The Detective's Dilemma

“Lacy Clark, you overgrown booby! Who else?”

He dodged the bookend and waited to see if she’d pitch the other even as he muttered, “Oh, her.”

“Yeah, her,” Janelle said, sneering, “the woman who gave birth to our Maitland meal ticket.” She drove a hand through her long, dark hair. “Damn! I knew it. I knew she wasn’t dead. Blast her! Why couldn’t she have just died in that alley?”

“At least she doesn’t remember anything,” Petey said hopefully. “You heard that woman at the diner say she has amnesia. She can’t tell about you trying to take the baby or hitting her if she can’t remember.”

Janelle turned a hard look on Petey. “And what if she gets her memory back?” she demanded. “We can’t trust she won’t. We have to shut her up permanently. We don’t have any other choice. If that Goody Two-shoes gets her memory back, we’re through here. We lose everything. We have to make certain that doesn’t happen.”

Petey studied her warily. “What are you thinking?”

“We’re going to finish the job,” Janelle said coldly. “Lacy Clark should have died in that alley. The only way to fix this is to finish what I started that day.”

“You’re saying we have to kill her.”

“It’s her own fault,” Janelle declared. “If she’d just given me the baby like I’d planned, instead of changing her mind at the last moment, we’d be safe. Now one of us has to make sure she never remembers.”

Petey grimaced. “Me, you mean.”

“Can you think of another way?” Janelle asked coaxingly. “Darling, I’ve already tried and failed. I’ve done all the planning and setting up. God, I invested months in that woman, winning her trust, convincing her the real Connor didn’t want her or the brat. I’m just not strong enough to do this one last part. And we’re so close to getting our share of the Maitland millions.”

With a sigh, Petey lifted a hand to the back of his neck. “I’ll take care of it,” he said simply, and for the first time since lunch, Janelle relaxed somewhat. This husband of hers did have his uses, and if she managed him right, she could have everything she deserved and wanted. She swayed across the room, pulling loose the sash at her waist.

“When?” she pressed. “How?”

Petey shrugged and eyed the lissome, naked body she displayed for him. “Soon. I’ll figure something out.”

“No one can ever connect us with her murder,” Janelle purred, reaching out to place a hand on his chest.

“They won’t,” Petey promised, leaning toward her.

“They’d better not,” she growled, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his mouth down to hers.

Her husband liked to play it rough once in a while, and she was willing to give him what he wanted often enough to keep him in line, especially since he worked so hard to give her what she wanted—and just now she wanted Lacy Clark dead.

TY PUT HIS HEAD DOWN and determinedly ran the gauntlet, his strides long and sure as he said, “No comment,” throwing the words left and right. He shoved through the heavy glass door of the Austin Police Headquarters building, leaving the reporters to the mercy of a windy February afternoon. As he hurried toward the elevator, he nodded to various officers in and out of uniform, clerks, secretaries, attorneys and at least one judge racing for the private entrance with a police escort following in her wake. The elevator opened and Ty stepped aside to allow several others to get out. Finally, he slipped inside and stabbed the correct floor button with an index finger. He held his breath as the doors slid closed, leaving him mercifully alone.

Putting his head back, he sighed in relief. What a day! Press dogging his every step, superiors ringing him up on his private cell phone to demand explanations, interviews that turned into Beth Maitland testimonials. If he hadn’t already been inclined to think the woman innocent, he’d have greatly resented all the heavy-handed support that was coming her way. The same, however, could not be said for Brandon Dumont.

The picture coming together of the poor widower was of an image-conscious, somewhat shady, self-important social climber who routinely inflated his background and his income. He had a reputation as something of a ladies’ man, and several of the ladies reported being carefully cultivated, only to be thrown over when a more socially prominent candidate appeared. Beth Maitland would have been the social pinnacle of Dumont’s romantic pursuits, while the woman he’d married had been utterly devoid of social consequence. As far as Ty could tell, the murdered woman had been nothing more than an attractive accountant in Dumont’s office, a step above a bookkeeper, until Dumont had married her. If it had been a love match, it had been a volatile one, since at least two people in a restaurant had heard them arguing recently, though neither could say about what.

The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Ty stepped out at a swift stride that carried him across the hall and into the squad room. It was warm, too warm, and he slung off his lightweight, black leather overcoat as he navigated the corridors between cubicles to his, which he shared with his partner. Paul Jester sat at the desk facing Ty’s, talking on the telephone. He glanced up as Ty hung his coat on the hanger he kept there for that very purpose. Paul quickly got off the phone and rocked back in his creaky chair to prop his feet on the corner of his desk, smiling like the proverbial cat that had eaten the canary.

“Our friend Dumont has been indulging in a little high-stakes day trading,” Paul revealed gleefully. “That’s the next thing to gambling, and he’s playing with borrowed money. Looks like he’s in over his head and trying desperately to get out. The Feds are asking questions about his business, and three investors in the last six months have filed complaints and disputes with him over his handling of their funds. Plus, the wife had a small life insurance policy, and she changed the beneficiary just two days before her death.”

Interesting information. “Dumont is the beneficiary, of course,” Ty surmised.

“Yep.”

“Who was the original?”

“Her brother.”

“He lives in California, right?”

“Right. It’s a small policy, thirty thousand, but Dumont’s already filed the claim.”

Ty rubbed his hands together, pulled out his chair and sat. As motives went, it wasn’t much, but instinct was whispering that they were on the right trail. He was determined to be thorough, though. He had recognized in himself a disturbing tendency to want to believe Beth Maitland. Something about that woman got to him on a very elemental level. Whipping out his notebook, he prepared to report what he had learned. “Our boy Dumont is coming up dirtier and dirtier.”

“And the Maitland woman is looking shinier and shinier.”

At that, Ty looked up alertly. “Who says?”

Paul flipped him a letter stapled to a memo form. Ty did a double take at the seal stamped into the corner of the expensive stationery. He whistled through his teeth. “From the governor’s wife?”

“The First Lady of Texas is pleased to offer herself as a character witness for Ms. Beth Maitland, whose generous contributions to the child-care community of our state cannot be overstated,” Paul recited.

“How does this outpouring of support strike you?” Ty asked, scanning the letter, which was addressed to the district attorney and had been copied to the mayor, the chief of police and the division.

“The family probably instigated it,” Paul said, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t sincere.”

Ty laid the letter aside and nodded. “That’s my take, too.” He went on to tell Paul what he’d learned that day. Paul listened attentively, occasionally quirking an eyebrow or tossing out an astute observation. When Ty was done, Paul took his feet from the corner of his desk and leaned forward.

“Okay, so what’s our next step?”

“We poke holes in Dumont’s story so the truth can leak out,” Ty said.

“You’re sure that’s the way the wind blows?”

Ty considered a moment, stilling himself emotionally and mentally in order to access the small voice that whispered through his soul. A picture of Beth Maitland sprang instantly to mind, her long, thick, coffee-brown hair frothing past her shoulders in layers of wavy curls. He saw the vibrant blue of her eyes, the elegant line of her nose, the slender oval of her face with its delicately pointed chin and wide, expressive mouth. Her perfect peaches-and-cream complexion invoked thoughts of warm, pale silk. He felt the definite urge to smile, as if an unexpected shaft of sunlight had broken through a gray and gloomy sky. That woman couldn’t have killed anyone, and no one in his right mind would believe she had. Had Dumont set her up? His blood boiled at the very notion.

“Well?” Paul prodded.

Ty shook away the image and the emotions it evoked, aware that his small voice had developed a healthy libido. She was an extremely attractive woman, Beth Maitland, and he’d felt definite vibes around her. Something told him that she was as strongly attracted to him as he was to her, not that he could let that matter. She was an official suspect in a high-profile murder. He happened to think that she was innocent. “Let’s get Dumont and Beth Maitland in here for another interview, together this time,” he decided.

Paul rocked back in his chair, asking nonchalantly, “And which one do you want me to call?”

As casually as he could manage, Ty answered, “Doesn’t matter. Dumont, I guess.”

Paul winked and grinned. “Knew you’d say that.”

Ty kept his face expressionless. “Yeah? Then why’d you ask?”

“Just to hear you admit that you want to speak to Beth Maitland yourself.”

Ty snorted rudely. “I admit no such thing, and just because the woman is attractive doesn’t mean she’s my type, Jester.”

“Why isn’t she your type? Besides the obvious, that she’s a suspect.”

“She’s rich,” Ty answered succinctly.

“That doesn’t make her like that chick your mom told me about,” Paul argued, “the one from college who—”

“I know the one you’re talking about!” Ty snapped, thinking he’d have to have a careful word with his mother. It was unlike her to discuss his personal business even with his closest friends. “What did my mother tell you about her, anyway?”

Paul shrugged. “Just that she was from a prominent Houston family who didn’t like the idea of their little debutante hooking up with a Native American.”

A dirt-poor redskin, her daddy had called him, a breech-clout gigolo without so much as his own tom-tom to his name. The insult still burned rancorously in his gut whenever he thought about it. He was very, very proud of his heritage. At the time, however, his erstwhile girlfriend’s tearful wailing that her daddy was going to revoke her credit cards if she didn’t stop seeing him had seemed the worse insult. He’d been stupid enough to think that, because she’d hopped into his bed every chance she got, she’d loved him. He’d found out rather graphically how he’d stacked up against her plastic money and her society friends. It had been a brutal reality check, and one he wouldn’t need again, but Paul didn’t have to know that.

“She was nothing, that girl,” Ty said evenly, “just a little passing infatuation. My mother shouldn’t read so much into things.”

“Your mother is a very wise woman,” Paul responded.

“Well, her wisdom sometimes gets a little tangled up when it comes to her children,” Ty remarked. “But if you tell her I said such a thing, I’ll have to cut your nose off.”

“Crow punishment for betrayal,” Paul exclaimed delightedly. He loved hearing about the old lore and traditions.

Ty chuckled. “Maybe I’ll have to strip the skin off the soles of your feet and stake them to a fire-ant hill. Punishment for trespassing in private territory.”

Paul frowned, and Ty could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “You made that up!” he finally declared. “The People never did any such thing.”

“Who said it was Crow punishment?” Ty teased. “It’s just my personal remedy for nosy partners.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, have I ever told you my remedy for smart-aleck Indians?”

“Indian is an incorrect and unacceptable label,” Ty said, deadpan.

“So sue me, native boy,” Paul retorted, reaching into his desk drawer for a rubber band, which he shot from between his fingers. Ty dodged the harmless missile and pulled out his drawer to get at his weapons stash.

The serviceable gray-carpeted floor around their abutted desks was littered with red and green rubber bands, and the mood had lightened considerably by the time Ty finally looked up Beth Maitland’s telephone number and made that call. The play had done nothing, however, to prevent the slow thickening of his blood that occurred when her light, musical voice brought back to mind her sexy image. He reminded himself that Beth Maitland was not a woman in whom he should feel the slightest interest. Now all he had to do was silence that whisper in his soul, the one that brought a vision of her to the mind’s eye and promised that here was fire to melt the ice of his heart.

CHAPTER THREE

TY WAS COOL. He didn’t blink an eye when Beth Maitland sauntered in wearing tan suede slacks that showed off her long, slender legs and tight, round bottom. He said nothing about the matching fringed jacket that she wore over a tight, wine red knit shirt that left no doubt as to the strength of her feminine attributes. He did not compliment her suede half-boots, which matched her shirt in color, or comment upon the way she had twisted her long, lush hair into a plump, frothy roll skewered with a trio of silver-and-turquoise pins. He failed to remark that the open, turned-up collar of her shirt emphasized the creamy length of her slender neck, or that an expensive silver-and-turquoise beaded necklace called eye-catching attention to the deep crevice of her cleavage. To the casual observer, his fascination and appreciation would not have been unduly marked. Only he knew that she amazed him by looking even better than he remembered. Moreover, she possessed a quirky, natural style that was wholly her own, and being a man of a certain personal style himself, Ty could only applaud. Silently, of course.

He got to his feet and greeted her impersonally. “Ms. Maitland, thank you for coming.”

She nodded and glanced past him to Brandon Dumont, her eyes going wide then clouding with confusion as she took in the small, dark woman next to him. Ty brushed back the sides of his suit coat and parked his hands at his waist, watching the byplay. Looking bored, Dumont pinched the crease of his navy slacks where one knee crossed the other. The Mexican woman next to him bowed her head and did not look up again, as if avoiding Beth Maitland’s gaze. Beth tilted her head to one side, questioning Ty with her eyes. He smiled reassuringly, realized what he was doing and quickly blanked his face.

“You know Mr. Dumont,” he said, “and my partner, Paul Jester.” Paul was standing on the other side of the table, and he nodded at Beth. Ty went on. “You may also know Ms. Letitia Velasquez, Mr. Dumont’s housekeeper.”

Beth fixed the woman with a curious gaze. “Yes. Hello, Letitia. It’s nice to see you again.”

The housekeeper lifted a trembling smile in acknowledgment of the greeting, then quickly bowed her head again. Dumont frowned at the housekeeper but in no way acknowledged Beth Maitland. Paul pulled out the chair next to him at the table, leaving the end seat for Ty and keeping Dumont and the housekeeper on the opposite side. Beth walked around to the chair and gracefully lowered herself into the seat, smiling at Paul as he pushed the chair beneath her. She slipped the strap of a small, hand-tooled leather purse from her shoulder and placed the purse on the table in front of her. She looked across the table directly at Brandon Dumont.

“Hello, Brandon. How are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” he said tonelessly without looking at her.

Beth glanced at Ty, then turned her gaze on the housekeeper. “Letitia,” she said gently, “how is Frankie?”

Letitia Velasquez slowly lifted her head. “He is worried, Ms. Maitland,” she answered just above a whisper.

Brandon Dumont suddenly jerked his head up and looked at Ty, demanding testily, “Can we get on with it, please?”

Ty froze the man with a cold, hard glare and watched with satisfaction as the color drained from his already pale face. Dumont reminded Ty of a banked fish, pale and slimy, but he supposed that he was attractive enough, with his soft good looks, trendy spiked haircut and expensive clothes. Ty suspected that his medium brown hair had been artfully highlighted and that the shocking blue of his eyes was achieved via colored contact lenses. The artifice disgusted Ty. He had no respect for this man, but he attempted to submerge that emotion in the determination to do his duty. He turned his gaze to Beth Maitland.

Calmly, Beth linked her hands and rested them atop her purse. She was the one Ty addressed. “Are we expecting your attorney?”

“No,” she said. “He’s in court today, but I’m perfectly willing to carry on without him.”

Ty knew that he ought to be glad about that. Lawyers tended to gum up the works. But he didn’t much like the idea of her being here on her own, not with Dumont dropping unexpected witnesses on them.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked. “Because we can reschedule.”

Her generous mouth curved softly as she smiled at him, genuine blue eyes warm enough to speed up his heartbeat. Definite vibes. “It’s all right,” she said. “I want to get this over with. Besides, what do I have to fear? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dumont made a sound in the back of his throat, but when Ty looked at him, he was studying his fingernails. Ty pulled out his chair and straddled it.

“Okay.” He flipped open the file folder he had placed on the table in front of his seat earlier, extracted a pen from his inside coat pocket and clicked the point down. “I had intended to go over your individual statements with you, Ms. Maitland and Mr. Dumont. See if we can’t clear up some of the discrepancies. But the presence of Ms. Velasquez has changed the agenda.”

“How so?” Beth asked, clearly puzzled.

Ty glanced at Paul, wondering if his partner disliked this unexpected twist as much as he did, and chose his words carefully. “Ms. Maitland, during our last interview, you denied harassing Mr. Dumont and his wife, the deceased, did you not?”

Beth blinked. “Yes, I did. I do.”

“You never called the Dumonts on the telephone to complain that they had ruined your life by getting married?”

“No, never.”

“You didn’t go to the Dumont home, demanding to speak with Brianne Dumont and making a scene?”

“Of course not!”

Ty glanced at Paul, who quickly spoke. “Ms. Velasquez says you did.”

Beth’s mouth fell open and her eyes went wide. She turned an incredulous gaze down the table. “Letitia?”

The housekeeper raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ms. Maitland. I say only what I must. I’m so sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Letitia,” Brandon Dumont said flatly. “Ms. Maitland knows what she’s done.”

“I know I did not harass or kill Brianne!” Beth exclaimed. “And you know it, too, Brandon Dumont!”

“Do I?” he replied coolly. “You were always fond of telling me what I knew and what I meant. Perhaps if you hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have left you for Brianne.”

Ty saw that she was trembling, but when she turned her blue gaze on him, he realized that the emotion racking her body was pure anger. “He’s lying! I broke up with him. He asked me to say that it was the other way around.”

“And you never harassed the Dumonts?” Ty asked.

“Never!”

“But Ms. Velasquez swears that you did,” Paul said.

Beth turned to the small woman huddled next to Dumont. “Letitia,” she pleaded, “please don’t do this. Please tell them the truth.”

“That’s exactly what she’s doing,” Dumont snapped.

The housekeeper broke into sobs. “I only say what I must,” she repeated. “I only say what I must!”

“Can’t you tell the poor woman is devastated to have to do this?” Dumont went on. He smiled maliciously at Beth and added, “She always did prefer you, you know.”

Letitia Velasquez buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenly.

“There, there,” Dumont said, with the same inflection he’d use with a pesky fly.

Beth closed her eyes and said softly, “It’s all right, Letitia. Whatever’s going on, it’ll be all right somehow.”

“I don’t want to say it!” Ms. Velasquez sobbed.

“You don’t owe her any apologies or explanations!” Dumont growled at the woman. “You know what’s at stake.”

“That sounds like a veiled threat, Mr. Dumont,” Ty said mildly.

“Don’t be absurd,” Dumont retorted. “I only meant that if Letitia does not do the right thing, a murder will go unpunished.”

“Oh, no,” Ty said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this one. Never doubt it.”

“I should think you’ve seen the bottom—as you put it—already,” Dumont rejoined smoothly, but never once during the entire exchange did he look Ty in the eye.

“Some might think that,” Ty replied noncommittally, but he’d suddenly had all of Brandon Dumont that he could stomach for one day—and he wasn’t quite ready to give up on his original game plan just yet. He still might get some important personal questions answered if he played this right. He stashed his pen, flipped the folder closed and got to his feet, sweeping the folder up in his hand. “Paul, why don’t you take Ms. Velasquez downstairs? Give her a minute to collect herself before the stenographer takes her statement.”

Paul was already on his feet and moving around the end of the table to Letitia Velasquez’s chair. “Come with me, ma’am.”

The little housekeeper cast a worried look at Brandon Dumont, then got stoically to her feet, wiping tears from her face with one hand, her old-fashioned patent-leather purse clutched in the other. She glanced guiltily at Beth, then turned her head away and swiftly followed Paul from the room. Beth was glaring daggers at Dumont, who seemed amused. Ty gestured with his free hand toward the room beyond the door at his back.

“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee, then we’ll get down to brass tacks. Can I bring anything for you two?”

Beth shook her head mutely. Dumont curled his lip in an expression of disdain, as if to imply that simple coffee was beneath him, and said sharply, “No, thank you.”

Ty slipped out of the room, pulling the door almost closed. Catching the eye of one of his co-workers, he pantomimed drinking, then pressed his palms together in supplication and jerked his head at the interrogation room door. An understanding nod and quick movement in the direction of the coffeepot parked in an out-of-the-way corner was his answer. Ty stepped to one side of the door, put his back to the wall and waited.

Beth was the first one to speak. “Why are you doing this, Brandon?”

The smugness of Dumont’s voice made Ty want to slap the cuffs on him. “Why, whatever do you mean, Beth dear?”

“Cut it out, Brandon. We both know you’re trying to frame me for Brianne’s murder.”

“Trying to frame you?” Dumont echoed, slight emphasis on the first word. “Tsk, tsk, Beth, why don’t you just accept your punishment like a good little Maitland and be done with it? Your family will get you off with minimal time, say ten or twenty years, which you’ll probably serve in some walled country club. You know, it’s positively unfair what the rich can get away with.”

Beth seemed to ignore his taunts. “It’s because I broke up with you, isn’t it. Is your pride that monstrous? Is this my punishment for not loving you, Brandon?”

“Yet you agreed to marry me,” he told her quickly.

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “I wanted to be in love with you. I wanted you to be everything that you seemed then. But the image didn’t hold, Brandon, and do you know why? It’s that desperation in you, that grasping, frantic desperation. Eventually it seeps through the cool, handsome veneer and makes the other person feel…used, a means to an end.”