Mortal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  Sean stepped into her immaculate but overheated apartment. He’d hit the jackpot with information and hoped Agent Armstrong didn’t get his panties in a wad about him talking to a potential witness. But one thing Sean knew about Feds is that they didn’t share information, and if he was going to help Lucy he needed to know everything they knew.

  Noah walked upstairs to Ralston’s third-floor apartment and met Agent Dale Jarvis, the head of the ERT unit. “What have you learned?” Noah asked as he assessed the apartment.

  Jarvis walked Noah through the scene. “No sign of forced entry. As you can see, the computer is destroyed. The UNSUB removed the hard drive from the box and smashed it. We’ve collected all the pieces, but most of the circuits and chips are completely destroyed. There’s no salvaging it, but we’ll run it by our tech people. They’ve been known to perform miracles, on occasion.”

  “I’ll get a warrant for his ISP to check browsing history and any external storage sites he might have.”

  Jarvis looked around the room. “And the place was searched, but not extensively. Possibly the killer was looking for something and found it.” He walked down the short, narrow hall to the small bedroom. Ralston’s body was prone at the foot of the sagging double bed. A suitcase was open on it.

  “He had a plane ticket for Miami he never used,” Noah said.

  “No sign of defensive wounds, but my guess is he was pushed down.” Jarvis gestured toward the victim’s hands with a laser pen. “He fell or was pushed while holding something—and if you follow the likely trajectory …”

  Noah followed the thin red beam to the base of the open closet, where several bottles of pills had rolled to a stop. One had opened, spilling small, oval-shaped pills every which way. Jarvis pointed behind him. “The bathroom is there. The vic grabs his meds, comes back to the bedroom, walking toward the closet, is pushed down from behind. Drops the pills, is shot without hesitation.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The vic didn’t move his hands; they are laying as someone would fall.”

  “Silencer? Wouldn’t someone in the building hear a gunshot?”

  “Yeah, that’s my guess. We’ll know more when we get the bullet out. It’s in there. Two entry wounds, but they’re close. Based on the location, either bullet would have done the job.”

  “Pro?”

  “Silent entry, no disturbance, bullet to the back of the head and destroyed computer?”

  Noah nodded and left the bedroom. “Find anything else? Motive?”

  “You know what I do about his background. He has no arrests since his last stint eight years ago. On disability. Kept under the radar.”

  “Abigail is running a full background on him, pulling financials, travel—he was an associate of the dead guy at the Washington Marina.”

  “I heard.” Jarvis looked at him pointedly. “Hard not to hear when the assistant director himself takes an interest in the case.”

  So much for discretion. “What did Rogan say about finding the body?”

  “Said the door was unlocked.”

  “Right.”

  Jarvis shrugged. “Could have been, or he’s good at picking locks.”

  “I’d go with the latter.”

  “He noted that the apartment was unusually cold, saw the computer destroyed, and checked on the well-being of any occupants.”

  Why had Sean Rogan been here in the first place? “Where is he now?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “He said he’d wait for you.” Jarvis looked out the window. “His car is still here.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  Sean thanked Tessie for the coffee and cookies—he had a weak spot for homemade sweets, and the oatmeal cookies were amazing—and stepped into the small lobby. He saw one of the ERT guys coming down the stairs.

  “Hey Rogan, Agent Armstrong has been looking for you.”

  “I’ve been right here.” He attempted to sound innocent.

  Sean followed the ERT dude out to the street. The coroner’s van pulled up and double-parked. Sean tried to pick out Noah Armstrong among the assembled agents. It wasn’t hard when one suit strode over with a tight jaw. “Where have you been?”

  “It was cold outside,” he said, not liking the instant hostility of the Fed. “The landlady invited me in for coffee.” And an earful. “Agent Armstrong, I presume.”

  The Fed nodded curtly. “Why were you here in the first place?”

  “As I told Kate, I’m just making sure that Lucy Kincaid is safe. Do you know why Morton was in town? Whether he had a partner? Whether he was working with Ralston?”

  “We’re pursuing all leads, but I will remind you that this is a federal investigation.”

  “I might have some information that can help in your federal investigation.”

  “I’d suggest you share any and all information pertaining to this matter. I don’t have to tell you that withholding information from law enforcement is an obstruction of justice, and your P.I. license isn’t going to protect you. You’re on thin ice here, Rogan.”

  Sean frowned. This guy was a lot more hostile than he should be. He seemed to not like Sean at all, which was unusual because Sean usually made a good impression—unless he didn’t want to.

  “Look, Armstrong, we’re on the same team, for the most part. We both want to make sure that Lucy isn’t in any danger from whatever shit Morton was doing in D.C. before he got himself killed.”

  “What is your interest in this other than your association with the Kincaids?”

  “My interest? It’s my business. But you know that already.”

  “What were you doing in Ralston’s apartment?”

  Sean forced himself to relax. “I knew that Ralston was one of Morton’s associates and wanted to talk to him, that’s all. Like I said, my job is to make sure Lucy isn’t in danger. I needed to assess whether any of Morton’s associates were a threat to her.”

  “You’re her bodyguard.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “Exactly what I did say. Roger Morton died in the same area where one of his victims lived,” Sean said firmly. “That’s not a coincidence. If he had plans to harm Lucy, or had a partner—I need to find out.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “No, your job is to find out who killed the bastard. My job is to make sure Lucy is safe. It’s what I do, hence the ‘protective services’ after ‘Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid.’ ”

  “You all think you’re above the law,” Armstrong said.

  “What?” Sean had sensed that Armstrong didn’t like him, but this sounded as though he knew him.

  Armstrong didn’t respond, but said, “Did you touch or take anything from the apartment?”

  “No—just the doorknob.” He grinned. “Scout’s honor.”

  Armstrong wasn’t amused. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the investigation to me, and guard Ms. Kincaid’s person, instead of attempting to interview my witnesses.”

  Sean wanted to leave and let the Fed try to get the information about Ralston out of Tessie. That was his job, right? But that kind of knee-jerk reaction was what had gotten Sean in trouble in the past, and he was trying to curb the tendency.

  So he bit back his initial reaction, and said as casually and conciliatorily as he could, “I had an interesting conversation with the landlady. She’s known Ralston for nearly twenty years.”

  “You talked to a witness?”

  “I helped her with her groceries. We chatted.”

  Armstrong stared at him in disbelief. “Chatted.”

  “She invited me in for cookies.”

  “And milk?”

  “Coffee.” Sean grinned. Playing with Mister Special Agent Armstrong was getting fun. “I can introduce you if you’d like.”

  “Cut the crap, Rogan.”

  Sean straightened, mimicking a soldier at attention. Just the facts. “The last t
ime Tessie remembers seeing Ralston was Wednesday night, when her granddaughter walked in after their weekly bingo date. However, she heard him in the lobby Friday morning arguing with another man. She didn’t go out—she was still in her pajamas—but she was getting ready to call the cops when the visitor left and Ralston stomped up the stairs.”

  “Friday,” Armstrong said flatly.

  “She also knows a lot about Ralston’s rap sheet, which I’m sure you’ve already pulled. But the one thing you might not know yet is that Ralston was an informant.”

  Sean hid his enjoyment as he watched Armstrong react to the information.

  “Informant.”

  “Do you ever speak in complete sentences?” Sean jibed.

  Armstrong stepped forward, a vein pulsing in his jaw, and Sean didn’t budge, but he realized there was something more going on between him and Armstrong than he knew.

  “What branch were you in?” Sean asked, changing the subject.

  Armstrong didn’t blink. “Air Force. Ravens.”

  Security force. They worked heavily in South and Central America, where Sean’s brother Kane had the strongest influence. Had his oldest brother messed with this former Raven?

  “You were never in the armed forces,” Armstrong said with disdain.

  Sean needed to call Duke to find out … but he didn’t want to pull in his brother. It had been hard enough to get Duke to let him and Patrick open up RCK East and slide out from under the auspices of their controlling brothers. He’d find out more about Noah Armstrong through his own sources. And whatever the problem was, it had nothing to do with Lucy or this case.

  “No, I never served. But I do fly.”

  “Do you?”

  “You probably already know that.”

  Armstrong didn’t comment.

  “Ralston was an informant for the D.C. police for years, as long as Tess has known him. The cop’s name was Jerry Biggler. Know him?”

  “No. But I will.”

  FIFTEEN

  Sean was speechless when Lucy came to the door wearing a royal-blue dress that somehow managed to be both modest and sexy as hell. It had a high neck and revealed little flesh, but it hugged her shapely and athletic body as if it had been created just for her. The skirt swirled around her calves as it would on a dancer. With her hair pinned loosely back, she was, simply, stunning.

  “Thanks again,” Lucy said as if he were the one doing her a favor. She set the alarm and locked the door.

  Sean found his voice. “Hey, beautiful, my pleasure.”

  She hesitated before putting her keys in her purse, and Sean mentally hit himself. That sounded like such a line. A line he’d happily use on any of his previous girlfriends, but Lucy was nothing like them, and he wasn’t going to treat her like the flavor of the month.

  Sean lowered his voice. “I really mean it, Lucy, you look amazing.” He reached up and touched one of her thick curls. Her hair was soft and shiny, and her lips—he knew he’d better not think about her full, painted lips right now.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, and he relaxed. He wanted to give Lucy a fun night out, even if they were going to a fund-raiser for a victims’ rights group. He intended to convince her to go for dessert afterward.

  He opened the passenger door for her, and she said, “Chivalry isn’t dead. I thought my brother Dillon was the only one who still opened doors.”

  “I don’t do it for just anyone,” he said as he closed the door. She might have thought that was a line, but it was the truth.

  As soon as he pulled away from the curb, Lucy asked, “About what you said yesterday, looking into why Roger Morton was in D.C.—”

  “Let’s not ruin this evening.” He wanted to tell Lucy about what he’d learned, and about Ralston’s murder, but he didn’t want her to be upset or preoccupied with Morton tonight.

  “Not knowing is worse than knowing.”

  “I haven’t learned anything important.” He hesitated, then said, “I narrowed down all Morton’s known associates within a hundred-mile radius who are still alive and not in prison. The three I spoke to don’t know anything.”

  Lucy glanced at him, her narrow eyebrow raised. “And they told you the truth?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m a Rogan.”

  “Is that like having a golden lasso?”

  “Naw, I don’t look so good in blue shorts with stars.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.” But he did. He couldn’t explain it to Lucy, not yet—he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. But Sean despised bullies, and Roger Morton had been a bully. Whoever killed him was a bigger bully, and that person was a potential threat to people Sean cared about: his partner, his business, and Lucy. The entire Kincaid family had treated Sean like one of their own, from Jack to Patrick to the brothers and sisters he’d met when he went to San Diego to help Patrick with a project last summer. Sean had a large family, but they weren’t like the Kincaids. His family was spread all over the world—Kane in South America, Duke in California, Liam and Eden in Europe.

  He couldn’t help but wonder wistfully if his parents hadn’t died in a plane crash, would his brothers and sister have ended up in the same places they were today, or would they have been as close knit as the Kincaids? Probably not. All of them, from his parents down to him, had wanderlust. Only Duke had stayed at home, and that was largely because he’d taken on the responsibility of raising Sean, then a teenager, after the crash.

  “Sean?” Lucy said, breaking him from his melancholy thoughts.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said reluctantly. “One of the contacts I was trying to make is dead. Ralston. They haven’t narrowed the time of death, but he missed a flight last Sunday. I’ll figure out how it’s connected.”

  “But—”

  “Tonight, let’s just put it aside, okay?”

  She sighed. “Okay.”

  He didn’t think she’d be able to banish all thoughts of the situation from her mind, but at least he could work double time to distract her.

  “Sean, thank you. I appreciate your attention.”

  It took Sean a second to realize she wasn’t talking about his personal attention, but his professional interest in Morton’s death. He didn’t want Lucy to think of him only in a business context. He was good at reading women in general, but he was having a harder time knowing what Lucy was thinking. She kept a large part of herself closed off, and he needed to find a way to get her to open up to him.

  At the Omni Shoreham Hotel, Sean bypassed the valet parking and parked his GT himself.

  “Is no one allowed to touch your car?” Lucy asked as he opened her door.

  “Especially not valets.”

  Lucy glanced at Sean and her anxiety about the new information about another dead body faded. Sean winked at her and took her hand as she stepped from the car. Lucy felt that not-so-subtle tingle she’d had earlier when she first opened her door and saw Sean in the tailored dark-gray pinstripe suit, the cerulean tie nearly matching the blue of his eyes. He was breathtaking, and she wasn’t used to physical attraction. She admired good-looking men in an intellectual, “Yes, he’s attractive,” kind of way. But with Sean Rogan, her body reacted before her mind, responding to his voice, his touch, the way he looked at her, before her thoughts could catch up that maybe he was flirting. And that maybe she liked it.

  Sean draped her wool coat over her shoulders in a gesture that was as timeless as it was endearing, yet she didn’t sense that he was being calculating. He took her arm as they walked through the lobby toward the fundraiser.

  “Give me the rundown,” Sean whispered as they approached the bustling reception room. “Who’s who and all that.”

  Lucy looked around. “There’s Fran Buckley, the director of WCF. She retired from the FBI several years ago. Senator Paxton introduced us when I interned with him, and I started volunteering.”

  “You interned with a senator?”

  “He was on the
Judiciary Committee, and I wanted to learn everything I could about how Congress impacted federal law enforcement and criminal justice issues.”

  “For your FBI career,” Sean said.

  “Pretty much. I didn’t particularly like working in Congress, but I learned a lot.”

  She scanned the crowd. “There are several elected officials here, the deputy mayor, and a lot of law enforcement—we have several cops who volunteer for WCF when off-duty. The chief of police is here. That pretty blonde next to the buffet? She’s Gina Mancini, Fran’s über-efficient assistant. She’s talking to Donald Thorne, one of our top donors. I don’t know who the other couple is with them.”

  “Okay, overload,” Sean said.

  “You’re in luck, it looks like they’re getting ready to start the speeches. And it won’t take long; Fran likes to mingle. That’s when she says she raises the most money—one-on-one.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you. Red wine, please.”

  Lucy watched Sean stride to the bar, where he comfortably chatted with the bartender. He could walk into any room, any situation, and make friends. Lucy couldn’t remember ever being so comfortable or carefree—though carefree wasn’t quite the right word for Sean. He was alternately serious and driven, then light and fun. She wondered who the real Sean Rogan was, and if she’d find out.

  After Fran briefly spoke about the state of WCF and gave her thank you’s, she introduced the chief of police, who gave a speech on crime stats and sex crimes in D.C. and the surrounding area.

  Sean returned with her wine. He was drinking beer from the bottle, and she grinned. It fit him, sleek suit notwithstanding.

  “Make a new friend?” she asked, nodding toward the bartender.

  “Everyone has a story,” he said. “Some are really interesting.” He whispered, “Who’s that going onstage?”

  “Aubrey Lewis. Her daughter was killed by a repeat sex offender two years ago. Senator Paxton introduced legislation to tighten restrictions on sex offenders, and she testified before Congress. She’s amazing.”