Page 3 of Gage
At his words, it felt like a weight lifted from her shoulders. For the first time since this whole fiasco started, someone actually believed she was telling the truth, that she hadn’t murdered her husband in cold blood.
“Thank you. You’ll help me, then, prove I didn’t kill Steven?”
“As long as it’s understood, whatever evidence I find will be turned over to the authorities. I’ll be looking for anything that might clear you of the alleged crime. But—and I want to make this abundantly clear—if what I find shows you are guilty, that will be given to the police and the district attorney to use toward prosecution. I’ll take the case, as long as you understand that I won’t be playing favorites, and I won’t bury anything I find thatmight incriminate you. If you are guilty, tell me now. Don’t waste my time, because I will bury you if you lie to me.”
“I would expect nothing less, Mr. Newsome.”
Gage stood and walked around the table, holding his hand out to her. She stared at it for the longest time, knowing once she slipped her hand into his, there’d be no turning back. For better or worse she’d be inexplicably tied to this man—this stranger. It was a matter of trust. Could she trust him? Should she trust him? The only thing she knew about him was what Brandon had told her, and that had been precious little.
With an inaudible sigh, she placed her hand in his, knowing with that simple action her fate was sealed.
“We have a deal.”
CHAPTER TWO
Gage toed offhis shoes before settling in against the headboard of the hotel room’s bed. He pulled his laptop across his lap and opened the lid, watching the screensaver pop up and smiled. Nobody else except a Boudreau would recognize the photo, but it gave him a warm feeling inside every time he saw it. A picture of the Boudreau ranch’s Big House dominated the screen, its white paint, green shutters, and sprawling front porch a welcome sight. Knowing that his favorite people resided in the charming two-story home made it a special place.
With a sigh he moved his finger across the mouse trackpad, pulling open the folder he’d labeled with Suzanna Dawkins’ name. Inside were the sparse notes Brandon “Bogey” McKinney sent over before his meeting with the pretty blonde. He’d noted her husband had been stabbed thirty-seven times in the torso and neck. What the elusive Mrs. Dawkins hadn’t mentioned was Steven Dawkins’ throat had been slit from ear-to-ear, severing the carotid arteries. That would have been a lot of blood, which would have been impossible to miss.
How was it possible she’d slept through an attack that violent? It didn’t seem feasible. He’d seem people stabbed before. They almost always fought back, struggled against their attacker or assailant. It made her claim of hearing or seeing nothing suspect.
Googling newspaper articles on Steven Dawkins’ death didn’t reveal much new information. They were too busy trying tosensationalize the “Black Widow” than to report facts, though he was able to find out a few things.
Suzanna Covington had married Steven Dawkins six years earlier after what the press called a whirlwind courtship. They’d met at a charity gala, raising money and awareness for abuse victims and survivors of traumatic events. Dawkins had donated an obscenely large amount of money. Suzanna had been the daughter of the hostess of the event, a woman named Janelle Covington. Looking at the photos, Gage didn’t note much of a likeness between mother and daughter. Janelle’s hair was dark and elegantly styled in an up do and her brown eyes appeared cold and emotionless in the photo. She was thin to the point of looking emaciated, and he knew many women strove for that look. He’d heard the expression quoted that you could never be too rich or too thin. Janelle took that saying to the extreme. Suzanna, on the other hand, was beautiful in a more natural way. Her long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves, the lights from the chandeliers giving it a golden glow, and it almost looked like a halo. Golden amber eyes sparkled with life, and her lips were curved up in a happy smile.
Reading further, he realized why mother and daughter didn’t resemble each other—Sabrina was the stepmother.
Another thing prickled at the back of his mind. Bogey hadn’t mentioned how he knew Suzanna. Bogey was a Navy SEAL, married with a kid. Though he’d moved up through the ranks in the Navy, as far as Gage knew, he didn’t move in the same social circles as the Dawkins’. Another mystery he’d uncover the facts about, but later. Right now, he needed to know more about Suzanna and her deceased husband.
It was clear from the press and tabloid accounts of the murder, they’d pretty much tried and convicted Suzanna in the court of public opinion. And on the surface, who wouldn’t? Dead husband with multiple stab wounds and a slit throat, in bed witha wife who claims to have heard or seen nothing. On those facts alone, she looked guilty as original sin.
Still, something feltoffabout the whole story. On talking with her, Suzanna seemed like an intelligent woman. If she’d been planning to murder her husband, she’d have come up with a better and more plausible alibi. Probably a more efficient and bloodless way of getting rid of him too. Nope, things were too cut and dried for his liking. Suspicious by nature, Gage didn’t like the way the facts were all neatly stacked against the widow. Too neatly.
Unfortunately, all of this happened in Dallas, which was a big city with big city problems and big city cops. The kind who wouldn’t take kindly to somebody with the CIA asking questions about one of their cases. Not without a good reason. And the only reason Gage had was he didn’t believe Suzanna guilty.
Too bad this hadn’t happened in Shiloh Springs. There’d be no covering up anything there, no stonewalling behind mountains of paperwork or waiting for subpoenas. He grinned, imaging Rafe and Chance’s faces if he strolled in asking about a case like Suzanna’s.
Picking up his cell, he phoned a friend he’d worked with at the Agency, now retired and living in Plano, Texas. While it wasn’t Dallas County, he’d bet Chet would know somebody in the Dallas Police Department he could ask a few questions of, or who could point him to the detectives working the case. Maybe put in a good word, so they wouldn’t see his poking around as stepping on their toes.
“Gage? Why are you calling me at this time of the night? Somebody die?”
“Sorry, Chet. I’m working a case and didn’t check the time. How’ve you been?”
He heard a couple of grunts, knew Chet was probably shifting around in the bed. Glancing at the time on the corner of thelaptop screen, he winced. He’d really had no idea it was so late, or early depending on your point of view.
“Hang on a sec. Gonna take things out to the kitchen, so I don’t wake Charlene. She’s gotta be at school extra early. The kids are putting on some kind of program or skit or whatever it is that kindergarteners do to impress their parents, and she’s dealing with a ton of extra work. I do not want to get between her and her sleep.”
Gage heard the soft snick of a door closing, and then a loud grunt followed by a string of curses.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Hit my doggone foot on the bottom stair. I swear little toes are only good for one thing, and that’s catching on every bleeping piece of furniture they come close too.”
“Sorry, buddy.”
“It’s okay. Now, tell me why you’re calling me. It’s been a while.”
“It has, hasn’t it? I’ve been asked by a friend to look into a case off the books. A friend of his is suspected of murder, and he’s sure she didn’t do it.”
