Like No One Else (22 page)

“What time does the dealership open?”

“I don't know.”

“Think.”

Colston frowned. “If I'm not mistaken, it opens at seven thirty. I got there around eight.”

“So you could have been at Maribel's house before that.”

“I wasn't. I was at home.”

“Can your wife vouch for that?”

Colston hesitated, then shook his head reluctantly. “She'd already left for the office. She had to be there early to prepare for a presentation.”

“Convenient.”

Colston said nothing.

“A neighbor says she saw a car pulling into Maribel's garage around five a.m.,” Paulo told him.

“It wasn't me.”

“Then I suppose you weren't the one who had sex with Maribel that morning?”

Colston stared at him. Either he was genuinely shocked or a damned good actor. “Was she raped?” he whispered. “Did that animal rape her?”

“The medical examiner says the sex was consensual.” Paulo paused. “So the question is, if
you
didn't sleep with her that morning, who did?”

Some unnamed emotion flared in Colston's eyes—hurt? jealousy? anger?—before his face went carefully, deliberately blank. “I can't answer that question, Detective. All I know is that it wasn't me.”

Paulo fell silent, his unblinking gaze steady on the attorney's face, on the solitary vein throbbing at his temple.

And for the first time since the interview began, he realized that Ted Colston might actually be telling the truth.

 

“Sounds like
someone's
in a good mood.”

Tommie glanced up from the stack of invoices she'd been poring through to find Hazel Calhoun watching her, a quietly amused smile on her bespectacled face. “Did you say something, Mrs. Calhoun?”

“I said you must be in a good mood. You've been humming to yourself for the past thirty minutes.”

“I have?” Tommie asked in surprise.

Hazel nodded, smiling.

“I'm sorry. Did I disturb you?”

“Not at all,” Hazel said mildly. “I enjoyed your humming. I prefer it to the muttering and cursing I usually hear when you're doing the bookkeeping.”

Tommie grinned sheepishly. “I didn't realize you could hear me doing that.”

Hazel chortled. “I'm old, baby, not deaf.”

Tommie smiled. “Don't worry. One of these days I'll have to break down and hire an accountant to take care of all this”—she gestured toward the mountain of paperwork in front of her—“so that I can just concentrate on running the studio.”

“All in good time,” Hazel said soothingly. As her gaze landed on a wilting fern, she rose from the small worktable where she'd been editing her church newsletter and walked across the cramped, windowless room that doubled as an office and supply closet.

That morning, taking advantage of a two-hour break between classes, Tommie had sequestered herself in the office to make a dent in the growing stack of paperwork on her desk. Hazel had arrived shortly afterward.

“Until you can afford to hire an accountant,” said the older woman, clucking her tongue at the dying fern, “you just let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

Tommie shook her head. “You do enough already, Mrs. Calhoun. I couldn't possibly ask you to help me with the bookkeeping. You're underpaid as it is,” she admitted ruefully.

Hazel guffawed, waving a dismissive hand as she went to retrieve a spray bottle. “You know I didn't take this job for the money. I like keeping myself busy, and I enjoy playing the piano for you and your students. It's one of the highlights of my week.”

“Well, I definitely appreciate having you, Mrs. Calhoun. And so do my students.”

Hazel beamed. “That's kind of you to say, baby.”

“It's the truth.” As Tommie watched Hazel spray the drooping plant, an image from last night's water fight with Paulo flashed through her mind, bringing an unconscious grin to her face.

Hazel, ever observant, arched a brow at her over the tops of her bifocals. “Would that look on your face have anything to do with that handsome young man who was here on Monday?”

Tommie's grin disappeared. Clearing her throat, she reached for the pile of invoices on her desk, asking with an air of casual nonchalance, “Do you mean Detective Sanchez?”

Hazel chuckled, not fooled for a minute. “Yes, that's who I was talking about. Such a nice young man. So polite and charming. And did I say handsome?”

“You did,” Tommie said dryly.

“Well, he is. Very good looking.”

“I suppose.” Tommie shrugged. “He's not really my type.”

“That's a shame. I thought I sensed something between the two of you. A connection.”

Tommie frowned. “With all due respect, Mrs. Calhoun, you only saw us together for all of five minutes.”

“I know.” Hazel smiled, soft and intuitive. “That was all it took.”

Tommie stared at her for a long moment, then dropped her gaze, pretending to become absorbed in her paperwork.

Satisfied that the fern would live to see another day, Hazel walked back to the table and sat down. Instead of returning to editing her newsletter, she reached for a misshapen ceramic mug, a handmade Mother's Day gift from one of her grandchildren, and took a quiet sip of coffee.

Sensing that the woman wanted to say more, Tommie waited, letting the silence stretch between them until her curiosity finally won out. “Is something on your mind, Mrs. Calhoun?”

“Hmm?”

“You look like you're deep in thought.”

“Oh, I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

Hazel pursed her lips. “I know you come from a good family. Your folks are educated, wealthy. I was just wondering if they would object to you marrying a police officer.”

Tommie sputtered out a laugh. “I'm not marrying Detective Sanchez!”

Hazel smiled a little. “I'm not referring to him specifically. I was speaking in general terms.”

Likely story
. “No, my parents wouldn't object to me marrying a police officer,” Tommie drawled wryly. “Given my track record, I think they'd just be happy if the man I brought home didn't have a rap sheet or ten kids.”

Hazel gave her a reproving look. “You know they have higher expectations for you than that.”

Tommie smiled faintly. “Of course.” Though there was a time she hadn't been so certain. “Anyway, I know my parents wouldn't mind me bringing home a cop because my sister married one, and they absolutely adore him.”

Which was another reason Paulo was completely wrong for Tommie. After the way she'd made a fool of herself over Sebastien Durand, she had no interest in pursuing another homicide detective. Or so she told herself.

Hazel sipped her coffee, her eyes calculating above the uneven rim of the cup. “I meant to ask you. Did Detective Sanchez enjoy the lasagna?”

Tommie snorted. “
That's
an understatement. He said it was the best lasagna he'd ever tasted, and he couldn't get enough of your peach cobbler.”

A knowing gleam filled Hazel's eyes. “So you've seen him again since Monday night, have you?”

An embarrassed flush heated Tommie's face. Fortunately, she was spared from answering when the bell above the main door tinkled softly, announcing the arrival of a visitor.

Saved by the bell,
Tommie thought, lunging from her chair and hurrying from the room. When she heard the soft scrape of boots on hardwood, her heart kicked, and for a moment she wondered—foolishly—if Paulo had stopped by.

But it was another man who stood waiting in the foyer, a man of medium height and build, with skin the color of melted caramel and close-cropped black hair. His hands were thrust casually into the pockets of gray wool trousers as he studied a framed poster of legendary dancer and choreographer Martha Graham.

Tommie froze in her tracks at the sight of him. Her heart slammed against her rib cage.

As he turned slowly to face her, a hot surge of rage swept through her.

Before he could open his mouth, she marched up to him and slapped him across his face, as hard as she could.

“How dare you show your face here!” she spat furiously.

Roland Jackson grimaced, rubbing his reddened cheek. “I suppose I deserved that,” he muttered.

“You're damned right you did!” Trembling with fury, Tommie backhanded him across the other cheek, sending him staggering backward with a muffled grunt.

“Tomasina!” came Hazel's shocked exclamation behind her. “What on earth is going on?”

“I'm sorry you had to see that, Mrs. Calhoun,” Tommie said through gritted teeth, glaring at Roland through the red haze blurring her vision, “but believe me when I tell you he had it coming, and then some.”

“She's right, Sister Calhoun,” Roland mumbled against the hand pressed to his split lip.

“
Sister
Calhoun?” Tommie divided an incredulous look between Roland and her pianist. “Do you two know each other?”

“Well, of course,” Hazel said impatiently. “Roland is the newest deacon at my church.”

“Deacon?”
Tommie stared at him in stunned disbelief. “
You're
a deacon?”

He nodded, having the grace to look sheepish. “As of last month.”

Hazel had reached the foyer, stepping between them as if to prevent further violence. She inspected Roland's bleeding lip, clucked her tongue in dismay. “Lord, child, what have you done?”

Tommie scowled. “Not nearly as much as I should have,” she snarled, taking a menacing step forward with her fists balled.

Roland backed away, holding up his hands to ward off another vicious blow.

“Tomasina,” Hazel hissed. “Enough!”

Still seething, Tommie shot Roland a look that warned him she wasn't through with him yet.

“I need to put some ice on that before it starts swelling,” Hazel muttered, frowning worriedly at Roland's busted lip. “Tomasina, could you run upstairs to your loft and get some ice and paper towels?”

“No.”

Hazel stared at her as if she hadn't heard right. “I beg your pardon?”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Calhoun,” Tommie ground out tersely, “my answer is no. I won't get some ice and paper towels. Not for
him
.”

Hazel made an exasperated sound. “Fine, then. I'll just get them myself. Behave yourself.” She started from the foyer, muttering under her breath, “Don't know what's gotten into the child, attacking people like a wildcat.”

When Hazel had disappeared up the stairwell, Tommie rounded furiously on Roland. “You bastard! You've got a lot of nerve showing up here!”

Roland looked pained, though it wasn't clear whether he was reacting to her harsh words or the throbbing in his lip. “I know I'm the last person you want to see—”

“So why the hell are you here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he said gently, his gaze imploring. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what I did to you. I'm not the same man I was seven months ago. I've changed.”

“Right,” Tommie said mockingly. “From UPS driver to church deacon.”

“It's true. I found the Lord, Tommie. I got saved.”

“How convenient,” she said, sneering contemptuously. “Too bad your religious conversion didn't happen
before
you got me drunk and secretly videotaped us having a threesome with your best friend. Too bad you didn't get saved
before
you decided to sabotage my dancing career.”

Roland winced as if she'd struck him—again. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, licked away blood before saying, “I never meant to get you kicked out of the dance company, Tommie.”

“Bullshit! You knew
exactly
what you were doing when you sent that embarrassing videotape to the artistic director. You threatened to circulate it to the media and everyone in the theater and dance community!”

“It was an empty threat,” Roland insisted vehemently. “I wanted to humiliate you, that's all. How was I supposed to know the director would actually get rid of you? You were one of the company's best dancers!”

“You're damned right I was!” Tommie roared, the familiar hurt and anger rising up in her throat like bile. “I worked my ass off to earn a spot on that roster. You knew damned well how much it meant to me. But instead of being supportive and happy for me, what did you do? You set out to ruin me. Because you were jealous, because you couldn't handle the thought of me becoming successful and moving on without you!”