by J W Becton
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for me. I was worried,” he said, now stepping nearer.
“You don’t need to be,” I assured him.
“I know that. But we aren’t dealing with ideal circumstances. You’re carrying a lot of burdens right now: the rape case, your family, today’s meeting, Blissett. Even our relationship, to a degree, and with my messed-up life, I didn’t want to be another source of tension for you.”
He uttered that last sentence quietly, and then paused, his eyes widening at his own words. All the anger in my chest dissipated. All this time, I’d thought I was protecting Vincent from my messed-up life. He’s told me a hundred times that he wanted to be there for me, but despite a few glorious, magnificent slips, I’d always held him at arm’s length.
And here he was telling me that he wanted to protect me from his problems.
Vincent and I had been protecting each other from ourselves. Our relationship had stalled because we were both being stupid, idiotic martyrs.
I almost laughed aloud at the realization, but Vincent—big, strong Vincent—looked so fragile that the sound died in my throat. What I did next would mean something powerful. I couldn’t laugh, even if it was due to relief and dawning understanding.
I must have been giving him an odd look because Vincent cleared his throat and shifted his feet.
“Uh, my point is that you’re under stress, and people don’t always perform at the top of their games when they’re under severe strain. Even if you didn’t need me, I needed to be here.”
He looked at the floor, taking on the aura of a teenager who didn’t quite know how to handle himself with a girl.
My stupid heart leapt a little as I studied him. Vincent was about protection. He’d said it himself in Sydney’s apartment the other day when he’d admitted he hoped to prove his love to Justin by saving him from Russian terrorists.
Showing up at my house in the middle of the night to make sure I was safe was Vincent’s way of reaching for me. His way of proving his love for me, even if he hadn’t said the words yet.
Vincent was a protector. His first instinct was to safeguard those he loved, and it always would be. Even if that trait annoyed me sometimes, I also admired it. And now I understood it.
Still, I didn’t want him protecting me from himself.
“You know,” I said, “we both have messed-up families and crazy lives. Heck, we thought a fraudster was coming to kill me tonight.”
Vincent chuckled, a strained sound.
“But I want you to know that no matter what comes next—for either of us—I’m all in.”
Vincent raised his eyes and finally stepped closer to search mine. He’s said those same words to me not so long ago, and it occurred to me that he needed to hear them now.
“No matter what happens with you and Justin or with me and my troubles,” I continued, “I want to be there for you, with you. I’m all in.”
Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His eyes turned desperate, as if he had a thousand things he wanted to say and no words to use. He just reached out, took both my hands in his, and raised them to his silent lips.
His stubble rasped against my skin as he pressed kisses onto my palms. I shivered.
He remained bent over my hands for a long time, maybe gathering himself.
When he stepped away, I said, “I’m here, but that doesn’t mean we have to rush our relationship. We haven’t even gone on a real date yet.”
“A sad oversight,” he admitted. “One I’ll remedy soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” I said, giving his arm a little squeeze as a yawn escaped my lips. “Listen, I doubt that Blissett is going to show up tonight, but I’d appreciate the backup, if you’re available.”
Vincent lit up at my request.
“I’ve already checked the outside….”
“I know,” I said, laughing lightly.
“You go get ready for bed,” he suggested.
“And you double-check the locks,” I suggested, because I knew he really wanted to.
He gave me a nod, obviously happy to have a job.
I stayed where I was after he disappeared and listened to him walk from room to room, jiggling the locks as he tested doors and windows. Maxwell brushed past my ankles and then meowed loudly in the quiet room.
I picked him up, pressing my face into his body while he purred.
Then, for enduring my affection, I rewarded him with a big bowl of tuna-flavored cat food. Maxwell had barely gotten started on his chow when Vincent returned from his circuit of the downstairs.
“Now, come on,” he said, giving me a gentle tug. “You’ve done everything you can tonight.”
I let him lead me toward the stairs.
“You go up to bed”—he placed my hand on the railing and then nodded toward the sofa—“and I’ll be right down here.”
Upon those words, a light flickered on in my heart.
Mrs. Twilley was right. I was not alone.
Mark Vincent was with me.
Twenty-two
Julia Jackson’s face greeted the watcher first thing Sunday morning. Not only was she on the front page of the Mercer Messenger, but every local news outlet had picked up the story as well. He couldn’t ask for better coverage. Every reporter had followed the Messenger’s lead and reported the story as “Mercer’s Biggest Police Corruption Scandal in Recent History.”
What a fantastic tagline.
The watcher sat at his kitchen table with the paper spread out before him. The TV blared in the living room.
“…leaving us to ask how long has Jackson been tampering with evidence. How many arrests have been made under the false pretenses she created? And what will Mercer do about it? This is Jim Doughtry, Mercer Channel 2 Dependable Action News….”
God, it was a great weekend, the watcher thought as he got up to change channels on his TV, looking for more coverage on “corrupt investigator Julia Jackson.”
He flopped onto his recliner and eyed the screen. Jackson’s image flashed several times, and he grinned.
Had she heard the news yet?
What he wouldn’t give to see her face when she realized what was happening.
That do-gooder would lose her shit.
The news program flicked to a stock scene of the Mercer courthouse, panning across the regal facade and then cutting back to the studio.
“The secret meeting with Judge Cathleen Preece was held here, and….”
The watcher’s jaw clenched as he took in the image, and his stomach began to twist. Suddenly, a hole gaped in his otherwise brilliant plan.
Bonnie.
The pudgy little witch would have to be silenced. She was the only person who might connect him to the leak. He didn’t have to worry about Marty. The journalist would never divulge his source, even on pain of death.
But Bonnie had no code of professional ethics.
He stood and paced to the kitchen and back again as he considered the weight of his earlier threats. In his estimation, he would be safe only in the short term.
She feared him, and that gave him power.
Now he needed to exploit it.
Brow furrowed, he began to calculate. How long would it take the judge and her cadre of investigators, even the press, to question Bonnie? Were they already making calls, asking questions? Probably.
But were they asking the right people?
Bonnie worked in the freaking basement, which was where people stacked boxes of items they claimed were valuable enough to keep. Then, those so-called valuable items sat and were eventually forgotten.
Like an old box in the basement, Bonnie would be overlooked, at least at first. They would search all the suspects in plain view before they even remembered that someone had transcribed the recording of the meeting.
That meant the judge and reporters would be occupied with the attorneys and upstairs courthouse staff.
Which gave him enough time to get to Bonnie,
but he couldn’t afford to linger. He had to concoct a plan, and it needed to be underway before investigators questioned her.
Subtlety and nuance were required. Overt force would attract attention, and he couldn’t afford to break cover now that he’d almost succeeded in accomplishing his ultimate objective. He must find a way to act in the shadows and yet also motivate Bonnie to keep her big mouth shut.
But how?
He flipped through the TV channels, landing on the station that only played game shows. Quickly muting the annoying banter of the host, he reviewed his options.
After all the years he’d spent perfecting his job skills, he had discovered one important fact: appearances mattered more than facts. If he made it appear that Julia Jackson was corrupt, then she was corrupt. So, by following the chain of logic, if he made it appear that he had the ability to murder Bonnie at any given moment, then she would fear for her life. And if she feared death, then she would be motivated to remain silent.
He needed her to believe he could find her anywhere she went, make her believe she was in a you-can-run-but-you-can’t-hide sort of scenario.
But it only had to appear that he could do this. He didn’t have to know where she was at all times. He just had to make her believe he did.
He would make her believe that she had nowhere to run.
Barring that, he would silence her permanently.
Twenty-three
I awoke and padded downstairs to start my morning coffee. Halfway to the coffeemaker, I stopped in my tracks and grinned.
Vincent lay on my sofa with one of my old quilts covering him, and Maxwell lounged on his chest as if he deserved to be there. A hand slipped to my lips to prevent a laugh from escaping.
Maxwell sensed my movement, and his yellow eyes slanted open. He stretched a possessive paw forward and dug his claws into the blanket that covered Vincent. My cat had betrayed me and spent the night in another human’s arms.
“Traitor,” I mouthed to Maxwell, who yawned and closed his eyes again.
I took that as my dismissal, and I turned back to my original task: coffee. The machine gurgled to life, and soon the warm, rich aroma began to spread throughout the room.
“Mmm,” Vincent murmured from the sofa.
I poured two cups and carried them to the living room, where I perched on the coffee table in time to see Vincent wake up and make eye contact with my cat.
He stared at Maxwell and then cut his eyes to me.
“This is not who I dreamed I’d find myself in bed with if I ever got to spend the night in your house,” he said.
“He likes you,” I said, letting his comment go unanswered. “You should be honored.”
Vincent chuckled and sat up, dislodging Maxwell, who leapt to the floor and scampered to his food bowl. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw and then reached for the cup of coffee I offered him.
We took small sips and listened to Maxwell crunch on his kitty kibbles.
“So Blissett didn’t attempt to murder me,” I said.
Vincent shrugged a shoulder. “Unusual.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I haven’t got a clue. Based on what you told me, Blissett is probably under the impression that we have enough evidence to convict him of workers’ comp fraud. Maybe he’s working on another plan.”
“Yeah, too bad we’ve still got nothing usable on him,” I said. “I wish you had seen Blissett last night because something seemed off.”
“What do you mean ‘off’?”
I shrugged. “Off as in his reaction to being discovered was not normal, and I don’t mean just the fact that he didn’t turn violent and attack me with the shovel he carried. Once he realized who I was and what I was after, he started shaking and couldn’t get himself locked behind the gate fast enough. He didn’t appear angry or even upset with himself for getting caught. He was afraid.”
“Because he thought he was losing his paycheck?” Vincent ventured.
“Maybe, but I still think something else was going on, something in the background that made him so fearful.”
“Like what?” Vincent asked, pondering his own question. “Maybe somebody is threatening him. Workman? Dawe?”
“I don’t know, but no matter what’s going on behind the scenes, he’s going to be impossible to catch on tape now.”
Vincent nodded. “We need a new plan.”
“Yeah, but I have no idea what that plan might be,” I confessed, taking another sip of coffee.
“Mind if I hit the shower before we map out a new strategy?” Vincent set aside his empty mug.
My mouth watered at the idea of Vincent in my shower, so I only nodded at him.
He grabbed a small duffel bag that had been sitting by the couch and disappeared into my guest bathroom. His preparedness didn’t really surprise me. Being former military, he kept a “go bag” for just such emergencies. He must have brought it in after I went upstairs to bed.
I flipped on the TV for some background noise and went to the kitchen to see if there was anything I could turn into a decent breakfast.
I stood at the open refrigerator door, gathering eggs, milk, orange juice, and butter, but I paused when the morning news anchor said my name.
That couldn’t be right.
I strained to hear.
There it was again. “Special Agent Jackson….”
I dumped the containers of food on the counter and hurried to the TV, certain I had misheard. Twice.
But I had not misheard. There I was—my MPD cadet picture, anyway—on the split screen next to the perky brunette anchor.
Under my photo was the caption, “Local Fraud Investigator under Investigation.”
Holy crap.
My heart thumped around in my chest, and if I’d been holding anything, I would have dropped it. I sat down hard on the coffee table, staring at the text as the words blurred in front of me. I was only able to absorb snippets of the story, but all the highlights and buzzwords were there: police corruption, evidence tampering, confession, felony, charges….
Oh, Lord.
I was not prepared for this. I’d expected Kay Lanyon to pursue charges against me at some point. I could have dealt with that.
But headlining on the morning news before the judge had a chance to make a ruling?
I had no reserves for this.
The wolves of public opinion would devour me before I even changed out of my pajamas.
I felt an almost overwhelming urge to go back upstairs and hide under the bed, but a small, sadistic part of me demanded to know how bad the damage was.
Maybe it was just this station. I flicked between all the local channels, dismayed to find the story everywhere. Then, peeking outside first to make sure no neighbors were in their yards, I ran down the driveway for the Sunday paper.
Yup, I was on the front page of the Mercer Messenger.
Double holy crap.
I was headlining all over town.
I came back inside and dropped the paper facedown on the kitchen table.
What was going on?
How had the press gotten my story?
I was still standing by the kitchen table, staring out the window, when Vincent came downstairs, fresh from his shower. The room filled with the scent of soap and man, but other than the act of noticing the change of aromas, I barely gave it a thought.
“I don’t expect you to cook for me, you know,” he said, breaking my already derailing train of thought.
I jumped a little and glanced toward the stove. Breakfast ingredients were heaped around it.
Vincent sorted through the abandoned items. “How about sunny-side-up eggs and OJ?” he asked.
When I didn’t respond, he turned and studied me, his expression growing serious.
“Something came up.” I grabbed the newspaper and held it up so he could see it.
Vincent’s eyes widened as he looked at the caption—“The Face of Corruption?”—below my old police cadet picture. H
e swore, strode across the room, and plucked the paper from my fingertips. Breakfast forgotten, he hunkered down at the kitchen table and began to read, uttering increasingly violent curses as he went.
I needed something to do, so when the carafe was full, I busied myself by preparing two more cups of coffee, carefully measuring the cream and sugar as if I were performing a delicate science experiment, and then joined him at the table. He set the paper down and looked at me. His expression transformed into military cop. If he had hackles, they would have been raised; Vincent was definitely ready for a fight.
“The judge put a gag order on this. How the hell did it leak?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. My best guess is that Slidell’s attorney wanted to turn public opinion his client’s way. Or maybe Ted found out and wants me gone even more than I thought. Or Kay Lanyon decided to make good on her threat.”
Vincent considered for a moment.
“Those are all possibilities,” he said, making the last word sound as if it could be used to crush rocks. “But you don’t win cases by directly defying a judge’s order. That’s a career killer. And Ted’s too much of a coward to do something so public.”
I bit my lip. If Ted Insley wanted me gone from the DOI, this would certainly be the most efficient way to make it happen. But that theory had major flaws.
First, how had he found out? Every scenario that might explain how he discovered my secret was full of holes. He could have gotten wind of the investigation through friends in the GBI, but I couldn’t imagine how he’d heard about my meeting with Judge Preece. Sure, he had friends in the courthouse, but only four people had been in the room to hear me admit to taking that fabric sample. Who would have told him?
Ted came off as slick and smarmy most of the time, but would he stoop to such a low level as publicly ruining an employee? And why would he want to risk discrediting the DOI while in the process of ruining me?
Kay Lanyon, however, was a stronger suspect. She believed I had ruined her case against Slidell and therefore her conviction record as well. She had threatened me in the courthouse. Perhaps the leak had come from her office. But again, would she risk her career in such an overt fashion?
