Confessions by Joann Ross Page A

with him.”
    â€œI can try to radio him and have him call you,” the dispatcher said obligingly.
    Mariah bit back her frustration and raked her hand through her hair. “I suppose that’ll have to do.”
    â€œWhen I do track Trace down, want me to give him a message?”
    Mariah’s mind was still reeling from her earlier conversation with the desk clerk. “Tell him I have evidence that will prove who killed my sister.”
    Â 
    Jessica had definitely called this one right. Trace leaned both hands against the porcelain rim of the bathroom sink, grimly studied his reflection in the mirror and decided that the hollow-eyed face looking back at him was not a pretty sight.
    He looked like the head doorman at the Whiskey River drunk tank. He ran his tongue over his fuzzy teeth. Coffee and not enough sleep had left him feeling as if the Persian Gulf war had been fought inside his mouth.
    After brushing, he gargled with cinnamon-flavored mouthwash. While waiting for the water to warm in the shower, he stripped, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.
    When clouds of steam began fogging the glass door, he stepped into the stall, soaped down, shaved, then leaned his head against the brown-and-cream tiled wall. He thought back on the autopsy which had left him with more questions than answers and fell asleep. Standing up.
    A sudden jolt of icy water woke him. Trace cursed, twisted the faucets shut, then shook himself off like a dog who’d just had a hose turned on him. Making a few halfhearted swipes at his wet body with a towel, he went into the bedroom and surveyed his closet.
    The uniform he’d been given the first day on the job was still in its plastic dry cleaner’s bag. Trace had never worn it, knowing that the khaki symbol of authority J.D. so obviously relished would make him feel like he was six years old again, playing cops and robbers on south Dallas’s mean streets.
    Back in his old neighborhood, there’d admittedly been a lot more kids who’d wanted to be the robbers. Trace decided things hadn’t changed all that much. The onlydifference was that these days, instead of cap pistols, kids were packing real guns.
    The blue suit he used to wear to testify in court hung in a similar plastic bag beside the uniform. Though it looked presentable on TV, it was definitely overkill for Whiskey River.
    Opting for the middle ground, jeans and a sport coat, he’d just finished dressing when the phone rang. “Callahan.”
    â€œHasn’t your office gotten hold of you yet?”
    Trace dragged a hand down his face. All he needed was an amateur sleuth trying to solve his crime. “Yes, Ms. Swann.”
    â€œYou haven’t called back.”
    â€œI’ve been a little busy. I spent the last two hours attending an autopsy.” He did not mention stopping by the Garvey ranch and learning from a hired hand that the rancher had ridden off into the hills around dawn.
    â€œWhat time did Alan say he arrived home?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause Heather Martin checked into the Lakeside Lodge at ten o’clock last night.” Her tone was smug.
    He rubbed his hands over his face again. “Okay. I’ll bite.” His words were muffled by his palms. “Who’s Heather Martin?”
    â€œHis so-called chief of staff. Although mistress is probably a better job description. Room service sent up a bottle of Chivas and two glasses at ten-oh-five. Alan was seen leaving the lodge at midnight. So what time did he tell you he got to the ranch?”
    â€œI can’t answer that. Not while—”
    â€œThere’s an ongoing investigation,” she finished up for him. “Shit. I’ve probably written that line myself a hundred times.”
    â€œThen you should know it by heart.”
    â€œAre you always this sarcastic, Sheriff? Or do I just bring out the worst in you?”
    He silently admitted he wasn’t going to