No matter how much he’d liked the way she’d said it.
But before he could say anything, she’d turned and headed for the house. Again.
“Hey.” He hurried after her, swinging around so that she nearly walked straight into him. She looked up with that same guileless expression he was coming to recognize. The expression that lied as easily as her mouth. Guileless? Heck, the woman was an expert at deception. And nosy as all get-out. In his face, and in his way.
“Look, Ms. Hamilton. If you’re not willing to talk to me here, you’ll have to come to the station.”
His body blocked most of the light emanating from the porch behind him, so she stood in shadows. He could nevertheless see how her forehead crinkled as she mulled this over. He observed the arch to eyebrows, which, despite the dimness, seemed a similar shade of auburn as her hair. Its soft red hue must be natural, then. Interesting.
He’d note it in her profile as a witness and potential suspect. That was his only reason for noticing.
“Okay,” she said.
“What?” She’d confused him.
“Okay, I’ll come to the station so you can question me there.”
The lady was full of surprises. “Fine. Make it—” He glanced at his watch. He’d have to be here for a long while, till the crime-scene investigation was well underway. “—nine o’clock this morning.”
“Fine.”
“Meantime, I’ll send one of the techs out here to check you out.”
“To get my fingerprints so you can eliminate me as a suspect.” She confirmed what he’d told her before, her tone a little sarcastic, as if she didn’t believe he thought the forensics exam would clear her.
Maybe it wouldn’t, though right now his main reasons for sticking her on his suspect list—her limited cooperation and her being at the victim’s at one heck of a bad time for a social call—weren’t exactly proof of her guilt.
“That’s right. And to check to make sure you don’t have any gunpowder residue on you, too. That kind of thing.” Or any blood, though he saw none on her.
She stared but said nothing. He allowed her, this time, to walk away. As he watched her, she glanced at the house once more and then, assessingly, back at him. He shook his head.
With a look of annoyance, she headed toward the sidewalk, her long skirt swaying again with her determined stride. Was she going to leave before the techs checked her out? He held his breath, ready to go after her, until she turned again, crossed her arms and stood there, obviously impatient.
He realized with surprise, and irritation with himself, that the challenge of Cara Hamilton had whetted his appetite for more.
Right now nine o’clock seemed very far away.
UNLIKE THE MAJOR metropolitan area of Dallas/Ft. Worth to the northeast, the population of Mustang Valley wasn’t very large. Neither was the population of the whole of Mustang County, which was why the Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction even in town.
As a result the station funded by the taxpayers was compact, too. Only ten years old, it looked more like an architect’s vision than a functional law enforcement command center, all glass and steel and vulnerability—if any terrorist, or even petty crook, thought it worth the effort to attack.
But its small size was compact, too. Which was why Mitch was able to keep his ears open to comings and goings at the front desk even as he sat in the nearby computer room. He’d begun entering his initial report on the Nancy Wilks murder investigation into one of the aging, outdated machines.
It was nearly nine o’clock. Would Cara Hamilton actually come, or would he have to look for her? If she came, would she be on time?
Mitch heard the clump of heavy footsteps on the wood floor. More than one set. Definitely not Cara.
“Is Steele in?” demanded the voice of his boss, Sheriff Ben Wilson.
“Yeah,” replied the deputy on duty. He must have gestured toward the room where Mitch sat, for in a moment Wilson and his favorite senior underling, Deputy Hurley Zeller, entered.
Wilson, in his fifties, tall and rangy in his loose khaki uniform, had the leathery, tough skin of a much older varmint. He’d never made any attempt to hide his disdain of Mitch or his rage that he’d inherited the son of the disgraced former sheriff and didn’t have any reason to fire his ass and oust him from the department. He probably even held it against Mitch that his dad had become sheriff first.
Ben glared at Mitch with narrowed brown eyes. The odor of cigar smoke clung to Zeller and him. “I just came from the crime scene on Caddo Street. The Wilks murder.”
Mitch nodded. “I’m just finishing my initial report.”
“Got it solved yet?” Hurley Zeller sneered.
Wilson’s flunky Zeller, nearly as wide as he was tall, was a smart-mouthed son of a bitch who smiled a lot, particularly while emitting his nastiest utterances. And Zeller could be damned nasty at times. He was around thirty-five, older than Mitch’s twenty-nine, but acted as if he still was a hot-blooded teenage kid more often than not. But he did a superior job of kissing up to the sheriff, who bought it.
“I’m working on it,” Mitch replied mildly to Zeller’s jibe.
“The deputies there said you have a suspect already,” Wilson said. “That reporter bitch Cara Hamilton was caught right there red-handed.”
“She was there,” Mitch agreed, sticking his hands behind his back so his boss wouldn’t see that he’d clenched them into fists. The guy was jumping to conclusions. No need for him to accuse Cara Hamilton…yet. “The weapon wasn’t found, though. Hamilton wouldn’t have had time to ditch the gun.”
“Maybe.” Zeller stepped closer to Mitch. “Or maybe you just missed it.” He turned to Wilson. “How about putting me in charge of the case, boss? I won’t miss any big clues.”
“The way you don’t miss the target at shooting practice?” Mitch stuck an expression on his face that he intended to be as innocent as any of Cara’s. Not that he could make himself look as young and sweet. But Mitch had learned well the art of acting, particularly since joining the Mustang County Sheriff’s Department. From his intentionally placid demeanor, no one here would guess how tightly he was coiled inside, prepared to spring in an instant if he let himself.
Mitch hadn’t thought Zeller’s small brown eyes could narrow any more, but he scrunched them into something he probably thought looked menacing. Instead, he appeared like an ape with gas. “I always pass the tests. And I’m sure you’d feel better if they let you use a bow and arrow.”
Mitch again flexed his fists behind his back. Most guys around here were at least subtler in their cracks about his half-Native-American ancestry. He forced himself, as always, not to respond, knowing that ignoring Zeller was more of an insult than trading barbs. If it were not for his own quest, more important to him than anything else, he’d have decked Zeller long ago.
Facing Ben Wilson with more calm than he felt, Mitch said, “Here’s what we know so far about the Wilks murder.” He gave a rundown. It wasn’t a lot. The coroner’s report hadn’t come in yet, but he described the apparent cause of death: a bullet to the head. “No sign of a weapon at her home, so we won’t have its description till we get more from the coroner. No sign of forced entry. The neighbors interviewed so far noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so the weapon’s noise must have been suppressed. The reporter, Cara Hamilton, said she was there because the victim called her to chat about losing her job.”
“You bought that?” Wilson’s voice was edged with sarcasm.
“No. In fact, she’s due here now for further interrogation.”
“Fine. I’ll sit in.”
Mitch opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He knew how to conduct a good witness interview. But having Ben there would ensure he wouldn’t get second-guessed later.
Just then, in the next room, he heard the soft, determined voice he’d been listening for. “My name is Cara Hamilton. I’m here to see Deputy Steele.”
CARA HADN’T THOUGHT she�
�d feel so unnerved by being the subject of an official interrogation. This was a first. In her line of work, it was unlikely to be the last.
But she enjoyed situations so much better when she was the one asking questions.
Mitch had come into the station’s reception area almost immediately after she’d arrived. He showed her down a short hallway into a moderate-size room that resembled a company’s conference room, with a big, scuffed wood table in the center.
What had she expected—a jail cell with a wired chair in the center where she’d be strapped in?
Not that the chair he showed her to was comfortable—physically or emotionally. She had the seat of honor at the head of the table. Not quite wired…
Mitch sat beside her. He looked tired, with the shadow of a dark beard emerging and circles beneath his golden eyes. Bedroom eyes—sexy, yes, but even more a sign of exhaustion. She doubted he’d gotten any sleep that night.
Of course, neither had she. She’d gone home, written a story about the murder on her computer and e-mailed it to the Gazette, requesting a photographer to follow up since her digital shots weren’t professional. Then she’d showered, changed and lain in bed, her eyes wide open.
Nancy had called her. Nancy had been murdered….
As Cara’s former fiancé Andrew McGovern had been, only a few months ago. They hadn’t been together in a long time, but his death had still hit her surprisingly hard.
She’d called her parents at six-thirty this morning so they’d hear the news from Cara about Nancy, and about Cara finding her—not from the radio, TV or someone else. They still lived in the house in Mustang Valley where she’d grown up. Always overprotective, her mother had been proud when Cara had joined the editorial staff of the Mustang Gazette, but when she’d insisted on becoming a hard-hitting investigative reporter—
“Ms. Hamilton, this is Sheriff Wilson,” Mitch said. “He’ll be joining us this morning.”
“We’ve met.” Forbidding her nose from wrinkling despite the smoke smell hovering around the sheriff, Cara shook his hand. She had tried interviewing him for stories now and then, but he’d always been condescending, over-bearing and snide, a combination that always set her teeth on edge. Right now he regarded her as if prepared to place her under arrest. “Good to see you again, Sheriff,” she lied. As pleased as she’d be to run into her worst enemy, whoever that was. Of course, her list of enemies was expanding, thanks to her revelation in print of all sorts of nasties committed by the subjects of her stories.
She wasn’t sure, though, which was her worst one.
She accepted a cup of coffee, then exchanged pleasantries about the weather with the sheriff until Mitch Steele interrupted. “So, Ms. Hamilton, let’s start at the beginning for Sheriff Wilson’s benefit. You were a friend of Ms. Wilks?”
“Yes. Not close…” The way she was with her dearest friends in the world, Kelly McGovern—Kelly Lansing now—and Lindsey Wellington. “But we got together for lunch often, exchanged birthday cards, that kind of thing. She even sent me a postcard from Orlando when she was on vacation a few months ago.” Cara stopped abruptly, thinking of how excited Nancy had been to get away. And now she’d never—
“Okay, let’s get to what happened last night,” Mitch said. “You received a phone call from Ms. Wilks about when?”
Putting her grieving aside for the moment, Cara went through the story again, not changing any of it. As far as they were concerned, Nancy had called because she was depressed about losing her job and needed someone to talk to.
No way would Cara mention that Nancy had something important to show her. Not until Cara knew what it was.
Obstruction of justice? Maybe, though she hoped not. Mostly she was trying to protect her source. Though that source was now dead.
Cara’s mouth worked on automatic as she continued describing her arrival, what she had found.
Her mind continued to spin. Maybe Nancy’s reputation had been on the line, and that was why she’d called Cara. Despite her apparent efficiency and dedication, had she done something shady at the law firm and been ready to ’fess up? Did she have evidence she’d intended to show Cara?
Cara had to know. She had to write the truth about the Nancy Wilks’s murder.
And about the others.
“Ms. Hamilton?” Mitch Steele’s deep, irritated voice broke into her thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Tell us again what you did between the time you called 911 and when the authorities arrived.”
Conducted my own quick, fruitless search. “I tried to do something for Nancy, but I could tell she was gone.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but had to swallow suddenly. Damn him. She wanted to stay remote, objective, observe it all like a good reporter. But when she was asked questions that made her relive how she’d found Nancy, would she always want to cry?
“Right,” Mitch said. “And did you touch anything?”
Had they found her fingerprints? That could be explained. She’d been at Nancy’s apartment before, though not recently.
“Well, I touched Nancy, and her bedclothes. And of course the doorknob when I came in, and the door to her room, I think.”
“Ms. Hamilton, I don’t think you’re being entirely forthcoming here,” the sheriff drawled softly from behind Mitch.
“Pardon?”
“We’ve reason to believe that Ms. Wilks called you for a different reason. That you came to her home in a panic and killed her, and that you searched the place, then called for help. What did you find, and where did you put the gun?”
Cara felt the color drain from her face. She glanced at Mitch. Did he think she killed Nancy, too? She couldn’t read his expression, though the way his mouth was set, she thought he was angry. At her?
No. She was suddenly sure that Mitch was mad at the sheriff for going on a fishing expedition.
Relief warred with anger. Mitch Steele, the deputy at the scene, might not have ruled her out, but she doubted he considered her a viable suspect. Yet he wasn’t going to contradict his boss.
She, on the other hand, could do just that. And more. For the main reason she had agreed so easily to come in for questioning was that she’d hoped to get some questions of her own answered.
She looked over Mitch’s wide shoulder toward Sheriff Ben Wilson. He regarded her with what appeared to be impassive curiosity.
She’d get him to show more emotion or she’d eat her favorite notepad—which she still carried in her purse.
Coolly she stared back at the man who’d just accused her of murder. “Sorry, Sheriff. You’ll have to do better than that. Nancy called me, I came, and I found her body. Period. I can’t be a real suspect in her murder, and you know it. Did your technicians find any gun residue on me? Any other reason to suspect me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Look. Nancy was depressed about losing her job at the law firm. You know, Lambert & Church? Where one of the lawyers, Andrew McGovern—” Her fiancé years ago. She swallowed and continued, “Andrew McGovern was murdered by our esteemed former mayor, Frank Daniels. A friend of mine, Andrew’s sister, Kelly, solved that one.”
“Now, wait a minute.” The sheriff was on his feet. “You’re under a misunderstanding there.”
“I don’t think so.” Cara glanced at Mitch, whose dark eyebrows were raised. Was he laughing at her, or with her? She continued, “Then there was the murder of rancher Jeb Rawlins. He was killed by Paul Lambert, and that case was solved by a new associate at the firm, Lindsey Wellington, who’s also my friend. She’s now engaged to Mr. Rawlins’s nephew, who’d been wrongfully accused of the killing. There seem to be a lot of false allegations around here, instead of crime solving, don’t you think?”
“You’re out of line, Ms. Hamilton.” Fury turned the sheriff’s face flaming red. Should she feel afraid? Maybe, but she didn’t.
Instead, she finished with the question that she’d come here with. “Suppose you tell me, Sheriff Wilson, what the connection is among the three m
urders. There has to be one. They all involve Lambert & Church. And why is it that your department failed to solve the first two killings? Can we be sure you’ll solve this one, or should everyone in town who had any connection with Lambert & Church be afraid for their lives?”
Chapter Three
Since Ben Wilson had become sheriff, Mitch had stirred up his ire a lot, mostly unintentionally. He’d always stifled his impulses and pulled back to avoid jeopardizing his own covert and frustrating investigation. As a result, he’d never seen Ben’s leathery face as scarlet as it was now.
Damn, but he liked it!
Ben’s mouth was open, as if to expel the air pumped out by his heavy breathing. Leaning toward Cara across the conference table, he sputtered, “Ms. Hamilton, if you even so much as hint in your paper that this department is doing less than a fine job, I’ll—” He broke off as he obviously searched in vain for something dire enough to threaten her with.
She rose and stood behind her chair, hands resting on its back. Mitch noticed that her nails were short and unpolished, businesslike. The hands of a woman who didn’t pamper herself.
“I report the facts, Sheriff Wilson,” she said. “That’s all.” Her smile was so sweet that she might have been eating cherries. But there was an intensity in her glare, a tilt to her chin, all evidence that Cara Hamilton wasn’t intimidated.
Mitch wanted to grab the sassy reporter and kiss those grinning lips. Like other urges, though, he kept this one to himself. Cara was standing up to the irritating, heavy-handed Ben Wilson as Mitch would have done, given a choice. And Mitch was enjoying every moment of it.
“Well, just watch your facts, missy,” Ben hissed. “You’d better make good and sure they’re true, or I’ll sue you and your paper for slander. You tell that to your editor, Mr. Beauford Jennings, hear? In fact, I think I’ll give Beau a call myself a little later, set him straight.”
Lawful Engagement - Linda O Johnston Page 3