Confessions. JoAnn Ross

to be brave when she’d viewed her sister’s body. He remembered the infinite tenderness with which she’d brushed away her sister’s hair from her face. He thought about how she’d thrown up afterward.

      And now he had the discomfiting feeling that she had no intention of leaving this investigation—or him alone—until she’d achieved justice for Laura.

      That she was stubborn was obvious. She was also intelligent. And, although he’d tried like hell not to notice, she was also more than a little sexually appealing. There had been a couple of suspended moments, back in his office, when he’d felt the age-old stir inside him—man for woman.

      When his mutinous mind conjured up, without difficulty, her springtime scent, her expressive turquoise eyes, her full ripe lips, Trace cursed. He couldn’t discern all the emotions working through him, but he knew damn well that they weren’t comfortable.

      J.D. had been right. Mariah Swann was definitely trouble.

      After breezing through the brief surgery, Alan Fletcher had been wheeled into a private room. Ben Loftin had arrived, as ordered, crowding his considerable bulk into a molded vinyl chair outside the senator’s hospital room door. He was eating a Granny Smith apple while pondering the gynecological mysteries in this month’s issue of Playboy.

      “How’s the patient doing?” Trace asked.

      “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” As Loftin turned the magazine sideways and nodded his approval of the centerfold, Trace wasn’t certain whether he was referring to Fletcher or the voluptuous blonde clad in red hooker high heels and a fire helmet.

      “Did the doctor say what he was shot with?”

      “Yeah,” the deputy managed around a huge bite of apple. Most of his breakfast appeared to have spilled onto his tie and rumpled shirtfront. “It was a .25.”

      “The autopsy showed the wife was shot twice with a .38.” Which, Trace supposed, added credence to the senator’s allegation that there were two men in the house.

      Loftin’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Too bad for the lady the guy with the peashooter wasn’t the one who went upstairs.”

      “Isn’t it?” Trace agreed dryly.

      He entered the hospital room and found Fletcher sitting up in bed with an IV attached to his right arm. An attractive brunette Trace guessed to be in her late twenties was sitting in a chair beside the bed. She was wearing a V-necked white silk blouse, a short navy skirt and navy and white spectator pumps.

      Her hand was currently enclosed in the senator’s. He didn’t need a scorecard to figure out that this was the chief of staff with a liking for expensive Scotch.

      Trace doffed his hat. “Good morning, Senator.”

      “Good morning.” The senator flashed the standard politician’s smile—quick, seemingly sincere and disarming as hell. He reminded Trace of Redford, back in his Sundance Kid days, before the unrelenting western sun had turned the actor’s face to spotted boot leather. “Oh. You’re the sheriff.” The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.

      Trace nodded. “You’ve got a good memory.”

      “Occupational necessity. I never forget a face. Or a name.” This time the smile, which Trace realized was automatic, died half born. “How is Laura? I’ve asked the nurses, but they refuse to tell me a thing.”

      Trace glanced over at the woman. “Excuse me, but—”

      “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Heather,” Alan said.

      The woman stood and extended her hand. “Heather Martin,” she said. Her light brown eyes were friendly and intelligent. “I’m the senator’s chief of staff.”

      “Trace Callahan.” He shook the hand the senator had been holding.

      She quirked the inevitable brow upon hearing his name, but did not comment. “How is Laura?” she repeated Alan Fletcher’s question. “We’ve been so horribly worried.”

      The senator was looking up at him expectantly. Right in the eye. Trace had always figured any guy who wouldn’t maintain eye contact had to be guilty of something.

      Of course, he allowed, sometimes it went the other way. The science teacher-serial killer had maintained dynamite eye contact even while insisting he knew nothing about the various body parts soaking in a barrel of hydrochloric acid in his basement.

      “I’m afraid I have bad news, Senator.” After years of practice, he’d come to the conclusion that there was no easy way to say this. “Your wife is dead.”

      Alan Fletcher blanched. “Dead?”

      “She died at the scene. There was nothing anyone could do.”

      “Dead?” the senator repeated blankly. Alan looked up at Heather, who’d gone pretty pale herself.

      “Oh, my God!” He began to tremble.

      “I understand that this is difficult for you,” Trace began slowly. Carefully.

      “Difficult doesn’t begin to describe this outrage. It’s horrendous!” The senator took the tissue Heather was offering and blew his nose. “When may I see my wife?”

      “Her body’s going to be released to the funeral home later this afternoon.”

      “Her body.” He shuddered. “God, that sounds so final.”

      “I was hoping you might remember something else about the intruders.” Trace pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket.

      The tanned brow furrowed. “I’m afraid no more than I’ve already told you. It was all so sudden, and I’d been sleeping.”

      “No distinguishing marks? Tattoos, moles, warts? Anything like that?”

      Alan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

      “How about what they were wearing?”

      The senator shook his head again. “I’m sorry.”

      So much for the dynamite memory. Too bad the gunmen hadn’t offered to contribute to the senator’s presidential campaign. Trace bet the senator’s memory would have instantly improved.

      “Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”

      “Of course.”

      “In the meantime, my deputy will bring by some mug books.”

      “Do you think my wife’s killers will be in there?”

      “We can always hope. You may see something that strikes a chord.”

      “I’ll try my best.”

      “I know you will, Senator. In the meantime, are you acquainted with Clint Garvey?”

      “Acquainted?” Alan’s expression and his tone were calm, although slightly puzzled. “Of course. He’s a neighbor.”

      “Would you call him a friend?”

      “Not really. The man’s a loner. I doubt if I’ve run into him more than two or three times.”

      Trace made a notation. Then paused again. “There’s no tactful way I can ask this. Do you happen to know if your wife had been unfaithful?”

      “No.” Alan’s voice regained its earlier strength. His gaze did not waver. “My wife was a saint. Ask anyone who knew her. Why, the work she did arranging medical care for impoverished children of the Third World received U.N. recognition.”

      “Laura was dedicated to the poor,” Heather agreed. Her voice cracked a little. Her whiskey-colored eyes misted.

      “Those children were her life,” Alan said.

      “Speaking of children—” Trace took his time, flipping through the pages of