CHAPTER 62

AFTER THEY FINISHED dinner they needed to take June Battle to the police station to make a formal statement.

"You two take her," said Michelle.

"What?" Sean looked at her in surprise.

"I just need a little time alone, Sean," she said. "I'll meet you back at my dad's house."

"Michelle, I don't like splitting up with you."

"I can take care of Mrs. Battle," said Bobby. "No sweat."

"Sean, just go. I'll see you back at Dad's."

"You sure?"

She nodded. "Real sure."

As the three left Sean glanced back at her, but Michelle wasn't looking at him.

She sat at the table for ten minutes before slowly rising, opening up her jacket, and looking down at the Sig on her belt holster.

He had to know that his wife was lying dead inside the garage. And he was outside taking photos of car plates? What a callous bastard. What had he been doing? Looking to frame somebody for the murder he'd committed? He could easily have hit her mother from the left instead of the right to throw off the cops. Her father was a strong man. Either way Sally Maxwell would've been dead.

And he was out there somewhere. Her father was out there, and he had a gun.

She got up and walked with a purpose toward the exit. On the way she passed the trophy case for the golf club. She barely glanced at it but one glance was all it took. Her head snapped back around and she hurried over to the glass case. It was full of shiny hardware, plaques, photos, and other awards paraphernalia. Two items interested her deeply and she didn't even play golf.

She bent low and drew close.

The first one was a photo of three women, with the one in the middle holding up a huge trophy. Donna Rothwell was smiling broadly. Michelle glanced down at the inscription on the bottom of the plaque.

"Donna Rothwell, Club Amateur Champion," she read. It was for this year. They had her scores posted for the tournament on a laminated card next to the photo. Michelle didn't know that much about golf, but even she knew those scores were impressive.

The second photo was one of Rothwell hitting a tee shot. The lady looked like she knew what she was doing.

As she was standing there a bearded man in khaki pants and a golf shirt walked by.

"Checking out our local golf legends?" he asked with a smile.

Michelle pointed at the two photos. "These in particular."

The man looked to where she was indicating. "Oh, Donna Rothwell, right. One of the best natural swings I've ever seen."

"So she's good?"

"Good? She's the best female golfer over the age of fifty in the entire county, maybe the state. There are even some pretty good thirty- and forty-year-olds she can consistently beat. She was an athlete in college. Tennis, golf, track, she could do it all. She's still in remarkable shape."

"So her handicap is low?"

"Nearly nonexistent, relatively speaking. Why?"

"So she'd have no trouble qualifying for a tournament here, I mean based on her handicap?"

The man laughed. "Trouble qualifying? Hell, Donna's won just about every tournament she's entered as far back as I can remember."

"Did you know Sally Maxwell?"

The man nodded. "Beautiful woman. Damn shame what happened. You know, you sort of look like her."

"She was a good golfer?"

"Oh, sure. Nice game. Better putter than on the fairways, though."

"But not in Donna's league?"

"Not even close." He smiled. "Why all the questions? You interested in taking on Donna, scoping out the competition? You're a lot younger than she is, but she'll still give you a challenge, I bet."

"I might be taking her on, but it won't be on a golf course." Michelle walked off, leaving the man to stare puzzled after her.

She walked out into the parking lot and headed to her SUV.

She whipped her head around because she thought she heard something. She used her thumb to pop off the leather support on her holster. Michelle gripped the butt of her gun and tensed to pull it. But she reached her truck safely and climbed in.

A half hour later she got to the house. She drove past, parked down a side street, and climbed out. Donna Rothwell's big house was set back from the street. There was a gate out front and a windy drive up to a front motor court. As she walked along the street, she found a gap between the hedges. The house was dark, at least in front. It was large enough to where any lights in the back rooms would not be visible from where she was.

Michelle checked her watch. It was nearly ten o'clock.

Why had Rothwell lied about such a seemingly trivial point? She'd told her and Sean that Sally Maxwell had played with Doug Reagan in a local amateur charity tournament because Rothwell's handicap was too high and she couldn't qualify. But apparently she was a far better golfer than Michelle's mother had been. It was a stupid lie. She could only assume that Rothwell must've been counting on the fact that Michelle, not being a local, would never find out it wasn't true.

But why lie in the first place? So what if her mother had played with Doug?

Michelle stopped. A footfall, some breathing other than her own; the slap of skin against metal. Gun metal. This was stupid. She wasn't going to break into Donna Rothwell's place, giving the woman an excellent reason to have her arrested. And she wasn't going to stay out here waiting for someone to get the drop on her.

She got back to the SUV and called Sean, relaying what she'd learned about Rothwell.

"Bobby and I will meet you at your dad's place," he said. "Get there and stay put."

She reached the house and parked in front. She glanced in the garage window. Her dad wasn't home. She used her spare key to let herself in.

As soon as she closed the door behind her she sensed it. She pulled her gun, but a second too late. The blow hit her on the arm. The Sig clattered to the floor, discharging as it hit and the round ricocheted off the stone tile. Michelle grabbed her injured arm and rolled as something heavy fell close to her.

Then she felt something smash next to her head. She leapt up and kicked out with her leg, but caught nothing but air. Someone screamed and another blow hit Michelle painfully on the leg. She cursed, ran toward the living room, and threw herself backward over the couch. She at least knew the layout of the house.

When the person came at her again, she was ready. She ducked the blow, came up, and delivered a snap kick to the attacker's gut, followed by a jab to the head. She heard a loud grunt as though the air had been driven right out of the attacker's lungs. Someone hit the floor. Michelle leapt forward to take advantage of this when whatever weapon the person had been holding flew up and caught Michelle on the chin. It was metal. She tasted blood. She moved to her left and tripped over the coffee table, falling hard. Her arm and leg killing her and now her chin throbbing, she sat up.

Michelle felt the presence right on top of her, smelled something hot.

Shit, it's my gun. They've got my gun.

She dove behind the coffee table, braced for the shot.

It rang out, but she felt nothing. There was a scream, high-pitched and terrified. Something clattered to the floor and someone fell next to her.

The lights came on.

She sat up, blinking rapidly.

When she saw him, she gasped. Doug Reagan was lying by the door with a gunshot wound in his chest.

And next to her was Donna Rothwell on her knees, holding her bloody hand and sobbing in pain. Michelle's pistol was next to the woman. Michelle quickly grabbed it.

Then she froze again.

He was standing by the front door, next to where Reagan was, his gun out, a wisp of smoke floating off the muzzle.

Frank Maxwell came forward and put out a hand to help up his daughter. "You okay, baby?" he said anxiously.