Night Whispers (37 page)

"I'll be all right," she said, pulling out of his arms and impatiently brushing at her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Paul watching them, and for a moment he looked so infuriated that she froze; then she concentrated on Noah. "I'll be fine, really," she said with a fixed smile, and when he still looked dubious, she tucked her arm through his and walked him to the back door.

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A
s Sloan expected, Paul had already gone up to his room, where they could talk in privacy. He'd left the door slightly open for her, and she walked inside, closing it behind her.

He was standing at the window, a drink in his hand, watching Noah walk across the lawn on his way home. "It's been quite a fucking night," he said wrathfully as he closed the window and turned around. Except for the anger she'd glimpsed when Noah was leaving, Paul had played the part of a shocked, well-bred insurance salesman all night, but now he looked as furious as he sounded.

He motioned to a pair of comfortable chairs with footstools near the bed. "What the hell is going on between you and Maitland?" he demanded.

It was none of his business, but Sloan was too startled to be offended. On the other hand, she didn't think she owed him any details, either. "What do you think is going on?" she asked mildly as she sat down across from him.

"Based on what I've observed during the last week," he said sarcastically, "I assumed the two of you were probably having a little fling. But it's more than that, isn't it? I saw that little scene before he left, and I saw the way you were looking at him tonight."

"So what?" Sloan said defensively.

His jaw tightened. "How can you be so smart about everything else, and so damned stupid about him? By your own words, he's got an arsenal on one boat and a sizable stash of firearms on the sailboat."

"People with boats keep firearms aboard! He's not selling them or trafficking in them. There are ports all over the globe that aren't completely safe. Noah is protecting his life, his crew, and his property!"

"With a machine gun?" Paul mocked angrily. "With a room full of automatic weapons? It sounds to me like he might have some sort of cargo he needs to protect."

"That cargo remark is ridiculous, and I told you, he confiscated the machine gun. Furthermore, I never said those weapons were automatic."

"You couldn't tell because you weren't close enough to examine them!"

"I had no idea you were worried about all that," Sloan said, trying to keep her temper under tight control. "If it will put your mind at rest, I'll ask Noah to show them to me again."

"No. Don't do that. Just let it alone! Look, I just don't want you to get too emotionally involved with the man. I don't give a damn if you've been to bed with him; you're both adults. However, I made the stupid assumption that that wouldn't happen, based on your past history. You sure as hell didn't sleep around in Bell Harbor!"

"How would you know?" Sloan demanded irately.

"How would I know?" he repeated with biting sarcasm. "I know when you got your first permanent tooth! How the hell do you think I know?" Leaning forward, he braced his forearms on his knees and glared at his drink as he rolled the glass between his hands. When he spoke again, he sounded more weary and worried than angry. "How involved are you with Maitland, emotionally, I mean?"

He asked the question with an almost paternal concern, and Sloan responded firmly but without any rancor. "That's none of your business."

He reached the correct conclusion on his own, and his lips quirked in a sardonic half smile as he stared at his glass and stated his conclusion: "That sounds pretty damned involved…"

"Paul?"

He looked up at her.

"Why are we talking about Noah when someone in this house has been murdered? Didn't anything about that session in the living room just now strike you as a little odd?"

To her relief, he didn't persist in discussing Noah. "I don't know. I suppose I was distracted. What specifically are you referring to?"

"They said a window was broken in the study and the murderer supposedly came in that way. That makes no sense. The drapes were open and she was in plain view, watching television. Even if she didn't see him at first, she would have heard the glass break."

"Maybe not, if he was quiet enough and the television set was loud enough to distract her."

"But why would a thief take a chance like that when he could have broken in through one of the other rooms? And why didn't she notice him as he was breaking in, and then try to escape?"

"Her vision wasn't good and the windows were on her left. If she was concentrating on television, she might not have seen him until it was too late."

"Her vision wasn't good, but she was a long way from being blind! She was found on the sofa, which means the murderer had to break the window, open it, crawl in, then stroll over to her and shoot her before she noticed him. Either that," Sloan finished meaningfully, "or she didn't think she needed to be afraid of whoever shot her."

"The medical examiner will be able to tell who was where when it happened."

Sloan had the feeling he was still preoccupied with Noah for some reason, and it frustrated her to the point of anger or tears. "Can't you see where I'm going with all this?"

"Yes, of course I can," he said with a grim sigh. "With the exception of the broken window, it points to an inside job."

"Sooner or later, Flynn and Cagle are going to run me through the system. I'm sure your cover will hold up, but they won't even have to glance twice to find out I'm not an interior designer in Bell Harbor."

"I'm hoping they'll do it later, rather than sooner. After all, you're an unlikely suspect. Why break into a house you already have a key to?"

"To make it look like an outside job," Sloan said wearily. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"Andy Cagle is sharp. He'll run me through the system even if it's to rule me out. You should let me tell them the truth, so they can eliminate me as a suspect and concentrate on real possibilities. I think I should talk to them first thing in the morning."

"No," he said sharply. "There's too much chance Carter would find out. I need thirty-six hours before that happens. In thirty-six hours it won't matter."

Sloan opened her eyes and stared at him. "What's happening in thirty-six hours?"

He frowned at his drink again, rolling the glass between his hands. "I can't tell you."

"I'm getting really tired of that—"

"Believe me," he said tightly, "I want to tell you, I would have told you at this point—but I can't. Not after tonight."

Sloan thought he was referring to Edith's murder tonight. She couldn't imagine any sort of connection, but it was obvious he wasn't going to give her a word to go on. "Do you have any hunches about who might have done this tonight, or is that another 'secret' you feel you need to keep?" she asked bitterly.

To her surprise, he actually gave her a complete answer. "That depends. If Flynn and Cagle have something substantial that points to an assisted burglary, I'd start with the local maids, not the regular staff who lives in. Reynolds told me more than once that they've been with the family for years. In any case, whoever the actual perp was used a nine-millimeter weapon, because I saw the casing on the floor, and he was also an amateur."

"You mean because he took so many chances by entering through the study—if he did enter that way?"

"No, because he overlooked some items a pro wouldn't have left behind. While you were outside trying to track him down, I was in the study with Paris. The diamond ring Edith always wore had been taken off her hand, but the perp overlooked a very expensive diamond brooch as well as the ring on her other hand. That's another reason for Cagle and Flynn to discount you as a suspect: Why would you go through the trouble to fake a break-in, kill her, and then leave her valuables behind?"

When Sloan didn't come up with an answer, he said, "By the way, what made you search at the front of the house rather than the rear?"

"I'd just walked through the backyard with Noah and hadn't seen anyone there or on the beach. I knew the front was a long shot, but I had to try."

Weariness was crashing over Sloan in tidal waves, and the tears she'd been fighting threatened to slip from her eyes. She thought of Edith's body on the sofa, her hair still perfectly arranged, her dress primly covering her knees. Someone had stolen her life and her jewelry, but even in death, she'd kept her dignity. Sloan drew a shaky breath and brushed away a tear. "I can't believe she's dead."

"It will hit you tomorrow," Paul said with the philosophical certainty of one who has been here and seen this all many times before. "Let's get some sleep. You're going to need it, and so will I."

Sloan hadn't realized until then how drawn he actually looked. He'd said he was "distracted," but she had a peculiar feeling he was worried. Very worried. He always seemed so utterly self-assured and resolute that it was difficult to imagine him any other way.

"I'll see you in the morning," she said.

In her bedroom, Sloan pulled off her clothes and pulled on an old T-shirt that Sara hadn't removed from the suitcases. Careful not to disturb Paris, she slipped into bed and fell into an instant, troubled sleep.

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T
he call Dennis Flynn was waiting for came in at ten-thirty A.M., while he was slumped in his chair in front of his computer terminal, watching the computer banks at the Regional Organized Crime Information Center in Nashville answer his final query with another blank report. He'd already typed in all the other names on his list of family, friends, and employees at the Reynolds residence.

At the desk in front of his, Andy Cagle swiveled his chair around and pushed his glasses up on his nose. He'd already interviewed the remaining housemaids earlier and had finished writing his report. "Anything interesting coming in from ROC?"

"Nothing," Flynn said. "Zero. Zilch. According to ROC, the Reynolds household is one great big bunch of law-abiding citizens."

The phone on his desk rang, and he picked it up; then he straightened expectantly when he recognized the caller's voice. "Tell me something good," he said to the lieutenant in charge of the investigation team at the Reynolds house. "What have you got?"

"We've got a burglary that wasn't a burglary."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that nothing seems to be missing, other than one of the old lady's wedding rings, which we already knew about last night."

Flynn's brow furrowed. "You sure?"

"We've been going room to room with the butler, the assistant, the housekeeper, and Paris Reynolds. None of them can spot anything that's been disturbed or taken except in the study."

"That's it?

"We're still looking, but that's it so far."

"That's bad," Flynn said, watching Captain Hocklin pacing in his office. "The press is all over the place like a swarm of wasps and more of them are arriving by the minute. CNN is camped on our doorstep, the
Enquirer
is trying to sneak in through the men's room window, and MSNBC is looking for a place to park. Hocklin has already had calls from the mayor and three senators, demanding a quick arrest; he hasn't had any sleep, and he is a little cranky. Be a hero, give me something to tell him to get him off my ass."

"Okay," Lieutenant Fineman said. "Try this: The window in the study was broken from the inside."

"We figured that last night."

"Yeah, but now we're sure. Also, we've ruled out the front fence as an escape route. The flower beds are clean, no footprints. What have you got from the ME?"

"Not much so far. Time of death approximately ten o'clock. Based on the angle of entry, she was shot from a distance of three feet. She was sitting on the sofa, and the assailant was standing. That's all we've got. Keep in touch."

Flynn hung up and looked at Cagle. "Nothing's missing over there," he said, and his cheerful mask fell away. He put his hand behind his nape, wearily massaging the tense muscles. "Now what?"

"Now we stop looking for a burglar with a bad temper and start looking for someone who was in that house last night who had a motive for murder. I checked with the neighbors on both sides of the Reynolds house, and they have infrared beams that were operational last night at ten P.M., so the murderer didn't scale the fence on the sides of the property. He didn't go out the back, or Maitland and Sloan Reynolds would have seen him."

Flynn sighed. "He didn't go over the fence at the front, because Fineman just told me there are no footprints in the flower beds out there."

"Which means our man—or our woman—was very likely right there, chatting with us last night."

Flynn rocked absently in his chair, then leaned forward abruptly and picked up a pencil. "Okay, let's go down the list of names, one by one, for motive and means. Everyone there had opportunity. Wait—" he said. "Now that we know we aren't looking for a career criminal, let's give a copy of this list to Hank Little and let him start checking them out with DBT."