Body of Evidence (Evidence Series)

by Rachel Grant

  “Did Roddy have a key?”

  “I was in North Korea. Then I was on a plane—with you.”

  “Did Roddy have a key?”

  Exasperation won out. “No.”

  “Were you and Roddy ever involved?”

  “No.”

  “Never?” His tone conveyed disbelief.

  “I wasn’t interested. He was your typical sexist pig.”

  “And Evan Beck wasn’t?”

  She flinched, as she always did when Evan’s name came up, but quickly recovered. It was futile to hope the eagle-eyed prosecutor hadn’t noticed. She shrugged and aimed for flippant. “Egypt was lonely, and Evan was hot.”

  “Did you ever give Evan a key?”

  “No.”

  “You dated for a long time.”

  “What’s with the obsession over my relationship with Evan? Are you jealous, Curt?”

  His eyes narrowed, but still, he smiled and shook his head. “They must have loved your mouth in North Korea.”

  She’d tried to rein in her glib tongue during interrogation but had failed on a few memorable occasions. She looked away, unable to suppress a shudder at the memory.

  He grabbed her hands and squeezed. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

  Since her arrest, she’d had very little human comfort, and the touch of his hands triggered a sharp need. She stepped closer, and his arms enfolded her. A hand stroked her hair and the other rubbed her back. “I’m sorry, Mara. I’ll try to remember what you’ve been through and not be such a prick.”

  She pressed her cheek against his chest and murmured, “Thanks.” He smelled pleasantly musky, and his broad shoulders and firm body made her feel protected. Safe. She didn’t want to think; she just wanted to feel.

  “Dominick,” a man called from inside the house. “I need you in here.”

  She took a deep breath and stepped out of his arms.

  He studied her with unreadable eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair and glanced away. “I need to confer with Palea, but before I do, back to my earlier question. There’s no sign of breaking and entering. I was trying to establish if there is any way Roddy—or his murderer—could have gotten a key.”

  “A copy of my key is at JPAC headquarters—so other JPAC teams can watch over my place when I’m deployed. I do the same for them.”

  His intense gaze was probing, analyzing. Filing away information about her in his sharp mind. But now she saw compassion in his eyes as well. One of the numerous walls that separated them had fallen. She wondered if the change would be permanent or fleeting.

  “Ordinarily, we’d never let you enter a crime scene, but I’ll make an exception for two reasons. One, you might be able to tell us what’s changed since you were here last.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “You’ve been through hell. You can pick up a few personal items before we head to DC. I was going to throw together a bag for you.”

  She regarded him for a moment. “Curt Dominick, you might actually be a nice man.”

  He winked at her. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.” He turned and reached for the door handle, then glanced over his shoulder. “Brace yourself.”

  Inside, a man was taking pictures on the other side of the low partition wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. Another man pawed through her neatly stacked mail with gloved hands.

  The second man looked up, and his dark, native-Hawaiian eyes widened at the sight of her. “This is a crime scene. She can’t be here.”

  She bristled. “This is my house. Who are you?”

  “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Kaha’i Palea. I repeat, you shouldn’t be here.” The man glared at Curt. “Dammit, Dominick. You’ve gotten sloppy.”

  “We need her. She can tell us what’s out of place.”

  She headed toward the kitchen to look over the low partition wall.

  “Wait—” the agent said.

  She ignored him and rose on her toes to peer over the divider, to see what the other man was photographing. The smell of death was bad enough, but the mess in her kitchen was worse. Blood pooled on the floor, spattered the walls, cabinets, and dripped in red streaks down her airy curtains.

  “The blood is new since I was here last.” She turned away from the gruesome scene and landed right in Curt’s arms. Tremors started in her center and spread to her extremities.

  “There’s always more blood than people expect,” he said.

  Her forehead pressed against his heart. The steady beat became a calming cadence. “God, I’m having a crappy day,” she whispered.

  His arms tightened around her. “You’re determined to milk the firing squad, aren’t you?”

  The trembling dissipated in the wake of her laugh. She met his gaze. What a time for him to reveal he had a heart, let alone a sense of humor. “I’d be a fool not to,” she said.

  His cell rang again. Thankfully, he ignored it, but she forced herself to step out of his arms. Turning to face the carnage in her kitchen, she hugged herself and said, “I’d say Roddy had a worse day than I did.” She turned her back on the mess. “Are you sure it was Roddy? I mean, given what’s left in my kitchen, identification must be difficult.”

  The FBI agent nodded. “The medical examiner has already matched Brogan’s tattoos for a positive ID.”

  Of course. The JPAC skull symbol had been tattooed next to a raptor on his shoulder. Roddy was really and truly dead. Later she’d process grief, horror, and outrage, but right now she was concerned about the living. “Have you checked on my neighbors? The gunshot must have terrified them.”

  “Roddy was considerate in his suicide and used a gun with a silencer,” Agent Palea said.

  “Raptor has the best toys,” Curt added.

  “You don’t really believe this was a suicide,” she said.

  “No,” said the agent.

  “The ME has placed the time of death around the time the president announced we’d safely left P’yŏngyang,” Curt said. “Listen, we have some questions for you, but I need to speak with Agent Palea alone first.” Curt’s gaze raked her from head to toe. “Why don’t you change while we talk?”

  “What, you don’t like my outfit?”

  With thumb and forefinger he pulled a loose strand of yarn at her collar. The sweater unraveled. He flashed a wry smile. “It’s entertaining, certainly.”

  Thoroughly confused by Curt Dominick’s unexpected attitude shift, she escaped down the hallway to her bedroom.

  CURT WATCHED MARA leave the room with quick strides. The explosion had rattled him or he never would have made the stupid, cruel remark about her flippant tongue. But what worried him was his willingness to hold her, which had been triggered by an overwhelming need to appease the crazy part of him that feared she was a haunting angel—or demon.

  As he followed Palea outside where they could talk in private, questions inundated him in rapid-fire succession. Had the jet been rigged to explode from the beginning? If they’d flown to San Francisco as planned, would they have exploded in the air? The pilots had guarded the jet in North Korea, but what if they’d missed something? Was Mara the target? Or had someone finally followed through with one of the many death threats he’d received?

  Palea swung around and said in a low voice, “What the hell was that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the sweater. And the embrace.”

  He gave Palea a look that usually made opposing counsel back off. “There’s nothing going on. She’s part of a case.”

  “She’s also beautiful, vulnerable, and looks at you like you’re Superman.”

  “She’s got a little hero worship going, which is understandable, considering I arrived only moments before her execution. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.” Great. He sounded defensive.

  “You’re prosecuting her uncle. She could be using the oldest trick in the book to sway you.”

  “I’m not so
me novice assistant district attorney, so you can cut the condescending lecture. I was relieved to see her because that wasn’t a sonic boom we heard. It was our jet—exploding. I ordered her to wait for me on the jet. If she’d listened to me, she’d be dead.”

  Palea’s suspicious gaze fixed on the house. “For someone who just escaped an explosion, she seemed pretty nonchalant.”

  His cell phone rang again. Caller ID indicated the president’s chief of staff. He also had missed two calls from the secretary of state. “She doesn’t know about the explosion.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The trial starts in thirteen and a half hours, and I’m stuck on Oahu without a jet. I need to make some calls. I can probably arrange a military flight.”

  “Before you do that, I want to show you something.” Palea led the way back inside the house and headed down the hall to Mara’s den. “I found this behind the file cabinet.” He held up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small padded manila envelope. “It’s empty. Whatever was inside the envelope was dirty—soil and organic residue coat the inside. The postmark indicates it was mailed from the Camp Casey—South Korea—APO the day after Mara was arrested.”

  “When JPAC was evicted, they left the country through the Joint Security Area and went straight to Camp Casey,” Curt said. “A day later, they caught a military flight back to Honolulu.” He paused, considering multiple scenarios. “Anyone on the crew could have sent the package to Mara’s address. You think Roddy came here last night to retrieve it?”

  “The package would have arrived weeks ago.”

  “Maybe the package didn’t matter until Mara was released,” Curt said. He studied the printed address label. It revealed nothing about the identity of the sender. “You think he grabbed the contents before the shooter arrived?”

  “Maybe,” Palea said. “Then he heard someone and dropped the envelope behind the cabinet before meeting his killer in the kitchen. The killer might have lifted whatever was in that envelope from the corpse.”

  “Call the ME and tell him to look for the same dirt residue on the body.” Curt leaned into the hall. “Mara?” She didn’t answer immediately. “Mara,” he said again, more loudly this time.

  She stepped into the hall, tugging down her shirt. “Keep your panties on.” She’d changed into khaki shorts and a sleeveless top that highlighted both her full cleavage and flat belly. She’d swept her long blond hair into a ponytail and looked refreshed, comfortable, and disturbingly sexy.

  “You’ll freeze in DC,” he said.

  She made a face. “I’m not wearing this in DC. I’m wearing it in Hawai’i. I packed mainland clothes.”

  “Ms. Garrett,” Palea said. “I have a question. Follow me, please.” He left the den and led them into the living room. “Who collected your mail while you were away?”

  “The post office held it.”

  He pointed to the secretary. “Your mail is here.”

  She stopped short and looked puzzled for a moment before understanding lit her face. “I always have the post office hold my mail when I’m away, and set up delivery to resume on the day I’m scheduled to return. I was supposed to be in DPRK for two months, not three.”

  Curt and Palea exchanged glances. “The mail was inside the house,” Palea said. “Not on the porch nor in the box.”

  “My neighbors have a key. They probably saw the stack and moved it inside for me.”

  “You didn’t mention that your neighbors had a key,” Curt said.

  “You asked how Roddy could have gotten in—and Roddy would have gotten my key through JPAC. He doesn’t know my neighbors.”

  The manila envelope wouldn’t have been accessible to Roddy until the mail was delivered a month ago. An FBI agent would contact the post office for the exact date and check with the neighbors to ascertain if they’d moved the mail inside the house and if they’d noticed the manila envelope. But he didn’t need to tell Palea how to do his job. “You have questions to answer, and I have calls to make,” he said and walked outside.

  His first call was to Colonel McCormick. The man didn’t even bother with hello. “What did you find out?”

  “I haven’t told her about the explosion. I needed her mind clear for questioning.”

  “Get on it, man! I’ve got a crater where a jet used to be, and I need answers.”

  “And I’ve got a gallon of blood where a man used to be. I need answers too. The woman’s been through an ordeal. If we push her too hard, she might break, and neither of us will get the information we need.”

  “Listen. I’ve got news copters over the bay threatening my restricted airspace, my assistant tells me they’re reporting that you and Garrett are alive, and all the networks are demanding a statement. To top it off, the secretary of state and the president’s chief of staff are on my ass because you aren’t answering your phone. I don’t give a shit how fragile Mara Garrett is. You need to stop pussyfooting around and find out what she knows or bring her here so I can.”

  “They’re reporting we’re alive? And how do they even know the jet that exploded was ours?”

  “How the hell would I know? Maybe Garrett called someone.”

  “That would only make sense if she knew about the explosion.” He looked back toward the house. He’d assumed he had more time—an hour at least—before word they were alive made headlines, but the news had leaked within minutes of the blast.

  The bomb could have been set before he even left DC. Or it was planted after they arrived on Oahu. Either way, someone wanted one—or both—of them dead. And here they were, sitting pretty in the first place any smart assassin would look.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “MARA, GET YOUR bag. We’re leaving.” Curt stood in the front doorway, tension coiled in his gut.

  Mara glanced away from Palea and frowned at him. “In a minute—”

  “Now. I don’t have time to explain.” He heard his abrupt tone and winced, but this wasn’t the time for soft, coaxing words.

  “I’m not done questioning her,” Palea said.

  “We have to go. She can answer your questions on the phone.”

  “What’s going on?” Mara asked.

  “I’ll tell you, but only if you’re in the car in the next thirty seconds.” He brushed past her and headed down the hall. “Is your bag in the bedroom?”

  “I haven’t finished packing.” She hurried after him.

  “I don’t care.” He found her duffle and nearly crashed into her in the hall as he headed back to the front door.

  “Curt, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car.” To Palea he said, “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  Palea nodded. “Be careful.”

  Thankfully, Mara followed without further argument. In the carport, he said, “Give me your keys.”

  “You aren’t driving my car.”

  “Yes. I am. Keys. Now.” He held out a hand.

  She glared at him. “They’re in the bag. Side pocket.”

  He dug out her keychain, then looked at the battered Honda Accord. “Does this thing even run?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It runs fine. Are we going back to the jet?”

  “We’re going to the base.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Curt, what is going on?”

  “Get in. Get buckled. Then I’ll tell you.”

  The car smelled musty, but thankfully, the engine purred. Once they were on the highway, she said, “Tell me, Curt.”

  “Someone blew up the jet. We needed to get the hell away from your house before they figured out where you were and tried to kill you again.”

  She met his words with silence. Several minutes passed. He’d known this would be too much for her. How many hours ago had she faced the firing squad? Fourteen? Fifteen? The hollows under her eyes told him she hadn’t been able to sleep during the flight, and now she had a blood-soaked kitchen and someone had just tried to kill her.

  Crappy did
n’t begin to describe this day.

  He signaled a left turn at a Kaneohe cross street. He’d find a restaurant and get her some food while he made calls. “No,” she suddenly said. “Go straight. Take a left on Likelike Highway.”

  “We can stop. Regroup.”

  “No. Let’s get to the base. Maybe that colonel can get us another flight.”

  “I hope so.” They reached the busy intersection and stopped at the light. He cast a glance sideways. Mara huddled in her seat, appearing small and fragile, but he’d witnessed her formidable inner strength before and hoped to hell she could draw on that now. “You okay?”

  “Not by a long shot. But I’m alive.”

  He patted her shoulder. “Good girl.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Condescend to me.”

  “I thought I was being encouraging.”

  “You withheld something from me—you found out about the explosion before I arrived at the house, right?—and now you’re patting me like I’m a dog. Don’t. Don’t hold things back from me, and don’t talk down to me. It demeans us both.”

  “Fair enough.” The light changed, and he turned onto the highway. He was more than happy to skip the kid-glove treatment. “Did you call your uncle today?”

  “No.”

  “How about your mother, have you called her?”

  “How the hell could I do that? I don’t have a phone.” She hit her thigh. “Crap, I plugged it in to charge, and we left so fast, it’s still at my house.”

  Traffic moved slowly. They inched along the highway toward the next light as the air blowing through the vents got progressively hotter. “Someone told a reporter we’re alive.” Sweat dampened his shirt. He fiddled with the controls.

  “The air-conditioning only works sometimes.” She rolled down her window.

  “Maybe the person who gave you a ride off base talked.” He rolled down his window, but the relief was minimal. The vehicle wasn’t moving fast enough to create a breeze.

  “I got a ride from a friend. I don’t think she’d tell anyone, and like me, she probably doesn’t know about the explosion.”

  “Who is she?” He loosened his tie.