by Sandra Brown
"And I stopped it before it got too heavy. Remember?"
He was still mystified. "But why? Why last night?"
She took a deep breath. "It was my idea. A silly, frivolous whim. I suggested it yesterday at lunch. Gillian refused, with very good reason. She reminded me that we're no longer children. But I called her later and pressed the point. I told her I wasn't feeling well, which wasn't exactly true, but I wore her down until she finally agreed to switch places last night. I was here with you, Jem. She escorted my client."
"What do you mean, 'escorted'?" Lawson wanted to know
She explained the nature of her business to the detective. "Last night I was responsible for taking. Colonel Christopher Hart—"
"The astronaut?" Jem interjected.
She nodded. "I was to take him to a banquet at the Adolphus, ramrod his press conference, and so forth." Tears began to cloud her eyes. "Gillian went in my place. That's why I reacted so emotionally to the words on the wall."
Lawson pieced it together and slowly nodded his head. "Breed. Christopher Hart. He's part Indian, right?"
"If my sister's murder is somehow linked to him, then it should have been me who was killed."
"Wait a minute." Jem was rattled, angry. "Okay, I get the reference to Hart. That's obvious. But the rest of it, that... that filth about Gillian. What's that supposed to signify?"
Lawson snuffled and lowered his eyes to his notepad.
Jem's voice rose an octave. "Melina? What does it signify?"
It was an understandable question. His asking it was justified. But, like the detective, she couldn't comfortably look Jem Hennings in the eye.
CHAPTER 8
"I don't really have anything new to say." Chief nodded thanks to the waiter who refilled his coffee cup. He needed it. He felt like hell. He'd been out of sorts when he woke up, and his mood hadn't improved. This unwanted and time-wasting meeting with Longtree and Abbott was only making his sour disposition worse.
"Well, I'm disappointed," Abbott said. "I know I speak for Chief Longtree, too."
Although Longtree had said nothing, his unblinking eyes remained on Chief's face. He had to concentrate to keep himself from squirming beneath that implacable glare. "It's not that I don't appreciate your interest in me," he said. "I do. And the goals you've set for NAA are admirable. These are definitely worthy causes, needs that should be addressed and brought to public awareness. It's just that... "
Shit. He didn't know how to turn them down without either obligating himself or insulting them, and he resented being placed in a situation that forced him to do one or the other. He also resented having to think about this now, when all he really wanted to think about was last night.
"I haven't made up my mind about anything yet," he stated curtly. "The future is just that. The future. Until my retirement from NASA is official, I see no need for further discussions."
"But as you're making your future plans, will you take our offer into consideration?" Abbott pressed. "Agree to let us make at least one more run at you. Say, in sixty days?"
Again, Chief was forced to hedge. "I think that no matter what course I choose, or what I decide to do, I prefer to remain independent. No offense intended, Mr. Abbott, but I—"
"You don't want to be lumped in with Indians."
Chief turned to Longtree, who'd spoken for the first time in almost half an hour. "I didn't say that."
"But that's what you meant. In so many words."
Chief figured that he'd just as well pull out all the stops. After all, he'd already offended them. Longtree could see that he was mincing words. So why not stop trying to be politically correct? Why not cut through the bullshit and end this thing right here, right now, and save everybody a lot of time? When it came right down to it, he didn't owe them anything. Nothing. Not even tact.
"Yes, Chief Longtree. That's what I meant. In all honesty, joining your new advocacy group doesn't appeal to me. If you're genuine, then you're to be commended. It's a noble effort and a great idea. But it's been years since I was even near a reservation. I'm disassociated and don't wish to become reassociated.
"I've never credited my Indian blood with my achievements, nor blamed it for my failures. I would look like a fraud, especially to the Native Americans I'd be representing, if I presumed to be their spokesperson. I have nothing in common with the Indian population except some DNA."
"In other words, NAA needs you, but you don't need it," Longtree said.
"I wouldn't be that rude."
"But that's the essence of what you're saying."
The old man seemed determined to piss him off and make him look like a heel. Fine. He was in no mood to pussyfoot around, either. "That's right, Chief Longtree. I won't let my name be exploited by anyone or any organization, especially if I feel that their interest in me is self-serving and one-sided. And frankly, I think such is the case here. If I accepted your offer, it wouldn't be a reciprocal exchange. As you stated so bluntly, you need me more than I need you."
Calmly, Longtree removed the napkin from his lap and folded it beside his plate. Abbott seemed ready to argue for another round, but one stern look from Longtree admonished him to let it drop. "Thank you for seeing us," Longtree said, coming to his feet.
Chief stood up, too, and the two men faced each other. Although he was a head taller than the old chief, Longtree made him feel small. Again, he resented them for not taking his "no, thank you" graciously. They'd forced him into being an asshole. He didn't want to get into bed with these guys, but he hated that they were leaving with a negative impression of him.
In an effort to conciliate, he said, "I respect your position, Chief Longtree. I hope you can respect mine."
Longtree declined to acknowledge the request, but his eyes bore into Chief's as he gripped his hand hard. Chief experienced an irrational urge to pull his hand free of the older man's.
Longtree said, "There will come a time—soon, I predict—when you will need us, Colonel Hart."
"Christopher Hart?"
At the sound of his name, Chief turned. A man as solid as a tree stump flashed a badge several inches from his nose. "Senior Corporal Lawson, DPD Homicide."
Longtree released Chief's hand, but he barely noticed. When he'd turned, he had expected an autograph hound, someone who had spotted him having breakfast and recognized him from his recent media exposure. In fact, there had been a write-up about last night's banquet in this morning's edition of the Dallas Morning News along with a photograph of him taken as he was delivering his acceptance speech.
But the stocky plainclothesman didn't appear enamored of him. He wasn't even smiling. Neither were the two uniformed policemen flanking him.
The maître d' moved to Chief's side. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Colonel Hart. I suggested that he let me summon you out of the restaurant, but he—"
"It's okay." Chief held up his hand to stop the effusive apology. To the detective he said, "Can I help you?"
"I believe you can."
Chief was thinking that he really should have taken at least one more swig of the strong black coffee. He could've used another kick of caffeine. His head still felt muddled. He'd had only one bourbon last night, but he felt hungover. Probably from too little sleep and too much sex. Well, actually, not too much. If anything, not enough.
"I'm sorry, did you say homicide?"
"That's right."
"Are you sure you've got the right guy?"
"Are you the astronaut?"
"Yes."
"Then I've got the right guy. I need you to answer a few questions."
"Sure. What about?"
"The murder of Gillian Lloyd."
Before Chief could contain it, he blurted a short laugh. So that was it! A practical joke. Those guys!
His eyes swept the occupied tables in the restaurant. All the other diners had stopped eating and were staring, but none of the faces was familiar. They would soon reveal themselves, though. Whoever was responsible for this charad
e would leap out from behind the furniture and the potted palms, laughing their asses off and mimicking the stupid expression on his face.
Like that Sunday afternoon two years ago, when he'd been home alone, peacefully watching an NFC championship game between Dallas and San Francisco. Steve Young had just thrown a fifty-yard touchdown pass late in the third quarter when Chief's doorbell rang.
On his doorstep stood a woman in the advanced stages of pregnancy, whom he'd never seen before. With her was a cop who looked bigger and meaner than any tackle playing in the game he'd been watching.
The woman began screaming horrible allegations. In a voice that could have shattered glass, she claimed that Christopher Hart had raped her at a party eight months earlier. He had slipped a drug into her drink, forced himself on her, infected her with a sexually transmitted disease, and left her pregnant and traumatized by his threats to kill her if she exposed him for the sexual predator he was.
She was a full two minutes into her diatribe before Chief could find his voice and appeal to the ugly copy, who was brandishing an even uglier billy club. He claimed never to have seen this woman in his life and didn't know what the hell she was talking about.
But she continued to hurl vicious accusations, embellished with such intimate knowledge of him and his physique that he began to doubt his own protestations of innocence.
Then, to his utter dismay, she ripped open the front of her dress and out popped the pillow she'd been using to simulate pregnancy, along with two luscious tits. On one was tattooed HAPPY, and on the other, BIRTHDAY. Then she winked and cried, "Surprise!"
Some of his rowdier friends at NASA stumbled from their hiding places in his yard, weak with laughter. They had brought with them enough liquor and food to create an instant party. The cop, who was in on the joke, told them before he left to have a good time but to keep the noise at a tolerable level. The girl, an exotic dancer by trade, stayed to give the birthday boy an extraordinary lap dance and to entertain the rest of the troops for as long as they were sober enough to appreciate her talents.
Chief never saw the fourth quarter of that game and didn't learn the outcome until the following day.
Now his first thought was that this was the same kind of practical joke. He and his circle of friends were always trying to outdo one another, devising pranks that made the butt of the joke look like a complete fool or worse. This one was pretty damn good. He had to hand it to the jokesters. This one was going to be hard to top. This one might even make the Guinness Book.
Except that his birthday wasn't for another six months.
A surprise retirement party? Not when retirement was still weeks away. Besides, they wouldn't hold a party outside Houston, where most of his friends and associates lived.
And this cop, this Lawson, looked like he'd never quite grasped the concept of humor.
Suddenly he wished he could call back his spontaneous laugh, because he realized now that it was inappropriate. "I'll be right with you."
He turned to extend his apologies to Longtree and Abbott, but they had moved away and were already at the exit. Long-tree looked hard at Chief just before stepping through the door.
"Looks like your friends have deserted you."
Chief came back around to the detective, put off by his heavy sarcasm specifically and this crappy morning in general. Assuming his commander's stance and his most brusque military tone, he said, "What's this about? I don't know any- thing about a homicide."
"Gentlemen, perhaps you'd like to move to a more private area?" The hotel manager had replaced the maître d'. Discretion and the hotel's reputation being his uppermost concerns, he motioned them toward the exit.
Chief followed the hotel manager into an office, where he was left alone with Lawson. Were the uniforms guarding the door from the outside in case he decided to bolt?
He launched an offensive. "You want to tell me what the hell this is about?"
"The murder of Gillian Lloyd."
"Yeah, you said that. I never heard of her, and I resent like hell the Dallas Police Department for needlessly embarrassing me in public."
"You never heard of—"
"Isn't that what I just said? And—" He broke off, suddenly realizing how imprudent it was to be talking to a cop about a murder without a lawyer on hand. "Maybe I should call my office."
"What for?"
"Advice."
"Legal advice? Are you going to need a lawyer, Colonel Hart? Have you got something to hide?"
Chief ground his teeth in order to avoid telling Lawson to go fuck himself, which, until he could correct the mistake that obviously had been made, would be imprudent and inflammatory.
"NASA wouldn't approve of my being questioned about something as serious as a murder without having an attorney present, which doesn't indicate guilt or even knowledge of the crime. It simply makes good sense. NASA is very touchy about the public image of its astronauts."
"I'm sure," Lawson said drolly. "Go ahead, then, call."
Chief reconsidered. Maybe he was overreacting. He'd started off this day in a sulk because he'd awakened alone. Compound that with his breakfast appointment with Longtree. Thank God their business had been concluded. Longtree and Abbott were out of his life forever. But their final meeting had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he couldn't exactly say why. Then he'd been harassed and publicly embarrassed by a cop wearing a jacket that didn't fit. No wonder he was edgy.
Forcing some nonchalance into his posture, he propped his hips against the hotel manager's desk and crossed his ankles. "Okay, Detective Lawson. Who is Juliet—"
"Gillian. Last name Lloyd. Her nude body was found in her bed this morning. She was the victim of multiple stab wounds, most of them to her lower abdomen and pubic region. We think—hope—that most were delivered postmortem because it was a fuckin' bloodbath. In fact, her killer wrote obscenities on her bedroom wall in her blood." He finished snidely. "Do I have your attention now, Colonel?"
He did definitely have Chief's attention. Genuinely sobered and subdued, he said, "I'm sorry. Truly. It's... that's terrible. But I still don't understand why you're talking to me. I didn't know this lady. I never met—"
Then it all congealed. Moving slowly, he uncrossed his ankles and came to his full height. "Jesus," he whispered. "I just got it. Lloyd. Melina's sister? Her twin?"
Lawson nodded.
Chief expelled a long breath and ran his hand around the back of his neck. For a moment, he stared into near space, trying to absorb the shocking news and the rippling impact it would have, especially on Melina. Only a few hours ago, he'd been making love to her. Now she was somewhere in this city trying to come to terms with the brutal slaying of her identical twin.
He blinked Lawson back into focus. "Is Melina all right?" "She's bearing up."
"I'd like to call her." Her number was on the itinerary. He'd already called it twice this morning but had gotten no answer. He had planned on calling it until he reached her, not just a voice mail. But he hadn't planned on calling to extend condolences.
"Not a good idea," Lawson told him as he removed his cell phone from the pocket of his leather jacket. "She's got more distractions than she can handle right now."
He hoped that Melina would look upon a call from him as something other than a distraction. He hoped she would welcome hearing his voice. But he wasn't going to discuss Melina or what had happened between them last night with this detective. Replacing his telephone he mumbled, "I guess you're right."
"What do you know about her?" Lawson asked.
"I only met her yesterday. She'd been retained—" "Yeah, she explained her job to me."
"She's very good at it. Competent." He smiled at the memory of her at the news conference, bossing the reporters in a way they seemed to adore. The women as well as the men. "She's very capable."
Remembering her smile as she gave in to his pleas that she stay just a little while longer, he wondered if she was blaming herself, wishing that she'd left w
hen she had first tried to go, wishing she hadn't been with him at all last night, castigating herself for not protecting her sister.
It was crazy thinking, of course. But people tended to think irrationally, and often with self-chastisement, when a loved one died unexpectedly, like in an accident. But murder? That would thrust someone's guilt into overdrive.
Backing into the edge of the desk again, he said, almost to himself, "God, she must feel awful." He raised his head and looked at Lawson again. "Do you know who did it?"
"Not yet."
"Any clues?"
"A few. The writing on the walls, for instance. That's what linked this crime to you."
"To me?"
Up till now, it hadn't occurred to Chief why the homicide detective had sought him out. Upon hearing the staggering news, his initial concern had been for Melina and how she must be feeling. He hadn't connected all the dots. But Law-son's last statement made the connection. It put him in the picture. He just couldn't yet tell what the picture was.
"I never even met Gillian, Detective. If there's any doubt of that, you can ask Melina."
"In fact, it was Melina who put us on to you."
He shook his head. "I don't get it." "You will. We'll explain it all."
"We, who?"
"Me. Melina. At a meeting downtown. Two-thirty today."
He felt sorry for Melina, but for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why he was being dragged into her sister's murder investigation. "At two-thirty today, I plan to be in my car somewhere along I-45 between Dallas and Houston."
"I don't recommend that. You'd probably be summoned right back."
Chief gave him a long incisive look. "Cut to the chase, Lawson. Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this woman's death?"
Lawson merely turned his back on him and headed for the office door. "Two-thirty, third floor of police headquarters downtown. Ask for me." He opened the door. As guessed, the uniformed cops were standing just beyond it. "You might want to call one of those NASA lawyers before the meeting." He started out, then paused and turned back. "You're too recognizable to hide for long, Colonel. Just in case that's what you were considering."