Silent Reckoning

“No, thank you.”

He indicated the sofa and I sat. He settled into a leather chair directly across from me.

How can I help you?

That he didn’t prod some more for the client’s name alerted me to his nervousness and the possibility that he already knew.

“I’m sure you remember a client who came to you a few months ago named Mallory Wells.” This was a statement, not a question. I didn’t want to give him an easy out. I wanted him to worry about just how much I knew.

He took his time answering. Most of that time he used to arrange his expression into a thoroughly un-readable one. But he didn’t accomplish that before I picked up on surprise and then a moment of horror that wilted into remorse. He hadn’t known she was dead. He felt sick at the idea.

Both of those things helped lower his ranking on my suspect scale.

But I didn’t mention that to him. Let him sweat.

Yes. He moistened his lips. His posture grew considerably more rigid. I knew her quite well, as a matter of fact.

“It’s my understanding the two of you were involved in an intimate relationship,” I said bluntly. Now this is a tactic known in cop world, or in poker, as bluffing. You take rumor and innuendo, or maybe a wild guess, and formulate a theory. In other words, you lie. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

He blinked. I wouldn’t call our relationship intimate, he hedged.

This time it worked.

“What would you call it?” I pressed. I wanted to ask him the most personal questions while the shock was still new.

It was intense but mostly about business.

“But you knew her in the biblical sense.” Another statement of presumed fact that would amp up his discomfort.

We slept together once, he insisted without meeting my eyes. That was the only time.

So far so good. That he admitted having had sex with her surprised me. I wondered if he assumed I had evidence to back up my assessment. Apparently. “Did you part on bad terms?” I stayed clear of specific adjectives on this point. I didn’t want to lead him, I just wanted to prompt him.

He gave a halfhearted shrug. I suppose you could say that. She wanted more than I could give her.

I found Mr. Lane’s honesty refreshing. He was either totally innocent or completely stupid.

“Love?” I suggested.

He shook his head. Nothing like that. She wanted to be a star. He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before meeting my gaze once more. That wasn’t going to happen. She was a nice girl and I liked her, but she wasn’t star material.

The worst kind of heartache. In my experience with the entertainment business, a guy could break a girl’s heart and she would get over it, but having him doubt her ability to become a star, well, that was a whole other epic struggle.

“How did she take it?”

Not well. She egged my Bentley.

Poor guy. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Then she spread rumors about me to my friends.

“Rumors?” My curiosity piqued again. This could be significant. Maybe she got involved with the wrong people in an effort to get back at Lane.

That I was gay. He made one of those faces that said he was mortified and very nearly mortally wounded. I can’t believe she would do that. We may have had only one night but she had to know.

That her final hours had been spent engaged in violent sex flitted through my mind. A scorned man might very well see that as the perfect revenge.

“When did you last see her, Mr. Lane?” I purposely made my voice accusing. I wanted him to squirm some more.

He shifted in his chair. Excellent.

Let me see. Another shift of position. Perhaps two weeks ago. There was a party. He waved a hand. You know the type, where everyone who’s anyone makes an appearance.

Yeah, I knew the type. I’d been to a couple myself. Before. But that was another story. Another life. Definitely not anything I wanted to dwell on today.

Mallory had too much to drink, as usual, he went on. She completely embarrassed herself.

“Who was she with at this party?” That information could be very useful. Could give me a contact who’d had more recent dealings with the victim.

His brow furrowed in concentration. Jones. He scrubbed his hand over his chin. The new guy making all the circuits. I haven’t had the pleasure of working with him. TriStar got him.

Rafe Jones. Young. Gorgeous. A little wild, according to the gossip rags. A rising star, according to country-music gurus. He had that controversial country-rap style down to a personal style that appeared to suit his sexy persona.

TriStar was another music video company in Nashville. The biggest, actually. A new company that had breezed into town three years ago and knocked the old-timers out of the top spot. Most likely made a few enemies in the process.

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill Miss Wells?”

He thought about my question for a time then shook his head. Not really. She could be cloying but she wasn’t a bad girl. And it wasn’t that she lacked talent, she simply didn’t have that star quality. The club circuit was the best she could ever hope for.

“Like Reba Harrison?”

This question startled him all over again.

“She was one of your clients, as well,” I went on. “Did the two of you have a physical relationship?”

No. Strictly business. She hadn’t been my client in almost a year. And you’re wrong—she had real talent.

That might be true but he was not telling me everything. The way he kept his eyes averted and allowed his hands to fidget told the tale.

“She had been invited to play the Wild Horse.”

Yes, I know. He met my gaze briefly. Her death was quite a shame.

I found it surprising that he would know her agenda if they’d no longer had a business relationship. “You keep up with who’s playing at the Wild Horse?”

He looked surprised at the question but quickly recovered. Detective Walters, I keep up with everything related to this business. It’s what I do.

Okay, I guess his answer wasn’t as surprising as I’d thought.