He went back to checking the spare tire and the jack. The K9 team did another once over of the car but found nothing to wag their tails about.
Hunt stepped away from the Honda and started stripping off his protective gear, tired and inexplicably relieved. “You’re clear to go, Ms. West.”
She nodded expressionlessly and stared at the mess he’d made before slowly pushing to her feet.
Hell.
He began stuffing her clothes back into the cases but she squatted beside him and nudged him aside with the sharp end of her elbow.
“I’ll do it,” she insisted.
Instead, he loaded the boxes back inside the car while she repacked her clothes. When he’d finished stowing her possessions he raised the hood. He went over to his Bucar and grabbed some coolant from the trunk, filled her radiator, checked the oil, and climbed behind the wheel to start up the motor. He damn near castrated himself with the steering wheel, but he didn’t adjust the seat. It took two tries before the engine caught and rolled over. He watched the temperature gauge for a minute or two, but the warning light didn’t come on.
“I wouldn’t go too far until a mechanic checks the engine.”
“Thank you.” The words were polite but bitter. She closed the suitcases with a firm snap.
He grabbed them before she could insist on doing it herself and slid them into the trunk. “Next time, check your fluid levels before you set off on a road trip. You’re lucky your engine didn’t seize.”
“Yes, Dad.” She snorted a laugh but her eyes remained sad. Dark circles underscored her exhaustion.
He cleared his throat. “Where will I be able to get hold of you if I have more questions?”
“Call my cell. I’m sure you have the number.” She climbed in to the seat, then combed her hair back from her face with wide-spread fingers. Hunt couldn’t help noticing they trembled slightly.
Should he call her a cab rather than let her drive tonight? “It might be a good idea if you stayed local…”
“Don’t leave town?” Her lips parted in surprise, then she slumped. “I’m too tired to drive anywhere tonight or fight with you about it. I’ll find a motel.” The onyx in her eyes seemed haunted and the pale pink of her lips was vivid in comparison to the paleness of her skin.
He pulled out a business card, forcing himself not to think about the fact that if she was innocent in all this she’d had one of those days that became seared into memory as one of the worst moments of your life.
“I’ll probably have follow up questions tomorrow. Call me if you think of anything that might be relevant.” Hunt cleared his throat. “Hopefully the ME can shed some light on your friend’s time of death. We’ll have information from the gas receipts you provided. As long as you were telling the truth everything should be fine.”
Tears shimmered like diamonds spiking the tips of her lashes. “My best friend is dead, Agent Kincaid. Nothing will ever be fine again.”
They held each other’s gaze even though the pain in hers made him uncomfortable. He closed her door and she drove away.
After a few seconds he got in his car and followed, half worried she’d fall asleep at the wheel, half worried the rust-bucket she was driving would break down and leave her vulnerable on the side of the road.
She pulled up at the first motel she came to. He parked at a store across the street and watched her drag one case and then her computer and TV into the crappy motel room.
He told himself he was watching in case some dubious looking dudes appeared out of nowhere or Pip West decided to split. He used the time to update his SAC and the agents in DC. No one came to her door. After an hour Pip West’s light went off and he started his engine and headed back to the police station.
As far as DC was concerned this was an FBI case until he figured out whether or not Cindy Resnick’s death had anything to do with the sale of illegal anthrax. Which unfortunately meant Pip West was very much his problem.
* * *
Pip slept dreamlessly, until she woke up and discovered she was still stuck in a nightmare. She’d dropped off her car at the local garage for a service. Now she was in the local diner, forcing herself to eat.
Going through the motions.
The restaurant was busy, loud. Wood paneling. Blue and white gingham drapes. Sunshine so bright it hurt her eyes.
At eight AM, Agent Kincaid slid into her booth just as she pushed what remained of her breakfast away. He wore the same suit, with a fresh white shirt, blue striped tie. His short sandy hair was ruffled in a way some men spent hours trying to achieve. His looked stress induced.
“Ms. West.” He inclined his head across the table, then raised a hand to the waitress who came over with a coffee pot and a smile much bigger than the one she’d worn when she’d served Pip her bacon, sausage and eggs. He pointed at Pip’s plate. “I’ll have whatever she had.”
The waitress left with a swing of her hips and a roll of Pip’s eyes.
“Do you have news? Has the Medical Examiner finished the…?” She couldn’t force the word autopsy out of her mouth. It was too bloody, too cold, too final.
She found herself lifting her chin to meet the challenge of his eyes.
“I just got the preliminary report. Your friend drowned, but there was enough alcohol and cocaine in her system to stun an elephant. If she hadn’t drowned, the fentanyl mixed in with the coke would probably have killed her.”
Pip flinched.
The cops were right…
No.
No way.
Pip didn’t care what the report said. Cindy would never have taken drugs. She was a microbiologist with a joint major in biochemistry. She understood the risks too well to snort something she bought on the street from a stranger.
Agent Kincaid reached over and stole a piece of toast from her side plate. She didn’t care. She wasn’t hungry. “Did you find more cocaine in the cottage?” she asked.
He bit into the toast. Chewed slowly. “You know I can’t reveal any details of an investigation.”
She gritted her teeth. “But you are quite happy to pump me for information.”
“I’m an FBI agent. It’s what I do.” His direct gaze unnerved her. “You want me to figure out what happened to your friend? This is how it works.”
She looked away. Of course, she wanted to know what happened to Cindy. She just didn’t have a lot of faith in law enforcement.
“Any idea where she might have gotten the drugs?” He watched her closely, no doubt looking for hints of deception.
“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She was so exasperated. Why wouldn’t he believe her? “She detested drugs. I never saw her do drugs, not even in college when everyone else was doing them.”
“Including you?”
She stared back, trying hard to hold back her resentment. He didn’t know her. He just saw she’d pleaded guilty to possession when she’d been too young and too vulnerable to speak the truth. His skepticism bolstered her determination to be taken seriously. Cindy didn’t have a voice any longer. Pip would be her voice.
“I grew up in foster care, Agent Kincaid. When I was sixteen I dated a guy a few years older and thought I was cool. I even tried a couple things because I was young and miserable and stupid. But I didn’t like dope or cigarettes or alcohol for that matter. Until that day when the cops stopped him I didn’t know the jerk I was with was on probation. He shoved those baggies into my jean jacket pocket and begged me to not say anything.” He’d used her. And let her take the fall. It wasn’t a mistake she’d made twice. “By the time I started college I was an A student on a scholarship who had no fallback position if I screwed up. So, I never did drugs. And I went to every lecture and completed every assignment. I worked hard. So did Cindy.”
That fist in her throat was back and it was expanding. Air became trapped in her chest and she couldn’t swallow. All Cindy’s dedication had been for nothing. All those hours poring over textbooks and sweating exam results
and lab experiments and written reports. Worthless. Her airway got tighter, her breath started to wheeze in and out of her chest. Oh, God…
“It’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe.” Kincaid’s much larger hand closed over her fist as it rested on the table. Her eyes shot desperately to his and he squeezed, just firmly enough to ground her in the here and now. “Breathe deep but slow. Slower.”
He was probably worried she was going to pass out or have a panic attack. That hadn’t happened in years but her mind was overloaded and her emotions felt like they were shorting out.
She made an effort to shake off the grief that wanted to overwhelm her. Concentrated instead on forcing the muscles of her ribcage in and out, fighting that destructive need to hyperventilate. She took in a drag of air and held it.
His skin looked lighter than the tanned bronze of hers. She concentrated on the feeling of strength in those long, blunt fingers. Took another gulp of air and held it, trying to slow down the reflex.
Cindy had helped her get through college. She’d taught her to run, taught her to study, taught her that the only thing that really mattered was integrity and no one could take that from you.
Except someone was trying to steal Cindy’s integrity.
Pip took another deliberate breath and her heartbeat started to settle. Her chest lost that tight constriction that spelled panic.
Agent Kincaid’s firm grip was warm and reassuring. She looked up and caught his gaze. For the first time since they’d met, he wasn’t looking at her like she was a suspect. Either he knew something he wasn’t telling her, or she was more pitiful than she’d realized.
After another minute, he removed his hand and she looked away.
“Sorry.” She let out a slow, steady breath that told her she was back in control of her body. “It’s just hard to believe she’s actually gone.” She swallowed. “When will the Medical Examiner release the body?” Last night she’d done some research and was pretty sure she knew who Cindy’s lawyer was—assuming it was the same guy Cindy’s parents had used. She’d ask him the name of Cindy’s executor because she needed to help organize the funeral.
“It’s going to be a few days.” His vague answer pissed her off. “Losing her family must have hit Cindy hard.”
Duh.
“Could it have sent her off the rails?”
Pip bristled. “Losing her family did hit her hard, but it was nearly eighteen months ago. We’d done all the anniversaries that sneak up without you realizing and then hit you in the solar plexus like a punch from a dodgy ex—”
“Dodgy ex?” His eyes burned.
“Like I say, I grew up in foster care and didn’t always make great choices.” She pressed her lips together. “Cindy was coping with her loss even though it hurt. She wasn’t suicidal.” Her tone was sharp.
“I’m trying to get a feel for her and her state of mind.” Gone was the patient man who’d held her hand. The Fed was back.
“So you can justify saying she did something completely out of character?”
“Drugs or suicide?” he asked.
“Both,” she bit out.
He lowered his chin, clearly looking for a different angle of attack. “You said you had a fight. What was it about?”
She huffed out a resigned breath. “Lifestyle choices.”
“What do you mean?”
You work too hard. You don’t eat properly. You hook up with guys you barely know.
“Nothing important.” She fiddled with her napkin.
“Could you have missed the fact that something was bothering her?” His voice had an edge now, as if he thought she was lying.
You don’t know everything…
What was it Pip hadn’t known? What had she missed by being so consumed by her own search for truth?
“It’s possible.” She exhaled, and guilt rose up all over again. They’d both been busy. She’d been caught up in a case that should have launched her career. Instead innocents were dead. She hadn’t even told Cindy she’d quit.
Kincaid leaned back when the waitress brought out his food and coffee. He smiled and Pip found herself caught off guard. He was a really good-looking guy.
The waitress left with a flirty wink that Kincaid didn’t seem to notice. Pip bet he had women throwing themselves at him all day long.
“She finished her thesis?” he asked, stirring his coffee.
“Day before yesterday. Around six she texted me to say it was done. She planned to submit Monday morning which was another reason I wanted to get to the cottage early before she left for the city.”
Pip drained the last of her tea. All that effort wasted.
It put Pip’s life in perspective. Sure, in a democracy truth mattered but at what cost?
The FBI agent was wolfing down his food as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Pip remembered the cheese roll he’d given her yesterday.
She couldn’t let one small act of kindness derail her from her goal. “You’re thinking she got high because she finished her thesis.”
“How long had she been working on it?”
“Four years. She’d completed her masters in two.”
“Seems like a reason to party to me.”
“Except it would have been completely out of character to snort coke.”
“Says you.” Blue eyes pinned her.
“Says me,” she agreed. He was right. He had no idea how accurate her version of Cindy’s life was. “But say you’re right and Cindy decided to celebrate. Where’d she get the drugs for this impromptu celebration? Because I know it wasn’t from me.”
“She had the champagne,” he pointed out.
“She always had champagne.”
“Perhaps a new boyfriend you didn’t know about supplied the drugs?”
Did he know something he wasn’t telling her? Pip took a sip of water to ease the soreness of her throat. “It’s possible. Men tripped over themselves trying to get her attention and often used me to get to her.”
He gave her a frown.
Then she remembered something. “Hey, before I got to the cottage yesterday I was almost run off the road by a big black SUV going too fast on one of those blind bends. And when I got to the driveway I noticed dust rising up, you know how it does on a dry gravel road after a car has just gone over it?”
Kincaid frowned harder and Pip tried to ignore the way it made little lines fan out from the side of his eyes. The small signs of age looked good on him.
“The car could be a coincidence. A vehicle traveling along Cindy’s driveway might have turned in the other direction. You wouldn’t have seen them.”
“But someone was there,” she insisted. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t remembered this yesterday.
He shrugged one shoulder, apparently unconvinced, and kept on eating.
He didn’t believe her. Anger started to grow.
“What time did she die?” Her stomach turned. How could she be talking about this so casually as if her world hadn’t disintegrated into ruined ashes? She didn’t want to be sorting through the sterile facts of Cindy’s death, but there was no one else to champion her friend.
Kincaid’s fingers curled around his coffee mug. Long tapered fingers and clean, blunt nails. He swallowed, then opened his mouth to blow her off.
Her lip twisted derisively. “Don’t bother with the ‘I can’t reveal information’ bullshit. I’m the biggest asset you have when getting to know the victim.”
“Which might matter if this had been deemed a homicide but there are no obvious suspicious circumstances.”
How could he say that? “What about the vehicle I spotted? The fact Cindy never used drugs?”
“To your knowledge.” He pointed his coffee mug at her, which made her clench her teeth together and inhale deeply through her nose. “If it was a homicide, you’d be the chief suspect.”
“Because I found her?”
He drank and put down the mug. “Partly that, and partly the fact you had the most to gain from her
death.”
“Gain?” Grief catapulted into her gut and made her want to curl into a ball and sob. Instead, she searched her wallet for a twenty and tossed it on the table. “I lost my best friend. The only person in the world who cared whether I lived or died.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin as she grabbed her purse and started to edge out of the booth.
“I spoke to Cindy’s lawyer, Adrian Lightfoot.” His words stopped her. He slid a piece of paper with a phone number written in pencil. “You need to call him. Apparently, you’re the executor of Cindy’s last will and testament. You inherited everything. The house in the city, the cottage on the lake, the SUV, the trust fund.” Those blue eyes with their thin gold rings pinned her in place. “So if this was a homicide investigation, sweetheart, all the smart money would be on you.”
Chapter Six
Two hours later, Hunt was glad to be back in Atlanta. He parked in the visitor lot of the Blake University building where Cindy Resnick had worked and where her supervisor was now waiting for him. No signs of anthrax at the cottage, nor in her house in Atlanta, nor in her body.
According to the ME, if Cindy had died from the disease, lymph nodes in her chest, and other locations, would have been swollen and blackened like over-ripe plums. Cindy’s lymphatic system appeared normal. Nor were there signs of long-term drug abuse. It appeared the woman had gotten drunk, gotten high and drowned.
But they couldn’t afford to ignore the timing.
ASAC McKenzie had decided to let the local cops in Allatoona run the investigation into Cindy’s death with Hunt assisting in his official WMD coordinator capacity while he continued to prioritize interviewing living scientists. The labs would analyze all the evidence and direct pertinent results back to the BLACKCLOUD taskforce before sending it to the cops. Publicly, the FBI would play down Cindy’s death as accidental. Privately, they were considering all options.
Was Pip West involved? Was she after a story? Or did she have something to feel guilty about? She’d refused to tell him why she and her friend had argued. Lifestyle choices wasn’t exactly specific.
Cold Blooded Page 7
