Confessions

“Have I ever told you that you’ve got dynamite legs, Jess?”

“I believe the term was ‘wraparound,’” she corrected as she adjusted her skirt over her knees. “But that was in another time.” She took a sip of coffee. “In those carefree, halcyon days of yore before we landed ass-deep in reporters.”

“I’ve always liked your ass, too.”

“Thank you. I like yours as well.” She smiled at him over the rim of the chipped mug. “And as much as I’d love to spend the rest of the afternoon strolling down memory lane with you, Callahan, I suppose you’d better tell me what you’ve got so far.”

He did. What little he had.

“It’s not a lot to go on,” she mused, skimming over the notes she’d taken.

“No. It’s not.”

“But you’ll get more.”

“Yes. I will.”

She sighed. “We’re going to have to give that mob out there something to sink their teeth into.”

“How about the 911 tape?”

She considered that. “Not bad. It’s definitely dramatic enough to keep them occupied while you do whatever it is you intend to do.”

“As a matter of fact, I intend to detect.”

She lifted a brow. “Detect?”

“That’s what we detectives do,” he reminded her.

“Ah, but you’re not a detective anymore,” she reminded him back.

Trace shrugged. “That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.” He stood up. “Ready?”

She rose and brushed at the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Folding chairs had been set up in a conference room. Television lights were pointed at the podium. Although Trace and Jessica entered the room together, she stood aside, inviting him to open the proceedings.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the bank of microphones. “My name is Trace Callahan. I’m sheriff of Mogollon County and I’m in charge of the investigation into the shooting death of Mrs. Laura Swann Fletcher.”

An interested murmur rippled through the room. The audience leaned forward. Several of the faces could not contain their excitement. After all, a murder in Whiskey River was news in itself. Having the victim turn out to be the daughter of the most influential man in town and the wife of a U.S. senator rumored to be on the fast track to the White House cranked up the interest level considerably.

“Mrs. Fletcher was mortally wounded at her ranch house early this morning. The senator was also wounded, but he was taken to Louis R. Pyle Memorial Hospital where he is resting comfortably and is expected to make a full recovery.

“The County Attorney—” he tilted his head in Jessica’s direction “—Ms. Ingersoll, wants me to assure you that every resource of Mogollon County has been placed at my disposal until the killer or killers are apprehended. Are there any questions?”

“How, exactly, did Laura Fletcher die?” a twenty-something blond television reporter from the city asked.

“The autopsy revealed that Mrs. Fletcher received two wounds from a .38 caliber revolver, one in the left temple, the other in her chest. The bullet that penetrated her head killed her.”

Another reporter called out, “Is it true Middle East terrorists tried to assassinate the senator for his stand on the peace talks?” A buzz ran through the crowd. Terrorists were about on a level with space aliens in the high country. Neither were likely to be seen on Main Street.

“Not that we know.” Trace pointed toward a young print reporter clad in khaki who looked like a walking advertisement for an Eddie Bauer catalog.

“There’s been a report that it was an Earth First eco-terrorist group, protesting the senator’s prodevelopment policies,” the reporter, who worked for Flagstaff’s Coconino Sun said.

Development was as hot a topic as grazing fees and water rights in Whiskey River. Old-timers and environmentalists liked the town just the way it was; yuppies fleeing crime and other problems found in urban areas were pushing for something called “managed growth.” Growth was growth, the natives mumbled over morning coffee at The Branding Iron Café. And they didn’t like it. Not even a little bit.

“Again, that remains unsubstantiated.”

“How about rumors that it was a pro-choice feminist coalition angry about his campaign to outlaw abortion?” another television reporter questioned.

“We intend to check out all rumors, but at this time, there is no indication that was the case.”

“What steps do you intend to use to apprehend Laura Fletcher’s killer?” This from Rudy Chavez.

Trace’s face hardened. “All.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Chavez’s pugnacious attitude and challenging tone revealed he was still pissed about being forced away from the crime scene.

“Not at this time.”

“When can we talk to the senator?”

“Whenever he and his attending physician say you can. That’s not my decision to make.”

“If the senator and Mrs. Fletcher were both shot, who called the crime in?” a reporter Trace vaguely remembered being from the Camp Verde Bugle Call, asked.

“The senator placed the call himself after having been wounded. The 911 tape will be available to the press after this press conference is concluded.

“Now, since that’s all I have to say at this time, I’m going to turn the microphones over to Ms. Ingersoll.”

As he passed Jessica, Trace murmured, “Have fun, Counselor.”

* * *

“What kept you?” Mariah said ten minutes later when she opened the door of the suite to Trace.

“Couldn’t find a parking space. Every damn space in town is filled up with rental cars.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Seems to me a sheriff could park anywhere he wanted. Even in a red zone.”

Trace shrugged and did his best not to notice that she smelled like Eden in springtime. “Wouldn’t want to set a bad example. And didn’t your mother ever warn you to ask who it is before you open your hotel room door?”

“I knew it was you.” She stepped aside. “How about a beer? You look as if you could use one.”

Trace thought about assuring her he never drank on duty. Then he remembered the beer he’d left on the counter. Had it only been nine hours ago? It seemed a lifetime. “A beer sounds great.”

“Sit down.” She gestured toward the couch which was covered in some material designed to resemble a Navaho blanket, then retrieved a beer from the compact refrigerator beside the bar and took out a bottle of designer water for herself. The television was on with the sound turned down.