“That’s sweet of you to say,” he said. “It’s home, that’s what matters.” He turned and started back up the driveway as he said it. “Tell Dawnie I’m making a big batch of peanut butter chocolate chip tonight. I’ll save a dozen aside for you.”
“Oh, God, Rodney, you’re going to make us fat.”
He glanced back at her. “Well, if you’d rather I didn’t…”
“Are you kidding? We’ll smell them from next door and come knock your door down if you hold out on us.”
He smiled broadly. “Then I’ll save you some. You have a nice evening, now, Julie. Give Dawnie a hug for me.”
“I will. Good night, Rodney.”
* * *
“I know it’s short notice,” Sean said, handing the towel-wrapped item to his friend, Freddy Drummond, who looked like more like a surfer dude than a scientist. Sun-bleached hair and a dark tan, pale brows and lashes. The guy tended to make woman look past Sean as if he wasn’t there, which was why Sean preferred not to socialize with him too often.
“Hey, don’t think I won’t be charging my short-notice rates,” Freddy said. He took the item, peeling away the towel to look at the blade. Then he lifted his gaze to Sean’s again. “Is that blood?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to tell me.”
He nodded. “What else?”
Sean almost backed down. The goddamn guilt—an emotion he was unused to—was swamping him. He hadn’t had a chance to tip Dawn off that he’d taken the knife from her bag before he’d left. He’d tried calling ten times since, but the line had been busy. Kids and the freaking Internet were a menace. He could have tried the cell, but Julie would have answered that for sure, and she would be damn suspicious of him if he told her he wanted to speak to her sixteen-year-old daughter. He would just have to keep trying. Too bad he didn’t know the kid’s e-mail address.
He tried to force down the guilt. He was a reporter. Finding the truth was what he did best, and it wasn’t as if he could stop himself from digging. Dammit, he was allergic to secrets—when he saw one, it was almost a compulsion to dig until he found the truth. It was Jones’s own fault for forcing this. She should know better than to try to keep secrets from him. “I need to know whose blood it is,” he told his friend. “Whose prints are on the knife, anything else you can find.”
Freddy frowned. “You know I won’t be able to tell you much—not without blood and prints for comparison.”
“Yeah, I know the drill. I don’t have anything on the probable victim yet. I’ll get that to you by tomorrow. Meanwhile…” He pulled a gallon-size zipper bag from his briefcase. Inside it two were smaller bags, containing the two soft drink cans he’d taken from Julie’s kitchen table tonight. Each was labeled with a number. Not a name in sight.
Freddy took the larger bag. “These are samples from the suspects, I take it?”
“These are samples from two people I hope to rule out as suspects. There should be a good set of prints on each can to compare to any you might find on the knife. I need to know what the cops are going to find on this blade before I decide whether to turn it in. And I need this fast, pal.”
Freddy’s brows rose. “Sounds like this one’s personal, MacKenzie. These two nonsuspects friends of yours?”
He thought on that for a moment. “The kid’s starting to be, I think. Her mother can’t stand me. And it’s mutual. She’s my goddamned worst enemy. But she’s my enemy, you know? I don’t like some other SOB messing with her.” He sighed. “Listen, Fred, this is—”
“Strictly confidential. Jesus, MacKenzie, you hand me a bloody knife, that kind of goes without saying.”
Sean nodded. His jaw was tight, and he kept fighting the urge to reach out and snatch the blade and the zipper bag back. But he had to know. He had to know what the hell Julie Jones and her daughter were trying so hard to hide.
* * *
Dawn didn’t stash the backpack in her locker. Hell, it would be just her luck there would be an unannounced locker search if she did. She kept it with her, and she wrestled with what to do with that bloody knife. The walk home would have been perfect—if her mother hadn’t suddenly decided she needed to be dropped off at school in the morning and picked up again in the afternoon. She’d phoned Kayla’s mom last night and asked her to pick Dawn up after school today. Which would give Dawn no time to ditch the weapon.
“I have to give your mom the slip tonight,” she told her friend as they hurried from American History to Biology Lab. “I need to walk home.”
“How come?”
Dawn glanced quickly at Kayla. She trusted her friend more than anyone in the world. And yet…something made her keep quiet. “I need to get rid of something. In the lake. And I can’t tell you what it is. I need you to trust me on this.”
Kayla started to smile, but it died when she saw that Dawn wasn’t doing the same. “Jesus, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m scaring myself. But I gotta do this. You gonna help me?”
Kayla nodded. “Sure. I can tell my mom you got sick and went home early. But she’ll probably check with your mom.” She tipped her head. “Besides, maybe you shouldn’t walk home alone.”
“I’ve been walking home alone forever.”
“Yeah, but all of the sudden your mom wants you riding with someone.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s up with that, Dawn?”
“I don’t know. Something. I know it’s something.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t go alone.”
“I don’t know what else to do. Mom isn’t gonna let me out of her sight once she gets home. Not the way she’s been acting lately.”
“That bad?”
“She came in to check on me so many times last night I barely got any sleep. She was on the phone with your mom before eight this morning, making sure I would have a ride home, and then she drove me to school this morning.” She shook her head. “She’s got poor Mr. White next door on red alert, too. I heard her on the phone with him when I got out of the shower this morning. Said she doesn’t plan to let me beat her home, but just in case I do, he’s playing backup.” She shook her head. “I swear, she’s gone off the deep end.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Well…Dawn, have you stopped to wonder if she might have a real reason to be this hyper all of the sudden?”
Dawn thought of the blade hidden deep in her backpack. She refused to look at it again until she could hurl it into the lake. She drew a breath, sighed. “I’m trying not to.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be walking alone. Look, we’ll call my mom, tell her we’re staying after school—for a review class or something. We’ll go to the lake together, then get back here and be out front when my mom arrives to pick us up. Okay?”
Dawn thinned her lips; then she hugged Kayla. “You’re my best friend.”
“You’re mine, too. So it’s a plan, then?”
“Yeah, it’s a plan.”
“Everything all right, girls?”
Ms. Marcum stood in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, one brow arched a little higher than the other behind her glasses. Dawn realized all of the sudden that aside from Kayla and herself, the hall was empty. “Uh, no, no problem, Ms. Marcum. We’re just on our way to Bio Lab.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to the late bell. You’ll never make it.”
Dawn groaned. The bell sounded. Ms. Marcum smiled. “Come on, I’ll cover for you. But next time, don’t dawdle.”
The girls headed toward class with their favorite teacher in between them. “You’re the best, Ms. Marcum.”
“You know it. Anything you need to talk about? You seemed a little upset back there.”
“Nah, just the usual teen angst,” Dawn said.
The teacher smiled a little brighter at that. “Teen angst is serious stuff.” She glanced at Kayla. “But having good friends helps, I’ll bet.”
“It sure does.”
* * *
There was a t
ap on the dressing room door before it opened a mere crack. From beyond it, MacKenzie’s voice called, “Morning, Jones. Is it safe to come in?”
She looked up, frowning at herself in the large mirror. “I’m decent, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The door opened further. “Damn, well hell, maybe next time.” He walked in, balancing a cardboard takeout tray with two foam coffee cups in one hand and a large white box in the other. “I brought offerings from Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“Then it’s way safe to come in.” She got up from her chair, took the box from his hands and set it on the long, narrow counter that stretched along the mirrored wall. Opening the lid, she examined a dozen confections of various sizes, shapes and fillings.
MacKenzie took the two coffees from the tray, setting one in front of her. “You have on-air stuff to do already this morning?”
She’d settled back into her chair, bitten into a doughnut and returned to her task of trying to erase the dark circles of sleeplessness from under her eyes. “Westcott wants us to tape a couple of promo spots this morning. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I just got in.” He helped himself to a doughnut, sipped his coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Not really.” She smeared a little more tinted base underneath her eyes, dabbing it gently with a cotton ball. Then she tossed the ball toward the wastebasket and leaned back in her chair, drawing the hot coffee cup with her. “I give up. That’s as good as it gets.”
He was staring at her in the mirror. “You look great, Jones. You always look great.”
She turned toward him, setting her cup down. “You could use a little touch-up yourself.”
“I don’t do makeup.”
“Oh, come on. If I have to do it, you have to do it. Sit.”
She was surprised when he popped the last of his doughnut into his mouth, took a swig of coffee and sat in the chair beside her. She grabbed a compact and a brush, then, holding his slightly bristly chin in one hand, dusted his forehead and nose with a bit of translucent powder. “This keeps you from looking shiny on camera.”
“God forbid I look shiny.”
She smiled a little, setting the brush and powder aside, smoothing a little smudge from his cheek with her thumb. He opened his eyes, staring into hers. And there was this thing between them, just for an instant. It was like a power surge.
She swallowed hard, averted her eyes and wondered just where the hell that had come from.
“So can you do anything with my hair?”
She glanced back at him. His eyes were teasing now, the tension broken. She ran a hand over his extremely short though not quite crew-cut hair. “Only if you’re open to extensions.”
“I’m not.” He glanced toward the door. “And I shouldn’t be in here. This is the women’s dressing room. What would people think?”
“Since when have you cared?”
He shrugged. “I was thinking of you.” Then he muttered something that sounded like, “Been doing that a lot lately.”
“What?”
He was on his feet, though, turning for the door, running one of his own hands over his short-cropped dark bristles. “Let’s get this promo thing over with, huh? I’ve got something in my office I want to go over with you.”
“Involving the Blackwood murder?”
“No. The Young case.”
“The dentist?” she asked, trying to think of what he might have.
“Better than that. Don’t be long, okay?”
Her attention was piqued. She nodded as he left the dressing room, and then she scooped the makeup that belonged to her into a basket and shoved it to the rear of the counter, leaving it there.
Ten minutes later, she and MacKenzie were in an empty spot in the newsroom, three feet from the face of a camera. Julie perched on the edge of a very tall wooden stool, and Sean stood just behind and beside her, so close his chest brushed against her back now and then.
“Hey, I like this. We look good, Jones.”
“We’d look better if you would shave.”
“I shave a couple of times a week. Besides, some women think a little shadow is sexy.” He slid his arms around her waist and leaned close to rub his cheek against hers. “Come on, admit you like it.”
Her stomach knotted, and a little bolt of raw desire shot through her as if she’d touched a live outlet. It was so unexpected that she jumped right off her stool.
He stared at her oddly, and she averted her face, pretended to adjust her microphone and slid back onto the stool again. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “That was about as sexy as rubbing sandpaper over my face would be. Get real, would you, MacKenzie?”
“Okay, okay.” He stood at attention, his hands at his sides. Just before they went live, he whispered, “Jones, what the hell are you wearing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You smell good enough to eat. How am I supposed to concentrate?”
“How about you focus on something like, oh, I don’t know. Defining the term sexual harassment?”
“Oh, please,” he muttered.
“We’re rolling!” someone said.
Julie smiled at the camera. “Coming up on News-Channel Four at five, we’ll have the latest on the murder of Harry Blackwood,” she read from the teleprompter. “Police sources now say there are several potential suspects in this developing case.” She threw to Sean with a glance.
“And we’ll take a look back at the raid on the Young Believers’ compound in 1987, and the latest claims that cult leader Mordecai Young might still be alive.”
“He’s been sighted more times than Elvis, Sean.”
“If Elvis is sighted in Central New York, you can bet I’ll investigate that, too, Julie.”
She gave an exaggerated eye roll to the camera. “No doubt UFO sightings, as well.”
“If only to debunk them,” he said with a grin. “Tune in tonight at five for all this and weather with Danny Kellogg.”
“News-Channel Four,” Julie said. “Always first, always best.”
The light on the camera went out, and beyond it, Allan Westcott gave them a thumbs-up sign. “Perfect, first time out.” He squinted at Sean. “Except your forehead’s a little shiny, MacKenzie. You should have Julie put some of that powder on you.”
Julie turned to him, frowning. Then her brows rose. “You wiped it off!”
“Guilty,” he admitted.
“Well, hell, Sean, why did you even bother letting me put it on you if you were just going to wipe it off?”
He sighed. “To tell you the truth, Jones, I never turn down a woman who offers to put her hands on me, for whatever reason.”
She shook her head as if disgusted and slid off the stool. “Hey, who wrote that copy?” she asked.
“I did,” Westcott said, coming across the room. “Viewers responded to the banter between you two last night. And they liked it. Take a look at this.” He offered a copy of the morning newspaper, folded into a small rectangle, with a section circled.
Julie took it and read aloud. “’WSNY’s latest move, the pairing of trash radio jockey Sean MacKenzie with their anchor, the straitlaced, clean-cut Julie Jones, is sheer brilliance. These two come alive on the air as the sparks fly. We love this new team and predict the viewers will, too.’”
“Trash radio jockey?” Sean repeated, sounding wounded.
“At least you’re interesting. I sound like I’m straight out of a convent. Straitlaced and clean-cut?”
“Yeah, but ‘trash’?”
“You two are missing the bigger picture here,” Westcott cut in. “You’re a hit. Don’t you get that?”
Julie rolled her eyes. “One columnist saw the show and liked it. I hardly think—”
“The focus group loved it, too,” Westcott said.
“We had a focus group?” Julie shot Sean a look. “Did you know about this?”
He held up both hands in a “don’t shoot” gesture. “Not a clue.”
“I didn’t want yo
u to know. Wanted you natural on the air. Anyway, the tension between the two of you, the perception of you being polar opposites and that almost sexual chemistry, is a gold mine.”
“Sexual?”
They both echoed the word together, then glanced at each other, and quickly away.
“Exactly. We want to play that up by putting you on opposite sides of the news from time to time.”
“I’ve got no problem with that,” MacKenzie said.
Julie crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I do. We’re supposed to be objective and unbiased, not taking either side of an issue, just reporting the news.”
“Right. We’ll be sure not to lose sight of that,” Westcott said, and, turning, he hurried away to his office.
Julie glanced at Sean, sighed helplessly.
He shrugged, took her arm. “Come on, I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up in my office.”
She lifted her brows, sending him a questioning look.
He smiled at her. “You wish,” he said with an evil grin. “This is work related, hon. Sorry to disappoint.”
“This is relief on my face, MacKenzie.”
“Sure it is.” He gave her a wink and led her into the hall.
In his office, he closed the door, turned the lock, drew the miniblinds tight.
“MacKenzie?” She was getting a little nervous. It was dim in here, and small. But he didn’t come toward where she stood stiffly near the door. He turned, instead, toward the TV-VCR mounted on a high rack in the corner and slid a VHS tape into the slot. He moved across the room then, nodding at her to sit.
She did, taking the comfortable chair in front of his desk. He pulled his own out from behind the desk, moving it beside hers and then sitting. “I’ve been thinking hard on this, Jones. This isn’t something I do lightly. But…hell, we’re partners right? It’s only fair I let you see what I have on this. I don’t really think you’ll rat me out to the feds.” Lifting the remote, he aimed and thumbed a button.
The screen lit, and she saw the last thing she would have expected to see on that screen. The Young Believers’ compound. The numerous outbuildings, made of prefab metal nailed to wooden frames. The greenhouses. The barracks. The main building, which had been an oversize Georgian farmhouse, made of red brick. The grassless, barren ground and worn dirt tracks between the buildings, and the rolling wooded hills beyond them. The young men, dressed in army surplus green fatigues, walking around with automatic rifles in their hands. The tall chain-link fence with rings of barbed-wire looping along the top that completely surrounded the place. And the girls, all those girls, working in the gardens, hanging the laundry, sweeping the porch, walking around with dazed eyes and smiling faces. Long hair blowing in the dusty wind, feet bare, wearing worn jeans or loose-fitting sundresses.
Thicker Than Water Page 13
