Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online Page A

and laughed.
    Vicky heard herself laugh out loud at the memory. The sound hung in the air like a cry above the thump of the tires over a patch of icy asphalt.
    She took a right past Fort Washakie School where Denise had taught, and drove toward Ethete. Another fifteen minutes on a graveled road, and the Jeep was churning across the bare dirt yard that wrapped around a small, brown house, the sun glinting on the sloped roof and flashing off the metal bumpers of the pickups and sedans parked in front. T.J. was the only one in the yard, coatless, sunken into himself in the cold, his light-colored shirt flattened against his chest in the wind as he paced up and down, puffing on the cigarette cupped in one hand. He looked in her direction and flicked the cigarette onto the ground.
    Vicky parked behind a sedan and threaded her way around the other vehicles toward the man. He stood about six feet tall, a wirey build beneath his shirt and dark trousers, black hair pushed back behind his ears, dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Still, he was handsome, she thought. Still the handsome man she’d known all her life.
    â€œThanks for coming, Vicky,” he said, pulling her into his arms. His shirt was damp with perspiration and cold. The odors of sweat, tobacco, and whiskey drifted over her.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” she said, stepping back. His eyes were dark slits beneath the sharp ledge of his forehead, and a tuft of hair stood out, as if he’d been pulling at it. She took another step back from the sour, whiskey breath that made her stomach lurch with the memory of Ben. It was not a memory she wanted.
    â€œYou’re going to catch cold out here,” she said. “Why don’t we go inside?”
    He shook his head. “It’s my fault, Vicky. All my fault. I killed her.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    The man looked out across the yard and the plains, silent and cold, flowing into the sky. “She did it ’cause of me,” he said.
    Vicky set one hand on the man’s arm. “You’re not making sense, T.J. You’ve had a horrible shock. You should get some rest. Let’s go inside.”
    Vicky tried to steer the man toward the stoop, but T.J. yanked his arm free. “All the relatives showed up to help me grieve. Where the hell am I gonna rest? I need air, need to walk around, need to get . . .” His voice trailed off.
    Sober, she thought.
    â€œFed’s on the way over. Maybe he’s got the coroner’s report. Wants to interview me again. Christ, he asked me enough questions last night.”
    Vicky felt a jab of discomfort. Last night’s interview should have been sufficient for a suicide. If he had the coroner’s report, Gianelli should be able to close the investigation, unless . . .
    Unless there was something unusual in the report. Even the shadow of a doubt about whether Denise had committed suicide, and the fed would be taking a very close look at Denise’s husband. Vicky studied the man in front of her a moment. He was in no condition for a formal interview, especially if Gianelli was investigating a suspicious death.
    She dug her cell out of her bag. “I’m calling Gianelli,” she said, tapping the keys. “We’ll postpone the interview. You can come to my apartment, shower, get something to eat and a few hours’ sleep.”
    There was an instant when she thought he wouldn’t go along. Then he nodded.
    Two rings, and Gianelli was on the line. “It’s Vicky,” she said. She’d dealt with the FBI agent on numerous cases over the last five years. Homicides, kidnappings, fraud, embezzlement—all the crimes that the federal government considered “major” fell into the fed’s jurisdiction.
    â€œI’m with T.J.,” she hurried on, turning away from the dark, smudged eyes of the man beside her. “He needs some rest before he talks to you again. I’ll