Vows of Silence. Debra Webb
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when Ashland first went missing ten years ago. Rick scowled at the stack of neatly typed reports. Preston Taylor, the chief of police in Ashland for as long as Rick could remember until retiring six years ago, had personally performed each interview. The guy wouldn’t let anyone else work on the case, not even a deputy as eager and ambitious as Rick. Taylor had insisted that he was the only man with the finesse to do right by the town’s most prominent family.
Rick had to admit that Taylor had been thorough if nothing else. Bank records, phone records, appointment book—it was all there. Every step Ashland had taken for a month before his disappearance was recreated in the neat stacks of investigative reports. There had been no evidence of foul play. No indication that Ashland had felt any pressure or unusual stress prior to his disappearance. His finances were in excellent condition and the future only looked brighter for the lucky jerk. He had more friends than you could stir with a stick. And, apparently, plenty of female company besides the little wife.
Any of the women with whom he’d been involved could have put those bullets in him out of sheer jealousy, but only one woman had anything to gain by his death.
Melinda Ashland.
Rick picked up the most damning report and reviewed Taylor’s notes. About a year before his death, Charles and Melinda had taken out multimillion dollar life-insurance policies. It wasn’t as if they weren’t already heavily insured, but the additional policy had left Melinda Ashland a very, very rich woman by anyone’s standards. The required wait hadn’t been a problem, either, since there were plenty of assets without the insurance money. All that added up to serious motivation.
The interviews with Nigel Canton, Ashland’s business partner, garnered Rick’s attention next. The co-owned investment firm had made both men wealthy in their own rights. Ashland and Canton had signed an agreement giving the surviving partner first dibs on the business over any heirs of the deceased. The price was a meager ten percent of the firm’s worth. Friends of the two men—and clients of the firm—had attested to the growing animosity between the men in the final months of Charles’s life. Especially where Canton’s wife was concerned.
The fact of the matter was, Rick mused, both Nigel Canton and Melinda Ashland had a great deal to gain from Charles’s death. But staring that undeniable fact right back in the face was the indisputable reality that there wasn’t a shred of evidence that either of them was involved. To seal that fate, both had alibis. Not necessarily airtight alibis, but alibis all the same. Hell, Melinda had been a patient in the hospital at the time. He supposed there was always the slim chance she had slipped out when no one was looking.
Yeah, right. That’s not slim, Summers, that’s frigging anorexic. Even though one nurse’s statement indicated she’d found her room empty at some point that afternoon, Taylor hadn’t put much stock in that idea since mobile patients often walked the floors of the hospital.
There was Melinda’s brother Kyle Tidwell. He’d hated Charles, for what he’d done to his sister but, according to the reports, his alibi had also been airtight. Then there was the senator. Though he loved his son, Charles, Junior had been a major embarrassment to him.
Another frown inched its way across Rick’s forehead. There was that other little nagging detail of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar withdrawal Charles made the day he disappeared. He’d liquidated a couple of CDs and withdrew the money in cash. A suitcase and some of his clothes had been missing. Every indication at the time, Rick had to admit, was that Ashland had simply skipped town. But now they knew differently. Rick rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. What the hell had happened to that money? Ashland hadn’t been a gambler, and he didn’t have a drug problem.
He was a drinker and a womanizer. And somehow he’d pissed off somebody badly enough to get himself killed.
The forensics boys from Birmingham had arrived today to go over the Mercedes. But Rick wasn’t expecting them to find anything. He’d already had a look himself. No murder weapon, no nothing. Except a couple of slugs and the bare skeletal remains of a man wrapped in a nondescript beige shower curtain in the trunk. Any fingerprints or trace evidence would have been damaged if not completely washed away by the years in the water.
Rick wondered if a man like Ashland, one who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, had suffered any regrets in his final moments before violence stole his existence. Rick studied the glossy photograph of Charles Ashland, Junior, taken ten years ago with his young family. Judging by the cocky grin on the man’s face, he probably hadn’t known the meaning of the word remorse, much less felt the emotion.
Rick tossed the photo aside and pushed away from his desk. He needed sleep. He turned off the light to his office and strode down the long corridor that led to the exit. As far as Rick was concerned there was nothing in Ashland’s file that was going to give him any answers. If there had been, Taylor would have solved this case ten years ago. Rick knew where the hidden secrets lay.
The image of Lacy Oliver zoomed into high-definition focus in his exhausted mind. Lacy and her friends knew something. Whether they were protecting someone or merely hiding some seemingly insignificant detail—they knew something.
Rick had every intention of finding out what it was.
And he knew just the route to take to get what he wanted.
Lacy jerked awake at the sound of a knock at the front door. She straightened, and the book she’d been reading fell to the floor. She blinked and struggled to get her bearings. She was at her parents’ house. After leaving Melinda’s, she’d come home and forced herself to read in hopes of falling asleep. Another knock echoed down the entry hall. Lacy got to her feet and started in that direction.
Had her parents cut their two weeks in Bermuda short? She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. They wouldn’t knock, they’d use their key. Lacy combed her fingers through her hair and then tightened the sash of her robe. She licked her dry lips and drew in a deep breath.
Maybe it was Kira. She might be feeling in need of some company.
A third knock rattled the hinges, startling Lacy although she’d known the sound would come again before she could reach the door. Whoever was out there was certainly impatient, she thought irritably. Tiptoeing, she checked the peephole. Lacy stumbled back at what she saw.
Rick Summers.
Damn.
What the hell was he doing here at this time of night? She glanced at the old grandfather clock and grimaced. A quarter past midnight. Boy, did he have some nerve showing up at her door in the middle of the night.
A chill raced up her spine and spread across her scalp. What if something had happened to Melinda?
Lacy unlocked the door and jerked it open. Her heart slammed mercilessly against her rib cage. God, please let Melinda be okay. Surely Cassidy would have called…
Her parents! The Bermuda authorities would have contacted the authorities here in the event of an emergency.
“I wouldn’t have stopped at this hour if I hadn’t seen the light.” Rick angled his head in the direction of the living room. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Is something wrong? Has something happened?” she demanded, unable to bear the crushing pressure of not knowing.
Understanding dawned in Rick’s silvery eyes. “No…no, it’s nothing like that. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”
Lacy sagged with relief. Nothing had happened. Thank God. His words suddenly penetrated her haze of euphoria. “Why do you want to talk to me?” Wariness slid over her, making her heart beat fast again. “It’s late.” And she was alone, she didn’t add.
“Do you suppose I could come in?”
Lacy couldn’t speak for a moment. Uncertainty suddenly warred with the almost overwhelming urge to lean into his arms. She remembered all too well how strong they were. He could hold her…make her forget for just a little while.
But he was the chief of police.