Racing the Devil (5 page)

I swear on my mother’s heart, I never slept with Ashleigh. Not while I was married, anyway. Maria has her doubts, but this is the God’s honest truth. Until six months after my divorce—by which time Maria was already seeing D.W.—my relationship with Ashleigh Arneau was strictly professional. But after my wife—my ex-wife—got serious about the man who would in time become my replacement, I took the plunge and asked Ashleigh to a live performance of
Johnny Guitar
at a local dinner theatre.

We lasted for four months. Four months of drama, four months of her pleading with me for info on ongoing cases, four months of stimulating conversations and fantastic sex. And in the end, when I was called into the Commissioner’s office and relieved of duty for divulging sensitive information, it turned out to be four months of nothing.

I called Ashleigh from a pay phone and told her I’d been fired. She made all the right noises, sympathetic and concerned, and I got home just in time to catch her removing the recording device she had placed in the receiver of my phone.

There was an awkward silence. Then she asked, “Are you going to have me arrested?” Only the slightest tremor in her voice told me she was genuinely frightened of the prospect.

I thought about it. Thought about what would happen to that exquisite body and that gorgeous face in prison. And I decided that, whatever she had done to me, I couldn’t put her through it.

I looked squarely into those wisteria-colored eyes and said, “Get out.”

She laid a cool hand on my forearm. “I’m sorry, Jared. I didn’t mean to get you fired. Only, you have no idea how fierce the competition is out there. If I don’t get these stories . . .”

“Get out,” I repeated, and I guess she finally figured I meant it, because she left.

I mailed her the rest of her belongings. There wasn’t much. Some lingerie, a few toiletries, and a couple of changes of clothes.

I didn’t pee in her shampoo, but I thought about it.

I hadn’t seen her since, except on TV, and even then I always tried to change the channel before she came on.

Now, though, I hoped a sense of obligation and the lure of an exclusive would be enough to secure a little loyalty.

Billy hovered over my shoulder as I dialed the number on my cell phone. When she answered, I drew in a breath. Her voice was still enough to drive a sane man mad.

“Ashleigh, it’s Jared. Jared McKean.”

“Jared!” She sounded surprised and a little eager. “How long has it been?”

Not long enough
, I thought, but did not say. “A little over a year. I saw you on the news tonight.”

“Really?” A note of pleasure warmed her voice. “What did you think?”

“Beautiful, as always. I wanted to talk to you about your lead story.”

She gave a squeal of nervous laughter. “Yes, I imagine you do. But, Jared . . .”

“Ashleigh, you know me. I didn’t kill this woman.”

“Oh, I know. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.” After a little pause, she added, “I understand they’ve got your DNA.”

“They don’t have
my
DNA,” I said, though if my suspicions about Heather were true, they very well might. “They have my blood type. But I know that isn’t public information yet. You got taps on someone else’s line?”

Long pause. “I have a contact on the force.”

I took in a long, slow breath. “Look, Ash, enough fencing. I need your help.”

Wary now. “Why should I help you?”

Why, indeed. “Let’s start with, you used me, you lost me my job, and then you did a story on how I’d been dumped from the force—which was your fault to begin with. Now you’ve plastered my picture all over the news. Nice touch, by the way, choosing the one that makes me look like a homicidal maniac.”

I could picture her on the other end of the line, the little furrow between her brows, the cupid’s bow of her lips pursed into an indignant pout. “What is it you want?”

“You’ve already said you had a contact. You can ask around, find out about the victim.”

“You already know more than I do. They say you’d been banging her for months.”

Months?
I shook my head, although she couldn’t see it. “I didn’t even know her.”

“Then why are they saying you do?”

“There was a woman I met . . .” It sounded lame, even to me, but I ran it down for her anyway.

She was quiet for a moment. Then, “Conspiracy theories really aren’t your style.”

“You know I didn’t do this. If I was going to kill somebody, I would have done you a long time ago.”

On the other end of the line, there was a sound like a baby’s hiccup. When she spoke again, her voice sounded strained. “Maybe you should just turn yourself in. The police will figure it all out.”

This wasn’t necessarily true. Metro had a lot of good cops on the job, but like police forces everywhere, the department was overextended. They didn’t have time to chase shadows when, thanks to Heather, I’d become a prosecutor’s wet dream. It would be tempting just to throw me under the jail and close the books.

Especially considering the conditions under which I’d left.

“Ashleigh, I’m just saying, if I were the kind of guy who would do a thing like this, it would have happened by now. My wife left me, and I didn’t kill her. You . . . you were pretty much the devil incarnate, and I didn’t kill you.”

“Who knows?” She still sounded scared, but she’d gotten back some of her bravado. “Maybe everything just built up.”

“Think of the story. ‘Local Anchor Woman Clears Innocent Man.’ That could be you. That’s prize-winning material.”

There was another pause. “It would make a good story. But you have to promise me an exclusive.”

“It’s all yours.”

“I need to know exactly what happened last night. What happened with the woman. How your truck ended up at the murder scene. Can you come over and fill me in?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“This may take awhile, and I don’t want to do it on the phone. I need to see your face, your mannerisms.”

I thought about it. There was a chance she’d set me up. On the other hand, she’d climb Mt. Everest with her silk-wrapped, salon-painted fingernails for a story. Maybe she’d be curious enough to give me a day or two.

“Okay,” I said at last. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

When I hung up, Billy flung himself down on the couch with so much force it bounced. “I guess it won’t do me no good to tell you this is the damn-foolest thing you’ve ever done?”

“Billy,” I said, “desperate times call for desperate measures. And these, my friend, are desperate times.”

BILLY OFFERED TO DRIVE ME OVER
. Instead, I walked a couple of blocks to Broadway and caught a cab to Ashleigh’s place in Green Hills, an upscale neighborhood south of downtown. I didn’t think she’d turn me in until she got her exclusive, but I wanted Mean Billy miles away from the place just in case she did.

She had a two-story, Elizabethan-style house with a pool in the backyard and a koi pond in the front. The front porch light radiated a washed-out glow that turned her dogwoods and azaleas into jagged black tangles. I had the cab driver circle the block twice to make sure there were no cops around. Then I got out, paid my fare, and threw myself to the sharks.

Shark.

Singular.

She met me at the door with a standard high society hug and kissed the air beside my cheek. The scent of her Bill Blass perfume brought back erotic memories. Rumpled sheets, chestnut hair splayed across my chest, the smell of sweat and flowers on her skin.

“Jared. It’s good to see you again. You still look scrumptious.” Scrumptious. She actually used words like that. She trailed one finger lightly down the buttons of my shirt and sighed. “Makes me wonder why I ever let you go.”

“Your source dried up.”

She pouted prettily. “Now, Jared. Don’t be cynical.”

“Getting canned because your girlfriend sneaked around and tapped your phone will make a person cynical. Not to mention getting framed for murder.”

She dropped her hand to her side and took a step back, averting her eyes. “So, how’s Paul?”

She’d never been comfortable with Paulie. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was a child or because he had Down syndrome. Maybe some of both. Ashleigh wasn’t exactly the maternal type.

“Fine,” I said. “They’re keeping an eye on his heart, but for now he’s doing okay.” Down’s kids have a tendency toward heart and respiratory problems. Leukemia too, though we’d been lucky on that count. Knock on wood.

“Well. That’s good, then. How old is he now? Six? Seven?”

“He’ll be eight next Wednesday.”

“My God.”

“He was going on seven when you and I were together.”

“I was thinking he was younger.” She was wearing a tight black miniskirt with a white silk blouse that skimmed all the right places. Her makeup had been flawlessly applied: smoky eye shadow, thick black lashes, pale smooth skin with a hint of blush, siren-red lips. “Well, enough small talk. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened, exactly? I’ll get us a drink. Do you still like Jack and Coke?”

I thought of the last time I’d had Jack and Coke and grimaced. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“Nothing? Bourbon? Beer? Iced tea? Pepsi?”

“Tea, if it’s already made.”

She sashayed into the kitchen, hips swaying beneath the short skirt. I knew the show was for my benefit. I also knew that I could have been the plumber or the Terminex man, and she would have felt the same need to make me want her. I was easy pickings, but we both knew nothing would come of it.

I looked around while she was gone, noticed she’d changed her security system.

She came back carrying my tea and what looked like a glass of orange juice, but which was almost certainly a screwdriver.

“Made some changes,” I said, pointing to the new keypad.

She gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, that. I had a break-in a few months ago. Someone cut the wires on the system. But I guess something must have scared him away, because nothing was missing. Now . . . Tell me about this woman you met last night. What was her name? Amy something, wasn’t it?”

“No, that was the woman who was murdered. I never met her. This girl called herself ‘Heather,’ but that’s probably not her real name.”

I told her the story, from Heather’s request for a drink to reading my name in the paper.

When I’d finished, she leaned back, crossed her legs at the knee, and said, “That’s fascinating.”

And all hell broke loose.

A uniformed policeman burst through the door, gun drawn. Another couple of cops poured out of the bedroom.

I knew when I’d been beaten. Even if I’d had my gun, I knew better than to draw on cops. People who draw down on policemen tend to have very short life expectancies.

I put up my hands and let them search me, then went peaceably out to their patrol car, which must have been hidden in a neighbor’s garage.

I started to cover my face, but thanks to Ashleigh’s photograph, there wasn’t much point. Instead I took a deep breath and tried to exude an aura of dignified innocence.

Ashleigh trailed along behind us, looking delicate and shaken for the cameras she had obviously invited.

I looked at her and said, “Once a barracuda, always a barracuda.”

Her eyes were wide and innocent, brimming with unshed tears.

The cameras were rolling.

“
O
KAY, LET
’
S GO
over this again.” Frank Campanella paused to take a gulp of the bitter brew that passed for coffee in the interrogation rooms. His partner on the case, Harry Kominski, was nowhere to be seen, probably watching from behind the two-way mirror.

In all the years I’d known Harry, I’d heard him say maybe fifteen words. He was the tallest man on the force, which, combined with his reticence, earned him the inevitable nickname ‘Lurch.’ He looked like a dumb galoot. He wasn’t.

I glanced toward the mirror, told myself to forget about Harry, and focused on Frank’s next question. “How long had you been seeing Mrs. Hartwell?”

I sighed and splayed my hands on the table. “For the hundredth time, I hadn’t been seeing her. I never even met the woman.”

“Then why did she have your name in her Palm Pilot in a dozen places?” He pulled out a small black electronic organizer and read, “ ‘Saw Jared today.’ ‘Jared and I fought.’ ‘Jared very angry today.’ ”

“There are a lot of Jareds in the world.”

“It says here in the address part, ‘Jared McKean.’ Is this your phone number?” He held it up so my lawyer and I could see it.

“You know it is.”

“And your address?”

“Yes.”

“This
is
Mrs. Hartwell’s organizer, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met her.”

“And yet, she’s got your name all over the place.”

“So it seems.”

“Why would she have your name and address in her organizer if she didn’t know you?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know.”

Wallace Aaron, an up-and-coming young attorney whose name I had plucked out of the Yellow Pages, raised his hand in protest. “Detective Campanella, he’s already said he doesn’t know.”

“Swill.” Frank drained the last of the coffee and tossed the crumpled cup into the wastebasket. “You remember what swill this is?”