Confessions. JoAnn Ross
“We found a home pregnancy test in the bathroom wastebasket. The autopsy revealed your wife was approximately eight weeks pregnant.”
“Eight weeks,” Fletcher echoed.
“Approximately.”
The senator leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Heather Martin walked over to the window and studied the parking lot with unwavering interest.
Silence settled over the hospital room.
Trace let it linger.
Watching Heather he said, “According to my notes—” he was reading from the notebook again “—you arrived in Whiskey River around midnight.”
The senator coughed, then grimaced, as if in pain. “Did I say that?”
“Yes, sir. When the paramedics were working on you at the house.”
“Ah.” The reassuring smile returned, looking as out of place as it had earlier. “That probably explains it. I’d been shot, I was in terrible pain, I was frantic about Laura. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.
“The fact of the matter is, after driving up from Phoenix, I reached Whiskey River sometime between ten and eleven. I returned home to the house around midnight.”
“I see.” Trace jotted the correction down. “Mind telling me what you were doing between ten and midnight?”
“The senator was with me,” Heather offered quickly. A bit too quickly, Trace thought. “We were working on his speech.”
“I’m giving a speech on law and order at the Fourth of July rally,” the senator explained. “Heather was helping me fine-tune it. We’re announcing my run for the presidency here in Whiskey River before making a fund-raising swing through the southwest.” He glanced up at his chief of staff. “I suppose we’ll have to make some changes to include this horrible thing that has happened to Laura.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I’ll take care of it.”
Alan Fletcher was looking off into some middle distance. “I’ll also need to come up with something appropriate for the funeral.” His gaze cleared as he met Trace’s inscrutable one. “My wife was a wonderful woman. She deserves a proper eulogy.”
Once again he turned to his aide. “You’ll take care of the rough draft, won’t you, Heather?”
“Of course.”
“You know,” he mused, “though Whiskey River was Laura’s home, I was, after all, elected by people from all over the state. The funeral should be held in Phoenix.” He nodded, apparently pleased with his decision. “The central location would make it a great deal easier for out-of-town visitors. What with the airport and all.”
“I’ll start making the calls right away.”
“You should also call the office and have them fax you a list of Breakfast Club members.” Trace vaguely recalled that the wealthy group of financial contributors the senator wanted to invite to his wife’s funeral had been publicly disbanded after allegations of influence buying had appeared in the Washington Post.
“Of course.” As if realizing the inappropriateness of that particular suggestion, the chief of staff studiously ignored Trace’s steady gaze. But embarrassed color darkened her cheeks. “I know this has been a terrible shock to you, Senator.”
It wasn’t a bad save, Trace allowed. At least she was trying. Heather Martin was obviously efficient and loyal. There was also a good chance she was sleeping with the victim’s husband. But that didn’t make her a murderer.
Any more than Senator Alan Fletcher’s apparent self-serving shallowness made him a killer.
“So,” Trace confirmed, “you arrived at the ranch house around midnight.”
“Yes.”
Trace referred to the notebook again. “And I believe you told me that you didn’t go upstairs.”
“That’s right. I didn’t want to wake Laura.” His voice cracked the slightest bit on his wife’s name.
“That’s what you said,” Trace agreed. “My deputy was told by witnesses that your wife arrived in town two days ago.”
“That’s right.”
“Is it usual for you to travel to Arizona separately?”
“It’s not unusual.” Alan Fletcher’s blue eyes narrowed, as if seeking the trap. “A vote was scheduled for yesterday that kept me in Washington. Laura came home early to prepare for the barbecue we’re hosting for friends at the ranch.
“Oh, Lord, that’s another thing,” he groaned.
“I’ll call the guests,” Heather said, right on cue.
The handsome face relaxed. “Is there anything else?”
“There is one more thing.” Trace frowned thoughtfully as he flipped through the notebook pages. “Am I to understand that you hadn’t seen your wife since the day before yesterday?”
“Laura’s flight left National at 8:45 in the morning. I dropped her off at the terminal myself on the way to the Hill.”
“I see.” Trace nodded. “So, since you didn’t want to wake her last night, you’re also telling me that it’s been at least two days since you and your wife had relations.”
“Relations?” Alan repeated blankly. “You mean sex?”
“Yes.”
“Really, Sheriff, that’s a rather personal question.”
“I’m afraid your wife’s murder has made it a matter of public interest, Senator,” Trace corrected politely.
What he didn’t divulge was that the autopsy had revealed the presence of semen. He couldn’t discount the possibility that whoever had been with Laura Fletcher last night could have been the last person to see her alive.
“I don’t keep track of my wife’s and my lovemaking in a little black book.” Fletcher’s voice turned decidedly cool.
“Could you venture a guess?”
“We’ve both been quite busy lately. But, if I were forced to pinpoint a day, I’d say sometime last week. Tuesday, perhaps. Or Wednesday.”
Trace noted the answer on a clean page. “Thank you, senator. You’ve been a big help.”
The alarm on his watch sounded. Trace closed the notebook. “I have a press conference scheduled, but I’ll be back this evening.”
“A press conference?” It was the first sign of acute interest Trace had witnessed.
“You’re a famous man, Senator,” Trace reminded him needlessly. “This time tomorrow, the media’s going to be crawling all over this place.”
“They will, won’t they?” Fletcher rubbed his square jaw. He turned again to his aide. “I’ll need my razor. And a change of clothes.”
“The house is still taped off,” Trace informed him. “But I’ll arrange for Ms. Martin to have access.”
“Thank you. And please, Sheriff Callahan—” his handsome face turned campaign poster sincere “—find the men who killed my wife.”
“Don’t worry.” Trace returned the notebook to his pocket. “I have every intention of doing just that.”
Trace left the room, stopping on the other side of the door to check a note and to hear Heather Martin’s angry voice. “Laura was pregnant?” Her palm connected with the senator’s firm jaw, sounding like a gunshot.
The two cops on the other side of the hospital room door exchanged a look.