Confessions. JoAnn Ross

Trace damned whoever the hell it was who’d killed Laura Fletcher.

      He’d thought he was beyond caring. He’d honestly believed that his ability to care had been burned out of him by the corrosive, acidic quality of experience. Which was why he’d come to Arizona. He’d been foolish enough to believe that he could sit in a rocker on the jailhouse porch and spend his days whittling toothpicks, waiting for his monthly paycheck to arrive.

      Trace’s fingers tapped a thoughtful tattoo on the steering wheel. He’d chosen what he thought would be a solitary existence. But he’d been wrong. Other lives had drifted down Whiskey River’s currents and collided with his.

      A woman was dead.

      So now, like it or not, he was going to have to get back in the saddle again and track down her killer.

      He owed it to Laura Fletcher.

      He owed it to her husband—so long as the guy turned out to be innocent—Trace amended as an afterthought.

      He owed it to Mariah Swann, to the residents of Mogollon County whose taxes paid his salary, and to society in general.

      Surprisingly, Trace realized he also owed it to himself.

      Chapter Six

      Just as Trace had feared, the crime quickly gained Roman circus appeal. By noon, Main Street was jammed with television vans. Thick cables ran across the pavement; the satellite dishes atop the vans were capable of transmitting the press conference live to a vast national audience.

      Uniformly attractive reporters who had taken over the courthouse steps were recording their stand-ups in front of videocams. Trace saw one brunette he recognized as being a morning anchor from a Phoenix station doing some last minute repairs to her hair with a portable butane curling iron.

      The sidewalks, unsurprisingly, were packed with looky-loos. An enterprising hot dog vendor had set up an umbrella-topped stand across the street in the park. Nearby another entrepreneur was doing a brisk business in Italian ices and espresso. Rather than try to drive through the uncharacteristic crush of traffic, The Good Humor man had brazenly parked his truck in a fire tow-away zone. The line for Popsicles, ice cream bars and soft drinks extended around the block.

      “Apparently murder is good for business,” Trace said as he entered his office ten minutes late and found Jessica waiting. Her white suit looked as crisp and tidy as it had hours earlier, making Trace wonder if she’d had the material coated with Teflon.

      “I recall reading that back in the sixties, when Reno was declared Murder Capitol of the country, tourism hit an all-time high,” she said.

      He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Perhaps someone ought to suggest a new ad campaign to the chamber of commerce.”

      “Visit Whiskey River—the west’s most Western town. Where the shoot-outs aren’t faked,” she suggested as she made another pass at the coffeepot herself, then sat back down.

      When she crossed her legs, the enticing sound of silk on silk drew his attention. Trace wondered if he’d ever outgrow checking out a woman’s legs and sincerely hoped not.

      “Have I ever told you that you’ve got dynamite legs, Jess?”

      “I believe the term was ‘wraparound,’” she corrected as she adjusted her skirt over her knees. “But that was in another time.” She took a sip of coffee. “In those carefree, halcyon days of yore before we landed ass-deep in reporters.”

      “I’ve always liked your ass, too.”

      “Thank you. I like yours as well.” She smiled at him over the rim of the chipped mug. “And as much as I’d love to spend the rest of the afternoon strolling down memory lane with you, Callahan, I suppose you’d better tell me what you’ve got so far.”

      He did. What little he had.

      “It’s not a lot to go on,” she mused, skimming over the notes she’d taken.

      “No. It’s not.”

      “But you’ll get more.”

      “Yes. I will.”

      She sighed. “We’re going to have to give that mob out there something to sink their teeth into.”

      “How about the 911 tape?”

      She considered that. “Not bad. It’s definitely dramatic enough to keep them occupied while you do whatever it is you intend to do.”

      “As a matter of fact, I intend to detect.”

      She lifted a brow. “Detect?”

      “That’s what we detectives do,” he reminded her.

      “Ah, but you’re not a detective anymore,” she reminded him back.

      Trace shrugged. “That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.” He stood up. “Ready?”

      She rose and brushed at the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

      Folding chairs had been set up in a conference room. Television lights were pointed at the podium. Although Trace and Jessica entered the room together, she stood aside, inviting him to open the proceedings.

      “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the bank of microphones. “My name is Trace Callahan. I’m sheriff of Mogollon County and I’m in charge of the investigation into the shooting death of Mrs. Laura Swann Fletcher.”

      An interested murmur rippled through the room. The audience leaned forward. Several of the faces could not contain their excitement. After all, a murder in Whiskey River was news in itself. Having the victim turn out to be the daughter of the most influential man in town and the wife of a U.S. senator rumored to be on the fast track to the White House cranked up the interest level considerably.

      “Mrs. Fletcher was mortally wounded at her ranch house early this morning. The senator was also wounded, but he was taken to Louis R. Pyle Memorial Hospital where he is resting comfortably and is expected to make a full recovery.

      “The County Attorney—” he tilted his head in Jessica’s direction “—Ms. Ingersoll, wants me to assure you that every resource of Mogollon County has been placed at my disposal until the killer or killers are apprehended. Are there any questions?”

      “How, exactly, did Laura Fletcher die?” a twenty-something blond television reporter from the city asked.

      “The autopsy revealed that Mrs. Fletcher received two wounds from a .38 caliber revolver, one in the left temple, the other in her chest. The bullet that penetrated her head killed her.”

      Another reporter called out, “Is it true Middle East terrorists tried to assassinate the senator for his stand on the peace talks?” A buzz ran through the crowd. Terrorists were about on a level with space aliens in the high country. Neither were likely to be seen on Main Street.

      “Not that we know.” Trace pointed toward a young print reporter clad in khaki who looked like a walking advertisement for an Eddie Bauer catalog.

      “There’s been a report that it was an Earth First eco-terrorist group, protesting the senator’s prodevelopment policies,” the reporter, who worked for Flagstaff’s Coconino Sun said.

      Development was as hot a topic as grazing fees and water rights in Whiskey River. Old-timers and environmentalists liked the town just the way it was; yuppies fleeing crime and other problems found in urban areas were pushing for something called “managed growth.” Growth was growth, the natives mumbled over morning coffee at The Branding Iron Café. And they didn’t like it. Not even a little bit.

      “Again, that remains unsubstantiated.”

      “How about rumors that it was a pro-choice feminist coalition angry about his campaign to outlaw abortion?” another television reporter questioned.

      “We intend