by Karen Rose
That the most recent one still haunted Marcus was evident from the pain on his face.
‘I understand,’ she whispered. He met her eyes, and she could see that he believed her.
Deacon was looking at them, confused. ‘I don’t. What is that song?’
‘It’s a country song,’ Scarlett said, holding Marcus’s gaze. ‘Vince Gill wrote it for his brother, after his brother’s death. It’s often played at funerals. It was played at Marcus’s brother’s funeral.’ Her throat grew thick and she swallowed hard. ‘It was a good choice.’
Marcus’s eyes flickered, gratitude mixing with the pain.
Deacon let out a quiet breath. Critically wounded while taking down Marcus’s brother’s killer, he hadn’t attended the seventeen-year-old’s funeral, but he had seen the boy’s dead body in its shallow grave. As had Scarlett.
As had Marcus. Scarlett wished she could have kept him from having that picture in his mind. He was clearly still grieving. Seeing his brother’s body tossed into a grave like so much trash would make healing that much harder. This Scarlett knew from experience.
‘I see,’ Deacon said quietly. ‘So Tala was drawn by the song that night. Did she speak to you then?’
Marcus shifted his body, staring at the crime scene once again, breaking their connection. ‘No. She never spoke until tonight. I kept going back to the park at one A.M., hoping she’d tell me why she was so afraid. After the first few nights, I brought my guitar with me. I thought maybe she’d find me less threatening if my hands were full, but that wasn’t the case. She let the dog approach close enough for me to pet it, but the closest Tala came to me was twenty-six feet.’
Twenty-six feet? Scarlett frowned, then nodded when the detail clicked in her mind. ‘The length of the poodle’s retractable leash.’ She glanced at Deacon. ‘It’s the size for large dogs. I have one that I use when I walk Zat.’ She returned her attention to Marcus. ‘Did you see the poodle’s ID tags when you petted it?’
‘There was only a name tag attached to the collar – no rabies or license tags. The name tag said “Coco”. Tala came to the park for seven straight nights and would stay long enough to hear me sing a song or two. On the eighth night she didn’t show up, or the two nights after that, so I started going to the park during the day, all different times. We finally crossed paths again late yesterday afternoon. About twelve hours ago.’
‘When she was bruised and limping,’ Scarlett murmured.
An angry nod. ‘Yeah. Someone had roughed her up. At the time, I didn’t think it had anything to do with me, because I never saw anyone following her when she walked the dog. Now I think it must have been because someone knew she was meeting me. She’d be alive otherwise,’ he added bitterly.
‘You told Detective Bishop that you left your card on the bench,’ Deacon said, ‘and that Tala texted you to meet her here. Can we get the number she called from?’
Marcus handed Deacon his phone. ‘She asked me not to call her, told me she was deleting the texts so she wouldn’t get caught. I didn’t call the number, but I did run it. It’s disposable.’
Deacon frowned. ‘How did you run the phone number?’
‘I run my family’s newspaper, Deacon,’ he said mildly. ‘I have all kinds of ways to get information.’
Deacon narrowed his eyes in annoyance. ‘None of which you plan to tell me.’
‘Of course not.’
Deacon looked like he’d argue, but decided against it. ‘Fine. What else can you tell us?’
Marcus looked at Scarlett, his expression suddenly grimly uncomfortable. ‘You asked me if she was a prostitute and I said I didn’t know. That’s true. But she was accustomed to . . . pleasing men.’ He sighed. ‘When I offered to help her, she said she couldn’t pay me. I told her I didn’t want her money. She got this desperate, revolted look on her face. Then in the blink of an eye she changed into this sultry temptress. Went for the button of my jeans. Said she could make me feel good.’ His jaw hardened. ‘I told her no, that I didn’t want that either.’
‘And then?’ Scarlett asked quietly.
‘She looked hopeless. Asked why I would help her. Said she was “nobody”.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘She believed that. She also believed her family was in danger.’
‘Did she mention sisters or friends?’ Deacon asked. ‘Do we know what kind of family she wants us to help? Are they blood relatives or simply other captives?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘She only said “my family”. My first thought was that the man and his wife used her for the sex trade.’
Scarlett pulled up a photo of the victim that she’d taken with her phone, showing it to Deacon. ‘My first thought too,’ she said.
‘Young and pretty,’ Deacon agreed. ‘Just the type sexual slavery operations go for. How was she dressed when she walked the dog in the park? What I mean is, did it look like she was dressed for seduction? Was she on the clock, just taking a break during business hours?’
‘She was wearing a polo shirt and old jeans,’ he said. ‘She looked like any other high-school kid.’
‘Walking a dog with a diamond-studded collar,’ Deacon murmured. ‘Well, whoever she was protecting, whatever their relationship, they had to have been very important to her. Her “owners” trusted their hold on her enough to let her walk their dog, knowing she’d come back.’
‘Did she have an accent?’ Scarlett asked. ‘How was her English? Did she sound like she’d been in this country for a while?’
‘Her English was flawless, but she did have an accent.’ Reaching behind him, Marcus pulled a dark baseball cap from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You can judge for yourself. I recorded the conversation.’ A hesitant pause, followed by a shrug. ‘I recorded every interaction after that first night.’
Scarlett stared at the cap, then up at his face. ‘You have a microphone in your hat?’
‘A camera, actually. It’s hidden on the edge of the bill.’
Deacon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
Marcus’s jaw set. ‘I wanted to be able to protect myself in case I was being set up.’
Deacon took the cap, his eyes narrowing further. ‘And exactly who would be setting you up, Marcus?’ he asked softly.
Marcus’s spine straightened, his face taking on the stony expression of a soldier preparing for an interrogation. ‘I don’t know.’
There was frustration in his tone, she thought. And honesty. Or maybe that was just what she wanted to hear. ‘The same people that made you promise your mother you’d wear Kevlar?’
Two
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 3.50 A.M.
The same people that made you promise your mother you’d wear Kevlar?
Startled, Marcus stiffened, then one side of his mouth quirked up as he glanced down at her, grudging respect in his eyes. Scarlett Bishop didn’t miss a detail. So tread carefully here. For her sake as well as his own. ‘Maybe. And before you ask – no, I don’t know who “they” are.’
‘But “they” are threatening you?’ Deacon asked. ‘Why?’
The Fed didn’t miss much either. Over the months, Marcus had come to respect the sharp eye and quick mind of his cousin Faith’s fiancé. As a team, Scarlett and Deacon were scary-good investigators. Which was one of the reasons Marcus had consciously and consistently avoided them both whenever possible. ‘I don’t know,’ he said again.
‘Who else knew you would be here tonight?’ Deacon asked.
Marcus frowned, startled once again. ‘You think I was the target?’
‘You were wearing Kevlar and a camera,’ Deacon pointed out dryly. ‘You tell me.’
Marcus hadn’t even considered it, but he did now. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone had taken a shot at him. That the bullets he’d taken last November were the first to actually require a hospital stay was pretty damn close to a miracle. He had a few projects brewing, but none were at a flashpoint, none hot enough to warrant such a physical retalia
tion. Past projects . . . It was possible. He’d stepped on an awful lot of toes.
‘I’m a newspaper publisher,’ he finally said carefully. ‘My staff break stories that make people unhappy. Sometimes there are threats. Most of them are nothing to worry about. I can’t think of anything right now that especially would be. I don’t think I was the target tonight.’
‘Unfortunately, we’re going to have to be the judges of that,’ Scarlett said, the softness gone from her tone. She was a cop again, her jaw hard, her eyes sharp. ‘A girl is dead. If one of your “threats” is responsible, we need to know. And don’t even consider telling me that you won’t reveal your sources,’ she snapped, interrupting him before he could do exactly that. ‘You called me because you knew I’d help that girl. Don’t stand in my way now.’
She was right, he had to admit. He had called her. He had involved her. ‘I’ll have it to you within the hour.’
‘What will I get?’ she asked warily.
‘A list of the threats I’ve received.’ Those he was willing to share, anyway. Some of the threats were not credible. Others had already been dealt with. Others would be far too revealing, especially to this pair of investigators. He’d pick and choose the ones that would do him no damage. ‘How far back do you want me to go? Six months? A year? Five years?’
She blinked once. ‘You keep a list?’
‘My office manager does. Just in case.’
She glanced at Deacon. ‘How far back do you think? Three years?’
Deacon shrugged. ‘It’s as good a place to start as any.’ He turned his odd bi-colored eyes on Marcus in a cool stare. ‘I’ll need your gun.’
Marcus was glad he’d had the opportunity to get used to Deacon’s eyes in the less stressful, more social environment of their family get-togethers. Otherwise he might have been startled into making an admission he’d regret later. They were half brown, half blue, each iris split down the middle. At first glance, the sight was unsettling. A little mesmerizing. Marcus was certain that Deacon used his eyes to the greatest advantage during interrogations.
Now, Marcus simply returned Deacon’s stare without a blink. ‘What makes you think I have a gun?’
Deacon rolled those odd eyes. ‘Because you’re wearing Kevlar and a damn camera,’ he said once again. ‘You’re wasting my time, Marcus.’
Yes, he was, Marcus realized, and was suddenly ashamed of himself. Because as soon as he gave them his gun, they’d let him go. Scarlett would walk away to do her job. And he’d be alone again. Which was even more pathetic than it sounded in his head.
‘You’re right.’ He dropped to one knee and removed the pocket-sized Sig from its ankle holster, then straightened his spine and placed the gun in Deacon’s outstretched palm.
Deacon sniffed the barrel. ‘You didn’t fire tonight.’
‘No. I drew my weapon, but the shooter was gone. It was fired two days ago, at the range. Your CSU guy did a gun residue test before you got here. It was negative.’
Deacon didn’t blink. ‘You could have worn gloves.’
‘I didn’t.’ He ventured a glance at Scarlett, found her gaze watchful. And aware of him in a way that she probably shouldn’t be. In a way that made his skin heat. In a way that had nothing to do with fury and everything to do with . . . want.
‘What about your knife?’ she asked, her cool tone at odds with the look in her eyes.
Caught off guard, he blinked, his brain backtracking quickly. ‘My knife?’
‘You cut her shirt,’ she said quietly, ‘when you tried to stop her bleeding. The knife you used will have her blood on it. Where is it?’
Annoyed for allowing himself to be surprised, he dug in his pocket and pulled out the folding knife he never left home without. ‘I want it back,’ he muttered as he dropped it into the evidence bag she held out.
She tilted the bag toward the crime-scene unit’s spotlights so that she could examine the knife’s hilt. ‘This is very nice.’ She glanced at him again. ‘Army issue?’
If she knew he’d been army, she’d been checking up on him. He wondered how deep she’d dug, how much she’d learned. ‘Surplus store,’ he said, uttering the half-truth smoothly. The knife he’d handed over to Bishop was the same one he’d carried through combat. It had saved his life more times than he wanted to count, and he’d found himself curiously unable to part with it when his tour was up. When the time had come to turn in his gear, he’d bought a replacement of the same make to give back to the army. He’d carried the knife since the day he’d come home from the Gulf . . . just because. Okay, fine. It was a security blanket. He was man enough to admit that. Just barely.
He hadn’t started carrying the gun until after he’d worked at the newspaper for a few months – and made a few enemies right here in Cinci. The list had grown considerably over the years, but he wouldn’t undo a single deed he’d done.
Except . . . Damn, he hoped Tala had been the target. He didn’t want to consider that she’d been killed because of him. He looked up, troubled. ‘She was just a kid.’
Scarlett’s shoulders sagged, softening her almost military stance. ‘Your brother Mikhail’s age,’ she murmured, compassion darkening her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Marcus.’
Meeting her gaze, he felt it again. That spark between them. That connection. ‘Thank you.’
Discomfort flickered across her features a split second before her shoulders straightened and her expression grew cold and piercing. In the blink of an eye she was back to being a cop. ‘We don’t have any reason to hold you,’ she said brusquely, ‘but we’re sure to have more questions. You don’t have any upcoming travel planned, do you?’
Well, he thought sourly. Her allotted moment of compassion was evidently over. He opened his mouth to reply with something sarcastic, but stopped himself. He wasn’t being fair. Her compassion was still there. It had always been there. He’d seen it the day she’d stood beside his hospital bed, then again at his brother’s grave, even though she’d kept to the very back of the gathered crowd. He could see it now, lurking behind the piercing focus of her eyes.
She didn’t want it to show and he could respect that. For now. ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘I’m not planning to go anywhere.’
She gave him an assessing look. ‘Because you’re going to search for Tala’s killer.’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘I make my living digging for news, Detective.’
‘Don’t,’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t go looking for the shooter or anyone else. Send me that list of people you’ve annoyed, and any other recordings you made of Tala in the park – as quickly as you can.’ She handed him her card. ‘My email is at the bottom.’
He already knew her email. He already knew almost everything about her – everything he could dig up legally from afar, that was. Well, he allowed, mostly legally. And mostly from afar. Because he’d been way too curious about this woman since he’d opened his eyes to find her standing over his hospital gurney, her gaze dark and wary. And full of respect.
He’d seen it again tonight, he realized. Respect. When he’d come back to make sure Tala’s body was properly cared for. When he hadn’t left the girl alone in the dark. It had been too long since he’d felt true respect for himself. He’d once done the right thing simply because it was the right thing to do. His self-respect had kept him from giving in to the ever-growing temptation to deliver his own brand of justice to the slimy, perverted sons-of-bitches responsible for making the news he dug up for a living. But his self-respect dwindled every time the slimy SOBs won, every time he failed to remove a threat from the community. Every time a child went to bed afraid because the slimy SOB still slept in the next room.
Now the only thing that stayed his hand was his fear of falling so deep into the abyss that he could never pull himself out. Delivering one’s own brand of justice was a slippery slope. Marcus O’Bannion knew this from experience.
But tonight he’d seen respect in Scarlett Bishop’s eyes, and suddenly he w
anted to see that again. Desperately. He’d been too curious about this woman from afar for far too long. Maybe fate had finally done him a favor. Maybe Scarlett had crossed his path for a reason. Maybe she was his way back into the light. Or maybe he was just so pathetically lonely that he’d believe anything that allowed him to spend a little more time with her. I’m okay with that too.
‘I’ll go to my office straight from here.’ Marcus lifted his brows, watching her face. ‘If you’re done with me,’ he added, just mildly enough that she could take his words as either an invitation or a challenge. Either would work, for now.
Her eyes flickered for the briefest of moments before control returned. She’d drawn a breath, slow and deep, and he wondered which of the two she’d chosen. Invitation or challenge?
‘You didn’t say you wouldn’t go looking for Tala’s killer,’ she stated flatly.
No, he hadn’t. Nor would he make that promise, because it would be a lie. ‘So . . . you’re done with me?’ he asked, then watched in fascination as the color rose in her cheeks.
‘Goddammit,’ she hissed. ‘You’re going to get yourself killed for real this time.’
It was possible, he supposed. It had always been possible. He turned to Deacon Novak. ‘Am I free to go?’ he asked formally.
Deacon blew out an annoyed sigh. ‘Yes, you are free to go. Just don’t get yourself killed. Faith likes your family, and I’m finally starting to feel like they might not totally hate me.’
Marcus nearly smiled. ‘Maybe not totally.’ Not at all, really. Deacon Novak had a charm that had thrown his family off balance, making them laugh in the midst of their grief. He had a way of making Marcus’s mother, brother, and sister smile even on their very worst days, and for that Marcus would be forever grateful. Faith had been a tireless source of emotional support after Mikhail’s murder, blending into the O’Bannion clan so seamlessly that it almost seemed she’d always been around. Getting close to the cousin they’d never known was the only good thing to come from the last nine months.
