“You have to. In case she calls.”
“She’s not gonna call,” Travis said flatly. “We both know it.”
“You—”
“I’ve got to find her.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Me.”
“Leave it to the professionals.”
“Who? Mutt and Jeff out there?” He hitched his chin toward the two FBI agents. “They’re convinced she’s a runaway and I know in my gut that she’s not.” He didn’t mention that he was a licensed PI, that he knew the ropes. Carter already knew that.
The sheriff seemed about to argue. Instead he nodded curtly. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he advised, dark eyes focusing hard on Travis.
“I won’t.”
Carter’s cell phone trilled. He answered quickly and for a second Travis experienced that same incredible jolt of hope, his anxious mind grabbing on to the slim chance that it was news of Dani, that she was all right, that…
Carter’s face told him all he needed to know. Listening intently, the sheriff gave a quick shake of his head. Travis’s hopes melted like ice in the desert. It was no use. They weren’t going to hear anything. And anyway, they were wrapped up in Blanche Johnson’s murder.
Without another look at Carter, he started for the back bedroom, his room, the one he’d shared with Ella, and in his mind’s eye he was already packing. And he knew where he’d start looking for Dani, a lead he’d given the police that they were “looking into.”
Well, he’d do more than take a peek; he’d scrutinize the hell out of the one person he’d feared all of Dani’s life: her birth mother, a woman he’d kept track of all these years, a woman he knew was far from being a saint. In fact, she’d literally gotten away with murder a while back. He’d read about it, and knowing her name, knowing who she was, he hadn’t been able to resist seeing her in person.
He’d been in San Francisco on a job, tracking down a deadbeat dad for a client, so he’d decided to make a quick side trip to Santa Lucia. He, like the press, had camped out near the courthouse steps. Reporters wielding microphones and cameras like artillery had been situated strategically. Curious onlookers had huddled together under the trees. It had been early spring, light from a lazy sun sending rays through the leafy trees, guarding the plaza and dappling the ground.
Travis had found a madrona tree and leaned against the peeling bark of the bole. Soon after five o’clock the crowd began to stir and he’d moved for a closer look. The courthouse doors opened and he saw her, the accused, looking much smaller than he’d expected. She’d been dressed in a conservative navy blue s
uit that Travis suspected the law firm had chosen, and she’d been flanked by several broad-shouldered men, her brothers, Travis had guessed, noting the family resemblance. Along with the brothers, an older man—with a shock of white hair, black-framed glasses and a pinched expression—had also been with her. Travis had guessed him to be Shannon’s attorney. His expensive-looking briefcase and impeccable gray suit, tightly knotted blue silk tie and starched white shirt had all screamed “legal eagle.”
The men had shepherded her down the steps and toward a parking lot adjacent to the marble-faced building. Shannon Flannery had managed to hold her head high, her little chin thrust out, her eyes shielded behind dark glasses. With her entourage around her as if she was some kind of damned celebrity, she’d headed toward the cars and hadn’t paused for a comment to the throng of reporters.
The cameras had rolled, microphones had been jabbed closer, questions hurled from the reporters.
“Ms. Flannery, do you plan to take the stand in your defense?” one tall blond woman had shouted as she’d motioned to her cameraman to get a specific shot.
Another voice, male this time, had yelled, “Ms. Flannery, you claim to be innocent and yet your attorney has brought up allegations of abuse, which sounds like a defense against the charges, as if you were involved in the death of your husband.”
“What about the fact that you have no alibi?” a younger man, with a thick red moustache and a face flushed with excitement, had asked. He’d been standing near Travis and had acted as if he was about to get the story of his lifetime. An image of wolves circling a wounded deer had come to Travis’s mind. “People wonder what you were doing on the night your husband was killed,” the man said.
Shannon had stiffened, then slowly turned, her gaze behind those shaded lenses zeroing in on the eager reporter. She shoved the glasses to the top of her head to hold her curling auburn hair away from her face. And it was a beautiful face with bold but even features. Her eyes, deep-set and a startling shade of green, had narrowed between a sweep of thick, dark lashes. Sharply arched brows had been nearly mocking and her lips, soft and pink, were a knife blade of quiet, suppressed fury. Despite the warning hand her lawyer placed over her arm, she responded. “No comment,” she said slowly and clearly, as if everyone around her were either deaf or stupid. Her eyes, sparking with intelligence, landed unerringly on the reporter standing near Travis.
“But where were you that night?” the man asked again, unbowed.
The lawyer whispered something in Shannon’s ear, but she didn’t pay him any attention. “No comment,” she repeated.
As she ducked down to climb into the waiting car, her gaze shifted to Travis. As if she’d intentionally picked him out of the crowd.
It had probably been his imagination, but the sounds of the street, the reporters, the traffic, the pigeons on the square—all had seemed to hush.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled in apprehension and he felt as if bands had suddenly tightened over his lungs.
He’d been startled at what he’d seen in her expression—pain, worry, and something else, a flash of determination that had cut him to the quick. This woman was no stranger to agony. But neither did she seem to be a half-crazed woman who had snapped and killed her husband. Shannon Flannery seemed to know exactly what she was doing at all times.
She seemed steadfast and sure.
Capable of murder?
Maybe.