Wednesday, October 16
4:30 P.M.
Dallas, Texas
DUTCH LED THEM up the massive staircase, down several corridors, and into a far wing of the Worthington Mansion. When he pushed open a door marked Presidential Suite, an unexpected gust of hot air and a rancid odor hit Caitlin in the face.
Sheridan crossed to the window and closed it. “Been airing the place out. Stank something awful in here.”
Death’s putrid smell laced itself through her stomach and cinched tight.
“Mrs. Langhorne expelled her bowels when she was killed.” Then, as if Caitlin wasn’t aware, he added, “That’s not unusual.”
She nodded, only half-listening. Her gaze had been immediately drawn to a wooden, four-poster bed frame—the mattress was missing. In spite of the heat, she shivered, as though a ghost had just walked across her grave.
“The body was posed. When I arrived on scene, Mrs. Langhorne was spread-eagle naked in a pool of her own blood and feces. And this one”—he jabbed a finger at Dutch—“was hanging out in that recliner over there, gawking at his wife’s body. Didn’t bother to cover her up.”
“It was a crime scene,” Spense offered.
A glazed look came over Dutch’s eyes. “That’s right. I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene.”
“Uh-huh. And what the hell were you doing in here if not murdering your unfaithful wife?” Sheridan asked.
“By midnight, I suspected something was wrong. So I came upstairs and checked every room on the second floor. They were all locked, except this one.”
“Your wife’s gone missing from a party for two hours, and you finally get around to checking on her,” Sheridan said.
“We’d agreed to meet before midnight. I had no idea she was in danger.”
“I’d think most men would want to keep a better eye on the little woman.”
Sheridan’s body language and tone set Caitlin’s teeth on edge. Assumptions might be necessary from time to time to move forward with a case, but made prematurely, they became a dangerous enemy of the truth.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t live my life by most men’s rules. And definitely not by yours.”
“Don’t care if you do or you don’t, not even a hair on a rat’s ass—as you put it before. But a jury . . . now they just might. So you weren’t in any hurry to check up on Cindy, and once you found the body, you claim you took yourself a seat and did nothing. For a solid hour. What took you so long to call for help?”
Dutch shrugged.
Caitlin could see him slipping backward into shutdown mode. “I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like for you, Dutch, but this is important. What were you doing from the time you found your wife’s body, around midnight, until the time you called 911?”
“At one o’clock in the morning.” Sheridan held out the recorder.
“I guess I was in shock.”
“I guess so. I mean your wife is laid out naked on the bed with a bullet in her chest and her legs wide open.” Sheridan stroked an imaginary goatee. “Or maybe, you spent that time staging the scene to make it look like some whack job did it, then got rid of the gun.”
“You took a BlueView of my hands. Swabbed me yourself. You know there was no gunshot residue on them. I wasn’t destroying evidence. I was in shock.”
That’s it, Dutch. Fight back.
“Thanks for reminding me about the lack of gunpowder on your hands. Of course, a member of law enforcement, a special agent such as yourself, would’ve washed off the residue and gotten rid of the murder weapon before calling for help. Don’t you agree?”
“If I were guilty, yes, I would’ve done those things—and a hell of a lot more. I would’ve created an alibi, for example.”
“Crime of impulse. You didn’t plan it ahead, so you couldn’t manage the alibi. But after the fact, your training kicked in. You posed the body. Wrote the word SLUT in all caps—that was a nice touch, I gotta say—on your wife’s forehead with her lipstick, got rid of the gun . . . somehow . . . and then washed your hands.”
“How did he get a gun inside if the murder wasn’t premediated?” Caitlin challenged.
“Security must’ve been tight since Cambridge was the guest of honor. That would mean the gun would’ve had to have been planted beforehand. Ergo, the crime was premeditated, and Agent Langhorne would’ve created an alibi for himself.”
“He’s a federal agent and a family friend of the Cambridges. You think the governor’s boys checked him for heat? He just swaggered in the door with his off-duty carry. Doesn’t mean it was or was not premeditated.”
“Did you bring your off-duty with you?” Spense asked.
It would be easy enough to verify if he’d passed through security, Caitlin thought.
“No. At a function like this, no reason to complicate things by bringing a gun,” Dutch answered. “There was a metal detector at the front entrance, but neither Cindy nor I walked through it. We came early to help Heather, and it wasn’t set up at the time.”
“Seems strange to me you weren’t carrying, considering the nature of the function. What if there had been trouble?”
“I didn’t bring my pistol because Cindy asked me not to. She hates guns, and I try not to carry them when she’s with me unless it’s really necessary.”
“Which is it? You didn’t bring a weapon because you didn’t want to complicate things, or because your wife didn’t want you to? Or are you lying? Here’s what I think: You brought it. You used it, then you got rid of it.”
Spense sat down in the recliner that was positioned a few feet from the bedframe. He rocked his head back and stretched out his legs. “Anyone move this recliner?”
All eyes turned to Spense.
“No,” Sheridan said, after appearing to think on it a minute.
“It’s facing the door, not the bed.”
“So what?”
Something clicked into place in her head. She saw the look on Spense’s face and knew they were on the same page. Spense bolted to his feet. “So Agent Langhorne couldn’t have been gawking at his wife’s body if the chair was facing the door.”
“Make your point.”
“He was lying in wait in case the killer returned to the scene of the crime. That’s why he didn’t call the police. Once he realized Cindy was dead, and there was no bringing her back, he wanted to take care of the killer on his own.”
Dutch’s face colored. Spense had hit it right.
“Who’s to say your boy didn’t shoot her, then lie in wait for the lover?” Sheridan asked. “He’s a cold-blooded killer, any way you slice it.”
“Wouldn’t you have waited for the murderer—if it had been someone you loved?” Spense asked Sheridan.
A chill ran down Caitlin’s spine—because she understood exactly what Spense was saying: that he would have been lying in wait, ready to take his revenge with his bare hands. Her head went light, and she grabbed the bedpost to steady herself. The long plane ride, the lingering smell of death, the heat—it was all getting to her.
And she couldn’t stop picturing Cindy. Images flashed in her head, alternating between Cindy headed up the stairs in her beautiful gown and Cindy lying naked and bloodied on the bed. She peeled her hand off the post. The crime scene was talking to her, and she had to listen, whether she wanted to or not, for Cindy’s sake. The answers, at least some of them, were right here in this room.
“No one heard the shot?” she asked. “If the killer used a silencer, we’re back to premeditation.”
“No silencer. At least we don’t think so. The presidential suite is far away from the ballroom, and several guests claim they heard a car backfire shortly after ten o’clock. Our theory is that given the remote location of the room, the band music—possibly even crashing cymbals—the sound of the single gunshot was covered well enough for it to be passed off as incidental. But I like the way you’re thinking.” Sheridan handed her a set of crime-scene photos. “Captain asked me to share these with you two—no harm to the case since your boy was present when they were taken anyway.”
He’d had them all along and was just now handing them over despite his captain’s instructions. She could tell by his reluctance and his tone he thought Dutch was getting special consideration because of his law-enforcement status—and in truth, he was right. Otherwise, Sheridan wouldn’t be discussing the case with them at all. She took a seat in the recliner Spense had vacated to view the photos. “Blood spatter on the headboard and the spread. Looks like she was shot on the bed itself. Not placed there after.”
Sheridan nodded. “We believe the victim went upstairs to meet her lover, not the governor. We think she got undressed and lay on the bed, waiting for this mystery man. But her husband followed her upstairs. He waited a few minutes, then burst in and found her naked. He shot her, then, in a fit of rage, he grabbed the scissors from the desk, and shredded the dress that she’d hung in the closet.” Sheridan walked to Caitlin’s side and indicated a photo of Cindy’s designer gown, the shoulders still attached to a hanger, the delicate chiffon skirt shredded to bits.
Dutch’s face turned a color that made Caitlin think of the sky just before an impending storm. It was hard to say if his sudden emotion was because the sight of the dress reminded him of his loss or because Sheridan’s blatant accusation infuriated him the way it did her.
Spense pulled out a notebook. Caitlin was glad of it, because that meant he’d handle the notes, and she could concentrate on the scene and the behavioral clues the killer, and the victim, had left behind.
Talk to me. I’m listening.
“I assume you’ve verified the governor’s whereabouts at the time of the shooting with his protective detail? How many men did he bring with him? What kind of advance scouting was done for the mansion?” Spense had his pen poised and ready.
“We did verify his whereabouts. Unlike Langhorne, Cambridge has an alibi, and an airtight one. The security detail stated he never left the first floor during the entire fund-raiser.”
“And Mrs. Cambridge?”
“Her guard states she was occupied downstairs with guests all evening.”
“You think the security detail’s word is ironclad, even though, I’m sure, some have been with the governor for years and might be extremely loyal.”
“Actually, that’s not an issue, unlikely though it would’ve been in the first place if you’re suggesting that the governor’s men would cover for him. Cambridge left his usual protective detail in Austin. He requested Dallas DPS officers, specially trained to assist with visiting VIPs, for security. They did a sweep of the mansion beforehand and were posted at the front and rear exits. Cambridge did bring a personal guard—who shadowed his wife the entire evening—but left the rest of the detail behind at the capital in favor of utilizing local resources.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Spense asked.
“No idea,” Sheridan said. “Not my place to ask.”
Caitlin had a thought. “Matt Cambridge is running for president. I’m guessing he didn’t want the press to accuse him of gouging public funds for his protective detail while he was in Dallas for campaign purposes. It costs more to travel with a detail than to assemble one locally. That way, you avoid hotel and airfare expenses.”
“See your point, but let’s get back on track.” Sheridan waved his hand dismissively.
“Okay, under your theory, why did Agent Langhorne follow his wife upstairs? It seems outrageous for him to suspect she’d meet her lover at a fund-raising ball. Too public.” She stuck her finger in the air and turned to Spense. “And remind me, I want to come back to something very important we haven’t yet touched on.”
Sheridan hesitated, looking from Dutch to Spense and back again. “At the risk of getting my teeth rearranged, Dr. Cassidy, I’ll take a stab at that one. Cindy Langhorne thrived on notoriety. We’ve interviewed her best friend, Mrs. Cambridge, at length, and we have reason to believe Cindy wouldn’t have minded getting caught with her pants down. She wanted her husband to notice her.
“So maybe she let him overhear her making plans on the phone. Or perhaps he had her under surveillance. I’m not convinced by Langhorne’s no alibi is my alibi gambit. I think this thing could have been meticulously planned out—a murder in the middle of a society event—by someone cold and calculating and intelligent, someone who knew the venue, knew the plans, and had the skill set to pull off something like this.” He cracked his knuckles with finality. “Someone like Agent Langhorne.”
“If Cindy was fleeing the room, trying to escape an enraged husband, she would’ve been shot in the back, not straight through the heart,” Caitlin rushed in before Spense or Dutch could go off on Sheridan. There was something about being at a crime scene that made it easy to put herself in the victim’s place. And she simply couldn’t picture the scenario described by the detective.
“We believe he shot her from across the room, just as he walked in the door, before she even had a chance to sit up. Of course, you’d need to be quite a marksman to shoot a woman straight in the heart with one bullet from the doorway, but I understand Langhorne is champ out on the FBI shooting range.”
“Sure, the person would need to be experienced handling firearms, but come on, Detective, it’s hardly a military-grade skill to shoot an unarmed woman who’s lying on the bed, possibly with her eyes closed, from a distance of, what, twelve feet. If I’m not mistaken, plenty of Texans know their way around a firearm.”
“Not wrong about that,” Sheridan admitted.
What about my dress? The lipsticked ‘SLUT’ on my forehead? Caitlin could practically hear Cindy whispering questions in her ear.
“He shredded my dress.” Caitlin covered her mouth.
All three men shot her a questioning look. She shook her head. She was losing it. Overidentifying with Cindy in her efforts to tune in to the scene. “I meant to say the killer shredded Mrs. Langhorne’s dress. That means this was a deeply personal act. He wanted to punish her. Instead of stabbing her again and again and again, he took the scissors to her dress, over and over and over. Whoever killed Mrs. Langhorne intended to shame her, that’s why he posed her like that for the world to see.”
Spense nodded. “More evidence of crime-scene precautions. This might or might not have been premeditated, but it was certainly cunning. Had the killer taken out his anger on the body, he would’ve been covered in blood and unable to escape detection for the duration of the party. By stabbing the dress, he gets to vent his rage but keeps his hands, and his clothes, clean.”
Her throat closed at the idea of a crime so calculated and cold. This was no ordinary killer. This was someone capable of exerting extreme control to avoid detection. Her eyes fell on Dutch. He certainly had both the intelligence and the discipline to pull something like this off. But . . . all she could think about was protecting him. She had to believe in him . . . for Cindy.
Closing her eyes, she imagined herself lying on the bed, half-conscious, with the lifeblood seeping from her. Hatred shrouded the room as the attacker ripped up her dress.
Woosh woosh woosh.
She heard the sound of fabric tearing.
“Now everyone will know what you really are,” the killer whispered in her ear.
Something oily traced her forehead. She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t see her assailant. So she concentrated on the letters being slicked onto her skin.
SLUT.
Caitlin’s eyes popped open. “Did you check the forehead for DNA? Lipstick can be a great transfer medium.”
“She’s right,” Spense and Dutch said in unison.
“That may be, but shit, it’s Cindy’s lipstick, so if there is DNA, transfer it’d be from her own mouth.”
“It’s not her lipstick,” Caitlin said, her heart kicking up a gear. “In the crime-scene photo, the lipstick is red, but Cindy’s lipstick that night was coral.”
“What color’s coral?” Sheridan looked around the room for help.
“Orange,” Spense said.
“Peach?” Dutch suggested.
“Then no, it wasn’t coral. Cindy Langhorne was wearing red lipstick. Check the photo of her body,” Sheridan insisted.
Sure enough, in the crime-scene photos, Cindy’s lips were scarlet—like the letters on her forehead. Even under different lighting, the pastel coral wouldn’t appear dark red. Her lipstick had been changed. “I suppose she could’ve applied different lipstick right after she went upstairs . . .”
“Cindy never wore red,” Dutch said. “She thought it made her look cheap, and as I’ve said before, she was very interested in keeping up a refined appearance. She didn’t want anyone recalling that she came from the wrong side of the tracks. I can’t help thinking that whoever did this to her must’ve known how much she’d despise being remembered this way.”
“Then the killer probably brought the lipstick with him and wiped hers off, replacing it with red,” Caitlin said.
“Like one of those serial killers who plays dress-up with his victims—paints their nails and shit. I see what you’re saying, but we got plenty of suspects”—Sheridan looked askew at Dutch—“without bringing a serial killer into this. Even if it wasn’t Langhorne, it could’ve been a jilted lover or a pissed-off wife. I just don’t buy what you’re trying to sell.”
“I’m not selling anything, Detective. I’m telling you to be sure the lipsticked forehead gets checked for DNA because it’s not Cindy’s. Take a look at the photos in the Dallas Morning Gazette, and you’ll see I’m right. Cindy Langhorne wore coral to the ball.”
As the detective pulled out his phone and searched, likely to verify that Caitlin’s memory was correct about the lipstick in the photograph from the Gazette, Spense tapped her shoulder.
“What?” she asked, still trying to shake off the creepy feeling of imaginary lipstick on her forehead.
“You said to remind you to come back to something.”
She took in a sharp breath. “Something important.” They’d talked around so many things since they’d entered the mansion, and yet somehow the subject of who Cindy’s mystery lover might be hadn’t yet been broached. “We’re all agreed Mrs. Langhorne did not meet Matthew Cambridge in this room. So, Detective, whom do you think she was expecting? You’re laying out your case that this was an illicit rendezvous, but you haven’t told us who you think her lover was.”
Sheridan’s jaw worked, and he went for the nonexistent goatee one more time. “I got no idea.”
“Did Heather Cambridge have any thoughts on the matter?” Spense asked.
“No. According to her, there was nobody at the moment. At least not that Cindy had confided to her. And Agent Langhorne maintains he doesn’t know.” He turned to Dutch. “That is still your statement, right?”
Dutch said nothing.
Caitlin searched Dutch’s eyes. “If we had that name, we’d certainly have another direction to look in this case.”
“Not your case.” Sheridan wagged his finger.
“I was using the we figuratively. Agent Spenser and I are well aware of the fact we haven’t been invited in on this thing.” She turned back to Dutch, and as she watched his face, she had the sense that he might be holding something back. Did he still want to take care of the killer on his own? She tried to meet his gaze again, but this time he looked away quickly—too quickly. What was he hiding? “Dutch, I believe you if you say you don’t know about an affair. But looking at this from a woman’s point of view, if I did have a secret lover, and I couldn’t confide in my best friend about him, I’d have to get my thoughts out somehow or other.”
Spense turned to her, his expression intrigued. “So if you couldn’t confide in your best friend, who would you talk to? A priest . . . a doctor maybe?”
“Well, I don’t know about Mrs. Langhorne, but if it were me, I’d journal it.” She smiled. She really might be onto something. “You know, like Dear Diary . . .”