Body of Evidence (Evidence Series)

by Rachel Grant

  Curt threaded fingers through her hair. The tickling sensation felt heavenly. “Next time, will you please wear a seat belt?”

  She closed her eyes and smiled. “Are you kidding? After what I saw you do with the seat belt to George?” She shook her head. “Seat belts are dangerous.” She opened her eyes. “Thanks for saving my life again.”

  “I think we need a score card to figure out if we’re even.”

  “That depends. You took out both George and Beck, but I was the one who had a gun on Beck in the end. So is that one or two?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s two.”

  She chuckled, then turned serious again. “How did you know the secretary of state was involved?”

  “Your uncle told me he kept him informed, and everything clicked into place. When I spoke to him about the smallpox bomb, he shut me down in no uncertain terms. He used all the right words and excuses, but it didn’t sit right. Then there’s the fact that Raptor knew where we were in Hawai’i, Arizona, and Virginia. In Hawai’i and Arizona, the military appeared to be the weak link. But Virginia… I thought Evan had tracked us through the phone, although I couldn’t figure out how he did it, because the connection was so brief.

  “Before I arrived in DC, my office was billed for the ten grand the Arizona US Attorney’s Office gave us. It turns out the USA’s assistant had also cc’d the bill to the State Department. That was all the secretary needed to determine who had provided us with a vehicle. As I mentioned before, all federal vehicles have tracking devices.”

  “Would that have been enough to indict him?”

  “No. He did follow up on the smallpox with the president. He did everything right, while quietly discrediting you and me. Last night I got the judge to authorize a wiretap, but he might have walked if Robert Beck hadn’t betrayed him by ordering the attack on the house while he was still inside.”

  Her eyes drifted closed. She hadn’t been this tired since the first day they met—the longest day of her life. “Are you always this busy?” she asked. “Because every time I’m with you. it’s nonstop. You promised me dates with dinners at restaurants and fun football games. But all I get are explosions, men trying to kill me, and we hardly ever eat.”

  “I’ve got tickets to a football game a week from Sunday.”

  She bolted upright. “You really got tickets?”

  “Of course. I bought the tickets and a five-year-old’s artwork.”

  “I thought you’d made that up. It was an adorable story.”

  “It was pure wooing gold. Wait until you see Katie’s drawing. You’ll be crawling all over me.” Curt’s grin set her heart pounding. He had a new smile, just for her, and it conveyed all the intensity of his feelings as well as a hint of their shared intimacy and a promise for more.

  “Can we really go to a football game? In public? Don’t I need to hide?”

  “Beck has lost his mercenary army. He can’t pay the bills, so his employees won’t take orders from him anymore. It’s one of the nicer things about mercenaries. Zealots are so much harder to stop.” He lifted her fingers to his lips. “So, Mara, will you come with me to the football game?”

  She grinned. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to take me out to dinner first.”

  EPILOGUE

  CURT AND MARA stood on the fringes of the small graveside gathering in Arlington Cemetery. The remains of Captain Allen Baldwin, the man who’d piloted the F-86 Sabre she’d excavated that last day in North Korea, were being laid to rest at long last, and Mara didn’t want to draw attention away from the man being honored by making her presence known. Weeks had passed since the explosion at the safe house, and the excessive media attention had finally died down, but the press still occasionally followed them.

  Curt held her hand as the flag was carefully folded and presented to the man’s widow. The widow was flanked by her children and grandchildren, several of whom were Mara’s age, reminding her so much of her own family and how her grandmother had longed for a ceremony like this one.

  Someday, perhaps, JPAC would return to North Korea and retrieve her grandfather’s remains, but Mara wouldn’t be on the crew. Nor would Jeannie. Jeannie’s legal troubles were still being sorted out, but it looked like she’d get probation in exchange for her testimony against Beck.

  Mara had seen her, briefly, at Jeannie’s brother’s funeral, which Curt and Mara had flown across the country to attend. Now, here she was, again dressed in black, attending the last of the memorials related to the North Korean deployment and Raptor’s foray into biological weapon manufacture and homegrown terrorism.

  Robert Beck, two scientists, and his four most loyal mercenaries were being held without bond. They had enough to convict them without her testimony, and Mara had no reason to fear any rogue operatives would target her.

  Still, she’d breathe easier when the convictions were handed down.

  The ceremony ended, and they waited for the crowd to disperse before she approached the freshly filled grave. From her purse she pulled a JPAC coin, a grinning skull on one side with the words “Search, Recover, Identify” on the back. She set the coin in the loose soil and whispered her thanks to the man who’d given his life to prevent the US from committing a wartime atrocity.

  The cold December wind cut through her wool coat, and she shivered as they walked up the path toward Curt’s car. Days like today made her miss Hawai’i, yet she looked toward the coming mainland winter with a surprising amount of hope.

  They returned to Curt’s condo, where she’d been staying since Beck’s arrest. The press no longer camped outside his building. Life was starting to feel almost normal.

  Inside his home, she kicked off her shoes and walked straight to the fireplace, where she warmed her chilled hands while Curt checked messages. A few minutes later, he approached her from behind and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Just got word, a man has stepped forward with an offer to buy all of Raptor’s assets.”

  She frowned. “Raptor isn’t dissolving?”

  “He says he wants Raptor’s existing government contracts in addition to the various training grounds and compounds.”

  “If Raptor keeps operating, am I in danger?”

  “My source says no. The man is Alec Ravissant. He’s a retired Army Ranger. Sterling reputation. He’s agreed to government oversight and says he’s determined to redeem the organization. The deal won’t go through without a thorough vetting, and so far he looks good.”

  She let out a sigh of relief. The fact that Raptor was in limbo had been weighing on her.

  Curt’s arms tightened around her waist. His hard body warmed her back. “You’re safe.”

  His lips found her temple and he kissed a trail down her neck. She twisted in his arms and faced him. Her mouth met his in a long, leisurely kiss. Eventually she rocked back on her heels and smiled. “I appear to be living with you,” she said. Not the words she’d planned to say, but, with the last funeral over, she no longer had a reason remain in DC. No reason, that is, except Curt.

  His mouth curved in her favorite smile. “You just noticed?”

  She nipped at his chin. “I don’t want to go back to Hawai’i.”

  His grip on her hips tightened. “Good, because I want you here. With me. But you should know I’ll go wherever you decide.”

  Tiny bubbles of joy expanded in her chest. She’d expected his response but still liked hearing the words. “I’ve been thinking I could apply for a job at the Naval History and Heritage Command in Anacostia. It wouldn’t be JPAC, but it could be meaningful.” She paused, wondering how he’d react to her next statement. “When I get back on my feet financially, I’d like to find a way to fund a scholarship—to Stanford. I can’t pay it back, but I can pay it forward.”

  His eyes lit. “I think that’s a fabulous idea. I can support you; then any salary you earn can go straight to the scholarship.”

  Emotion flooded her. She kissed him, accepting his offer without words. He let out a guttur
al groan that told her he enjoyed this method of negotiation.

  She broke the kiss and glanced around the room. “There is one caveat. If we’re going to stay here, we need to do something about your condo.” She pretended to shudder. “It’s a shame Raptor blew up a perfectly nice safe house and left this place intact.”

  He chuckled. “Before you were here, I was never home. Now when I’m home, all I see is you.”

  She grinned. “Good one.”

  “I’m getting good at this relationship thing.”

  She scoffed. “Yeah, it’s been days since you’ve tried to read me like a chessboard.”

  “I can’t help it. That’s how my mind works.” He kissed her again. “There was another message on the answering machine. The White House wants a definitive answer on whether or not we’re going to attend the State Dinner next week.”

  “They really want us there, don’t they?”

  “It would be good PR after what happened to the secretary of state.”

  She frowned. “I’m willing to go. But it won’t be nearly as fun as the pretend one.”

  He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “We can do for real what we talked about.”

  “Sex afterward was a given.”

  He laughed. “No, I mean put in a token appearance and leave.”

  “We could bail before the first course?”

  “Yes. I have a different appetizer in mind.”

  She grabbed his tie and pulled him to her for a leisurely kiss. With her mouth on his, she backed him toward the bedroom as she undressed him. He was naked from the waist up by the time she pushed him backward onto the bed. “If you bring the champagne, I’ll bring the honey.”

  He tugged on her arm, and she toppled forward, landing on his chest. “Check,” he said. In a swift motion, he flipped her so she was pinned to the mattress beneath him. Hazel eyes alight, he grinned a sexy, confident grin. “And mate.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  FOR MORE INFORMATION on the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command and the work they do, please visit their website at www.jpac.pacom.mil.

  THANK YOU FOR reading Body of Evidence. I hope you enjoyed it!

  If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release e-mail list at www.Rachel-Grant.net. You can also follow me on Twitter at @RachelSGrant or like my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/RachelGrantAuthor. I’m also on Goodreads at www.goodreads.com/RachelGrantAuthor, where you can see what I’m currently reading.

  Reviews help other readers find books. All reveiws, whether postive or negative, are appreciated.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANK YOU TO my friend and Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command archaeologist Richard Wills, for answering all my questions about JPAC protocols and for describing your experiences working in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. This book wouldn’t have been possible without your insight.

  Thank you to author and Center for Disease Control Infectious Disease Specialist Jennifer McQuiston and her colleagues Mary Reynolds and Andrea McCollum for answering my questions about smallpox. Their opinions do not represent the opinions of the CDC, and any factual inaccuracies in this book are my mistake, not theirs.

  Thank you to author and Air Force Reserve public affairs officer AJ Brower, for answering my questions about US Air Force bases and dormitories.

  Thank you to attorneys Steven Burke, Shauny Jaine, and Kenneth Kagan, for answering my legal questions and explaining the difference between case-in-chief and rebuttal, and the rules of evidence for both.

  Thank you also to Courtney Milan for answering random questions about US law and lawyers when I didn’t know what I needed to know. Also, I can’t remember who suggested it, but I must thank either Courtney or Mr. Milan for naming my mercenary organization.

  Thank you to both the plaintiff’s and defendant’s attorneys who selected me to be juror number nine in a civil suit just weeks after I began writing this story. I was utterly grateful for the opportunity to learn about our court system from a juror’s perspective. Thank you also to my fellow jurors, who left me with nothing but respect for our system and pride in how honorable and conscientious our compulsory volunteers are.

  Thank you to all the authors who critiqued this book, with a special shout out to the authors who dropped everything to read for me (sometimes more than once) when I needed it most: Elisabeth Naughton, Darcy Burke, Kris Kennedy, Jill Barnett, Mary Sullivan, Carey Baldwin, Amy Atwell, Krista Hall, Jennie Lucas, Gwen Hernandez, and Elizabeth Heiter.

  Huge thanks to my blogmates at www.KissandThrill.com for putting up with me on this publishing journey. I’d be nowhere without your support, and your friendship means the world to me. Workshop!

  Thank you to the Northwest Pixie Chicks for the best annual writing retreat every year. You all inspire me.

  Thank you to the RWA® judges who made this book a finalist in the Golden Heart® contest two years in a row. Those contest finals opened so many doors for me, for which I’m grateful.

  Huge thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein at McIntosh & Otis, for pushing me to be a better writer and for believing in me. Your support has meant more than I can say, and without you, this book would be so much less.

  As always, thank you to my family. Everything I do, every word I write, is for you.

  THANK YOU TO the men and women of the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command who work in difficult and often uncomfortable conditions to bring our lost servicemen and women home.

  Lastly, thank you to all the men and women, past and present, who have served in the US armed forces.

  BOOKS BY RACHEL GRANT

  Concrete Evidence (Evidence Series #1)

  Body of Evidence (Evidence Series #2)

  Grave Danger

  GRAVE DANGER

  Read on for a sneak peek.

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 2002

  Coho, Washington

  LIBBY MAITLAND’S TRUCK WAS GONE. She stood in the tiny, eight-space parking lot, gripping her keys until they dug into her palm, and wondered where the hell her truck was. The Suburban couldn’t have been towed. The lot was too small and her truck too large. Towing would have caused a commotion. It must have been stolen. A lousy end to a rotten day.

  She couldn’t care less about the truck. Old, beat-up, and rusted, the beast drank fuel like a dehydrated camel, and a tank was more maneuverable. But it was the only vehicle she had, and, even worse, the excavation notes from the archaeological dig were inside. She mentally listed everything she’d loaded in the back when she left the site an hour ago: the stratigraphic drawings, the photologs, the burial notes, and the field catalog. If she didn’t get her truck back, her career as an archaeologist could take another major nosedive.

  She turned around to go back inside the restaurant, planning to call the police, but she must have been their last customer for the night because the door was locked and the shades lowered. The windows vibrated with a loud bass beat she could hear through the glass. The cleaning crew had turned up the stereo. They would never hear her knock.

  She fished around in her purse for her cell phone, and then remembered the phone was in the damn truck. She looked up and down the street. Who would have thought her truck would be stolen in Coho, Washington, a quaint little historic sawmill town where everyone knows everyone? Maybe this was a game the locals played: mess with the city girl who moved here only two weeks ago.

  At ten p.m. on a summer night, the lengthy Pacific Northwest twilight was just starting to lose the battle with darkness, but there was enough light for her to see the police station, only a few blocks down Main Street. She headed in that direction, disconcerted to see the street was empty. Coho, a town at the edge of Discovery Bay on the lush green Olympic Peninsula, did not seem to offer an exciting nightlife.

  The police station was a prime example of 1970s civic architecture: low, long, and brown. She went in the visitor’s entrance and was greeted by a series of windows reminisce
nt of ticket booths. Behind the first window sat a woman in uniform. Her name badge said Eversall. “May I help you?” she asked with the smile of someone relieved to have something to do.

  “My truck was stolen.”

  The officer looked surprised. “Wow. It’s been a while since we had a GTA in Coho.”

  “GTA?”

  “Grand Theft Auto. Give me the make, model, and plate so I can radio the patrol officers, then I’ll buzz you into the interview room, and an officer will take your full statement.”

  Libby gave her the information and then went through the inner door.

  “First door on the left,” Officer Eversall said.

  The first door to the left was open. She flipped on the lights but thought the room held more promise when dark. The décor was bland industrial with a hint of municipal barren. Everything was clean, functional, made of metal, and at least twenty years old. She pulled out a chair and sat down facing the open door.

  A man in plain clothes entered the room. Tall with broad shoulders, he was masculine in a way that would have flustered her if she were still seventeen. He walked with confidence and purpose that also would have befuddled her at a younger age. Thank goodness she’d said goodbye to seventeen half a lifetime ago.

  “I’m Chief Mark Colby, ma’am. I can take your statement. I’m sorry to hear your vehicle was stolen.” His deep, warm voice held genuine concern.

  Surprised to be greeted by the police chief at this late hour, she stood and shook his hand across the table. “Thank you. I’m Libby Maitland.” His handshake was firm and solid, and, like the rest of him, contained an air of authority. He was no backwoods hick in a small sawmill town. “I can’t think of why anyone would steal a beat-up old truck like mine.”

  “What kind of vehicle is it?”