His Only Defense. Carolyn McSparren

been looking at a million dollars in insurance for seven years?”

      “Money I could not in good conscience request, so long as I felt certain Sylvia was alive somewhere. Now that it is legally appropriate to claim it for my family, however, we should be the ones to benefit by investing it. Believe me, the insurance company has been making plenty on it for the last seven years and is no doubt loath to give it up.”

      “So you now believe your wife was murdered?”

      “Let’s say I’m not certain any longer that she’s alive. None of the homicide investigators ever came up with evidence either way, although they continued to act as though they knew she was dead and I killed her. Sorry to say this, but once you people get an idea in your collective heads, it’s not easy to get it out.”

      “Not without evidence to the contrary, it isn’t,” Liz said dryly. “When something bad happens to one spouse, the odds are extremely heavy that the surviving spouse is involved. The statistics would blow your mind.”

      “I’m not a statistic and I’m not a murderer. When I started trying to make up my mind whether to petition to have her declared dead, I finally hired my own private detective.”

      “Who?” There were a lot of good P.I.s in Memphis, but there were also some bums willing to take a client’s money for precious little labor.

      “Frank LaPorte. He’s a retired cop. Handles mostly divorces and insurance claims. My business partner and I have used him to investigate a couple of worker’s comp suits. Both times he’s been able to disprove the disability claim. You shouldn’t be able to mow your lawn or reroof your house when you’re in bed with a bad back.”

      “I’ll need to talk to him. What did he find?”

      “He didn’t have any better luck. Not surprising after this length of time. He did say it’s not as easy disappearing into a new identity as it used to be before babies were given social security numbers in their first year, and birth certificates were collated with death certificates.”

      “Still, it can be done.”

      “With long-term planning. There’s no evidence that Sylvia had any intention of leaving when she did, nor that she had created a new identity.”

      “Then you truly believe she’s dead?”

      “I believe that if she didn’t die at the time she disappeared, she must have died now.”

      “And you want that million dollars.”

      “Miz Gibson, I build mansions and starter castles for rich folks, but I’m not rich. Contractors live at the whim of the housing market. We have construction loans to service, subcontractors to pay and materials to buy long before a house is built, and we keep paying until the house is sold, hopefully for a profit. When the market tanks, a lot of us go bankrupt. Besides, I have a fourteen-year-old daughter. She should have the benefit of that money, as well as the income it generates. Invested well, it should pay for her college by the time she’s eighteen, without using too much of the principal.”

      “You don’t plan to take advantage of that money yourself?”

      “If I’m lucky, I can survive without it, but good colleges are expensive and emergencies occur.”

      “So you started the process to have your wife declared dead.”

      “As I was legally entitled to do.”

      “Even if it puts you under suspicion again?”

      “Miss Gibson, I was never not under suspicion, as you well know. This just puts me back in your crosshairs. No doubt you’ve seen a copy of the paperwork. Has Jenkins been in touch with the police?”

      She sat up. New name. “Jenkins? Should he have been?” Why tell Slaughter she had no idea who Jenkins was?

      “My mother-in-law said he’d been to see her, and acted as though that money belonged to him and not the insurance company. He also said he was going to demand that the case be reopened.”

      “That information hasn’t filtered down to my level yet,” she said. Nor was it likely to. It seemed a good bet that this Jenkins guy had called in a favor from the higher-ups to get the case reopened, but she’d probably never know for certain.

      She was about to launch into questions about the night Sylvia disappeared when the door to the trailer burst open and a girl exploded into the room.

      At least Liz assumed it was a girl. She was as tall as Liz and wore an incredibly muddy soccer uniform. Her shoes, face and long blond hair were caked with the stuff. Liz had played soccer in high school, before she discovered she was better at volleyball. This girl looked as though she’d slid face-first across a muddy field not once, but several times. She probably had.

      She was long-legged and coltish, with that elegantly slim frame that drove designers to turn thirteen-year-olds into the latest high fashion models. No woman stayed that sleek once she reached eighteen or nineteen. At thirty-two, Liz definitely hadn’t.

      “We won!” The girl flew across the room, arms outstretched.

      “Whoa!” Slaughter laughed and held her at arm’s length.

      This must be Colleen.

      “I’m glad you won, sweetheart, but I don’t need half the soccer field all over this shirt.” He grinned at his daughter, his face glowing with delight.

      Liz’s heart lurched. Could this guy really be a cold-blooded killer?

      Yes indeed, he could. She’d known too many charming, lovable guys who disintegrated into dolts and oafs when the going got rough. Assuming they stuck around, which most of them didn’t.

      Still, watching the big man and his tall daughter, Liz found herself praying that he wasn’t a killer, that she wouldn’t take him away from this child, destroy that smile.

      But if he was a killer, she’d damn well do what she had to.

      At that moment, Colleen realized there was somebody else in the room. “Oh,” she said, and turned to stare at Liz, assessing her from her muddy boots to the top of her head. She seemed to pay a great deal of attention to Liz’s left hand. Looking for a ring? Seeing if Liz was a possible rival for her dad’s attention?

      Jud introduced them, but did not mention that Liz was a cop. She didn’t, either, but said to Slaughter, “I can see you’ve got your hands full.” She smiled at Colleen, who did not smile back. “How about we set up an appointment for tomorrow morning? What time would be convenient for you?”

      The teen relaxed. She probably thought Liz was a prospective client.

      A child who had lost one parent usually clung to the other and often acted as a protector—or a guard. Colleen had been seven when her mother disappeared, and wouldn’t have comprehended that her father was suspected of killing her. At fourteen, however, she must worry constantly that if new evidence surfaced, her father might be snatched away from her, too.

      She wouldn’t be able to admit even to herself that she was afraid her father might have murdered her mother. Right now she seemed relaxed and happy, but she must be under an incredible strain. Liz would be willing to bet that both Colleen and her father tiptoed around the subject of Sylvia’s disappearance. All teenagers carried a load of angst, but Colleen must be carrying more than her share. Kids with much less on their plates turned to drugs or alcohol or sex—acting out what they dared not express. Tough on the kid, but equally tough on Slaughter, particularly if he knew he was a killer.

      Talk about a dysfunctional family! Liz felt sorry for both of them.

      “I start early,” Slaughter said. “I usually stop for breakfast around eight. Could you meet me at Lacy’s Café? We could talk while we eat.”

      Actually, that would suit Liz just fine. She readily agreed, left Colleen to tell her father about the soccer game, climbed into her car and drove away.

      At