Sawyer, Meryl (44 page)

"Unfuckingbelievable." Paul leafed through the photos
once more. "What about the bruise on Caroline's wrist?"

Beside each subject a ruler had been placed to compare size and
scale. This bruise was very large and had unusual curved edges. The vibrant
purple color meant the victim had been alive when the injury had occurred.

"No sign of a fight. The bruise doesn't have anything to do
with the crime."

Paul walked across the room and borrowed a magnifying glass from
one of the evidence techs. He took a close look at the bruise, taking his time
to examine it from several angles.

Paul took the elevator to the fifth floor condominium Gian
Viscotti was leasing. The building wasn't far from Caroline's home. And like
the murdered woman's building Gian's building was tasteful, a reminder of
generations of inherited wealth, an echelon of society that welcomed only their
brethren.

Before he knocked on the double doors of Gian's condo, Paul
checked his watch. Seven minutes flat. He hadn't been walking fast, but that's
how long it had taken him to get here from Caroline's. Late at night Gian could
easily have made it between the two buildings without being noticed.

The tall man who answered Paul's knock was even more handsome than
the photographs Paul had seen. Dark hair, dark brooding eyes. Italian-looking,
all right, especially for a guy from Dalhart, Texas.

"Yes?" Gian said with the merest hint of an Italian
accent.

Paul flashed his ID card that identified him as a private
detective. He closed it with a snap before Gian could look closely, a trick
that often deceived people into thinking he was a policeman. "I need to
ask you a few questions about Caroline Rambeau."

"I already gave a statement," Gian said, but he stepped
aside, allowing Paul to enter and quickly note the expensive furniture, the
clusters of family photographs in sterling silver frames, and the crystal
ashtray overflowing with ground-out half-smoked cigarettes.

"I'm just here to clarify a few details." Paul took out
a small notebook he kept in his jacket pocket for occasions such as this.
People expected you to take notes—it made them more comfortable. "You and
the deceased had just terminated your relationship, correct?"

"Yes," Gian admitted, gesturing for Paul to take a seat.

Paul sat and studied Gian's clothes. Where would you buy white
lizard loafers? And why would you? Well, they did complete his Continental
look: navy blazer with a red scarf flamboyantly tucked in the pocket and white
linen slacks with creases as sharp as a stiletto.

Gian whisked a gold cigarette case out of his pocket and lit a
cigarette. He took a deep draw and blew the smoke over his shoulder away from
Paul before responding. "Caroline and I decided to date other
people."

"Whose idea was that?"

"Hers," Gian reluctantly admitted.

"When was that?"

"Friday afternoon."

Paul scribbled a note to remind himself to buy some flowers to
cheer up Val. "Did you see her after that?"

"No." Gian ground out the half-smoked cigarette and
tossed it into the mound of cigarettes in the crystal ashtray.

The guy was polished, Paul granted. Just a touch of an Italian
accent, not overdone. Outrageously handsome, but still masculine. The kind of
guy likely to land himself an heiress. But why was he so nervous that he was
chain-smoking?

"Did Caroline call it quits because she found out your real
name is Billy Joe Williams and you haven't got a pot to piss in?"

There were several seconds of total, astonished silence. This was
information the police didn't yet have, so whoever had done the initial
interview couldn't have hit Gian with this.

"No," Gian said quietly, defeat in his voice. "I'd
been pressing Caroline to marry me. She kept putting me off... like she did
every other man who was interested in her."

Paul mentally rolled the dice, knowing there was something more.
He wanted to get it out of Gian before the police did. It was a point of pride
now; he wanted to nail the perp himself. After all, he'd been working on this
case long before Caroline's murder.

"Look, I don't care who you really are. If you didn't kill
Caroline, it doesn't matter, but I have to know exactly what your relationship
with her was like."

Gian took his time, lighting yet another cigarette and blowing a
stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "We dated two, three times a week for
months, but Caroline was always very cool, very distant. That's not the
reaction I usually get from women, so I was captivated—for a while. Then I
stopped calling her. Why bother with a woman who won't even sleep with
you?"

Paul had to admit it must have come as a shock to this phony
Italian stallion. How many women could resist a chance to hop in the sack with
him?

"Then she called and invited me to the auction. She said she
missed me. We were having a good time until the robbery. Then everyone was
upset and Caroline insisted on going home."

"Did you put the earrings in Royce Winston's purse?"

"Of course not. Why would I?"

"I thought maybe one of the Farenholts asked you to."

Gian shook his head. "No. I liked them, though. They treated
me like gold. Ward even called after Caroline and I broke up and said how sorry
he was."

Paul studied the cigarette burning between Gian's fingers, his
nails manicured and buffed to a high gloss. Could he have been so angry with
Caroline that he'd wanted her to die a slow, excruciatingly painful death?

"Was sex a problem after you and Caroline got together
again?"

Gian lifted both shoulders in an angry shrug. "We slept
together—a few times—but that's it."

"You were willing to put up with that?"

"When a lady has a lot of money, you're willing to put up
with crap. Anyway, I thought she was frigid. It wasn't until I got the big
kiss-off that I found out the truth. She was in love with someone else."

"Who?"

"She didn't say, but I knew." Gian stood and jammed his
clenched fists into his trouser pockets. "I was a fool. She always had
this thing about Brent Farenholt. She always wanted to hang around the
Farenholts so she could be with him."

Forty-six hours. Royce had waited the long hours without sleeping,
her eyes constantly drawn to the hall clock. In two hours they'd have to charge
her or let her go. What evidence could they possibly have? She didn't have an
answer just as she didn't have an explanation for why Mitch hadn't at least
called. Surely he hadn't deserted her.

Once she'd trusted her friends, her uncle. Mitch. Now she was
alone, truly alone. The past months had reduced her to a bewildered shadow of
the person who'd been Royce Anne Winston, but now, thanks to a wellspring of
rage, she'd metamorphosed into a new person.

She wasn't positive she liked her new persona—someone who'd
ruthlessly hold a woman's head in a toilet bowl—but she sensed she'd need her
newfound strength to get through this ordeal.

A guard shuffled up to her cell. "Come on, Winston."

Oh, boy, judgment day. Would there even be an attorney to stand by
her side when the charges were filed? she wondered as she followed the guard.
Where was Mitch? It didn't matter. She could go through this alone.

But she wasn't led to the elevator that would have taken her to
the van used to transport prisoners to court. Instead, she found herself in the
booking room. Stunned, Royce stared in disbelief as the property clerk handed
her a wire mesh basket with her clothes in it.

"Omigod, they're not charging me."

The clerk shoved a receipt across the scarred wood counter and
Royce signed for her things. Inside the changing room she ripped off the prison
jumpsuit, nearly bouncing off the walls with joy.

Hold everything! They could let her go now because they didn't
have sufficient evidence. But they could rearrest her later.

"The dicks in charge of the Rambeau case want to talk to
you," the guard said when Royce emerged dressed in her own clothes.

"Without an attorney? No way. They can go to hell."

The guard shrugged indifferently and led her through a door and
down a hallway. It was a route Royce had never taken before. The guard left her
outside a door marked private.

"They're waiting for you in here."

Royce yanked the door open. "You have no right to detain me.

Mitch! She barely stifled a gasp of relief. He hadn't deserted
her. How could she ever have thought that he had? Her gut instinct had always
told her she could trust him.

She noticed two men she instantly identified as policemen, even
though they were dressed in suits. What was going on here? Mitch was sitting at
the table, the two detectives opposite him.

He flashed her an encouraging smile and pulled out the chair next
to him. "The detectives would like to ask you a few questions."

"Am I being charged with a crime?" She directed her
question to the cops.

"No. Not... yet."

"Then what do you want?" She knew she sounded positively
bitchy, but she was beyond caring. She'd been arrested three times, for God's
sakes. Once she'd thought of the police as her friends. Now all she could think
about was the agonizing days she'd spent in jail.

Mitch said, "Royce, I know you're upset, but if you'll just
cooperate we can clear your name."

Wary, her anger threatening to erupt, Royce plopped down into the
chair.

The beefy detective, with jowls like bowling pins, punched a
button on a tape recorder. "Tape's on. For the record, state your
name."

She bit out her name, conscious of the concerned expression Mitch
wore.

"Miss Winston, you're not being charged with a crime and you
are giving this statement of your own free will in the presence of your
attorney, correct?"

"I've been advised to cooperate."

"Let's go back to last Saturday. Tell us exactly what you did
that day."

She turned to Mitch and he nodded. "I got up at about eight
o'clock."

"Where were you?"

Uh-oh. This was top secret. "I don't give out my
address."

The younger detective, who hadn't spoken, now said to Mitch,
"I thought she was going to cooperate."

Mitch turned to Royce. "Tell the truth. The whole
truth."

"I was at Mitch's home," she hedged. "I've been
living in the apartment over his garage."

"Is that where you woke up?"

"I don't remember." Her thoughts spun angrily. What did
this have to do with Caroline's murder?

"Royce, they know you spent Friday night in my bed,"
Mitch said.

Why would he tell them? She looked the beefy detective in the eye,
feeling defensive and hostile. "Is that a crime?"

Evidently, he'd interrogated his share of hard cases. Her surly
response didn't bother him. "I'm asking the questions. Tell us how you
spent Saturday."

She gave them a very factual, bland, and annoyingly brief
summation of the day's events right up to Jason's arrival. She paused, uncertain.
"Some boy Mitch befriended came by about midnight."

"How long did he stay?"

"All night. He slept on the sofa. I called his mother to let
her know."

"What time did you make that call?"

"Around two-thirty."

"Did you identify yourself?"

"No, I just said I was Mitch's girlfriend."

"Then you returned to the apartment."

She was half tempted to say yes to protect Mitch, but she felt his
thigh pressing against hers and thought he was prompting her to tell the truth.
"No. I spent the night in the house."

"Where?"

She hesitated, but he nudged her again with his knee. "In
Mitch's bed."

"Where was he?"

"I don't see what this has—"

"Answer the question." The detective loosened his tie.

"Mitch was in bed with me."

"You're certain he didn't get up all night?"

What was going on here? Did they suspect Mitch? "I didn't
fall asleep until dawn. Mitch never got up once."

The two detectives looked at each other. The younger one shook his
head.

"Your story corroborates the statement given to us by Mr.
Durant."

"I have sworn statements from the pizza delivery man and
Jason Riley," Mitch said. "A check of my telephone records will show
the exact time Royce called Jason's number."

"An airtight alibi," the young detective said grimly.