Touch of Evil (12 page)

“Roger’s dead. He’s gone.” Gently but firmly, Justine forced the worst out. Willed Marilyn Savoy to absorb it. Outside, the rain beat a snare drum’s rhythm against the building’s metal roof, and the day dimmed, darkening the windows.

“No. It’s not true. I always knew you hated us, because of the election. But this—you lying bitch.” Hand rising as if to strike, the woman advanced on her.

“Don’t.”
Justine hated to speak sharply, but her tone stopped Marilyn in her tracks. “This isn’t helping. Please, come sit down. Your friend here will bring you some water.”

Justine glanced at the older woman, who nodded, looking grateful to be assigned something she could do.

“And we’ll call someone to be with you—or would you like me to take you home now? We can talk about it on the—”

“You. You’re the one who killed him.” Marilyn Savoy’s words reverberated in the echo chamber of the building as her pale face swiftly took on color.

“We don’t know who shot your husband,” Justine explained patiently, “but I promise you, we’re going to find out. I’m making it my top priority.”

“You expect me to believe that? After working my Roger half to death with overtime, then
firing
the man who should’ve had your job?”

Looks of profound discomfort passed among those forced to listen.

“I never forced your husband to work overtime,” Justine said, though she suspected arguing was pointless. Right now, Roger’s wife
needed
her fury to hold off the pain, if only briefly. “In fact, I’ve warned him against it. Several times, of late.”

“You lying bitch,” Marilyn repeated, her face reddening, her eyes glazing with unshed tears.

The older agent wrapped a plump arm around Marilyn’s shoulder. “Please, Marilyn. Let me close up and take you home. This is no place for—”

Marilyn jerked away from her touch. “The whole county knows you stole that damned election. But as long as Roger was alive, he was still a threat to you. More competent and more respected—the one the men looked to for leadership.”

Justine took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Savoy, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ve submitted to an interview with Larry Crane and told him he has the authority to pull me off this case if need be—”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Marilyn demanded. “That you’ve assigned your handpicked lapdog to look into your wrongdoing? Someone who depends on your
goodwill
for employment?”

“I know this is hard,” Justine said, “but you need to try to hear this. I’ll be asking the state to look over everything we do here, to make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed. I’ve lost a husband, Marilyn, so I understand how hard—”

“Don’t you stand there telling me you
understand
this. Don’t you dare act like the two of us are part of the same club.”

Justine forced herself to continue. “And I want you to know that if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here for—”

“Get out. Just get out of my sight. Go away and rot in hell.”

Justine managed to slip her card to the older agent, nod to the other customers, and make it back out to her SUV. Once she was there, the shaking set in, along with the realization that Marilyn Savoy’s accusations would fall like flaming arrows, igniting everything they touched until the entire county blazed with indignation.

And eventually, the allegations would find their way to the Texas Rangers already investigating Justine. Frustrated by their inability to pin corruption charges on her, would they be happy to have an excuse to go after her for murder?

At the thought, Justine felt a tightening, as if some mysterious assailant had hidden a noose beneath her clothes, too. And she wondered, How much time did she have left to breathe free? How many hours remained before the Rangers spoke to witnesses about her relationship with Roger?

How long before they asked Ross Bollinger about the scene that took place at the hospital last night?

Though she had no idea, one thing was for damned sure: There was no longer any question of returning home to lie around the house and nurse her aching head. Not when she sensed time swiftly running out.

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage…

—William Shakespeare,
Twelfth Night,
Act I, Scene 5

As the afternoon wore on, the rain finally ended, and Trudy went home to her family. But Ross remained at his aunt Ava’s, half-afraid that if he left the house, Laney would return to pack her bags and slip away forever.

Though the two deputies had taken her cell phone with them, Ross had held on to a copy of the list he’d made of his cousin’s phone contacts during the night, and he passed the time by calling those he hadn’t yet tried. Again and again, he was frustrated to reach voice mailboxes or disconnected numbers, or to speak to an old friend who hadn’t heard from Laney in months.

Ross decided to try Justine, though his stomach tightened at the thought of facing her, considering what had happened since yesterday. But he refused to allow the awkwardness of the situation to defeat him.

Justine, as she often had, beat him to the punch. Hearing a vehicle pull up, he saw her emerging from her mud-splattered SUV. He was surprised to see her for once in her khaki uniform, right down to the badge and gun belt, as if she’d finally decided to try to be one of the men instead of dressing in dark suits in an attempt to command authority—and hide the feminine contours of her body. Which, as any straight male within a hundred-mile radius could have told her, had been a lost cause from the start.

He went to the front door and met her on the porch.

Not knowing what to say, he tried to tease her into smiling. “Nice outfit.”

Clearly upset, she looked up from beneath the brim of her hat. “Don’t you start with me.”

Ross cursed and pulled his Y chromosome out of his mouth. “I, uh, I was wondering when you’d drop by. Started to think you might not show up.”

Eyeing him warily, she said, “Got here as soon as I could.”

“Worried about what I might be telling people?”

She shook her head, her dark gaze immeasurably sad. “I have nothing to hide, Ross. What happened to Roger…don’t think for a second I’m not upset about it. He may have been a real pain in the ass, but he was one of my guys, one I had a responsibility to keep safe. Do you understand that?”

Ross stared at her, studying her features, gauging her voice, her words, every nuance of her body language. And he saw no indication, not the slightest hint, that she was lying. Still, he had to think of Laney. Had to be certain she wasn’t being used to blunt the force of Justine’s fall.

“I do,” he said. “And I want you to know I’d testify that he looked to me as if he wanted to shoot you last night. If it
were
self-defense, I’d understand that. I’d defend you…”
But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you pin a man’s death on an innocent young woman.

Justine never took her eyes from his. “I didn’t kill him, Ross. I never even spoke with him after last night at the hospital. Besides, he’ll be an even bigger problem to me dead than alive.”

“So what was he doing at your house?”

She shook her head. “Could I come inside and discuss this? It’s been one hell of a long day.”

Nodding, he ushered her indoors and gestured toward his aunt’s fussy parlor sofa, where she removed her hat and held it, revealing austerely pinned-back hair.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Something to drink, maybe? How ’bout coffee?”

He’d never known her to turn down a cup, even in the heat of summer. The thought brought with it an image: Justine naked, lying on a motel room bed as she sipped from a paper cup, her hair tumbled and her skin lightly sheened with sweat from their lovemaking.

A pang of loss caught him off guard, and he struggled to recall his priorities. As well as her agenda, whatever it might be. “I have a pot already made,” he added.

Justine looked startled by the offer, as though she’d given up expecting kindness. “That’d be great, Ross. Now that the front’s blown through, it’s getting chilly.”

He hesitated, wondering how she was feeling. Had she taken time to eat or rest? Was her head throbbing or swimming with exhaustion?

Did she miss him at all?

But instead of asking, he gestured toward his own half-full mug. “Still take it with just a little sugar?”

She nodded. “Thanks, Ross. I appreciate it.”

Ross went to get her a mug and returned to sit beside her.

Face dipping toward the steam, she drank, taking long swallows that made her throat work visibly. Watching her intently, Ross ached to touch the spot, to caress it with his fingertips, but he reminded himself he was after answers and not her.

Liar,
his subconscious whispered.
You still think you can make her want the same things you do. And you still think you can save her, the way you couldn’t Anne.
To drown out the thought, he repeated, “What was Roger Savoy doing at your house?”

“He wasn’t inside my house, wasn’t anywhere I saw him,” she said. “But that’s still a damned good question. Especially since Noah freaked out when he saw him in the pasture—pulled away and ran back to the feed room, where he hid yesterday.
And he kept saying the same thing he said then, too: ‘No touch,’ over and over.”

“You don’t think Roger was the one who—”

“I’m not sure what to think right now. Noah’s traumatized, for certain. He may have only been reacting to seeing a dead body, or maybe he caught sight of the…” Justine shook her head but didn’t finish the thought. “It’s hard to tell with him, and he was too upset to question.”

And not sufficiently verbal to explain himself, Ross knew. Though he sensed intelligence in the boy, Ross understood it was locked down deep inside him—as was the story of who had taken him yesterday.

“So whatever happened to Savoy, happened in your pasture?” Ross asked, changing the subject.

Her fingers wrapping around the mug for warmth, Justine took another sip of coffee. “Hard to say for sure, what with the rain and the EMTs and everybody stomping through the scene. He could’ve been shot there, or might’ve been dumped after someone hit him elsewhere.”

“Did you hear anything? Any gunfire?”

Shaking her head, Justine said, “I must’ve been asleep. I didn’t get to bed till three, and I was up again by seven thirty, on the phone with some of my guys at the office.”

“So if the time of death matches up, you’ll know it happened—”

“Not necessarily. Roger didn’t die straight off. He was still breathing when my dad got home from the hospital and found him. Damned vultures all around him, waiting, and I never even realized a human being was out there.” The pain in her eyes sliced Ross like a scalpel. “He could’ve lain out there for hours while I slept.”

“So your father wasn’t with you when all this happened?”

Justine set down her half-empty mug on a stack of his aunt’s magazines and crossed her arms over her stomach.
Staring straight ahead, she answered in a flat voice, “No, Ross, he wasn’t. So I don’t have an alibi. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

His every misguided instinct screamed at him to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and swear he’d help her through this. Instead, he took a deep breath. “So when did you settle on my cousin as a suspect?”

Justine neither answered nor looked at him, so he hammered home a second question: “Was it before or after you figured out
you
might be in the crosshairs?”

“We found a couple of things on Roger.” Justine’s cold gaze fixed on his. “Things of interest in this case.”

“The cell phone, right? The one he supposedly used to call Laney? Paul Miller mentioned it,” Ross said. “What else?”

“I can’t really say any more about an ongoing murder investigation,” she said, her expression schooled to stillness. “Especially with one of your relations a person of interest in the case.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “You know better. I’ve already told you Laney wouldn’t—”

“Suffice it to say”—her professional blast shield was completely in place—“we’re going to be looking into every possible scenario.”

“Don’t do this to me, Justine. Don’t close me out like this.” Ross knew her response had been triggered by his own harshness, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t, take back the questions he’d asked. No matter how badly he wanted to go back to a time when the only thing that stood between them was the freshness of her grief. Or grief coupled with Justine’s desire to continue capitalizing on her status as the late sheriff’s widow.

Picking up her hat, she stood and thanked him for the coffee, then added, “Next time you hear from your cousin, I hope you’ll advise Miss Thibodeaux it’s in her best interest to contact us. The sooner, the better.”

Ross knew he had no right to touch Justine, but he couldn’t help himself. Laying one hand on her arm, he asked, “Just tell me, have you sent someone to Bone Lake? Have you checked the spot where Laney’s band members were found hanged?”

In his mind’s eye, his saw his cousin’s silhouette suspended, slowly spinning as it depended from a branch shrouded with moss. The vision was so horrendous, so real, that he involuntarily tightened his grip on Justine’s arm.

Her eyes softened. “Sorry. I should’ve mentioned that first. I sent two men to search the area this morning after you called. I’m glad to tell you they found nothing—no sign that anyone had been there lately. No sign of Laney or her car.”

Ross felt the sharp bite of relief, followed by soothing warmth as blood began to refill his veins and capillaries. He eased his hold on Justine but didn’t break the contact. Couldn’t.

“Are you all right?” She studied his face, concern melting the mask away.

“What if Laney’s dead somewhere? I’m always telling her she’s way too trusting. Naive enough that someone could’ve lured her. Maybe this person shot Savoy, then used his phone to call…She was the
last
one,” he said, thinking of her dead band members.

“Ross, don’t do this.” This time Justine touched him, her fingertips smooth and warm against the cool roughness of his cheek. “At this point, we don’t know if—”

Haunted by regret, he wouldn’t be distracted. “I was supposed to look out for her. Supposed to keep her safe.”

He saw Anne in his mind’s eye, watched her hurry from the restaurant where they’d met for lunch without a backward glance. Leaving angry, because he’d been unable to leave well enough alone.

“Listen to me,” Justine whispered. “I
will
find her for you.”

She sealed the promise with a featherlight kiss, a kiss that felt so right, so natural that it dispelled every reason he should be wary of her comfort and every emotion except stark relief. Relief that eased the aching emptiness he’d felt these past months, the growing sense that breaking off their relationship had been yet another mistake too big to undo.

Unwilling to let the moment slip away, Ross pulled Justine tight against him and claimed the whole of her mouth with a searing kiss, a kiss meant to remind her of better times, of times they hadn’t spent wounding each other with volleyed accusations.

Justine’s hat slid to the floor, and Ross felt her nails dig into his side and shoulder, heard a cry rise from her throat. A protest, he thought for one dizzying moment before it deepened into a murmur of unmistakable desire.

Ross unpinned her hair, his fingers thrusting through the coffee-colored waves that unwound around her shoulders, his mouth dropping to taste her neck, to pinch the tender flesh in his teeth. His free hand found the fullness of her breast and rubbed it, cupped it as she moaned,
“Please…”

As he fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, she pushed at his wrist. “No, Ross. It’s not right. Roger’s dead, and Laney’s…” Her eyes were so dark, they made her look empty, hollowed out by regret. “And my life’s turning into one long, slow-motion train wreck. We can’t…”

He stared at her for a moment that stretched out, fragile as a filament of spun glass. “I need you,” he whispered. “Want you. Haven’t stopped wanting you for one damned minute.”

The space between them vanished, and their mouths moved together, kisses deepening as Ross’s hand returned to undo her buttons. To slip his hand inside her shirt, her bra, as she stood on tiptoe and rubbed her hip along the length of his erection.

And after that, there was no more argument, no pause to
think of all the reasons this was a terrible idea, nothing but two pairs of hands desperately undoing the rest of the buttons, belts, and zippers that lay between them.

“Have to have you.” His own voice was a harsh whisper in her ear as he took her onto the sofa and helped her out of her sleeves. The metal of her badge clicked against the wooden floor as her shirt pooled beside the spot she’d laid her gun belt. “Need you right here, right now.”

She shrugged out of a pretty, lace-edged bra, her breathing hard and shallow as her fingers feathered along his shaft. “Hurry.”

Undressing quickly, Ross forgot about his surgery, the older, deeper scar Anne had left, and the recent worry about his cousin. Forgot all the reasons he’d found a relationship with Justine so untenable before. Instead he lost himself in the need to sample peaking nipples. The need to touch and taste and plunge into her damp heat.

For the moment, there was only Justine, her eyes sliding closed and her face growing younger by the second as she shed the lines of worry, along with the last of her clothes. Justine whispering, “Please hurry,” as she stroked him nearly to the breaking point.

“Down here,” he whispered, and pulled her onto the rug. He positioned himself above her, hearing her hiss of pleasure as he laved first one breast and then the other before kissing his way to the juncture of her hip and thigh. Once there, he lingered, tormenting her with long licks that had her moaning, her body writhing with need.

“Still want me to hurry?” he asked, deliberately allowing the heat of his breath to fall on her dampness.

She moaned and looked down at him. “Pretty sure I can still reach my gun, Ross.”

Laughing, he found her center, made her forget all else but warmth and friction and the sharp spiraling of need. Need
that had her crying out wordlessly as her muscles pulsed beneath his tongue, around his fingers.