Notorious Page 3

  “Yes, I’m referring to Heather Cambridge. She’s been Cindy’s best friend, her only real friend, I’d say, since grade school. The four of us have spent many evenings together socially. So it didn’t strike me as strange that my wife would meet Matt upstairs. I assumed she planned to advise him on whom and how to schmooze. There were a lot of high rollers here, and she knew most of them quite well.”

  “Your wife was giving schmoozing advice to the governor.” Sheridan dosed his tone heavily with sarcasm.

  “She’s quite the expert. On schmoozing, I mean.”

  “Was quite the expert.”

  “Quite.” One corner of Dutch’s mouth lifted in a nervous twitch.

  Sheridan gaped at him. “Is this funny to you?”

  “Not in the least.” Dutch stepped close to Sheridan, and the detective backed down, crouching away from Langhorne.

  “What happened next?”

  “What do you think? She went upstairs.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I ducked out of the party for a while. I hate these types of things—­if not for Cindy, I wouldn’t be caught dead at a fund-­raiser.”

  Spense squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Caitlin saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. That caught dead remark was painfully insensitive, but Dutch acted as though he didn’t notice. Yet, he was far too clever not to realize the implications of his words. It was almost as if he were eager to take the blame for his wife’s death. The muscles in her throat contracted as memories of how bravely her father had fought for his freedom, yet still failed in that endeavor, came flooding back.

  “We’d agreed to meet back up by midnight,” Dutch forged on as though he were speaking of any ordinary occurrence. “So I went for a walk to clear my head. I was suffocating in here—­what with all the power-­hungry assholes sucking up the oxygen in the room. Once I thought I could stomach the crowd again, I came back in and looked around for Cindy.”

  “Did you find her?” Sheridan’s expression implied that Dutch had indeed.

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Please don’t take the bait. Caitlin sent Dutch a warning look, and he nodded at her. Hoping he could feel her support, she smiled at him, suddenly realizing that she might be the only person in the room who genuinely believed in his innocence. She’d liked Dutch from the start though she wasn’t quite sure why. When she’d met him for the first time, back in Hollywood, during the Fallen Angel Killer case, she’d felt as though she already knew him . . . from somewhere. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about him that drew her to him, but her gut told her that despite his undeniably off-­putting manners, he was a good man—­and an innocent one. Still, he was playing a dangerous game with the detective.

  “Like I said, I did not find my wife anywhere. So, I asked Matt—­Governor Cambridge—­if he knew where she was.” Running a finger inside his collar, Dutch hesitated. “Anyway, he said he hadn’t seen Cindy all evening except when they said hello at the door. He was surprised she thought they had some sort of meeting set up—­claimed it was news to him.”

  “You must’ve been alarmed at that point,” Sheridan’s voice seemed matter-­of-­fact, where it could easily have taken an accusatory tone. Maybe he’d realized he didn’t have to bait the suspect. The suspect was doing a perfectly good job of making himself look guilty with no help from anyone in the room.

  “No. I wasn’t alarmed.”

  “It didn’t bother you that your wife lied to you?”

  “We’re married. Married ­people lie.” And with that deadpan delivery, his cynical view of relationships came across loud and clear. She pictured Cindy again, looking back over her shoulder. There was so much longing, so much heartbreak in her eyes.

  At least that’s how it seemed to Caitlin from the photographs.

  What did you have to do that was so very important? Who was waiting for you?

  There was a long, empty silence before Sheridan asked, “What time did you speak to Cambridge?”

  “Maybe you should confirm with him, but I think it was around 11 P.M. I mingled a bit, then went back outside—­to the parking lot. I was tired, and I took a nap in my car.”

  “Did you try to call your wife?”

  “She doesn’t carry her phone when we’re out socially. She considers that gauche, and believe me, she spends a lot of time making sure her manners are perfect. She doesn’t want anyone pointing out that she didn’t go to finishing school.” His eyes moved up and right again. “Cindy’s a hell of a woman. Did you know she didn’t even graduate high school? And yet here she is, advising a man who could very well become our next president.”

  Caitlin touched her heart. The way Dutch spoke about Cindy in the present tense made it seem he was having a hard time letting go, in stark contrast to his practiced cynicism.

  “So other than a brief conversation with Cambridge, between 10 P.M. and 12 A.M., during the time we know Cindy was murdered, you can’t account for your whereabouts,” Sheridan said.

  “I just did.”

  Good Lord, Dutch was either obtuse, which she knew to be false, or he really didn’t care if Sheridan clapped him in irons. She fanned her face. Despite the air-­conditioning, she felt hot and queasy.

  “But you have no alibi witnesses.”

  “If I’d murdered my wife, I assure you I would’ve had an alibi prepared.”

  “Would you?” Caitlin asked.

  Dutch looked up in seeming surprise. She was surprised, too. She hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

  Spense arched a questioning brow at Caitlin. “Dutch is sharp as any criminal weasel I’ve ever known.”

  “Thanks for your support,” Dutch muttered but didn’t look displeased.

  Spense ignored him and continued addressing Caitlin and Sheridan. “He’s a member of the upper echelon of law enforcement. No way would he hang himself out to dry for his wife’s murder by skipping the alibi.”

  “Not if he planned to kill her. A crime of passion, on the other hand, could’ve left him holding his dick without one.”

  Apparently, Sheridan had never made it to finishing school either.

  “Or else he’s innocent, like he explained, and that’s why he didn’t take time to create an alibi,” Caitlin said. “But what I’m wondering, Dutch . . .” It was hard to get her breath, but she had something she wanted, no, she needed to say to Langhorne. “I’m wondering why you don’t even try to supply a reasonable answer. Someone could’ve seen you on the grounds, or as you came and went from the mansion. Maybe a valet saw you sleeping in your car. But you haven’t offered anyone up. It’s like you don’t care one way or another if Detective Sheridan arrests you.” Her palms were moist, and she wiped them on her slacks. “But as it turns out, I care very much what happens to you.” Aware her voice had risen above a polite decibel level, she lowered it. “And I’m getting fed up with being the only one. Never mind everyone else—­the Bureau, the police, the public—­you should at least be on your own side. How do you think Cindy would feel if she saw you just giving up like this?”

  He was looking at her as if he could see all the way through her. “Cindy would be mad as hell.”

  While Spense and Sheridan exchanged a confused glance, Caitlin shook out her tingling hands. She was as baffled as anyone by her outburst. She hardly knew what had come over her, but ever since she’d walked into this house, she’d felt Cindy’s pain like it was her own. No matter what ugly accusations the press made about Cynthia Langhorne, she deserved justice. And Catlin did not intend to stand by and watch her husband literally dare Monroe Sheridan to arrest him.

  “Okay,” Dutch whispered.

  “Okay what?” she asked.

  He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, I’ll stand up for myself.” Dipping his head, he
gave her another penetrating look. “I know what you went through with your father, Caitlin. I know you did everything in your power to help him, and believe me, I appreciate what you’re doing for me, now. I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful because I’m not. You’re absolutely right about what Cindy would want, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let whoever did this to her get away with it. So, I promise you”—­he squeezed her shoulder—­“that from here on out, I’m going to answer any questions you . . . or the police might have.”

  “Caity . . .” Spense had a worried look on his face as if he thought her past was clouding her judgment.

  “This has nothing to do with my father,” she snapped. But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. This had everything to do with Thomas Cassidy. Her father had been executed for a murder he didn’t commit, and she’d been helpless to stop it. Well, not this time. She wasn’t going to sit around and nod and smile while Dutch played Russian roulette with Sheridan. “I will not stand by and watch you throw away your life. And I don’t want the bastard who did this to your wife to go free, but that’s exactly what’s going to happen if you don’t tell us everything.”

  “Ask me anything. I promise, I’ll tell you the truth,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you go upstairs to look for her?” Caitlin wanted to move off the topic of her father as quickly as possible.

  Dutch fixed his gaze on Sheridan. “See, here’s the difference between her question and yours, Detective. Dr. Cassidy actually wants to hear my answer whereas you already have the answer in mind. Not the most efficient way to get to the truth.” Dutch’s face and posture opened as he turned back to her.

  “To answer your question: I should have gone upstairs to look for my wife. I wish to hell I had, because maybe then I could have saved her life. But instead, I behaved like a coward. I left the party. I simply withdrew from her, which was my habit, because I didn’t want to discover her with another man. I assumed, at that point, since she’d lied to me about meeting Matt, she was meeting someone she didn’t want me to know about. I—­I didn’t think I could stand to find her in a compromising situation. I know she’s had affairs, but I didn’t want her rubbing it in. I could have stood it, though. I realize that now. It would’ve been far better than what I found when I did go up.”

  Caitlin hated to ask, but it seemed important. “You say she had affairs. You knew that for a fact, or heard rumors? Did you and your wife have an understanding?”

  “We didn’t have an open marriage if that’s what you’re asking. These past few years, Cindy swore she was faithful, but I know I didn’t make her happy. And there were so many rumors. But as long as I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I still had hope for us.”

  “You were angry with her over those rumored affairs. I don’t have to ask that. But what I do have to ask is were you angry enough to kill her?” Sheridan leaned in, waiting.

  Dutch kept his eyes on Caitlin. “There he goes again. Asking a question when he’s already decided on the answer. But I promised you I would, so I’ll respond. I loved my wife, Detective, and I did not kill her.”

  Without knowing all the facts of the case, it was impossible to say with certainty he was telling the truth, yet she believed him. Every instinct she had told her Dutch Langhorne was an innocent man. She cast a sideways glance at Spense, but she couldn’t read his reaction. He was wearing his poker face, and there was no decoding it. He slipped one hand in his pocket and her heart turned over. That was so Spense. She knew he was searching out his Rubik’s cube. He must’ve forgotten he’d given it to Aaron. With Spense, it was always the little things that made her melt at the most unexpected moments.

  And that was something she needed to get under control if they were going to both work together and fraternize when they were off duty. A crime scene was no place to go schoolgirl.

  She pressed her lips together and focused on someone who didn’t make her the least bit weak in the knees: Monroe Sheridan. Just like Dutch said, the detective had made up his mind from the get-­go that the husband did it. Now he draped an arm over the banister and shook his head at Dutch. “Of course you admit to having heard the rumors. They’re all over the Internet.”

  His voice was mean and taunting. He was deliberately trying to get a rise out of Dutch by bringing up Cindy’s reputation. Caitlin didn’t like where Sheridan was headed. He was supposed to look out for the woman, not grin while dragging her through the mud.

  “All the Dallas ladies love to post about—­”

  She’d had enough. “Your job, Detective, is to get justice for Cindy Langhorne. Maybe you should keep that in mind the next time you speak.”

  He turned on her. “I’ll say whatever I damn well please, Dr. Cassidy. I don’t mind looking at you one little bit, which is the main reason I’m allowing you to be here, but when it comes to my investigation—­”

  She stretched herself up to her tallest stance, and for Dutch’s sake, resisted the urge to spit in Sheridan’s eye. Spense, on the other hand, didn’t exercise as much self-­control. Before she could stop him, he got hold of Sheridan’s lapels and yanked him around to face him. “You want to disrespect me, or Agent Langhorne, Detective, go ahead. Knock yourself out. We don’t give a rat’s ass what you think of us, do we Agent Langhorne?”

  “Not even a hair on a rat’s ass.” Dutch came over and stood shoulder to shoulder with Spense—­the two men forming a barrier between her and Sheridan. She had to duck left to see around the high wall of muscle.

  “But disrespect Dr. Cassidy one more time . . .” Spense said, in a deadly-­calm voice “ . . . and you’re gonna need replacement parts for that frat-­boy smile of yours.”

  MALACHI CLICKED HIS seat belt in place, removed his noise-­canceling headphones, and hit the ANSWER button on his cell, “Thresher speaking.”

  “It’s me, Hawk.” The voice on the other end of the line was scrambled into an unpleasant, low-­pitched frequency that sounded a lot like Chewie from Star Wars.

  Most employers didn’t take such care to conceal their identities. The majority were dolts who carelessly revealed their names, phone numbers, and more. But the Hawk not only used an alias, it made sure Malachi could not even identify its gender. In a way, he admired its cleverness. He wished he’d thought to conceal his own voice with a scrambler when he’d first started out, but he hadn’t, and it seemed late in the game to do so now.

  “Do you have the diary?” The voice undulated painfully into his ear.

  Malachi switched to speaker.

  He’d been born with a hypersensitivity to sound. His mother used to say he had dog ears because he could hear frequencies canines did and certain others that even man’s best friend could not. This hypersensitivity of his acoustic nerve was real, and not imagined—­though he’d been treated by a number of psychiatrists who’d tried to convince him it was. A fixed delusion, they’d called it.

  Narrow-­minded quacks.

  But he knew the truth. The more ethereal noises flooding his airwaves existed—­even if the audiologists couldn’t document them, and the shrinks refused to believe in them. Souls hummed, and only he could hear their music. If he approached a man, and there was no humming, then there was no soul dwelling within. “I don’t have the diary yet, but I promise you’ll have it soon.”

  There was a long pause that gave his ears a bit of much-­needed relief.

  Then the Hawk said, “I thought I made myself clear. I need the diary, and I need it now. We had an agreement, but you haven’t held up your end. And believe this: If I have to take matters into my own hands, the consequences for you will be severe.”

  “I’m a man of my word. I keep my promises—­which is why I can’t simply drop one assignment when another becomes urgent. I have to finish what I start.”

  “You’ve already failed me.”

  “I don’t see it like that.” What happened in Dalla
s wasn’t his fault. And he was willing to adjust course and do whatever was needed to retrieve the diary as promised. This situation represented exactly the kind of problem that arose when employers didn’t leave the details to him. “I’ve finished my other job, and I’m at your disposal.”

  “You’d better be.”

  He lightly ran a fingertip over the newly sharpened blade of the hunting knife that lay on the front passenger seat. The Hawk should be careful how it treated him. Malachi tuned his ears, straining to hear a possible hum beneath the distorted voice. Of course, there wasn’t one. He’d yet to find an employer in possession of a soul. Most of his targets didn’t have souls either, but he got paid well for his work. And every now and then, he got to take a meaningful life.

  It had been far too long since he’d encountered a humming target, and he was growing impatient with the measly fare put before him.

  Every soul he took added value to his own, and when his time came, his death would surely be a magnificent one. This was his due because he was more than fair, affording a good death to those who deserved it—­and even to some who didn’t. And when he heard the humming, he made the death as special as circumstances permitted. He could be quite creative when given the opportunity.

  If a life held any value at all, even a soulless one, he considered taking it a privilege. Afterward, he liked to purify his own body. His ritual varied. Sometimes he bathed himself in bleach. Other times, he’d light candles and lie by the corpse. Or more often, when he was short of time, like he’d been today, he’d simply rub his body with mint ointment, allowing the vapors to cleanse his spirit as he set about his work.