Confessions

“Her body.” He shuddered. “God, that sounds so final.”

“I was hoping you might remember something else about the intruders.” Trace pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket.

The tanned brow furrowed. “I’m afraid no more than I’ve already told you. It was all so sudden, and I’d been sleeping.”

“No distinguishing marks? Tattoos, moles, warts? Anything like that?”

Alan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“How about what they were wearing?”

The senator shook his head again. “I’m sorry.”

So much for the dynamite memory. Too bad the gunmen hadn’t offered to contribute to the senator’s presidential campaign. Trace bet the senator’s memory would have instantly improved.

“Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”

“Of course.”

“In the meantime, my deputy will bring by some mug books.”

“Do you think my wife’s killers will be in there?”

“We can always hope. You may see something that strikes a chord.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“I know you will, Senator. In the meantime, are you acquainted with Clint Garvey?”

“Acquainted?” Alan’s expression and his tone were calm, although slightly puzzled. “Of course. He’s a neighbor.”

“Would you call him a friend?”

“Not really. The man’s a loner. I doubt if I’ve run into him more than two or three times.”

Trace made a notation. Then paused again. “There’s no tactful way I can ask this. Do you happen to know if your wife had been unfaithful?”

“No.” Alan’s voice regained its earlier strength. His gaze did not waver. “My wife was a saint. Ask anyone who knew her. Why, the work she did arranging medical care for impoverished children of the Third World received U.N. recognition.”

“Laura was dedicated to the poor,” Heather agreed. Her voice cracked a little. Her whiskey-colored eyes misted.

“Those children were her life,” Alan said.

“Speaking of children—” Trace took his time, flipping through the pages of the notebook “—did you know your wife was pregnant, Senator?”

“Pregnant?” Surprise flashed across Alan Fletcher’s handsome face. “No.”

He lowered his gaze. His hands clutched at the starched white sheets. When he lifted his eyes again, Trace could read doubts in those deep blue depths. “Are you sure?”

“We found a home pregnancy test in the bathroom wastebasket. The autopsy revealed your wife was approximately eight weeks pregnant.”

“Eight weeks,” Fletcher echoed.

“Approximately.”

The senator leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Heather Martin walked over to the window and studied the parking lot with unwavering interest.

Silence settled over the hospital room.

Trace let it linger.

Watching Heather he said, “According to my notes—” he was reading from the notebook again “—you arrived in Whiskey River around midnight.”

The senator coughed, then grimaced, as if in pain. “Did I say that?”

“Yes, sir. When the paramedics were working on you at the house.”

“Ah.” The reassuring smile returned, looking as out of place as it had earlier. “That probably explains it. I’d been shot, I was in terrible pain, I was frantic about Laura. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.

“The fact of the matter is, after driving up from Phoenix, I reached Whiskey River sometime between ten and eleven. I returned home to the house around midnight.”

“I see.” Trace jotted the correction down. “Mind telling me what you were doing between ten and midnight?”

“The senator was with me,” Heather offered quickly. A bit too quickly, Trace thought. “We were working on his speech.”

“I’m giving a speech on law and order at the Fourth of July rally,” the senator explained. “Heather was helping me fine-tune it. We’re announcing my run for the presidency here in Whiskey River before making a fund-raising swing through the southwest.” He glanced up at his chief of staff. “I suppose we’ll have to make some changes to include this horrible thing that has happened to Laura.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I’ll take care of it.”

Alan Fletcher was looking off into some middle distance. “I’ll also need to come up with something appropriate for the funeral.” His gaze cleared as he met Trace’s inscrutable one. “My wife was a wonderful woman. She deserves a proper eulogy.”

Once again he turned to his aide. “You’ll take care of the rough draft, won’t you, Heather?”

“Of course.”

“You know,” he mused, “though Whiskey River was Laura’s home, I was, after all, elected by people from all over the state. The funeral should be held in Phoenix.” He nodded, apparently pleased with his decision. “The central location would make it a great deal easier for out-of-town visitors. What with the airport and all.”

“I’ll start making the calls right away.”

“You should also call the office and have them fax you a list of Breakfast Club members.” Trace vaguely recalled that the wealthy group of financial contributors the senator wanted to invite to his wife’s funeral had been publicly disbanded after allegations of influence buying had appeared in the Washington Post.

“Of course.” As if realizing the inappropriateness of that particular suggestion, the chief of staff studiously ignored Trace’s steady gaze. But embarrassed color darkened her cheeks. “I know this has been a terrible shock to you, Senator.”

It wasn’t a bad save, Trace allowed. At least she was trying. Heather Martin was obviously efficient and loyal. There was also a good chance she was sleeping with the victim’s husband. But that didn’t make her a murderer.

Any more than Senator Alan Fletcher’s apparent self-serving shallowness made him a killer.

“So,” Trace confirmed, “you arrived at the ranch house around midnight.”