Confessions Read Online Free Page A

now that the life had drained out of it, rather than notice that her fingers were long and slender, he took note of the blood on the fingertips of her left hand—which gave evidence that she’d been aware of being attacked—and wondered why it was that the senator’s dead wife wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
    J.D. had been right. There was nothing they could do for Laura Fletcher now. Except find her killer.
    He took a notebook from his pocket and quickly sketched the position of the body, the bed, the rest of the crime scene. Then he went back downstairs and repeated the process in the den.
    The paramedics had stabilized the senator and had him lying on a gurney, ready to wheel him out to the waiting ambulance.
    â€œYou taking him to Payson Hospital?”
    â€œThat’s the plan,” the paramedic answered. “His wound isn’t critical enough for air evac.”
    â€œI’ll follow you.”
    â€œWhat about Laura?” Alan Fletcher groaned. “Is she—”
    â€œDon’t worry about her right now,” the paramedic broke in, exchanging a look with Trace. The senator’s color wasn’t good and the way he kept going in and out of consciousness suggested that he could go into shock. This wasn’t the time to tell the man his wife was dead. “Just worry about yourself, Senator.”
    Trace followed them out. “Find anything?” he asked his deputy.
    â€œNo sign of false entry. But you’re right about the footprints. Got a real good set coming from the driveway. Tire tracks, too.”
    â€œGood.” Trace nodded. “I’m going to call DPS and have them send over their crime lab guys.”
    J.D.’s eyes widened at the idea of involving the state Department of Public Safety. “You’re bringing outsiders in?”
    â€œI don’t have much choice,” Trace pointed out. “The average high school chem class probably has more equipment than we do. This is going to be a high-profile case. I want to make sure there aren’t any mistakes made.”
    â€œBen isn’t going to like this,” J.D. warned.
    Ben Loftin. A lifelong resident of Whiskey River, cousin to the mayor, a fifteen-year deputy and the man who’d expected to be promoted to sheriff. From his first day on the job, Trace had suspected Loftin was also one of those redneck bullies who gave cops—especially those in small towns—a bad name.
    â€œBen Loftin isn’t sheriff,” Trace reminded his deputy gruffly. “I’m going into Payson with the senator. I want you to lock this place up tight and don’t let anyone in until the medical examiner and the crime lab guys get here.”
    â€œEven Ben?”
    â€œEspecially Loftin,” Trace stressed. “From what I’ve seen of the guy, his investigative skills would make Barney Fife look like Columbo.”
    J.D. began to laugh, then choked it off when one look at his boss’s rigid face told him the comparison hadn’t been meant as a joke. “I’ve got the tape in the trunk of the black-and-white,” he said. “I’ll cordon off the perimeter.”
    Once again the deputy’s eagerness reminded Trace of himself and made him feel about as old as dirt. The near-fatal shooting that had taken his partner’s life had left Trace with scars—both physical and mental—that he figured he’d carry for the rest of his life.
    â€œYou do that. I’ll check in after I neutron the Senator.” J.D.’s eyes widened. “You’re going to test the senator for gunpowder residue?”
    â€œHe was at the scene of a murder.”
    â€œBut he was shot.”
    â€œSo was his wife. His dead wife,” Trace said patiently.
    â€œBut he’s a senator.”
    â€œAnd we’re cops. With a job to do. Which includes checking out all possible suspects.”
    â€œChrist, the shit’s really going to hit the