Which was none at this point.
In slow, deliberate movements, she approached. Could she hope that he’d leave her alone long enough to find it and leave? A quick duck beneath it, proved the shoe had up and walked off. A warm hand grasped her arm. She tried to jerk away, but his grip tightened like a slip knot.
“What are you looking for?” Jordan massaged her elbow while maintaining a firm, unyielding hold.
She cleared her throat. Her whole body quivered and she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or the warmth of his hand. Anger. She’d have to be crazy to warm to his touch after he pointed a gun at her. “Let me go. I have a plane to catch.”
“Catch the next one.” He pulled her toward the bed in front of her, exposing a well-defined chest. “We need to talk.”
Every ounce of blood rushed toward her cheeks.
If Jordan noticed, he didn’t comment.
Be calm. Freak out when you’re alone.
“Jordan, I think we’re past talking.” McKenna jerked her arm from his hold and stood. “I’m leaving as soon as I find my shoe.” Where had the thing gone?
He slipped his legs over the side of the bed. “Want help?”
“No.” Her voice came out in a high-pitched squeak. “Just stay there.”
He grabbed a pair of pants from the floor near his feet, slipped his legs inside, then stood.
McKenna backed up a few steps, bumped into the wall, then managed to turn around. Forget her shoe. He could have it. She started toward the door.
“You might need this,” he said from behind her.
Did she dare face him? She clenched her hands until she could no longer feel her nails biting into her palms and turned. Thank goodness, he’d put on a shirt. He held her purse in one hand, but didn’t move toward her. Did he expect her to waltz up to him, give him a peck on the cheek, and go on her merry way?
Not happening. If her badge and gun weren’t inside, she’d leave that behind too. Swallowing the rest of her pride, she walked toward him and grabbed her purse.
Jordan didn’t let go. His eyes caught hers and held, none of the heat from the previous evening evident. “Be careful.”
Be careful? That’s all he had to say? Did he even remember? Or did he have women in his room all the time? Didn’t he feel the least bit unnerved that he’d married and slept with her?
The only answer: He hadn’t been drunk last night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday
Emily Gaidies couldn’t keep the gun still.
Her hand had a mind of its own, with a set of overactive sweat glands.
“My husband will be home any second.” Emily hoped to God that was true. Her husband didn’t spend much time within the walls of their two-story, brownstone these days. That was her fault. A mistake she never should have allowed to happen as many times as it had. She centered the gun on the man standing five feet in front of her, just inside her bedroom. Emily prayed he wouldn’t discover that the gun was unloaded.
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“I told you, it’s over between us.” A tear escaped down her cheek and she quickly dashed it away. Emily glanced toward the phone on her nightstand. She’d never be able to reach it and keep him at bay. No, he towered well above her slender five-foot frame—a fact she’d once loved.
“I think the cops will laugh when they get here, Emily.” He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his face. “Being as you’ve got a gun pointed at me and all.”
“You’re an intruder in my home.” Her voice shook.
“An intruder with his own key.” The light from the lamp glinted off metal in his hand. “You gave it to me. Something change?”
Emily’s stomach twirled. Yes, everything had changed. She’d slept with a—
“I consider myself a patient man, but I don’t like the look you’re giving me.”
Emily stepped toward the phone. Her heart climbed into her throat.
“Let’s not be hasty, Emily.” He adjusted his leather coat. Put on a pair of matching gloves.
If only she’d contacted the cops this morning after he’d called to set up their normal date. She could be tucked away somewhere safe right now. Instead of scared spit-less, trying to think of some way to leave the truth behind.
So someone—anyone could find it. And know. Finally.
Frozen to the spot, she stared at the man who was the antithesis of her law-abiding husband. She slowly reached for the phone. She didn’t dare to breathe. He stepped closer to her.
Tears clouded her eyes. She wondered if death looked as clean cut as it did on TV. “You might be able to kill me, but sooner or later—”
He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s what this is all about? You think I want to kill you?”
He pried the gun from her hand and stepped closer. His breath brushed her face. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby.”
###
The last place Jordan wanted to be was inside Emily Gaidies’ house.
Under normal circumstances, he’d have been one of the first agents to arrive. He would have had a good grip on the murder scene by now—a rough draft of the events that led to Mrs. Gaidies’ death.
Instead, he stepped into the foyer of the two-story house ten minutes later than everyone else.
“You’re on the payroll for one day and already slacking, Bening.” SAC Robinson approached. “What took you so long to get here?”
“Traffic.”
“At ten p.m. on a Tuesday?”
Jordan scanned the agents littering the foyer and the living room beyond. “Have you seen McKenna?”
“She’s around here somewhere. Mrs. Gaidies’ stepson showed up about five minutes ago. Pushed through the police barricade. He’s been hassling Moore ever since.” He rubbed the stubble lining his jaw. “Why?”
Jordan shrugged. “Just checking.” Avoiding McKenna tonight meant staying on her good side, if that was possible, until tomorrow.
Not for the first time in his life, he wished he could invent a workable time machine. He’d go back in time and do the obvious. Save his mother. Then, he’d avoid the evening he and McKenna had shared in Las Vegas.
Looking her up had been his first mistake. The second, having more than one drink with her. It didn’t matter that she was safe, when he woke up and remembered the prior evening, he’d been more than angry with himself. He’d placed them both in a bad situation, beyond the obvious.
And she hadn’t stayed around long enough to let him explain.
None of that mattered now. Changing the past wasn’t an option. A sad but true fact. And he—no, they—would have to deal with whatever lay ahead. Which would involve his signature on divorce paperwork.
He’d bet his left kidney she’d already met with a lawyer and had it drawn up. Unless McKenna had changed from the girl he remembered. The one who chose G.I. Joe over Barbie and learned how to fire a nine millimeter at the shooting range while her friends took dance lessons. She had little interest in cooking, getting married and having kids.
Jordan tugged at his shirt collar. Even after ten years of absence, he knew too much about her.
Maybe he’d invent one of those MIB memory erasers to compliment his time machine. Pow. He’d fix the past, then erase all traces of it. But hadn’t the past made him what he was? Determined. Hard working. Alone. So, it wasn’t all good.
“You look like last month’s leftovers, Bening,” Robinson said. “Don’t you believe in sleeping?”
“I’ll sleep when I’m six feet under.” Which might not take all that long depending on McKenna’s mood. They made their way to the stairs. A few more steps and he might be in the clear. For a while.
As if Robinson knew his thoughts still centered on his childhood friend, he glanced around. “How’d she take the news about Birmingham?”
“She didn’t.”
As if their discussion had summoned her, she appeared near the front door, a tall, dark-haired guy right on her heels. S
he turned toward the man and lifted both of her hands, palms out. The guy stopped as if an invisible barrier had bolted in place between them. A severe frown covered his face and his brows snapped together.
Every muscle in Jordan's body screamed for him to intercede. He didn't. Only a stupid man would add injury to insult.
Robinson cleared his throat. “Speaking of Birmingham, his jet landed in Charlotte around two yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” He gave his boss his full attention. “He left Las Vegas on Saturday.”
“And made a pit stop at Norfolk International. Rented a hotel in Waverly, Virginia and visited an inmate at the Sussex II state prison.”
“Any idea who Birmingham visited?”
Unease crept up Jordan’s spine like a perp with a gun pointed at his back. Matthew Blaney was an inmate at the Sussex II. Jordan hadn’t seen him since the day his mother died. No. Since the murder trial. As a kid, he’d asked his mom questions about the man. They’d been friends, she’d said one time. After that, words like divorce and ex-husband had accompanied her brief, unemotional sentences until she forbade him to inquire further.
Would McKenna someday talk about him like that? Like his mother, would she hope for a relationship doomed from the beginning? Would they get it together only to have it fall apart in the end?
He looked past Robinson, who watched him with wary eyes, to McKenna. The man who’d been following her stood in the same spot, his face a sun-burnt red as he enunciated his words with his pointer finger. That digit got closer to McKenna with each syllable.
“That the stepson?” Jordan nodded toward the exchange.
“Rupert Dillon. Mr. Gaidies’ stepson from a previous marriage. His real mother died when he was about two. Cancer. Mr. Gaidies remarried shortly after.”
“He a suspect?”
“You know the drill. Everyone’s a suspect.”
“Sure.” And it sometimes put the wrong people behind bars. And let the bad ones have another chance at the innocent. Jordan wouldn’t let that happen on his watch, but if this guy laid one hand on McKenna, he’d be the sorriest man on the face of the planet.
“I’ve got to check in with CSU. Moore can get you up to speed. Good to have you back here, man.” Robinson clapped him on the shoulder, then disappeared into the kitchen, located off the main foyer.
So much for avoiding McKenna. Jordan turned in her direction. Best to rip the Band-Aid off in one, quick movement.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you see her. It’s a crime scene, Rupert.” While her voice held the stern quality he expected of an agent, an underlying tone of sympathy hung on the words.
First name basis. Odd.
Something dark and angry covered Rupert’s face. “I don’t care about your crime scene. My father’s in there.” He pointed to the foyer. “Crying like a baby. Gretchen is seven months pregnant and flying in from Washington. To top it off, I’ve got a sick kid at home who knows something isn’t right.” His right hand fisted in mid-air, near his head. “You’re going to let me see my mother or you’ll regret it, McKenna.”
Jordan stepped up to them and extended his hand toward Rupert. “I’m Agent Bening. Can I help you with something?” Jordan didn’t bother looking in McKenna’s direction. He didn’t have to. Her shock vibrated in the space between them. It would fade to composure in two seconds, flat.
Because, well, that’s how she operated. Control. Always control.
Rupert un-fisted his hand, stepped back and glanced at him from head to toe. He looked ready to blast them both. “Unless you’ll let me pass, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Sorry. Can’t.”
Rupert crossed his arms, his chest heaving each time he inhaled. “You obviously have no idea what I’m going through. To you people this is nothing more than statistics and forensics. Another body. Another victim. Another chance to play hero.” He glared at McKenna. “Someone’s deranged, sick joke. One that will probably go unsolved because of heartless people like you.”
Protective instincts he'd thought long dead, resurfaced and he affected the same posture as the man in front of him. It was the only thing keeping Jordan from shoving this guy out the front door and onto the lawn.
He wouldn’t tell this guy he knew all about what he felt. How anger and bitterness could eat a person alive until you weren’t anything. And nothing mattered. “Mr. Dillon, we’re going to do everything in our power to figure out what happened here, tonight. As soon as our techs finish gathering the information they need, you’ll be notified.”
“Notified?” Rupert’s left eye started to twitch. “That what? She’s being butchered in some ME’s office? And it will be weeks before we can grieve. Months or years before we figure out what happened to her.”
“By all means, if you think you can do the job better, be my guest.” Jordan moved out of his way, leaving a pathway to the stairs that led to Mrs. Gaidies.
McKenna cleared her throat. Her eyes were like lasers, boring holes in the side of his skull.
As if he thought a trap awaited him, Rupert moved forward a step.
“But every second you spend pouring out your goodbyes, leaving your fingerprints and your DNA, is a second we lose. A clue we lose. And then the person who did this to your family gets away.” Jordan tucked his hands in his pockets.
Rupert glanced at the stairway, his jaw clenched. He looked from Jordan to McKenna, then back. “I’ll be speaking to your supervisor.” He turned around, headed for the door and slammed it on his way out. One of the other agents in the room followed him.
McKenna let out a hiss of air beside Jordan. “That could have blown up in your face.” She pivoted on her heel and left him standing by the door.
So much for hello. Or thank you. He caught up with her on the stairs.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t bother looking in his direction.
Jordan grabbed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “Doing my job.”
“Your job?” Her voice came out in a squeak. She took in his attire and the gun at his hip. Jordan could see the pulse racing at her neck. “You better be with SBI.”
“Nope.”
“Char-Meck PD?”
“Same as you, Moore. FBI.” Jordan donned the gloves, his sweat-slick hands complicating the task.
The way she glared at him told him she suspected he’d planned the whole incident right down to the minute. And she’d had time to stew over the thought. How could he prove they were in the same boat? They’d gone from friends to warring enemies within the span of three days.
Jordan cleared his throat. Pools of sweat formed under his arms. Had someone hiked up the temperature on the thermostat? He’d remove his jacket and get comfortable, like he always did, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t help tonight. Unless he and McKenna came to some sort of professional truce, he’d never be comfortable.
“McKenna, back at the hotel—”
“I should’ve guessed.” She stopped, then turned toward him. “You’re a liar.”
A liar? Now he would fit right in with his father. Wouldn’t the old dirt bag be proud? Jordan clenched his fists.
“We need to talk, straighten this out. We’re adults and—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she spat. “I thought we were friends. But friends don’t…” She looked around. “They don’t do what you did. End of story.”
Her words cut a little deeper than he wanted to admit. “What is it you think I did?”
“You should have told me you were FBI, for starters.”
“I could say the same thing.”
“We’re not having this conversation. Not here. Not now.”
“Fine.”
McKenna turned and started up the steps again. He jumped in front of her, halting her progress. “I need details, McKenna.”
“Details?”
“Was she DOA? Any forced entries? Rape? Give me the specifics.”
She looked ready to chew him up, spit him ou
t, then repeat the process. Her right gloved-clad hand gripped the railing.
Jordan knew that appendage could turn into a fist with little warning. It had the middle of his face written on it. “Forget it.”
She ignored him. “Crime Scene already checked the perimeter. I’ve got this feeling the UNSUB—that’s what we call the unidentified subject—”
“You don’t have to explain it. I know what that means.”
McKenna pursed her lips for a moment. “Well, the UNSUB didn’t go far. From the look of things, our guy strangled her and then lopped her hands off post-mortem, a little souvenir, is my guess.”
“Wait. So, no hands?” That seemed personal or crazy. Maybe a mixture of both.
“None that we've found. We did find a gun registered in Mr. Gaidies name. I don’t think it’s been fired, but the lab can verify that. Doesn’t look like she put up much of a fight. She knew her attacker. Knew the UNSUB meant to harm her and for whatever reason gave up. Minus the blood from her wrists, the scene is immaculate.
Nothing looks disturbed. No sign of sexual assault, but the ME can determine that. No forced entries.”
McKenna tried to move past him, but Jordan grabbed her arm. “What makes you think this guy’s still hanging around?”
She looked at the hand holding her arm, then pulled it from his grasp. “Gut feeling. Crime Scene has already checked the perimeter twice, though. Maybe I’m wrong, this is a one-time deal and the UNSUB’s long gone. Who knows?” She didn’t wait for his reply before she jogged up the steps.
Jordan followed, but at a much slower pace. If he were a different sort of man, he’d walk away and say he’d done his best to warn McKenna. If he were smart, he would listen to that niggling voice telling him to blurt out the problem, sign divorce papers and get out of dodge.
But that same voice had told him his mother would be fine living alone, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
A simple phone call could have solved all McKenna’s problems.
She could have talked to a lawyer, signed some paperwork and Las Vegas would have been nothing more than a bad memory. Last night might never have happened. It might not have played out as it had.
LINKED (The Bening Files Book 1) Page 3
