They stood on the porch under its light and away from railings the suspect might have touched. Mitch had already scoped out the porch’s wood deck. Despite the humidity, the day had been dry, so there was little likelihood of finding muddy footprints. No, footprints were more likely to be discovered on the ground, but only if the perpetrator stepped off the paved walkway. Had he—she?—walked right up to the front door and been let in by the victim? Or would they find evidence of a break-in—a broken window, a jimmied door, a picked lock?
“So, Ms. Hamilton, I gather you know the victim.” He removed a small notebook from a pocket and began to make notes.
“I knew her, yes.” Her voice was sad despite her ironic tone. “Her name was Nancy Wilks. We’ve been friends for years.”
“Good friends?”
“Not extremely close, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I was here tonight because she called me. She said…she said she was feeling rotten because she had just lost her job, and she wanted me to come over to commiserate.”
Cara Hamilton was lying. Mitch did not need the intuition inherited as part of his half-Native-American ancestry to tell him that. He knew it as surely as if she’d proclaimed it in neon lights. He stopped writing and looked at her.
No matter how boldly her mouth lied, her body language didn’t. He observed her despondency, her sense of loss, written in the sorrow of her gaze as she met his eyes—without a hint of her verbal guile. She stood with her arms folded, as if hugging herself in comfort after her ordeal of finding the body.
For an insane instant, Mitch wondered what it would feel like to take the small but curvy woman into his arms to soothe her grief. He hardened his glare, but her expression remained sorrowfully innocent.
“Right,” he said. His job wasn’t to contradict her. Or to feel sympathy for her. But if he could catch her in a lie… “So you came over at—” He glanced at his watch. “What time did you get here?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “I can’t have been here more than twenty minutes, though. I…I found her the way you saw her.” Her voice broke.
“I see. So then what did you do?”
She described pretty much what he’d anticipated. She’d checked to see if her friend was alive, then called the emergency phone number and waited.
“And what did you do while you waited?”
“Do?” The question seemed to take her aback. “I didn’t do anything. I just…waited.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mitch said noncommittally. “And did you touch anything?”
“No.” Her response came too fast.
“If you did, you should mention it, in case your fingerprints are found someplace they shouldn’t be.”
“I know better than to disturb a crime scene,” she lashed back. But there was a defensiveness in her tone that told him that, once again, she was lying.
“I’m sure you do.” He regretted his sarcastic tone immediately.
She frowned for an instant, then, almost visibly tucked away her anguish. Her small chin raised, her hazel eyes intense, she asked, “So how will you start to investigate this murder, Deputy Steele?”
“Exactly the way I’m doing it, Ms. Hamilton. By securing the crime scene.” He nodded at the white Sheriff’s Department sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. A couple of deputies exited and headed toward them. “By having the scene checked for evidence,” Mitch continued. “And by asking questions.”
“I see. And how do you—”
“As I said, I’m asking questions.”
“Of course, but—”
He continued as if she had remained silent. “Not you, though I’m sure it’s hard for a reporter with your reputation to let someone else do the interrogating.”
She closed her mouth. The way she regarded him seemed speculative, but of course he knew who she was. He figured everyone in Mustang Valley, maybe in the whole of northeastern Texas, knew of investigative reporter Cara Hamilton and her incisive articles in the Mustang Gazette.
Why was she really here? To visit a friend, or to research a story? Maybe, but it was awfully late for either.
To commit murder?
He doubted that but couldn’t rule it out. He’d have the techs check her for gun residue, just in case.
The patrol deputies reached them—a couple of guys he’d worked with often. A couple of good ones, fortunately, who didn’t challenge his authority. The department was small enough that everyone took on a variety of duties. And small enough that Mitch knew which fellow officers hated his guts.
He quickly filled these guys in, and they headed off to start the log of who entered the crime scene and to cordon it off with yellow tape. Not a moment too soon. The neighbors had gotten wind that something was up and were trickling from nearby homes. A couple appeared in another doorway of the victim’s house—the upstairs tenants? They might be valuable witnesses. A deputy approached them.
Mitch turned back toward Cara Hamilton, only to see the twitch of her skirt as she headed once more through the door to Nancy’s apartment.
Damn. He hurried after her, grabbed her arm. “Stay out here,” he demanded.
She started, then looked from the fingertips that still vised her slender, warm upper arm, back to his face.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you again that this is a crime scene, Ms. Hamilton.”
“Of course not, and that’s exactly why I have to—”
“You have to stay here, out of the way.”
Some guys, Mitch figured, would melt into an ugly little puddle of ooze under the fiery glare she turned on him. He merely glared back.
“I’ve got press credentials with me, Deputy Steele.” She pointed to the oversize bag over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be accused of violating the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, do you?”
“And I’m sure you don’t want to be arrested for obstruction of justice,” he said without missing a beat.
“I have no intention of obstructing anything,” she said smoothly. “I want you to solve this case. Fast. And I’ll even help you.” The sound of her melodic voice was as gentle as the evening breeze, caressing his ears, his soul.
Abruptly, to shatter the spell she seemed determined to weave about him, he said, “You’ll help by answering my questions and by staying out of the way. You’ll be invited to any press conferences just like other media representatives, and—”
“I’m not just like the other media people, Deputy,” she countered harshly.
What had happened to the sorrowing, sympathetic young woman of a few minutes ago? She was all business now. He believed her. She wasn’t like other media people. Though he knew there were a lot of reporters as abrasive, stubborn, irritating and challenging, few probably wrapped up those repulsive characteristics in as beautiful a package.
But so what if Cara Hamilton was a good-looking woman, with guts and strength to boot? She was still a witness. Maybe a suspect.
Most likely, though, she had just found the murdered body of a friend. Sure, she’d been shocked and fragile when Mitch had first arrived, but she had not fallen apart. Now she was asserting herself, doing her job. As Mitch was doing his.
If she weren’t trying so hard to get in his way, he might admire her.
“Let’s go back over what happened from the moment you heard from Ms. Wilks this evening, Ms. Hamilton. The forensics technicians should be here shortly, and they’ll need to get your prints for comparison purposes, plus do more testing to eliminate you as a suspect.” Maybe. “And then—”
“Your father, Martin Steele, was the former sheriff of Mustang County, wasn’t he?”
Mitch froze. He knew what was coming next from Cara Hamilton, crime-scene witness—and ace reporter. “Yes,” he replied curtly. “Now tell me, where were you when Ms. Wilks—”
“Why did your father kill himself, Deputy Steele?”
Chapter Two
As the look in Deputy Mitch Steele’s eyes, a shade of leonine gold beneath stra
ight black brows, shifted from vaguely suspicious to blank, Cara could have kicked herself.
She had ruined any sliver of hope that he would cooperate as she tried to find out what had happened to Nancy.
And she would do everything necessary to find the person who had killed her friend. Not only for her story, but for herself.
Of course the story she was working on would definitely merit attention, for it went far beyond Nancy’s murder. Maybe even Pulitzer material, for it involved—
“Excuse me, Ms. Hamilton,” Mitch said, looking over her shoulder. She glanced in that direction and saw that a van with the Sheriff’s Department logo had pulled up Caddo Street and was now double parked beneath a streetlight in front of Nancy’s house. The crime-scene technicians, she figured. A good excuse for him to avoid her.
To avoid her question—the one she would take back in an instant, if she could.
“Cara,” she said quickly.
His attention returned to her momentarily as his gaze turned quizzical.
“My name is Cara,” she said, inviting him to use it. Maybe that small intimacy would make him forget what she’d asked, even though she wouldn’t forget it. Because despite regretting that she blurted it due to the consequences it would cause, she still wanted an answer.
“Right. Cara.”
She knew his first name was Mitch, not from his name badge, but she remembered it from news stories about his father. He didn’t invite her to use it and he walked away, toward where the technicians removed gear from their van.
Cara watched his confident stride. Most men looked tall to her because she was only five foot one. But Mitch Steele was tall, at least six feet. He held his head high, his broad shoulders thrown back beneath his khaki uniform shirt, as if in challenge to any bad guys who happened to be watching.
In challenge to the world. Cara knew a little of Mitch Steele’s background, and she was aware that the world had challenged him—or at least his family. She’d no doubt that Mitch, still working for the Sheriff’s Department, had to live every day under the stigma that surrounded his deceased father.
Sheriff Martin Steele was enmeshed in a scandal a couple of years ago—one much bigger than the earlier grumblings of nepotism when he’d hired his son. Before his involvement in the bribery plot was proven or disproved, he committed suicide.
He wouldn’t have done that had he been innocent—would he? And yet his arguments, arguments reported in the Mustang Gazette and other media, had made sense.
Too bad Cara hadn’t worked on that story. Back then she had still been listening to her boss, Beauford Jennings, when he gave her assignments. That had been before Beau had made it clear that to him, too, nepotism trumped merit. And ethics. His nephew Jerry, Cara’s casual boyfriend at the time, had stolen her firsthand, undercover research to write his own article on how local liquor stores, including one owned by a county commissioner, sold alcohol to kids known to be minors. Jerry broke the story and ended the commissioner’s career. That move catapulted Jerry out of Mustang Valley and into the world of big-city news.
Beau’s only regret was that Jerry was gone.
After that Cara didn’t ask for Beau’s opinion. She donned disguises and slung hash in local eateries for her story about restaurants’ cleanliness standards. She’d received applause after her article and surreptitious pictures got a popular place closed down by the local board of health—pictures showing the owner grin as one of his wait staff spat into the food of a patron who’d criticized the service last time he’d eaten there. That was when Beau had finally promoted her out of the copy room to reporter. He’d hinted of further promotions, too.
Score one for our side, Cara had thought. Her idol, the legendary Shotgun Sally, had reputedly once worn flouncing skirts and gone undercover as a dance hall girl to write a story on how it felt to be a fallen woman. She, too, had trounced all over those who failed to take her seriously. At least for her first big story, Cara had only had to put on a lacy apron over a short dress. Oh, and glasses and a wig.
Since her experience with Jerry, though, Cara hated the idea of sharing information with anyone. She’d made it clear to Beau that she would follow her own leads, write her own stories.
Beau had stopped underestimating her, at least when it suited him, but others hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe because she looked so young. Though she used it to her advantage, she detested it.
Almost as much as she hated anyone to interfere with her getting her story. She’d allowed it once, but never again.
And now, she had even more impetus to get the story. She sighed and glanced back toward Nancy’s house. Her friend had been murdered. Maybe even because she’d been on the way….
Cara swallowed hard as she forced her gaze back toward the dimly lit street.
Mitch turned and preceded the techs back up the walk toward Nancy’s house—and where Cara stood. She half expected him to brush by her. Instead he stopped.
So did her breathing, for an instant, while she tried to figure out what to say to fix things between them.
“So, Deputy, any more questions for me? I definitely want to cooperate so you can solve this murder.” Assuming the Sheriff’s Department did solve this one.
Was it her imagination, or did the blankness in his gaze soften just a bit? “I’m sure you do. And, yes, I’ll have more questions for you, though not right now.”
“Good. Then I’ll just follow these people and take pictures while they work.” She reached way down into her bag, past the notebook, cell phone and personal digital assistant, to extract her digital camera. “That way, when you catch the perpetrator, I’ll be able to describe the entire process.”
Mitch Steele was one handsome deputy even when he scowled. If Cara recalled his father’s story correctly, Mitch’s mother was Native American, which would help explain the blue-black richness of his hair, the strong slant to his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones and other features. That scowl of his only emphasized the well-honed planes of his face.
But when he let the corner of his mouth curve up in a half grin that way, Cara was sure he drove every woman in her right mind wild with lust.
She was in her right mind….
“No,” he said, bringing that creative imagination of hers back to reality.
“Pardon?”
“Ms…. Cara, I appreciate your cooperation. But you do not have my permission to get in the way.”
“I’ll stay out of the way. I promise.”
“Mm-hmm.” Though his murmur sounded affirmative, she was sure she was losing his attention, for he had turned to talk to one of the techs.
“If you let me follow them, I’ll tell you something I don’t think you know about Nancy,” she blurted out.
Damn! When was she going to stop speaking before she’d thought things through? She wasn’t always so adept at sticking her foot in her mouth. Something about this deputy was spurring her to foolishness.
But she had definitely regained his attention, for suddenly those piercing golden eyes were staring hard into her face. “If you have some knowledge about Ms. Wilks that’s relevant to this case, Cara, you’d better spill it. Now.”
MITCH WATCHED as the lovely Ms. Cara Hamilton back-pedaled. It would have been amusing if he hadn’t been certain that whatever she was hiding could be of significance in solving the murder of Nancy Wilks.
“You misunderstood.” The wide-eyed innocence in her luminous gaze didn’t convince him one bit. “I meant I don’t think you know how rotten Nancy felt that her job was disappearing so fast. She’d liked working at Lambert & Church. You know, the law firm where Paul Lambert was a partner? The guy who killed himself in jail after his murder of a local rancher was exposed?”
“Of course I know of it.” But Mitch hadn’t been directly involved in the case, despite its high profile. Maybe because it was so high profile, for though he had the seniority and authority to supervise on the most critical cases, Sheriff Ben Wi
lson made sure Mitch had other responsibilities that kept him busy. Like reorganizing the deputies on patrol so those who worked hardest got more to say about choosing their shifts.
Just like he’d been swamped with putting together the latest program to keep kids off drugs during the investigation of the murder prior to the one involving Lambert, the first murder the town had seen in two years. Most people claimed it was even longer than that. High profile? Heck, that one had been the highest profile, since the mayor himself had turned out to be the killer. And the victim had been a lawyer at the same firm, Lambert & Church.
The same place where the latest victim had worked. Was there a connection among the three killings? Hell, yes. There had to be. Mustang Valley wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. And with that same law firm at the center of all three… Mitch would follow that connection and see where it led.
Unlike the other killings, solving this case was his. And once he put it all together, he’d insist on the recognition he deserved. For once. No matter how much it galled others.
Although, partial invisibility would help with his personal, highly frustrating, agenda. So would following Sheriff Wilson’s orders—more or less.
Still, good thing Ben Wilson hadn’t thought that putting Mitch on the night shift for a while would lead to something big. Like being the first at a murder scene. And that gave him the advantage in staying in charge.
This time, his self-imposed patience—so much against his driven nature—would pay off.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Deputy—” Cara Hamilton’s lilting voice interrupted his thoughts. In the shadowed light from the nearby streetlamp, she watched his face with what appeared to be total concentration. Almost as if she were trying to read his mind.
A disconcerting idea.
“Sorry, Cara. We’re not through. I still want to know exactly what you’re hiding.”
He had to hand it to her. The woman was good. Her innocent smile hardly wavered. “Not a thing. But if anything comes to me, I’ll be sure to let you know, Mitch. Okay?”
His mouth opened as he instinctively started to correct her. It might be all right for him to use her first name, but if she used his, he risked losing his appearance of authority. And distance. And everything that would give him an edge over this civilian.
Lawful Engagement - Linda O Johnston Page 2