Night Whispers Read online

  Cagle was already on his feet, pulling on his jacket. “Where was it?”

  “You aren’t going to believe how dumb this broad is,” Flynn said, shaking his head. “She had it stashed under her mattress. Like, we’d never think to look there.”

  42

  Sloan was in the dining room with Paris, trying to write out a longhand report on the events of the night before, which struck her as an absurd waste of time, while Paris answered constant telephone calls from horrified family friends. Lieutenant Fineman was hovering in the hallway talking quietly to someone from the crime investigation team. The front doorbell rang, and Sloan glanced up as Nordstrom walked down the hall to answer it. When she looked up a moment later, Detectives Cagle and Flynn were walking swiftly into the dining room.

  Sloan saw the cold, determined expressions on their faces, and the ballpoint pen slid from her fingers.

  “Sloan Reynolds,” Flynn said, pulling her out of the chair and shoving her to the wall. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Edith Reynolds.” He yanked her arms behind her and cuffed her. “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “No!” Paris screamed, bracing her hands on the table and swaying as if she were about to faint. “No—”

  “It’s a mistake,” Sloan promised over her shoulder as she was rushed outside. “It’s a mistake. It will be all right.” Two police cruisers were waiting in the driveway, engines running, and Sloan was shoved into the backseat of one of them.

  The press were staked out at the street, and a commotion went up when they realized the police were taking someone from the house. As the car passed through the gates, cameras were aimed at her in the backseat and Minicams were shoved at the car windows.

  In the front seat, Andy Cagle turned around and eyed her as if she were some sort of deadly bacteria. “Interested in talking, or would you prefer to wait until after we book you?”

  The phrase You’re making a mistake leapt to Sloan’s lips, but she bit it back because it was just too trite to be uttered. She’d heard it hundreds of times from every guilty creep who’d ever been brought in for questioning or to be booked, and she couldn’t bear to hear herself say it.

  They drove past Noah’s house, and she saw the fountain splashing over the sailfish behind his gates. She wondered how long it would be before he heard the news.

  Paul had left the house on some sort of urgent errand and had said only that he’d be back “later.” Cagle and Flynn obviously didn’t plan to question her before they booked her, so Paul wouldn’t get to her before she was processed through the system, and that made her furious. She did not relish being fingerprinted and photographed with a number in front of her chest one damned bit! That hadn’t been part of the deal when she agreed to come to Palm Beach.

  What she couldn’t understand was why they didn’t seem to think they needed to question her. She forgot Cagle had asked her a question until he reminded her: “Does your silence mean you’d prefer to talk after you’re booked?”

  “No,” Sloan said as calmly as she could. “My silence means I’m waiting for some explanation about why you don’t seem to think you need proof.”

  Flynn looked over his shoulder while he waited for two trucks to respond to his siren and clear out of his path. “Now, what makes you think we’d do a nasty thing like arresting you without any proof?”

  The gleeful arrogance in his tone caused Sloan to enjoy a brief fantasy about doubling up her fist. “You can’t have any proof because I didn’t commit the crime.”

  “Let’s save this little chat for a few minutes until we can do it face-to-face,” he responded, stepping on the accelerator and swerving around the trucks.

  The front entrance of the police station was surrounded by a mob of television crews, newspaper reporters, and photographers, and Sloan was certain that was precisely why she was taken in through the front of the building instead of another entrance: Flynn and Cagle were parading their prize in handcuffs for the mob to photograph and film.

  Sloan had a fleeting thought of her mother seeing this on the evening news, and that made her feel worse than anything else . . . until Flynn and Cagle put her into a room with a two-way glass window and shoved a plastic bag with her gun in it across the table at her. “Recognize this?” After she got over the shock of seeing it, Sloan was almost relieved that her gun was all they were hanging their arrest on. She opened her mouth to say that it was hers and she had a permit to carry it, but before she could, Flynn robbed her of the ability to speak: “Guess where we found it—under your mattress! Now, how do you suppose it got there?”

  She’d hidden the weapon in a much less obvious place than under a mattress, and she’d checked that morning to make certain it was still where she’d left it. “I don’t”—she leaned forward, gazing at her own nine millimeter Glock—“know how it got there,” she said honestly. “That isn’t where I had it hidden.”

  Flynn turned all warm and friendly. “Now you’re doing this the right way.” Sliding his chair forward, he glanced at Cagle. “Why don’t you get Miss Reynolds a glass of water.”

  “I don’t want a glass of water,” Sloan informed Flynn, but Cagle ignored her and left the room. “I want answers! You found that under my mattress?”

  Flynn gave a shout of laughter. “You’re something else, lady. This is a first. Let me explain how this works, Miss Reynolds. We ask the questions. You give the answers.”

  Sloan’s mind was whirling with shock and alarm as she reached an unthinkable conclusion. Ignoring his lecture on protocol, she said, “How many rounds were in the magazine?”

  “Nine. One round is missing. Isn’t that a coincidence? And you want to hear another coincidence? I think ballistics is going to tell us that the slug that killed Mrs. Reynolds came from this gun.”

  Sloan stared at him, chills beginning to slither up her spine. This morning she’d checked to make certain the weapon was still where she’d hidden it, but she hadn’t seen any reason to check the magazine to see if it was still full. “Oh, my God!” she whispered.

  Andy Cagle slid into the chair at his desk and reached for the DBT data on Sloan Reynolds. Something was bothering him about the way she’d reacted to seeing the gun—no, something about the way she was reacting to the whole ordeal of being brought into a police station for booking. He began scanning the file.

  “Nice work, Andy,” Captain Hocklin said as he strolled back into the building after having made a brief statement to the press announcing the arrest of Sloan Reynolds for the murder of Edith Reynolds. He patted Andy’s shoulder to show his appreciation; then he stopped when Cagle looked up at him, his expression dazed and alarmed. “What the hell’s the matter?” Hocklin said, instantly anticipating the worst because Cagle never looked alarmed about anything.

  “She’s a cop,” Cagle said.

  “What?”

  Cagle held up the thirty-five pages of information on Sloan Reynolds. “She’s a cop,” he repeated.

  Hocklin’s first thought was that if he had to tell the media he’d made a mistake today, he was going to look like a world-class ass; then he relaxed a little. “So what— cops don’t make much dough, and she wanted her fair share from the old lady.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did she deny the Glock was hers?”

  “No. She denied having hidden it under the mattress. Anyway, it’s registered to her. Look, right here—” He pointed to the DBT report.

  Hocklin ignored it. “She had motive, means, and opportunity. Book her.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I gave you an order.”

  “But we could be making a mistake.”

  “Book her, and if we’re wrong, we’ll apologize.”

  Cagle glowered at Hocklin’s back as the captain walked away; then he heaved himself out of his chair. He walked into the room where Flynn was trying to question Sloan Reynolds. “Excuse me,” he said automatically to her; then he looked at Flynn. “I need to talk to you out the