by Devyn Quinn
Apparently not.
Callie’s mind snapped back to the present. Her mind had leapt off track, and she needed to focus. She reminded herself Drake was a criminal, a stone-cold killer suspected of taking down two of the agency’s own. She shivered when it occurred to her that had she not played the game correctly, she might’ve been number three. Keeping cover and staying alive was worth forking over a little pussy.
Not that she regretted her decision. She didn’t. She was a grown woman and hardly a virgin. Aware of her sexuality at a very early age, she’d come to terms with the fact that men wanted to fuck her. Sometimes she enjoyed it. Sometimes she didn’t. Iollan Drake, she’d enjoyed.
But she’d never admit it aloud. In fact, she’d rather not admit that at all.
Sleeping with Iollan had put her in bed with the enemy. Roger would have to be informed. The thought made her cringe. As special agent in charge, Roger Reinke not only directed the investigation against Drake, he had an almost fanatical desire to bring his quarry down.
She knew without question Roger would push her to take Drake to the edge. Winning the criminal’s trust was exactly the move he’d consider a master stroke. Truth be told, being the agent responsible for getting the cuffs on Drake’s wrists would go a long way toward erasing the unflattering marks in her employee file. She needed the coup.
Her debriefing was going to be uncomfortable but unavoidable. Roger was frustrated by their recent lack of progress. Slippery as eels, Drake and his associates seemed to know they were being watched. Being led around by the nose like amateurs wasn’t pleasant.
Brooding about it would accomplish nothing.
Callie finished toweling off and dropped her gaze toward the clothing she’d grabbed in haste. Dressing in a bustier and miniskirt this time of day was out of the question.
She glanced toward the closed door. Norton? Surely he wasn’t waiting for her to come out. He wasn’t that dumb. He’d probably taken the hint to scram.
She peeked out the door. The clink of utensils in motion sounded. She smiled. Good old Paulie. He knew she’d be jonesing for her coffee. Caffeine and sugar first thing in the morning were needed to jump-start her system. Without it, she’d wilt like a daisy. Food was a negotiable thing; coffee, never!
Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom. She walked into the living room. In the harsh morning light filtering through the open windows, there was no evidence she’d ever had company. She pressed her lips together, unsure if she was disappointed or relieved. Maybe even a little of both. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Almost. She cringed as her eyes reluctantly settled on the roses Roger had sent, still in their place.
She frowned. The crumpled card still lay beside them. Only it was no longer crumpled. It had been smoothed and laid out neatly. Bitter bile rose in the back of her throat. Her tongue suddenly felt like a piece of grit under her teeth.
She glanced at Paul Norton. He, in turn, was studying her intently with cat-green eyes. “Did Roger have you deliver these?” Her tone was cool, emotionless, detached. She wanted information, nothing more.
“Of course,” Norton said. “Last night when no one was around.”
Her throat tightened. “Did he say anything?”
Norton shrugged. “Happy birthday.”
She gave him a dry look. “I guess it’s good someone remembered.”
“He’s still a bastard, Callie,” he said softly.
Pain speared her heart, starting in her chest and working its way outward. Tears misted her eyes. She quickly blinked them away. Paul had helped her through the breakup, keeping the flak from Roger at a minimum while she struggled to make the adjustment from lover back into employee.
“A fucking jerk,” she agreed. Her affair with Roger was the kind that left a woman breathless and quivering. An inventive and demanding lover, he’d found ways to use her body that left them both panting with exhaustion. For three years, everything had been perfect. Too perfect.
Working under the man she’d spent so many nights with was tough, but not impossible. Callie was used to things in her life ending without warning. Until she’d graduated high school and gone out on her own, she’d never known stability or permanence of any sort.
She’d never belonged to anyone or anybody for more than a few years. In the midst of agony, only one thing remained constant. At the end of the day when the door was shut and the lights turned off, she was alone.
It would, she felt, always be that way. Men might drift through, use her, abuse her, but they’d never stay. No one wanted damaged goods, no matter how prettily the package was wrapped.
Norton leaned over the counter separating living room and kitchen. Unspoken but hanging in the air between them was his support. He was letting her know he’d be there.
“Well,” she said, struggling to say words that didn’t quite come out. She wished she found him attractive. As a friend he was great. As a lover, she had the feeling kissing him would be like kissing a sibling. Unnatural and entirely wrong.
Norton scrubbed his scruffy beard as if fleas lived in the mass on his cheeks. “The fucking cupboards are bare,” he informed her. In the process of making coffee, he’d set out a couple of mismatched mugs and spoons. A small jar of instant coffee sat nearby. “How the hell do you live here?”
She shrugged. “I don’t.” The bureau had rented the apartment as part of her undercover identity. She inhabited it as she did any other, simply as a place to lay her head until the time came to move on. Being shuffled through the foster care system had taught her never to get attached to anyone or any place.
She sighed. Always living in, but never at home.
Norton’s gaze ranged over her well-worn leather jacket, T-shirt, faded denim jeans, and boots. “Still riding that Goddamn motorcycle without a helmet?”
Busted.
Callie ran her fingers through her hair to straighten the damp mess. Cut in a short, easy-to-style shag, blonde locks fell into place to frame her face. A half-assed grin tugged up one corner of her mouth. “Guess so.”
He frowned. “You got a helmet?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t have room to pack it.”
“One of these days you’ll hit asphalt and bust that skull of yours, brains leaking everywhere. Not a pretty ending for a pretty girl like you.”
Callie rubbed the scar under her chin. She’d already kissed asphalt, not once but twice. Both times an asshole driving a car had caused the wreck. “I can walk away from a crash-and-burn. It’s my specialty, you know.”
He scowled. “Walking away?” he asked sourly, spooning instant into both mugs. Her brush-off obviously bothered him.
She shook her head. An emotional knot wedged in her throat. “Crashing and burning.”
He stirred the coffee in both mugs, watching it dissolve. “I think you should be more careful.”
Recognizing genuine concern beneath his frustration, Callie sighed. Damn. As an agent, Paul was top notch. As a man in lust, he wore his heart on his sleeve.
Norton slid a cup her way. “Coffee’s ready.”
Callie sat down on a stool in front of the counter, the equivalent of a dining room table in such a small space. She added a ton of sugar and a touch of cinnamon vanilla creamer Norton had dug out of the fridge. Aside from the creamer and a quart of skim milk, there was nothing else inside.
Ignoring his own coffee, Paul lit a cigarette.
Callie snagged it. Blessed nicotine filled her lungs. She welcomed the burn at the back of her throat. It reminded her she had a bit of life inside her. Her heart might be crushed, but her lungs were alive and well.
“Thought you were quitting.” Paul lit a second for himself.
“I was, but I changed my mind.” She took a deep drag; a pacifying rush of smoke filled her lungs. Nicotine was the only drug she indulged in. Already she was a pack-a-day smoker, and that number was increasing. “Just trying to keep myself together since Roger brought me in on this case.”
Callie hadn’t been one of the original agents assigned to the hunt. After her breakup with Roger, she’d been shuffled from field investigation to desk work, as nothing more than a glorified secretary. The cases she worked ranged from the mundane to just plain boring, not even a challenge. Her penance for being a bad girl. She’d been close to asking for a transfer when Roger had called her into his office and informed her she was on his team.
Callie had taken it as a sign that things were thawing between them, that they’d proceed with their relationship as professionals and nothing more. The arrival of the roses had thrown her. Surely he was just being kind; surely it hadn’t been an overture toward taking up where they’d left off.
She wouldn’t know until she saw him. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him. Keeping her panties up while being around a man like Roger was a tough order for any woman.
Sighing, she smoothed a few stray wisps of hair behind her ears, then wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. Its warm surface was soothing. She lifted it to her lips and drank. Her hands, she noticed, trembled. A gurgle reminded her she’d soon need some breakfast. As usual, she’d have to eat out. There wasn’t a morsel of food in the place.
Norton agreed. “This one’s been a real bitch. I swear to God, I’ve never seen people who can disappear so damn fast. I no more than get an ID on them, and they’re gone.”
Another long draw on the cigarette. Its tip glowed red before dying into ashes. “You think they’re feeling the heat?”
Mouth drawing down in a vexed frown, Callie crinkled her brow in thought. Thinking back on her time with Drake, she couldn’t recall a moment when he’d seemed uncomfortable or ill at ease in her company. She wasn’t sure what it felt like to be a wanted criminal, but she knew if she’d been the fox in the henhouse that she’d be nervous as hell about the farmer toting the shotgun. Drake hadn’t acted a bit out of the ordinary. Either he was a very good actor, or he didn’t know. Or he did know and was setting a trap.
“I just don’t know,” she finally admitted. “Which is probably why I’m not the brains behind the investigation.”
Norton nodded. “Yeah. This one’s always been Roger’s baby.”
Callie leaned forward, placing her elbows on the counter and massaging her temples with her fingers. No one blamed Roger for wanting to get Drake into custody. If Drake weren’t the murderer, perhaps enough leverage could be applied to find out who was.
A tremor shimmied down her spine at the thought of the two men in the same room. That would not be pleasant to witness at all. Had Roger not been an agent of the law, his pursuit of Drake would have bordered on vigilantism. In the back of her mind, Callie wasn’t quite sure one of his agents wouldn’t pull the trigger if given the chance and a clear shot. Several had volunteered to do the job. Roger would probably reserve the honor for himself.
Very probable and very possible. Such an incident could probably be swept under the rug without much fuss or bother. She doubted any of their superiors would care much.
Callie took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. Yuck. Cold. She found herself wishing for a tall double mocha latte with extra whipped cream and a warm croissant with sausage, egg, and cheese to appear. Instant was fine to get your eyes open, but she needed a real cup of coffee.
Norton took the hint. “You want me to skip out for something? There’s a bakery down the street. I can grab some donuts and better coffee.”
Callie considered his scruffy vagabond look. Few would suspect a well-educated, well-spoken man existed under the layers of grime and shabby clothing. “Sure. Donuts would be great.”
Inwardly she winced. Junk food wasn’t her normal choice, but with her schedule so whacked, she’d been eating catch-as-catch-can, and none of her choices had been healthful in the least. Add in the fact she’d been scrimping on her exercise, frequently missing her regular routine of a thousand sit-ups and equal number of push-ups. It was a mistake to get soft, lazy. She silently resolved she’d catch up as soon as possible.
Norton gave a thumbs-up. “Cool.” He checked his watch, one of four cheap bands decorating his hairy wrist, just like a dime bag–buying junkie would have stolen. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Don’t let anyone see you,” she cautioned as if it were necessary.
Norton started to say something but a muddled beep interrupted his reply. He fished through a pocket, digging it out. “Christ,” he muttered. “Such timing.”
“What?”
He showed her the digital readout. The hair raised at the back of her neck. Jaw hardening, Callie’s gut took an unpleasant jolt.
911.
6
Receiving the same message on her own pager, Callie set into action. Splitting up from Norton, she took off on her motorcycle, heading toward the nearby bus station. Once there, she claimed the large duffel bag she’d stashed in one of the coin-operated luggage lockers.
Bag in hand, she headed for the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall. Identification, badge, and gun were squirreled away inside the bag, along with a handheld computer, credit and gas cards, five thousand dollars in cash, a cell phone, and a change of clothes. The message on the pager meant one thing, and one thing alone.
Someone was dead.
She checked her cell. Two messages waited on voice mail.
Opening the phone, Callie called the service, punching in her code to pick up her messages. Both were terse, from Roger: County morgue, ASAP.
Jesus.
Slipping out of her jeans, she pulled on a pair of slacks before buttoning a black jacket over her T-shirt. She filled her pockets, arming up as a member of law enforcement. She drew a steadying breath. Catching a brief glimpse of her face in the mirror, she saw lines of worry puckering her forehead. Shadows lingered behind her gaze, the ghosts of disappointment and disillusionment. For all her apparent success in the field of law enforcement, her personal life was a washout. Work was the only thing keeping her sane. She wondered how long that would last working with Roger Reinke again.
“We are over.” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses, happy to hide behind the impenetrable shield of plastic.
Callie returned her bag to the locker, slipping more coins into the slot. The woman walking out of the bus station looked and acted nothing like the woman who’d walked in. Not so much in the disguise, but in the attitude. She hailed a cab, heading downtown.
Thirty minutes later the cabbie dropped her off in the parking lot surrounding the offices of the county.
Paying the driver, Callie pocketed her change. The cab didn’t have a good air conditioner, and recent rains had made the moist air even balmier than normal. A layer of sweat clung to her skin, something it seemed no amount of cold showers and soap washed away. She felt wet patches under her arms, trickles of sweat making their way down her spine to her underwear.
She pulled in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the city: a mixture of carbon monoxide and damp concrete tinged with the smell of pure human waste from a sewer system that threatened to overflow under the continual torrent of rain. Such were the familiar smells of Belmonde, Virginia.
She looked past the sidewalks, farther out onto the acres of beautifully manicured lawns. The grass was still green, reluctant to give in to the end of the cycle that would have it wither away to autumn’s drab brown cloak. Stately old oak trees lined the northern perimeter of the grounds, perfectly in sync with the manicured hedges acting as a fence in lieu of man-made materials. Beyond the hedges lay the rest of the world, blissfully unaware death had struck down a fellow human being.
Callie hurried inside. The maze of halls confused most outsiders. Getting directions, she followed a narrow hallway to examination room number three. Her guts roiled. God, she hated looking at dead people.
Through the glass, she spotted Roger Reinke standing with three other agents. Agent Norton wasn’t present. Roger, Charlie Grayson, and Mitch Reeve, she knew. The third man was Assistant Director in Charge Samuel Faber, thei
r boss. So far he’d distanced himself from the investigation. Apparently that was about to change.
All agents present were dressed identically: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and shoes polished to a mirror-bright sheen. No wonder bureau agents were frequently identified as the men in black.
Brad Jackson, the county coroner, worked over the body. His skin was pallid from a life spent under fluorescent lighting, drinking too much coffee, and exercising too little. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, the result of many late nights laboring over the dead.
Callie tapped on the glass.
Reinke glanced up. There wasn’t a sign of familiarity or warmth in his eyes in his acknowledgment of her arrival. He was in his work mode: stone cold, formal, and absolutely focused. Seeing her, he beckoned her inside. His gesture seemed to say, “hurry up and get your ass over here.” The day was going to be a long one and these guys wanted to get on with business.
She walked to the door, braced herself, then opened it. Though outwardly calm, her nerves were on edge. “Death waits for no one,” she murmured under her breath.
Set to a chilly sixty-five degrees, the air-conditioned room was like a salve on her flushed skin. All shiny metal and cool white tile, the autopsy room was immaculate, close to germless. The cleaning solutions used to sterilize and sanitize scorched her nostrils. Death, however, still lingered. Not exactly an actual smell, but more a psychological one. In Callie’s mind each person’s passing seemed to have a different odor—some not so bad, others reeking.
This one reeked.
Reinke broke away from the group examining the body. A strapping, no-nonsense veteran of the streets, he was all sharp edges and razor creases. Standing well over six feet, he not only entered a room, but filled it. Not only with his size, but with his commanding personality. Raw energy radiated around him.
Roger’s intense gaze studied her a moment. “Agent Whitten. Glad you made it. We’ve been waiting.” He didn’t allow his expression or tone to give away his thoughts.
