Got Your Number (32 page)

She swallowed. "It had a knife through it."

"I mean the wig itself—or the color. Is Melissa Cape blond?"

"Brunette."

"Do you think it was a threat against Angora?"

"Maybe."

"You know something you're not telling me."

"Give it a rest, Detective. I've had a bad day."

He sighed and shifted on the towel he'd spread over the seat of his truck. Another towel was draped over his bare shoulders. "How did it go today at the courthouse?"

"Fine and dandy."

"I'm serious."

She fingered her green and white Notre Dame tassel, with the little '96 gold-tone charm attached. "After the arraignment, the DA offered me and Angora a deal if we'd serve up the other one."

"And your cousin didn't jump on it?"

"No." She frowned. "I thought you liked Angora."

"Like?"

"Well, the way you look at her—" She stopped before he got the impression that she was jealous or something stupid like that.

He grinned. "You're jealous."

"You're delusional. And I thought we were talking about the meeting."

"Did you tell the DA about Angora—the possible mental problems, the comments she made?"

"No. She underwent a psych consult at the hospital."

"And?"

"And, according to her attorney, she's a pathological liar and fantastically spoiled, but she wouldn't harm anyone. I had a private heart-to-heart with her—she didn't do it."

"I hope you're right." He checked the rearview mirror, ever alert.

"But she did tell me a couple of things that could be important."

"Like?"

She dropped the tassel back into the box. "Like she went down on Dr. Seger in his office once when she was a student."

He emitted a low whistle. "I thought you said she was a virgin."

"Do I have to give you a definition of 'virgin'?"

"No, but that's not exactly virginal behavior."

Roxann shrugged. "She must've been crazy about him is all I can say."

"So chances are, Dr. Seger
was
participating in extracurricular activities with his students?"

She squirmed. "Chances are."

"But he never hit on you?"

"No."

"He must've liked you."

She cut her gaze to him. "Are you saying that guys don't make passes at women they like?"

"No. I mean that a guy like Seger who was exploiting young girls probably had a line in his head separating the girls he respected."

She simply stared.

"I'm shutting up."

"Thank you."

He kept his word for about thirty seconds. "Did she tell you anything else you didn't know?"

She nodded. "The night Tammy Paulen was run down, she was driving nearby. She heard a scream, then saw a black Volvo driving away."

"Seger?"

She looked out the window. "He has—had—a black Volvo." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat of the sudden emotion that welled. Okay, maybe she could believe that Carl engaged in dalliances with his pretty students, but the thought that he would actually leave the scene of a crime was incomprehensible. He taught ethics, for heaven's sake.

He made a rueful noise in his throat. "It's not your fault that Seger wasn't the man you thought he was."

"It makes me feel foolish that I could be so blind, though."

"Maybe the way he acted around you was the way he wanted to be."

"You're being generous all of a sudden."

He shrugged. "Nobody is all good or all bad. Even some of the worst criminals love their mother, or tell bedtime stories to their kids, or buy cream for their cats."

Okay, he'd managed to surprise her—and make her feel a tad better.

"So we know he wasn't a saint. And that it's entirely possible one of his students could've dropped by and done him in."

She told him their theory on how the scarf had made its way to the crime scene.

"Not bad," he said. "Maybe we can find someone at the restaurant who saw him pick it up. One thing is sure—if the DA is relying on one of you to turn on the other, he doesn't have enough evidence to convict."

"That's what I told him."

"You or your lawyer?"

"My lawyer is a narcoleptic idiot with a good ad agency. I handled everything."

He pursed his mouth. "You know an awful lot about the law for someone determined not to have anything to do with it."

She smirked.

"Listen, I'm sorry I wasn't at the arraignment, but I thought my time would be better spent looking for Cape."

"I guess you didn't find him?"

His mouth twisted. "No. He probably changed vehicles, maybe his appearance." He looked over. "No offense, but you should've stayed in jail. You'd be safer."

"I filed a restraining order on Cape this morning, since I was already at the courthouse," she said wryly. "And I have my pepper spray."

"Don't remind me."

"Is it possible Cape could've wrecked my van when he threatened Nell? I didn't check it."

He shook his head. "Surely Nell would have noticed, or the police when they came to make the report."

Her laugh was dry. "I'm not overly impressed with the South Bend detectives, although Warner seems okay. But I don't think they're going to go out of their way to find another suspect. Did you tell them about Elise?"

He nodded. "Last night when they were, um, taking you in. But you're right—they didn't seem very excited about the prospect of a new lead."

"Yet the more I think about it, the more I think she might be involved somehow."

"Why?"

She wet her lips.

"Dammit, Roxann, tell me."

She sighed—she did need a sounding board, and Capistrano was the most solid surface around. "Remember that Nell told me Tammy Paulen was holding something over Angora's head? Well, it has something to do with a blond wig."

"What is it?"

She waved her hand. "That's not important, but whoever trashed the van knew about it, and knew that I knew about it. And it makes me think that Frank Cape isn't in this alone."

"So you know what this girl had on your cousin?"

She looked away. Too painful to think about—she never allowed the memories to fully materialize. Angora probably felt the same, which explained why they always skated around the topic.

"You were involved in it, too, weren't you?"

She kept looking away.

He dragged his hand over his face. "Okay, whatever
it
is—would Elise know?"

"Possibly. If Tammy told her."

"They were friends?"

"I don't know, but she was going to school here when Tammy died."

"But how could Elise get hooked up with Frank Cape?"

"I have no idea."

"Okay, then we need to find Elise."

"That's what I was planning to do today."

He pulled into the hotel lot and parked. "Oh, you're working alone now?"

She nodded and handed him a slip of paper.

"What's this?"

"An e-mail address where you can reach Melissa Cape. She's willing to go to a local courthouse, be sworn in, and answer questions over a videocam about what she knows regarding the robbery. In return, though, she wants her ex-husband's custody and visitation rights rescinded."

He looked up, his mouth parted. She'd succeeded in surprising
him.

"She's expecting to hear from you," she said.

"This is breaking some kind of rule, isn't it?"

"Only all of them."

He folded the piece of paper in his hand. "Thank you, Roxann. Thank you for Officer Lafferty and his family. We'll get Cape one way or another." Then he angled his head and leaned closer. "But if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get rid of me."

She met his gaze squarely. "You got what you wanted, now you're off the hook."

He sat back and a little laugh escaped him. "You don't think very highly of yourself, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that in the beginning, yeah, I wanted information on Melissa Cape, but now... hell, I'm interested."

"In the case?"

"In
you,
since I have to spell it out."

She chewed on her tongue and studied his eyes, the set of his jaw. He was sincere... at the moment. And God, it was tempting to fall for him. But men like Detective Joe Capistrano needed a damsel in distress to whisk off the railroad tracks as the train was barreling down. And when she was out of harm's way, he'd move on to another case, another damsel. Besides, even if this nightmare ended right now, she had too many issues to work out to be tying herself to a person or a place. Or a... situation.

"I'm flattered," she said. "But I don't think so."

One dark eyebrow went up. "You don't think so? That's your answer?"

"Yep," she said, then lifted the door handle, climbed down, and slammed the door.

His door slammed and he was right behind her. "Hey." Then he caught her arm and stopped her. "Hey, I'm sorry. I have lousy timing."

"That, too," she agreed.

He took the box of junk from her. "But like it or not, I'm not leaving while Cape is still on the loose."

She turned and walked toward the hotel. "Suit yourself. As long as you know where I stand. Right now, I want to get a room and take the world's longest shower."

"You're not going to be able to find a room," he said. "Not with so many people in town. I had to pull out my badge to get mine."

"Will you pull out your badge to get me one?"

He sighed. "So I can camp outside your door in case our man shows? Look, your clothes are already in my room, and I can keep an eye on you there."

She stared.

"And I won't... anything."

She worked her mouth back and forth. "On one condition."

"What?"

"Help me break into Carl's house."

Chapter 29

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered, pulling next to the curb a few yards away from Dr. Seger's house. The weather had taken a nasty turn—cold and a steady drizzle of freezing rain. The truck's antenna was coated with ice, as were the parked cars.

Roxann pulled on knit gloves and tugged a wool hat down over her ears. "We couldn't find Elise, so she's probably long gone. The only way we'll be able to connect her to Dr. Seger is if we find something in his files—a letter, a picture... something."

"I could lose my badge over this."

"Stop exaggerating and look small." She opened the door quietly and slipped out into the frigid darkness. She heard a click, then Capistrano was next to her. The murder had obviously frightened the neighbors because outside security lights blazed, which didn't help their cause. They moved carefully to the cover of the shadows cast by the trees between the sidewalk and the leaf-covered lawns, then walked in the ice-encrusted grass rather than taking a chance on the slick sidewalk. They passed a bundled woman walking a dog, but avoided eye contact.

"Which door?" she asked as they neared the house, which stood out because it was the only residence in total darkness.

"Front door," he murmured. "The trick to breaking and entering is to act as if you're supposed to be there." Then he frowned. "Scratch that—I forget who I'm talking to."

When they approached the steps, a motion-activated light came on and she practically wet herself.

"Relax," he whispered.

Her heart beat double-time and an uncontrollable shiver traveled through her body. The front door was plastered with yellow "crime scene" stickers. Capistrano was through the ornamental brass lock in less than thirty seconds, then pushed open the door.

"What if there's a security alarm?" she whispered.

"The police wouldn't bother setting it." Then he frowned. "Scratch that, too. And stop asking questions."

After he closed the door, they stood in the darkness until their vision adjusted, then slipped off their shoes. The air in the house was deadly quiet and cold, with a chemical tang, probably left by forensics. Creepy stuff.

"His office used to be in the library," she whispered. "If I remember correctly, it's ahead and to the left."

They found the room, and Capistrano gently removed the police tape across the door. Then he walked the perimeter with a penlight, closing doors and shutters before turning on a desk lamp. She scanned the room, skimming over the carpet where white tape crudely outlined the shape of Carl's body where it had fallen next to the ottoman. The disturbing crime scene photos flashed ill her mind, but she inhaled and chased them away.

The room was lined with bookshelves, and studded with nice furniture—a mohair couch, a leather club chair, a massive cherrywood desk. She thought she detected the faintest scent of Carl's cologne, but she might have imagined it. To think that only two days ago he was alive.

"You take the desk drawers," Capistrano said, "and I'll start on the bookshelves. Leave your gloves on."

She nodded, removed her hat, and set to work before she could think about the ethics of rooting through the personal papers of an ethics professor. The bottom drawer was filled with CDs and headphones, so she moved to the next drawer. Receipts and check registers, a calculator, and files for bills—nothing special, unless you counted the sizable charges on his phone bill to 900 numbers. The thought of Carl dialing for sex on top of exploiting female students put a rock in her stomach.