His Only Defense

“Could she have stopped to help someone and been abducted?”

“That’s what they thought at first, but that husband o’hers swore she’d never do something that dumb. Besides, she carried a gun in the car. Had a permit and everything. It was still there. If she’d gotten out of the car, she’d ’a took that gun, if she had a lick o’ sense.”

“What did you think of the husband?”

“Seemed like a nice man. Real cut up. My Vachie tried to look after him some. ’Course, those detectives thought from the get-go he killed her.”

“So they were just going through the motions on the search?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. They didn’t let up for three solid days. Had them crime scene folks here, but wadn’t nothing to find after that downpour. After a while I guess they just gave up.”

Liz thanked Mr. Waldran and asked if she could leave her car while she walked across the road to look in the woods. He agreed and went back into his house. Maizie lumbered after him.

Contemplating the curve of the road, Liz was as surprised as Mr. Waldran that someone hadn’t come around the corner and smacked into Sylvia’s car all those years ago, especially since the driver’s-side door had been open.

Though the rain had stopped earlier, mist still hung in the cold air, Liz noted with a shiver. A little more moisture and mud wouldn’t make much difference at this point.

She walked across the road and stood on the narrow grass shoulder to stare down into the water-filled ditch. If Sylvia needed help or refuge, surely she’d have headed up the driveway to the Waldran house. Mr. Waldran and his wife had both been investigated at the time, to make certain they hadn’t kidnapped and done away with Sylvia.

Both had come up clean. He was a deacon of the Camp-belltown Baptist Church. Pillars of the community, they’d raised four children and had a dozen grandchildren. Neither was senile or paranoid. There had been no sign that Sylvia had been in the house or the garage.

The obvious solution was that someone had stopped her on the road somehow, abducted her or killed her and hidden her body too well for it to be found, probably a long way from the scene.

She wouldn’t have braked for someone she didn’t know. She wouldn’t have gotten into a car with a stranger. If she’d been accosted, she’d have used her gun to protect herself.

Her car had not been dented or disabled, proving she hadn’t been rammed by another vehicle, and stopped to check the damage. Who else but her husband would even know she’d be alone on this road at night?

The one person she would have stopped for was big Jud Slaughter.

CHAPTER FIVE

“DADDY,” COLLEEN SAID, “who was that lady, the one you arranged to have breakfast with? She’s not one of your clients.”

Jud turned his truck into the parking lot of Hamilton’s Academy for Young Ladies and joined the line of SUVs, crew-cab pickups and fancy sedans also dropping off girls for school. He debated whether to tell her the truth and let her stew all day, or make up something he’d have to refute later. “How’d you know she’s not a client?”

“Those slacks came from someplace like Target, for one thing. And ladies who can afford your houses always wear gynormous diamond rings and carry Coach handbags for every day. She’s not married.”

He glanced at his daughter in amazement. She was fourteen! How could she possibly identify where the woman’s slacks came from, or be aware of purses and jewelry? “What do you study in that fancy school of yours?” He pulled into the unloading zone, stopped and turned in his seat.

“You always say it pays to know quality,” she said with a cheeky smile. Leaning over, she gave him a kiss, slid out of the car, waved at a couple of other girls with long blond hair and ran up the stairs to the front door.

She’d forgotten to ask him again about Liz Gibson, but she’d remember sooner or later. He’d have to respond, but he’d have a better idea of how much he needed to tell her after breakfast.

When he walked into the diner, Liz was already sitting in a booth. She was reading the morning newspaper and drinking orange juice. He took a moment to assess her from the doorway.

Good-looking. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. Probably divorced, probably children. Well-spoken. He wondered how long she’d been a detective, because she obviously worked out. The homicide detectives who’d ridden roughshod over him seven years ago had not, but they’d been older. One dyed his hair blue-black, the other carried his paunch in front of him like a baby bump. Why were they not the ones reopening the investigation? Did they think he’d respond better to a woman?

In her case, they might be right. He’d liked her forthright hazel eyes, and the brown locks she pulled back in what his daughter called a scrunchie. Made him want to ease if off and find out what she looked like with her hair down. He’d also be willing to give his business partner, Trip Weichert, good odds that there wasn’t a single drop of silicone in what Trip would call her “rack.” Nice rack, too. Just about the right size to fit into the palms of his hands.

Altogether a very beddable specimen. If he were in the market, and if bedding a detective wasn’t about the most dangerous notion he’d ever had.

She must have felt his eyes on her because she looked up, saw him, folded the paper and set it beside her cup. No welcoming smile, however. Very serious lady.

They greeted each other, but she didn’t offer to shake hands. He sat opposite her, and before he spoke, Bella, his regular waitress, put a cup of coffee in front of him. “Morning, Jud. Your usual?” she said.

“Did you order?” he asked Liz.

“Yeah, she did,” Bella answered, and turned back toward the kitchen.

“I don’t think she approves of me,” Liz murmured.

“She doesn’t approve of anybody that hasn’t been eating here for at least ten years.”

Liz took a business card out of her pocket and shoved it across the table. “This is my extension and my cell phone. If you need to speak to me, don’t hesitate to call.”

“You mean if I want to confess?”

“I didn’t say that. You might think of something you didn’t tell the other detectives. So, shall we get down to it while we wait?”

Jud shrugged. “You’ve undoubtedly read the files. I don’t have anything to tell you that wasn’t in them.”

“Humor me. For example, why was your wife driving home by herself at eight o’clock at night?”

“Sylvia was branch vice president of the Marquette National Bank. She usually worked late on Friday nights. The bank stays open until seven on Fridays, then she made certain whatever bankers do after hours got done.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not precisely, no. She liked working alone after everyone left. She wasn’t a morning person, so she didn’t go in to work early. She blamed it on her internal clock.”

“Your daughter wasn’t home?”

“She was spending the night with my in-laws. She frequently does that on Friday and Saturday nights. They live in Germantown.” He grinned. “That means closer to malls and movies.”

“She was only seven?”

“At that age she conned her grandmother into shopping and the latest Disney.”

“I’m speaking to Mrs. Richardson later this morning.”

That sounded vaguely like a threat. “Irene will tell you the same thing, Miz Gibson.” But Herb wouldn’t. She’d get a real earful if he was home.

Bella plopped a big glass of iced tea down in front of the detective and filled Jud’s coffee mug. They waited until she was out of earshot again.

“Listen, do you mind if we switch to first names? Seems more informal,” Liz said.

Jud was a bit surprised. “Sure. I’m Jud.”

“And they call me Liz that do speak of me.”