Missing Justice (The Justice Team Book 7)

by Adrienne Giordano

  Matt—good man—didn’t question her further, drawing his own weapon and making the circuit with her, going from one room to the other in silence, then down to the basement level in case the unwanted visitor was still there.

  No visitor, but Matt did gawk at her Isabel wall. Who wouldn’t? It contained every newspaper article, every lead the cops—and Taylor—had ever chased. Pictures of Izzy, a map of their neighborhood, Izzy’s profile, along with lists of possible suspects, none of whom had ever panned out.

  Matt studied it in silence, took her hand and led her back upstairs. When he continued not to say anything about her Izzy wall, she pulled him into her bedroom and showed him the window that led to the alley. “The curtain is pushed back.”

  He still wasn’t convinced. “Still doesn’t prove anyone was here. Is anything missing? Broken?”

  “No, which leads me again to the fact they were searching my files.”

  Her gaze caught on her chest of drawers. One corner of the top drawer stuck out a fraction, as if someone had opened it, and then when they tried to close it, it had jammed. The chest of drawers had been her grandmother’s and often stuck on one side. Being used to it, Taylor knew to give it an extra push to close it.

  Her stomach dropped. She flew across the room to the drawer and jerked it open.

  “What is it?” Matt asked, once again looking over her shoulder.

  Her relief came out in a whooshing sigh as she picked up her badge. “I store my badge here when I’m home. I left my credentials tonight since I was pretending to be Mrs. Dillinger.”

  “And they’re still here.”

  “But someone was in this drawer, Matt. They were on my computer, and they went through my things.” A shiver of repulsion went through her, the old memory about Isabel and that night rearing its ugly head. Her chest filled with ice.

  She stumbled toward the bed and Matt caught her arm, easing her down to a sitting position. He kept holding onto her as he sat next to her and pried the gun from her fingers. “Taylor, look at me. Breathe.”

  The panic kept rising, crushing her, filling up her throat. “I…I can’t.”

  Strong hands tipped her head down between her knees. “Who’s your favorite FBI badass ever in the history of the Bureau?”

  What? Why was he asking her that right now? “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Tell me who you idolized.”

  Her brain tried to focus, the memory of the night Isabel disappeared losing its hold. “I guess…I guess it’s Grey.”

  “Really? All the directors and fancy profilers, and you choose a guy who lasted less than five years and quit?”

  He was teasing her, but she felt the ice melting. She could swallow again. “Yeah, so? He was the best behavioral analyst I ever met. I only worked with him a couple of times before he and Mitch torched their careers, but I learned a lot from him. He always has a system, a process. It works. I use the techniques he taught me. That’s why my close rate is so high.”

  Matt helped her sit back up, his forehead creased with concern. “Better?”

  She was.

  “Remember what I said about those demons?”

  Brushing hair out of her face, she nodded.

  “That little reaction you just had to the idea that someone broke into your place is related to your demons, isn’t it?”

  Absolutely. “Someone was in here, and it wasn’t a street burglar. It was someone who worked around my security system, looked at my notes on the Jarvis case, and found my badge in that drawer.”

  “We kicked the hornet’s nest tonight and one of them came flying out.”

  She nodded. “And it wasn’t Dottie. Whoever this was had the tools and expertise to almost get away with it.”

  “Whoever it was now knows you’re not Mrs. Dillinger.”

  Her legs shook when she stood but she went for her phone anyway. “I’ll call one of my friends in forensics and have her dust for prints. I doubt we’ll find any.”

  Matt followed her. “Aren’t you going to report the break-in?”

  “No. I don’t want whoever it is to know that I’m aware they were here, but you’re right. The jig is up. I also don’t want my bosses to know that I went outside FBI procedure, played undercover agent without their okay, and let a potential kidnapper and murderer break into my place where he got by my security system and password protected laptop to read my notes on the case. God, Mer will kill me.”

  There would be more hell to pay if that happened, and as it was, she was nearly out of time on her 72-hour deadline.

  She started to make the call when Matt stopped her, already speed dialing someone on his phone. “I’ve got this.”

  He spoke to one of the sisters he worked for, and twenty minutes later, a gal in ratty designer jeans and boots that cost more than Taylor’s paycheck, showed up on her doorstep. “Charlie,” Matt said, introducing them, “this is Taylor. Taylor, Charlie.”

  Charlie nodded at Taylor in passing, yawning her way into the place with a black bag in hand. “You owe me,” she said to Matt, snapping on gloves and laying out her tools on the kitchen table.

  “Add it to my tab,” he replied.

  Taylor felt a spurt of jealousy that quickly left. It was evident as the two worked side-by-side that there was nothing between them except a friendly camaraderie.

  An hour later, Charlie Schock confirmed that the only prints inside the condo were Taylor and Matt’s, but Matt had found faint pry marks on the bedroom window where the intruder had forced it open.

  After showing Charlie out and promising to buy her two tickets to the next Washington Capitals hockey game, Matt turned to Taylor. “Pack your bags. You’re staying with me tonight, and first thing in the morning we’re going back to the TriCare Health Birthing Center to talk to Mrs. Hernandez and everyone else involved with that group.”

  * * *

  It took a serious set of balls—not to mention skill—to break into an FBI agent’s place, bypass said agent’s security on both the home and laptop and not even take anything.

  Except information. Which further complicated things because there was no way to analyze what the intruder garnered on the excursion.

  At least Taylor hadn’t walked in on it. Images of her popped into Matt’s mind. Opening the door, surprising the perp, her chest blooming red from a bullet and…nope. Not going there.

  Emotions, right now, wouldn’t help him. Logic. That’s what he needed.

  He unlocked the front door of his bungalow, a foreclosure in Farimount Heights he’d nabbed at a great price. He waved Taylor in.

  “It’s not fancy,” he said, “but it’s home.”

  She strode by him, stepped into his small living room with the oversized windows and fireplace and spun back to him. “Matt, you surprise me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I pegged you for a city apartment guy. You know, footballs laying around, milk crates. Instead I get a tidy bungalow in the burbs with comfy looking furniture, stained wood trim and hand-scraped oak floors.”

  Before he’d bought this place, he had been that guy. On his 31st birthday he came home alone, wasted from a night out with the boys, and something changed. Call it maturity or boredom. Being unsettled. The revolving door of women in and out of his life didn’t make for emotional stability.

  In short, he’d had enough. The hangover the next day didn’t help.

  He set Taylor’s overnight bag down and walked to her. “For the record, the trim and floors were here when I bought it and my mom helped with the furniture and curtains. I was fine with bare windows, but apparently that’s unacceptable. As for the tidy part,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I guess I’m not a pig. I like order when I come home.”

  She seemed to like that answer—score—because she ran her hands up his chest, brought them to rest on his pecs. “Another thing we have in common.”

  Oh, they had things in common all right. He dipped his head and kissed her, softly at first, but T
aylor had something on her mind and it clearly required use of her tongue. And what an amazing one it was. She swept through his mouth, worked her way over his jaw and down his neck and his body responded. Her being so close, she hadn’t missed that response, and brought her gaze to his while a wicked smile lifted her lips.

  Damn, she got him hard.

  She cupped his crotch, adding a squeeze. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Bedroom. Now.”

  Then she was on him again, kissing, arching into him, taking everything up a notch in that Taylor way.

  “Or,” she said, “maybe we won’t make it to the bedroom.”

  If he wanted, he could put her against the wall and ram himself into her. That’s what she wanted. He saw it in her hot gaze and the way she touched him in ways his mother would definitely not approve of.

  But something felt…off. Forced. Not on his part. On hers. Completely fucked up, that. Between their crazy chemistry and how good they were together, the last thing a roll in the sack should have been was forced.

  He stepped back, holding his hands wide. “Whoa, babe, slow down.”

  She went for his shirt buttons and slammed her lips against his. “No. This’ll be good. I know it.”

  A woman on a mission.

  He didn’t doubt it would be. He wanted her, she wanted him. One plus one made two. A grand, stupendous, supremely amazing two and suddenly he felt the need to analyze?

  Yes.

  Shit.

  Still with his hands up, he didn’t move. Just let her have at him, kissing, dragging her hands over his body, getting him harder and harder until his skin almost burst. This wasn’t right though. Intellectually, he understood that if he touched her, he’d be cooked. He’d shove her pants down, bend her over the couch and that would be it. They’d rock each other’s world, for sure, but as much as she believed it, she didn’t need sex now. Sex, in his opinion, was currently her replacement for a scotch neat.

  And he wasn’t having it.

  Not so much the sex, but the being used part.

  Finally, she backed away, flapped her arms. “Jesus, Matt, am I kissing a stone? What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not the issue.”

  “Well, it sure seems that way.”

  “Talk to me, Taylor.”

  “About?”

  “Your sister for one.”

  She huffed out a laugh. “Again with this? I want you to fuck me stupid and you want to talk about my missing sister. A man not interested in sex. Is it me? I mean, I have no family and my only friends are coworkers. It’s me, isn’t it? I’m a freak.”

  Fuck her stupid. Interesting word choice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a freak and I’m extremely interested in having sex with you. Believe me. I’m just not your whipping boy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If I handed you a scotch, would that suffice?”

  Her jaw locked and her green eyes turned stormy, the wave of emotion she’d been struggling with for two hours letting loose again.

  Bull’s-eye.

  She poked her finger at him. “Fuck you, Matt.”

  Anger, he realized, was Taylor’s friend. Anger, she knew what to do with. It hid the pain, the torment.

  The rest of it, all that shit sitting below the anger was what he wanted—needed—to see. He’d been there. Knew what it felt like to obsess over a missing sister. How the pain and guilt burned under the surface, eating away like acid from inside. For him, the not knowing had lasted six months.

  Then his sister was found, her body wrapped in a sterile bag, which was all kinds of wrong, and his anger shifted to rage. Rage that didn’t play nice with a guy about to join the police force and carry a gun.

  A year of therapy didn’t cure him, but it helped him figure out how to process his emotions. How to channel the negative energy into something positive.

  Taylor whirled away from him, heading for the door. Nuh-uh. They were getting somewhere here and, as much as peeling back her anger would suck, he wanted to know her. What drove her. What tormented her.

  And that meant dealing with the feelings about her sister.

  He caught up to her and blocked the exit. “No way. You’re not running.”

  “I’m not running. I’m pissed.”

  “Fine. Whatever. I won’t give you sex or scotch so you’re taking off? That’s healthy.”

  She curled her fingers, shook her fists at him, gritting her teeth. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to know what the hell this is.”

  The blast of his words, or the yelling, forced her back a step. “What are you talking about? Last I checked, you liked sex. With me!”

  She didn’t know the half of it. “I love sex with you. It’s like Christmas every day.”

  “So, why, all of a sudden, are you Dr. Phil? Newsflash, Matt, I’m not your patient.”

  “Never said you were, but I’ll be damned if you’re gonna use sex with me to transfer your pain and anger. Do us both a favor and tell me what was going on with you back at your place. The panic attack.”

  “My house was broken into!”

  “Yeah, but you’re a crack FBI agent. I’ve seen you in action and you don’t panic. You’re always on and sharp. Your house or not, you get the job done first. So, yeah, I’d like you to admit that you use scotch and sex and, well, me, to work out your rage.”

  Chapter Ten

  Taylor tried to find the right words. The ones that would get Matt to stop talking and let her have her way with him.

  Except the way his bright blue eyes had gone steely gray, she knew there were none that would accomplish that feat. She could strip naked and do a pole dance right here and he’d keep pestering her to talk about her demons.

  It had started to rain and the tap-tap-tap of drops hitting the window echoed loudly in the strained silence between them as she stared Matt down. Why couldn’t he cooperate? When was the last time a man had turned her down when she was trying to jump his bones?

  Maybe I’m losing my touch.

  Not only did her ego smart, her pulse beat an erratic staccato, fear and loathing cramping her stomach. She chalked it up to the break-in; a home invasion violated a person’s feelings of safety.

  Vulnerability. She hated it. Hated feeling violated.

  “It’s been another long, shitty day,” she said to Matt. “I want to forget about it for a few minutes, that’s all.”

  He leaned on the back of the couch. “It’s more than that and you know it.”

  Anger. She needed to hold onto her anger since she couldn’t drown it in scotch or sex. Keep him away from the truth. “You think prying into my mind, trying to force me to confess some deep, dark secret, is going to make me all better?”

  “The guy who kidnapped your sister, did he break into your childhood home? Is that why you had the panic attack?”

  Two strides. That’s all it took to close the distance between them and slap his face.

  The shock of it startled her—she’d never slapped anyone before—and she jerked back. Rubbed her hand. “Oh, God, Matt. I’m so sorry. That was…that was… Oh, hell, I don’t know what that was.”

  He didn’t seem shocked at all. Not even vaguely surprised as he rubbed his cheek. “Not the first time I’ve brought out the violent side in someone, sweet cheeks.”

  Standing, he grabbed her hand and ran his thumb across her smarting palm. “Look, it’s none of my business, I get that, but I care about you, Taylor. You’re driven, successful, and at the top of your game. But underneath that, you’ve been shoving a lot of pain away and I know that pain. That little panic attack at your place, the alcohol…this need to blot out the past and cases you work on. It’s not healthy. You’re going to explode one of these days or have a nervous breakdown.”

  An intervention. Great. Just what she needed. “My reaction at my place was a mild anxiety attack, not a full-blown panic attack. Believe me, I know the difference. I
had them until I was 21.”

  His face actually showed a modicum of surprise. “So you’ve suffocated your pain enough to function until something like the break-in occurs. What happens when it rears its ugly head during a shootout or hostage situation? You could be endangering your team as well as yourself.”

  “We work cold cases, not hostage situations.”

  “Stop with the excuses. You’re not immune to life-threatening job circumstances because you do most of your work behind a desk. You’re in the field plenty, interviewing people and digging around, like tonight.”

  “I haven’t been undercover in years.”

  “Fine.” He threw his hands skyward and started walking away. “You win, Agent Sinclair. Your tough outer shell is in place, because God forbid you allow someone who cares about you to get close enough and discover you’re human.”

  …someone who cares about you…

  How much did he care?

  Anger resurfaced as she watched his back recede. “Hey.” She followed him down the hall to a closet where he grabbed a pillow and blanket. “Just because I don’t want to talk about my missing sister doesn’t mean I’m not human. I do have feelings, you know.”

  “Bedroom’s that way.” He pointed offhandedly and started back toward the living room. “I’ll take the couch.”

  She trailed behind him, the cramping in her gut intensifying. “Matt—”

  “Don’t.” He dumped the pillow and blanket on the couch and pointed a finger at her. “Just don’t. You don’t have the same feelings for me, and you’ve made it clear you only want me around because I have resources for this case. Oh, and sex. I’m a good distraction, right? Worth a couple of solid orgasms, at least. So you don’t have to deal with your emotions. I’ve been there and done that and watched the people I love destroy themselves over it. I know where it leads. I have no interest in going there again.”

  The words were like blows. He might as well have struck her like she’d done to him. “That’s what you believe? That I’m using you to solve this case?”

  He met her eyes. “Aren’t you?”

  Oh, my God!