by Sarah Andre
He got out sandwich fixings and began covering bread with mayo, then turkey, then lettuce—all so ordinary, all so calm while six feet away she stared into the abyss of her worst nightmare.
In the distance, the phone rang, and he excused himself.
She knocked a fist against her forehead. If only she’d been in her right mind after the accident and not called herself Jesselynn. What possessed her to keep using that name? She of all people knew the amazing secrets Google retrieved from the past.
“Jordan, it’s for you,” Leo said from the doorway, and she all but sprang for the office and shut the door.
“Jefferson?”
“Vannini’s alibi is Jennifer Pricilla Johnson. He claims that after the fight he drove her from the Avalanche parking lot to the hotel bar, then back to his room. They didn’t emerge until late the next morning.”
Jordan’s skin prickled. “He’s lying. He walked straight from the fight to the Lamborghini. Alone. All the witnesses described that on news shows last May. No one mentioned seeing a woman inside when he roared off.”
“Well, you’ll have the opportunity to question him face to face. You’re right, he’s back in the States, arrived today and is staying at the St. Regis in Aspen. I called pretending to be your staff assistant with Sports Illustrated, and he’s agreed to an interview tomorrow at one.”
A glimmer of light tunneled into her sludge-infested soul. “That’s great, thanks.”
“You don’t sound like yourself. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“Yeah. I had a bit of a surprise a few minutes ago, but I’m fine.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Really, I’m fine. Listen, I have Tiffany’s info.” She rattled off the email and phone number and then asked, “Did you find anything in her social networking sites?”
“Nothing of note. She updated her sites every few minutes though. I can’t believe she had time to have a life.”
“What kind of posts?”
“Mostly selfies. Stuff she was doing, thinking, eating, buying.” He chuckled. “Stuff I can’t believe anyone in their right mind would ever want to know, but she got hundreds of likes, tags, pokes, comments, shares…am I missing a term? Tens of thousands of people followed her. Scanning through all the posts and comments will take a while.”
“Any stand out so far?”
“Just from a frequency point, I marked down two user names. Marcy84 and MMADude. Marcy sounds like a number one fan or a bff—”
“Lock mentioned a cousin named Marcy.”
“—and the dude liked or tagged every single thing she blathered on about and always left a comment.”
“What’s MMA?”
“Aside from mixed martial arts, I don’t have a clue.”
“Mixed martial arts?”
“It’s a full-contact combat sport, usually shown on paid cable. Could be MMA means something else, though. I’ll keep researching.”
Jordan smiled. “I’m sure you will. Did MMADude have a profile picture or photo albums?”
“Nope. Profile pic is an icon of Bart Simpson, and the only personal information he supplied is his hometown. Philadelphia.”
The phone rang on his end, and he put her on hold. She scribbled the MMADude information on a blank sheet of her pad.
Jefferson clicked back. “Gotta go, kid. New case.”
Leo’s back was to her when she reached the kitchen, but when he glanced over his shoulder, the expression on his face stiffened her spine. Oh God, he wasn’t letting the subject drop. Her face flushed hotly.
“Jordan, have you ever thought about returning to Alabama and fighting the charges? Self-defense for domestic abuse is—”
The back door opened, and boots stomped in place before a slam echoed through the small cabin. Jordan’s heart skipped to her throat.
“Please,” she whispered, already hearing the energetic stride drawing close. “Please don’t tell him.”
Sympathy crinkled the corners of Leo’s eyes. “I’m sor—”
Lock brushed past her, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and sat without ceremony, completely unaware of the stillness he’d walked in on. Oblivious, thank God, to her trembling a few feet away. He smelled of snow and sweat and still wore the damp long johns, which clung like a second skin to all those muscles. His rosy face glowed, and those pewter eyes snapped with life.
“Man, I’m starving.” He raked fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, leaving tufts defying gravity. The masculine carelessness emanating off him reminded her of Lock and Load. After thoroughly trouncing competitors in a race, he always faced the press exactly like this. Scruffy, arrogant, and ridiculously gorgeous.
She sat down stiffly as Leo placed a tray of sandwiches on the table and went back for the coffee mugs. If he’d discovered her secret this easily, anyone could—including Lock. And she’d never bear up under that humiliation.
Stomach still roiling, she picked at the bread, every once in a while chewing a miniscule portion. Lock wolfed down his sandwiches, chugged the beer, and arched back in his chair, stretching his brawny arms wide. The entire show catapulted her from her self-pity, and as she stared at the roped muscles straining within caressing distance, her insides quivered. When a vertebra in his back popped and he grunted in relief, she was hard-pressed not to grunt in longing.
“I guess we should get back to it,” she said, mortified when it came out breathless.
“Actually—” Leo threw her a look of apology. “I asked Lock to run some errands with me. We’ll only be gone an hour.”
She wasn’t letting the two of them spend that much time alone! Leo knew her deepest secret. An hour of errands meant Lock would learn it too. Besides, if she went with them, they could stop at the police station to collect her belongings. Specifically her cell phone charger.
“Great,” she said, brightly. “We’ll talk about your case in the car.”
A subtle look passed between the brothers.
“Oh, I get it. This is a No-Girls-Allowed Club Meeting.” Like that would stop her.
Lock’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. “Would that kind of club stop a reporter like you, sweetheart?”
The coincidence of his wording made her pause. “No. And the name is Jordan.”
“Enough,” Leo said loudly. “Let’s just get going. You can borrow one of my jackets, Jordan.”
“Thanks.” The key to getting Leo to leave her past alone was to become indispensable to the case. Then he wouldn’t want to hinder the progress by bringing it up with Lock or calling the authorities. She rose from the table and looked from one to the other. “By the way, I have an interview scheduled with Roberto Vannini at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’ll need a ride to Aspen.”
She turned her back on their astonished faces.
Chapter Fifteen
“How in the hell did you arrange an interview with Vannini? You just got out of the hospital.” Lock loomed over Jordan, handing her a jacket. Thankfully he’d put his shirt back on, but his nearness and that charismatic stare made her insides melt like goo.
She shoved her attraction aside. “No biggie, I’m pretending to be a staff writer for SI.”
“You are a writer for SI.”
“I freelance. I pitch pieces to lots of magazines.”
At his alarmed blink she blurted, “But to prepare for his version of that night, I have more questions about yours, and it’ll touch on your defense strategy.”
Lock shrugged into his jacket, and by the look on his face, there would be no questions or follow-ups or even speaking aloud for that matter.
“I contacted my lawyer. He’s forbidden me to tell you anything else.”
Her heart drummed wildly. “Really?” she snapped. “Did your lawyer get a one-on-one with your prime suspect with the sole purpose of tripping up his alibi?”
“Yeah. It’s called a deposition.”
“Not the way I do it. Sweetheart.”
“Guys,” Leo sighed
. “Let’s get going.”
“You need me, Lock. You have absolutely nothing to lose and you know it.” She shoved her trembling hands into the pockets of Leo’s borrowed jacket and raised her chin. “Just give me a sketchy outline of your defense on the way to town. No harm, no foul.”
“And no article?” he asked sarcastically.
“Look, the more facts I know about your case, the more it’ll help me with Roberto tomorrow.”
“How is learning my defense strategy going to help you with Vannini tomorrow?” Scorn dripped from every word.
She had no answer. She licked her lips, scouring her mind frantically for another fib. Miraculously a flash of the brothers’ conversation that first night popped into her mind. She smiled slowly. “Well, for starters, your assailant is left-handed. That’s useful information when I ask Roberto to sign an autograph, right?”
The brothers glanced at each other incredulously.
“You are good,” Leo said.
Lock hesitated, but finally sighed. “Aw, hell. What could it hurt to answer a few more questions. Parker will have a shit fit, but that’s the least of my worries.”
The adrenalin rush of their dawning respect made her feel a little cocky. “Let’s hit the road, Lock and Load,” she rhymed.
His flinty glare made her gulp. With one violent yank, he zipped his jacket and leaned in close. “We’ll chalk that one up to you, Jesselynn Claire, but I’m telling you for the last time. I don’t take orders from anybody. I’ll say when it’s time to go.”
“It’s time to go,” Leo said flatly.
Lock swore under his breath and wrenched the back door open. As annoyed as he appeared, he still helped her carefully over the shoveled ground. The early afternoon was crisp and sunny, the kind where the chilly air burned her lungs, but a jacket would soon be too warm. The scenery around her was breathtaking, pristinely white and fluffy, and when she inhaled everything smelled of fresh snow and pungent, wet pine.
Lock assisted her into the car, and in short order, she found herself sandwiched between the two brothers on the ancient bench-seat of the beat-up station wagon that smelled strongly of motor oil and mold.
“What’s with all the law boxes?” Jordan nodded at the cardboard containers stacked in the back.
“My research,” Leo said. “I keep meaning to drive it over to storage.”
“The extra weight’ll help us on these roads.” Lock turned the key and punched a new station from his brother’s choice before he’d heard a musical note. He threw his arm around the back of her seat and pressed his torso into her. She gulped a breath, but he didn’t acknowledge the contact, simply focused on reversing carefully down the long, steep driveway.
She didn’t know what distracted her more, facing her imminent death on this slippery backward descent, Lock’s steady breath on her temple, or his solid body leaning against hers to the primitive beat of Linkin Park. Either way, her nerves grew taut, and her breathing grew shallow.
Once the car turned safely onto the slushy highway, he straightened in his seat, although their shoulders brushed and their thighs still molded from hip to knee. She inched her leg away, as far as space allowed and flipped to a clean page. “Do you know anyone with the username MMADude?”
He frowned. “No.” He shifted in his seat, and his thigh glued right back down the length of hers. Heat scorched her cheeks and flashed through her core. She needed a couple of breaths to collect herself.
“Did Tiffany know someone who was into mixed martial arts?”
The frown deepened. “Not that I know of.”
Of course Lock wouldn’t know if another man was in the picture. His on-screen shock at witnessing Tiffany and Vannini at the Avalanche proved that. “Who would know? Surely she had a best friend.”
“Probably her cousin, Marcy. They were inseparable.”
“Does she live in Aspen?”
Lock nodded.
“Well, when I finish with Vannini I’d like to talk to her.”
He turned the radio off and glanced down at her. “Where’s all this heading?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Working an investigation is like throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks. I’m willing to bet Marcy knew a completely different side of Tiffany. Maybe something she says will help us.”
“All right. I’ll see if I can set it up.”
“Thanks.” She jotted Marcy’s name on her To-Do list. “Now, we know the prosecution will bring up your arguments in the bar and back at the condo, right? So list any other evidence your lawyer is expecting from their witness list.”
On her other side, Leo stiffened. Lock scratched his beard, which she was coming to realize was like a nervous tick. “Her blood was all over me.”
“But you said this morning you didn’t get close to her out there.”
“I didn’t.”
She paused, stomach flip-flopping. “Then explain how her blood got on you.”
His glance touched hers and spun away. “I can’t.”
Leo leaned forward to see his brother’s profile. “When did you realize you were covered in blood?”
“When I was puking on the patio.”
She blanched at the visual in her head.
“But when you say covered,” Leo persisted, “where exactly was the blood and how much?” She couldn’t place his sharp tone. Maybe it was a new authority. He was in his element discussing a crime scene. In fact, she should sit back and let him question his brother.
“It was down my shirt, on my palms, under my nails. I don’t know what you mean by how much—”
“Droplets? Smears? Large stains?”
Deep lines of tension etched Lock’s face. “All of the above.”
“Oh, Lock,” she whispered. When he looked over, a heartbeat of fathomless despair passed between them. He turned his attention back to the road, his profile morphing back to inscrutable.
“What about the knife?” Leo asked in a strangled voice.
“Came from her kitchen. It was used for all eleven stab wounds. Had my fingerprints on the handle.”
“Did they find other fingerprints? Tiffany’s?”
“No.”
Jordan scribbled notes as fast as she could while Leo continued his methodical questioning.
“Had you ever touched her knives in the past?”
Lock shrugged. “Yeah. I’m not a complete idiot in the kitchen.”
His brother made an indecipherable sound, and Lock’s jaw tightened.
“Okay,” she jumped in hastily, “what else?”
“Blood droplets that go from the Jacuzzi up to the bedroom all match her DNA. Bruises on her wrist from the bar struggle. No defensive wounds, meaning she knew her attacker. No signs of a break-in. The front door was still locked from the inside, so was the garage, and there were no footprints or disturbance of any kind in the new flowers outside her patio fence.”
He recited it like a chant, completely emotionless. Her stomach roiled again, even as her pulse thudded at the exclusivity of this information.
Leo shifted in his seat. “Who had a key to her place?”
“Her housecleaning service, and her cousin Marcy.”
His brother’s brows knit. “And Parker’s defense to all this?”
“The forensic expert testifying the wounds were inflicted by a leftie. The knife only had my prints on the handle, like it was wiped clean before I touched it, which sounds whacked.”
“Not as whacked as you getting into a huge fight with her, but someone else kills her and frames you,” Leo said bluntly.
Waves of hostility emanated off Lock. “All we have to do,” he said through his teeth, “is establish doubt. Who buffs the handles of their knives clean? Oh wait. I forgot who I’m talking to.” Before Leo had a chance to retort, Jordan motioned for Lock to move on, and he began again in that rote voice. “She had no defensive wounds because the blows came from behind, and for her to hear anything above that churning Jacuzzi? Co
me on. Anyone could have stood there.”
At least that sounded plausible, but Jordan circled the prosecutor issues that alarmed her the most.
“What about the blood on your clothes?” she asked. “The locked door?”
His lips pressed together. She waited him out, disturbingly aware of…well, not changing her earlier opinion, but certainly questioning it. Sure, the Lock she knew wasn’t capable of murder. But the drunken blackout? The bloody clothes and locked door? There was no way around that kind of evidence, and she, of all people, knew about drunken rages and morning-after denial.
“Parker’s going to argue the front door could have been picked, and I held her that morning and don’t remember because of the shock.”
“That’s your whole defense?” his brother blurted in disbelief.
“Well, I have people like Coach Black and Dr. Clutchfield and my teammates testifying that I’m not capable of killing and what a fine, upstanding guy I really am off-camera.”
From the mocking tone Jordan knew his smirk was in place. Leo snorted under his breath, and she concentrated on jotting details so she wouldn’t have to see Lock and Load’s corny bravado, and he wouldn’t see her distress at his flimsy defense.
There was no doubt in her mind—unless new evidence surfaced in his favor, he was going down for this. With a record-fast jury turnaround time. You don’t care. Get the story, and get the reward. “Okay. Let’s switch back to your relationship with Tiffany.”
…
“Fire away,” Lock said carelessly, hoping they weren’t picking up on the panic streaming from him like sweat. Listing all that evidence aloud was a reality check as effective as a two-by-four to the head. Shit. He must have killed Tiff. Means, motive, and opportunity. To look for anyone else was a waste of time, and all three of them knew it. He swallowed the rising bile at the sheer depth of evilness he carried inside. Christ, he should be locked away.
“I’ve researched Tiffany’s life thoroughly, and one thing stands out. Her behavior became increasingly erratic the last month. Would you agree?”
He should shut this silly detective game down and let Jordan go on her way, but something made him answer. “Yeah, there was stuff going on with her family that upset her.”
