Confessions

“Yes.”

Trace referred to the notebook again. “And I believe you told me that you didn’t go upstairs.”

“That’s right. I didn’t want to wake Laura.” His voice cracked the slightest bit on his wife’s name.

“That’s what you said,” Trace agreed. “My deputy was told by witnesses that your wife arrived in town two days ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Is it usual for you to travel to Arizona separately?”

“It’s not unusual.” Alan Fletcher’s blue eyes narrowed, as if seeking the trap. “A vote was scheduled for yesterday that kept me in Washington. Laura came home early to prepare for the barbecue we’re hosting for friends at the ranch.

“Oh, Lord, that’s another thing,” he groaned.

“I’ll call the guests,” Heather said, right on cue.

The handsome face relaxed. “Is there anything else?”

“There is one more thing.” Trace frowned thoughtfully as he flipped through the notebook pages. “Am I to understand that you hadn’t seen your wife since the day before yesterday?”

“Laura’s flight left National at 8:45 in the morning. I dropped her off at the terminal myself on the way to the Hill.”

“I see.” Trace nodded. “So, since you didn’t want to wake her last night, you’re also telling me that it’s been at least two days since you and your wife had relations.”

“Relations?” Alan repeated blankly. “You mean sex?”

“Yes.”

“Really, Sheriff, that’s a rather personal question.”

“I’m afraid your wife’s murder has made it a matter of public interest, Senator,” Trace corrected politely.

What he didn’t divulge was that the autopsy had revealed the presence of semen. He couldn’t discount the possibility that whoever had been with Laura Fletcher last night could have been the last person to see her alive.

“I don’t keep track of my wife’s and my lovemaking in a little black book.” Fletcher’s voice turned decidedly cool.

“Could you venture a guess?”

“We’ve both been quite busy lately. But, if I were forced to pinpoint a day, I’d say sometime last week. Tuesday, perhaps. Or Wednesday.”

Trace noted the answer on a clean page. “Thank you, senator. You’ve been a big help.”

The alarm on his watch sounded. Trace closed the notebook. “I have a press conference scheduled, but I’ll be back this evening.”

“A press conference?” It was the first sign of acute interest Trace had witnessed.

“You’re a famous man, Senator,” Trace reminded him needlessly. “This time tomorrow, the media’s going to be crawling all over this place.”

“They will, won’t they?” Fletcher rubbed his square jaw. He turned again to his aide. “I’ll need my razor. And a change of clothes.”

“The house is still taped off,” Trace informed him. “But I’ll arrange for Ms. Martin to have access.”

“Thank you. And please, Sheriff Callahan—” his handsome face turned campaign poster sincere “—find the men who killed my wife.”

“Don’t worry.” Trace returned the notebook to his pocket. “I have every intention of doing just that.”

Trace left the room, stopping on the other side of the door to check a note and to hear Heather Martin’s angry voice. “Laura was pregnant?” Her palm connected with the senator’s firm jaw, sounding like a gunshot.

The two cops on the other side of the hospital room door exchanged a look.

Ben Loftin belched, took a bite of the Snickers bar that had replaced the apple, and returned to his magazine.

As he drove back to Whiskey River, Trace damned whoever the hell it was who’d killed Laura Fletcher.

He’d thought he was beyond caring. He’d honestly believed that his ability to care had been burned out of him by the corrosive, acidic quality of experience. Which was why he’d come to Arizona. He’d been foolish enough to believe that he could sit in a rocker on the jailhouse porch and spend his days whittling toothpicks, waiting for his monthly paycheck to arrive.

Trace’s fingers tapped a thoughtful tattoo on the steering wheel. He’d chosen what he thought would be a solitary existence. But he’d been wrong. Other lives had drifted down Whiskey River’s currents and collided with his.

A woman was dead.

So now, like it or not, he was going to have to get back in the saddle again and track down her killer.

He owed it to Laura Fletcher.

He owed it to her husband—so long as the guy turned out to be innocent—Trace amended as an afterthought.

He owed it to Mariah Swann, to the residents of Mogollon County whose taxes paid his salary, and to society in general.

Surprisingly, Trace realized he also owed it to himself.

Chapter Six

Just as Trace had feared, the crime quickly gained Roman circus appeal. By noon, Main Street was jammed with television vans. Thick cables ran across the pavement; the satellite dishes atop the vans were capable of transmitting the press conference live to a vast national audience.

Uniformly attractive reporters who had taken over the courthouse steps were recording their stand-ups in front of videocams. Trace saw one brunette he recognized as being a morning anchor from a Phoenix station doing some last minute repairs to her hair with a portable butane curling iron.

The sidewalks, unsurprisingly, were packed with looky-loos. An enterprising hot dog vendor had set up an umbrella-topped stand across the street in the park. Nearby another entrepreneur was doing a brisk business in Italian ices and espresso. Rather than try to drive through the uncharacteristic crush of traffic, The Good Humor man had brazenly parked his truck in a fire tow-away zone. The line for Popsicles, ice cream bars and soft drinks extended around the block.

“Apparently murder is good for business,” Trace said as he entered his office ten minutes late and found Jessica waiting. Her white suit looked as crisp and tidy as it had hours earlier, making Trace wonder if she’d had the material coated with Teflon.

“I recall reading that back in the sixties, when Reno was declared Murder Capitol of the country, tourism hit an all-time high,” she said.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Perhaps someone ought to suggest a new ad campaign to the chamber of commerce.”

“Visit Whiskey River—the west’s most Western town. Where the shoot-outs aren’t faked,” she suggested as she made another pass at the coffeepot herself, then sat back down.

When she crossed her legs, the enticing sound of silk on silk drew his attention. Trace wondered if he’d ever outgrow checking out a woman’s legs and sincerely hoped not.