Chapter 25
The lobby of Marc Sandoval’s motel was a lonely place. Empty club chairs clustered together in little conversation groups, but there were no guests out and about at this late hour to make use of them. From behind a front desk of fancy laminate, a sleepy college-age boy stared with glazed eyes at the replay of a football game roaring over the cold fireplace. He perked up as the soles of my shoes tapped across the floor. When I merely smiled at him and bypassed his post on my way to the elevators, he reluctantly turned back to the game.
Around the corner, the elevators, with their shiny stainless-steel doors, gleamed on one side of a wide corridor. A long glass window ran the length of the other. The window showcased the motel’s indoor pool. Cool blue-and-white tiles made it a lovely oasis. And one resident was taking advantage of it.
While I watched, a lone swimmer plied through the water. The crown of his sleek, dark head was just visible above the concrete decking. And his muscled arms reached up and out in a powerful backstroke.
On a hunch, I pushed my way into the glassed-in enclosure. Heat and humidity swamped me as if I’d instantly walked into the Amazon basin. Or Miami, if the collection of imitation-rattan lawn furniture sitting around the pool was anything to go by.
A white terrycloth bathrobe lay draped across the foot of a chaise lounge. A couple of towels kept it from being alone. And on the tile, a pair of men’s flip-flops waited for their owner to finish his laps.
I stepped to the edge of the pool and looked down.
Marc surfaced in front of me. With his strong shoulders and his black hair as slick as a seal’s, he looked like a beefcake ad for some Italian fashion designer’s cologne. But that didn’t stop him from placing both elbows on the pool’s apron and grinning up at me.
“Well, well, Jamie Sinclair, what brings you here this late at night?”
“I was supposed to meet a possible informant. Except he turned up dead. Someone crushed his windpipe before setting him on fire in Barrett’s grandma’s front yard.”
Mark swallowed an expletive, planted both palms on the pool’s decking. In one smooth move, he pushed himself onto the tile. Water streamed from his bronzed skin in torrents.
He wore black swim briefs. The briefest of briefs. They were the kind Australian lifeguards wore—and he looked damn good in them.
I took a step back, put some space between us, and pretended not to notice.
“I think the good people of Fallowfield may be a little too close to the action to see what’s really going on,” I told him. “So I brought you some names. The first is Llewellyn. Allegedly, that’s the guy we saw talking to Vance McCabe in the Cherry Bomb.”
“Llewellyn?” he repeated. “That’s not good.”
“You know him?”
“Maybe.”
Still dripping, Marc turned to scoop a towel from the chaise. And that’s when I saw it. As intricate as an eighteenth-century engraving, an elaborate tattoo detailed the length and breadth of the skin of his powerful back. Marc had a pair of folded wings, just beginning to unfurl, inked onto his body. They were angel’s wings, to be precise. But with masterful shading hinting at darkness and light and bringing each feather to life, these wings didn’t belong to a cherub. These were the wings of a fallen angel.
Marc buried his face in a snowy towel. And before I could stop myself, I reached out. I stroked a fingertip over one wayward pinion.
Marc seized my wrist so swiftly, I gasped.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“On the contrary. You shouldn’t have stopped.”
He tugged me to him, rolled my fingers open with his thumb, and laid my palm against his naked chest. His skin was cool from the pool. I should’ve been too shy to touch him like this—but I wasn’t. He knew it and a seductive smile curled the corners of his mouth.
Marc slipped his hands beneath my jacket. His arms encircled my waist. He held me close.
“You’re getting chlorine all over my clothes,” I chided. But my complaint was bluff and bluster. Because being in Marc’s arms was making my temperature rise.
“Not a problem,” he said. “Come up to my room and take your clothes off.”
I should’ve said no. But I didn’t say anything. Because that’s when Marc Sandoval kissed me.
His mouth was warm and wicked and sparked all kinds of desire in me. In response, I twined my arms around his neck and let him have his way. He drew me even closer, one hand clutching my sweater in the small of my back, the other migrating north to tangle in my hair.
Marc wanted me.
He made sure I had no doubt of that. And it felt so good to be wanted. My blood, rushing through my veins, sang with the sensation. My nerves quaked with it. And when Marc nipped my bottom lip and licked away the sting, I knew if I went upstairs with him, I’d be in for one wonderful, wild night.
I could do this, I thought. I could go with him. I could sleep with him.
Because I had no vows holding me back. I had no commitments. I had no Barrett.
That last thought stopped me cold, however. Because Marc did want me. But I wanted someone else. And physical intimacy had meaning. Even if consenting adults told themselves it didn’t.
“I should go,” I managed to say, turning my face from his and shaking with an emotion I didn’t dare name. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Ah.” Marc grinned. “It’s the jarhead.”
“No. Really. It’s not.”
“Babe.” He chuckled. “You’re so crazy for him, you don’t even know.”
I wanted to argue. But the words wouldn’t come. For no good reason, my throat swelled shut.
Marc’s arms fell to his sides. He dropped a sympathetic kiss on the top of my head. “Come on. I’ve got a good bottle of scotch whisky in my room. You can sit in the desk chair and tell me what’s bothering you while I shower off this chlorine and get dressed.”
I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. But I felt wrung out and wobbly, so when Marc, bundled in his bathrobe, offered his hand like he was helping a kindergartener across the street, I took it. Twelve minutes later, I was tucked up in an armchair with a Styrofoam cup of Dalwhinnie in my mitt while Marc, in fresh jeans and a T-shirt, leaned against the archway connecting the sleeping quarters to the room’s entrance area. I told him about Dawkins. And he told me about his leads.
“The name you mentioned—Llewellyn—doesn’t ring any bells,” he said, “but we’ve had our eye on a suspected trafficker calling himself Lou for some time.”
“This Lou wouldn’t have a military background, would he? The man with the burns on his hands had been a serious soldier. I’m sure of it.”
“Lou was Special Forces, supposedly. Rumor has it he got a court-martial and dishonorable discharge about three years ago, but we haven’t been able to pin that down. Having an actual name will help.”
“So theoretically, this Lou could’ve crossed paths with Vance McCabe or Eric Wentz. They went to Afghanistan with the Guard.”
“I’ll look deeper into McCabe’s background while I’m at it,” Marc said, and sipped his scotch.
“Do me a favor and look into Charlotte Mead, too.”
I told Marc about the shoplifting, the possibility that the stolen nightgown meant Pamela’s attacker had been seeking Charlotte instead, and about Rittenhaus’s theory that the man who’d assaulted Kayley could’ve been after me.
Marc scowled. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s only a theory,” I assured him. “But here’s a fact: Charlotte is the sheriff’s girlfriend. You might want to be sure he doesn’t find out you’re looking into her history. I’m sure he’s too close to the players in this problem. He can’t see what’s in front of him.”
Like Barrett, I thought. But I kept that to myself. And with that said, I figured it was time to hit the road.
Marc offered to book me a room instead. He cited the late hour, my obvious fatigue—and the p
ossibility that Kayley’s assailant had wanted to harm me. But for that very reason, I wanted to go back to the orchard. I didn’t want Mrs. Barrett to worry when I didn’t come back. As for anyone else with that last name, I didn’t dare turn my mind to him.
Marc walked me to my Jag, opened its door for me. A world-class mechanic would have to straighten out the Chevy, so I’d left it where it was, alongside the ruined bales and scorched earth, gruesome reminders that someone had killed Dawkins to keep him quiet. The deputy had been right. I needed to watch my step. I only wished he’d done as much himself.
The night had mellowed. Or maybe I was getting used to being in the cold. Overhead, smoke-blue clouds had rolled in to cover the stars and, like a blanket, hold what heat they could to the autumnal earth. Not a soul moved along the street in front of the motel. Across the way, however, in the alley where I’d sat with Charlotte as she’d indulged in a cigarette, a fat white produce truck idled while its driver and a couple of young men with strong backs wheeled several dollies’ worth of crates into the kitchen of the Apple Blossom Café. I hoped Charlotte had had some rest before she came in to get ready for the breakfast rush.
“Text me,” Marc said, “when you get where you’re going.”
“I will,” I said, since he’d asked. But I also shook my head and smiled. “You know, you can’t fool me. You put on quite the bad-boy act, but I know you’re one of the good guys.”
“Yeah. That must be why I’m sleeping alone tonight.”
I laughed.
Marc grinned.
And with his bad-boy bravado restored, he said, “For the record, Jamie, one night with me and you’d forget that jarhead’s name.”
I doubted it. But I imagined it would be fun to try. So I smiled, stood on tiptoe, and brushed a quick kiss across Special Agent Marc Sandoval’s lips before climbing into my car and driving away.
Chapter 26
Sheer exhaustion allowed me to grab a few hours’ rest after I returned to the farmhouse. But my limbic system, that primitive portion of the brain wired for fight or flight, jolted me awake when the sound of tires grated on the drive. I’d slept in my clothes, though I hadn’t meant to, so I was up and out of bed and on the front porch before the vehicle had a chance to come to a stop.
The car was a dark blue Volvo with a woman behind the wheel. I recognized it and I recognized the driver. I also recognized her energetic passenger.
Bouncing around in the backseat was a shaggy black dog. Her name was Theodore the Labrador, and her bright button eyes latched onto me as I moved down the porch steps. In her glee, her long pink tongue laved the inside of the car’s window, leaving it smudged and smeary.
The driver’s door opened. The woman got out. She was pretty and about my age. She was also Barrett’s sister. Elise had tucked her honey-blond hair into its customary French braid, and had worn boots, jeans, and a forest-green sweater for her trip from New Jersey to her grandmother’s house.
She opened the car’s rear door and Theodore took off like a shot. I was in the driveway by then, crunching toward her, but she bypassed me in a blur. I turned to follow her sleek, racing form—and saw her launch herself into Barrett’s arms. He’d knelt to hug her. And in an unguarded moment, he buried his face in her fur.
“Jamie!” Elise jogged up to me, threw her arms around my neck. “It’s so good to see you!”
“What’s this?” Miranda Barrett called, the screen door slapping behind her. “Visitors! Elise, honey, are the boys with you?”
Her old eyes eagerly swept the Volvo and the wide expanse of the lawn. But there were no energetic kids to be seen, and when Mrs. Barrett caught sight of the singed Chevy and the scorched earth where Deputy Dawkins had met his end, her smile faded. Elise stared at the spot, too—and even though she was a doctor, she looked like she might throw up.
“Gram, Elise thought you’d like to stay at her house for a while,” Barrett announced as he joined us.
Theodore danced around his feet. He’d rescued her from continual hunger and a life of neglect. And she worshipped him for it.
“Elise thought I’d like to go?” Mrs. Barrett asked Barrett. “Or you thought I should?”
Brother and sister carefully did not exchange glances.
“If you children think you’ve got to manage the old lady,” their grandmother told them, “you’ve got another think coming.”
“Oh, but, Gram,” Elise said, turning on the same kind of charm I’d seen Barrett use to finesse stubborn witnesses, “wouldn’t you like to stay with me? You could spend time with the boys, make pancakes, help me with my—”
“Let’s talk about this in the house,” Barrett interrupted.
And as the little trio and dancing dog moved up the front steps, I stayed behind, intending to make myself scarce. They didn’t need an outsider like me privy to their familial discussion. But another car rolled up the drive just as they reached the door.
This car was a law enforcement vehicle. But it didn’t belong to Luke Rittenhaus’s fleet. This one was white with a low-profile rack of flashers ranging across its roof. Along with the obligatory ID numbers and instructions to call 911 decaled on its side, blue paint spelled out the words MILITARY POLICE, FORT LEEDS, NJ.
“Adam,” Elise said, “what—”
She turned to Barrett and so did I. But he and Theodore were gone. Through the front door and out the back, I was willing to bet.
Meanwhile, two military police officers climbed from their cruiser. Both hitched their gun belts a little higher on their hips. And both wore Army Combat Uniforms, or ACUs, which were the green-and-gray patterned uniforms civilians refer to as fatigues.
The uniforms were a clear indicator these two MPs weren’t here for a social call.
I’d never seen the male MP before. He was a strapping lad. The stripes on his sleeve marked him as a corporal. Beneath his beret, his dark hair had been shorn close at the sides, and his expression was slack as his gaze swept back and forth across the farmhouse. A fool would’ve said he’d never seen one before, but I didn’t let that convince me. This guy was a trained observer. And he had the authority to act on what he saw.
The woman, however, was the soldier of rank. And, unfortunately, I knew her. She’d called me only a couple of days ago. With springing curls cropped close to keep them off the collar of her uniform, and years of experience in law enforcement behind her, she was Master Sergeant Jenna Shelby. She’d worked under Barrett—and now she was here to arrest him.
The MPs sauntered toward us, both resting a palm on their sidearms, both meaning business.
“Hello, Sergeant Shelby.”
I introduced her to Barrett’s grandmother and his sister. After receiving a phone call of her own, Mrs. Barrett didn’t look surprised to see Shelby standing on her front walk. Elise, on the other hand, had blanched with shock.
Shelby glared past us pointedly and at the house’s front door. I hoped she hadn’t seen it swing shut behind Barrett and the dog. But whether she had or not, she said, “None of you ladies have seen Lieutenant Colonel Barrett, have you?”
Before Elise or her grandmother could respond, I said, “I drove up to New York because Mrs. Barrett was worried about him.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Barrett said.
“That’s good,” Shelby said, “because Lieutenant Colonel Barrett is in some degree of trouble.”
“How so?” Elise demanded.
“He’s absent without leave.”
“AWOL?” Elise sputtered. “There must be some mistake. Or a set of extenuating circumstances. Adam would never go AWOL willingly.”
“Well, willingly or not, ma’am, AWOL is what he is. Mind if I take a walk through the property? Have a look around?”
But that request put Elise on her high horse. “Absolutely not! I’d think you’d need a warrant for that sort of thing.”
Really, all Shelby needed was Mrs. Barrett’s permission—or a helping hand from local law enforcement and a judge.
But between Eric’s suspicious death, Kayley’s assault and murder, and Dawkins’s disturbing burning crucifixion, I surmised Rittenhaus had had bigger fish to fry than to take calls from some unknown army sergeant. So Shelby and her backup were on their own—and Elise’s panic was telling them they were on the right track.
“I’ll show you around,” I said. “If Mrs. Barrett says it’s all right.”
And right on cue, Miranda Barrett said, “Of course, my dear. And you soldiers won’t mind if an old woman rests her bones in her favorite rocker, will you?”
Who in their right mind could say no to that? So Elise helped her grandmother inside. Not that the lady needed it. Unaware of this, the corporal joined them in the parlor. I knew it would be his job to stick with them—and be sure neither woman picked up the phone to warn Barrett the cavalry had come.
That left me to play tour guide to Jenna Shelby.
With her crony in the house, she asked about the barn. So we started there. I kept up an idiotic running commentary about apples and orchards and farm stands while she poked about in the bins, looked underneath the heavy equipment, and even found an excuse to stick her nose over the edge of the hayloft.
When she was satisfied Barrett hadn’t stuffed himself into a barrel, we returned to the house. Shelby expressed an interest in the basement and the attic. Between one and the other, she got a good look at the first floor, too. That left only the second, and it was my pleasure to show her Barrett’s boyhood room, where all the belongings were frozen in time. He hadn’t spent the night there recently and Shelby knew it.
I pointed her toward the bathroom, Mrs. Barrett’s room, and the linen closet. She inspected each one. At last, we ended the tour in Elise’s old room.
“This is where I’m staying,” I said, and watched with satisfaction as Shelby noted the toiletries and castoff clothing were distinctly mine.
Just as I was about to invite Shelby downstairs and out the door, she drifted to the room’s sunny window and took a look into the yard.
The Kill Box Page 19
