Thane nosed the truck into a slow line of traffic heading for a bridge that spanned Cherry Creek. “You know, lady,” he said as they eased over the bridge, “you’re more like your sister than I thought.”
She felt an unwarranted jab of disappointment. The more she knew about Mary Theresa, the less she felt she had in common with the woman who had become Marquise. “From you, I’ll take it as a compliment,” she lied.
“Exactly how it was intended.”
“Oh, right.” Unable to hide her sarcasm, she opened her purse, found a pair of sunglasses, and forced them onto the bridge of her nose. She didn’t believe him for a moment.
In her estimation, Thane was hiding something. Something big. And she was bound and determined to find out what it was.
From his viewpoint at an upper-story window, Detective Henderson sipped his coffee around the wad of gum that had grown stale in his mouth. Squinting, he noticed Thane Walker’s black pickup meld into the steady flow of traffic. A few seconds later an unmarked police vehicle followed suit, and he felt a little better. He didn’t trust Walker, and, if his gut instincts were right, Marquise’s twin sister was holding something back, some piece of information.
But then everyone involved was tight-lipped—from Syd Gillette, the second husband, to Wade Pomeranian, Marquise’s latest lover—they all seemed to hold a secret. Even Eve Lawrence, Marquise’s secretary and a woman who seemed genuinely worried, wasn’t anxious to talk to anyone associated with the police department. The same could be said of Craig Beaumont, the cohost of Denver AM, who appeared to hold more than his share of grudges against his partner.
Sooner or later, Henderson knew, the truth would come out. It always did. It just took the right amount of digging and a lot of patience and perseverance.
Of all the people associated with the case, Thane Walker bothered him the most. Probably because he’d been in trouble before. Then there was that little domestic dispute that Marquise’s neighbor, Jane Stanton, had reported. Too bad the woman had heard only bits and pieces of the conversation, but Walker had threatened Marquise according to the woman. “If this is one more of your bullshit lies, Mary Theresa, I swear I’ll kill you.” Or so the neighbor who lived alone with six cats was willing to testify. What was that all about? And why was he so damned secretive? His I-don’t-give-a-good-goddamn attitude settled like lead in Henderson’s gut. “But why would he want his ex-wife dead?” he muttered to himself.
“That’s a good question. He really doesn’t have much of a motive, does he?” Hannah had finished scribbling her notes and tucked the pad into a voluminous purse she forever carried with her.
“She does owe him money.”
“How much?” Hannah’s head snapped up.
This was news he’d just learned from the county records, news he hadn’t yet shared with her.
“A couple of hundred thousand. Closer to two-fifty.”
Hannah whistled low. “Secured?”
He nodded. “Second trust deeds on both her houses. About the only collateral the woman had. She was in debt to her pretty neck. If Marquise is dead, he can force a sale against the estate and collect.” Seeing that the tail was neatly and discreetly in place as the unmarked Jeep rounded the corner, he turned and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Couldn’t he do it if she was alive?”
“Oh, yes. But she could fight him; make it messy. Lots of bad publicity and lawyer fees.”
“Does he need the money?”
“Doesn’t look that way. The guy has a knack for investments, it seems. Self-made. Worked hard, put money away, got lucky on a couple of real-estate deals. He bought a lot of land in California when the market went bust a few years back. Now that it’s turned around, it looks like he’s a wealthy man. But who knows?”
“You think he’d find a way to kill her for two hundred grand?” Hannah was skeptical. “He doesn’t strike me as the type.”
“Walker’s hiding something. And, unless the convenience store clerk really did see Marquise, Thane Walker was the last person who saw her alive. So, I’ll want to talk to Marquise’s neighbor again, find out if she remembers anything more about that argument.”
“It’ll have to wait. Jane Stanton is visiting her daughter for a couple of days.”
“What?”
“Her daughter had a skiing accident, or something,” Hannah said, flipping the pages of her notebook. “Jane wanted to see that she was okay. But she should be back by the weekend.”
“Great.” Sometimes it seemed that nothing went right.
Hannah clicked her pen. “So what do you think Walker’s hiding?”
“That’s the quarter-million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Henderson spit his gum into the trash and still hungered for a cigarette. “But now at least we know that he’s got motive.”
“Still no body.”
That was the good news. Maybe Marquise was alive somewhere. “Yeah, there’s a chance we still could get lucky. She might turn up fit as a fiddle.” But as each day passed, he thought that chance was less and less likely. “This could be an elaborate publicity stunt, or she could’ve holed up. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere and licking her wounds for some reason. Could be she just needed to get away, or she might have had a bad case of amnesia.”
“The Jeep will turn up.”
“Mmm.” Unless it’s already in a chop shop. He rubbed a knot out of the tight muscles at the base of his neck, the same damned muscles that always tightened up and gave him a headache whenever he was stressed out. “What did you think about the sister?”
“I liked her.” Hannah nodded and clicked her pen again, as if she were agreeing with herself.
“Why?”
“Smart. Honest. Down-to-earth. Concerned about Marquise. She handled herself pretty well.”
“You think so?” He usually respected Hannah’s opinion, even when it didn’t jibe with his own.
“Yeah. Him, I’m not so sure about.”
“Me, neither, but tell me, as a woman, what do you think about the guy?”
“Oh, you want the female perspective.”
“That’s right. Shoot.” Henderson picked up his now-cold cup of coffee.
A small smile played upon Hannah’s lips and she tugged thoughtfully on her ear. “Well, for one thing, he’s sexy as hell. Too damned male for his own good. He’s almost a cliché, you know. Tall, ranch-tough, chiseled features, irreverent. A cowboy with an attitude. Every American woman’s secret fantasy.”
Henderson snorted.
“Even your remark that he’s hiding something holds some kind of appeal; women are curious, they like a man who has a dark side. Don’t ask me why. There’s a thrill to it, I suppose. The element of not knowing. Danger.” She was obviously looking for a reaction. Henderson gave her none.
Hannah cocked her head to one side as she always did when she was thinking. “Walker’s used to having women fall all over him, unless I miss my guess. Probably Marquise never quite got over him.”
“So that’s why she ran to his ranch every time she got into trouble?”
“A good guess.”
“What about the sister, Maggie? How does she fit in?”
“Now, there’s an interesting glitch,” Hannah said, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully and the tip of one polished nail tapping her front teeth. “Woman’s intuition tells me that she’s in love with him.”
“With Walker?” He’d sensed it, too, didn’t like that particular kink in this already-tangled case. He preferred things more straightforward. Trouble was, they never were. Christ, he could use a cigarette.
Hannah nodded, her smooth brow creasing at the implications. “Yep. Unless I miss my guess, Ms. McCrae’s got it bad. Real bad. For her twin sister’s ex-husband.”
Chapter Thirteen
Leaning against a counter in the small storefront, Becca eyed the tattoo artist warily. The woman was so skinny she looked like a walking skeleton. With frizzy bleached blond hair, tanned skin, and too much eye makeup,
she didn’t come across as the kind of person to trust with your body. But she believed in her art because she had hearts and flowers decorating one arm and a flaming cross with a banner that said Jesus is Love on the other.
“Okay, doll, what’ll it be?” the woman asked around a wad of gum as a cigarette burned unattended in an ashtray. There were other artists as well, seated in cubicles with their clients, gloves on their hands as they used equipment that looked like electric pens to trace patterns on different body parts. The place was clean enough, the floors gleaming, the walls decorated with pictures of tattooed bodies.
“Get one of those Chinese suns,” her cousin Jenny said, urging her on as a paddle fan slowly turned, moving the stale air typical of greater Los Angeles. Jenny was fairly beaming. Dressed in the short skirt and sweater of her cheerleading outfit, she looked as out of place as Becca felt. “The ones that mean something. Or your sign of the zodiac, that would be cool.”
“When were you born?”
“In April, but…I was thinking more like a hummingbird.”
“No problem.” The woman took a drag from her cigarette and reached upward to the wooden shelves where there were stacks of books. “Let’s see…birds, I got birds here somewhere…” She found a thin-leafed book, flipped through it, then frowned. “…nope, oh, here it is.” She pulled down a pattern book that had seen better days and placed it on the desk in front of Becca. Refusing to be intimidated by the woman or her cousin, Becca riffled through the pages. “This one,” she said, pointing to a ruby-throated hummingbird hovering in midair.
“Nice. Where d’ya want it?”
“Umm. I was thinkin’ on my ankle.”
“Awesome,” Jenny said. “I wish I had the guts to get one.”
“Do it,” Becca urged. It would be so much cooler if Jenny did it with her.
“I…I can’t. I hate needles.”
“Not much pain involved.” The woman leaned forward, eyed Becca’s bare legs, and nodded. “That’d work.”
“Great.” Jenny was more enthusiastic than Becca. Her brown eyes glinted with mischief. “How much?”
“Depends on the size and the difficulty.” The woman thought long and hard. “We’ll discuss price when your mother gets here.” She straightened, frizzy blond hair falling back into place.
“My mother?” Becca’s heart dropped.
“Or your dad. Or a legal guardian. Whatever. You know that I can’t do this without your guardian’s permission.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, honey.” The woman smiled sadly. “You’re gonna hafta do some big talkin’ to convince me you’re eighteen.” She popped her gum, took a final drag from her cigarette, and shot smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a driver’s license or a passport or some kind of document with your age?”
“No, but—”
“Didn’t think so.” She offered a kind smile. “Well, unless you come back here with your guardian, I can’t help you out.”
“But—”
“Hey, I don’t need that kind of trouble.” She pointed a long finger at the sign over the cupboard holding her books—a sign clarifying age restrictions, then she jabbed out her cigarette in a tin ashtray and flipped the pattern book of birds closed. “Come back with your mom, or when you’re older, okay?”
“Oh, come on,” Jenny begged, and Becca was surprised that her cousin was so interested in Becca’s doing something that could land her in big trouble. Maybe there was more to Jenny than met the eye. Becca was already beginning to suspect that her older cousin might rat her out at a moment’s notice. Jenny had already demonstrated that she adhered to the CYA—cover your ass—mentality.
“Really, girls.” The woman shook her head. “I have a couple kids of my own, and if they did anything to their bodies behind my back, I’d give ’em what for, believe me.” Her overly made-up eyes were sincere. “As I said, next time, bring your mom.”
Since they had no other choice, Jenny and Becca walked outside, where the November sun was warm and bright, sparkling off the dusty sidewalk. No trees lined the streets in this part of town, and litter blew in the dry wind that followed the cars through the alleys and around squatty buildings.
“Bummer,” Jenny said. “I thought if we came down here, they’d do it. My friends go to nicer places. You know, they’re almost like doctors’ offices, but I knew they wouldn’t do it without a parent’s signature.” She unlocked the driver’s side of her silver Jetta, crawled inside and flipped a switch to unlock Becca’s door. As Becca took her seat, Jenny folded up the dash guard that she’d placed on the inside of the windshield to protect the interior from the heat. It didn’t help much. The car was pretty warm even though it was early November. But it felt good to Becca.
Leaning her seat back as Jenny eased into traffic and turned on the radio full blast to the sound of a song by Jewel, Becca smiled and told herself she didn’t miss her mother. Lately she had been such a pain. This was much better. Though hangin’ out with Aunt Connie and Uncle Jim wasn’t all that great. Connie was always sighing and complaining, and Jim was a tight-ass. Everything had to be just so.
But Jenny. For the most part, aside from her need to protect herself, she was beyond cool. Becca dragged a pair of sunglasses out of her backpack and slid them onto her face. Jenny fumbled in her purse for cigarettes and a lighter. “Want one?” she asked her younger cousin.
Becca grinned and took the offered filter tip. Jenny handed her the lighter and laughed when she couldn’t get the flame to hold steady. “Like this,” she explained, and flicked the lighter with expertise.
She held the flame to Becca’s cigarette and Becca drew in hard. Too hard. The smoke burned all the way to her lungs. She ended up coughing wildly, and Jenny laughed as she lit up and rammed her car into gear. “I wish I had a convertible,” she complained, but Becca didn’t mind. She didn’t even care that she couldn’t get the stupid tattoo. Rolling down her window, she took another puff, coughed, and was determined to get better at this smoking thing.
She leaned her seat way back and held her hand out the window with the cigarette burning. Oh, yeah, this was the life. She loved L.A.
“I overheard Mom and Dad talking last night,” Jenny said, as Becca watched a scraggly looking palm tree flash by.
“About what?”
“They were talkin’ about you coming to live with us permanently.”
“Really?” Becca coughed on more smoke. “Mom’s thinkin’ about it?”
“I don’t know. I…um, I don’t think I was supposed to hear—they were on the patio and the window was open, so I kinda just hung out and listened.” Jenny bit her lip. As if she’d revealed too much and was suddenly regretting it. She glanced over her shoulder, gunned the engine, and beat out a boy in a red Kia to the next light. “So, Becca, don’t say anything to your mom, okay? She probably wants to surprise you about this L.A. thing.”
“Cool,” Becca said, inhaling on the cigarette again. And it was—really cool. Maybe her mother was finally coming around.
Marquise’s home was no less than a mansion. Maggie had always thought so. Built of red brick and stone and guarded by ancient maple and aspen trees, the house rose three stories to a sharply pitched, snow-covered roof. Leaded-glass windows winked in the bright sunlight as Thane and Maggie trudged a path through the melting snow to the front door.
“She has an alarm system,” Thane reminded Maggie as she stuffed the key in the door.
“I know.”
They entered; the electronic beeper started ticking off the seconds; and Maggie, yanking off her gloves, walked unerringly to the broom closet near the kitchen, opened the door, and deactivated the security system, pressing a series of buttons just as her sister must have every day. A sense of desperation caught hold of her and she tried to shake it off, but entering Mary Theresa’s empty house gave her a small case of the creeps, made her feel as if she were walking on someone’s grave.
That’s crazy,
she reminded herself. Just because M.T. isn’t here, doesn’t change a thing.
But being with Thane didn’t help; there was just too much she didn’t know—couldn’t trust—about him.
For all its stately outward appeal, the home’s interior was eclectically decorated—some of the furniture and art pieces a little offbeat. The living room, study, and library were all conservatively decorated in tones of hunter green and tan that reminded Maggie of a stuffy men’s club. Occupied by oxblood-leather couches, wing-backed chairs, antique tables, brass lamps, and leather-bound tomes reeking of snobbery, those rooms were at odds with the rest of the house, which was decorated without any common theme and filled with whatever caught Mary Theresa’s wild eye. Period pieces were interspersed with modern posters and artwork that was little more than junk, but somehow appealed to M.T.
A dour-faced mannequin dressed in Roaring Twenties attire, complete with beaded, fringed flapper dress, feather boa, and long cigarette holder, stood near a suit of armor in the entry hall. The kitchen was festooned with hanging pots and pans, a sturdy knife rack, baskets of dried herbs, marble counters, and bouquets of wilting flowers. Zebra-striped chairs were scattered near a faux leopard couch and a large table with a ceramic chess set was placed near a cherrywood-faced fireplace.
But for all its personality, there was a sense of lifelessness throughout the rooms. Without Mary Theresa the house was dead inside. No laughter. No sounds from the television or stereo. Just the soft hum of a hidden furnace and the ticking of a cuckoo clock.
Maggie unlocked French doors that opened to a wide brick patio. Outside, the air was brisk and cold. Planters, filled with last fall’s dead blossoms, were buried in snow. The yard, a field of white, rolled toward a lake where the smooth glasslike surface was occupied by a flock of Canada geese and the late-afternoon sunlight glinted in sharp, vibrant rays. A copse of leafless cottonwood trees stood near the opposite shore, and, far in the distance, the peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose like cathedral spires to touch a blue, cloudless sky.