style="font-size:15px;"> Cara Hamilton was lying. Mitch did not need the intuition inherited as part of his half-Native-American ancestry to tell him that. He knew it as surely as if she’d proclaimed it in neon lights. He stopped writing and looked at her.
No matter how boldly her mouth lied, her body language didn’t. He observed her despondency, her sense of loss, written in the sorrow of her gaze as she met his eyes—without a hint of her verbal guile. She stood with her arms folded, as if hugging herself in comfort after her ordeal of finding the body.
For an insane instant, Mitch wondered what it would feel like to take the small but curvy woman into his arms to soothe her grief. He hardened his glare, but her expression remained sorrowfully innocent.
“Right,” he said. His job wasn’t to contradict her. Or to feel sympathy for her. But if he could catch her in a lie… “So you came over at—” He glanced at his watch. “What time did you get here?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “I can’t have been here more than twenty minutes, though. I…I found her the way you saw her.” Her voice broke.
“I see. So then what did you do?”
She described pretty much what he’d anticipated. She’d checked to see if her friend was alive, then called the emergency phone number and waited.
“And what did you do while you waited?”
“Do?” The question seemed to take her aback. “I didn’t do anything. I just…waited.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mitch said noncommittally. “And did you touch anything?”
“No.” Her response came too fast.
“If you did, you should mention it, in case your fingerprints are found someplace they shouldn’t be.”
“I know better than to disturb a crime scene,” she lashed back. But there was a defensiveness in her tone that told him that, once again, she was lying.
“I’m sure you do.” He regretted his sarcastic tone immediately.
She frowned for an instant, then, almost visibly tucked away her anguish. Her small chin raised, her hazel eyes intense, she asked, “So how will you start to investigate this murder, Deputy Steele?”
“Exactly the way I’m doing it, Ms. Hamilton. By securing the crime scene.” He nodded at the white Sheriff’s Department sedan that had just pulled up to the curb. A couple of deputies exited and headed toward them. “By having the scene checked for evidence,” Mitch continued. “And by asking questions.”
“I see. And how do you—”
“As I said, I’m asking questions.”
“Of course, but—”
He continued as if she had remained silent. “Not you, though I’m sure it’s hard for a reporter with your reputation to let someone else do the interrogating.”
She closed her mouth. The way she regarded him seemed speculative, but of course he knew who she was. He figured everyone in Mustang Valley, maybe in the whole of northeastern Texas, knew of investigative reporter Cara Hamilton and her incisive articles in the Mustang Gazette.
Why was she really here? To visit a friend, or to research a story? Maybe, but it was awfully late for either.
To commit murder?
He doubted that but couldn’t rule it out. He’d have the techs check her for gun residue, just in case.
The patrol deputies reached them—a couple of guys he’d worked with often. A couple of good ones, fortunately, who didn’t challenge his authority. The department was small enough that everyone took on a variety of duties. And small enough that Mitch knew which fellow officers hated his guts.
He quickly filled these guys in, and they headed off to start the log of who entered the crime scene and to cordon it off with yellow tape. Not a moment too soon. The neighbors had gotten wind that something was up and were trickling from nearby homes. A couple appeared in another doorway of the victim’s house—the upstairs tenants? They might be valuable witnesses. A deputy approached them.
Mitch turned back toward Cara Hamilton, only to see the twitch of her skirt as she headed once more through the door to Nancy’s apartment.
Damn. He hurried after her, grabbed her arm. “Stay out here,” he demanded.
She started, then looked from the fingertips that still vised her slender, warm upper arm, back to his face.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you again that this is a crime scene, Ms. Hamilton.”
“Of course not, and that’s exactly why I have to—”
“You have to stay here, out of the way.”
Some guys, Mitch figured, would melt into an ugly little puddle of ooze under the fiery glare she turned on him. He merely glared back.
“I’ve got press credentials with me, Deputy Steele.” She pointed to the oversize bag over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be accused of violating the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, do you?”
“And I’m sure you don’t want to be arrested for obstruction of justice,” he said without missing a beat.
“I have no intention of obstructing anything,” she said smoothly. “I want you to solve this case. Fast. And I’ll even help you.” The sound of her melodic voice was as gentle as the evening breeze, caressing his ears, his soul.
Abruptly, to shatter the spell she seemed determined to weave about him, he said, “You’ll help by answering my questions and by staying out of the way. You’ll be invited to any press conferences just like other media representatives, and—”
“I’m not just like the other media people, Deputy,” she countered harshly.
What had happened to the sorrowing, sympathetic young woman of a few minutes ago? She was all business now. He believed her. She wasn’t like other media people. Though he knew there were a lot of reporters as abrasive, stubborn, irritating and challenging, few probably wrapped up those repulsive characteristics in as beautiful a package.
But so what if Cara Hamilton was a good-looking woman, with guts and strength to boot? She was still a witness. Maybe a suspect.
Most likely, though, she had just found the murdered body of a friend. Sure, she’d been shocked and fragile when Mitch had first arrived, but she had not fallen apart. Now she was asserting herself, doing her job. As Mitch was doing his.
If she weren’t trying so hard to get in his way, he might admire her.
“Let’s go back over what happened from the moment you heard from Ms. Wilks this evening, Ms. Hamilton. The forensics technicians should be here shortly, and they’ll need to get your prints for comparison purposes, plus do more testing to eliminate you as a suspect.” Maybe. “And then—”
“Your father, Martin Steele, was the former sheriff of Mustang County, wasn’t he?”
