“Whatever you need, you got it.”
“How much contact has been made?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Four separate calls.”
That coincided with the number of times she'd been harassed.
The happy-go-lucky hadn't returned to Jonas' face. He ran a hand through his hair. Curly, dark hair. Jonas was about her height, a little taller. Medium build.
“Let me see your hands.”
“What?” Jonas took a step back, hit the side of the van. “I’m compliant. You can’t arrest me for that.”
Amanda grabbed his left hand and shoved his sleeve toward his elbow. No blue star. Not even one tattoo. She dropped his arm and blew out a breath.
Robinson dug his card out of his wallet and slapped it against Jonas' chest. “Get me your itinerary for those dates, Detective Nettles mentioned. If I can't find you at Channel Six in the morning, there will be consequences.”
Jonas turned to leave.
“If you get another anonymous tip, Jonas, I better be your next call.” Robinson's voice held a bite.
“Uh, yeah, of course.” He backed toward the door, jumped inside and then the van took off toward the fire. Robinson had let them go too easy. The man who liked to drill a witness, long after the answers stopped, had given up.
“What was that about?”
“I should ask you the same.” His gaze moved from the retreating vehicle to her.
“He's been nearby during every encounter. No hesitation when you asked about the contact. I reacted first. Am I reading more into this than there is?” She pointed toward the spot she'd stood with Jonas.
Robinson's lips compressed to a thin line as he looked anywhere but at her. A fat raindrop landed on her face. She wiped it away. Another followed in its wake. Robinson hadn't gotten answers because he already had them.
That had to be it.
How was Jonas involved?
CMPD and the FBI were cooperating on this case, in a way they never had before. Without her as their normal liaison. Yet, suddenly SBI was beating down their door. The only jurisdiction they'd have would be the current arson—if that.
“Jonas is undercover, isn't he?” She stepped closer, into his space. “He's SBI,” she whispered.
Those brilliant blue-green eyes had a tired gleam to them. Like her, was he tired of the lies and misinformation? Robinson ran a hand over his wet face. “Found out earlier today.”
He was somewhat in the dark too, but unlike her, he had yet to adjust to the lack of light.
His gaze flicked to their surroundings. “We better get going before we end up with pneumonia.” Robinson guided her toward the condo, one hand at the small of her back. While every part of her brain still buzzed about bad ideas and missed clues, she reveled in the sensation of his hand. For tonight, she could use the comfort.
Tomorrow was soon enough to figure out everything else.
He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Wanna give me a tail on Scott Jonas?” He rattled off pertinent details about the van and his location. “I want a warrant to check out his work place and home.” Then he ended the call.
“Why waste the manpower?”
Robinson shook his head. “Facts aren't adding up. He's been undercover here for six months. Before that on a leave of absence after family issues. This isn't even a typical SBI matter. Jonas specializes in Internet Crimes Against Children.”
“If he's ICAC, what's he doing here?”
“I don't know. The SBI director hasn't returned any of my calls, yet. Whatever Jonas is doing, it's hush-hush. He's too smooth. Moved right into Kara's spot too fast. Too easily.”
“Does he have a journalism background?”
“Not a real one I could find. Scott Jonas has numerous journalism awards. Parker Scott Williams graduated a few years ahead of you and McKenna at Duke. Criminology and Computer Sciences and Technology. Took me a while to find someone who knew his real name. Turns out he was interviewing for lead reporter at the station, long before Kara's death.”
Oh, boy. The tips of her fingers touch Robinson's shoulder. He stopped.
“I'm sorry, Robbie. What he said about Kara—”
“All of it is true. She was camera friendly and in everybody's business, but she wasn't always honest.”
“That doesn't make her a criminal. And even so, it doesn't give a stranger the right to say anything he pleases.”
He stepped closer, the heat of his body palpable in the cold rain. His breath came out in puffs of white that mingled with hers. “I need you to understand something about Kara.”
“It's not a big deal.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth, but what else was she supposed to say? “You guys were together a while and with the way she died—”
Warm fingers met her lips, trapping them mid-sentence. Patience and a small smile lined his face. His skin left hers. “I expect that type of platitude from everybody else. Not you.
“Kara was like a lost child. If you gave her any attention, she lapped it up and clung to it. Our relationship was over a long time before she died. We both knew it and were too lazy to do anything about it. If I have lingering grief over anything related to her, it's that I hate knowing I let someone down.”
Amanda shook her head. “You didn’t. She made choices, which put her in the wrong situations.”
One hand went to his hip, the other closed mid-air, except for his forefinger, which was pointed in her direction. Palm up. “Sure. And so did Jordan’s mother. McKenna. My mother.” He ticked off a corresponding digit with each name. “All in the wrong spot because of choices they made. The intent behind those decisions—whether wrong or right, is irrelevant.”
Jordan’s mother and McKenna’s story, Amanda already understood. Were both Robinson’s parents dead? She should know this. If she were a true friend, she would.
“Had I ended things sooner, I might have noticed everything going on with her. Might have been able to save her life.”
He would never know if that was true. Much like she'd never know if she could have stopped the stadium bombing or the condo fire. Or if this thing with Robinson would pan out without either of them getting hurt.
“What happened to your mom?”
His hands fell to his sides. “Convenience store robbery gone wrong.”
A gasp slipped from between her lips.
He’d lost his mother and here she was trying to deal with a woman who wasn’t blood relation, but alive and every bit the definition of the word. And trying to figure out how she’d move forward.
She tented her fingers over the bridge of her nose. There was a forward to move toward. That’s all that mattered.
“Please don’t tell me this happened in the last three years, Robbie.” Amanda swallowed back the tightness in her throat.
“No.” The quiet voice floated over her. “It happened a long time ago. I was fifteen.”
The length of time didn’t make it better. She dropped her hands. Blew out a breath. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
He tilted his head, a small smile forming on his handsome lips. “Where's my sassy detective, who hassles me over the smallest thing?”
“On vacation. Sad, considering somebody needs to keep you in line.”
They started walking toward the condo. “I'm not the one who slammed Jonas against his vehicle.”
“You're just jealous you didn't beat me to it.”
A laugh erupted from his mouth. The kind that made her want to make sure he did it every day.
“Yeah, that's it, A.J.”
“Jonas knows something. It’s written all over him. Why not help us stop the initial explosion? Why not share the information?”
“Maybe he’s working as much in the dark as we are. Maybe not.”
“Have you found any similar cases?”
Robinson shook his head. “There's been some activity, but nothing connecting it to our situation.”
“Why tell me now?”
“You
saw the stopwatch taped to the back of the frame, right?” Robinson said.
The question made her pause. “The same one that was in your apartment?”
“If not, the same type. Duct tape held it in place.”
Something heavy fell into her stomach. “There was a note?”
He nodded. “Time's up. The counter has forty-eight hours on it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was time to grab this situation and choke-hold it into submission.
Starting with her dad. Even if it meant asking him the most personal questions a kid could ask their parent. Amanda still hadn't come up with a way to make this easier for everyone.
Forty-eight hours. Less. Then something would happen. It wouldn't be small scale. No, this had to be the grand finale. Except, it wouldn’t be the pretty finish of colored fireworks, but something only a horror film could conjure.
She glanced up at the house she'd grown up in. Well-cared for, blue-gray siding stood out against pristine, white shutters. Her parents had spent years perfecting the shrubbery and foliage.
Behind her, Robinson's footsteps slapped the well-lit path, leading to the front door, with purpose as if they weren't about to paint a discolored glare on her childhood memories.
“Hey.” His hand caught her elbow and stopped her short of the stairs. Those warm digits stayed clasped on her arm. Even through her coat, she could feel his thumb brushing across her skin. A soothing sensation spread into her heart.
“I can ask the questions, if that will make things easier,” he said.
That was sweet. And new, coming from Robinson. “I’ve never been the type to want to read something in a report. I’m more hands-on.”
Something soft lingered in his eyes. “I know.”
“I just can’t stand the idea of upsetting my mom. I don’t know what type of day she’s had.”
Robinson’s hand moved up and down her arm, now, the touch feather-light. He’d found another one of her weaknesses. His touch. Or maybe she’d finally found one of his.
“She’s tough. Like you.”
He was right. Although, right now, it wasn’t the first on Amanda’s list of attributes. Time to change it. One palm rested on his shoulder as she reached up and placed a kiss on his cheek.
“Thanks, Robbie.”
The front door opened. Her dad stood beyond the threshold, the light from the foyer casting him in partial shadow. Like Robinson, he still had his tuxedo on, the bowtie removed, a glass of something in his left hand.
Amanda climbed the steps toward him.
Worry scrunched his brows together. He twisted his free arm at an angle, forearm parallel with the sky. With a forefinger, he moved his tuxedo jacket upward. “It's almost midnight. Is something wrong?”
She reached the top. “I guess you could say that.” Eye to eye with the man she resembled in small ways, the hair, serious face and chin, she stopped. “We need to have that talk now, Dad.”
The eyes so similar to hers, held anxiety and an underlying resignation. “I guess we do.” Then he stepped aside and let them inside. Closed the door. “Agent Robinson.” He offered his hand. “A pleasure, as always.”
Robinson shook it. “Likewise, sir.”
Dimmed lights lent a serene quality to the foyer. They followed him into the main living room. A low murmur came from the TV above the stone fireplace, in the center of the room. Of course, their favorite reporter had front stage as he interviewed a blonde bystander, at the condo fire. His smarmy smile was stuck in place as if their confrontation had never happened. As if all were right in the world.
“Can I get either of you anything?” Her dad picked up the remote and Jonas paused on the screen, mid-sentence. “Coffee, water, soda...scotch.”
“No, thanks.” They said in unison.
Her gaze locked on Robinson, for a moment. He had his hands in his pockets, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. It sent her pulse racing to another part of the universe.
“Please, have a seat.” Her dad gestured to the two cream-colored leather couches in the room, which faced each other. A large coffee table separated them. A colorful rug brought the room together with earthy tones of red, yellow and orange.
The T.V. caught her eye again. Ten feet beyond Jonas, stood a woman. Dark hair, worn jeans and arms folded across a gray t-shirt and leather jacket. The wind blew her hair, so that it wrapped over one shoulder. Amanda grabbed the edge of her own gray t-shirt and pulled it away from her skin.
A vice gripped her stomach and squeezed it like a bag of decorator’s frosting. Was she hallucinating? Had lack of food and sleep finally gotten the best of her?
“Can I have that?” She grabbed the remote from her dad's hand and rewound the feed.
“Can you tell us what went through your mind as you tried to get the child out of the building?” Jonas stuck the microphone near the blonde's mouth.
She blushed. “Well, everyone was headed out. Then this woman started screaming that she couldn’t find her child. I knew I had to help.”
The woman appeared behind Jonas then, as if she knew exactly where to stand to go undetected, but be on camera. Amanda sank to the couch. An invisible ten-ton truck had decided to park on her chest. A tingling sensation ran down her arms.
“This the eleven o'clock news?” Robinson's voice came from a distance.
“I recorded it so I could catch the weather for golfing tomorrow. It supposed to be warmer than normal.” Her dad turned toward the T.V. “Then I saw this as you guys were pulling up.”
As the blonde fluttered her lashes and talked about the bravery required to save someone, Amanda's look-a-like never moved. A grim look covered her face. As Jonas took the microphone back, she raised her right hand, into the shape of a gun, pretended to fire it. Then she then blew over the top of her index finger, before walking off camera.
Goosebumps raced across Amanda’s skin as if the woman had held a real gun and the bullet had hit its mark.
Robinson raised his phone to his ear as he walked out of the room. “Bening. You still onsite?”
Amanda raised her eyes to find the worry etched deeper on her dad’s face.
“Is my twin identical or fraternal, Dad?”
He sat next to her. A worn hand encompassed one of hers. “Fraternal.” His voice came out quiet.
“Male or female?”
“Twin girls.”
“Why does she know who I am, but I have no idea she even existed before tonight?”
“I'm not sure if Sandra ever told Beth.”
As if a bomb had gone off next to her, a piercing noise filled her head. Beth? No wonder her departure had seemed like a rip in her soul. The woman on the screen didn't look anything like the woman she knew as her foster sister.
Amanda shook off his touch. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“Honey, I know this must be a shock, but give me a chance to explain. Please.”
She swallowed the nothingness in her mouth. Her tongue scraped the inside of it as if the tissue had been replaced by rocks.
“Here.” Robinson appeared next to her, on the opposite side. A glass of water found her palm. Her fingers instinctively curled around the cool surface. Then he sat beside her. His body took up the space, between where she sat and the armrest, with little room to spare. His cologne rushed past her nose, intoxicating and familiar. One of his warm hands rested on her back and began rubbing.
A breath of air squeezed past her lips and filtered to her lungs.
“Drink it.”
Right. She complied.
Her father gave a sad smile. “We all went to school together at Yale. Sandra and I met in Anatomy 101, student taught by your mother—Eileen.”
“Dad, nothing you say will make mom any less my mom.”
He released a breath. A shaky hand brought his glass to his mouth. “I needed another credit to obtain my law degree and Sandra was pre-med.”
“Your mother, was so into her topic, she woul
dn't have known if the classroom held three or thirty people in it. It was inspiring to watch. Afterward, I went to approach her, intending to compliment her on a class well taught. I noticed Sandra sitting a few chairs down. She looked frustrated. As it turned out, she was only at Yale, pre-med, because every member of her family was a doctor.
“She wanted to pursue an art degree and travel the world. Her daddy put a stop to that. It was med school or nothing. We thought we had a lot in common, at the time. We both grew up here, in Charlotte, and hated the cold of Connecticut. My parents wanted a lucrative career for me as well. Your grandfather was a lawyer, his father was a lawyer—back five generations.”
Wow. “Seems there's a lot you've been keeping to yourself.”
“Your mother and I didn't want that life for you. We wanted you to choose your own way.” He laid his hand over hers again. “And I'm proud of you. You work long hours, the pay doesn't reflect the danger you put yourself in, at times, and you never stop fighting for what's right. You’re not in it for a paycheck. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
She took another sip of water. It wasn’t helping the dryness taking over her throat. Maybe if he'd seen the things she done in the last year, he would withhold his praise. But she’d do it all again. It had to count for something.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I know you must be thinking the worst of me right now and I don't blame you. Sandra and I dated a few months, but our relationship quickly fizzled out once we learned we didn't share the same views on life.
“Meanwhile, I signed up for another class with your mother.” He rubbed his forehead. “I didn't even like anatomy and I certainly didn't need it, but her method of teaching was unique and refreshing. And she wasn't hard on the eyes, either. I wasn't the only one to think so. A ton of men attempted to ask her out and failed. So, I knew I had to be different, if I wanted to get her attention.”
“And you did.” Her mother entered the room, a flowery robe covering silky pajamas. She kissed her father's cheek and then patted Amanda's. “This is both my favorite and least favorite story. I see you brought your Agent with you again, Amanda Jeanette.”
DISCONNECT (The Bening Files Book 2) Page 32
