With Malice

“None that I can find.”

Karen nodded, feeling like a fifth wheel. “Who found the body?”

Millie showed her teeth in an unpleasant smile. “The senator’s watchdog.”

“Connally?”

“You got it.”

Karen glanced at her watch. “This early in the morning?” She hated the very idea, but it appeared she was going to have to go talk to Jerry Connally.

One of the many reasons she was getting bone weary of this damn job.

He was careful not to show it, but Jerry Connally was as nervous as he’d ever been in his life. He was a man totally in control of himself and most of the world around him, but at this moment he felt his control might be slipping.

In law school he’d taken an advanced prosecution clinic. The professor had told him something he’d never forgotten. Criminals don’t get caught because cops are brilliant. Criminals get caught because they’re stupid. For every one thing they think of, the professor had said, they forget five others. And those five others bury them.

Jerry had tried to think of as many things as he could in moving Stacy’s body. And he thought of himself as a smart guy. But that only meant that for every one thing he’d thought of, he’d probably forgotten two or three or four others.

The bottom line, though, was that Grant Lawrence was worth the risk. And if Jerry’s neck ended up in the noose to save Grant’s…that was just how things would have to be. Grant deserved no less.

He waited in the foyer for a few moments, glancing in the large, ornate mirror near the door to make sure he looked like himself and not like some criminal with something to hide.

His open, Irish face looked back at him, unnaturally somber but otherwise normal. A little edginess, he assured himself, was okay under the circumstances. After all, he’d discovered a brutal murder. So it didn’t matter that his tie was loose or his remaining hair disheveled. It fit the moment.

Then, shoving his hands in his pockets to still their sudden inclination to fidget, he stepped back outside. He didn’t want to hear what the crime scene people were telling that detective. What was her name? Swanson, Swenson, something. Sweeney, that was it. Someone he had a feeling he wasn’t going to be able to control all that easily. He might have to do something about that.

Just then she appeared at his side. Damn, he hadn’t been paying attention. He offered a smile.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

She regarded him with gray eyes that seemed devoid of any color whatever, save for the tiniest slivers of green around the pupils. Predatory eyes.

“I understand you found the body?”

He nodded.

“It’s, what, 3:00 a.m.? What were you doing here?”

This part was easy. It was the truth. “The senator left a message for me last evening. I was out with my wife at the time. He needed some papers faxed up to his office, for a bill that’s pending. We got home around 1:00 a.m. I got the message and came right over.”

“Couldn’t it have waited till morning?” she asked.

“Yes. It could have. But I was planning to take my kids fishing today. I wanted to wrap it up tonight so I’d have the day to myself.” He sighed. “Best laid plans.”

The woman seemed to look right through him. “I’m sure Abigail Reese didn’t plan on getting killed, either.”

It was at best a sarcastic remark, and he could have argued the point. But for the moment, at least, she held the power. Better to let that lie, wait for her to realize she’d stepped out of line, and be ready to take advantage when she apologized.

“Point taken, Detective.”

But she didn’t apologize. She didn’t even seem to care that she might have crossed a line. Dangerous woman. She continued looking right through him and asked, “Weren’t you afraid that coming into the house this late at night would wake the nanny?”

He shook his head, fists clenching inside his pockets. “Abby didn’t have the best hearing. She wasn’t stone deaf or anything, but I’ve come and gone before while she was sleeping.”

“And you have a key, and you know the alarm code.”

“Yes, exactly for purposes like this. The senator has an office at the back of the house.”

She didn’t say anything but simply turned to look at the brass dead bolt. Damn! He hadn’t thought of that. There was no evidence of tampering. Shit!

She turned to him again. “Was the alarm on when you got here?”

He thought rapidly, then decided the truth was best on this one. “No.”

“Did you find that odd?”

“Not necessarily. Abby sometimes forgets about it.” That, too, was true. Grant had complained about it once, because he was concerned that she forgot it when his children were home.

“And you know that how?”

“Because the senator complained to me about it once.”

She nodded, for the moment giving him the feeling she was accepting his explanations. “How did you enter?”

“Through the front door. As I always do.”

“And then?”

“I turned on the foyer lights and headed back toward the office. But as I was passing the living room—” He broke off, and this time he wasn’t pretending anything. His throat tightened, and his face stiffened with the memory. “I…smelled it.”

She nodded again. She knew what he meant, apparently. “Then?”

“I turned on the lights, and…my God…” He couldn’t continue. He honestly couldn’t continue as he recalled those first few minutes when he had stared into an abattoir and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It had been so alien to his experience that for a while the images wouldn’t even resolve into anything recognizable. And then…

He turned sharply away from the detective, forcing himself to draw steadying breaths, not wanting her or anyone else to see him break down. The ugliness. The horror. There were no words.

“Mr. Connally,” said the woman behind him, “how long was it before you called us?”

2

Grant watched the water drip from his face into the sink. The bitter taste was still strong in his mouth, despite two rinses of mouthwash. The face he saw in the mirror had neither the energy of youth nor the wisdom of age. It was pale, drawn, eyes red-rimmed.

He drew a deep breath. He had to do something.

What would he tell the girls? They’d called Abby last night, before bed, just to say hi, they’d said. He couldn’t remember a night when they’d been away from Abby and hadn’t called her. It was as much a part of their bedtime ritual as hugs and brushing their teeth and him tucking them in. What would he tell them?

He had to get back to Tampa. That much was certain. Call his parents. That was the next step. Tell them what had happened and ask them to take the girls. One thing at a time, he told himself. One thing at a time.