“Brent was with you?”
That might have been a trick question—no might about it—because she knew where Brent had been. He’d told her. Still, it never hurt to let the witness give his own assessment.
“No. He was back at the house. Poor kid was howling something about his mom and blood. My wife called 9-1-1 and I came back to check on Cheryl and get the baby—Brent’s sister. We always call her the baby.”
Staying focused on the scene, Jenna moved to the entryway. “So you’re on the porch and the door is open.”
“Yeah.” He walked over and opened the door, letting a burst of cool air in as he pushed it back against the wall. “It was like this when I came in.”
Jenna faced the living room, accessing the layout—sofa blocking her view of where the body would have been, the end table and side chair that could have hindered the murderer—all of it part of an investigation that had gone nowhere in twenty-three years.
Herb walked back to the sofa and pointed. “She was right there. Kind of curled up, but not really. Her hair was all bloody.”
Head wounds bled more than others due to all the blood vessels. Jenna had learned that from her dad.
She drew a map of the room, marking an X where the body had been found. “Were these chairs here back then?”
“Yes. They may have moved them when they were living here, but Brent put everything back when he started working on the case.”
“Then what happened?”
Herb scratched his cheek and then gestured to the floor. “I leaned over her, checked her pulse. I couldn’t find one, but I’m no doctor. By then, Barnes—he was a deputy then—had pulled in. I ran back to get Camille before she woke up.”
More notes. He’d left the body so he could get Camille. Parental instinct would be to protect the child. Made sense. “The sheriff arrived and you went back to your house with Camille? Did she see the body?”
“No. I covered her eyes when I carried her out. I took her next door and came back. My wife was trying to get hold of Mason.”
“Brent’s father?”
“Yes, ma’am. She wanted to warn him, but we didn’t have cell phones back then, and he’d already left work. I waited for him to pull up while the paramedics were in here with Cheryl.” He flipped his palms up, and then let them drop. “Helluva night, that one.”
The heaviness in his voice, weight saddling his vocal chords, drew her gaze. For her, this was a job. For them, she couldn’t imagine. “Do you need a break?”
“Maybe I do.” He started for the door, but then stopped and gestured to the floor. “All these years I’ve been thinking about what my nephew saw. I don’t know how a boy recovers from that.”
Jenna’s guess was the boy in question hadn’t recovered. All he’d done was bury the pain deep enough that it would allow him to go forward, to keep searching, to get justice.
Only problem was, all the anger he’d stuffed inside him would eventually go boom. And that would cause an emotional landslide.
Obviously wanting to be done, Herb turned toward the still open door. “Do you need anything else?”
“Not right now. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“It’s all right. I want to help. If we solve this, it’ll give Brent and Camille peace. Maybe then he’ll sell this damned house.”
“It must be hard living right next door.”
He shrugged. “If someone lived here, gave the house some life, it wouldn’t be so bad. Now it’s just an empty place where my sister-in-law died. It’s a damned morgue.”
* * *
OUTSIDE, THE GARAGE spotlight illuminated the driveway, and Brent spotted his aunt Sylvie marching across the patch of grass separating the two homes. She made a direct line for him, her face, as usual, passive. No pinched brows, no big smile, no tight cheeks. Nothing to indicate her mood. He’d always said she’d make a great spy. Bringing up the rear was his cousin, Jamie, who wore that slightly amused grin that meant she wasn’t the only one in trouble.
He shifted his gaze back to his aunt and—yep—all that passive behavior meant one thing, she was about to yell at him for staying away so long.
Might as well take it like a man.
While the sheriff unloaded the copies of evidence files, Brent walked across the driveway, the heels of his dress shoes clapping against the pavement and the lack of traffic noise reminded him that he wasn’t in Chicago anymore. Coming back here, with all the contrasts to the city, brought back all that bubbling agony he fought to control. And he didn’t want that. He wanted it buried where he didn’t have to deal with it. What he needed was to stay strong—for Camille, for his aunt and for his uncle.
They could turn into basket cases if they chose, but not him. His day would come, though. When they found his mother’s killer, then he’d figure out how to deal with all the garbage he’d packed inside him.
“Hey, Aunt Sylvie.” He held out his arms and his much smaller aunt stepped into them.
“Don’t Hey-Aunt-Sylvie me, young man. You know you’re in trouble. You didn’t even call to tell us.”
She backed away from the hug and stared up at him. Since his mother had died, his aunt had turned her fanatical focus on him and Camille. Whether it was her own grief or simply wanting to make sure they had a mother figure in their lives—maybe both—was still up for debate, but Brent never questioned it. Aunt Sylvie always made sure they were cared for and had hot food in their bellies.
For that reason alone, he always answered when she called. No matter what.
Even when she griped at him.
“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up at work and didn’t get a chance to call.”
Jamie stepped around her mother, went on tiptoes and smacked a kiss on Brent’s cheek. “Hey, cuz. Good to see you.”
“Hi, James.”
He’d started calling his cousin James when they were kids and the nickname had stuck. She never seemed to mind.
Obviously done ranting, Aunt Sylvie waved at Barnes, who’d finished digging a file box from his car and had set it on the trunk. “Sheriff, how are you?”
“I’m good, Sylvie. You all right?”
“Oh, we’re just fine.” She shot Brent the stink-eye. “Wouldn’t mind seeing my niece and nephew a little more.”
Guilt, Brent had enough of. Hell, he had enough guilt to fill the Chicago River. “You know how to drive. And Chicago is only an hour.”
As usual, her mouth dropped open and she gasped. “Look at you with that smart mouth.”
“Merely an observation.”
Jamie cleared her throat. “What’s in the box, Sheriff?”
The sheriff glanced at Brent, unsure how much to reveal, so Brent took that one. “That’s for me. Copies of Mom’s files.”
With that bright spotlight shining down on her, Aunt Sylvie whipped her gaze between Brent and the sheriff. Brent knew right where her mind had gone. “Has something happened? A lead?”
Dang. He’d been insensitive. He knew her. Knew how her mind worked and the slow-curling panic that fired every time the sheriff pulled into one of these driveways.
And Brent hadn’t warned her.
Gave her zero notice about Jenna investigating. Moron.
Brent touched her arm. “No. But there’s someone I’ll introduce you to in a minute. She’s inside talking with Uncle Herb. I think she can help us.”
“Who is she?”
“An investigator. Remember the lawyer I helped last spring?”
“That adorable little blonde?”
Adorable. Penny would hate that. She’d like Uncle Herb’s description better. “Yes. The investigator works for her law firm. They offered to help with Mom’s case.”
Aunt Sylvie cocked her head. “She’s good, this investigator?”
“She is.”
And she’s got a body that drives me insane. Not that he’d say that, but he was a man, and men had needs. Needs that Brent had been sorely neglecting lately. Needs that maybe Jenna cou
ld help him with.
When they were done finding a killer.
Because as much as Brent fantasized about a long night with Jenna in his bed, his priority was catching his mother’s killer. If he and Jenna got involved, something told him it would get ugly when he walked away. And walk away, he would. He liked coming and going as he pleased and not having to explain himself to anyone. He didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
The snick of the front-door latch sounded and they all turned toward the house. Jenna came down the porch steps.
She walked toward them, her coat flying open to reveal her blouse and the slacks that fit her curvy body in all the right ways.
“Wow,” Jamie said. “She’s pretty.”
Aunt Sylvie gave him a bored look. “This is your investigator?”
Brent grinned. “Yep!”
“Which body part made this decision?” she whispered.
“Well, look at you with that smart mouth,” he said in his best Sylvie voice.
Without giving her an opportunity to respond, he waved Jenna over. “Come meet my aunt and cousin.”
After doing the introductions, Brent turned to Aunt Sylvie. “Jenna will be poking around. Don’t freak when you see a car in the driveway.”
“Yes,” Jenna said. “I’d like to chat with both of you, at your convenience, of course.”
Aunt Sylvie pressed her lips together, and then shot a look at Uncle Herb who nodded. She didn’t like talking about her sister. Ever. Growing up, Brent had craved stories about his mom, but the memories were too painful for his aunt and she typically ran from the room sobbing. Over the years, Brent had been conditioned not to talk about his mother. Which pretty much stunk.
“Of course,” his aunt said. “If it’ll help. I’m available anytime.”
“Thank you. I’d like to read through the sheriff’s files first. Would it be all right if I call you in a day or two?” She looked at Jamie. “Both of you?”
“Sure,” Jamie said. “Anytime.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, have you eaten?” his aunt asked Brent. “I could fix you something.”
A meal would serve him good right now, but the night had dragged on and, as hopeful as he was about the new energy Jenna brought, talking about his mother, reliving that night, had drained him. Time to get back to Chicago, where the sounds of the city would drown the noise in his head. Silence, he’d learned long ago, was his enemy. During high school and college, football helped smother it. With football, the energy it took to step to the line and get his head beat in was all the distraction he needed. When he became a marshal—nothing boring there—silence was no longer an issue. Pretty much, the US Marshal Service was involved in everything from judicial and witness security to asset forfeiture. If it involved federal laws, US marshals were there. One day he could chase down a fugitive, the next make sure a witness didn’t get blown away by someone they’d just testified against.
Out here, in his childhood hometown where the streets were desolate after six o’clock and the only outside noise came from birds or cicadas or blowing leaves, the quiet created emotional chaos.
Gotta go.
He leaned down, kissed his aunt’s cheek. “We need to get back to the city. Maybe on the weekend.”
“Saturday,” she said. “After church.”
He laughed. By now he should know better than to throw out a maybe. His aunt took a maybe and turned it into a definitely.
“You could come early and go to church with us.”
Now she wanted church too. Years since he’d done that. Which was a shame. He used to enjoy church, but now it gave him too much time to reflect on things he shouldn’t reflect on. “Don’t push it. Saturday for dinner. I’ll be here. I’ll see what Camille is doing. Don’t worry. I’ll channel the guilt from you.”
She waved her hands. “Oh, with the sass.”
He kissed her again. “I love you. Good night.”
“I love you, too. Drive carefully. No speeding.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turned to Jenna. “All set?”
Please let her be all set.
She nodded. “You bet.”
He shook hands with the sheriff. “Thank you. I’ll call you with any updates.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
On the way to his SUV, he grabbed the file box off the back of the sheriff’s cruiser, the weight of it, as always, easy to handle. Most of what was in that file he’d probably seen already. Except for the photos. Being a marshal, he’d learned to take emotion out of a case. Even when it came to his mother. He could read the forensics reports, investigator notes and the autopsy report. All of it, he could handle. Even some of the crime scene photos showing the exterior of the house or certain pieces of evidence were tolerable. But not the ones of his mom’s body. Those were a different damned beast, and he couldn’t find a compartment big enough to control the massive anger those pictures would unleash.
Balancing the box against the SUV, he opened the back door, shoved the box on the seat and walked around to get Jenna’s door. By the time he’d gotten there, she already had her hand on the handle.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“Again with this?”
When he’d picked her up at her apartment, she’d teased him about the gesture. What she didn’t know was his aunt would skin him if he abandoned his manners. Plus, he liked doing it. “Yeah. Again with this. Get used to it and don’t argue.”
He held open the door and waved her into the car. To that, she tilted her chin up and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
And the look on her face, so serious with her cheeks sucked in and her gaze straight ahead, made him laugh. Really laugh.
In front of his mother’s house no less. Helluva thing.
She slid into the car and the interior light illuminated her face and the grin that—wait for it—would cause the punch to his chest. Jenna Hayward was beautiful, but she wasn’t one of those everyday beautiful women you could find anywhere you looked. On sight, she took a man’s legs out from under him. Bam!
He leaned in to get a whiff of her perfume, something floral but light. Not allergy inducing. Thank you. Once again, his eyes went to that extra undone button on her blouse and the lush skin under it. He caught a glimpse of lace and swore under his breath. “Okay, Miss Illinois, cut the wisecracks.”
She straightened up. “Miss Illinois?”
“You think I’m going to let you anywhere near my mother’s case without checking you out?”
* * *
HE KNEW. Not that it was some big secret, but she didn’t necessarily flaunt her beauty queen background. In her line of work, it didn’t gain her anything. All she knew was that at the age of twenty-one, after years of working the pageant circuit, years of hearing her mother coo over how beautiful her daughter was, and the resulting pressure of it all, she’d had enough. Enough of the dieting, enough of having to look a certain way at all times, enough of the show. She simply wanted to be Jenna. A pretty girl who liked to eat cake and pester her detective father with questions about cases.
Playing along, she scissored Brent’s silky tie between two fingers. Nice tie. Nice man. Nice everything. And she so adored the way he interacted with his family. Teasing, but firm and loving when they tried to give him any nonsense.
“My pageant days aren’t classified information. All you have to do is check Google. And, by the way, you failed. I didn’t win. I was the runner-up.”
His lips lifted slightly as he watched her play with his tie. “I didn’t fail. I knew that, but decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. Those judges were either blind or stupid. I’m guessing beauty contest judges need eyesight, so that leaves stupid.”
Did that just send a hot flash raging? This was their problem. That connection, that heat she couldn’t ignore. “Marshal Thompson, are you flirting with me?”
“Nope. Calling it like I see it.”
She flicked away the tie. “I was fifteen
pounds lighter then.”
Where did that come from? Sure, her brothers liked to taunt her about packing on a few pounds, but her pageant weight was impossible to maintain. And Jenna had a thing for food. In that she liked it.
“Yet another tragedy,” Brent said.
“What?”
“That you were fifteen pounds lighter.”
In the lit interior of the car, she studied his face. Looking for the tell that he was charming her into possibly removing her clothes. Which, if he kept talking like that, just might happen. Without a doubt, every one of her brain cells must have evaporated. Only explanation for this attack of flightiness.
“You don’t like skinny women?”
“Brent?” his aunt called from the front of the house. “Everything okay?”
He backed away and straightened. “We’re good! Seat belt jammed.”
He shut the door, came around the driver’s side, hopped in and fired the engine. “If we stay here, she’ll be all over us.”
Jenna waited. Would he answer her about the skinny women thing? Part of her wanted to know. The other part wanted to run. Although the extra fifteen pounds had only brought her to a size eight, it still bothered her. Made her wonder what men saw when they looked at the ex-beauty queen whose body had gone fluffy.
At the road, Brent hit the gas and the car tore through the blackness of the country road, the only sound being the radio on low volume. Tim McGraw maybe, but Jenna couldn’t tell. She was more of a pop music girl.
“No,” Brent said.
“No what?”
“I don’t like skinny women. And it’s a damned shame you think you looked better fifteen pounds lighter because, honey, you’re wrong.”
Oh, she might like where this conversation was heading. “I don’t think I looked better.”
“Liar.”
“Hey!”
“Just admit it and be done with it. I saw your picture—nice gown by the way—and I can promise you, from a completely male perspective, you looked like a bean pole back then. A guy my size would break that girl in half.”
“Did you somehow get drunk when you were outside with your family?”
He smiled at that and she liked the sight of it.
“Calling it like I see it,” he said again.
The Marshal Page 4
