Mariah felt her shoulders sag as she watched the chic Realtor dash back across the lobby, headed in the direction of the meeting rooms.
“You should have told her,” she said out loud.
Reminding herself that Freddi had always been Laura’s friend, not hers, Mariah took the old-fashioned gilt cage elevator to her suite on the third floor.
She had to call her mother. Mariah definitely didn’t want Maggie to learn the tragic news from some reporter. But first she had something even more important to do.
As soon as she entered the spacious room loaded with what appeared to be genuine antique furnishings, she placed a call to the sheriff’s office, gave her name and was frustrated to learn he wasn’t there.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Well, he’s got a press conference scheduled at noon. So I guess he’ll be back by then.” The voice sounded young. And vaguely bored. Mariah heard the unmistakable snap of bubble gum.
“It’s urgent that I speak with him.”
“I can try to radio him and have him call you,” the dispatcher said obligingly.
Mariah bit back her frustration and raked her hand through her hair. “I suppose that’ll have to do.”
“When I do track Trace down, want me to give him a message?”
Mariah’s mind was still reeling from her earlier conversation with the desk clerk. “Tell him I have evidence that will prove who killed my sister.”
* * *
Jessica had definitely called this one right. Trace leaned both hands against the porcelain rim of the bathroom sink, grimly studied his reflection in the mirror and decided that the hollow-eyed face looking back at him was not a pretty sight.
He looked like the head doorman at the Whiskey River drunk tank. He ran his tongue over his fuzzy teeth. Coffee and not enough sleep had left him feeling as if the Persian Gulf war had been fought inside his mouth.
After brushing, he gargled with cinnamon-flavored mouthwash. While waiting for the water to warm in the shower, he stripped, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.
When clouds of steam began fogging the glass door, he stepped into the stall, soaped down, shaved, then leaned his head against the brown-and-cream tiled wall. He thought back on the autopsy which had left him with more questions than answers and fell asleep. Standing up.
A sudden jolt of icy water woke him. Trace cursed, twisted the faucets shut, then shook himself off like a dog who’d just had a hose turned on him. Making a few halfhearted swipes at his wet body with a towel, he went into the bedroom and surveyed his closet.
The uniform he’d been given the first day on the job was still in its plastic dry cleaner’s bag. Trace had never worn it, knowing that the khaki symbol of authority J.D. so obviously relished would make him feel like he was six years old again, playing cops and robbers on south Dallas’s mean streets.
Back in his old neighborhood, there’d admittedly been a lot more kids who’d wanted to be the robbers. Trace decided things hadn’t changed all that much. The only difference was that these days, instead of cap pistols, kids were packing real guns.
The blue suit he used to wear to testify in court hung in a similar plastic bag beside the uniform. Though it looked presentable on TV, it was definitely overkill for Whiskey River.
Opting for the middle ground, jeans and a sport coat, he’d just finished dressing when the phone rang. “Callahan.”
“Hasn’t your office gotten hold of you yet?”
Trace dragged a hand down his face. All he needed was an amateur sleuth trying to solve his crime. “Yes, Ms. Swann.”
“You haven’t called back.”
“I’ve been a little busy. I spent the last two hours attending an autopsy.” He did not mention stopping by the Garvey ranch and learning from a hired hand that the rancher had ridden off into the hills around dawn.
“What time did Alan say he arrived home?”
“Why?”
“Because Heather Martin checked into the Lakeside Lodge at ten o’clock last night.” Her tone was smug.
He rubbed his hands over his face again. “Okay. I’ll bite.” His words were muffled by his palms. “Who’s Heather Martin?”
“His so-called chief of staff. Although mistress is probably a better job description. Room service sent up a bottle of Chivas and two glasses at ten-oh-five. Alan was seen leaving the lodge at midnight. So what time did he tell you he got to the ranch?”
“I can’t answer that. Not while—”
“There’s an ongoing investigation,” she finished up for him. “Shit. I’ve probably written that line myself a hundred times.”
“Then you should know it by heart.”
“Are you always this sarcastic, Sheriff? Or do I just bring out the worst in you?”
He silently admitted he wasn’t going to win the Mr. Congeniality award. But the clock was ticking down and he still had to get to the hospital in Payson and interview Fletcher again before the press conference. And then there was the scorned beautician with the scissors.
“Neither. Is there a third choice?”
Her curse was short and imaginative. He wondered if she could get away with using it in her TV shows.
“Look, I’ll bet my last Emmy that Alan’s sleeping with his assistant. That gives you the motive.”
“Motive’s for trial lawyers, crime novelists and you Hollywood writers. To tell you the truth, Ms. Swann, in real life cops don’t spend a helluva lot of time looking for motive.”
“You don’t?”
Trace could tell he’d momentarily sidetracked her. “Sometimes the motive behind a crime can be interesting. Sometimes it’s even helpful. But it’s usually beside the point.
“For future reference, forget the why. Worry about finding out the how and nine times out of ten it’ll give you the who.”
From the silence on the other end of the line, Trace suspected she was thinking that over. He was right.
“That’s very interesting.” Another little silence. He strapped on his watch and decided if he didn’t wind this up soon, he was never going to make his appointment with Jessica.
“I’m glad you think so. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“So, what I have to do is figure out how Alan killed Laura.”
“What you have to do is be a good girl and let me do my job,” he corrected.
“In the first place, I’m no longer a girl, Sheriff. And in the second place, even when I was, I was never, ever good. Ask anyone in Whiskey River.” Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, he thought he detected a bit of wry humor in her tone. “I’ll get back to you.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.” He wasn’t usually rude, although he could admittedly be so when it suited him. Fatigue had made him speak his mind and now that he had, Trace was considering whether or not he should apologize when her next statement stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks.
“You’re a sarcastic son of a bitch, Callahan. But since my sources in Dallas tell me you were one of the best—in your day—I’ll forgive you.”
“You had me checked out?” Surprise and irritation made him ignore the crack about in his day.
“Of course. I told you, I pride myself on my research. I’ll be watching your press