“Well, we can check our basements, right?” Jenn refused to take this as a loss instead of a win. “Plus, we now have a name. Winston.”
“Google that,” Sam said dryly, “and see how many million hits you get.”
“I absolutely will see,” she responded, undaunted. “Winston, Vietnam vet, New York. You never know.”
Sam stopped at the top of the stairs, clearly bracing himself for the jarring trip down them, and Jenn stopped beside him.
“Do not,” he said, “ask me if I’m all right.”
“I was actually thinking that it’s time for lunch,” she lied. “We’re right around the corner from the office. Why don’t we go in, get warm and … maybe order pizza?”
“Nice save,” he said.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a hell yes,” Sam told her.
She smiled back at him, and he added, “I can see why Danny Gillman likes you so much. I mean, aside from the obvious fringe benefits.”
His words made her face heat, but he wasn’t finished.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve kept up with who he’s dating,” Sam continued, “but you’re pretty different from his usual victims, I mean, girlfriends.”
And, yes. He’d completely meant victims.
“Most of his exes,” he told her, “had an IQ just a little higher than a mushroom.”
Jenn laughed at that. “And I’m at least as smart as a rutabaga. Or maybe … a stalk of celery?”
Now Sam laughed, too. “Nah, you’re much higher up the evolutionary chain.”
“Have you and Dan been friends for a long time?” she heard herself ask. Oh, God, was she really doing this?
Sam thought about it as he went down the stone steps, one at a time, leaning heavily on the railing. “It’s going on eight years now,” he said. “We were both in Team Sixteen for a while.”
“Dan’s SEAL team,” she clarified.
“It was mine first,” he said, taking the edge off of his words by smiling. “Back when I was a junior officer, he was an FNG—an effin’ new guy. He was enlisted, I was older, so … We were never really friends.”
“That’s too bad,” Jenn said as he hit the sidewalk and started moving a little faster. “He could use a friend like you. Someone who’s got their shit together.”
“You’ve got your shit together,” Sam pointed out.
“But I’m just a temporary friend,” she told him, and at his oh really look, she added, “I went into … whatever this is that we’re doing, well aware of that.”
“So … what?” he asked, his incredulity all but dripping off of him. “You’re just gonna let him define the parameters of your relationship? His head’s so far up his ass he doesn’t know if it’s night or day.” He paused, then added, “Unless, of course, you’re good with it being temporary. ”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. She’d met Dan, what? Just over twenty-four hours ago … ? God, the thought of what they’d done—twice—last night still made her blush. “I don’t really know him that well.”
Except she did know him—enough to know that he listened when she talked. And that he was capable of expressing his honest emotions. God, when he’d cried …
He’d nearly broken her heart.
Sam stopped outside of Maria’s office, and Jenn realized that Tony had given them some distance to talk privately. He now stood several yards away, speaking to someone on his cell phone.
“What do you like on your pizza?” Jenn asked Sam. It was a polite way of signaling that the personal part of their conversation was officially over. She added punctuation by starting up the stairs.
“Jenn.” Sam gestured her back over to him with a tilt of his head. And although she stopped, she wouldn’t move toward him, so he came to her, exaggerating the degree of pain it caused him to climb each step.
It was meant to make her feel guilty, which she refused to do. He was going to have to climb these stairs anyway, if he wanted lunch.
“I don’t mean to scare you off,” he said, which was right up there with I’m not going to lie to you and I’m telling you this for your own good when it came to things people said that were the exact opposite of what they meant.
“I don’t scare easily,” she told him, “so you should probably save your breath.”
But he was bound and determined to say his piece. “But if you notice Danny acting oddly or erratically—”
“You mean more oddly or erratically than his hooking up with someone with a higher IQ than a mushroom?” she asked.
He looked surprised, but then laughed. “Touché.”
“You know, I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Jenn told him, “but I do know that it would be a lot easier without everyone butting in.”
“He had a head injury recently,” Sam told her flatly, “and several incidents in which he blacked out. I think it’s related—that the blackouts are a result of the injury. But they might be a symptom of PTSD instead, which could end his career. I apologize for butting in, but I thought you’d want to know.”
With a nod, he moved past her, and went inside the building, leaving her standing on the stair with Tony watching her, out in the cold.
• • •
Jennilyn came into the office.
It wasn’t until she did that Dan realized he’d practically been holding his breath, waiting for her.
She was dressed down in jeans again today. They suited her far better than the ill-fitting business clothes she’d been wearing yesterday.
When they’d first met.
Huh.
It felt as if a full week had passed between his walking into Assemblywoman Bonavita’s office for the first time and Jenn coming through that door, but it had barely been twenty-four hours.
It was Day Two of Fourteen, and Day Two should’ve started with them waking up in her bed, legs intertwined. She’d stretch and smile at him sleepily, and he’d smile too, and pull her close, spooning her back against him, and they’d both say Good morning, and he’d murmur into her ear about how great he’d slept and how she shouldn’t go anywhere, because he was going to get up and make some coffee and bring her a cup, but in truth the coffee would have to wait, because with very little effort, he’d be getting his happy on all over again.
Only, he’d woken very much alone on the couch in the living room of that hotel suite, after having another one of his goddamn blackouts.
Which was a crying shame, on so many levels.
“We were thinking about ordering pizza,” Jenn told him as she took off glasses that were fogging from the tropical heat, adding, “Oh,” as she saw the pizza boxes that were already on the conference table.
She also seemed a little taken aback by the fact that the room was nearly filled to overflowing by a large group of people, all wearing dark suits.
“FBI agents, from the local office,” Dan told her. He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “I can’t remember their names. I think there’s at least one John and maybe a Matt and a Carol. The cool thing is they all answer to sir or ma’am.”
She smiled at him. “Good to know.”
“We were a step ahead of you with the pizza,” Lopez pointed out. “There’s plenty left. You may have to reheat, though. It might be a little cold.”
Jenn opened one of the boxes. “Might be … ?” she asked, shooting Lopez a questioning look as she slid a slice on a paper plate, maneuvered around a man in a dark suit, and put it in the microwave. “It’s stone cold. What time did you guys eat lunch? Nine thirty?”
“Ten forty-five,” Dan admitted. “We were up early.”
“I can see,” she said, looking around the room at the security equipment—movement detectors, window alarms, the control panel they’d installed right by the door. “You gonna tell me how this stuff works, or just let me guess? Maybe trial and error it, until the neighbors complain?”
“Not a chance,” Lopez told her with a smile. “But we’ll wait until we can show it both to y
ou and the assemblywoman at the same time. Over the next few days, you’re not going to be in here without one of us. Excuse me. I have to …”
He dodged several of the suits on his way into Maria’s inner office, where the Troubleshooters and FBI team leaders, plus Sam Starrett, were giving each other sitreps, aka situation reports, aka discussing the big nothing they’d uncovered since the day began.
Jules and Alyssa had been talking earlier about how they expected Maggie Thorndyke’s killer to contact them. But Dan had been here for most of the morning, and the phone didn’t ring. And it still didn’t ring. And it apparently didn’t ring over at the hotel where Maria had her cell phone, either—although she had found out that her mentally ill brother had gone missing, so they were now searching for him, too.
But the Troubleshooters team was in wait mode—his least favourite part of an op. Although truth be told, Dan had given Sam his official resignation. So technically, he wasn’t part of this op anymore. Which meant that wait mode was about to become his new favorite time of year.
“If you want,” Dan said, praying that Jenn did, “after you eat your pizza, I can take you back to your place and show you how that system works.”
She looked at him, but before she could answer, the microwave dinged and Lt. Starrett came out of Maria’s office and used his outdoor voice.
“All right, we’ve got interviewees coming in, in about fifteen minutes. Who’s supposed to be here and who’s not?”
Jenn looked to Dan for guidance, which was nice. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here,” she said.
“I know I’m not,” he told her.
“Do you have time,” she asked, her brown eyes so serious behind her glasses, “to talk?”
“Yeah. Sure,” he said, taking a mental inventory of the condoms he’d stored in the side pocket of his cargo pants.
“Really talk,” she told him, taking her slice of pizza from the micro wave. She looked at him again. “Really,” she emphasized.
“I’d like to talk,” he said, which wasn’t quite a lie, because the verb he really meant also ended in a hard K.
“Good,” she said, pizza in hand as she gestured to the door. “Then let’s go.”
Was this really going to be this easy? They were just going to stand up and walk out of here, walk around the corner to her place where—thank you God Almighty—they would finally, finally, finally be alone.
To talk.
He would talk. Absolutely. Hell, he was a freaking Navy SEAL. He could multitask.
Dan shrugged on his jacket and followed Jenn out the door.
• • •
“What time is that dickhead Mick Callahan coming in?” Sam asked.
Alyssa looked up at him from her seat behind Maria’s desk. “When you say things like that,” she started.
“I’m not going to kick his ass,” he promised her and Jules both. “I’m just going to sit here, very quietly, and rip him a new one with my eyes.”
“And that’s what I’m afraid of,” she said. “He’s just crazy enough to take offense to that kind of—”
“See?” Sam told Jules. “She thinks he’s crazy, too.”
“You manhandled a cop, SpongeBob,” Jules pointed out, using the silly nickname he’d assigned Sam years ago, even though Sam already had way too many nicknames. His real name, that his parents had bestowed upon him, was Roger. He’d been called a lot of things over the decades he’d been alive though, and somehow Sam had stuck. Thank God. Because he’d always hated Roger.
Although he did truly love it when, at certain times, Alyssa caught his attention by addressing him with it.
And Jules’s nickname, SpongeBob, as ridiculous as it sounded, was in truth a term of endearment that Sam appreciated far more than the man’s standard, which was Sweetie.
“Is it really all that crazy that Callahan reacted the way he did?” Jules continued.
Alyssa actually came to Sam’s defense. “It did have a … certain unstable quality to it,” she admitted. “A… what’s that word? Not tinge. Like a sepia tone, only a coating …”
“Patina,” Jules suggested.
“That’s it.” She smiled happily at him. “A patina of instability. Lots of little cracks that you can’t see unless you look closely.”
Sam sighed. “Sometimes you guys wear me out.”
“You’re just not gay enough,” Jules told him.
“No, no, he’s exactly the right amount of gay,” Alyssa countered.
“There are some who would disagree,” Jules said. “But isn’t diversity grand—that we can sit here and treat him like an equal?” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Even though he’s not?”
Alyssa’s cell phone rang, interrupting. “It’s Savannah,” she told them. Taking it into the outer office, she answered it. “Hey Van, thanks for calling me back. …”
Please, God, let Savannah have printed out that picture of Alyssa so that they’d have an answer to at least one of their mysteries.
Jules sat down next to Sam. “FYI—I told Alyssa this earlier—the hospitals and morgues are all on alert,” he said, “but there’s been no word from any of them. So, I really like the idea of Winston having a home base in some local basement. That explains why no one’s seen him.”
“Either that, or the homeless thing is a disguise.” Sam laughed at himself. “And yes, I’ve been watching too much TV.”
“I tried that one on Alyssa,” Jules said. “It’s pretty far out there. It defies Occam’s razor.”
Occam’s razor was a theory that said that any time there was a question or a problem, the simplest explanation or answer was usually the correct one. In other words, if there were two possibilities—A) that the killer was a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper, born again into the body of a priest who dressed as a homeless man and who had access to his church’s antiquities which he was quietly selling on eBay to pay for his bloodlust; or B) that the killer was an estranged family member who’d killed Maggie accidentally in anger, and panicked—it was probably going to be B.
“But not everything’s always as simple as it should be,” Sam pointed out. “Why cut out Maggie’s heart?”
“Because … he’s a showman,” Jules postulated. “He wants to make an impact, to be noticed.”
“A dead body’d do that,” Sam said.
“I haven’t told Alyssa this yet,” Jules said, “but there’s something about this case that’s … not right.”
Sam looked at him.
“I know,” Jules said. “That sounds stupid. Of course it’s not right. A woman is dead, her heart cut out and stashed in a desk drawer.” He sighed. “I spent the morning at the local Bureau office, and they’ve looked hard at everyone who benefited from Maggie’s death, including Lulu, her dog. Okay, kidding about that, but… still. There’s no one and nothing that points to anyone who knew her. Her brother’s her heir, and he doesn’t even want the money. He’s giving it all to UNICEF.”
“Out of guilt?” Sam asked.
“I don’t think so,” Jules said.
“Are we looking at this wrong?” Sam asked. “Is it possible it was a burglary? Or maybe Maggie saw something that she shouldn’t’ve seen, and this is the killer’s way of throwing us all off track?”
“Occam’s razor,” Jules said again.
“Okay,” Sam said. “If the killer’s not a family member, then the simplest explanation is … that Maggie was a pawn. That someone wanted to put a human heart in that desk drawer, and Maggie became an unwilling organ donor.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Jules said, “So who’s our target? Maria or Jenn?”
“It was Jenn’s desk,” Sam pointed out.
“But Maria’s office door was locked,” Jules said.
True. The assemblywoman’s inner office, where they were sitting right now, needed a separate key to unlock its door.
“Why stop with Maria and Jenn?” Sam asked. “Maybe the target is one o
f the interns or volunteers.” All of whom they’d be talking to, this afternoon.
“Or maybe the target is Maria and Jenn,” Jules was thinking aloud. “Someone who knew them both.”
“Like Mick Callahan,” Sam pointed out as he stood up and went to the door.
“Yeah,” Jules said, “but I was thinking more along the lines of the assemblywoman’s missing brother. I don’t buy into coincidences. Why should he pick right now to disappear?”
Alyssa was still on the phone, over by the coffee station, pouring herself a cup.
Their most likely scenario was that back in September, Savannah had printed out a picture of Alyssa to show to Maria as part of a pitch to use Troubleshooters Incorporated as security for a campaign event. Maria had decided against hiring the team, and the picture had been thrown out. It had made its way, with the rest of the office trash, into the dumpster out back where Winston, their homeless man, had found it while sifting through the garbage.
As if Alyssa felt Sam’s eyes on her, she turned—still talking to Savannah on the phone—to look at him.
And she shook her head, no.
So much for Occam’s freaking razor. Unless someone else in the office had checked out the Troubleshooters website and printed out that picture. Or…
“What if the killer’s real target,” Sam said, “isn’t Maria or Jenn.” He turned to look at Jules. “What if his target’s Alyssa?”
“So that’s how it works,” Dan told Jenn, shutting the cover of the control panel on her new alarm system. He’d cleaned up her apartment while he’d been in there this morning—taking out the Chinese food containers and the garbage, washing the dishes that had been in the sink, and turning her bed back into a sofa.
It was extremely thoughtful of him to have done that.
“There’s also a remote control,” he added, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the arm of her couch before picking up a little keychain-sized device from the table upon which she kept her alarm clock. He held it up for her to see as he crossed back toward her.
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