Читать книгу Trace Evidence in Tarrant County - Delores Fossen - Страница 11

“Are you okay?” Sloan asked when he saw the expression on Carley’s face.

What little color she’d had drained from her cheeks. Not without reason. She’d just witnessed a recording of someone attempting to kill her.

“The shots were fired at 1:13 this morning,” Carley mumbled, obviously noting the time displayed on the bottom of the monitor.

“You weren’t here when it happened?”

“No. I finished up work about a half hour before that, but I’d left on the light. I didn’t notice it until after I’d locked up and made my way back to the inn.” She looked up at him. “I can see my office window from my attic apartment. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to leave the light on all night and I knew I’d be back in the office early.”

Sloan played around with that a moment and took it to its logical conclusion. “So, because of the light, someone might have thought you were inside here working at 1:13 this morning.”

Carley nodded. “It’s not unusual for me to be here at that hour.”

He didn’t doubt it.

From all accounts, Carley was driven to be the best sheriff ever. That included plenty of seventy-hour work weeks, even though technically the sheriff’s office was only supposed to open from eight to five, with all calls before and after hours going through dispatch. He figured with Carley around, dispatch wasn’t taking many of the calls, because she made sure she was readily available for the citizens of Justice.

Sloan glanced around the room. “The window’s intact, no broken glass. I don’t see any point of entry for that first bullet.”

He watched the steel and resolution return to Carley’s eyes, and she got up at the exact second that he headed for the door.

The race was afoot.

She rushed around her desk and then came to a complete stop. That stopped Sloan, especially when Carley caught onto her side.

“It’s nothing,” she said, no doubt as a preemptive strike against what he was about to say.

Sloan gave her a flat look. “If it’s nothing, then why are you holding your side?”

She immediately lowered her hands.

That was the last straw. Sloan stormed toward her, and before she could stop him—or slap him into the middle of next week—he went after her shirt buttons.

“What in Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?” Carley snarled.

Sloan ignored her, and probably because she was in too much pain, she didn’t even attempt to fight him off. He undid the lower buttons at her midsection and had a look at the bandage. No blood. No raw, red areas on the skin. That was a good sign. But the edge of the adhesive tape was caught on one of the tender areas where her stitches had recently been removed. So that might be the cause.

“Hold still,” he instructed.

And, much to his surprise, she did.

Sloan slathered his hands with some liquid sanitizer that she had on top of the filing cabinet next to her pain meds. Taking a deep breath, he pulled over the chair and sat down so that he’d be at eye level with the bandage. It also put him at eye level with her stomach. And the bottom edge of her bra.

Purple lace.

Sloan couldn’t help it. He looked up at her, and when she followed his gaze, Carley narrowed her eyes to little bitty slits. “I haven’t had time to do laundry. It was one of the few wearable things that I had left in my lingerie drawer—and why I’m telling you this, I don’t have a clue. Because it certainly isn’t any of your business.”

To punctuate that, she snapped the upper sides of her top together so there was no visible purple lace.

But Sloan didn’t need to see it to remember that it was there. Nope. It was branded in his memory.

“I never took you for the purple-lace type,” he commented. Partly because it was true and partly because he wanted her mind on something else when he lifted that tape.

She’d already opened her mouth, probably to return verbal fire, but that tape pull had her sucking in her breath and wincing.

“Sorry,” Sloan apologized. “It’ll only hurt for a second.” He worked quickly, before she changed her mind, and he gave the bandage a slight adjustment. “There. Now it won’t pull at the skin that’s healing.”

She eyed him with skepticism and then tested it by rotating her arm. No wincing. No sucking in her breath. Just a relieved expression. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But you know, if you were at your apartment resting, that bandage wouldn’t have shifted.”

“And you wouldn’t have gotten a cheap thrill of learning that I own a purple bra.” She buttoned her shirt as if she’d declared war on it. “By the way, you tell anyone about my choice of underwear and you’re a dead man.”

Puzzled, he stared up at her. “Why wouldn’t you want anyone to know that?”

She dodged his gaze and stepped back. “I don’t want to draw any attention to the fact that I’m female. I already have enough strikes against me without letting people know that I occasionally wear girlie stuff.”

Still puzzled, Sloan shook his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m not male. Because I’m the first woman in Justice to wear this badge. Because I don’t have the full support of this town.” She aimed her index finger at him. “Because I’m not you. And despite the fact you’ve been gone for years, most people still and always will think of you as the sheriff.”

Sloan wanted to deny it, but he knew it was true. Despite the advances in Justice, Carley was probably battling a gender bias. He’d been one of the guys. A good ole boy. Many people in town had no doubt thought that badge was made for him. His for a lifetime.

That acceptance hadn’t been extended to Carley.

“Just for the record,” he let her know, “you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

She frowned and then mumbled some profanity. After some posturing and a huff or two, the aimed index finger returned. “Let’s get something straight, Sloan McKinney. I want no camaraderie with you. None. And you don’t want that with me. Remember, you accused me of lying about your father. I accused you of being blind to the truth. I also accused you of being a jerk and an—”

“I get the point,” Sloan interrupted. Man, she made it easy to remember the anger. “So here’s the deal. I’ll work my butt off to solve this case as quickly as possible so we won’t have time to develop any camaraderie. Agreed?”

She agreed with a grunt and headed toward the back exit, where they’d entered earlier. Sloan was right behind her. Neither wasted any time once they were outside. They both started scouring the building for that first bullet.

Thanks to the blazing sunlight striking the brown brick exterior, it didn’t take Sloan long to spot it. He went to the window and there it was. A bullet lodged in one of the bricks that framed the window directly outside Carley’s office. This was obviously the first shot that the gunman had fired in the wee hours of the morning. The shot meant for Carley.

“I checked the exterior this morning, when I was looking at the surveillance camera,” she mumbled. “How could I have missed that?”

He could have stated the obvious—maybe she didn’t see it because she was exhausted and wasn’t medically ready for duty. But reminding her of that would have only started another argument.

Without touching it, Sloan examined the embedded bullet. A .38 slug. Another inch to the right, and it would have gone through the glass and hit anyone who might be sitting at Carley’s desk.

Sloan peered through the window and realized something else. Her high-back chair would have made it impossible for a gunman to see if she was there or not.

Carley obviously realized that, as well, because he heard the sudden change in her breathing. Sloan didn’t address her reaction. No sense touching on uncomfortable issues again. So he scanned the area to figure out what’d happened there.

“Sarah’s killer escaped into those woods,” he surmised, talking more to himself than her. “It’s the same path your shooter took.”

Carley made a sound of agreement. “And there’s evidence out there—footprints, possibly trace fibers, maybe even the bullet that injured me that night. It was never recovered. So maybe the killer planned to scour the woods to retrieve any incriminating evidence, and the camera got in the way.”

“Then why fire that first shot into your office?” Sloan asked.

She shrugged, hesitated, but Sloan already had a theory. Unfortunately he didn’t get a chance to voice it, because he heard footsteps.

He instinctively drew his weapon and stepped in front of Carley. To shield her. To protect her. It didn’t earn him any brownie points. She pulled out her own gun, huffed, mumbled something and then stepped out from behind him so that they were side by side.

It didn’t take long for their visitor to appear around the corner of the building. It was Leland Hendricks, and since he was a murder suspect, neither Carley nor Sloan lowered their guns.

“There you are, Sheriff Matheson,” Leland barked. He said her name as if she were some annoying insect that he was about to squash. “What the hell do you mean calling me in again for questioning? I don’t have time for this. I have a business to run. And until that grand jury says differently, I’m a free man.”

Carley slipped her gun back into her holster and tipped her head to Sloan. “He’s in charge. Yell at him.”

Sloan gave her an aw-jeez-thanks look before he turned his attention back to a possible killer.

The years had been kind to Leland Hendricks. Of course, money and massive ego probably helped. The graying hair and the wrinkles only added to his air of authority.

“You’re in charge?” Leland stared at him.

Sloan nodded. “You have a problem with that?”

“You bet I do.” He shook his head. “I won’t let you McKinney boys railroad me into taking the blame for these murders. I won’t become the scapegoat for your drunk of a father who can’t keep his pants zipped.”

It took some doing, but Sloan forced himself not to react to that. “You’re saying you’re innocent?”

“Damn right I am.”

“And what about the fake kidnapping of your own son? You’re innocent of that, too? Because Sarah, your dead stepdaughter, said differently.”

Leland probably didn’t want to react, either. But he did. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense. “It doesn’t matter what that witch Sarah said. Even if I admitted I’d planned a fake kidnapping, you can’t arrest me for that. The statute of limitations is on my side. Besides, I’ve paid in the worst way a father can. My son disappeared that night. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

“You’re certain you don’t know that?” Sloan asked.

That did not please Leland. The veins on his neck began to bulge. “I have no idea where he is. If he’s alive, I don’t know who has him or where he’s been for the past sixteen years. That’s punishment enough.”

Sloan shrugged. “It won’t be if I can prove you murdered those women. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and right now I’m making you for these killings.”

Leland glared at Carley before he turned that glare on Sloan. “You’ll never prove it.”

“Never say never, Leland,” Sloan countered. “Oh, and if you’re not there for that interview this afternoon, I’ll have you cuffed and brought in just like anyone who disobeys the law.”

There was a staredown, and Sloan wasn’t the first to blink. Leland was. He mumbled, “I’ll be there,” along with some choice profanity, then stormed away, disappearing around the building.

“Well, wasn’t that a special way to start the morning,” Carley grumbled.

“That started the morning,” Sloan said, pointing at the bullet lodged near the window. “I’ll dig it out and send it to the crime lab.”

“Nearly everybody in town owns at least one .38,” she reminded him. “And I’m willing to bet there are a dozen or more that aren’t registered, so we don’t even know about them. Matching that bullet to a specific firearm will be a needle in a haystack.”

A slim chance was still a chance, and the truth was, they had little physical evidence to connect anyone to Sarah’s murder. The bullet was a start. But he had other avenues to explore.

One of those avenues was standing beside him.

“Maybe this latest attempt to shoot you isn’t about something you saw less than a week ago right after Sarah’s murder. Maybe this is about the first murder—Lou Ann’s? If so, maybe you saw or heard something sixteen years ago that the killer doesn’t want you to recall.”

“Then why wait all these years to come after me?” she asked.

“Because, other than the killer, you might be the only person in the entire town who was close enough to witness both murders. Either the killer thinks you saw something or you did see something and you just don’t remember it.”

Her posture became defensive again. “I remember everything about that night, and the only person that I saw anywhere near Lou Ann’s room was your father.”

“You could have missed something. A few hours before the body was found, you were sitting in that big, comfortable chair in the lobby at the inn, reading a teen magazine with Johnny Depp on the cover.”

Her defensive posture went up a notch. “How did you know that?”

“I looked through the window and saw you.”

Carley’s eyes widened considerably. “What—you’re a Peeping Tom?”

“I’m not. I was looking for my father,” Sloan calmly answered.

And he’d looked at Carley, too. In fact, she’d distracted him that night. Why? Because for the first time he’d noticed that she was no longer the gangly girl two grades behind him in school. Among other things, he’d noticed that she had breasts. But it was her mouth that had really caught his attention. The heart shape. The full bottom lip. Her mouth was sultry then. And it was sultry now.

Something Sloan wished he hadn’t remembered.

“I saw you that night, too.” Her voice was low and whispery, as if this wasn’t something she wanted to admit. However, her voice didn’t have to be loud to grab his attention.

“Where? When?” Sloan asked.

“I heard something and looked out the window. You were walking on Main Street, headed in the direction of your house.” She cleared her throat. “That was about an hour and a half before the murder.”

She turned and started inside, but Sloan caught onto her arm. “I get the feeling there’s more that you’re not telling me.”

Carley didn’t jump to her defense and she didn’t huff at his accusation. “I’ve told you everything that’s pertinent to the murder and to this investigation.”

Sloan really didn’t care for the way she’d phrased that. “Does that mean there are other nonpertinent things you haven’t told me?”

She didn’t answer. Which in itself was probably an answer—yes, she was withholding something. Carley eased out of his grip and she walked back into the building.

Sloan didn’t want to dwell on it. After all, Carley wasn’t the type to withhold vital information that would affect the outcome of the case.

So what secrets did she have?

The question settled hard and raw in his stomach. Because it made Sloan search his own memory. It made him recall things about that night. Specifically something that had haunted him for the past sixteen years.

It haunted him now.

Carley Matheson wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.