Lawful Engagement. Linda O. Johnston
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The newspapers on top of yet more filled bookshelves. Nothing unusual. Nothing to interest a reporter.
Nothing except Nancy’s body in the bedroom….
Oh, Lord! It dawned on Cara that the killer could still have been there when she arrived. Could still be there.
No, she’d have seen him. Or her. Been attacked, too…
Cut it out, Hamilton. She forced her mind back to what was important. What had Nancy called about?
Another disquieting thought struck Cara. What if the thing wasn’t here because whoever did that to Nancy had taken it?
What if whatever it was had been the reason Nancy had been killed?
Nancy had called Cara to show her.
Cara could be responsible for Nancy’s murder.
A loud knock sounded on the front door. “Yes,” she called as she hurried in that direction.
“Sheriff’s Department,” called a muffled male voice. “Someone here called for help.”
HIS STETSON IN HIS HAND, Deputy Sheriff Mitchell Steele followed the waif who had met him, wide-eyed, at the door. As she led him down the hall of the old, converted house, her walk was brisk, sure, and the swing of her hips caused her long skirt to sway about her legs. Her curly red hair just skimmed the collar of the white blouse extending from beneath her brown vest. Despite the heat, she wore attractive boots, and a large purse hung from her left shoulder.
She’d introduced herself quickly and glanced at the name badge on his uniform shirt before turning her back and telling him to follow. Cara Hamilton.
He knew that name.
He’d only gotten a whiff of her scent, something that reminded him of a mountain spring, fresh air…
She stopped outside an open door and looked at him again. Her full lower lip, pink without a hint of lipstick, trembled, and her hazel eyes remained huge. “Nancy’s in there.” Her softly Texan voice was husky but sure.
He glanced inside, took in the scene. He immediately went to the bed and checked the victim for any sign of life.
But the answer was more than clear when he turned her over. She had been shot by a small-caliber gun. No exit wound.
He was glad when, only a moment later, he heard voices and Cara Hamilton showed a couple of fire department EMTs into the room. They took charge of the victim, and he moved out of their way. But he was certain they could try to revive her from now until tomorrow’s sunset with no success.
A shame, he thought. The victim was a young woman. She didn’t deserve to die like that.
Sticking his hat under his arm, Mitch pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called the station, quickly telling the dispatcher what he’d found and instructing her to send some deputies to secure the area and a team of forensics technicians, pronto. As he spoke, he scanned the room to determine whether the murder weapon was there and visible. He didn’t see it.
And then he looked down at the woman who stood beside him in the doorway. She watched the medics with an expression so fierce that she seemed to be willing them to save the victim’s life.
“Ms. Hamilton, I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
Her stare, as she looked up, appeared startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Was she in shock? How could she not be?
But her expression immediately narrowed. “You’re going to catch the SOB who did this, aren’t you, Deputy?”
“Yes,” he replied in all sincerity. Her question implied that she hadn’t done it. Maybe she hadn’t. But until he knew more, he could not rule her out. “I’ll need a statement from you to get started.”
She led him down the hall. When she tried to direct him into the living room, he pointed instead toward the front door. “We’ll talk outside. There’ll be less chance of contaminating the crime scene.”
“Fine.”
They stood on the porch under its light and away from railings the suspect might have touched. Mitch had already scoped out the porch’s wood deck. Despite the humidity, the day had been dry, so there was little likelihood of finding muddy footprints. No, footprints were more likely to be discovered on the ground, but only if the perpetrator stepped off the paved walkway. Had he—she?—walked right up to the front door and been let in by the victim? Or would they find evidence of a break-in—a broken window, a jimmied door, a picked lock?
“So, Ms. Hamilton, I gather you know the victim.” He removed a small notebook from a pocket and began to make notes.
“I knew her, yes.” Her voice was sad despite her ironic tone. “Her name was Nancy Wilks. We’ve been friends for years.”
“Good friends?”
“Not extremely close, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I was here tonight because she called me. She said…she said she was feeling rotten because she had just lost her job, and she wanted me to come over to commiserate.”
Cara Hamilton was lying. Mitch did not need the intuition inherited as part of his half-Native-American ancestry to tell him that. He knew it as surely as if she’d proclaimed it in neon lights. He stopped writing and looked at her.
No matter how boldly her mouth lied, her body language didn’t. He observed her despondency, her sense of loss, written in the sorrow of her gaze as she met his eyes—without a hint of her verbal guile. She stood with her arms folded, as if hugging herself in comfort after her ordeal of finding the body.
For an insane instant, Mitch wondered what it would feel like to take the small but curvy woman into his arms to soothe her grief. He hardened his glare, but her expression remained sorrowfully innocent.
“Right,” he said. His job wasn’t to contradict her. Or to feel sympathy for her. But if he could catch her in a lie… “So you came over at—” He glanced at his watch. “What time did you get here?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “I can’t have been here more than twenty minutes, though. I…I found her the way you saw her.” Her voice broke.
“I see. So then what did you do?”
She described pretty much what he’d anticipated. She’d checked to see if her friend was alive, then called the emergency phone number and waited.
“And what did you do while you waited?”
“Do?” The question seemed to take her aback. “I didn’t do anything. I just…waited.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mitch said noncommittally. “And did you touch anything?”
“No.” Her response came too fast.
“If you did, you should mention it, in case your fingerprints are found someplace they shouldn’t be.”
“I know better than to disturb a crime scene,” she lashed back. But there was a defensiveness in her tone that told him that, once again, she was lying.
“I’m sure you do.” He regretted his sarcastic tone immediately.
She frowned for an instant, then, almost visibly tucked away her anguish. Her small chin raised, her hazel eyes intense, she asked, “So how will you start to investigate this murder, Deputy Steele?”
“Exactly the way I’m doing it, Ms. Hamilton. By securing the crime scene.” He nodded at the white Sheriff’s Department sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. A couple of deputies exited and headed toward them. “By having the scene checked for evidence,” Mitch continued. “And by asking questions.”
“I see. And how do you—”
“As I said, I’m asking questions.”
“Of course, but—”
He