Notorious Page 2

  Another true believer. If he had a nickel . . . Spense laughed and clapped Aaron on the back. “I think you guys are going to have to settle for a tour of the cafeteria . . . but maybe I can throw in the FBI gift shop, too. Now leave your information with Agent Langhorne in case we need to contact you.” He nodded at Dutch. “And then hit the road before Detective Hard-­ass over there hauls us all downtown.”

  As the boys walked their bikes off to the side and huddled around Dutch, Caity tiptoed up to whisper in his ear, “You’re going to make a great father someday.”

  “If I remember my high-­school biology correctly,” he replied, in a low tone, “I’ve gotta get past second base with you, first.”

  A soft, seemingly involuntary sound came from her throat, and a pretty flush colored her cheeks.

  He grinned. All signs pointed to his hitting a home run in the near future.

  “Sorry to interrupt this little episode of Undateable,” Sheridan groused, “but we’ve got work to do.”

  Now that Aaron was out of harm’s way, Spense nodded his agreement. There was a mystery to be solved, and he was itching to get to it.

  Wednesday, October 16

  4:00 P.M.

  Plano, Texas

  A SIMPLE HIT had been all that was ordered; however, the woman had earned a slow death, if not a magnificent one. Fortunately, Malachi’s reputation as the Thresher was spotless, and his various employers generally left the manner of homicide to his discretion. He touched the target’s forehead with his fingers, anointing her husk with the ointment—­a blessing of sorts—­then rose to his feet. He tilted his head and surveyed his work.

  She looked quite at peace, lying there on her dingy kitchen linoleum, in spite of the messy way her insides were pushing and shoving their way out of her body cavity, as if trying to escape a cruel world.

  Malachi did not hold a romantic view of the afterlife—­rather he believed in ashes to ashes, dust to dust, for all but a chosen few. Certain lives were more important than others, and thus the accomplishment of taking them was that much greater: a truth that small minds could not comprehend.

  The traditional view, as handed down from the pulpit of his mother’s church, was that all lives held equal worth. Thus, by logical extension, all men deserved the same death. But anyone with the courage to open their eyes and take a good look at the pinhead lolling beside them on the bus, the train, or in the next office cubicle would see that merely having the property of life does not in and of itself make a creature worthwhile. Amoebas live, but they do not matter. Perhaps a number of others might agree with him on that particular point, but then their puny minds would go on to delude them into believing that they were better than said amoeba.

  Wrong!

  Possessing the quality of a beating heart, the ability to think and emote, was simply not enough. Being human doesn’t mean you matter. Some men matter, but most do not. Malachi mattered precisely because he had the ability to discern the difference.

  That was his gift: He could hear the hum of a human’s soul.

  If said human had one, that was, because, of course, not everyone did.

  He’d not heard the hum on his target today, but still, the woman had displayed a rudimentary spirit, trying to outwit him with lies and false promises in a futile attempt to get away. Such behavior was admirable, and even though she did not possess a soul, he knew he would take pleasure in her pain. Her courage marked her as more than an amoeba. Smiling at her shell, he slipped on his noise-­canceling headphones, then vacuumed the room, wiped all surfaces clean of prints, and exited out the back door.

  After stowing his vacuum in his trunk, he climbed into his new SUV. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number, and as he’d feared, the call came from a certain employer—­his one and only dissatisfied customer. Malachi could not allow his previously unblemished record to be spoiled by one little mishap. Especially a mishap that wasn’t even his fault. One way or another, he was going to have to clean up the mess in Dallas.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, October 16

  4:15 P.M.

  Dallas, Texas

  AFTER SPEAKING ON the phone with Aaron’s mother and securing a promise from him and his buddy that the two would walk their bikes straight home, Caitlin joined Spense, Dutch, and Sheridan inside Worthington mansion—­a historic old home that had been converted first into a hotel and later into an event venue. Looking around, she stifled a groan. The décor was over-­the-­top, with dozens of chandeliers, gold-­leaf wallpaper, and enough nude statues scattered about to make Liberace blush.

  “How’d it go with the mother?” Sheridan asked.

  “All taken care of,” she replied, making her smile twice as friendly in order to hide the fact her blood was still blistering hot from the way Sheridan had ridden roughshod over a fourteen-­year-­old kid.

  Once the detective had taken time to think about things, it, apparently, had dawned on him that deleting those photos from Aaron’s phone was illegal, and that if the family filed a complaint, he’d created a potential nightmare for his department. So Sheridan had asked her, since she was “a headshrinker and what-­have-­you,” to smooth things over with the boy’s parents. She’d readily agreed.

  Helping the detective out of a jam now would increase the chances he’d share information with Spense and her later. They weren’t an official part of the investigation, and Sheridan had included them in today’s crime-­scene walk-­through only as a courtesy to the Special Agent in Charge of the Dallas field office, Jim Edison . . . and because Dutch had refused to do one without them. They had a meeting set up with Edison tomorrow night, when he returned from Washington, D.C. Meanwhile, the plan today was for Dutch to guide Sheridan through the events of Sunday night even though he’d already been questioned at length.

  The detective’s wide shoulders hunched, like a predator ready to spring his trap. Perspiration beaded around his hairline, darkening the edges of his short brown hair, and accentuating the moonlike shape of his face. Bringing Dutch back to the scene of his wife’s murder was undoubtedly designed to trip him up on his previous story, or possibly get him so worked up and guilty, he’d break down and confess. As far as she could tell, this kind of tactic only worked on television crime shows, but on the plus side, it was a good opportunity for Spense and her to get up to speed.

  “Dutch.” Caitlin paused and worked to delete the eagerness from her voice. Like Spense, she loved a good puzzle, but this wasn’t a crossword. A woman had lost her life in this house, and they owed her respect. “We’re ready when you are.”

  Directing his gaze to the floor, Dutch stuffed his hands in his pockets. Not likely Sheridan would be on the receiving end of that wished-­for confession. It didn’t appear Dutch would be getting worked up anytime this century.

  Spense shot her a troubled glance. She knew Dutch’s flat affect bothered him. But to her, Agent Langhorne seemed to be the type of individual who shut down in the face of strong emotion. The more intense his feelings, the less he allowed them to show. At least that was her current operating theory. The alternative would be to acknowledge that Dutch was cold-­blooded, and that was a road she wasn’t willing to travel without compelling evidence.

  “Let’s get going. I’ve got a date with October baseball,” Sheridan said, his impatience turning each syllable into a quick staccato beat.

  In a pointed show of support, Spense clapped Dutch on the back. That must’ve cost Spense a bit, she thought. She’d been reading the doubt in his eyes ever since their plane had touched down in Dallas. Spense knew something about Dutch that she didn’t. She’d overheard Spense whispering on the phone with Edison, remarking that with Langhorne’s history, it wouldn’t take long before the press would be kicking down the closet doors and dragging his skeletons back into the limelight.

  Could he have done it? One of law enforcem
ent’s most-­sought-­after hostage negotiators, a man who risked his own life on a regular basis to save others? The question made her head—­and her heart—­ache.

  At any rate, Dutch still wasn’t talking, and their “walk-­through” was going nowhere fast. They were still loitering in the foyer, staring up at the grand staircase. Was Dutch stalling, or reliving? She noted the faraway expression in his eyes and decided it was the latter.

  Sheridan drummed his fingers on his chest. “We can do this here, Agent Langhorne, with your buddies present, or we can go down to the station and take the gloves off.”

  Spense sent Sheridan an I-­eat-­your-­kind-­for-­breakfast look. “I’m watching you, Detective, so don’t step out of bounds.”

  The detective scowled at the ceiling, then grunted. “No worries. I’m a by-­the-­book kind of a guy.”

  “Except when it comes to minors, apparently,” Spense said. “Keep on the straight and narrow from here on out.” If Spense had his suspicions about Dutch, Sheridan would be the last to know. Spense’s loyalty to the FBI ran deep. Still, if it turned out Langhorne did have a hand in his wife’s death, she had little doubt Spense would turn him over to the authorities as unhesitatingly as he’d agreed to come to his aid in the first place.

  Sheridan muttered something Caitlin didn’t quite catch, then powered on a handheld recorder: “Present today are Special Agent Atticus Spenser, Dr. Caitlin Cassidy, and Special Agent Alex Langhorne.” He paused. “Agent Langhorne, you understand that you are not under arrest. You’re free to go at any time?”

  She detected just enough movement in Dutch’s chin to be interpreted as a nod.

  “For the record please.” Sheridan waved his recorder in the air.

  Finally, the man spoke. “I’m not under arrest. I can leave anytime I want.”

  Everyone present understood the reason for Sheridan’s request for an on-­the-­record statement. If Dutch knew that he wasn’t under arrest, and there was no involuntary detention, Sheridan didn’t have to Mirandize him. Anything he said could be used against him despite the lack of counsel present.

  Though Sheridan wasn’t exactly small—­he had a muscular build and big bones—­he was shorter than both special agents. Running one hand over his hair, he stretched his neck and back, working to gain perhaps a half inch of height before continuing. “Agent Langhorne, please describe the time and circumstances under which you last saw your wife alive.”

  Taking a page from Sheridan’s book, Dutch stared at the high ceilings. Caitlin was half-­worried they might crash down on them from the weight of all those gigantic chandeliers, and what with all the neck craning going on today she might not be the only one. Next, Dutch focused on the gilded wallpaper.

  “Do you need me to repeat the question?” Sheridan asked.

  “Please,” Dutch said.

  The flush climbing up Sheridan’s face called attention to a group of very faint acne scars on his chiseled cheeks. His full lips stretched tightly, revealing his teeth, even and white, except for one stray on the bottom that had pushed its way forward and was slightly yellowed. On balance, he was not an unattractive man . . . until you got to know him a little. “Your wife is dead. You were the last one to see her alive.”

  “Me and one hundred other ­people.”

  “Technically, but you were definitely the first to see her after she died.”

  “You mean except for her killer.”

  “Sorry, I meant to say you discovered the body.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “How about you quit jerking me off and tell me everything about the last time you saw her alive.” Sheridan sighed. “Then maybe we can get out of here in time to see the Rangers beat the Yankees.”

  All three men nodded, and for a moment, Caitlin thought they just might bond over a common desire to see the Texas Rangers make it into the World Series. But then a ­couple of beats passed, and the hard looks returned to their faces.

  “Like I told you before, I was standing right here, and . . .” Dutch’s gaze went to an impressive marble staircase, covered with a red runner. “Cindy was standing there.” He pointed. “About halfway to the top.” As he spoke, his eyes moved up and to the right.

  Caitlin tipped her head at Spense, wondering if he’d noticed Dutch’s eye movements. Looking up and right generally meant a person was recalling rather than fabricating an event. Relying solely on neurolinguistic clues wasn’t something she’d recommend, but so far, Dutch’s nonverbals led her to believe he was telling the truth: The last time he’d seen Cindy alive, she’d been headed upstairs . . . but the guests, the dancing, all the action at the party was happening on the first floor of the mansion. She closed her eyes, picturing Cindy on the stairs—­the Dallas Morning Gazette had been running her “last photograph” all week. Caitlin’s breath hitched as she visualized Cindy’s stunning blue gown, her sad, golden brown eyes, and the resolute set to her coral lips.

  Where were you going? Why so determined?

  “Did she speak to you?” Sheridan asked, startling Caitlin. Opening her eyes, she refocused her attention on the men and realized he’d been talking to Dutch, not reading her thoughts. Her breathing returned to normal.

  “She was too far away for us to hold a conversation. But we did make eye contact.” At last, dropping an octave, Dutch’s voice carried some semblance of grief.

  “Clearly, I meant did she speak to you before she went upstairs,” Sheridan retorted sharply.

  “That’s not what you asked me. I’m not a mind reader.”

  “And I’m not a fool.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Let’s move on,” Spense tried, in a neutral tone.

  “I’m attempting to get his side of the story so we can catch the SOB who did this.” Sheridan threw his hands up.

  “It’s not a story. And you’re not interested in finding my wife’s murderer.”

  “Then what am I interested in?”

  “Closing the case. You want to arrest the husband and collect your merit badge.” He held out his hands, placing them together at the wrists. “Go ahead. Cuff me. Take me down to the station like you threatened to do with that boy earlier even though you have no evidence.”

  “Oh, we got evidence.” Then Sheridan clamped his jaw abruptly, as if he’d slipped up.

  “If you’ve got anything on me, it has to be circumstantial, because I did not kill my wife.”

  “Circumstantial evidence’s the best kind, buddy, and we got that in spades. Maybe we got more though—­who’s to say? Now if you don’t want to cooperate . . .”

  “I’ll cooperate. I’m just not kissing your hairy ass.”

  “You’ve gotta admit that’s fair.” Spense spread his arms magnanimously. “We’ll cooperate, but no hairy-­ass kissing. Everyone’s in agreement on that point, right?”

  “Right.” Dutch smiled—­well, almost—­at Spense, and Caitlin felt her chest loosen as some of the troubling tension between Dutch and Spense dissipated. At least momentarily, they seemed united against a common enemy.

  But the detective wasn’t amused. His shoulders shot up. His pink face turned red, and he threw a daggered glare at Dutch. This was no game, and Dutch needed to choose his words carefully. For now, he appeared to be the prime suspect, and if he wasn’t forthcoming with Sheridan, it might remain that way indefinitely. The sooner the police eliminated him, the sooner they could turn their attention to tracking the real killer. As glad as she was to see Spense and Dutch on the same page, they couldn’t afford to alienate Sheridan.

  “Dutch, please, in your own words, just tell us what happened. Detective Sheridan can’t do his job without your help. None of us can.” He knew his freedom was at stake. Maybe even his life, yet he remained taciturn, and that troubled her. As much as she empathized with him, she needed him to fight.

  Dutch
shifted his stance, looked away, and stayed silent for a few moments. When he finally met Catlin’s eyes, she noticed his had grown moist.

  So he wasn’t made of stone after all.

  “Cindy pulled me aside and told me she had to go meet Matt.”

  “For the record, you mean Matt Cambridge . . . Governor Matthew Cambridge?” Sheridan was waving his recorder around again.

  “We’ve been through all of this before, Detective.”

  “How is that a problem? You having trouble keeping your story straight?”

  “It’s the truth. I’m simply getting tired of going over and over the same ground.”

  “Sorry you’re bored. But I’d like to hear again what reason your wife gave you for sneaking off to meet the governor of Texas, alone, in an upstairs bedroom, in the middle of a fund-­raising ball.”

  “She didn’t offer any explanation. And she didn’t say she was meeting him in a bedroom, or that they would be alone. She was hardly sneaking off, as any of a dozen reporters who photographed her, will tell you. She even paused on the stairs to give them a photo op. I don’t appreciate your tone or your implications. This is my wife we’re talking about.”

  “But you saw her go upstairs.” Sheridan took a step toward the grand staircase and stabbed his finger in the air. “Where the bedrooms are. It must’ve seemed strange she’d go off on her own to meet Governor Cambridge.”

  “It really didn’t. Cindy’s been very involved with Matt’s campaign. She’s the one who organized the fund-­raiser, and along with Heather, she handpicked the guests.”

  “For the record, you’re referring to Heather Cambridge, the governor’s wife, the first lady of Texas?” Sheridan stumbled on her name, and Caitlin got the impression he was a bit starstruck. Unlike the Hollywood detectives from their last case, he wasn’t accustomed to hobnobbing with celebrities. Heather Cambridge, like Cindy Langhorne, was a renowned beauty, and well-­known throughout Texas. Matt Cambridge was one of the most talked about men in politics and considered a frontrunner for the upcoming Democratic presidential nomination. Because of the Cambridge connection, this case had made national headlines. It was understandable Sheridan might be feeling the pressure—­but to Caitlin, that seemed all the more reason for him to take extreme care with the investigation. Instead, he seemed to be rushing to judgment.