Free Confessions by Joann Ross Page A

think I’ll stop by the Garvey place on the way back to town,” Trace said. “And I’m calling a press conference for noon. Doc Potter should be done with the autopsy by then and we’ll know more.”
    â€œYou realize there’s a good chance most of the national media won’t be able to make it here by then?”
    â€œOne can only hope.”
    â€œYou’re incorrigible, Callahan.” She shook her headand gave him a saucy grin. “That’s probably why I like you. Along with the fact that you’re not bad in bed.”
    There were a lot of reasons Trace liked her. And for more than terrific sex.
    â€œI assume you want to be there?”
    â€œYou ever known a politician who wouldn’t jump stark naked through flaming hoops at a chance for national publicity? I’ll be there.”
    Jessica Ingersoll might be a politician, Trace thought. But she was also, as they would have said in the Dallas PD locker room, “a stand-up guy.”
    â€œStop by my office about eleven-thirty,” he suggested. “The doc should be done by then.”
    She stepped over the lingerie and walked over to the bed. “It’s a date.”
    â€œWell, I’ve got an autopsy to attend. And some paperwork to get started on. Later.”
    â€œLater.” She was frowning at the bloodstained headboard and didn’t bother to look up at him.
    Trace was unlocking the Suburban when a voice called out to him. “Hey, Callahan!”
    He looked up and saw Jessica leaning out the bedroom window. “Yeah?”
    â€œYou are going to shower and shave and change your clothes before the press conference, aren’t you?”
    â€œSure,” he said, not wanting to admit he’d been too busy to give any thought to the matter.
    â€œGood. Because you look like roadkill.” She wiggled her perfect patrician nose. “And no offense, Sheriff, but you kinda smell like one, too.”
    He waved off her accusation, but as he drove back to town, he lifted his arm and sniffed.
    As usual, she was right.

Chapter Five
    T he Lakeside Lodge had begun its existence as the family home of a millionaire lumber baron. Built at the turn of the century, the stately mansion could have inspired, in its day, a year’s worth of sermons on conspicuous consumption. It had also been a startling contrast to the sawmills and saloons of the lusty, booming community of Whiskey River.
    The mansion had changed hands several times, eventually falling into disrepair. Five years ago it had been lovingly restored by its current owners, who’d decorated it with an eclectic, but attractive mix of antique and western furniture, and established it as a landmark lodge and conference center.
    As a girl, Mariah, along with the rest of Whiskey River’s kids, had prowled the decaying, boarded-up mansion, scaring themselves silly telling ghost stories they swore were true.
    Now, while she admired the transformation, the golden oak columns and paneling of the lobby—which had been the original entry hall—represented yet another sign ofchange in a hometown she’d always believed to have been frozen in time.
    Although the desk clerk informed Mariah there were no rooms—the lodge was booked months in advance for the holiday, the young man sniffed—all she had to do was mention the Swann name and presto, a suite just happened to open up.
    â€œYou’re right down the hall from Ms. Martin,” the clerk volunteered as he handed Mariah the coded card.
    â€œMs. Martin?”
    â€œThe senator’s aide. She checked in late last night.”
    â€œWas she alone?”
    â€œActually—” he leaned over the counter “—the senator was with her when she arrived. He also went upstairs with her.” He’d lowered his voice, but Mariah couldn’t miss the implication in his tone. The man liked to gossip. Terrific.
    â€œTell me, Kevin,” she said,