Читать книгу Cold Hearted - Beverly Barton - Страница 10

Robby Joe smiled and held open his arms. She went flying into his loving embrace, feelings of pure happiness enveloping her. He was the most important person in the world to her. He was the man she loved, her future husband, the father of the children she would have one day.

When she was with Robby Joe, she felt that nothing bad could ever happen to her again, that all the bad things in her life were behind her forever. Their June wedding was only a month away, an elaborate affair that his mother had insisted on paying for, even down to helping Jordan pay for a beautiful wedding dress that she otherwise couldn’t have afforded.

With her arms wrapped around Robby Joe’s neck and her head resting against his shoulder, Jordan sighed with deep contentment. Sunlight struck the one-carat diamond on her finger. Gazing at her engagement ring, she thought about the night this past October when Robby Joe had proposed. A starlit night, a carriage ride, a declaration of love.

“I love you,” she whispered in his ear. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” he told her.

Jordan closed her eyes, savoring this moment of pure joy.

Suddenly, she could no longer feel Robby Joe’s arms around her, couldn’t feel his warmth and his strength.

“Robby Joe?”

When she opened her eyes, she found herself all alone. She held up her left hand. Her engagement ring sparkled on her third finger.

She heard someone weeping, soft, mournful sobs. Who was crying and why? Something terrible must have happened. Someone was very sad.

“Robby Joe, where are you? Do you hear that woman crying? Why is she crying?”

Jordan woke with a start, gasping for breath, her heart racing and perspiration dampening her skin. She opened her eyes and tossed back the covers. Her bedroom lay in semi-darkness, the only illumination coming from the mellow glimmer of moonlight shining through the French doors leading to the balcony. She swung out of bed, slipped her feet into the quilted satin house shoes in front of the nightstand, and reached for the satin robe lying across the antique cedar chest at the foot of the mahogany sleigh bed.

The pain radiating from deep inside her seemed as immediate and potent as it had the day she and Darlene buried Robby Joe. Twelve years ago.

Jordan unlocked the French doors, opened them, and stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the back courtyard and the rose garden. After yesterday’s heavy rain, the earth smelled rich and fresh, and a hint of gold overspread the dark sky, a prelude to the approaching dawn.

She hadn’t dreamed about Robby Joe in a long time, not in years. But she supposed that Dan’s recent death and funeral had reawakened long-buried memories in her subconscious. Like so many of her memories, those of Robby Joe were memories of happiness that had ended in sorrow. Sometimes it seemed that her life had been little more than a series of tragic events.

Watching her mother dying a little each day with the cancer that ravaged her body would have been traumatic for anyone, but for a child of ten, it had been devastating. During that final year, she had been the glue that held her family together. She, a mere child, had been the one who had comforted her dying mother and consoled her grief-stricken father.

And then less than two years later, when Daddy had brought home a new bride, a woman as different from her own mother as night is from day, Jordan had withdrawn into a secret place inside herself. She had been polite to her stepmother, even though in the beginning she had intensely disliked the loud, flashy, bleached blonde. She had shared her room with her shy little stepsister without complaint and endured her teenage stepbrother, who at the age of fourteen, smoked, cursed, drank beer and claimed he was screwing their 17-year-old neighbor.

Meeting Robby Joe her sophomore year of college had changed her life. He was such a dreamboat: good looking, smart, kind and caring. And he came from a good family. They dated on and off for over a year, falling in love slowly. Their junior year, he had invited her home with him for Thanksgiving. Since Robby Joe was an only child, Jordan had been afraid his widowed mother would resent her, perhaps even dislike her. But nothing could have been further from the truth. As it turned out, Darlene Wright and Jordan’s mother had been sorority sisters at Ole Miss. And Darlene’s genteel, cultured persona reminded Jordan of her mother. By the time she and Robby Joe had become engaged, she thought of his mother as her second mom. They had far more in common than Jordan would ever have with her stepmother.

Everything had been so perfect, perhaps too perfect.

If only Robby Joe hadn’t died. How different her life would have been if—

Damn it, don’t do this to yourself!

She had stopped playing the “what if” game years ago. She had given up all her foolish young dreams of passionate love, of children born from that love, of a happily-ever-after. Harsh reality had slapped her in the face repeatedly, knocking all romantic notions out of her head.

She had cared for Dan and had respected him. But she had not been in love with him. She had lost a dear friend and she would miss him terribly. But her heart wasn’t shattered. She didn’t feel as if she, too, had died. It wasn’t the same as it had been when she lost Robby Joe.

Jordan laid her open palms on her still flat belly. She was barely six weeks pregnant. Only her family and closest friends knew, but sometime soon, she would have to share her news with the world. She wanted this baby, who would be raised as Dan Price’s child and would be Dan’s heir. But she wouldn’t have to raise her son or daughter alone. Devon would be a father to the child, loving it for so many reasons.

Rick parked his Jeep Wrangler down the street from the Dade County Courthouse. After getting out, locking up, and stuffing his keys into the pocket of his jeans, he jaywalked across Case Avenue. He located the sheriff’s department without any trouble since he’d called ahead this morning and asked for exact directions. Trenton, the county seat, with a population of less than 2000, was located south of Priceville, so after he finished his business here, he’d have to backtrack a few miles.

Although the Powell Agency would do in-depth research during the course of this case, an agent always began an assignment with basic info. While compiling barebones information about Priceville and the Price family, Rick had looked up Sheriff Steve Corbett. The guy had been sheriff since the late nineties and had worked as a Trenton policeman for a number of years before running for elected office. He had a spotless reputation, was known as a straight arrow kind of man with a wife and two kids, and he taught Sunday school.

Rick had spoken to Sheriff Corbett personally on his drive from Knoxville. He had set up an appointment for 11:30 to meet with the sheriff and the two officers in charge of the investigation into Dan Price’s death: Lt. Nolan Trumbo and Lt. Haley McLain.

The minute he announced himself, he was shown into the sheriff’s office. A broad-shouldered, heavy-set man with a thick, dark mustache and military-short graying hair came from around the desk and offered Rick his hand. In his peripheral vision, Rick noticed a female officer immediately stand at attention.

Sheriff Corbett pumped Rick’s hand in a cordial, good old boy way. “Come on in, Mr. Carson, and meet Lt. McLain. I’m afraid Nolan Trumbo had a family emergency this morning. You’ll meet him later.”

They exchanged a strong cordial handshake; then Rick turned to the lieutenant. “Ma’am.”

She nodded and offered him a hint of a smile, responding in a friendly manner without being flirty. The deputy, probably in her mid-to-late thirties, filled out her uniform quite nicely, with curves in all the right places. She wore her light brown hair cut short with wispy curls framing her heart-shaped face.

“Take a seat.” Sheriff Corbett indicated a chair to the right of his desk as he sat down in his leather swivel chair behind the desk. “I’ve spoken to Ryan and assured him that this office will cooperate with the Powell Agency’s independent investigation.”

“We appreciate that,” Rick said as he lowered himself onto the metal folding chair.

“You understand that the Georgia Bureau of Investigation took over and it was their medical examiner who did the autopsy on Dan, so, in a way, my hands have been tied,” Corbett explained. “Officially, Dan’s death has been ruled a suicide, but with Ryan’s doubts and Haley here not a hundred percent convinced, I’m glad Ryan hired your outfit to dig around and see what y’all can find.”

“I’m working for Jordan Price, too,” Rick said. “She and her brother-in-law hired Powell’s.”

“Yeah, that’s what Ryan told me. He sure hated to upset Jordan so soon after the funeral.” Corbett made a clicking sound with his tongue as he shook his head. “It was hard enough for her to have to accept that Dan killed himself, but if Ryan’s right, it’s going to be even more difficult for her to know somebody murdered her husband. She’s been a pillar of strength for Ryan and Claire. I don’t know what they’d have done without her to step in and handle all the details. She’s a mighty fine lady and Dan was as lucky as a man could be to have had her for his wife.”

How could he reply to that comment? Obviously Sheriff Corbett had fallen under the Jordan Price spell. Rick glanced up at the deputy, who stood rigid and silent. “Do you agree with Ryan Price that his brother didn’t kill himself?”

She looked to the sheriff for permission to speak, and answered only after he nodded. “I have my doubts.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“The evidence points to suicide,” Lt. McLain said. “Senator Price’s right hand showed evidence of firearms residue and trace metal indicating he was holding the gun when it was fired. Also, the skin around the wound showed a powder tattoo, which indicates—”

“That the weapon was fired from no more than two feet away,” Rick completed her statement.

“That’s right.” She nodded. “The GBI ballistics lab did a test firing, and their findings, along with one other fact—that there was a contact wound and an impression of the muzzle on the senator’s head, indicating the weapon came in direct contact—suggest suicide.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t suicide?” Rick looked her right in the eye. “Nothing you’ve told me indicates that the senator’s death wasn’t—”

“You’re right,” she replied. “On the surface, the evidence points to suicide. But since this was my case, I made a point of thoroughly studying the autopsy report—even reading between the lines, if you want to call it that. A few things seemed a bit off to me, but I dismissed them as nothing but my investigator’s curiosity and possibly my imagination. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I couldn’t let it go. So, I told Steve…uh, Sheriff Corbett and he agreed with me.”

“Exactly what seemed ‘off’ to you?” Rick asked.

“For one thing, the autopsy report showed arthritis in the senator’s hands, including the fingers of his right hand, which might have made pulling the trigger painful.”

“Painful but not impossible,” Rick said. “The evidence clearly showed that his finger pulled the trigger, right?”

“Right. He could have pulled the trigger. But there was something else—the senator’s trigger finger was broken and there was bruising on the top of his hand.”

Son of a bitch!

“You think that somebody grabbed the senator’s hand, forced the gun into it, and squeezed their hand over his hard enough to bruise his hand. And this person pressed down so hard when they forced his finger against the trigger that it broke the bones.”

“It’s all speculation,” Sheriff Corbett said. “But coupled with Ryan’s sincere conviction that his brother would never have killed himself, it’s enough to question if the senator might have had a little assistance in shooting himself.”

“The senator wasn’t a small or weak man,” Lt. McLain said. “Either he would have had to have been drugged or the person who forced the gun into his hand had to be quite strong. The autopsy showed no evidence of drugs, but I found evidence at the scene that he’d been drinking.”

“Apparently the GBI didn’t think this info was significant proof of murder or they wouldn’t have ruled the death a suicide.”

“Apparently,” Lt. McLain said. “And you do realize that it’s highly unlikely that we can prove it was murder.”

“But if we work under the assumption that it was murder and not suicide, we can look for a killer. In order to prove our theory, we will have to find the murderer and if possible, get a confession.”

“Then you believe I might be right to question the GBI’s M.E.?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think there’s a good possibility you’re right and he’s wrong.”

“I know what we’ve got isn’t much,” the sheriff said, “but it’s a start. Anything you need from us, just let us know. You can contact Haley day or night while you’re on this case. She’ll be available.”

When Corbett glanced at her, Haley McLain said, “Yes, sir.” Then she looked at Rick. “Our department doesn’t have the budget or the manpower—or for that matter, the authority—to investigate further. The M.E.’s official decision was suicide, but if Powell’s can prove otherwise, then we can reopen this case.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a list of possible suspects, do you, Lieutenant?”

Haley cleared her throat. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Rick figured by the nervous way she cut her eyes toward Corbett and then cast her gaze to the floor that the deputy did have a list, even if it was just a mental tally of who might have had a reason to murder Senator Daniel Price.

“I’d like to take a look at the case files, including the autopsy report,” Rick said.

Corbett nodded. “Haley, why don’t you walk Mr. Carson out and see that he gets copies of whatever he needs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rick fell into step behind the curvy brunette, his gaze settling on the sway of her trim hips, noting how her slacks cupped her firm buttocks, not a panty line in sight. That meant one of two things: either she wasn’t wearing panties or she was wearing a thong. Either was damn sexy. And the thought intrigued him.

While they waited for the sheriff’s secretary to copy the files on the Price case, Haley offered Rick a cup of coffee, which he accepted.

“If Dan Price was murdered, who heads your suspects list?” Rick asked.

“I told you that I don’t have a—”

“A political adversary? A disgruntled constituent? The loyal assistant? The grieving widow?”

Haley eyed him over her half empty coffee cup and took a sip before responding. “The husband or wife is usually the chief suspect until he or she is ruled out. But from what I know about Mrs. Price, people believe she’s practically a saint.”

Rick grunted. “I guess I’ll find out for myself pretty soon. I’m going to be staying at Price Manor for the duration of this investigation.”

“And whose idea was that?”

“Mrs. Price invited me to stay.”

“And naturally you agreed.”

Rick shrugged.

“There’s something else I’ve heard about Mrs. Price.”

“What’s that?” Rick asked.

“That the lady can be very persuasive.”

She watched from the upstairs window while the Powell agent parked his Jeep in front of the house. They didn’t want him here. He was not welcome, but he mustn’t know that, just as no one must ever find out that Dan had told her about the Alzheimer’s diagnosis. How fortunate that he had trusted her so completely, enough so that she was able to plant the idea of suicide in his mind. If only he had followed through…Water under the bridge. She had to accept the reality of their situation and deal with it accordingly.

They would have to be polite to Mr. Carson; however, there was no reason for them to be friendly.

Ryan had done what he thought best and the rest of them had to live with his decision. She’d had no idea that Dan’s brother would refuse to believe he had killed himself, especially not after the medical examiner ruled his death a suicide. Why couldn’t he have accepted their findings? If he had, they could all move on and put the unfortunate incident behind them.

But now we have to be very careful not to give Mr. Carson any reason to suspect us. He has no proof that Dan did not commit suicide and unless we slip up and do or say something suspicious, Mr. Carson can investigate as long as he’d like and in the end, he’ll still have no proof. We didn’t make any mistakes that night.

Tobias met Mr. Carson in the middle of the driveway. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but after only a few moments, Tobias took the man’s suitcase and he returned to his Jeep. Apparently he was taking the vehicle around to the garage at the side of the house.

She stepped away from the window, turned, and walked into the bathroom. She studied her reflection in the mirror. Pale. Dark circles under her eyes. She was a woman in mourning. That’s what she wanted Mr. Carson to see.

Jordan met Tobias as he entered the foyer, a black suitcase in his hand. He paused and said, “Mr. Carson has arrived, Miss Jordan. I had him park in the garage. I told him that you would be waiting for him in your study.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“In which room should I put his things?”

“I had Vadonna air out Mr. Ryan’s old room. It’s one of the larger bedrooms and is quite masculine. I believe it will suit Mr. Carson, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. It should.”

Jordan took a deep breath. She dreaded having a stranger living in her home almost as much as she hated the thought that he would be trying to prove that someone had murdered Dan. But by keeping Mr. Carson close, she would be able to oversee his investigation on a day-to-day basis and all information would come to her before it reached Ryan.

Instead of going directly to her study, she made a detour through the kitchen. Vadonna lifted her head and turned from where she was loading the dishwasher.

“Yes, ma’am, is there something you need?”

“I’d like a fresh pot of decaf coffee for two delivered to my study in about ten minutes, please. Until then, I don’t want to be disturbed. I’ll be speaking privately with Mr. Carson.”

“Yes, ma’am, coffee in your study in ten minutes.” Vadonna closed the dishwasher and hit the START button. “Oh, Miss Jordan, have you seen Mrs. Wright in the past few minutes? She was concerned that you hadn’t joined them for lunch and said she might take you up a tray.”

“No, I haven’t seen Darlene, but if you do, please tell her that I’m fine and I don’t want anything to eat.”

Vadonna nodded.

Jordan left the kitchen and made it halfway to her study before Rick Carson entered the house. She looked down the long hall to where he stood in the foyer, his head tilted upward as he scanned the open staircases leading to the second level. Yesterday, she had paid little attention to the dark-haired man who had attended Dan’s funeral with Claire’s cousin. But today, as she studied him while he was unaware of her presence, she realized that he was the type of man who wouldn’t ordinarily be overlooked. It wasn’t because he was tall, muscular and attractive in a rough and rugged sort of way, but because he exuded a raw masculinity that disturbed her as it probably did every woman he met.

Don’t just stand here gaping at the man. Meet and greet. Put a pleasant expression on your face and welcome him.

Jordan walked down the hall. Rick looked directly at her as he waited for her to come to him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carson.” She held out her hand. “Welcome to Price Manor.”

He hesitated for a millisecond before he clasped her hand. His grip was strong yet gentle and his hand was warm and hard. She was suddenly acutely aware of him in that age-old way a woman is aware of a virile man.

She jerked her hand away, hating how his touch had made her feel. But she managed to keep a pleasant expression on her face.

“Before I show you up to your room so that you can settle in, will you please come into my study for a few moments. I’d like to speak to you privately.” Jordan indicated the direction with a sweep of her right hand.

When she glanced at Rick Carson, she noticed that he was staring at her left hand. She looked down and realized the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows had hit her engagement ring and wedding band, making the diamonds sparkle with brilliant fire. She dropped her left arm to her side and pressed her palm against her thigh.

She knew what this man, this trained investigator, was thinking. The three-carat diamond flanked by two smaller half-carat diamonds and coupled with a diamond-studded platinum wedding band all but screamed rich widow. He no doubt believed that her husband had spoiled her with outrageously expensive jewelry. But the rings, as with the other jewelry Dan had given her, had been for show. At the time, she had tried to dissuade him from buying her the gaudy rings. But he had insisted, telling her that it would be expected for a man with his wealth to buy his second wife rings that would equal or exceed the value of those he had bought his first wife.

Jordan and Rick Carson exchanged heated glances before she turned and headed for her small study at the rear of the house. She didn’t look over her shoulder to see if he was following, but she knew he was. Not only could she hear his heavy footsteps, but she could feel his presence as if it were a shadow hovering over her. Watching her. Examining her.

The man made her nervous.

She didn’t pause when she reached the open door that led into her private sanctuary. This room had once been part of a back porch that had spanned the length of the house, but sometime in the past 50 years, a section of the porch had been enclosed and divided into two rooms. A glass encased sunroom filled with antique white wicker lay on the right side and her study on the left. A wall of windows faced the back courtyard. The ceiling and two walls boasted old beaded board painted a pale peach and what had once been the exterior wall was white-washed brick. She had decorated the room herself and had chosen each item, each piece of furniture, with great care. This was the only room in the entire house that was hers alone. Even though she had not shared a bedroom with Dan, her room, like the others in this old mansion, held priceless antiques and had been professionally decorated.

Jordan paused in front of the beige-and-brown striped settee, then turned slowly to face her guest. Their gazes clashed. Jordan swallowed.

“Please, take a seat,” she told him as she eased down onto the settee.

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the rust-colored easy chair across from her. “Is there some kind of problem?”

“I hope not, but if there is, I think we need to resolve it as soon as possible. Agreed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ryan trusts you because you’re employed by Nicole and Griffin Powell and normally I trust Ryan’s judgment. But I need to be certain that I can trust you to keep any personal information you uncover during your investigation completely private and never reveal it to anyone other than Ryan and me.”

“I can assure you that, unless I uncover something that directly incriminates either you or Ryan in your husband’s death, all information will be kept in strictest confidence.”

Jordan’s heart stopped for a millisecond. Was this man saying what she thought he was? Was he implying that—No, surely he wouldn’t dare suggest that either she or Ryan might have been responsible for Dan’s death.

“Mr. Carson, are you actually suggesting that Ryan or I might have—”

“Look, let’s lay our cards on the table right now. I’m a straightforward kind of guy and since you’re paying for my services through the Powell Agency, you have a right to know that my only goal is to find out if your husband was murdered and if he was, who killed him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. That’s why Ryan and I hired you.”

When he leaned forward, Jordan instinctively withdrew, pressing back against the sofa, her body unconsciously trying to escape from the threat she sensed he posed.

“Then you won’t object if I ask you one simple question, will you?”

Her heart raced at breakneck speed.

“Ask your question,” she said.

He looked her square in the eye, his dark, penetrating stare pinning her to the spot. “Mrs. Price, did you kill your husband?”