Confessions (4 page)

“I'm just trying to do my job.”

“And I'm just doing mine,” J.D snapped. This was the most exciting day of his career—hell, his entire life so far—and he damn well didn't want to waste a minute of it arguing.

“Haven't you ever heard of freedom of the press? I just need one quote,” Rudy persisted.

“If you don't get out of here, I'm going to run you in for interfering in a criminal investigation.” The young cop's tone sounded like a copy of Trace's earlier one.

Rudy looked inclined to argue. His dark brown gaze went from J.D. to Trace, who was watching the exchange with an unblinking gaze, back to J.D. again.

Apparently knowing when he was licked, he turned to leave just as another truck turned into the driveway.

“I'll be damned,” the reporter breathed as he recognized the driver. “Talk about timing!” His belief in journalistic good fortune restored, Rudy Chavez headed in the direction of the muddy red Jeep.

J.D. watched as the driver's door opened, revealing a pair of long legs clad in tight black jeans and red cowboy boots. The legs were followed by a female body which, while slender, had curves in all the right places. Her sun-streaked blond hair fell in loose soft waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of oversize sunglasses.

As she marched toward them in a brisk, ground-eating stride, J.D. recalled how, in his boyhood, though many residents of Whiskey River had clucked their tongues over Mariah Swann's outrageous behavior, he'd suffered a secret crush on the high-spirited girl who'd been his babysitter before she had run off to Hollywood like her mother.

During his hormone-driven adolescent days he'd raced home from school to watch her steamy love scenes on “All Our Tomorrows” and fantasized acting out those scenes with the woman who'd become locally known as the “Vixen of Whiskey River.”

“Who's that?”

Trace's deep voice, coming from just behind him, made J.D. jump. For such a big man, it was downright nerve-racking the way the sheriff could sneak up behind a guy without making a sound.

“That,” he answered, as a few of Mariah's more infamous escapades came to mind, “is trouble. With a capital
T.
”

Mariah was stunned by the swarm of activity surrounding the ranch house. At the sight of that unmistakable yellow plastic tape, she cursed. Just last month her beach house had been broken into.

She jumped down from the driver's seat and headed
toward the two men standing in the driveway. One was of average height, with the slim-hipped build of the cowboys Mariah had grown up with. He was wearing a Smokey the Bear hat pulled down low over his forehead like a Marine drill instructor and the khaki uniform of the sheriff's department. A silver star was pinned to his starched uniform blouse.

The other man was large enough to play offensive line for the Raiders. Even without the wedge-heeled cowboy boots Mariah would guess his height to be about six-four. Clad in a green-and-black plaid flannel shirt and jeans, he reminded her of Paul Bunyan. He radiated a palpable authority.

She directed her question to the larger man. “What's going on here?”

“Good morning,” Trace said in his best Joe Friday, just-the-facts-ma'am voice. He raised two fingers to his black Stetson. “May I ask who you are?”

Although his greeting was unfailingly polite, Mariah knew instinctively that this was a man who could give her authoritative father a run for his money. His firm, unshaven square jaw suggested an equally unyielding nature. She noticed he hadn't answered her question.

Refusing to be intimidated, she stopped close enough to him that the toes of their boots were nearly touching, and realized her mistake when she had to tilt her head back to look a long, long way up into his face.

“I'm Mariah Swann. Who are you?”

“Sheriff Trace Callahan.” Trace held out his hand.

“Sheriff?” A blond brow climbed her forehead as she absently extended her own hand in response. His palm was rough, calluses on top of calluses. “What happened to Walter Amos?”

“Amos retired six months ago.” Her skin was as soft as it was fragrant. “Last I heard he was spending his time
telling lies about birdies and eagles on the golf course in Sun City. This is Deputy Brown.”

Mariah was momentarily sidetracked by the introduction. “J.D?” Pushing the sunglasses to the top of her head, she gave the younger man a longer, second look. “Is that really you?”

Trace watched in amazement as his deputy blushed scarlet. “It's me,” he mumbled.

“Why, you're all grown up.”

Unlike so many of her Hollywood peers, Mariah had never paid any heed to birthdays. Especially these days, since she had given up acting and turned to writing. Now her livelihood depended not on her look but on her talent to craft a gripping television drama.

But seeing this boy she'd baby-sat all those years ago, dressed in the uniform of a deputy sheriff made her realize exactly how much time had gone by since she'd left Whiskey River in Laura's powder blue Mustang convertible.

“I just graduated from U. of A.,” J.D. said, sounding as if he'd stuck a handful of marbles into his mouth. “In criminal justice.”

“Criminal justice.” Mariah mulled that one over, amazed that this was the same bratty little kid who, at age five, had seemed destined to grow up to be a world-class juvenile delinquent. “Your parents must be proud.”

J.D. mumbled something inarticulate that could have been agreement.

Christ, Trace thought, next J.D. would be rubbing the toe of his boot in the dirt like some tongue-tied sixth grader. Mariah folded her arms over her scarlet shirt. “So, which of you officers is going to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“I'm afraid there's been a shooting,” Trace said.

“A shooting?” It was as if he'd suddenly switched to Greek. Or Swahili. Mariah couldn't comprehend his
words. She turned and stared at the house as if hoping to find the explanation written on the double front doors. “Not a burglary?”

“It's Laura,” J.D. blurted out.

“Laura?” Mariah blinked and looked at Trace. “My sister shot someone?”

The idea was incomprehensible. Laura was the gentlest person Mariah had ever known. Why, she'd never been willing to so much as step on a spider.

“I'm afraid your sister's the one who was shot.” Trace kept his voice low and steady and watched her carefully.

This was a dream, Mariah decided. In a minute she'd wake up, find herself in the tacky motel, with its amateur seascape on the wall and the portable television bolted to the dresser.

She blinked again. Then she shook her head.
Wake up, dammit,
a frightened voice in her mind shouted.

Trace saw the confusion in her slanted turquoise eyes give way to fear. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Swann.” This time he took off his hat. “But your sister's dead.”

“Dead,” she repeated blankly.

Trace didn't think she'd grasped his meaning yet. He knew shock had a way of numbing such staggering blows. She glanced back at her Jeep, then beyond, down the serpentine road she'd just driven. Trace could practically see the wheels turning inside her head and knew she was thinking of the gray van she'd obviously passed on the way to the ranch.

“Oh, my God.” A ragged, involuntary keening sound escaped her lips. Then she swayed.

Catching her by the upper arms, Trace lowered her to one of the flat-topped red boulders lining the driveway. He squatted in front of her.

“Get rid of Chavez,” he instructed a stricken J.D. when
he saw the reporter, who'd stayed to watch the drama, headed their way. “Then go back in the house and help the lab guys.”

“Yessir.” J.D. gave Mariah one last worried look, squared his shoulders and headed toward Rudy Chavez with a swagger that would have done John Wayne proud.

“Put your head between your knees,” Trace advised Mariah gruffly. He pressed his palm against the top of her head, urging it down. “That should help.”

She shook off his touch. “Help?” Her laugh was short and bitter. Her eyes were dull with the sheen of shock. “Help who? Laura?”

The question didn't demand a response, but Trace answered her anyway. “I'm afraid it's too late for your sister.”

“Too late.” She squeezed her hands together until her knuckles turned white and pressed them against her eyes. “It was the damn river.”

“The river?”

“It was flooding. Someone had put up a stupid barricade and I was afraid to try crossing it in the dark.” Her hands limply dropped to her sides. She lowered her forehead to her knees, not to keep from fainting, but because the pain shooting through her was so intense. “I spent the rest of the night in Camp Verde.”

A slow breath shuddered through her. She lifted her head again. “When was she killed?”

Trace knew where she was headed. He also knew second-guessing fate was asking for trouble. “We don't know exactly,” he hedged. “Not yet.”

“Surely you have a ballpark estimate.”

“The coroner's currently putting the time of death between two and three.”

“This morning.”

“Yes.”

“Dammit.” Trace recognized the expression in her bleak gaze. It was one he was personally familiar with.
Guilt.
“If I'd only gotten here on time, she'd still be alive.”

Something made him want to take both her soft hands in his and hold on tight until he could convince her that such thoughts were self-destructive. That they could eat away at your insides like battery acid. Cursing softly, he sat down beside her.

“You can't know that,” he said, attempting to soothe the accusations running rampant in her head. He knew, all too well, exactly what those voices sounded like.

“I told her I'd be here by midnight. If I had—”

“The intruders might have killed you, too.”

“Intruders?” She looked at him in surprise.

“Right now it appears your sister woke up during a robbery.”

“A robbery.” She bit her lip, taking it in. “Then Alan wasn't the one who killed her?”

“Why would you think the senator shot your sister?” he asked with a studied lack of inflection.
Just the facts ma'am.

“Because Alan Fletcher is a son of a bitch who only married my sister for her money and her political connections.”

Her color had returned. Her eyes cleared. Scarlet flags waved in her cheeks. Trace watched her spine stiffen and knew she wasn't going to faint.

“If that's true, you'd think he'd want to keep her alive.”

“Not really,” Mariah argued. As she reached into her bag for her cigarettes, the mists began lifting from her mind. She was beginning to be able to think again.

On some distant level she knew there would still be pain to deal with. A horrendous amount of pain and re
morse and regret. But at the moment, she found it easier to concentrate on the crime as if it were a new script she was writing.

“Since I doubt if Laura asked Alan to sign a prenuptial, he'd be first in line to inherit her money, not to mention a sizable trust fund. And this ranch.

“As for political support, our father handpicked the ambitious bastard to be his son-in-law.” She shook out a cigarette and went digging for the art test matches in the depths of the bag. “The only thing that would make the mighty Matthew Swann retract his political support would be if he discovered a Communist Party membership card lurking in Alan's wallet.

“Of course, now that the Evil Empire is no longer a threat, he might even turn a blind eye to that.” She jammed the cigarette between her lips and was appalled to discover that her hands were trembling too badly to light it.

Her scorn, Trace noted, appeared to be evenly divided between her brother-in-law and her father. She was angry and bitter and didn't bother to hide it.

As he took the matches and lit the cigarette, Trace also realized she hadn't yet asked about the senator.

“Your brother-in-law was shot, too,” he told her.

“Is he dead?”

“No. He's in surgery, but the doctor says he's not in any danger.”

“Too bad.” She drew in the smoke and shook her head. “Hell. This will probably earn him another fifty thousand votes come election time.

“Has anyone notified my father?” Now that she thought about it, Mariah was surprised that he wasn't here trying to control this scene and everyone in it.

“My dispatcher has been trying to reach him. Appar
ently he's in New Mexico. No one seems to know how to get hold of your mother.”

“That's probably because she left town when I was five.”

“I'm sorry.”

Mariah shrugged and exhaled a thin blue cloud. Her throat was raw from a night of cigarettes. She really was going to have to stop one of these days. “There's no need to apologize.”

She looked back at the house, her gaze drifting to the upstairs window as if hoping to see her sister standing there.

Trace remembered how, when he'd finally gotten sprung from the hospital, he'd taken a cab to the police garage and sat in the driver's seat of the unmarked cruiser, imagining Danny riding shotgun beside him.

At the time, he'd felt foolish and hoped like hell none of the other detectives would discover him there. They hadn't, and oddly, for that brief time, he'd actually felt a little better. Not good. But better.

“My mother lives in Bel Air. I see her quite often.” Since it was obvious he didn't know, Mariah decided she may as well be the one to tell him. “She's Margaret McKenna.”

Mariah gave him credit for keeping the surprise from showing. Instead, his eyes narrowed and moved slowly over her face in a judicious appraisal.

Margaret McKenna had been an old-style, Hollywood bombshell. Her haughty, Ice Queen performances had radiated with the type of carnality often imitated but rarely equaled. Kathleen Turner had come close in
Body Heat,
Trace decided. Madonna? Sharon Stone? Forget it.