LITMIR.BIZ

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she said.

      “What?” She’d confused him.

      “Okay, I’ll come to the station so you can question me there.”

      The lady was full of surprises. “Fine. Make it—” He glanced at his watch. He’d have to be here for a long while, till the crime-scene investigation was well underway. “—nine o’clock this morning.”

      “Fine.”

      “Meantime, I’ll send one of the techs out here to check you out.”

      “To get my fingerprints so you can eliminate me as a suspect.” She confirmed what he’d told her before, her tone a little sarcastic, as if she didn’t believe he thought the forensics exam would clear her.

      Maybe it wouldn’t, though right now his main reasons for sticking her on his suspect list—her limited cooperation and her being at the victim’s at one heck of a bad time for a social call—weren’t exactly proof of her guilt.

      “That’s right. And to check to make sure you don’t have any gunpowder residue on you, too. That kind of thing.” Or any blood, though he saw none on her.

      She stared but said nothing. He allowed her, this time, to walk away. As he watched her, she glanced at the house once more and then, assessingly, back at him. He shook his head.

      With a look of annoyance, she headed toward the sidewalk, her long skirt swaying again with her determined stride. Was she going to leave before the techs checked her out? He held his breath, ready to go after her, until she turned again, crossed her arms and stood there, obviously impatient.

      He realized with surprise, and irritation with himself, that the challenge of Cara Hamilton had whetted his appetite for more.

      Right now nine o’clock seemed very far away.

      UNLIKE THE MAJOR metropolitan area of Dallas/Ft. Worth to the northeast, the population of Mustang Valley wasn’t very large. Neither was the population of the whole of Mustang County, which was why the Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction even in town.

      As a result the station funded by the taxpayers was compact, too. Only ten years old, it looked more like an architect’s vision than a functional law enforcement command center, all glass and steel and vulnerability—if any terrorist, or even petty crook, thought it worth the effort to attack.

      But its small size was compact, too. Which was why Mitch was able to keep his ears open to comings and goings at the front desk even as he sat in the nearby computer room. He’d begun entering his initial report on the Nancy Wilks murder investigation into one of the aging, outdated machines.

      It was nearly nine o’clock. Would Cara Hamilton actually come, or would he have to look for her? If she came, would she be on time?

      Mitch heard the clump of heavy footsteps on the wood floor. More than one set. Definitely not Cara.

      “Is Steele in?” demanded the voice of his boss, Sheriff Ben Wilson.

      “Yeah,” replied the deputy on duty. He must have gestured toward the room where Mitch sat, for in a moment Wilson and his favorite senior underling, Deputy Hurley Zeller, entered.

      Wilson, in his fifties, tall and rangy in his loose khaki uniform, had the leathery, tough skin of a much older varmint. He’d never made any attempt to hide his disdain of Mitch or his rage that he’d inherited the son of the disgraced former sheriff and didn’t have any reason to fire his ass and oust him from the department. He probably even held it against Mitch that his dad had become sheriff first.

      Ben glared at Mitch with narrowed brown eyes. The odor of cigar smoke clung to Zeller and him. “I just came from the crime scene on Caddo Street. The Wilks murder.”

      Mitch nodded. “I’m just finishing my initial report.”

      “Got it solved yet?” Hurley Zeller sneered.

      Wilson’s flunky Zeller, nearly as wide as he was tall, was a smart-mouthed son of a bitch who smiled a lot, particularly while emitting his nastiest utterances. And Zeller could be damned nasty at times. He was around thirty-five, older than Mitch’s twenty-nine, but acted as if he still was a hot-blooded teenage kid more often than not. But he did a superior job of kissing up to the sheriff, who bought it.

      “I’m working on it,” Mitch replied mildly to Zeller’s jibe.

      “The deputies there said you have a suspect already,” Wilson said. “That reporter bitch Cara Hamilton was caught right there red-handed.”

      “She was there,” Mitch agreed, sticking his hands behind his back so his boss wouldn’t see that he’d clenched them into fists. The guy was jumping to conclusions. No need for him to accuse Cara Hamilton…yet. “The weapon wasn’t found, though. Hamilton wouldn’t have had time to ditch the gun.”

      “Maybe.” Zeller stepped closer to Mitch. “Or maybe you just missed it.” He turned to Wilson. “How about putting me in charge of the case, boss? I won’t miss any big clues.”

      “The way you don’t miss the target at shooting practice?” Mitch stuck an expression on his face that he intended to be as innocent as any of Cara’s. Not that he could make himself look as young and sweet. But Mitch had learned well the art of acting, particularly since joining the Mustang County Sheriff’s Department. From his intentionally placid demeanor, no one here would guess how tightly he was coiled inside, prepared to spring in an instant if he let himself.

      Mitch hadn’t thought Zeller’s small brown eyes could narrow any more, but he scrunched them into something he probably thought looked menacing. Instead, he appeared like an ape with gas. “I always pass the tests. And I’m sure you’d feel better if they let you use a bow and arrow.”

      Mitch again flexed his fists behind his back. Most guys around here were at least subtler in their cracks about his half-Native-American ancestry. He forced himself, as always, not to respond, knowing that ignoring Zeller was more of an insult than trading barbs. If it were not for his own quest, more important to him than anything else, he’d have decked Zeller long ago.

      Facing Ben Wilson with more calm than he felt, Mitch said, “Here’s what we know so far about the Wilks murder.” He gave a rundown. It wasn’t a lot. The coroner’s report hadn’t come in yet, but he described the apparent cause of death: a bullet to the head. “No sign of a weapon at her home, so we won’t have its description till we get more from the coroner. No sign of forced entry. The neighbors interviewed so far noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so the weapon’s noise must have been suppressed. The reporter, Cara Hamilton, said she was there because the victim called her to chat about losing her job.”

      “You bought that?” Wilson’s voice was edged with sarcasm.

      “No. In fact, she’s due here now for further interrogation.”

      “Fine. I’ll sit in.”

      Mitch opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He knew how to conduct a good witness interview. But having Ben there would ensure he wouldn’t get second-guessed later.

      Just then, in the next room, he heard the soft, determined voice he’d been listening for. “My name is Cara Hamilton. I’m here to see Deputy Steele.”

      CARA HADN’T THOUGHT she’d feel so unnerved by being the subject of an official interrogation. This was a first. In her line of work, it was unlikely to be the last.

      But she enjoyed situations so much better when she was the one asking questions.

      Mitch had come into the station’s reception area almost immediately after she’d arrived. He showed her down a short hallway into a moderate-size room that resembled a company’s conference room, with a big, scuffed wood table in the center.

      What had she expected—a jail cell with a wired chair in the center where she’d be strapped in?

      Not that the chair he showed her to was comfortable—physically

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