The Marshal

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Well, thank you, I suppose. For the compliment.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “It never hurts to hear someone appreciates your looks.”

  For a quick second, he turned and the dashboard glow lit his face as he helped himself to a look at her body. “I definitely appreciate your looks. I’d imagine most men do. I think you know that.”

  The side of his mouth quirked again—all male and sexy and devilish—and my, oh, my, Jenna’s stomach did a flip. “You’re flirting with me.”

  “I might be.”

  “Is that wise?”

  He laughed. “Probably not. But as I recall, you do your share of flirting.”

  She shifted sideways in her seat and the belt scraped the side of her neck. Darn it, that’d leave a mark. Forget it. She needed a snappy comeback, but the big ox was right. Her flirting wasn’t personal, though. What? How insane would she sound if she said that? When she flirted, she did it to get somewhere, to make progress. Flirting for her had become a tactic. A strategic tool in her arsenal.

  “We’re adults,” she said. “Let’s just throw it out there that there’s chemistry between us. Or am I totally wrong?”

  Sounding a little desperate here, Jenna. What was it with her? Always needing the ego boost. Always needing approval. Blame it on her years of being judged in contests and her failure to get into the FBI, but she couldn’t get through the day without wondering what people thought of her.

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “About the chemistry, or flirting not being wise?”

  “Both.”

  She sighed, turned to the front again. “I need to do a good job on this, Brent. It’s important to me.”

  “News flash, honey, it’s important to me, too. If you don’t want me flirting with you, I won’t flirt, but you set that tone the second I met you in the hallway outside Penny’s office last spring. Make up your mind what you want from me, Jenna. If you want this all business, it’ll be all business. It can’t be both ways. You decide.”

  This man could have grown up in her household. So direct and strong and honest. “I want to do a good job for you. For your mom. She deserves that.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “I like flirting with you. For once, it’s not a prop. It’s fun and you have a great smile that I don’t think you show enough. It makes me feel good that I can get you to smile.”

  And again, it all rolled around to what made her feel good. Pathetic. She waved her hands and looked out the window. “No flirting.”

  “Fine. No flirting. And yeah, you get me to smile, and that doesn’t happen a lot.”

  So much for no flirting.

  “There’s one thing I want to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  He glanced at her. “I’m not being a jerk here, I’m seriously curious.”

  “I’ve been warned. Ask away.”

  “How does someone go from being the runner-up in the Miss Illinois pageant to being a private investigator? And, again, I’m not being a jerk.”

  “I don’t mind. People have asked me this question a million times. My father is a career detective. I’ve always been fascinated by what he does. I’d sit and ask him questions. Two of my four brothers are also cops and will probably make detective. I guess you could say we played a lot of real-life Clue when I was little.”

  “So, how’d you get to being a PI? Why not join the PD?”

  Leave it to him to pursue it. Most people were satisfied with the my-dad-is-a-detective line and dropped the subject. Not Brent. He had to know it all. She looked out the window where the tollway lights dimmed in the distance.

  She turned back to him. “I was a psychology major in college.”

  “I could see that. You study people.”

  “I like to know what makes them tick. After I graduated, I couldn’t see myself in an office all day counseling people. I needed to be out and moving, so I applied for the FBI.”

  He shot her a look, and then went back to the road. “You wanted to be an agent?”

  “I did. And I wanted it bad.”

  “Did you go to the academy?”

  “Nope. Never made it that far. They rejected me.”

  There, she’d said it. Not many people knew and she held her breath, waited for a crack about the beauty queen wanting to play G-man, or in her case, G-woman.

  But Brent watched the road ahead as the tollway entrance drew closer. Shouldn’t have said anything. The man was a US marshal. He’d succeeded where she’d failed. What did she expect him to say? Dumb, Jenna. Heat rose in her cheeks—thank goodness the car was dark—and she rested her head back.

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “You’d have made a good agent. You wouldn’t have needed your cleavage to do it, either. Don’t sell yourself short, Jenna. You’re beautiful, but you’re smart, too. Don’t ever forget that.”

  The air in her chest stalled and she squeezed her eyes closed. No one, not even her mother who often rolled her eyes at Jenna’s clothing choices, had ever said that. He knew. But she couldn’t get crazy here. He wasn’t offering a glass slipper. All he offered was an opinion.

  Still resting her head back, she eased out a breath. “You might be flirting with me, but I don’t care. Thank you for saying that.”

  He shrugged. “That time I wasn’t flirting. It’s not complicated. I like you and you’ve got a brain. You don’t need to be half-naked to be good at what you do.”

  Suddenly, Jenna wished he’d been flirting, because she might have just fallen a little in love with Brent Thompson.

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, on a sunlit Saturday morning that reminded Jenna that October could be a beautiful month, she pulled into the driveway of Brent’s childhood home and absorbed her first daytime sight of it. What she’d missed the other night was the peeling paint on the porch poles, the rotting window frames and the roof that needed to be replaced. All of it added to the permeating sadness from a house that hadn’t been truly lived in—or loved—for years.

  And here she was, digging up—metaphorically—the body buried there. After sorting through the copies of reports, photos and witness statements the sheriff had provided, Jenna needed more time at the scene. Something bugged her. And the lack of a murder weapon was top on her list.

  Blunt force trauma. That’s all the report had said. Crime scene photos showed a wound with a right angle. Square weapon? Possibly, but that could be anything. A trophy, a kitchen appliance, a statue. Plenty of household items had square bottoms.

  Across the yard, Brent’s cousin exited her parents’ home. Like the other night, Jamie wore her shoulder-length dark blond hair pushed back in a headband that Jenna assumed was her go-to look. Also her go-to look would be loose jeans and a navy sweatshirt on her average-sized frame, and Jenna found herself a little envious of the comfort wear. The only place Jenna wore that look was inside her own home.

  Jamie spotted the strange car in the driveway and paused. Finally, recognition dawned and Jamie waved.

  Time to work.

  Jenna gathered her purse and her briefcase and swung open the car door. A crisp breeze blew her hair sideways and she shoved it from her face. Next time, she’d do a ponytail. With all this open space, her hair couldn’t be counted on to cooperate. “Hi, Jamie. How are you?”

  “Hi. It’s Jenna, right?”

  “Sure is.”

  “No Brent?”

  “He had errands this morning. He said he’d catch up with me in a bit.”

  Jamie turned toward the house, her gaze focused as her shoulders drooped. “He thinks he can handle all this, but I worry about him. This house is an albatross.”

  Negative energy oozed around Jenna, sending prickles up her arms. How did Brent’s family stand the constant reminder of tragedy? Jamie shifted back to her, the fine lines around the woman’s eyes deepening as she squinted. Being a woman who could peg another woman’s age fairly accurately—a gift really—Jenna put Jami
e at thirty-nine.

  “You were a teenager when his mom died, right?”

  “Yes. Fifteen.”

  Ooh, so close. Only a year off. “It must have been rough on all of you.”

  “Not as rough as Brent and Camille had it. And even my useless uncle.”

  Jenna nodded. “Brent told me about that. He said his father has always been a suspect.”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s spineless and doesn’t have the stomach for murder. But I’ve lived in this town all my life and wouldn’t have believed it would happen here, so what do I know?”

  That was about as direct of an answer as Jenna could ask for. “Do your parents hear from Brent’s father?”

  “If they do, they don’t tell me.” She shrugged. “We don’t talk about him much.”

  In an odd way, Jenna understood. Nothing would change the man abandoning his family, so what was the point of stewing? Stewing wasted time and already battered emotional reserves.

  “Do you remember anything from that night?”

  Jamie sighed. “Sometimes it feels like it was yesterday. I woke up when I heard the sirens. I came out of my room and my mom told me Brent and Camille were sleeping and I should be quiet. Then she sent me back to my room.” Jamie turned, pointed to one of the side windows on her parents’ house. “I watched from that window. I wasn’t sure what happened, but I got scared—really scared—when I saw the ambulance. It was...”

  She stopped, put one hand over her mouth and the other over her eyes. Her shoulders hitched and instant guilt landed on Jenna. She touched Jamie’s arm. “I’m so sorry to put you through this.”

  After a few seconds, Jamie dropped her hands and heaved a giant breath. “It’s not your fault. I know we have to do this.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyway, I saw Brent’s dad arrive, and he started yelling and going crazy. I knew it had to be Aunt Cheryl.”

  The window Jamie had pointed to was midway between the front and rear of Brent’s house, so Jenna walked to it and surveyed the immediate area. Only a sliver of the back porch could be seen from that location. “Did you see anyone come out the back? Maybe walk through here?”

  “No. I was asleep until I heard the sirens.”

  Nothing here. And Jenna was losing precious time to restage the murder scene before Brent arrived. Based on witness statements found in the sheriff’s file, she’d prepared a timeline showing when each person came into play. Who knew if it would amount to anything, but that was part of the investigative allure. Sometimes the most obscure details broke open a case.

  Jenna wanted to break open this case.

  Without asking, as she’d often done, for her father’s advice. If it came down to it, she’d ask. Her ego wasn’t so giant that she wouldn’t seek help when needed, but for now she’d do this alone.

  She walked back to Jamie. “Thank you for talking with me. Every little bit helps. I’m going to head inside and look around.”

  “Sure. I only came by to drop the pies off for tonight. My parents are out. Will you be all right by yourself?”

  Jenna waved her off. God knew she’d been in worse places than this. Three weeks ago she’d been traipsing the south side of Chicago at two in the morning looking for a drug dealer, but she hadn’t exactly been alone then. Like today, her .38 had accompanied her.

  “I’ll be fine. Brent will be along soon.”

  Jamie took a pen and scrap of paper from her purse. “Here’s my cell number. I only live five minutes away. Call if you need anything.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “Anything I can do, just let me know.”

  Jenna stuck the paper in her jacket pocket and waited for Jamie to drive off before digging out the house key Brent had given her.

  For a few minutes, she’d been afraid Jamie would stay and, at this stage, Jenna needed time alone at the scene. Family members would distract her. They’d stand around, disrupting the energy and asking questions when she needed quiet. If they didn’t ask questions, they’d be thinking them and she’d sense it.

  Times like these, it was better for her to work solo.

  Inside, she dumped her purse on the floor and, remembering her father’s constant warnings, locked the door behind her. Could never be too cautious. A spear of light through the closed drapes illuminated the darkened room. Jenna assumed someone must have closed the drapes after they’d left the other night. She flipped the light switch and the overhead fixture came on. Not great lighting, but it would do. And she had a flashlight if necessary.

  She glanced around at the covered furniture. Need to see it. Yes. She’d pull off all the coverings to see what was under them, and then pull the cushions to search for bloodstains. Crime scene reports indicated blood had only been found on the floor, but Brent wanted fresh eyes and she would provide them.

  She worked her way around the room, gently lifting sheets off the furniture. Even with minimal movements, dust particles floated.

  Prickles snaked up her arms again. Sad existence, this house.

  Unlike the exterior of the home, the dark blue upholstered side chairs were in good shape. No tears and minimal fading. In the crime scene photos the sofa was a floral pattern. One way to check. She spun back to the sofa and peeled the sheet off one arm. Underneath she found white fabric layered with different shades of red flowers.

  She uncovered the rest of the sofa, still positioned in the spot where Brent’s mother had died. Jenna would outline where the body had been found, go through her timeline and see if anything struck her. From her briefcase, she grabbed the crime scene photos and set them on the floor. Rather than put tape on the floor, she opted for string. Plus, if Brent walked in she could yank the string up quickly. As much as he played tough guy, she didn’t want him to face an outline of his mother’s body.

  After measuring the distance from the windows and finding the exact location where the body had been, Jenna used the photos as a guide and positioned the string on the floor. From there she went to the back door and unlocked it. Sorry, Dad. Have to do it. The door had been unlocked the night of the murder and, for timeline purposes, Jenna needed everything as close to that night as possible.

  “Door set. Body there. Murder weapon?”

  She breathed in and her temples throbbed. What the heck? She wrapped her fingers around her forehead and squeezed. The crazy headache had come from nowhere. Or perhaps she’d been distracted. Either way, she had ibuprofen in her purse.

  Along with her flashlight.

  Flashlight. With no murder weapon she’d have to improvise. She checked her watch. 12:30 p.m. Darn it. She’d been here forty-five minutes already and had spent too much time on the photos. Dumb, Jenna. Brent said he’d arrive by 1:00 p.m. and now she’d have to rush.

  She hustled back to her purse and grabbed the flashlight-slash-improvised-murder weapon.

  A snick sounded just on the other side of the door and she stood half frozen, flashlight in hand as the door came open. Brent’s head snapped back and, all at once, his arms were in motion, reaching for his waist.

  Gun. Blood barreled into her already aching head. No, no, no. “It’s me!”

  For three long seconds he stared at her, unblinking, his gaze hard and steady, but at least he wasn’t reaching for his gun anymore.

  “It’s me,” she repeated, her body losing some of the paralyzing tension.

  Bending at the waist, he dropped his hands to his knees and shook his head. “You scared the hell out of me!”

  “I...I...I’m sorry. I was getting something from my purse and heard the lock. You saw my car outside.”

  A gust of wind smacked the door against the interior wall and Brent stepped in, nudging her sideways so he could close it. “I know, but...” He scrubbed a hand over his face, shook his head.

  “But what? You were about to draw on me.”

  He winced, then leaned back against the wall.
“I’m sorry. Being here gets me crazy. All I saw was someone holding a weapon.”

  The flashlight. He’d thought it was a weapon. Ironic since she’d planned on using it as such for her reenactment. “Then I guess we scared each other.”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m not used to seeing someone on the other side of that door. Damned near gave me a heart attack.”

  He glanced around, spotted the sheets off and the photos scattered around. He turned his back to the room. “What are you doing?”

  “I was, um, reviewing photos.” She rushed to the photos and the body outline. “Hang there a second. Let me scoop this stuff up.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll...wait...what’s that smell? Did you spray something?”

  Did she spray something? “No.”

  He looked around, took in the room, the drapes, the furniture and then stared up at the ceiling. In a burst, he lunged back to the door quicker than a man his size should be able to move. He whipped open the door. “Out!”

  What the heck? “Why?”

  “Gas. Get out.” He clamped on to her arm and dragged her to the door. “Didn’t you smell the gas when you came in?”

  “No. But I’ve been here awhile. I was distracted.”

  But the gas might be the reason for her sudden headache. Of course. What an idiot. Who doesn’t smell gas?

  Just as they got to the door, her foot wobbled on her skinny boot heel and her ankle gave way. Pain shot clear up to her knee, and she grabbed a fistful of Brent’s jacket for balance. “Ow!”

  “Are you passing out?”

  Passing out? “No, dopey. I twisted my ankle.”

  “Don’t call me dopey.”

  Suddenly, she went airborne and landed on Brent’s shoulder in a whoosh. “What are you doing?”

  “You just said you twisted your ankle. I’m getting us out. Or would you rather fry when the house blows from that gas leak? Your choice, Miss Illinois. I can take you back in.”

  Jenna gasped. What. A. Jerk. “Be nice.”

  “Hey, you called me dopey.”

  Brent marched down the stairs, moving quickly from the house. Apparently her weight wasn’t an issue for this big boy. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was teasing. Put me down.”