scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Rafe studied the man for a long beat. “Maybe you told her information about your business that could hurt it or you if it got out? She could have recorded all of your in-bed sessions with an eye on blackmailing you.”
Bishop’s mouth thinned. “If she did record them, it’s news to me. And she never tried to blackmail me.”
“Were you the only man she was sleeping with?”
“Yes. I bought her a car, clothes, jewelry. Put a roof over her head. I made it clear if I caught her messing around, our deal was over.”
“Exactly what was your deal?”
Bishop shoved his chair back and rose. He stepped to the credenza, grabbed a crystal carafe and tumbler, then glanced over his shoulder. “Whiskey?”
“No, thanks.” Rafe let the silence continue.
“Mercedes was a gorgeous, exciting woman,” Bishop said. “She gave me something my wife and I haven’t shared for many years. In return, I fulfilled Mercedes’s needs.”
“Which were?”
“Material. She grew up the kind of poor where you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.” Bishop took a long sip of whiskey. “As for blackmail, if she thought it would get her a nest egg, I can see her doing it.”
“That’s an angle I’ll work on.” As he rose, Rafe glanced toward the credenza, focusing on the framed photo of a dark-haired woman in her late forties. “I need to talk to your wife. She won’t take my calls.”
Bishop scowled. “Ellen doesn’t know anything about this. She had no idea I was seeing Mercedes.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I know Ellen. If she’d gotten wind of Mercedes, she wouldn’t have kept quiet about her.”
Rafe stepped closer to the desk. “You hired me to get you off the hook on a murder charge. The only way for me to do that is to find out who killed your mistress.”
“Are you saying you think my wife did?”
“I think a man did the killing. Mercedes fought hard. It would have taken a lot of strength to overpower her. Same goes for the blow Allie Fielding took to her head.”
“Then why do you need to talk to Ellen?”
“She could have hired it done.”
“No.” Bishop sat the tumbler on the desk with enough force to slosh whiskey over his hand. “She’s not talking to me or you because she’s irate and humiliated about the affair. Our grown son feels the same way. But neither of them would resort to murder.”
“Speaking of your son, he hasn’t returned my messages, either. Because he works here, I plan to stop by his office on my way out.”
Bishop’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t waste your time. After my arrest, Will informed me he’ll be out of the office a lot. Said he intends to spend time with his mother. That she needs his support now more than I do.”
“Did Will know about your affair with Mercedes?”
“You think I’d tell my son about that?”
“I need to talk to him and your wife,” Rafe said, ignoring the question. He’d worked enough divorce cases to know that secret affairs didn’t stay that way forever. “Any idea how to do that?”
Bishop blew out a breath. “You wind up at the same social event with them.” He moved back to his desk, shuffled through a pile of mail, then frowned.
Rafe waited while Bishop called his secretary. “Check with Guy to see if he’s got his invitation for tomorrow night’s benefit auction.”
Bishop’s partner, Guy Jones, was married to Bishop’s sister, making the men brothers-in-law. In the light of Bishop’s arrest for the murder of his mistress, Rafe figured gatherings of the Bishop/Jones clan might be tense for a while.
When Bishop hung up, Rafe asked, “Are you sure your wife will go out in public right now?”
“Positive,” Bishop said. “Social contacts mean everything to Ellen. She isn’t about to let anything I’ve done shame her into seclusion. She’ll make sure everyone knows what a bastard I’ve been to her.”
Both men looked across the office when the door swung inward. “Hank, you wanted to see this invite?”
“Yeah, Guy. Come in.”
Rafe studied Guy Jones as he approached. He was short and burly, his dark hair thinning at the crown. His pleated khaki slacks, striped short-sleeved dress shirt and black brogans were a far cry from the tailored suit and polished Italian leather loafers worn by his partner.
“That’s it,” Bishop said, checking the invitation. He told his brother-in-law why he wanted it, then introduced Rafe.
Guy offered a hand. “Diaz, I hope to hell you can get Hank cleared of the murder charge.”
“I’ll do my best,” Rafe said. The man’s grip was like a can crusher.
The piece of heavy card stock Bishop handed Rafe was an invitation to a silent auction. Rafe’s gaze narrowed on the small pair of ornate shoes embossed on the card’s upper center. He’d seen those embroidered, bejeweled shoes earlier on a velvet-covered pedestal at Silk & Secrets.
Rafe glanced up from the invitation. “The Friends Foundation. What does it do?”
“I’m not sure.” Bishop flicked a hand as if batting away a cobweb. “Ellen and I receive piles of invitations and I never pay attention to the who and the what. I just sign the checks and she deals with the details.”
Guy Jones shrugged. “Seems like Allie Fielding is somehow involved with this foundation. I know for sure you need more than the invitation to get in the door. You also have to have your name on the confirmed guest list. I can ask my wife to make some calls and try to get you in, but she’s busy planning our daughter’s wedding so I can’t guarantee she’ll get around to it.”
“I’ll get myself in.” Rafe stabbed the invitation into the inside pocket of his suit coat. He needed to talk to Bishop’s wife and son. Period. At this late date, the only way he could ensure getting into the auction was to use Allie Fielding’s connections.
In his mind’s eye, he pictured her cool, perfect face framed by silky blond hair, heard the echo of her sultry voice, and felt all over again something tighten inside him. It was that intense man-to-woman response that had kept his gut in knots since he walked out of her shop.
Then there was the memory of her faint, expensive perfume, which had been the best thing he’d smelled in years.
He shoved away the thought. Next time he saw her, he’d be prepared. Next time, he wouldn’t allow her to get past the wall of control he’d built around himself.
Paint roller suspended
