Confessions. JoAnn Ross

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      Chapter Six

      Just as Trace had feared, the crime quickly gained Roman circus appeal. By noon, Main Street was jammed with television vans. Thick cables ran across the pavement; the satellite dishes atop the vans were capable of transmitting the press conference live to a vast national audience.

      Uniformly attractive reporters who had taken over the courthouse steps were recording their stand-ups in front of videocams. Trace saw one brunette he recognized as being a morning anchor from a Phoenix station doing some last minute repairs to her hair with a portable butane curling iron.

      The sidewalks, unsurprisingly, were packed with looky-loos. An enterprising hot dog vendor had set up an umbrella-topped stand across the street in the park. Nearby another entrepreneur was doing a brisk business in Italian ices and espresso. Rather than try to drive through the uncharacteristic crush of traffic, The Good Humor man had brazenly parked his truck in a fire tow-away zone. The line for Popsicles, ice cream bars and soft drinks extended around the block.

      “Apparently murder is good for business,” Trace said as he entered his office ten minutes late and found Jessica waiting. Her white suit looked as crisp and tidy as it had hours earlier, making Trace wonder if she’d had the material coated with Teflon.

      “I recall reading that back in the sixties, when Reno was declared Murder Capitol of the country, tourism hit an all-time high,” she said.

      He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Perhaps someone ought to suggest a new ad campaign to the chamber of commerce.”

      “Visit Whiskey River—the west’s most Western town. Where the shoot-outs aren’t faked,” she suggested as she made another pass at the coffeepot herself, then sat back down.

      When she crossed her legs, the enticing sound of silk on silk drew his attention. Trace wondered if he’d ever outgrow checking out a woman’s legs and sincerely hoped not.

      “Have I ever told you that you’ve got dynamite legs, Jess?”

      “I believe the term was ‘wraparound,’” she corrected as she adjusted her skirt over her knees. “But that was in another time.” She took a sip of coffee. “In those carefree, halcyon days of yore before we landed ass-deep in reporters.”

      “I’ve always liked your ass, too.”

      “Thank you. I like yours as well.” She smiled at him over the rim of the chipped mug. “And as much as I’d love to spend the rest of the afternoon strolling down memory lane with you, Callahan, I suppose you’d better tell me what you’ve got so far.”

      He did. What little he had.

      “It’s not a lot to go on,” she mused, skimming over the notes she’d taken.

      “No. It’s not.”

      “But you’ll get more.”

      “Yes. I will.”

      She sighed. “We’re going to have to give that mob out there something to sink their teeth into.”

      “How about the 911 tape?”

      She considered that. “Not bad. It’s definitely dramatic enough to keep them occupied while you do whatever it is you intend to do.”

      “As a matter of fact, I intend to detect.”

      She lifted a brow. “Detect?”

      “That’s what we detectives do,” he reminded her.

      “Ah, but you’re not a detective anymore,” she reminded him back.

      Trace shrugged. “That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.” He stood up. “Ready?”

      She rose and brushed at the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

      Folding chairs had been set up in a conference room. Television lights were pointed at the podium. Although Trace and Jessica entered the room together, she stood aside, inviting him to open the proceedings.