“I know that, you idiot! But that’s not our biggest problem at the moment.”
She began to pace. Damn, she’d thought for sure that she’d killed that bitch Lacy the day she’d dumped the kid. If the diner hadn’t been so crowded at lunchtime and she hadn’t been wearing sunglasses and a scarf, her face might have triggered Lacy’s memory. With the amnesia gone, Lacy would remember that she was Chase’s mother, not to mention the small fact that Janelle had tried to kill her with a blow on the head.
“What did you say they were calling her?”
“Who?”
Rage surged through her. The man looked like a movie star, but he was as dumb as a stump. If not for her, he’d still be working a two-bit construction job in Las Vegas, but what a damned nuisance he’d become! Was it too much to ask that he have enough intelligence to follow a conversation? She picked up a brass bookend and hurled it at him.
“Lacy Clark, you overgrown booby! Who else?”
He dodged the bookend and waited to see if she’d pitch the other even as he muttered, “Oh, her.”
“Yeah, her,” Janelle said, sneering, “the woman who gave birth to our Maitland meal ticket.” She drove a hand through her long, dark hair. “Damn! I knew it. I knew she wasn’t dead. Blast her! Why couldn’t she have just died in that alley?”
“At least she doesn’t remember anything,” Petey said hopefully. “You heard that woman at the diner say she has amnesia. She can’t tell about you trying to take the baby or hitting her if she can’t remember.”
Janelle turned a hard look on Petey. “And what if she gets her memory back?” she demanded. “We can’t trust she won’t. We have to shut her up permanently. We don’t have any other choice. If that Goody Two-shoes gets her memory back, we’re through here. We lose everything. We have to make certain that doesn’t happen.”
Petey studied her warily. “What are you thinking?”
“We’re going to finish the job,” Janelle said coldly. “Lacy Clark should have died in that alley. The only way to fix this is to finish what I started that day.”
“You’re saying we have to kill her.”
“It’s her own fault,” Janelle declared. “If she’d just given me the baby like I’d planned, instead of changing her mind at the last moment, we’d be safe. Now one of us has to make sure she never remembers.”
Petey grimaced. “Me, you mean.”
“Can you think of another way?” Janelle asked coaxingly. “Darling, I’ve already tried and failed. I’ve done all the planning and setting up. God, I invested months in that woman, winning her trust, convincing her the real Connor didn’t want her or the brat. I’m just not strong enough to do this one last part. And we’re so close to getting our share of the Maitland millions.”
With a sigh, Petey lifted a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll take care of it,” he said simply, and for the first time since lunch, Janelle relaxed somewhat. This husband of hers did have his uses, and if she managed him right, she could have everything she deserved and wanted. She swayed across the room, pulling loose the sash at her waist.
“When?” she pressed. “How?”
Petey shrugged and eyed the lissome, naked body she displayed for him. “Soon. I’ll figure something out.”
“No one can ever connect us with her murder,” Janelle purred, reaching out to place a hand on his chest.
“They won’t,” Petey promised, leaning toward her.
“They’d better not,” she growled, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his mouth down to hers.
Her husband liked to play it rough once in a while, and she was willing to give him what he wanted often enough to keep him in line, especially since he worked so hard to give her what she wanted—and just now she wanted Lacy Clark dead.
TY PUT HIS HEAD DOWN and determinedly ran the gauntlet, his strides long and sure as he said, “No comment,” throwing the words left and right. He shoved through the heavy glass door of the Austin Police Headquarters building, leaving the reporters to the mercy of a windy February afternoon. As he hurried toward the elevator, he nodded to various officers in and out of uniform, clerks, secretaries, attorneys and at least one judge racing for the private entrance with a police escort following in her wake. The elevator opened and Ty stepped aside to allow several others to get out. Finally, he slipped inside and stabbed the correct floor button with an index finger. He held his breath as the doors slid closed, leaving him mercifully alone.
Putting his head back, he sighed in relief. What a day! Press dogging his every step, superiors ringing him up on his private cell phone to demand explanations, interviews that turned into Beth Maitland testimonials. If he hadn’t already been inclined to think the woman innocent, he’d have greatly resented all the heavy-handed support that was coming her way. The same, however, could not be said for Brandon Dumont.
The picture coming together of the poor widower was of an image-conscious, somewhat shady, self-important social climber who routinely inflated his background and his income. He had a reputation as something of a ladies’ man, and several of the ladies reported being carefully cultivated, only to be thrown over when a more socially prominent candidate appeared. Beth Maitland would have been the social pinnacle of Dumont’s romantic pursuits, while the woman he’d married had been utterly devoid of social consequence. As far as Ty could tell, the murdered woman had been nothing more than an attractive accountant in Dumont’s office, a step above a bookkeeper, until Dumont had married her. If it had been a love match, it had been a volatile one, since at least two people in a restaurant had heard them arguing recently, though neither could say about what.
The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Ty stepped out at a swift stride that carried him across the hall and into the squad room. It was warm, too warm, and he slung off his lightweight, black leather overcoat as he navigated the corridors between cubicles to his, which he shared with his partner. Paul Jester sat at the desk facing Ty’s, talking on the telephone. He glanced up as Ty hung his coat on the hanger he kept there for that very purpose. Paul quickly got off the phone and rocked back in his creaky chair to prop his feet on the corner of his desk, smiling like the proverbial cat that had eaten the canary.
“Our friend Dumont has been indulging in a little high-stakes day trading,” Paul revealed gleefully. “That’s the next thing to gambling, and he’s playing with borrowed money. Looks like he’s in over his head and trying desperately to get out. The Feds are asking questions about his business, and three investors in the last six months have filed complaints and disputes with him over his handling of their funds. Plus, the wife had a small life insurance policy, and she changed the beneficiary just two days before her death.”
Interesting information. “Dumont is the beneficiary, of course,” Ty surmised.
“Yep.”
“Who was the original?”
“Her brother.”
“He lives in California, right?”
“Right. It’s a small policy, thirty thousand, but Dumont’s already filed the claim.”
Ty rubbed his hands together, pulled out his chair and sat. As motives went, it wasn’t much, but instinct was whispering that they were on the right trail. He was determined to be thorough, though. He had recognized in himself a disturbing tendency to want to believe Beth Maitland. Something about that woman got to him on a very elemental level. Whipping out his notebook, he prepared to report what he had learned. “Our boy Dumont is coming up dirtier and dirtier.”
“And the Maitland woman is looking shinier and shinier.”
At that, Ty looked up alertly. “Who says?”
Paul