"Black at Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)

Chapter 16

Wyatt Blackstone might be some famous, tough-guy FBI agent, but as far as Jesse was concerned, he was a fucking pussy.

The fed had refused to meet with him. Even now, shortly before dawn the next morning, Jesse could hardly believe it. The plan had been perfect, all laid out, and it still hadn't worked. When Jesse had called, saying he had proof Lily Fletcher was alive and gunning for him, and needed to see Wyatt in person, right away, the agent was supposed to say, "You betcha." He should have been all curious and worried, wondering how Jesse could know the blond troublemaker had survived, and why he thought she was gunning for him.

The son of a bitch had refused.

Well, he hadn't exactly said no. He'd just said there was no way he would come in person to talk to him last night. Blackstone had offered to have another agent pick Jesse up. He'd demanded to know where Jesse was, said he'd make sure he was protected. But he had absolutely hands down said there was no way he was coming out to meet him before this morning.

"Probably too busy screwing the lying bitch who's hiding in your house," he muttered sourly as he stared out the window of the dark house in which he was hiding.

Blackstone's place remained pretty quiet, though one of those dark blue sedans was parked out front. It hadn't been there last night, showing up sometime while Jesse had slept. For all he knew, the whole gang of them were in there right now, working on tracing Jesse's call to Blackstone, all ready to come at him like a gang of vigilantes.

"You're not such a genius after all, are ya?" he mumbled, staring at his cell phone and thinking of the person who'd called him on it last night. His so-called benefactor had put the whole scheme into Jesse's head, promising Blackstone could be lured out with the right bait. Once the agent was gone, off on a wild-goose chase to meet with Jesse-who had no intention of showing up-Lily Fletcher would have been alone in that house. A sitting duck. Jesse could have taken care of her and been gone again before her boyfriend ever figured out he'd been had.

No Lily to come after him for revenge. No Lily to testify against him now that Jesse's alibi was dead and gone.

Wrong. What a big screwup the entire idea had been.

Now what was he supposed to do? Just stay here in this house, waiting for a real estate agent to show it and figure out someone was flopping here and call the cops? Or leave and hang out in the old neighborhood, begging his ma to take him in, just waiting to feel Fletcher's bullet hit him right between the shoulder blades, like it had poor Will Miller?

"No way," he said aloud, wishing he had a way to call back the mysterious person who'd been helping him out. He was entirely on his own.

Well, fine, then. He'd do this on his own-he was no dummy. Frankly, now that he thought about it, the whole scheme to get Blackstone out of the house so Jesse could get to Lily seemed way over the top. As much as he would have liked the satisfaction of choking the life right out of the woman, the main thing was to keep her from getting to him.

There was one surefire way to do that. If Lily had killed Miller, the police were probably looking for her. And if she'd been hiding out, faking her own death and shit, the FBI would find her. Either one would do. Didn't really matter to him which of them picked her up and tossed her into a cell, as long as she was off the street and off his trail.

He thought about it, wondered which would have more pull to keep her ass in jail, and decided to go for her own former colleagues. Because not only did Lily deserve to get picked up, but so did that Blackstone dude. If he was hiding her, he was guilty and deserved to get in trouble with the FBI, too.

Decision made. He didn't need some anonymous voice on a phone telling him what to do. Jesse had covered his own ass more than once, and he'd do it again now. Which was why, with no hesitation whatsoever, he called information and got the number for the FBI. And after several explanations and transfers, he finally ended up getting a promise that an agent would be calling him back real soon, that he just had to be patient since it was so early on a Saturday.

Okay, he'd be patient. But this agent better call pronto, because the idea of just getting on a bus and riding until his money ran out was sounding better and better to Jesse.

He glanced at his watch. Six thirty. He'd give it till noon. Then, call or no call, he was outta here. Meaning this agent, this Tom Anspaugh, had better get to work.

Facing a long drive down to Williamsburg, Wyatt prepared to leave very early Saturday morning. He'd been distracted, quiet, and at first Lily had wondered if it was because he had regrets, not just about making love to her, but about telling her his secrets.

"Is everything okay?"

He glanced at her from across the shadowy bedroom, buttoning his shirt, slipping a jacket on over his broad shoulders. Donning the uniform that turned him from passionate lover to aloof FBI agent.

"Fine."

"You're quiet." She walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Jackie was downstairs, so she probably shouldn't, but she couldn't help it. As far as mornings after went, this situation wasn't ideal.

He seemed to know it. Crossing the room, he lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. "It's fine, Lily, I promise. I'm just focused on what I have to do, how I'm going to question Roger Underwood's widow." He leaned over and touched his mouth to hers, softly, sweetly, adding, "All I can think of is catching this guy. Making all of this go away."

As long as he meant all the bad stuff, and none of the good that had come out of it, she found that a fine idea. Unfortunately, she couldn't be sure of that. He was being tender now, but did he see her sharing that big bed with him again tonight? They were together, but that didn't mean they were some kind of "happily ever after" couple.

"Okay," she said, "good luck, and please keep in touch."

He kissed her again, lightly, not taking her in his arms. Mentally, he was already gone, back in that place where reason and intellect completely banished emotion.

She liked that about him, but as she watched him walk down the stairs and exit the house, she couldn't deny she would have liked a single whisper about what he was feeling.

Lily was no fool; she had no illusions that being Wyatt’s lover meant she had a permanent place in his life. Honestly, she didn't think he wanted anyone to have a place in his life. On his pillow for a night or two? Maybe even for a week or two? Okay. Beyond that, though, she strongly suspected Wyatt had decided years ago that he was meant to be alone. He'd flat out admitted he wasn't cut out for the marriage-family routine.

"In case you haven't noticed," she muttered, "I'm not exactly dying for that, either."

A couple of years ago? Oh, yes, she'd wanted the whole nine yards. Wanted the family she'd never had growing up, wanted to be a mom like her sister, wanted a beautiful little boy and a nice home and a life partner.

Now she just wanted life. Big and dynamic, to be lived full throttle, with an eye toward savoring, not surviving, because any day could be the final day. Love could fit into her vision of that life, even if Wyatt didn't see it in his. She might even see marriage working its way in there.

But children? Oh, no. Not ever. Not after Zach.

It was kind of funny, in an odd way. She'd found out last night that Dean Taggert was engaged to be married to his girlfriend, Stacey Rhodes. It seemed Stacey was pregnant The news had surprised her, because Lily remembered well how the other woman had felt about raising children. The female sheriff had seen some dark times, including a campus shooting spree, and she'd told Dean, already the father of a young son, that she never saw herself having children. Yet here she was, happily pregnant and engaged.

Some would tell Lily that the story was an example of why one should never say never.

"Never," she repeated, meaning it wholeheartedly, not affected by the other couple's situation at all. With everything she had seen of this world in the past few years, she would never willingly bring another soul into it. So, no, maybe she and Wyatt didn't have the radically different dreams of the future he seemed to think they did.

She and Jackie spent a quiet morning together, catching up a little, chatting about the other woman's kids and her husband. Both of them seemed to want to put off the day, as if holding the investigation at bay for another hour might make it easier to deal with when the time came. Finally, though, they could avoid it no longer. Lily asked for a half hour to shower, then promised to come back down ready to get to work.

She took a hot, steamy shower, using Wyatt's bathroom, his shampoo, his soap. She even dried off with the same towel he'd used. It still smelled of him, and she wanted to hold on to that scent.

Afterward, she dressed quickly, pulling on loose shorts and a T-shirt, knowing Jackie had been waiting patiently. Together, they were going to look through the background check the other agent had conducted on Roger Underwood. Before heading to the guest room to grab her own brush, though, Lily paused to glance at the clock. Wyatt would be in Williamsburg right now, possibly even inside the offices where Underwood had worn the normal, surgeon's face over the secret, twisted devil's maw that reflected his true self He'd somehow lived nearly fifty years disguising what he was, fooling the community and his patients, even members of his family.

Well, maybe not all the members of his family. They might have known. In fact, Wyatt seemed pretty sure his wife and sister had suspected something about the man, since they'd both lied about not recognizing the voice on the tape.

Maybe because she was in law enforcement, she couldn't understand the concept of lying to protect someone who committed such hideous acts. She'd loved her sister. But would she have covered for Laura if she had been guilty of such brutal crimes?

"No way," she whispered as she walked across the hall to the other bedroom, with the pristine, unmade bed.

But Roger Underwood's loved ones had. So what did that say about them?

"That they're all equally as twisted," she told her reflection as she pulled a brush out of her purse and yanked it through her hair. The dark strands were almost long enough to pull into a short ponytail. For now, though, she just tucked them behind her ears, not even caring about the scars about which she had once been so self-conscious. She barely even noticed them anymore, maybe because she had been healing from the inside out for so long, they'd almost become invisible to her eyes.

Taking the steps two at a time, she jogged downstairs barefoot, seeing Jackie sitting in Wyatt's dining room. The other woman didn't even look up, simply pushing a file folder across the broad, gleaming table. "Check these out. Names of every registered sex offender in the Williamsburg area. Nothing that screams a connection with Underwood, but it's a place to start."

"Maybe one of them went to him to get a face-lift and they bonded over a Cub Scout calendar," Lily said, shaking with disgust. "Gotta look youthful and handsome if you want to try to hide the fact that you're a monster."

The other woman nodded. "Judging by the number of names on that list, they could have kept Underwood's office busy all on their own for a year."

"Maybe that's why the practice is open on Saturday mornings."

That had surprised her, realizing the plastic surgery office was open today, and Wyatt wouldn't be confronting Underwood's widow at her home.

"Just as well," Jackie said. "By showing up unannounced, during business hours, when patients might be around to see and hear, Underwood's family might be more quick to usher Wyatt in for a private talk."

Lily wasn't holding her breath. "Until the very moment they realize he's there to confront them about their lies. Then they'll lawyer up and invite him to come back when he has a warrant."

Though she could be wrong. Wyatt had a way of making women want to talk to him. Maybe it was his calmness, the sense that you could tell him absolutely anything and he would remain understanding, sympathetic, and controlled while coming up with a solution to any problem. It was a rare talent, one she found incredibly appealing. Though Lily had to acknowledge she also liked it when he lost a little of that control. Especially when he lost it with her, in his bed.

Hoping Jackie didn't correctly interpret the satisfied smile she couldn't contain, she turned her head away and said, "I think I'll go get some coffee. Want some?"

"Sure."

Lily started to walk toward the kitchen, but got only a few steps when Jackie stopped her.

"Wait!"

"What is it?"

Jackie was reading over a document on her laptop screen, her eyes narrowed, a frown line between them. "I was just going over this family history and something struck me. A name that looks really familiar."

Lily walked over to stand behind her, staring down at the screen. Jackie moved the cursor to the name in question, highlighting it.

"What does it mean?" she asked, equally surprised.

"I don't know."

"We should probably let Wyatt know " Lily said. She reached into the pocket of her shorts for her cell phone. "I'll try to reach him-"

A squeal of tires from outside interrupted her. A door slammed; someone yelled.

Jackie leapt up and hurried to the front window. "Oh, my God," she whispered, staring out at the street.

"What is it?"

"You've gotta get out of here." The woman spun around, putting her hands in the middle of Lily's back and physically pushing her so hard the phone flew out of Lily's hands. "Out the back door. Fast."

"What?"

"It's Anspaugh," the woman said. "It looks like he brought a whole posse, and I suspect he's gunning for you."

As expected, Judith Underwood hadn't been pleased to hear he was waiting to see her.

Wyatt didn't let that stop him. After informing the receptionist that he'd wait, despite the woman's claims that Dr. Underwood couldn't possibly squeeze in a meeting, he'd taken a seat in the waiting room. It had taken one conversation-just one-and he'd gotten the meeting he wanted. Apparently the grieving widow didn't like hearing that he was talking to the patients about being here to question one of the doctors about a crime.

He was whistling as he followed the receptionist down the familiar back hallway. But he found it hard to maintain the cheery facade when he reached that T in the corridor and came face-to-face with Dr. Roger Underwood's portrait. Wyatt had to pause, stare at the man, search for any glimmer of insanity in his eyes or utter evil in his half smile.

There was nothing. No hint that the man was the kind of depraved monster who would abuse young children. No malice in the smile to show he would gladly slaughter anyone who got in his way.

"It was so sad. A real tragedy," the receptionist said. "Dr. Roger being so young and all."

"Had he had a history of problems with his heart?"

Wyatt asked, wondering so much more about Roger's death now that he knew just what a fiend he had been in life.

"Never," she said. "It really was a mystery. He played tennis all the time, ate right, had regular physicals. Never sick a day."

Very unusual.

The receptionist, who was not the same one he'd seen on his last visit, meaning she might have been around long enough to know something, inched a tiny bit closer. Wyatt knew the move signaled a desire to spill a little more information. With the right prodding she'd do just that.

"Did they do an autopsy?" he asked, trying to sound only mildly interested.

"Uh-uh," said the woman-girl really, who was pretty in a vacant way. "They probably would have if the family hadn't been who they are. But I guess since there wasn't a mark on him, other than the tiny cut where he fell on the wine opener, they didn't suspect anything." She lowered her voice a notch. "There were some whispers, though."

"Oh?"

When she didn't elaborate immediately, Wyatt intentionally pulled his gaze off the portrait and stared down at the young woman, offering her a smile of encouragement. She lifted a hand to her throat, her cheeks turning a soft pink as she stared up at him. She wasn't the first woman to look into his blue eyes and see something she wanted to see there, and she almost certainly wouldn't be the last.

"Well…" The girl looked quickly over her shoulder, then peeked past Wyatt down the other short hallway.

Confirming they were not being observed, she continued. "I'm not one to speak ill of the dead."

Everyone spoke ill of the dead. It just took them an hour or two.

"Dr. Roger was a little hard to work for." She swallowed visibly. "And I don't imagine he was much easier to live with. Dr. Alfred loved him to bits, but other than that, he wasn't really well liked around here."

"Not even by his wife and sister, or his stepbrother?"

She frowned, shaking her head. "Sometimes it seemed like all three of them were united in hating him, others like they were fighting over a boyfriend they were crazy about. It was really weird. Dr. Judith and Dr. Angela sometimes act the same way now about Dr. Kean."

Dr. Kean. Angela Kean's angry husband? What must it be like for him, working down the hall from his domineering wife, across from his overbearing father-in-law?

And right beside his stunning, widowed sister-in-law?

Somewhere nearby, a door closed, and the young woman stepped back, guilty and nervous. "I think I've said enough."

Wyatt moved forward, staying close, maintaining that intimate air that silently told her she could trust him. "Dr. Roger's death… do you suspect someone did something to him?"

She pulled her lips into her mouth, as if clamping down on them to keep herself from saying something she shouldn't.

He persisted. "You don't think he had a heart attack?"

After a brief hesitation, she shook her head once, keeping those lips sealed. As if as long as she didn't say the words aloud, she wasn't really talking about her employers.

"His sister?" Jealous of their father's attention, perhaps?

No response.

Wyatt zoomed in on his own favorite suspect. "His wife?"

The eyes flared briefly, confirming it. The receptionist believed Roger Underwood's wife had done something to him. Having met the woman, he thought it highly possible. She was beautiful, brilliant. How difficult would it be for a woman with so much to offer to find out her own husband had such vile preferences? A blow like that could drive any woman to a sudden rage. No doubt about that.

Had she found out about her husband on that very night-perhaps figuring out Roger had stolen the car and was involved in the planned attack on two young children? What possible excuse had he given her for disappearing for those couple of nights? Might he actually have admitted what he'd done?

A sound penetrated from just inside the closed office door to their right. Without hesitation, Wyatt put the tips of his fingers on the receptionist's shoulder, turning her and pushing her forward, so she appeared to be leading him. A second later, the door swung inward and Dr. Judith Underwood appeared there.

She stared at the receptionist, her pretty eyes glacial, her face as cold as a mask carved of pure ice. "I was beginning to think you got lost."

"Sorry," the young woman said.

Wyatt interrupted. "It was entirely my fault. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting."

He offered her an intimate smile, extending his hand. Judith took it, her eyes widening as he kept her fingers clasped in his own for a moment longer than was technically necessary. "Once again, I've interrupted your workday," he murmured.

"You'll have to make it up to me sometime," she replied, her tone intimate, matching his. The icy expression melted as she gently tugged him inside, seeming to forget all about the receptionist, who had already scurried away.

"How should I do that?" he asked, stepping aside as she shut the door behind him.

"Lunch?"

She might not be hungry after their meeting, but he merely offered her a noncommittal shrug. As if he were instead silently saying. Dinner?

"Please, have a seat." She didn't go to her own, behind the desk, instead gracefully lowering herself to a small love seat in the corner, grouped with two comfortable chairs. He assumed the coffee-klatch setup was designed to make skittish patients feel more at ease before submitting their laugh lines or extra chins to the knife.

"Thank you," he said, taking his time, as if keenly interested in the office. He glanced around, noting the degrees, the awards, the thank-you letters from grateful patients. There was only one photograph, the same huge portrait of the Underwood family in front of their beach house that hung in the outer hallway. He recalled it also graced one of the walls in Dr. Kean's office-the senior Dr. Underwood's contribution to the building's decor, perhaps?

He also realized one more thing. There was no photo of Roger Underwood. Not a single snapshot to remind the grieving widow of her dearly departed.

That was all right. He had something else that would bring the man to mind.

The understated flirtation had relaxed her. She had correctly interpreted the intimacy in his smile and that second-too-long handshake, felt comfortable and mildly flattered at his attention. Meaning it was time to pull the rug out.

Wyatt unceremoniously pulled the digital recorder out of his pocket and set it down on the coffee table, hitting the play switch even as he sat down across from her. Roger Underwood's voice emerged from it.

The color dropped from Judith's face. "What is that?"

Lifting a brow, as if confused by the query, Wyatt replied, "I believe it's your husband's workshop on a new piece of laser equipment, isn't it? From a speech he gave in 2007?"

The woman moved as if to stand, but Wyatt put a hand on her arm, not restraining, still intimate. And he threw her off balance again. "Judith, I understand," he said softly.

She hesitated.

"Of course you would want to protect your husband."

She didn't settle back in her seat, but she did at least stop trying to get up.

"You loved him."

The muscles beneath his hand tensed.

"Or at least you wanted to protect his reputation. For the sake of the family, of the business."

She finally leaned back in the chair. Which was when he knew he had nailed it.

Wyatt let go of her arm and sat back himself, eyeing her with sympathy. "It can't have been easy."

"What is it you want?"

"I mean, knowing what he had been planning to do.

It must have been so difficult. How long had you known the truth about him?"

Blinking, she simply stared and he could almost see the wheels turning in the intelligent mind. How much does he know? What is he asking? What do I say?

Wyatt tipped the balance again, intentionally leaving her to wonder. "Forgive me; we can discuss that later. Let's talk about the night in question. The night he took your sister-in-law's car. Did you notice he was missing?"

Judith hesitated before finally admitting, "Yes. Right before the banquet."

"He hadn't told you he was going anywhere?"

"He mentioned something about having to make some calls."

"Did you find that strange?"

"Of course. Roger usually made an effort to keep his daddy happy, even though Alfred would forgive him absolutely anything." Judith glanced out the window, staring at the blue sky beyond. "I later wondered why he didn't just claim he was sick, but I suppose Ben already had the corner on faking illness to cover what he was really up to that night."

"Ben?

She pulled her attention back to his face. "Benjamin Kean. Angela's husband. He backed out of the entire conference at the last minute, claiming illness."

Wyatt suspected he knew the answer, but he still asked the question. "Do you know why?"

"Of course. He was down here screwing the little receptionist who just escorted you back here and filled your head with lots of rumors and speculations."

Wyatt didn't try to deny it, staying on the offensive. "Was that a frequent occurrence?"

"Ben's a slave to his own penis and his own legend. He nails any woman who will say yes, singing the poor-put-upon-husband song to anyone who will listen."

"Including you?"

The woman shrugged. "Occasionally. If I was bored or was angry at my husband for some reason and wanted to punish him."

Wyatt allowed himself a second to process it-Ben Kean sounded like a slime; the condition obviously spread like a cancer in this family. But he did not sound like a man who shared his late brother-in-law's tastes. That didn't mean the men hadn't been friends, and he hadn't helped Roger in his moment of utmost need, but Wyatt doubted it. He couldn't see Underwood turning to a man who'd had an affair with his wife. Men like Roger tended to dislike it when other people played with their possessions.

"When did you next see your husband after the night of the banquet?"

Judith met his eye directly. "About forty-eight hours later, on Monday night. He showed up at the house looking like he'd been at a Roman orgy."

"You hadn't reported him missing?"

She shrugged, as if to say it had not been the first time. Probably it hadn't.

"Any explanation as to where he'd been?"

"None."

"Did you have any suspicions?" he asked, making no insinuations either way. He wasn't sure how much Judith knew, and didn't want her to clam up now by his bringing up the one subject she wouldn't touch.

To his surprise, she didn't just touch it; she hit it with a sledgehammer. "Sure. He was probably out at some sick party where rich perverts paid lots of money to partner swap, to see someone being tortured, or to have sex with helpless little children."

Wyatt didn't react with as much as a blink. She might have thought she was going to shock him, might have worded her answer to do exactly that. But it hadn't worked. "So you did know."

She nodded once. "He'd gotten tangled up in a role-playing Web site a few months before and I found him acting out the kinds of fantasies that would land most people in a mental ward."

Satan's Playground.

"You hadn't known before then?"

She finally rose, her slim body graceful and elegant, innately sensuous. How on earth had she ended up in Roger Underwood's bed? "His cruel streak was a thing of legend, though of course nobody filled me in on it until after we were married." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't know if I can explain it. Some people are just… magnetic. Sadistic-you can see it in their eyes-but seductive just the same. They become almost an addiction."

Wyatt began to see the answer to his own unasked question. For a while, anyway, Roger had been her obsession.

"He cared about no one and could be utterly vicious, which just made you want him even more."

Underwood had obviously been a charming sociopath. Wyatt had met a few like him. Manson, so they said, had possessed that same quality to inspire utter devotion to the point of insanity, his cruelty never driving away those who were madly in love with him.

"There was no depravity too low. I found out things about him after we married____________________" She shook her head, glancing toward the door, then back at Wyatt. This time, she lowered her voice, visibly shaken for the very first time since she'd opened up. "No one was off-limits if he wanted that person. You understand? No one."

He understood. It made him sick, but Wyatt understood.

"How long had it gone on, do you think?"

"Oh, years. I know he started in with his stepbrother, Philip, when the boy was eight years old and Roger was in medical school. Philip's teenage sister, too."

And his own sister? The one who'd hated him, loved him?

Vile. But not impossible.

So Roger had been molesting children for decades. He'd found his victims close at hand. Which led Wyatt to believe that his plans on the night he'd attacked Lily had involved far more than a sexual attack. Had those children really existed, Wyatt truly believed Roger would have kidnapped, then slaughtered them, choosing strangers with whom he had absolutely no connection in an effort to cover his crime. The homeless man who'd assisted him would more than likely have been found dead the next day, too.

"His father never suspected?"

"Who knows what that old man thinks?" Bitterness oozed from her. "Precious Roger could do nothing wrong, and if he suddenly decided he wanted to fuck the family dog, Alfred would have found a reason to justify it."

It was only eleven thirty, but Judith seemed to need a bracer. She walked over to a small wet bar, opened a miniaturized wine refrigerator, and pulled out a pricey-looking bottle. "Care to join me?"

Though he couldn't blame her, he declined.

"Suit yourself." Judith was almost ruthless in her movements as she peeled the foil off the bottle. Retrieving a small device, a plastic tube holding a tiny air canister, with a long, slim needle at the end, she plunged the sharp point into the cork, pushed a button to release the compressed air, and watched as the cork erupted out.

Violent, but expedient.

"That's unusual-looking," he murmured.

Judith pushed the cork off the needle with her thumb. "Wine has always been the unhappy wife's best friend, hasn't it? Anything that gets the cork out of the bottle a little faster is okay by me."

He hadn't been thinking of how fast that needle could get a cork out of a bottle, but of all its other potential uses. "Your husband was opening a wine bottle when he died, wasn't he?"

Glass clinked against glass as she poured herself a generous helping of Chardonnay. "He was a connoisseur, had already gone through a few bottles earlier that night with his sister and her husband, who had come over for dinner."

Wyatt narrowed his eyes in concentration. "You mentioned that when I was here the other day. Can you tell me more about that night? What happened?"

Carrying her drink, she returned to her seat. "There's not much to tell. We ate, drank. Roger and his sister were very tense with one another, so she and her husband left early to walk back to their place." She smiled bitterly. "I assumed they were having a lovers' quarrel."

Seeing the flint in her eyes, and remembering how little she and Angela liked each other, he took that for nothing more than spite. "Go on."

"There's nothing else. After they left, I told Roger I was going to bed. I came down the next morning and found him on the floor in the living room, surrounded by broken glass and reeking of wine." She shook her head. "Unfortunately, he'd been opening a bottle of really nice white Burgundy he'd brought back from France last year. What a waste."

Wyatt leaned forward in his chair, dropping his elbows onto his knees. "Can you back up a little, to before the dinner? What had you noticed that week?"

"Roger had been gone a lot and his mood vacillated between foul and violent. He wasn't happy when I reminded him we had dinner plans. Considering he was the one who invited his obnoxious sister and her weak little husband over, I wasn't going to let him bow out."

"They were close?"

Judith merely stared.

Good God. "Even at that point?"

"She was absolutely insane for him and had been for years."

Wyatt suddenly had a suspicion, and while it didn't make things much better, it made them a little less degenerate. "Wait a minute, we're not talking about Angela and Ben-she told me they live in Richmond."

Judith's eyes flared in surprise and a soft, humorless laugh emerged from her mouth. "Oh, goodness, you thought I meant… Well, I wouldn't be surprised to learn some of the things that went on in the house they grew up in after their mother died. But I was referring to his stepsister, Cece. She and her husband live a few doors down from us."

"Philip's sister."

"Yes."

"The one Roger seduced when she was a teenager."

"Exactly."

"No offense, Dr. Underwood, but this is like an episode of some high-melodrama soap opera about the lives of the rich and shameless."

"Think I could sell the movie rights?"

He'd bet she'd like to do just that. Earn as much money as possible and get as far away from her in-laws as she could. Though he didn't know her well, he sensed Judith Underwood was desperate to wash the stench of Roger Underwood and his family off her forever.

Almost conversationally, he asked the question that had been most on his mind. "So did you kill him?"

The query didn't shock her; she merely shook her head and took another sip of her wine. "No, Agent Black-stone, I did not," she eventually replied. "I believed, and I still believe, that his own evil eventually broke him. How long can a corrupt heart keep beating?"

Too long, as far as Wyatt was concerned.

"Evil or not, I did cry a real tear or two at his funeral." A crocodile smile made a mockery of any tears she might have shed. "But that night, I went home, got good and drunk, danced naked around my living room in sheer joy, then had sex with my gardener."

Wyatt reached for the recorder, pocketed it, and stood. "Thank you for your time."

She stood as well. "I suppose I shouldn't have said that last part. Does this mean you're no longer interested in lunch?"

He extended a hand and answered truthfully. "If I weren't already involved with someone else"-and completely in love with her-"l suspect I might like to have lunch with you, Dr. Underwood."

She nodded her appreciation, shook his hand, then turned to lead him toward the door. Before he reached it, though, Wyatt stopped, glancing at the huge Underwood family portrait. "I'm curious. Which one is Cece?"

Judith stepped close, leaning toward the framed picture. Then she tapped one long, perfectly manicured nail on the glass frame, pointing toward a woman standing a few feet from Roger Underwood.

Wyatt stared. And stared. He couldn't move, just letting it all sink in, all the puzzle pieces move around, twist, turn, then come back together to form a picture in his mind.

"Even here you can see she's making goo-goo eyes at him, despite the fact that she's standing right beside her own husband, and I'm there on Roger's arm. I think the woman would have cut her own heart out of her body to save Roger's when his went bad."

His stepsister would have died for him. And yes, indeed, she was making goo-goo eyes in the photograph, wearing her emotions on her face so obviously anyone could see them.

She might be brilliant, but the woman with the severe hairstyle was not good at masking her own feelings. Not even behind those trendy silver eyeglasses.

"Good-bye, Doctor, and thank you again," he said as he turned and opened the door, now knowing exactly where he was headed.

Wyatt no longer had any interest in going down the hall to try to talk to Dr. Angela Kean. He wanted to pay a visit to Cece-the woman who had gotten Jesse Boyd out of jail to draw Lily out of hiding. The woman whose job made her the perfect person for Roger Underwood to call for help in a legal emergency. The woman who was madly in love with her stepbrother, would die for him. Might even kill for him. Claire Vincent.