Kiss of Deceit Page 7

  He took in her warm brown eyes, her bobbed, blond hair, and her full lips. He remembered in all too much detail what it had been like making love to Debra Lewis. She had been starved, spontaneous, and wild. His groin tightened with the memory of it.

  “It can never happen again,” he said, a hollow ache paining his gut. “No,” she agreed, barely above a whisper. More tears slipped past her lashes. “I love Kip.”

  “He’s been like a brother to me.” Damn if he didn’t loathe himself more in this moment than he had in the last three months. Not being there for Jillian had been hard enough to swallow. But this…

  “I’ve got to come forward, Snake.”

  “That doesn’t mean I happen to agree. Unfortunately, there’s little I can do about it in my present situation.”

  “No, there isn’t. As soon as I leave here, I’ll go see Detective McVeigh.” She paused, her gaze falling on the table. “Then, I’ll go home and tell Kip.”

  Snake placed his hand on the window. Debra looked up and placed her hand against his.

  She pulled it back just as quickly, however, like she had been stung from the near contact, and dropped it to the table. “I’m not sure you’ll have a job when you get out.”

  He placed his own hand back on the table. “I could use some time off to catch Jillian’s real murderer.”

  “And you think you can?”

  “I’ll die trying.”

  “Jillian didn’t know what a catch she had. You and me, we’re a lot more alike than I’d ever thought. She couldn’t remain faithful to you, like Kip can’t with me, but you stayed with her because you loved her.”

  Snake’s jaw tensed. He ignored the ache.

  Debra winked, then blew him a kiss, saying, “See you when you get out,” and hung up the phone.

  Marcus watched as she walked out of the visitation room, before allowing the guards to handcuff him and lead him back to his cell. His world teetered precariously. Not only had he lost his wife, now he’d lose his best friend as well.

  Chapter 7

  LeAnne studied the papers before her, highlighting a few names. She ran a list of known sex offenders in the area who either were paroled or had gotten off on legal technicalities. Since part of her job dealt with lowlifes on a regular basis, she was already familiar with some of these names. The list might not lead anywhere, but it would be a start.

  She jotted down a few names, individuals she intended to visit, also noting their respective parole officer.

  The victims’ addresses glared back at her as well, documented in the various case files littering her desk.

  Miranda Holliday lived on County Road P, whereas Jillian Gallego’s house sat north of Napoleon, out on County Road 13. Nearly across the county from one another. If the same person killed these women, it seemed a safe bet to look in the near vicinity of Jillian Gallego’s. Repeat offenders, murderers, and rapists usually start their crime sprees someplace close to home—someplace comfortable.

  Although LeAnne thought it unlikely, she could not dismiss the fact that two separate people could have committed these crimes. So work this case like a separate one. We don’t try to prove the similarities. If there are any, they’ll turn up on their own. Bob Reese’s intuitions proved invaluable more often than not. But if the same person did commit both homicides, who says Jillian Gallego had been his first?

  Bob Reese had filled out the lengthy questionnaire and checked with VICAP, Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, to see if their case matched the MO of any across the country. Fascinated by the minds of those who kill, she read past case studies of the likes of Edmund Kemper and David Berkowitz, not to mention Jack the Ripper. All had extreme rage and hate centered toward women.

  What if someone like one of these twisted individuals landed within Henry County? A shudder crawled down her spine, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

  The intercom buzzed. LeAnne jumped.

  “Detective McVeigh?” The dispatcher’s voice rang loud through the speaker, echoing about her room like a rubber ball bouncing off the walls. Did the woman have to talk with her mouth less than an inch from the intercom?

  “Yes,” LeAnne called back, chuckling. Suzy Lawson had started with the sheriff’s office a mere week ago.

  “There’s a Debra Lewis here to see you.” Speaking so close to the box had muffled Suzy’s voice. LeAnne made a mental note to inform her she could be heard better if she sat away from the thing. Not like any of the men in the office would oblige to help out a woman. No, they were likely laughing at the poor woman’s expense. LeAnne thought of her own early days with the sheriff’s office, learning about the Brotherhood of law enforcement firsthand. A woman would never be a man. It was that simple.

  “She says it’s urgent—has to do with Marcus Gallego.”

  Adrenaline coursed through LeAnne’s veins. Her fingers actually trembled.

  “Send her up,” she said, then released the intercom button.

  What could the wife of Snake’s boss possibly have to tell her?

  LeAnne walked to the door, watching as the woman ascended the stairs to the second floor. She stood a few inches taller than LeAnne and outweighed her by a few pounds. Her blond hair bobbed around her ears and her lips sported a bright shade of red. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, puffy and red from hours of tears.

  LeAnne offered her hand. “Detective LeAnne McVeigh,” she said, then led her into the office. The woman sat in the chair.

  “Debra Lewis, Kip’s wife.” The woman smiled nervously.

  A woman with secrets to hide.

  Not wanting to waste time on less important subjects, she said, “This has something to do with Marcus Gallego?”

  Debra nodded and swiped at her nose with a well-used tissue. LeAnne reached for a fresh one from her box and handed it to Debra, waiting as patiently as possible.

  Finally, she looked up. “Snake Gallego couldn’t have killed his wife.”

  “And you know this because…?”

  Debra looked away from LeAnne, blowing air through her pursed lips. A tremendous amount of courage must have brought this woman forward.

  Her gaze came back to LeAnne’s. “Because Snake was with me that night.”

  “Snake mentioned nothing about being with you.”

  Anxiety channeled up her spine. In a way, she wanted to believe this woman— wanted Snake Gallego to be innocent. But on the other hand, if Snake did not kill his wife, who did?

  “Why wait until now to come forward?”

  “Look, I have absolutely nothing to gain from this and everything to lose.” She brushed away a tear falling from her lashes.

  LeAnne leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms beneath her breast and said, “You have my attention.”

  “The day of Jillian’s murder, Snake was at work—close to quitting time, he received a call. He seemed very upset. Kip and I were worried about him. He told us Jillian had been messing around on him. Blade D’Angelo, a friend of his, had seen her earlier in the day with a guy he recognized from the club where she stripped.

  “Why he let her continue that lifestyle after they married, I’ll never know.” Debra paused, blowing her nose. “Anyway, Snake was furious to finally have proof. He suspected as much for a long time, but always gave her the benefit of the doubt.”

  “The man, did Blade know him?” LeAnne’s heart thudded in her chest—this could be the break she had been looking for.

  Debra shrugged. “You’d have to ask Blade.”

  “So Snake goes home…”

  “After he told Kip and me he wanted to strangle Jillian—but he says things like that. He never means them. Snake doesn’t have it in him to hurt anyone.”

  Impatient to get to the answers she sought, anything to help the case, LeAnne coaxed, “The part where you were with him.”

  “About ten o’clock that night, Snake comes knocking on my door. The kids are getting ready for bed, and Kip had flown to Florida that night after work to attend the Harley
University. It’s a yearly training session for dealers. He was going to be out of town for a few days.

  “We put the kids to bed. They love Snake. He and Kip have been friends from way back. They’re like brothers, you know.”

  “You didn’t find it unusual for Snake to drop by so late?”

  “He came over a lot in the evenings, mostly when Jillian worked. After all, we were all pretty good friends. It was natural for him to stop by, even when Kip wasn’t home.”

  “So, what happened when you put the children to bed?”

  Anxious to get to the end of this story, LeAnne fidgeted. If her intuitions proved correct, Debra was right. She would have nothing to gain by coming forward, and a whole lot to lose. Obviously the reason Snake Gallego refused to tell the story himself.

  “Snake and I sat on the couch, just talking. He had left the shop and went home to Jillian. They had a hell of a fight, and then later, he said they made love.”

  “You don’t find that unusual? That Snake, as mad as he was, would want to have sex with his wife?”

  “Snake is a passionate man, Detective. Anger can lead to sex—it often does.”

  LeAnne could easily imagine. She had already seen Marcus Gallego’s volatile side, surely sex with him would abandon all want of moderation.

  “Kip and I are always fighting, then making up. Anyway, Snake and I were together until well after midnight. Snake said, you told him that Jillian was killed somewhere between the hours of ten and eleven.”

  The same time as Miranda, LeAnne mused. Another similarity LeAnne had not put much thought into…until now.

  “Correct. But why wait until now to come forward?”

  Debra’s gaze fell to her lap as she toyed with the used tissue. “Because we didn’t just talk. When Snake got up to leave, I walked him to the door, like any other time. I hugged him, told him everything would work out for the best; Snake gave me the same advice many times. He loved his wife, you know.”

  “Yes,” LeAnne agreed, “I do believe he did.”

  “Anyway, he kissed me on the lips.” Debra looked away, as though she were remembering the moment, then glanced back to LeAnne. “I don’t think it was offered as anything more than friendship, just a peck, really.”

  “And this led to more?”

  “You’re a woman,” Debra scoffed. “You’ve seen Snake Gallego. God, just the thought of him in bed was enough to get worked up over. He kissed me, and I responded. It was that simple. The next thing I know, we’re tearing at each other’s clothes and rolling on the floor.”

  LeAnne raised a brow. “You made love?”

  “No.” Debra laughed. “We had sweet, adulterated sex, and if I had to do it all over again, I would. I love my husband, but Snake is the kind of man women fantasize about.”

  LeAnne could easily attest to the fact. “Does your husband know?”

  “Not yet. He’s the reason Snake wanted me to keep quiet. I’ve cried myself to sleep many nights, wondering how I got myself into this situation.

  “I can’t let Snake go down for this. I had hoped something else might prove his innocence. But when I saw him today—the purple bruise on his jaw…”

  “Bruise?” LeAnne sent him to CCNO only two days ago. Had he already been disruptive, making enemies?

  “Another inmate used his face as a punching bag,” Debra said, obviously distraught over the fight. “So you can see why I waited…”

  “I’ll have to question your husband, again—about the trip to Florida. Check out your story.”

  Tears streamed unheeded down Debra’s cheeks. “He’ll forgive me because he loves me, not to mention all he’s put me through. But it’s not me I’m worried about.” She glanced at LeAnne. “It’s Snake. Kip will never forgive him.”

  * * *

  LeAnne pulled into a long, stone driveway in her tan detective’s sedan. The house sat just off of State Route 109 outside of Hamler. Bushes grew untrimmed, hiding the front porch from view. Drapes were drawn over the windows. The grass had turned to seed.

  Hell, if she had not known better, LeAnne would swear the house was unoccupied. Thanking her lucky stars, if indeed she believed in them, she pulled around the side of the house and saw Blade D’Angelo’s ’62 Chevy pickup parked in the opened garage with his ’98 Harley Davidson Low Rider beside it.

  LeAnne stepped out of her car, rested her hand on the butt of her gun as if to check its readiness, and walked up to the back porch. A wooden sign hung crooked by the door. What you got, we ain’t buyin’. The porch, in bad need of a paint job, had several holes in the floorboards, as did the ratty-looking screen door. She rapped twice on the wood, the sound carrying as the warped frame slapped against the back of the house.

  A gruff voice called out from somewhere inside. “Hold on to your pants. I’m coming.”

  “Detective LeAnne McVeigh,” she said as Blade came into view. She held up her badge for identification.

  When he came close enough to see it, she instantly recognized the burly man. She never had the pleasure of arresting this one, but he had been around when she busted several of his friends. This one seemed always to elude the long arm of the law.

  “Yeah,” he barked. A thick sandy-blond beard covered his thick jaw. “What the hell do you want?”

  LeAnne cleared her throat. “Excuse me?” Taking guff from the brawny biker would promise trouble for her already-rising fit of temper. “I have a few questions.”

  “And tell me why I’d want to answer them?” His hair, the same sandy color as his beard, lay in wild disarray like some backwards mountain man.

  “It may just get Snake out of jail. Do you want to help him or not?”

  “Hell, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” The door screeched open as he allowed her entrance. The inside of the home was as unkempt as the outside. Dirty dishes filled the sink and littered the counter.

  “Have a seat.” He offered her a metal kitchen chair with holes in the putrid green vinyl.

  LeAnne withdrew her notebook as she sat down. Blade went to the crust-covered refrigerator that had to be at least twenty years old, in bad need of defrosting, and withdrew a beer. He popped open the top, foam spraying a fine mist above the wide-mouth can, and took a long pull.

  “Want one?” he asked. A smile curved the whiskers hiding his lips. Foam clung to his mustache; he used the back of his fur-covered arm to swipe it away.

  “I don’t drink on duty,” LeAnne said, “but thank you for offering. The sooner we get to my questions, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

  “Fine by me,” he grumbled, brushed some papers off the other kitchen chair, and took a seat across from her. “Shoot.”

  LeAnne turned on the microcassette recorder. “Mind if I tape this?” When he made no objections, she continued, “I’ll take your non response as a ‘no, you don’t mind.’ Did you call Snake Gallego on April nineteenth at work, possibly around three or four in the afternoon?”

  He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I suppose,” he said, offering no more.

  “Would you care to elaborate on the purpose of the call?”

  “I don’t need a purpose to call him.”

  “Elaborate anyway.”

  He scratched his hairy belly that hung just below his too-short tee and just above the worn waist band of his jean shorts. “Ask Snake. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you why I called him. Ain’t none of your damn business.”

  “Listen, I’m not about to play games. We can either do this nicely here, or I can haul your sorry rear to the sheriff’s office. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and like it or not, you may have some pertinent information.

  “Now, let me repeat my question, maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. What was the purpose of your phone call to Snake Gallego on the day of April nineteenth and what time did you make the call?”

  Blade took another swallow from his can. By the size of his two gulps, LeAnne bet the can neared close to empty.
<
br />   He slammed the beer on the table top and glared at her, his eyes no more than slits in his beefy face. “I called him. I don’t know at what time—probably close to four, I guess.”

  “And,” LeAnne coaxed, “the phone call was about?”

  “His old lady,” he grumbled, searching the table with his thick fingers. Beneath the rubble, he withdrew a pack of Camels and a lighter. He lit his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into LeAnne’s face. Jackass came to mind, but she wanted this man’s cooperation.

  “Jillian Gallego?” she asked.

  A loud belch filled the air between them; the heavy smell of beer assailed her nose. “That’s right. The bitch had been screwing everybody’s balls but Gallego’s, by the looks of things. I don’t know why he kept the slut around, to be honest with you.”

  “So this is why you called?”

  “Hell, no. I saw that bitch with one of the regulars from Deja Vu.”

  “You frequent the strip club enough to know who goes there on a regular basis?”

  “Sometimes.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “I ain’t got a jealous ol’ lady or anything like that. My woman, she don’t run my life. Sometimes me and the boys would go up—enough to see this guy hanging on Snake’s ol’ lady.”

  “So when and where did you see her with this man?”

  “Trucker’s Paradise on 109. I went there Saturday morning, the nineteenth, for some slop, and who do I see all cozy in the corner? Jillian Gallego and this guy—like they got some plans together or just finished. Shoot, man, she didn’t even care when I walked into the place, knowing I would tell Snake. Just kept a cuddlin’. Know what I mean?”

  “I think I do. So you called Snake?”

  “I waited a while. Wrestled with my conscience. Know what I mean?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t think he had one, but she wisely kept her mouth shut.

  “Well, I called Snake at work, told him what I saw. That’s it, end of story. Ain’t like Snake didn’t already know she was screwing half the men at the club. He just needed proof.”

  “How mad was he?”