Lock 'N' Load (Federal K-9 Series)

by Tee O'Fallon

  Over the years, he’d had lots of sex with lots of different women, some he’d even briefly referred to as his girlfriend, but with Trista, it was different. To her, he’d given more than just his body, although he didn’t quite know what it was. All he knew was that last night, he’d wanted to go all out to make her feel good. Not that he hadn’t made any of his previous sex partners feel good. From their responses, he definitely had, but with Trista, he’d gone way overboard, wanting to make her first time something she’d never forget. And afterward, he’d felt something more. Something he’d never truly felt with a woman.

  Contentment and…happiness.

  He was falling for her. This little pixie draped over his chest had begun to dig her way into his heart. He couldn’t deny it, and he couldn’t allow it. Nothing had changed.

  I don’t deserve to be happy.

  Fuck, will I ever get past that?

  For the first time in his adult life, he considered finding the answer to that question. Not anytime soon. Not with the annual banquet commemorating Jerry’s death coming up in a couple months.

  After his best friend’s death, Jerry’s parents had created a foundation that donated money to a different worthy charity every year. Ironically, he’d just gotten his nonprofit community service status and was now eligible to receive charitable donations for Jerry’s Place. A moot point, since Jerry’s parents would never consider giving his place a dime.

  Mr. and Mrs. Wilshire never pushed for a criminal investigation, nor had they come after his family for any civil responsibility. But Matt hadn’t had any contact with his friend’s family in twenty years—since the day of Jerry’s funeral. And given the family’s state of shock, even that contact had been minimal.

  He knew it was a lame excuse, but confronting the demons of his past would have to wait. Protecting Trista and finding out what the hell was going on were his priorities. No way in hell would he let anything happen to her.

  Trista let out a sleepy sigh and stretched, her arm slipping lower to rest on his upper thigh. Before she could fully wake, he slipped from the bed, carefully stepping over Sheba.

  “What time is it?” She rested on her forearms, her full breasts mounding on the mattress.

  He resisted the urge to slide back into bed and hit the repeat button. “Time to get up.”

  When she pushed to her knees and held out her hand, the sheet fell away, revealing her perfect, naked body. “Come back to bed. Just for a little while.”

  The corners of her mouth lifted into a sleepy smile that did something to his heart, threatening his resolve. “I’d love to, honey.” That was the honest-to-God truth. “But we’ve got another stop to make before we head home, and I’ve gotta take a shower.” Alone.

  Even if moments earlier he’d been contemplating carrying her in there with him again so he could personally see to it that her soft breasts, firm buttocks, and every other inch of her body was clean.

  As he turned to head into the bathroom, he caught the unmistakable confusion in her eyes, and it about killed him. He knew what she wanted, and part of him—the resistant side of him that needed something more than to meander through life alone—wanted it, too. More than anything.

  Turning back to her, he slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, honey. I just need…” Fuck, he probably shouldn’t say it, but lying to her or leading her on would be worse. “Distance.”

  As soon as he spoke that one damned word, he instantly regretted it. The confused look in Trista’s eyes had changed to one of blatant pain. Coward that he was, Matt padded into the bathroom and shut the door. Moments later, he was beneath the pounding spray of the shower, resting his palms flat against the tile wall.

  I really am fucked up.

  Worse, he hated himself that much more for hurting Trista.

  By the time he’d gotten dressed, she was bundled up in a bathrobe, waiting for her turn in the shower. The hurt he’d seen earlier had morphed into anger. He could see it in the green flash of her eyes and the tightness of her lips. “Tris, wait.” He made a move to grab her arm, but when she shrugged from his grasp, he let her go, feeling more and more shitty with each passing second.

  The bathroom door shut—no, slammed—in his face. Sheba raised her head, looking alternately from him to the bathroom door, as if to say, Are you two fighting?

  Exhaling, he sat on the bed. Sheba came over and rested her muzzle on his thigh, looking up at him with big, sympathetic eyes. Even his dog knew something was wrong.

  Thirty minutes later, they were on the road to the sheriff’s department in West Virginia. The space between them on the seat was wide, both figuratively and literally. Trista sat hunched against the door, staring straight ahead with her arms crossed. Mile after mile, her silent treatment had been killing him. He wanted to punch out a window.

  Finally, when he couldn’t take it a minute longer, he pulled into a highway rest stop and parked. “Trista.” She wouldn’t even look at him. He unbuckled his seat belt, leaned over to undo hers, and easily tugged her to his side.

  “Hey!” She pushed at his chest, but he held her tight. “You don’t get to touch me again.”

  He snorted. “The hell I don’t.” The idea of never touching her again…not gonna happen. Leaning over, he cupped her face and kissed her. Not a quick peck, but not the way he wanted to kiss her, either, since she refused to open her mouth.

  “Let me go!” She pushed at his chest, and he complied. Reluctantly.

  She glared up at him. “I gave you my virginity, and what do you do the morning after? Behave like a goddamn teenager and run away with your tail between your legs.” She smacked her hand against her forehead. “I feel like a naive fool, which is exactly what I am. Well, I’m a fast learner, Sgt. Connors. You want distance? You got it.”

  Jesus, I asked for this.

  With an angry hmph, she scooted back to her side of the truck and rebuckled her seat belt.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, and I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Handle what?” While she glared up at him, he was reminded again of just how petite she was. But right now, he felt like a pussycat facing down a lion. More like a pussy.

  “You. I couldn’t handle you.” Somehow he’d missed it. His tentative, shy little pixie had morphed into a goddamn force to be reckoned with, and he admired that she hadn’t hesitated to call him out on his shit. If she wasn’t so pissed at him already, he would have smiled. “I never expected this to happen between us.”

  “But it did,” she countered. “And now you’re too much of a chickenshit to deal with it. You’re really a cold bastard.”

  True. Bull’s-eye on both counts.

  Other women had accused him of being cold, but he’d never cared before. With Trista, he cared. He had no fucking clue where, if anywhere, this was going between them. He only knew he cared what she thought of him.

  “You can’t have it both ways.” She shook her head. “You don’t get to make love to me, then walk away as if I don’t mean anything, only to change your mind the next time the wind blows and you want to get laid again.”

  This time, she clapped a hand over her mouth, widening her eyes as if she couldn’t believe she’d really just said that.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. You have every right to be pissed.” He gripped the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. He’d already told her about Jerry, but he hadn’t told her everything. “There are still things you don’t know about me.”

  “Then tell me.” Her voice had gentled, giving him the courage to go on.

  “I—” Can’t. He couldn’t tell her he was broken, that he could never be the man to make her happy, to make her dreams come true. Fuck, he wanted to. But how could he ever make someone else happy, when he was incapable of experiencing true joy himself? Anytime he did, the guilt was overwhelming. He’d even thought about eating his own gun.

  “Don’t shut me out,” she said, her voice s
till gentle, yet now firm with conviction. “Apparently you can make love one minute, then shut out everyone around you. I don’t operate like that. If you can’t accept whatever it is I feel for you, or you don’t want it, I’ll ask for another officer to protect me.”

  Anger boiled inside him, and he turned on her. “Forget it. That’s not gonna happen.” She was his to protect, and he’d see this thing through to the end. That, and there was no way in hell he’d ever turn her over to someone else’s care. She’s mine.

  The thought had him wondering exactly what he meant. Was she his to protect? Or just plain his.

  “It will happen if I want it to. I can’t make love with you one minute, then be cast aside the next.” Her voice was choked with emotion, telling him how badly he’d hurt her. “If you want to walk away, then do it. Maybe I was stupid, thinking one night with a man meant something, but I can see by your complete lack of response, it doesn’t. You’ve taught me a good lesson. Now that I’ve had sex, I want more. I’d rather have it with you, but if you don’t want me, then I’ll find someone else.”

  “Over my dead body!” He slammed the inside of the door with his fist, welcoming the pain shooting up his arm. Jealousy pounded his brain at the thought of another man touching her. He’d been her first, and the idea of not being her last filled him with an unexpected surge of rage for whoever that nameless, faceless son of a bitch would be.

  “Then talk to me, dammit.” Now it was her turn to punch something, although she wisely chose the considerably softer seat cushion. “What the hell is going on with you?”

  Unable to look at her, he let his head fall back against the headrest. He paused a moment longer until his pulse slowed and he stopped feeling like he wanted to murder all of Trista’s future lovers. He wasn’t prepared to tell her everything. Yet. But he could be honest about what had been bothering him lately.

  “There’s a banquet in a couple months,” he said quietly. “It’s a fundraiser Jerry’s parents hold every year, partly to honor their son’s memory and partly to raise funds, which they later donate to a worthy charity in his name. They always send me an invitation, but I’ve never gone. I haven’t seen his parents since the funeral. Hell, I’ve barely seen my own parents since I got back from the Middle East.”

  “Why don’t you go this year?” she asked. “Maybe it’s time. It might help you.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think I can. Aside from the funeral, I’ve never been able to face them.” When he glanced at her, the sympathetic look in her eyes bothered him. “I’m not telling you this because I want your pity. I’m telling you because thinking about Jerry still tears me up inside. Whenever this time of year rolls around, it fucks with my head and I can’t think straight.”

  “And this morning when you woke up, you thought of Jerry. You couldn’t stand being in bed with me enjoying yourself, so you bolted.”

  Bingo. And that was about all he was prepared to divulge at the moment.

  “We need to go.” He cranked the gearshift and slammed his foot on the accelerator as he headed the truck back onto the highway.

  “You need to get help, Matt. Professional help.”

  “Cops don’t talk to shrinks.” Although he’d thought about it a few times over the years.

  “Why not?”

  “It just isn’t done.” Archaic though it was, consulting a shrink was considered a stigma in the world of law enforcement. A weakness that could call into question his abilities to carry a firearm.

  For a long moment, she didn’t respond. When she did, her words were low and gentle. “You’re killing yourself from the inside out.”

  He’d known that for years. He didn’t need a psychiatrist to psychoanalyze that out of him. What was different now was the rising futility of it all. Of his whole life and what was left of it. If he didn’t do something soon, he feared the worst would happen.

  He’d be completely dead inside.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Four hours later, they were seated in Sheriff Tulane Underwood’s office at the Berkeley County Sheriff’s Department in West Virginia. Trista was amazed at the speed with which everyone jumped to Matt’s command once he flashed his CIA badge and requested to see the sheriff. Despite the emotional chasm that he’d erected between them, she liked how he’d introduced her as “my colleague.”

  “My secretary should have the file you’re looking for in a few minutes,” Sheriff Underwood smiled, revealing a number of crooked teeth.

  Even though he was seated behind a ginormous wooden desk, in an oversize, squeaky antique leather chair that had seen better days, the man made an obvious effort to straighten to his full height. Still, he was nowhere near as tall or big as Matt, and that probably annoyed him, considering they were on his turf.

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” Matt gave the other man a deferential nod. “We surely do appreciate your assistance with this. We’re hoping with your knowledge and extensive experience in this community, you’ll be able to shed some light on this murder.”

  Trista stifled a laugh at how quickly Sheriff Underwood puffed up his chest, clearly drowning in Matt’s flattery. Matt sure knew how to work the man.

  “Always happy to help out the CIA any way I can.” He leaned his forearms on the desk, clasping his hands.

  “Always?” she asked. “Have there been others inquiring about matters within your jurisdiction?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “Quite a few. First, there was a reporter from the Sentinel who FOIA’d the file, then wanted the redacted parts, which we refused to provide. This case may be old, but since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, it’s still an open case, and we treat it as such. No critical evidence will be provided to the public, even under FOIA rules.”

  “You said a few.” Matt narrowed his eyes. “Who else was asking about this case lately?”

  “After the reporter, another one of your CIA colleagues—Hentz—was here demanding the original file and ordering me not to make any copies before I handed it over. Pompous little prick.”

  At the sheriff’s reference to Mitchell Hentz, Trista and Matt exchanged glances.

  Sheriff Underwood coughed. “’Scuse my language, ma’am, but he wasn’t nearly as respectful as you two are.”

  Matt leaned forward. “I don’t understand something. If this is still an unsolved murder case, how could you hand over your original file? As you said, the case may be old, but it’s still an open case that could be opened at any time. Theoretically, anyway.”

  “Well, the agent had a forthwith subpoena with an addendum attached that strictly forbade making copies prior to surrendering the originals. Something about national security being at risk. How a forty-year-old murder could ever compromise national security, I can’t fathom.”

  Now Matt was scowling outright, and she knew precisely why. Shortly after the end of World War II, the National Security Act of 1947 established the CIA to coordinate the nation’s intelligence activities. But the act strictly stated that the CIA would have no law enforcement powers or internal security functions, so as not to conflict with the FBI’s domestic enforcement authority. While Trista had never been an operative, even she knew what that meant.

  The CIA had no subpoena powers. Whatever document Hentz had given Sheriff Underwood was total bullshit. Then again, Underwood didn’t seem that gullible.

  “This pompous little prick,” Matt said. “Did he have company when he slapped that subpoena on you?”

  “He sure did.” Underwood nodded. “An FBI agent was with him. Special Agent Max Fenway.”

  “So the subpoena was issued by the Department of Justice and served by the FBI agent?” Matt asked.

  “Precisely.” Underwood nodded. “They seemed to be in cahoots.”

  Catching the sheriff’s eye, Trista smiled. “Presumably, since your secretary is retrieving the file as we speak, you accidentally failed to comply with the addendum order not to make copies.”

 
Underwood leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and smiling smugly. “You are correct, ma’am. Dunno how that happened, but it did.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” Matt agreed, a corner of his mouth lifting.

  The sheriff frowned. “After those two federal guys, I had another guy asking about this case. A Russian.”

  Trista sat up straighter. “Who?”

  “He never said.”

  “Did you give him any part of the file?” Matt asked.

  “Hell no.” Underwood grimaced. “Kicked him out on his Ruskie ass.”

  A plump woman wearing far too much pink lipstick entered the office and handed a manila folder to the sheriff. “Here ya go, sheriff.”

  “Thank you, Millie.” Underwood winked at his secretary, then handed the folder to Matt. “There are two copies in there for you. Nothing redacted. This homicide occurred long before my time in office, but everyone around here remembers it, including me. A murder in these parts is big news.”

  “You’re giving these to us?” Matt gave the sheriff a look of disbelief. “Without a subpoena?”

  “Not exactly.” Underwood grinned slyly. “Officially, I’d need that subpoena. But if I happened to leave these reports on my desk, it might take me days before I noticed one of them was gone.”

  Trista raised a brow. “And why would you be willing to do that?”

  He paused, pursing his lips for a moment. “Something’s going on here with this case, that much is obvious. If you or your colleagues can help me solve a murder—even a forty-year-old one—I’d be grateful. You see, I’m up for re-election in a few months.”

  Matt snorted. “And working closely with the feds to solve a cold case would boost your ratings.”

  “That it would.” Underwood leaned back in his chair, smiling.

  Matt handed Trista one of the copies. “Care to give us a briefing? Again, with your local expertise, that would be helpful.”