by Robin Caroll
“Why didn’t she call you?”
“I haven’t a clue.” He’d given up trying to figure out his sister. “She said she called him yesterday from the motel and he promised to come get her.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Bingo. She tried to use his card again, but it was over the limit, so they denied it. By this time she says it was late and businesses were closed and she had nowhere to go, so she figured she’d borrow a rental car and come home.”
“Surely she couldn’t believe that was okay.”
“With Em, who knows? She thinks the world revolves around her. All she knew was that she was tired, hungry, and sleepy. She honest-to-heavens thought I could make everything go away if I only talked to the sheriff’s office.”
Bella patted his hand. “I’m sorry. What does the sheriff’s office say?”
“If she’ll pay for the scratches on the rental, they’ve convinced the company not to press charges.”
“So this can all go away.”
“But I don’t think I’m going to tell her that.” He caught Bella’s look. “The longer I keep bailing her out, the more trouble she’ll let herself get into. She needs to learn how to do the right thing.”
“Really? You want to teach her a lesson right now?”
“I have to, Bella. The thought of what could have happened to her terrifies me.”
She scrunched her nose. “I understand, kinda.”
“Thanks.” He sat up and propped his elbows on his desk. “Now, let’s talk about you, Remington Wyatt.”
Why would she run? Why?
Rafe slammed his palm against the desk. It shook, bumping against the motel room’s wall. He glared at the e-mail.
Am coming to you to assist. Be there tonight.
Great. Hartlock would show up and take over the case. It made Rafe want to scream. He was the one who had found the clue in the first place. He was the one who begged Jackson to let him come to Hopewell for follow-up. He was the one who uncovered Simpson’s connection to Tate. But Hartlock would get the credit for anything uncovered.
It wasn’t fair. He needed to make progress and get something going before Hartlock showed up. A solid lead, a new direction . . . that would prove to Jackson he could handle this case and didn’t need a babysitter.
As he flipped through the case file, nothing new struck him. Lowering his head into his hands, Rafe grabbed the hair at his temples and pulled. Why couldn’t he figure this out?
The tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly rang out.
Savannah? Rafe snatched up his cell and flipped it open. “Hey, Darren.” He held his breath, praying his goddaughter was okay.
“Hiya. How’s all in swampland?”
Rafe let out a rush of air. “Not so much swampy. How’s all back home?”
“We’re doing well. Savannah’s doctors are very pleased with how she’s doing. They don’t think there’ll be any issue or delay with the upcoming surgery.”
Unlike two before in which she got an infection that had delayed the surgery to the point where she almost went into cardiac arrest. “That’s great. I’m happy.”
“Yeah, us too. Maddie handling the house repairs?”
“Yep. She’s getting in touch with the Realtor to get everything set up.” He shook his head. “Guess that means another month the house won’t sell.”
“Well, I have some news about that. The police have arrested the guy who vandalized the place.”
“Who?” If it was some kid he’d busted . . .
“It wasn’t a kid like they thought. Guy is thirty-one.”
And did that to his house? “Who?”
“Foster. Garrison Foster. I’m guessing you don’t know him.”
“I do know him. That’s Riley’s ex-boyfriend.”
“Well . . . that explains a lot. Then I’m safe to assume you do want to press charges?”
“Oh yeah. I do.” The snot. To break in and vandalize his house—all because he and Riley had broken up and he resented that Rafe was an FBI agent? Talk about issues.
“You okay, buddy?”
He shook off his irritation. “It’s this case. Kicking my butt.”
“Tell me.”
Rafe laid out the details as he knew them. He ended his monologue with the news of Hartlock being on his way. “So I need a break on this before he gets here, and he’ll be here tonight.” Rafe slammed the folder closed and shoved it to the edge of the table.
“This Hayden Simpson . . . you believe him? That he didn’t have any idea about Tate being his father?”
Considering the man’s reactions and such . . . “Yeah, I do.”
“This woman . . . Bella Miller . . . What’s your take on her?”
At just the mention of her name, Rafe’s gut tightened. “I can’t get a read on her. She’s an enigma to me.”
“Bet that’s making you crazy, eh?” Snickering sounded over the phone. “What does she look like? Is she attractive?”
Maybe that was what infuriated him about her. That he couldn’t get a handle on her like he did most people. “Yeah, she’s attractive.” Gut-pulling attractive, but he wasn’t going to go there. He’d learned his lesson about women who were in it for the long haul and the heartache they caused. “Tell me you have some insight. A germ of an idea I can follow up on to get a lead.”
Darren laughed. “Miss me, do you? Don’t answer that.” More chuckling. “Give me a second.”
Rafe stood and stretched. He grabbed his water bottle and took a long swig, then made strides across the motel room.
“What about Simpson’s mother?”
“What about her?”
“Have you spoken with her?”
“No.”
“I think you should. You might get more info out of her than her son. She was, after all, keeping secrets from him.”
Why hadn’t he thought of that? How was he ever going to get in line for a promotion by not working the details?
Maybe Nick had been wrong, and he wasn’t that good.
Chapter Seventeen
“Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence.”
GEORGE WASHINGTON
Bella had hoped Hayden would let the subject drop. At least for a couple more days while he concentrated on Emily and her issues. It wasn’t fair that Agent Baxter had shown up and destroyed her life. She loved Hopewell and Hayden and Ardy and Emily—she didn’t want to have to leave. She had nowhere else to go.
Leaning across the desk, she batted her eyes at Hayden. “Wouldn’t you rather I go find you some decent coffee?”
He chuckled. “As much as I crave some strong java, you’ve put me off long enough.” He waved her away. “And stop that silly blinking at me. My head already hurts, and you’re making it worse.”
“Fine.” She leaned back in the chair. “But first, I need to know you aren’t going to tell Agent Baxter who I am.”
“He’s going to figure it out. He has pictures of you, Bella. Remington. You know what I mean. He’ll put it together.”
“You didn’t. You saw the picture of me as Remington, right?”
He nodded.
“Did you recognize me?”
“No, but I should have.” A hint of a blush tinted his cheeks. “I knew there was something familiar about her. You.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Right.” She grinned and waggled her brows. “You know me better than any FBI agent, and you didn’t recognize me. I think I’m pretty safe.” She tilted her head. “Amazing what a little Botox and extra pounds can do when combined with hair dye and tinted contacts, isn’t it?”
The blush darkened across Hayden’s cheekbones. “I would’ve figured it out. And R
afe Baxter will eventually.” He narrowed his eyes. “He seems to notice a lot about you already.”
“Don’t be silly.” Her heart skipped a beat. “And he won’t figure anything out unless you make him look twice at Bella Miller.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s a good guy. He won’t come after you.” Hayden pled with his voice. “I think he’ll be able to help you.”
She shook her head, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. “I can’t take that chance.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So I need you to promise me you won’t reveal who I am to Agent Baxter.”
“I won’t lie to him. I can’t.”
Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have been able to lie convincingly either. Those days were gone. Yet another reason to hate the agents who’d murdered Daniel. “Okay, but promise you won’t volunteer the information, and you won’t do something stupid to draw attention to me.”
“I promise.”
Bella relaxed her shoulders. “Okay. So, what do you want to know that I haven’t already told you?”
Hayden frowned, then winced. “The murderers . . . corruption in the FBI . . . why my—Daniel Tate was killed. Come on, let’s get it all out in the open. We can figure out the answers together.”
Her heart snagged. It was time, though. Time to get the truth off her chest. Time to figure out who all was involved. Time to stop running and see justice served.
She let out a sigh. “As I told you, Agents Lars Hartlock and Jack Devane were the ones who shot Daniel.”
“Which one?”
She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I couldn’t see into the office. One of them.” Her stomach hurt. “If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say Hartlock probably pulled the trigger.”
Images of Hartlock’s scowl, the lack of compassion he seemed to have toward many, his arrogance, his determination . . . she shuddered. “Yeah, between those two, I’d bet Hartlock actually shot Daniel.”
“You mentioned something about one of Daniel’s cases being the reason. Do you know anything more?”
The memory slammed against her. “Daniel said government witnesses had come to him after a trial and confessed the FBI pressured and bullied them to fabricate their testimonies.”
Hayden’s brows lowered into a unibrow, the wrinkles on his forehead digging deeper. “And you have no idea which trial?”
As if she hadn’t tried to figure it out. “I Googled and searched as best I could but came up empty. The last two cases presented in Daniel’s court were mortgage- and investment-fraud cases. I couldn’t find a connection. Well, not just using public resources so my probing would stay undetected.” She’d searched several times over the years and had never been able to figure anything out.
“White-collar cases are hardly ones that would provoke murder.”
But for Daniel . . . “Actually, I just realized it doesn’t matter the crime at all. It’s that Daniel learned the FBI had coerced witnesses into lying on the stand. That would be enough motive for them to kill him.”
Hayden nodded. “They wouldn’t want anybody questioning their tactics. And if they were proven in the wrong, it would kill their careers.”
How high did the cover-up go? Was the Assistant Special Agent in Charge in on this? The SAC? One or both of them had to be. No way could Lars and Jack have come up with such elaborate schemes on their own, despite their years in the bureau.
Oh-my-stars—how many other cases had these agents messed with? If they could and would tamper with witnesses on one case, why not others? The numbers could be staggering. And what could legally happen to those cases now if the corruption were exposed?
Her body stiffened. Her life was more in danger now than ever before. If they thought they’d gotten away with murder, then found out she was alive and talking . . . well, she’d be taken out in a flick.
“Bella?”
She jerked her attention back to the present. To Hayden. She swallowed. “We need to find out who all is involved. When Lars was talking to Daniel, he said someone high up knew about this. This could be bigger and further reaching than I ever imagined.”
“So where do we begin?”
“His last cases.” She sprang to her feet and moved around his desk to hover over his shoulder. “Google Daniel and find the link to where his last trials are listed. We’ll start there and move backward.” She tapped her nails on his desk. “It won’t raise red flags for a cop to look at trial details online.”
Hayden shrugged off her hand. “I can do this myself. Why don’t you go find me that decent cup of coffee you mentioned?”
And now that he knew she was Remington, she could drink some too. At least when they were alone.
Like manna from heaven.
Hanging up the phone, he worked to control his breathing. Everything would be handled soon. As long as the agents cleaned up their own mess, everything would be fine. No one would be the wiser.
Once he won the election, he’d make sure to put Hartlock and Devane firmly in his back pocket. Just in case. It never hurt to own FBI agents.
Hartlock had assured him Remington Wyatt would be taken care of by Monday morning. Just a weekend, and he could breathe freely again.
With the election just weeks away, he couldn’t afford to take a chance she’d resurface. And heaven forbid she started talking. If she did, he could kiss his political career good-bye. Not to mention the legal mess he’d be tangled in.
He glanced down at his notes. The National Cancer Society wanted him to speak at their luncheon next week. Apparently the news that his brother had died twenty-three years ago from mesothelioma made him the most attractive candidate to them.
It seemed like only yesterday . . .
“Dude, you have a call. A woman.” His buddy jerked his thumb over his shoulder, motioning to the pay phone in the law school dorm’s hallway.
His stomach burned as he made his way. He dragged his feet against the scuffed floor. There was only one woman who would call him. He avoided eye contact with the other law school students lingering in the hall.
The bile seared the back of his throat. He grabbed the receiver lying faceup on top of the phone. “Hello?”
His mother’s voice cracked on his name, and he knew.
His chest tightened as he swallowed the grief sitting bitter on his tongue.
“It’s Vernon.” Her sobs nearly ripped his heart to shreds. “Honey, he passed on early this morning.”
Passed on? He died. Laid in a hospital bed while the disease ate his insides away. Sat helpless as no one could or would help him. Dead. His brother was dead.
And he couldn’t just accept that. Someone had failed. Someone was responsible. And he intended to see that he paid.
“Honey, I need you to come home. Your family needs you.”
His sister-in-law . . . Vernon’s young sons—they wouldn’t make it alone.
The finality of his brother’s death cut him to his very core.
Staring off into space, he couldn’t help wondering, as he did so often these days, where his nephews were, what kind of men they’d grown up to be, if they had families of their own. He’d hired private investigators to no avail. His sister-in-law had divorced the man she married after Vernon died, and there was no trail of her to be found.
Nothing but dead ends and disappointments.
He’d lost his family needlessly. His brother. His nephews. Even his mother had died soon after Vernon, letting the grief consume her.
He shook himself back to focus on the present. On winning the election. On having Remington Wyatt taken care of once and for all.
Rafe checked the clock again—a little after lunch. Surely Mrs. Simpson would be home. He’d done his research and knew she didn’t work outside the home. He really needed to speak with her without Hayden pre
sent.
He climbed the steps of the porch and took a deep breath. He exhaled and rang the doorbell.
Seconds later the door swung open.
Rafe didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but Ardy Simpson was nothing like he’d imagined. From his investigation he knew she was in her early to mid-fifties. She didn’t look it.
Her honey-colored hair hung below her shoulders. Her eyes were bright against smooth skin. She smiled wide. “Hello. May I help you?”
“Mrs. Simpson?” He found his voice as he flashed his badge. “I’m Agent Rafe Baxter. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I might.”
The smile slunk off her face. “This is about Daniel’s murder.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened the door and waved him inside. “Come on in and have a seat.” She shut the front door behind him and led the way into an open-plan living-dining room. Her lithe form eased onto an overstuffed chair.
Rafe took a seat on the couch adjacent to Mrs. Simpson. He pulled out a notebook and pen. “I’m sorry to have been the one to bring the news to Hayden.”
Her smile was not nearly as welcoming as when she’d opened the door. “I understand.” She smoothed her jeans and picked at imaginary lint. “How can I help you?”
No offer of something to drink. So much for Southern hospitality when it was apparent she wanted him out of her home as soon as possible. He could relate. “I need to ask you about how you knew Daniel Tate.”
“I thought Hayden had already told you this.”
“He did, but I need to hear you tell me.”
Ardy Simpson nodded, then launched into her history as Hayden had already relayed. Her voice choked on emotion several times, and he felt like a heel for making her admit her transgressions yet again. Still, he had a job to do.
“After Tate received the birth announcement, he called you, at which time you were able to convince him not to have any future contact with you or his son, correct?”
“Yes.” She glanced to the floor, then met his stare.
