“Do you have the tape queued up?” Declan asked.
Mickey moved to his computer keyboard, punched in a few commands and then a video opened on his monitor. “This is him entering the store just past noon,” he narrated.
The image was clear but the man’s face was completely obscured by a baseball cap. He moved with purpose directly to the cabinet with GPS trackers. He seemed to know where the cameras were, because none of the three angles of the transaction revealed his face.
“Does the strip mall have external security cameras?” Declan asked. “Maybe I can get a picture of him going to his car.”
“They don’t,” Mickey explained. “There’s cameras mounted on the buildings but they aren’t connected. Stupid, cheap bastard. I even offered to get him the recording equipment at cost. Back to your guy: I was working the register and I vaguely remember him.”
“Why?” Declan asked.
“When I started to explain to him that he needed software to track the GPS he said he already had it. Seemed to be in a real hurry to get in and get out.”
“What did he look like?”
“Early thirties, maybe. Medium build. Dark hair. No beard but that five o’clock shadow from not standing close enough to his razor. Oh, and his hat was an Atlanta Braves cap.”
Chasyn felt her shoulders slump. This wasn’t much of a lead.
“If he comes in again, give me a call,” Declan said.
“Will do,” Mickey said. “Sorry I wasn’t more help.”
Chasyn offered a tepid smile. “Thank you anyway.”
“Take care, young lady. You’re in good hands with this one.”
As soon as they left the store, Declan asked, “Anything about that guy seem familiar to you?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the possible Atlanta connection?”
Chasyn shook her head as she moved quickly to get back inside the relative safety of the car. “I’ve only been to Atlanta once and that was almost seven years ago.”
“Vacation?”
“Paralegal Association conference. Kasey and I went together, thanks to her dad.” She clicked her seatbelt into place. “We couldn’t swing the conference fee and the hotel so her mom and dad rented a suite and went to Atlanta with us.”
“They attended a paralegal conference?”
“No,” she sighed. “The Beckers have four car washes in the metro Atlanta area. They did their thing and we did ours.”
Declan was quiet for a minute. “Was that normal?”
She regarded him for a minute. “Going someplace with the Beckers?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh-huh. They’ve been taking me on vacations and trips with them since I was a teenager. And vice-versa. Kasey travelled with my family as well.” Chasyn felt the sting of tears and discreetly dabbed at them, then shoved her sunglasses on her face. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Declan’s knuckles turned whitish as he gripped the steering wheel more tightly. Chasyn could sense he was upset and guessed it was because she was crying. Again. Apparently Declan didn’t like crying women and sadness seemed to be her go-to emotion right now. “Let’s head up to MacDill and see what Captain Jolsten has to say about his ex-wife.”
“What if he’s in his mid-thirties and wearing an Atlanta Braves cap?” Chasyn asked as she began to rub her arms against the chill of fear that suddenly surged through her.
“Then my job here will be done.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The March sun heated the mid-morning air to near ninety degrees inside the car, and Declan adjusted the A/C. Chasyn, her phone out and her legal pad balanced on her lap, smiled. “Oh God, that cold air feels good, thanks. The base is approximately four miles south-southwest of Tampa. The most direct route to MacDill is the Turnpike to I-4, then—”
“Thanks Magellan, but I know how to get to MacDill,” Declan assured her. “Plus I have this,” he added, tapping on the GPS display encased in the car’s dashboard. “And we won’t be going on the base. At least not unless we have to talk directly to the NCIS folks who did the actual interview with Mary’s ex William.”
“You mean they didn’t speak directly to the Martin County Sheriffs?” Chasyn found that odd.
“Military protocol,” Declan explained. “Captain Jolsten is active duty Marines. NCIS has jurisdiction over all criminal matters concerning personnel.”
Chasyn gently smoothed her hair off her forehead, refusing the temptation to rip off the small bandage and scratch the three stitches beneath. “I thought NCIS was Navy. Isn’t MacDill an Air Force base?”
“Yes, but it is also home to the Hurricane Hunters, U.S. Central Command, U.S. Special Ops Command, and a whole host of other collocated services.”
Chasyn angled in her seat. Unfortunately his mirrored aviators prevented her from seeing his eyes, so she felt at a distinct disadvantage. Not to mention that she missed the enjoyable side benefit of staring into their ice-blue depths. She settled for an unrestricted view of his handsome profile. “Are you some sort of military junkie?”
“I did a stint in the service.”
There was something in his tone that warned her off further inquiry. Chasyn reached over and pressed the A/C button, allowing a sliver of fresh air to enter the car. It was a nice diversion from the numbing din of the Hummer cruising up the turnpike. Declan was pushing beyond the speed limit as the air filled with the scent of freshly mowed grass punctuated occasionally by the sweet smell of orange blossoms in bloom. The ride was flat and monotonous, broken only by the thud-thud of the tires passing over roadway joints.
“We should have taken my car,” she mused as she glanced out the window at a small herd of cows standing around in a fenced field abutting the roadway. “It’s more fuel efficient. What does this thing get, like twelve miles to a gallon?”
“Pretty much,” he answered with amusement. “But your potential assassin isn’t looking for a black Hummer.”
“One with an arsenal in the back.”
“Perfectly legal,” he assured her. “Everything is permitted and I have a conceal-and-carry permit.”
Just then his phone rang and she silently listened as he uttered a series of Uh-huhs and okays.
When he ended the call, he asked, “Have you turned on your laptop?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, why?”
“The killer may have your IP address. You don’t want to risk a trace.”
Chasyn rubbed her arms for a minute, then asked, “Are all determined killers this tech savvy?”
“No,” he assured her. “You seem to have lucked into a true pro.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” she argued. “I didn’t actually see Lansing kill Mary and I sure as shit didn’t see the guy who shot me.”
“He can’t take that chance,” Declan reasoned. “What exactly did you see the night of the waitress’s murder?”
“I saw the girl lying in the parking lot, bleeding out, and I got a split-second look at the taillights as the car sped away from the parking lot.”
“Think you could identify the taillights?” he asked.
Chasyn sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. Just reliving the events of that night tensed every muscle in her body. “I’m not really good with cars. I think it was a dark car, maybe blue, maybe black. The taillights were kinda rectangular, a red frame around the white part. Oh, and there was some sort of lettering below the light.”
“Make or model?”
“It was a 2012, metallic blue Mustang GT with white wall mag wheels. Custom sunroof, a scratch on the right rear fender, and the license plate was 12A79.” She ticked off the details efficiently.
His head swiveled and he saw her deadpan expression. “Holy shit. You saw all that?” he asked, clearly excited.
She let out a breath and rolled her eyes. “Hell no! The best I can do is it was some kind of sedan. Four door, I’m pretty sure.”
He gave her a scowl, then made a call
to his office and asked them to get a list of any cars Dr. Lansing owned or had access to.
When he was finished, Chasyn said, “The police already did that. None of the pictures they showed me matched the taillights I saw that night.”
Declan rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Guess it could have been a rental.”
“Again,” she said with frustration, “The police checked that angle too and didn’t come up with anything.”
Declan reached out and closed his hand over her knee and gave a gentle squeeze. Chasyn knew it was supposed to be reassuring but her body didn’t get the memo. Her skin warmed where he touched and carried that warmth throughout her entire body. This was crazy. There was no way she should be so fixated on a man who a) she’d just met, and b) was very temporary. The pull she felt might be strong but she knew better than to involve herself in something that didn’t further her goals.
“Hungry?”
You have no idea. “I could eat,” she said with an admirably calm voice.
Declan waited until they had cleared Orlando traffic, then pulled off I-4 and into the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel. It was mid-afternoon, so there was no wait. Per Declan’s request, they were seated at a window table and he positioned himself so that he could surveille the parking lot.
Chasyn pushed aside the golf tee brainteaser and accepted a tri-fold menu from a seasoned waitress. The smell of coffee hung in the air. She ordered a veggie plate while Declan opted for a high-protein, high-carb selection. They both ordered iced tea, which was delivered quickly along with a small plate of freshly cut lemon wedges.
“You have a huge advantage in this relationship,” she said as she draped her napkin in her lap.
“Really?” he asked as he hooked his sunglasses on the neck of his shirt.
“You know everything about me but I don’t know much about you, other than that you drive a gas-guzzling car, shoot guns, and did some time in the service.”
“You forgot the vestibule of your apartment building,” he said with a wry smile. “I also have catlike reflexes.”
“And a modest ego,” she teased. “I’m serious. Tell me something about you so this doesn’t feel so one-sided to me.”
“I spent eight years in the Army,” he said reluctantly.
“I’m guessing you weren’t a cook.” Not with biceps the size of tree trunks.
He shook his head and said, “Special Forces.”
Chasyn regarded him for a few seconds, trying to decipher the flash of something she read in his eyes. “I’ve heard of them but I don’t really know what they do.”
Declan shrugged uncomfortably. “The kind of stuff that doesn’t make the news,” was his cryptic response.
This appeared to be an area he didn’t like to discuss, but Chasyn was undeterred. After all, he knew what kind of toilet tissue she ordered online. It was only fair for her to know some of his past. “How old were you when you joined the military?”
“Eighteen.” His mouth grew into a taut line.
“Were you planning on making it a career?” she pressed.
“Initially.”
Chasyn sighed. “Are you going to give me one word answers to every question?”
“Probably.”
“Then I’ll just sit here and hope our food arrives soon.”
As if on cue, the friendly waitress delivered three plates. One for Chasyn and the other two were placed side by side in front of Declan. She guessed there were about five thousand calories in his meal. But judging by his impressive body, he burned it; he didn’t store it. Chasyn, on the other hand, had to run an extra mile if she so much as thought about a Reese’s cup.
Aside from, “Pass the pepper,” the meal progressed in relative silence, though Chasyn was keenly aware of two things: Declan in general, and his ability to eat and keep vigil at the same time. His fork stopped in mid-air only once, when a thirtyish man with dark hair parked in the lot and started for the building. She noticed Declan tense for a second until a young child emerged from the car’s backseat and joined his father.
Chasyn ventured into the ladies’ room while Declan paid the bill. It had taken just under an hour before they were back headed northwest toward MacDill.
“Do you like being an only child?” Declan asked after they’d driven for about fifteen minutes in relative silence.
“Not when my parents are worried sick and I probably don’t want to know what they’re paying you.” She turned and took in his angled profile. “What about you? Is Jack your only sibling?”
He shook his head. “I have one older brother, Michael, and then Jack and Conner are younger.”
“Jack is a lawyer; what about the other two?”
Immediately his brow furrowed. “Conner is a sheriff in north Florida and Michael is a convicted murderer.”
A killer? Well, Chasyn was at a loss for words. What was the right response to that bit of information? And who did he kill and why? Was there a dark side to the Kavanaugh family? Declan did have a thing for danger. And guns. Good lord, her mind was spinning.
Her silence must have prompted him to add, “Convicted, but it wasn’t murder.”
“What was it?”
“Our father was a mean drunk who liked to beat on our mother. One night he pulled out a shotgun and was going to make good on his years of threats to kill her. Michael intervened, grabbed the weapon, and during the struggle, my father managed to pull the trigger. My mother was killed. They continued struggling, the gun went off a second time, and my father was killed in the altercation.”
“That’s horrible,” Chasyn said with a shiver. “If it was an accident, how did he get convicted?”
“The jury system at its worst. His parole hearing is next week.”
“How long has he been in prison?”
“Fifteen years.”
That sounded like a lifetime, especially given the circumstances. What a horrible fate for Michael and clearly it weighed heavily on Declan. And that tugged at her. It was Chasyn’s turn to reach out. She patted his thigh since she couldn’t think of anything profound to say.
* * *
Declan figured his reaction to the feel of her touch was stronger than normal because talking about Michael was always difficult. Still, even through the denim, he could feel the warmth of her delicate hand on his leg and it brought more than just comfort. Which was nuts since Chasyn was a client, nothing more. He didn’t like complications in his life or in relationships. There was a reason why he preferred exotic women and temporary arrangements. They suited his lifestyle and his needs. Chasyn seemed more the home-and-hearth type. Hell, she even had a timetable that included a marriage target date and children planned down to the minute. Definitely out of his comfort zone. Why, then, did he spend the rest of the drive to Tampa wondering what it would be like to strip the clothes from her enticing body?
It was rush hour by the time they reached Tampa, so traffic was thick and slow. Ziggy called with a good lead. It turned out William Jolsten used his credit card at a bar called the Zone almost every evening after work. Armed with that info, Declan keyed the address into the GPS and followed the voice commands.
They pulled into a gravel parking lot adjacent to a single-story building. The minute they stepped from the car, the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke greeted them. There was a mixture of cars, trucks, and motorcycles parked outside, and the place looked in need of some fresh paint and window cleaning.
He held the door for Chasyn and stepped out of bright sunlight into a dimly lit room with a horseshoe-shaped bar. Beyond this space was a back area with three pool tables and a dart board along the far wall. Neon signs touting various brands hung above the worn wooden bar, and the stools were nearly filled with customers. Many of the patrons were in some variation of military uniform. Obviously, this was a popular place with the MacDill gang.
Declan scanned the room and spotted his target sitting on a stool by the waitress stand. He was nursing a half-full bottle of beer an
d flipping a book of matches in his hand. Declan purposefully placed a possessive hand on Chasyn’s shoulder as he guided her toward Mary’s ex-husband. She’d drawn attention the minute she stepped inside the male-dominated bar and the last thing he needed was some fool hitting on her.
“Captain Jolsten?”
The man turned. Declan put his age at about thirty. He was tall, maybe six foot, with dark hair and dark eyes, so he couldn’t rule him out as the guy from the spy shop. Well, not until he watched as the other man took a look at Chasyn. There was nothing subtle about the way he was checking her out, but there was nothing familiar about it either. Declan was fairly certain this wasn’t the professional killer after Chasyn.
“What do you need?” he asked as he took a swig of his beer.
Declan took out his credentials and showed them to the Marine. “I’m looking into the murder of your wife.”
“Ex-wife,” Jolsten corrected without emotion.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions about her?” Declan asked as he pulled out a nearby stool for Chasyn.
Jolsten shrugged and said, “I already went through all this with NCIS.” He swiveled on his stool and extended his hand to Chasyn. “My friends call me Bill.”
Declan inserted himself between them. “She isn’t your friend,” he said in a low tone. “What can you tell me about Mary?”
Jolsten went back to his beer. “She’s dead.”
“You don’t seem very torn up about it,” Declan said.
“Because I’m not. That woman was nothing but trouble. Whoever killed her did me a favor.”
“How so?”
“Mary always had an angle,” Jolsten explained. “She played me but good. Only stayed married to me long enough to bleed out my savings.”
“Then what?” Declan pressed.
“Then nothing. By the time I figured out that she was syphoning off money, she was long gone. The bank just foreclosed on my house. I’m back living on base,” he said, hostility in his brown eyes.
“Why didn’t you have her prosecuted?”
“Can’t get blood out of a turnip,” he mused.
Trapped Page 7
