Trigger Effect Page 15

  “Give me an example why.”

  “Okay.” Paige ran a fingertip around the rim of her mug. It was possible McCall was one of those cops who would never totally buy into the investigative technique she had absolute faith in, but she didn’t care. Most of the time, she was right.

  “I consulted on a rape case in which a teenager said she was hitchhiking when a neighbor picked her up. She claimed he raped her. There was no physical evidence because she waited a few days to file a report. The neighbor, Mr. Upstanding Citizen, swore she’d lied about the rape. In his statement, he said he spotted the girl hitchhiking, and later let the woman out at her house. Sometime between his picking her up and dropping her off, the way he perceived her went from ‘girl’ to ‘woman.’”

  “And that told you he raped her?”

  “No. It clued me that something happened to change the way he viewed her. Hell, for all I knew she recited the complete works of Shakespeare on the drive home. I recommended the sex crimes detective keep at the guy. He did, and eventually got a confession on the rape.”

  “Think an experienced sex crimes cop would have kept pressing the guy without your telling him to?”

  “Meaning, do I take credit for solving his case?” she asked tersely. “No, that goes to the cop who knew how to press the guy to confess. As for our case, I have no idea why the waiter, Ramirez, changed his perception of Lauren Gillette. But I guarantee there’s a reason. He needs to be questioned about what type of encounters he had with Lauren.”

  “All right, we’ll get to him.”

  Her frustration mounting, Paige planted her elbows on the table and stabbed a finger in McCall’s direction. “If you view talking to Ramirez as a waste of time, I’ll do it. I do recall how to conduct an interview on my own.”

  McCall strode over toward her, planted his palms on the table and leaned forward so that her line of vision was effectively blocked by his body. “You’re a civilian. This is a formal police investigation. My investigation. We’ll get to Ramirez. Together.”

  Paige was sorely tempted to wrap her hand around his perfectly knotted tie, jerk him closer and rip out his tongue. However, she knew the situation called for tact, rule number one in the care and handling of overbearing detectives.

  “Look, McCall, I’m aware Chief Quaid crammed me down your throat. If I were in your place, I’d resent that. You do a good job of keeping your resentment from showing. You’ve got huge doubts statement analysis is viable. Fine, you don’t have to be a believer. All I ask is that you follow up when I spot a red flag in someone’s writing or speech. Ramirez’s, for example. I recommend we reinterview him as soon as possible. Like tonight.”

  “I’ve got other plans for us tonight.” He said it very softly, very smoothly.

  She matched his level stare across the table’s narrow span. And was suddenly aware they were alone in the house with its warm dark woods and conventlike quiet.

  Alone with Houdini of the magical-feats-in-bed fame.

  She eased back in her chair, crossed her legs. “What plans?” she asked, infusing an utter coolness into her voice.

  “Body language is a wonderful thing,” he murmured. “Relax, Carmichael, I’m not planning on trying to talk you into bed. Not yet. I’m still working on figuring out what it is about your go-to-hell attitude that pushes my buttons.”

  She could feel her face grow red. He’d read her so easily. “Perhaps your ‘buttons’ wouldn’t get pushed if you’d lighten up on the this-is-my-turf issue.”

  “Don’t look for that to happen.” He shoved away from the table and went back to lean against the counter. “As for tonight, we’ve got a few more hours to spend on the city’s clock, working a different angle on the Gillette investigation.”

  She sucked in her first full breath since he’d closed in. “What angle?”

  “We know Lauren was far from a faithful wife. And we now have some serious sex toys to back that up. Hard-core stuff. It’s time to drop in on hubby for another chat. Tonight.”

  “You said Gillette’s attorney lives next door to him. And that the attorney told you to contact him if you want to reinterview the councilman. Even if we just show up on Gillette’s doorstep on the chance he’ll talk to us, his attorney might spot us and mosey over.”

  “There won’t be any moseying on the lawyer’s part tonight.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “This afternoon, during the court recess when I chatted with the defense attorney who LeMonde’s screwing, I spotted an invitation on his desk. There’s a big law gala tonight. I did some detecting, found out Gillette’s attorney is one of the speakers. That clears the way for us to drop in on Gillette, acting like we expect him to cooperate with us.”

  “Which any innocent husband would do,” Paige murmured. She had to admit, the timing was excellent.

  “Exactly.” McCall angled his chin. “As for statement analysis, I can see some logic to it. Just not all of it. Meaning, I’m not totally buying into it the way you do or the chief,” he added, sending Paige a pointed look. “As for our next step, do you think it might be more important for you to first do an in-person analysis of the guy who heads our suspect list, instead of the waiter who just got tacked onto the bottom?”

  “Only if the waiter isn’t the guy who killed Lauren Gillette.”

  Just then, the kitchen’s outer door swung open. The man who stepped in from the cold night was tall and lean with dark eyes and straight black hair. And very good-looking.

  Has to be the brother, Paige thought, noting the striking resemblance to Sergeant Skeptical.

  The man had shrugged halfway out of his coat when his gaze landed on her. “Well, now,” he said, giving her a slow grin. “Just this morning I wished I’d find a goddess sitting at my kitchen table. And here you are.”

  She arched a brow. Someone had definitely coded “charm” into the McCall DNA. “Here I am.”

  Jerking her a look, McCall pushed away from the counter and stepped into his brother’s path. “Cool your jets, bro. The lady’s working with me.”

  “That’s a shame.” Still holding the door open a crack, he glanced across his shoulder and whistled. Seconds later, a German shepherd loped into the kitchen, toenails ticking against the ceramic tiles as it bounded for Nate.

  “Hey, girl.” Nate bent and rubbed the dog’s head. In exchange, he got a sloppy grin. “She belongs to my parents,” he said, glancing at Paige. “Since their house is wedding central, she’s been exiled here.”

  “Seems your manners got exiled, too,” the other man said. Dressed in worn jeans and a khaki shirt, he carried his coat slung over one shoulder as he walked to Paige and extended his hand. “Josh McCall.”

  “Paige Carmichael. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” His eyes narrowed. “The accent’s Texas, right?”

  “I swear, I don’t know what accent y’ all Oklahomans are talkin’ about.”

  He chuckled. “I like a sense of humor in a woman. Of course you’d have to have one to work with Nate.”

  “It’s damn disappointing we can’t stay around to hear more of your witty remarks,” Nate said, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “But we’ve got an interview to conduct tonight.”

  “Don’t forget, the bachelor party starts in a couple of hours. You and I are designated drivers, so you have to show.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Josh sniffed the air. “Morgan’s stew?”

  “Yes, and it’s delicious,” Paige said, just as the German shepherd trotted over to inspect her. One scratch behind the ears had the dog’s entire body waggling like a fish on a hook.

  “Hope you saved me some,” Josh said.

  “There’s plenty,” Nate confirmed. “And since I don’t have time to do our dishes, they’re yours, too.”

  “I’ll make sure you return the favor.” Josh looked back at Paige. “Hope to see you around again.”

  “Same to you.”

  He snapped his finge
rs. “Come on, Fiona. I’ll show you where you get to bunk.”

  Realization hit Paige, and she shot McCall a look as the dog pranced out the door behind Josh.

  “Fiona Shepherd. You registered me at the Ambassador Arms under a dog’s name?”

  “Like I said, it’s a family name.” He retrieved his holstered automatic off the counter, clipped it onto his waistband. His gold badge followed. “And no one, namely Isaac or his mystery pal, will make the connection, which is the point of your using an alias.”

  “True. But so wrong!”

  He snagged her coat off the counter, held it open. “Time’s a wastin’. Let’s go chat with our number one suspect.”

  Davis Gillette’s entire being, from the top of his styled silver mane to his off-white silk shirt, gray woolen slacks and polished Italian loafers, spoke money. His attitude, as he surveyed Paige and McCall from behind the massive wood desk in his mansion’s study, beamed a sense of arrogant self-importance.

  As far as being pegged a suspect, the man’s demeanor didn’t do him any favors. In Paige’s experience, most husbands of homicide victims usually dropped into shock and stayed there for a while. The innocent husbands, anyway. If Gillette had suffered any trauma from his wife’s murder, it had healed rather quickly.

  “My story hasn’t changed, Sergeant McCall. So there’s no need to go over it again. You should be spending your time searching for my wife’s killer.”

  Uh-oh, Paige thought. Red flag number one.

  Sitting in the visitor chair beside hers, McCall nodded. “That’s what we’re doing, Councilman. Did Mrs. Gillette know anyone, or have any sort of business, near the intersection of Morgan and Sandford roads?”

  Gillette frowned. “There’s nothing there. I’m sure you know that location is on the outer edges of the ward I represent.”

  “Is it? Would that have given Mrs. Gillette a reason to be there?”

  “None that I’m aware of. Why?”

  Paige knew that McCall had asked about the site where Lauren’s Jaguar had been found for the sole purpose of gauging the man’s reaction.

  “Councilman, you told me you didn’t report your wife missing because she often went off with friends without informing you of her plans,” McCall said. “Those friends being Elizabeth LeMonde and Brenna Freeman. I’ve since found out that both LeMonde and Freeman were out of town when your wife disappeared. And that you knew they were gone.”

  “I have my business, my candidacy for governor to deal with.” Gillette’s mouth thinned. “My grief. The exact vacation schedule of two of my wife’s friends must have slipped my mind.”

  “Must have.” McCall leaned forward. “Ms. Carmichael and I have learned some additional information about your wife. We’re sorry we have to ask certain questions, but we all want to catch Mrs. Gillette’s killer.”

  “Ask your questions, Sergeant.”

  “We’ve turned up the possibility that Mrs. Gillette may have been involved with another man.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t have a name.” McCall waited a beat. “There may have been numerous other lovers. Were you aware of that?”

  Gillette looked down at his hands, splayed on the desk in front of him. “Not really.”

  Red flag number two, Paige thought.

  McCall didn’t press him on the point. “I understand Mrs. Gillette carried a silver metal suitcase in the trunk of her Jaguar. Do you know what was in the suitcase?”

  “No.”

  “We’ve interviewed all guests and service personnel who were here on Saturday night. We know that you and Mrs. Gillette shut yourselves in this room and argued. What was your disagreement about?”

  “A personal matter that doesn’t apply to this.” He made an impatient gesture. “Move on, Sergeant.”

  “What about Midnight?” McCall asked.

  “What about it? It’s the cutoff point between day and night,” Gillette shot back. “These questions are a waste of time.”

  “They’re pertinent to your wife’s murder.”

  “They don’t sound that way to me.”

  Paige studied Gillette, considered. She accepted that McCall had to tiptoe around this guy because he sat on the city council. One word from him, McCall could spend the remainder of his police career investigating lawnmower thefts. She, however, wasn’t a city employee. The worst Gillette could do to her was make waves with Chief Quaid and get her tossed off the case.

  That wouldn’t exactly upset her temporary partner, she thought dryly. First, though, she intended to prove to McCall the merits of statement analysis. Since she saw an opening, she figured she might as well go for it.

  Hoping to hell she was right, she stood, stepped to the desk. “I agree we’re wasting time. So, I’ll cut to the chase. You and the missus argued about what happened between her and one of the caterer’s waiters. His name is Leandro Ramirez. How about you tell us your version of what happened?”

  Gillette looked stunned. Then his expression darkened and his face tightened with suppressed anger. “He told you.” A muscle jerked in his cheek. “I paid him off, yet he told you.”

  McCall was on his feet now, moving to the opposite side of the desk from her. The gesture was intended to make Gillette feel like they were closing in.

  Paige shrugged. “Apparently the amount you paid Ramirez wasn’t enough to ensure his silence.”

  “What Lauren did…” Gillette looked away. “Dammit, the party was to announce my candidacy for governor. You’d think my wife could control her urges for one night.”

  Paige’s thoughts raced to Ramirez’s statement. The last time I actually saw the lady was in the hallway near the door to the kitchen pantry.

  “But she didn’t control them,” Paige said. “And you caught her with Ramirez in the pantry. In the dark.”

  “One of the guests mentioned she hadn’t seen Lauren for a time.” Gillette shoved a hand through his hair. “I was afraid I knew what that meant, so I went looking for her. She wasn’t in the kitchen, dealing with Mr. Markie. I glanced down the hallway just as the door to the pantry swung open. A waiter stepped out, still zipping up his pants while he walked down the hallway away from me.” Gillette’s hands clenched against the desk’s surface. “Then Lauren slipped out of the pantry. The light in there was off. Clearly, they hadn’t been looking for extra serving trays.”

  Paige glanced at McCall. He raised a brow. Then gave her a slight nod, indicating she continue with the questioning.

  “What about Ramirez? Did he demand payment?”

  “No. But the last thing I needed was for him to brag to his co-workers about Lauren. What if one of the guests overheard? So, I found him, told him what I knew. I shoved some cash into his hand and told him to keep quiet about it. He pocketed the money and went back to work, just like nothing had happened. Nothing.”

  “Is that when you and your wife came in here?”

  “Yes. Lauren was addicted to sex. A fact I discovered on our honeymoon when she sneaked off for a tryst with a masseur. She promised me then she would get help. She made that same promise every time I caught her in a lie. And again on Saturday night.” Gillette met Paige’s gaze. His eyes were dulled now with what might have been grief or weariness. “She told me everything stemmed back to when she was a child.”

  Without realizing it, Gillette had, with one word, provided Paige an explanation. “Do you know who molested her?”

  “No.” If the question surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Her mother had numerous live-in lovers. Lauren never said who.”

  “Do you know the names of any of those men?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Gillette, why did your wife leave the house after the party?”

  “I imagine because I told her I’d had it. That I intended to file for a separation. And eventually a divorce if she didn’t go into therapy and get some help.” He took a long breath. “Do you believe in the sanctity of marriage, Ms. Carmichael?” He continued on without wa
iting for Paige’s response, which was probably just as well, considering her experience with that institution. “Despite everything, I loved Lauren. I worked hard to keep our marriage intact. I failed.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I know how things look. An older man, a younger woman. Her running around…”

  Gillette directed his gaze to the dark fireplace across from the desk, concentrating on it almost fiercely. “I didn’t kill her,” he said softly. “I wish to hell I knew who did. And why. But it wasn’t me.”

  Paige nodded. And knew he was telling the truth.

  Chapter 15

  “So, McCall, what do you think?” Paige tugged on her gloves as they descended the porch steps of the Gillette mansion, lit by a milky glow from the carriage lamps lining the curved drive.

  The bone-chilling wind that had gusted while they’d searched the Jaguar had died, and the snow that had threatened all day now drifted down in a wispy powder.

  “I think you rolled the dice.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “Won.”

  When they reached the passenger door of his cruiser, he gripped her arm, turned her to face him. “You don’t always get lucky that way during interviews. But then, you know that.”

  “My pegging what happened between Lauren and the waiter wasn’t all luck.” She regarded him through the light veil of snow. “You probably know that, too. But all that macho cop cynicism won’t let you admit it.”

  “Contrary to what you might think, Carmichael, I’m not so closed-minded that I’d dismiss something that helps an investigation. I saw you handle LeMonde. And just witnessed you getting Gillette to spill information he hadn’t planned to give. I’m now one hundred percent convinced statement analysis has its merits. Happy?”

  “Very.” She sent him a smug smile. “About time you got with the program.”

  He gazed at her, a measuring look in his eyes. “Doesn’t mean if I’ve got questions I won’t ask them. Like now.”