus, can’t I get a straight answer from you?

  You’re always answering my questions with one of your own.”

  “Why is it so important to you what I think? If you want to break it off with Chad—then do it. You don’t need my permission.”

  “I didn’t ask for it.”

  “Then what the hell do you want from me, LeAnne? I’m a biker. You’re a cop. And right now, I don’t even have a job, because I pissed off the best friend I ever had. If you’re looking for something from me, then maybe you ought to stay with the prosecutor.”

  Dead silence lingered like the Grim Reaper. “Is that what you want?”

  Snake leapt from the bed and went into the living room to retrieve his jeans, leaving LeAnne to stare after him in stunned silence.

  When he reappeared in the opened doorway, he ran his hand through his unkempt hair, glaring at her through the room. If it hadn’t been for the moonlight shining on his face through her bedroom window, she might have thought him uncaring altogether. As it was, something darkened his gaze; something lay beneath his carefully controlled surface.

  “I better go,” he finally said. “Yeah, maybe you better.”

  “I think I’ve caused you enough trouble for one lifetime.” Then, he turned and left.

  LeAnne didn’t move until she heard the back door close. Sheet still wrapped about her, she walked to the front window and glanced out. The bike started with a soft rumble, then pulled out of her garage, down the driveway, and out of sight. The last thing LeAnne saw was the stubborn set of Snake’s shoulders.

  She knew then that she loved him, probably always would. Even if their worlds were too far apart ever to bridge that gap.

  * * *

  Sweat beaded his brow. Steam surely rose from the top of his blonde head. Good Lord, he had never been so infuriated and forlorn in his life. He lay wide awake, the receiver of the phone still in his perspiring palm.

  He had instantly recognized the voice of Marcus Gallego in his own goddam home. Had he been there to be a witness to it, he might have cut the son-of-a-bitch’s heart out. With a butter knife, no less. How dare Snake screw his fiancée in his own goddam bed?

  Chad slammed the receiver on the cradle and roared into the darkness, not caring who he woke. LeAnne had been his. His, dammit. And now she lay like some whore beneath a rutting grease-ball biker.

  Chad stood on shaky legs and ran the short distance to the bathroom, bile rising up his throat like the purging of a volcano.

  His stomach now emptied, he looked at his pale reflection in the mirror and cried for the first time in his God-forsaken life.

  Chapter 26

  The warrant for Tony Hargrove took little time to get; the sealing nail on his coffin being the 911 call made from the Gallego household, the night of Jillian’s murder. LeAnne had finally realized why the caller had sounded so familiar. Upon listening to it a second time, she discovered the voice belonged to none other than Judge Hargrove’s son. Sheriff Drake called in favors to obtain the warrant, leaving the judge spitting mad, his bald pate reddening the color of ripe tomatoes. They would all pay, and dearly, each and every one of them, if LeAnne’s angle did not pan out and Tony Hargrove turned out to be guilty of nothing more than being at the wrong place at the wrong time, not to mention his bad judgment in the women he chose to sleep with.

  Bob Reese sat beside her, rubbing his palms together, his hair mused from countless raking, barely able to sit still in the detective’s sedan. Behind them, Sheriff Drake accompanied Deputies Jenson and Henderson. Though all were in an obvious hurry, no lights flashed, no sirens blared. There would be no warnings to alert Tony and have him jumping ship before their arrival.

  Hopefully, Judge Hargrove had not called the boy himself and told him of the standing warrant for his arrest. Had he not been scheduled in court this morning, LeAnne knew the judge would have raced the sheriff’s office to his hilltop home and protected his boy at all costs.

  The two cruisers turned into the long, circular driveway and pulled to a reverberating halt in front of the elegant, two-story estate. Large white pillars reached to the top of the house; the second story opened onto a large porch stretching the length of the home. Rich green landscaping adorned the front and graced the walkways. Only the wealth of one so prominent could afford the upkeep of a home such as this.

  Closed double doors, each sporting a large grapevine wreath with a blood-colored bow seemingly dripping from them, greeted the officers. All drapes on the second floor drew tight, allowing no light admittance. LeAnne’s intuition raised the hairs at her nape as she exited the sedan;
her hand automatically going to the gun at her side and checking its readiness. She led the pack to the front door, where a deputy stood to either side, nine millimeters up and at the ready. Sheriff Drake came to stand beside her, Bob Reese to his right.

  Joe pushed the doorbell, the sound echoing about the large home. After a brief pause, a small, frail woman in her near to mid-sixties answered.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform. Her eyes darted to the two deputies with their guns drawn; her hand fluttered over her chest.

  “We’re here to see Anthony Hargrove, ma’am,” the Sheriff said. “Is he in residence?”

  “Well, he…yes,” she stuttered. “He was just in the kitchen a moment ago. Has he done something wrong?”

  “We’re not at liberty to say, ma’am.” The sheriff pulled a few folded sheets of paper from his breast pocket and handed them to her. “But we do have a warrant to search the premises and one for his arrest.”

  “Oh, my.” She fanned herself with a tremulous hand, her complexion going deathly pale.

  Joe grasped the tiny woman by the elbow and gently led her to a nearby sofa as Bob Reese called out Tony’s name.

  No answer.

  The two deputies scanned the main floor as Bob and LeAnne took the stairs, two at a time. As they reached the landing, guns drawn, LeAnne traveled the corridor to the left, as Bob went to the right.

  The only sound was the soft, consoling voice of Sheriff Drake as he attempted to calm the elderly maid.

  LeAnne poked her head into the first door.

  A four-poster, king-size bed with an antique quilt sat against the far wall. Rich cherry-wood furniture, highly polished, decorated the interior. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. An over-large sport coat hanging across a free-standing mirror told her this room belonged to the judge.

  She hastened to the next opened door, finding a powder room, connected to a bathroom. Inching further into the powder room, LeAnne saw the shower curtain rustle.

  Her hearing sharpened; her heart pounded in her ears.

  She used the muzzle of her gun to push open the half-closed door to the restroom.

  The curtain fluttered. Using a horse stance, she held the gun out in front of her.

  “Police,” she stated, the hairs at her nape prickling.

  The sharp clacking of nails could be heard as a Rottweiler jumped through the curtain, waggling his short stub of a tail, and nearly knocked her to the floor.

  LeAnne had to swallow her heart as it had lodged itself in her throat. Dear Lord, she had almost shot the family dog, she thought with a nervous chortle as the dog bounded out of the room in search of someone else to terrorize.

  Bob came running into the restroom, finding her leaning on the pedestal sink.

  “You all right?” Bob asked.

  “Just a dog.” LeAnne shook her head as she headed out of the small room. “But nearly a dead dog,” she said with a laugh while Bob stayed close on her tail.

  At the end of the hall, they found a walk-in linen closet the size of her tiny bedroom, stocked with towels and sheets of every color and fabric.

  “Let’s see how Henderson and Jenson are doing.”

  Just about the time they started their descent, the distant roaring of a motorcycle sounded. LeAnne rushed to the window on the landing, spotting Tony Hargrove’s back as he sped down the county road. He must have walked the bike to the end of the half-mile driveway, hoping to go undetected.

  LeAnne cursed beneath her breath, then called out, “Henderson. Jenson.” The sound echoed down the open staircase.

  The two deputies came trotting in from the kitchen as she ran the rest of the way down the steps.

  “We didn’t see him until we were ready to head for the basement,

  Detective,” Tom said in an attempt to cover their mistake.

  “Quit wasting time talking to me and get after him. Why the hell wasn’t anyone watching the back of the house?” she asked, knowing her own error. LeAnne could have kicked herself.

  Jenson and Henderson sheathed their guns and headed out the front door. Sirens sounded shortly and the cruiser spun down the road after Tony. The two deputies would be lucky if they caught him with the lead Tony already had.

  LeAnne cursed again.

  The sheriff stood at the bottom of the stairs, his fists on his hips. Would anything ever go right? She would be lucky to come away from this case with her job intact, not to mention the serious hide-chewing she’d receive.

  “Did you two find anything while you were pussyfooting around up there?”

  “No,” LeAnne said, looking to her feet. She rubbed the nap of the carpet with the toe of her shoe, not putting voice to the thoughts traveling through her mind. Sheriff Drake had berated her constantly for her screw-ups and LeAnne neared the end of her rope. Should she say anything in her defense, though, her job would truly be in jeopardy. Bob stepped up from behind, in an obvious attempt at showing his support for LeAnne.

  “No one could have known while we were coming in the front door, Tony slipped out back to the barn.” He quickly added a “Sir,” for good measure.

  Joe worried his lower lip between his teeth, staring at the two. “Well, good God then, what the hell are you standing here for, get on with it. We haven’t finished searching the house. Something has to tell us he’s our man. But I need evidence—solid evidence or Judge Hargrove will surely hang me by the balls—not to mention the heyday the press will have.”

  LeAnne, shaking her head, dashed for the basement with Bob in tow. Again—the election, yet far off, seemed to enter into the picture. Sheriff Drake didn’t want to be made a fool of in the public eye and chance losing. If this case became botched, she’d take the full blame.

  For the first time today, Marcus entered her mind. She envied him the freedom to crawl on the back of his motorcycle and ride into the sunset. No responsibilities, no worries.

  Her morning had been hectic from the moment she walked into the sheriff’s office. The warrant had been issued, strategies planned, and actions taken. Right now, LeAnne did not have the luxury of time to worry about what Marcus had been doing with his morning, or if he regretted the night before.

  She sure in the hell did not, nor would she. Chad would have to be told the minute he came home. LeAnne could no longer be a part of his life.

  Just off the kitchen, the door to the basement creaked as she opened it. Darkness greeted them. LeAnne ran her hand along the smooth, painted wall until she found the light switch. Light flooded the stairwell and the well-furnished basement.

  LeAnne and Bob trotted down the stairs to find an unmade bed, clothes scattered about the floor, and several day-old dishes littering the surface of stands and dressers.

  Obviously, no one, including the maid, was permitted into Tony’s domain.

  Putting on latex gloves, LeAnne and Bob took sides of the room, sifting through drawers, papers, magazines, and clothes. Nothing of real importance captured their interest—until Bob pulled on the leg of a pair of jeans, partially hidden beneath the bed where they had been carelessly discarded. Two large holes spoiled the knees as a spot of red paint marred the surface above one.

  A smile lit LeAnne’s face. “Let’s just hope we get the results we’re looking for. Pack them up for BG.”

  Bob left the basement to retrieve their kits as well as plastic and paper bags for evidence collecting, while LeAnne sorted through VHS tapes stacked beneath the thirty-two inch television. Every tape was dated, telling LeAnne nothing in particular, but catching her curiosity nonetheless. She pulled one from the jacket, baring a date close to Jillian’s murder, the latest of all the dates written, and pushed it into the VCR.

  The picture on the screen slowly came into focus. She pushed the VCR/TV button, then pressed play on the recorder.

  A gasp escaped her throat; Bob halted his descent, third step from the bottom.

  Jillian Gallego and Miranda Holliday lay atop Tony Hargrov
e’s bed, side by side, waving at the camcorder. Tears glistened in LeAnne’s eyes but did not fall at seeing the two dead women vibrant and happy. The camera zoomed in as Jillian lowered her halter and gave Tony a good view of what lay beneath.

  Jillian and Miranda giggled like schoolgirls, each putting herself on display for the camera; showing off for the boy/man holding the camcorder. LeAnne’s heart bled for Snake. Proof—final proof of Jillian Gallego’s infidelities.

  Bob finished his descent and walked over to where LeAnne knelt in front of the VCR, her mouth hanging open in awe. About the same time, the sheriff strolled down the steps to find them both rooted to the floor, staring at the screen.

  “What the hell,” he mumbled as he, too, came to stand beside them. “You still need more evidence, Joe?” LeAnne asked, her voice cracking in despair at the lost lives. She took her eyes from the action on the screen to look at the sheriff.

  He whistled low through perfect, straight white teeth. “Looks pretty incriminating. But it still doesn’t tell me he killed them.”

  Before long, both Miranda and Jillian had shed their clothes and rolled atop the sheets, giving Tony the show of his life. His groans and “Oh Gods” could be heard, caught by the camcorder’s microphone.

  The picture then jerked about, showing briefly the basement carpeting, before righting itself as Tony placed the video camera on a solid surface and pointed it at the bed. He, then, came into view as he settled between the two girls and joined the illicit affair. LeAnne hit the OFF button on the VCR and TV, leaving all three staring at the black screen.

  Finally, his voice husky with emotion, Sheriff Drake said, “Tag it as evidence. While you’re at it—tag them all,” and indicated the other ten or so tapes stacked on the stand beneath the TV, then headed for the stairs and out of the suddenly constricting little basement.

  * * *

  Hours later, with a box full of tagged, but not very incriminating, evidence, LeAnne sat at her tiny desk in the sheriff’s office, feeling the weight of despair on her shoulders. Bob paced the carpet behind her, and Joe Drake sought the solitary environment of his own office, probably going over his planned speech for the judge.