Play Dead

Laura hesitated, her mind tugging her thoughts from one extreme to the other. No, I don’t think that. In a million years, David would never believe you would do anything to harm him. He would prefer death to your betrayal. But could you have done it, T.C.? Is it even a possibility? If I look at the facts coldly, you have to be my major suspect. But when I look at your face, when I remember the times you and David shared . . . “No, I don’t think you could have hurt him.”

T.C. released a long breath. The relief on his face was visible. “So where were you?”

“I was in Australia.”

“I know.”

“You know? How could you have—”

“I have my sources,” he explained.

“T.C.,” she said slowly, “do you think David was murdered?”

His simple answer tore a hole through her heart. “Yes.”

She felt his words dry up her throat. “Did you kill my husband?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

T.C. shrugged. He crossed the room and glanced out the window. “I don’t know. Yet.”

“Yet? You mean you’re close to finding out?”

“I was a lot closer before you started stumbling around Australia.”

“How did you know about that?” Laura asked again.

“Come on, Laura,” he began. “Open your eyes and take a look around. You’re playing in the big leagues now. Do you think I’m the only one who knew about your trip? Do you think that whoever broke into your place was an amateur?”

“So how did you find out?” she insisted.

“Believe me,” he said, “it was no problem for me, and more important, it was no problem for them. You’re out of your league here, Laura. Stop playing games and tell me what you learned over there.”

Laura stared at him for a brief moment and then everything spilled out all at once. She did not hold anything back. If T.C. had killed David, then she did not care what else happened. Et tu, Brute? But he had not killed David. She was sure of it. He had loved David. No one was that good of an actor. Laura might have been burned by Stan, but she had known T.C. for years, had seen him interact with David under all kinds of circumstances. No, there was no way he could hurt David. His strange behavior was clearly a case of him trying to protect her from something—not because he was trying to cover up a murder plot.

And God, it felt good to trust him again. It felt good to let it all out, to share her secrets and fears, to once again be able to lean ever so slightly on him.

When she finished speaking, Laura handed T.C. the ring she found under the pillow.

“Did you show this to Sleepy or Joe?” T.C. asked.

She shook her head. “I was going to, but I wasn’t sure I should. What does it mean, T.C.? What’s going on here?”

T.C. stubbed out his cigar, picked at the ashes with the end of a used match, and sat down. He examined the ring like a jeweler pricing a diamond. “There are things,” he began, “I didn’t want to tell you—things you’re better off not knowing.”

“Like what?”

“Please, Laura, just let it rest.”

“Why didn’t you tell me David was murdered?”

“I was just looking out for your welfare.”

“How? By coddling me? By lying to me?”

“By protecting you,” he corrected. “Laura, look what these people have pulled off. Christ, they even timed your return to the apartment. And what good would telling you have done? You’ve already put your life in jeopardy, and now you’ve chased away the killer. I wanted them to think they were in the clear. It makes them careless.”

“What are you saying?”

“Stay out.”

Laura’s voice was nearly a whisper. “I can’t.”

“For your sake.”

“I don’t care—”

“About yourself?” T.C. interrupted. “Well, David would. David wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. He loved you, Laura. He made me promise to watch out for you.”

Laura closed her eyes, trying to silence him by turning away.

“And what about your family?” he continued. “Are you willing to put them in danger, too?”

Laura remembered the note taped to the television. “Do you really think the killer would . . . ?”

“Go after them? These guys play for keeps, Laura. They kill people as easily as they say hello.”

“But why? Why did they kill David?”

T.C. thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Laura. But I intend to find, out.”

GRAHAM Rowe clicked on the fan. Damn, it was hot. Living in Palm’s Cove, you get used to hot, but today was one for the record books. The humidity was thick enough to coat your skin.

He sat back in the chair and glanced around the office. There was paperwork to do, and Graham hated paperwork. He glanced at his guns, the empty cell, anything, as long as it would help him avoid doing that damn paperwork for another minute and a half.

He felt sticky, his shirt pasted to his skin. He pulled the front of it away from his body for a second and then let it drop back. Yuck. He was in desperate need of a shower. Maybe he should run home and quickly shower and change. That would make him feel better. Then he could come right back and be ready to really get down and do the entire week’s paperwork with no worries. Yes, that was what he should do. No worries.

He started to rise, stopped, sat back down, smiled. You are one major procrastinator, Sheriff Rowe. You should be ashamed of yourself—trying to sneak out of here like that to shower and change clothes. You know very well that in this friggin’ heat your fresh clothes will be as sopped as these before you finish the walk back to the car.

With a sigh, he reached for the stack of fishing licenses. He began to thumb through them when the phone rang.

“Sheriff’s Office.”

“Graham? Is that you?”

Graham recognized Gina Cassler’s voice immediately. “How’s it going, Gina?”

“Answering your own phone, Graham?”

“This isn’t a hotel, luv. I don’t have a receptionist. What’s up?”

“We should have the passport cards in another day or so,” Gina began, “but my nephew came through already. I have the phone bills right here.”

The sheriff felt a jolt of excitement race through him. “Any calls to America late that night?”

“Yes,” she answered. “And they were made from the lobby phone at right about the time you expected.”