Free Acts of Mercy by Mariah Stewart Page B

helping to track. He’d killed seven women, all the same way. I was in West Virginia at the funeral for number six when he came into my home in the middle of the night. By the time I got home, she’d been dead for over twenty-four hours.”
    “Jesus, that’s rough.” The detective shook his head as if shaking off a curse. “You said they caught the guy.”
    “Don Holland. He swears he didn’t do it.” Sam snorted. “He kills seven other women in exactly the same manner—admits to those, by the way—but swears he did not touch my wife. His fingerprints were all over my house, and he actually admitted he was there. But he swears that Carly wasn’t there and that he never touched her.”
    “Why would he do that?” Coutinho wondered aloud. “You’d think it wouldn’t matter at that point.”
    “At his trial, he swore that breaking into our home was just a lark. He just wanted to tweak my nose a bit. And of course, his wife swore he was with her the night Carly was murdered.”
    “Do you think she was in on the killing?”
    “They both said no. Holland swore he acted alone and that she had no idea he was involved in such things.”
    “You don’t sound convinced of her innocence.”
    “Every year, on the anniversary of Carly’s death, I get a card from her.
How does it feel to know your wife’s killer has gotten away with murder for
—then she fills in the number of years. Then she signs it.
Love, Laurie Heiss.”
    “What’s the point in that?”
    “I guess she wants to make sure I remember the date.”
    Coutinho looked at Sam across the console. “Like there’s a chance you’re going to forget.”
    “Yeah. Like there’s a chance.”

SIX
    S am sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room and leaned forward to untie his shoes, when his phone rang. He got up and retrieved it from the pocket of his jacket, slung over the back of a chair.
    “Sam, it’s Chris Coutinho. I just got off the phone with Tom Reid, the detective who met with the FBI agent who was asking about the Walker case. He found the agent’s card.”
    “Great. Who was it?”
    “Fiona Summers.”
    Inwardly, Sam groaned. “Thanks, Chris.”
    “You want the number?”
    “I know how to find her, thanks.”
    “Keep in touch, right?”
    “You got it. And thanks again for taking me around yesterday.”
    “Don’t mention it. You can return the favor if I ever get to … what’s the name of that town you’re in?”
    “Conroy, Pennsylvania. About as big as it sounds. Trust me, it won’t be a long tour.”
    The detective chuckled and hung up, and Sam immediately dialed another number. When the call wasanswered, Sam said, “Will, tell me that Fiona Summers is not as big a pain in the ass as everyone says she is.”
    “Fiona Summers is not as big a pain in the ass as everyone says she is,” Will Fletcher, one of Sam’s friends who was still with the FBI, repeated solemnly. He paused, then asked, “Who says she’s a pain in the ass?”
    “Everyone I know who’s ever worked with her.”
    “Sam, are you back in the fold now? You’ve finished racing around the globe and you’re back home, with the good guys, where you belong?”
    “I’m back in the States and I’ve had enough traveling to last me a long, long time. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But I’m not back with the Bureau.”
    “Damn. For a moment I thought … but then why ask about Fiona?”
    Sam explained his new job and Fiona’s potential involvement with his case.
    “She won’t be a problem,” Will assured him. “She just runs a tight ship, that’s all.”
    “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about her.”
    “She can’t be that bad. Miranda’s worked with her and likes her. Want me to ask her?”
    “If you wouldn’t mind.”
    “Okay, hold on. Give me a minute to find her.”
    Sam heard Will’s footsteps echoing off into the distance, then some muffled conversation, before a light and teasing voice picked up an