"Yeah." She stood up, then hesitated. "I have a dog," she began. "I can leave her in the yard, if you like."
Diane's eyes lit up. "I adore dogs. You bring her right into the house."
Chapter 4
Two months later
Sitting in the tiny second bedroom of his apartment, the room he'd turned into his office, Mac pumped his fist and nodded at the picture on his monitor. "Gotcha, Lizzy Monroe," he murmured.
Already planning his trip to the San Juan Islands near Seattle to haul her back to Chicago, he stared at the information on the screen. He would be the one to confront her - he'd spent more time on Kelly's case than any of the other agents. Mostly on his own time, he'd painstakingly followed the tiny trail she'd left until he'd tracked her down to a small, uninhabited island. After two months, he could write a book on Lizzy Monroe. Or Beth Gorham, as she was now calling herself.
Parmenter knew how invested he was in this case. He just didn't know why. But Mac's intense physical reaction to the woman as he'd watched her that morning, and his resulting unwillingness to believe she might be guilty, still stung. She'd played them all for fools, and he'd been the biggest fool of them all.
Not anymore. He'd bring her home, then he'd force her to give them some answers. Why she'd run. How she was involved in Kelly's death.
Because she had to be. Guilty people ran. Innocent people stuck around to help.
Their fellow agent's murder investigation wasn't on the back burner. It never would be. They'd all worked fifteen and twenty hour days in the first couple of weeks, trying to solve it. They'd hit nothing but dead ends. With a steady stream of new crimes to be investigated, Kelly's murder, with no incriminating evidence and a missing witness, had to take a smaller and smaller slice of their attention.
At least during office hours.
Mac had spent most of his spare time searching for the woman who'd claimed she'd been present when their fellow agent was murdered. He needed to know why. How she was involved. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd watched the tape of her interrogation. He'd memorized every tiny detail of the half-hour she'd been in their office, from the moment she walked in until the instant she walked out.
Because he'd been a fool, Lizzy Monroe had gotten away. If he hadn't fallen into instant lust with her, maybe he would have acted differently. Maybe he would have suggested putting a guard on her. They could have told her it was for her protection.
Maybe if he'd done his damn job, been more skeptical, more suspicious, she wouldn't have gotten away.
He'd talked to Quinn, Connor and Mia, asking questions about the officer who'd driven her to the FBI office, talking to the officer herself. He picked their brains until Connor had taken him aside and asked him what was going on. They couldn't even have a Sunday dinner without Mac grilling them about the case.
Mac had just stared at his brother, and Connor had had the grace to look away. His brother knew damn well that if one of his fellow officers had been killed, he'd be just as determined to solve it. Finally, Con had slapped him on the back and said, "Don't let it consume you, bro. You'll find her. Take a step back and get some perspective."
He had all the perspective he needed. Lizzy Monroe could solve this case. Either she'd seen the killer's face, or she'd been involved.
For a week or two after she'd disappeared, still intoxicated by his reaction to the woman, he'd been afraid the killer had found her. But no body ever showed up. Eventually they found a stoner kid who'd sold his car to a woman the day Monroe had rabbitted. The woman had paid cash, and her description matched Lizzy Monroe. The kid hadn't taken the license plates from the car. For a while, everyone was riding a high.
A thirteen-year-old black Toyota Tercel wasn't a common car. They'd find her. They even had the damn license number. But it was as if the car, along with the woman they needed, had fallen off the earth. They'd sent an APB to every goddamned police department in the country. They hadn't gotten one hit.
He was forced to admit the truth – Monroe had played them like a Stradivarius. If she had nothing to hide, why had she run?
Only one explanation for that – she'd been involved, and planned her disappearance meticulously. She'd vanished into thin air. That didn't happen by accident.
He had her now. He knew where she was. And he was going to get her.
The next morning, he was in the office before dawn. Parmenter was the only other agent there – the SAC was always the first guy in. Mac stopped in front of his desk.
"I found her."
Parmenter leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Who the hell are you talking about?"
"Elizabeth Monroe. The witness to Kelly's
murder."
The boss sat up straight. "What the hell? Where is she?"
"Washington."
"You sure?"
"Positive. I need you to sign off on an airline ticket so I can bring her in."
Parmenter stared at him for a long moment, his gaze assessing. "Maybe I should send someone else. You've been a little obsessed with this woman. Seems like you're taking it personally."
"Yes, I have been obsessed. And I am taking it personally," Mac said evenly. "If she wasn't involved in Kelly's murder, she knows who was. Kelly's in the ground, and she's been walking around free for two months. That's not acceptable."
"Agreed. But I don't want you screwing this up because you're so pissed off."
"That won't be a problem. I'm doing this by the book. I find her, arrest her and bring her back here. When she's looking at a prison sentence, maybe she'll be more willing to talk to us." He clenched his jaw. "Besides, who else can you send? She never saw me. She'll recognize everyone else working on the case. That'll let me get close enough to cuff her."
Parmenter leaned back in his chair. "You got any idea why she ran?"
Mac's mouth tightened. "She's gotta be involved."
"Maybe not. Maybe she's scared," his boss retorted. "Maybe the killer found out somehow. Threatened her."
"Then she should have come to us for protection."
"What if the killer was in law enforcement? Everyone at the 12th precinct knows who she is."
Mac clenched his teeth. "Not that many. The officer who drove her here. My siblings." The rookie cop had sworn she hadn't told anyone. And he knew his siblings had kept their mouths shut.
The killer being someone in law enforcement? That was a cliche from a bad cop movie or a first-time thriller writer. If Monroe hadn't been guilty, she wouldn't have run.
"You never really know people," Parmenter said. "There are cops in prison all over the country."
"Yeah, well, I'm not expecting to add another one here in Chicago." Mac's His eyes wandered to the darkened interrogation room where he'd watched her performance. The next time Lizzy Monroe was in there, he'd be the one sitting across the table, asking the questions. And she wouldn't get out of the box until he had his answers.
Parmenter nodded at his small suitcase. "Looks like you're ready to go."
"Yeah. The sooner the better."
"Go ahead and call the travel department. Tell them it's highest priority."
"Thanks, sir. I'll be back in a few days."
***
Lizzy stood on the small dock on the western side of Skipjack Island, watching the familiar boat struggle against the waves. Jerry was the only person she saw, except for the few times she'd had to make emergency trips to Shaw. She glanced at the dark clouds racing overhead in the leaden sky, the whitecaps nearly swamping the boat. This storm was going to be bad. The forecast had been for several inches of rain, possibly changing to sleet, and winds greater than fifty miles per hour.
She hoped Jerry would be able to get back to Orcas safely.
Ten minutes later, when the boat neared the dock, she reached for the rope Jerry tossed toward her. It was cold, wet and rough against her palms, but she lashed it around the closest cleat. Jerry handed her the stern rope, and she knotted that one, as well.
"You
should have waited until after the storm," she yelled, trying to be heard over the roar of the wind.
"Didn't know how long it would last. Knew you needed this stuff." The boat dipped as he stepped onto the dock, rocked as he reached in and set the boxes of food and supplies on the slippery dock.
She embraced the older man, his bright red survival jacket wet with spray, then leaned back and studied him. "Where are the survival pants?"
"I ain't no pussy," he said. "Not bad enough out here for the pants."
"You dumb shit." She'd learned to be blunt with Jerry. "Put them on before you leave, Jerry Summers. Or I'm not untying you."
Jerry grinned at her, showing his tobacco stained teeth. "Okay, Bethie," he said. "Since you asked so nice."
The small boat rocked again as Jerry grabbed the heavy, stiff survival pants and struggled into them. The water in the Sound was so cold that if he fell in without the survival gear, in less than five minutes he wouldn't be able to move his muscles. The survival suit gave him a little more time, plus it kept him afloat, even when hypothermia took over.
Finally, after he put the jacket on over the bib pants, she said, "Thanks, old man. Don't you know I live to see your smiling face every week?"
"Aww, Bethie." He actually blushed. "You're a sweetie."
"Yeah, and you better get your stupid ass back to Orcas before it gets any worse out here." She kissed his cold, stubbled cheek. "See you next week, okay?"
"You got it."
The first drops of rain fell as she untied the ropes. She watched as Jerry maneuvered the boat expertly out of the tiny harbor and into the open water between Skipjack and Shaw Island. Jerry had been boating in the San Juans for over fifty years. He knew what he was doing. He'd be safe.
But she was glad he'd put on the pants.
***
Late that afternoon, Lizzy was curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, watching the rain beat against the windows of the house on the point. The howl of the wind through the trees was so loud she couldn't hear the music coming from the speakers near the kitchen. Even though it was only three in the afternoon, the sky was ominously dark.
This was a bad one. When the wind came roaring out of the northeast like this, the storm could last for several days. Selfishly, she was glad Jerry had made it to the island before it really got started. She'd have fresh food, no matter how long the storm lasted.
The rain blurred her view of the Sound, but she knew the whitecaps battering the shore and swirling half-way up the rocks to the house were at least ten feet high. The ferries to Orcas and San Juan wouldn't be running, and no one would be on the water in a smaller boat.
It was only during storms like these that Lizzy felt safe. When nature was at her violent worst, there was no way anyone could get to Skipjack.
Franny lifted her head from the floor at Lizzy's feet and her ears perked up. She padded to the sliding glass doors that led to the smooth, sloping rocks that made up their beach and stood staring out, whining softly.
"Hey, what is it?" Lizzy stood and joined her, squinting to see through the sheets of rain. "What's wrong, Franny?"
Franny whined again, then ran to the door. She stood there for a moment, staring at Lizzy, then pawed at the door.
Dread rolled through Lizzy. Something was wrong. Her dog didn't get wound up like this for nothing. Something was out there.
All the island's deer would be hunkered down in the woods behind the house. The seals would be far from any islands, and the otters – she didn't know where they would be, but they sure as hell weren't playing in the water just off the shore like they usually did.
Franny whined again and scratched harder at the door. Grabbing Franny's ruff to prevent her from dashing out the door, Lizzy cracked it open and peered through the gloom.
The rain felt like icy bullets against her skin, but she ignored it as she stared toward the water. Something was lying there, but it didn't look like a seal. It was red. Unmoving. Her heart raced, and she clenched Franny more tightly.
The dog yelped, and Lizzy loosened her grip. When the dog tried to run out the door, Lizzy yanked her inside. Then she peered out again.
Franny stuck her nose through the crack and tried to widen it. "Okay," Lizzy said, easing the dog back and shutting the door. "We'll go take a look."
She hurried into the mudroom and donned Diane's survival suit. She wasn't going to end up in the water, but it was stupid to take any chances. Then she grabbed a piece of rope and tied one end around her waist. She'd tie the other end through the metal ring on the side of the house. Then she put on Franny's collar and attached a leash.
A few minutes later, she bent her head against the frigid, stinging rain and the strong wind as she slipped and slid down the rocks to the red shape. As she got closer, she realized the red shape on the beach was an unmoving man in a survival suit. Her heart clenched. Jerry?
Franny leaped ahead, tugging on Lizzy's arm as she tried to get to the prone figure. Lizzy stumbled behind her, almost falling on the wet rocks. "Franny! No! Stop!"
Lizzy couldn't even hear herself as her words were snatched by the unrelenting roar of the wind. But she managed to hang onto Franny's leash as they got closer to the man. When they were less than ten feet away, she realized it wasn't Jerry – this man's hair was short and dark, not long and grey.
Dropping to her knees beside him, she pressed her fingers to the frigid skin of his neck. He had a pulse, but it was weak and thready.
A steady line of blood trickled down the side of his head. It washed away with every wave, reappeared when the wave receded. He was wedged between two rocks, but the waves were greedy. They wanted him. Every time another wave crashed over him, it tried to suck him out of the little crevice.
She glanced around for his boat, but she couldn't see anything through the gloom of the storm besides the unrelenting waves. How long had he been in he water?
As she knelt beside him, cold water rushed over her legs, receded, rushed back. She shivered, thankful she'd been smart enough to don the survival suit.
She grabbed the collar of his jacket and waited for the next wave. When it lifted him, she dragged him over the closest rock and headed toward the house, her muscles burning with the strain. She thought she'd been in shape when she got to Skipjack – she'd been a runner, after all.
It hadn't taken long to realize she was soft and weak. But two months of living here alone, fighting with a stubborn generator, kayaking back and forth to Shaw for emergency groceries and supplies, helping Jerry chop firewood, had toughened her up. Strengthened her.
Still, every muscle strained as she pulled the dead weight of a two-hundred pound man. Her hands cramped. Water sliced at her face, drenched her hair until she was shivering. The longer this took, the colder she got. But what was the alternative? Leave him outside to die of exposure?
"What the hell were you doing on the water today?" she grunted at him as she tugged him over another rock. "What kind of an idiot are you?"
He didn't flinch, not even when his back scraped over a particularly large rock. Her arms aching, her hands frigid, she pulled harder. Desperation gave her a surge of energy as she yanked him over another rock. She had to get him into the house before her muscles weakened from the cold.
If this guy died, she'd be in trouble. Deep, deep trouble. Cops would be involved. They'd ask questions. Once that started, she'd be exposed. And the man from the FBI office would find out where she was.
She'd have to run again. And this time, she had no idea where she'd go.
Her fear gave her extra strength, and finally she had him at the front door. Nudging it open with her hip, she dragged him over the threshold and far enough inside to shut the door.
When she finally pushed it closed against the wind, she sank to the floor, gulping air, her muscles burning. Franny stood in the hall and shook herself dry. Drops of water flew everywhere, and Lizzy's arm shook violently as she reached up to brush them off her face. She watched the dropl
ets coursing down the man's face like tears, but didn't have the strength to wipe them off.
Finally she crawled over to him, and fumbled with the survival jacket. It took far too long to get it open, but at least he was out of the water. Out of the cold.
Thank God. His heart was still beating. But his lips and fingernails were blue. His chest rose and fell at too-long intervals, and when he did take a breath, it was too shallow.
Franny stood next to Lizzy, whining softly. Lizzy leaned against the dog, her arms too weak to hug her pet. "Good girl, Franny. You saved him." If the dog hadn't gotten Lizzy to the door, the man would have died.
The dog sniffed at the unconscious man, then licked his face. "Yeah, he owes you, Fran," Lizzy said, studying the guy's blue-white face while struggling to remove his boots. "Whoever he is."
Even unconscious, despite being cold and blue, his lips were full and sensual. High cheekbones should have made his face look sculpted and too pretty, but instead he looked tough. Hard. A man used to taking charge, getting things done.
She'd always been a sucker for a man who knew what he wanted.
She had no idea what color his eyes were. Brown, maybe, to go with his seal-colored hair.
She shook herself out of her slow perusal of the nameless guy. She had to get him out of that survival suit and warm him up.
He needed to be in the bathtub, where she could cover him with warm water. Unfortunately, it was on the second floor. She wasn't even sure she could drag him farther into the room.
She glanced at the fireplace. Much better. Closer. Possible.
Lizzy shoved some kindling into the fireplace beneath the logs she always kept there, then grabbed one of the newspapers Jerry had brought earlier. Shoving the papers beneath the logs, she struck a match to them.
While the fire struggled to get started, she staggered to the back door to grab more firewood from the box in the wall.
God. She stumbled to a halt. Two pieces. She had two pieces of firewood left in the box. How had she forgotten to refill it?
Find Me (The Donovan Family Book 3) Page 4
