Painted Walls

by Megan Mitcham

  Abbott growled, folded her arms over her chest, and hiked a brow at Ava.

  “Dumb as ever,” Ava offered, feigning confidence she severely lacked. She sat ramrod straight, but her hands twisted in her lap almost uncontrollably. Ava Shepherd needed a power pose more than a lawyer. It didn’t matter if he believed in her innocence until proven guilty, if she didn't believe in it.

  She placed both hands on her hips and shifted forward. Gray’s steady gaze ticked off the movement.

  “There you go.” Abbott lifted her palms up in a sorry-I’m-not-sorry pose.

  “Ava.” Mason Beaumont, the lawyer her father had sent to represent her, met her gaze. “You know—”

  Abbott slammed the door in his face. “You know he objects. You’ve heard the speech too many times already.” She crooked her hand and pointed all her fingers at herself. “Well, I have for sure. What I would like to hear about is your Friday.”

  “You haven’t heard that too many times already?” Ava asked.

  “Whoo.” Abbott fanned herself and tilted her head toward Gray. “That little power pose she adopted seems to have worked miracles. But that’s okay, I like my perps sassy.”

  “You haven’t indicted me,” Ava shot back.

  “Not yet.” Abbott grinned. “So how about that Friday?”

  “As I told you before, I woke at four-thirty a.m. and went for a run.”

  “You didn’t press snooze?” Abbott asked in her usual indelicate manner.

  “I don’t snooze. Why snooze when you could sleep soundly the nine or twenty-seven minutes you spend hitting a snooze?”

  “Why indeed?”

  “I ran the usual five miles. My route is highlighted on the map in front of you. After my run I showered, dressed, and then ate.”

  “Why dress before you eat? Why not eat while wrapped in your towel? Or better yet, why not eat in the nude?”

  Ava’s face probably matched the red line drawn on the map of down town DC. The heat of her anger evaporated her earlier sweat. “When people said you were a bitch before I thought they said it because you were a woman in a power position. Now I know you’re just a bitch.”

  “Whatever it takes to catch my man or, in this case, woman.”

  “I had an egg, dry wheat toast, a glass of water and one of orange juice. In case you were wondering. I read over my notes for the breakout sessions I hosted on crime analysis at the law enforcement convention held at Hilton Mark Center in Alexandria.”

  “Dry.” Abbott tapped her chin. “I’m not surprised.”

  Ava was surprised she didn’t start screaming at the top of her lungs and continue on for the rest of her insufferable life.

  “I left my house at eight and arrived at the Hilton Mark Center around eight forty.”

  “You don’t know the exact time?” Abbott raised a brow.

  “You can check the stub in my car. Better yet, check the security cameras in the parking garage.”

  Abbott chuckled. “Are you trying to do my job for me, Ava? After all, you would know exactly how to steer this investigation to make certain we don’t find the truth.”

  “I would know how to commit a murder so that I’d never be questioned for it. You might want to keep that in mind, Abbott.”

  “Oh, I’m shaking in my stilettos.”

  After a stare off, Ava continued. “Traffic was heavy that morning. I parked in the garage in the rear and made it into the morning’s general session with a few minutes to spare. I hosted four break-out sessions. The schedule for which is also in front of you and can be verified by the people listed on the sheet.”

  Abbott pulled her chair out from under the table. Its legs screeched against the floor. She plopped down, spread her legs, and rested her palms on her thighs. “What about breaks? Lunch?”

  “During breaks I was in the conference center lobby and I had lunch at the hotel with the people also listed on the paper in front of you.”

  Which I told you four times already, bitch.

  “Tell me about after the sessions.”

  “At the close of the last session at four-fifty I collected my material and headed straight to my car.”

  “The conference director, Mr. Geno Aconi, reported that you did not return your badge, which means you didn’t sign out. Why not? In a hurry to get someplace?”

  “First, it was a plastic sleeve with a paper printout of my name and rank, and the only reason they wanted it turned in was for a drawing they had for the workshop hosts. Second, I had no use for a massive large screen TV.”

  “Man,” Gray groaned. “That part gets me every time. Everybody can use a big flatscreen.”

  “Not the homeless,” Ava pointed out.

  “You’re not homeless,” he countered.

  “No, but I don’t watch TV.” She shook her head.

  Gray clutched his chest, added a grimace, and then pointed a weak finger at Abbott to carry on.

  Ava’s arms burned. Power poses were for people who lifted weights. Ava placed her hands on the table in front of her to keep from wringing them again.

  Neither commented further. So Ava took a deep breath and got on with it. “Third, yes, I was in a hurry to get to Dulles for a seven forty-five flight to Miami.”

  “Where’d you stop off on the way?”

  “Nowhere. I arrived at the airport around five forty-five and rushed through security. I didn’t even stop to gas up or pee.”

  “Needed every extra minute in between, huh?” Abbott needled.

  “I have cooperated with you and Agent Gray. I haven’t asked for a lawyer. I denied the one my dad sent, who’ll probably charge my dad for the hours he’s spent out there pacing the hallway.” Ava flatted her palms on the cold table. “I want some questions answered. You keep saying, the victim. Who is the victim?”

  “I’m going to hold that information for a little longer.”

  She snorted a laugh. “You’re not going to tell me who I supposedly killed.” Ava nodded at the absurdity of that. “Fine. How was the victim killed?”

  Abbott looked to Gray. They exchanged some super-secret message with only slight variations of their brows. Then Abbott turned a cutting gaze to Ava. The sinister nature of it sent Ava’s heart in search of a hiding spot.

  “I have this sick feeling in my gut telling me you already know.” Abbott stood half way, reached between her legs, and yanked her chair closer to the table. Ava fought the urge to retreat. She needed to know what the woman had to say. The sadist paused for a merciless minute before relenting. “The victim was rendered unconscious by a blow to the head.”

  A sheen of sweat broke on Ava’s body. Her heart’s search for a dark, secluded corner grew more frantic. She wanted to retract the question or smash her hands over her ears, but she held perfectly still. Her lungs burned with the stalled breath.

  “The victim was positioned on the bed face down and the carotid artery was severed by a small dagger,” Abbott said.

  The words seemed to come through ripples of water, under a vast sea that weighed more than she could shoulder. Ava breathed. She didn’t want to. But sickening clarity settled over her. “A copycat.”

  “Brilliant,” Abbott sneered. “I assume you know the rest then.”

  “If I killed whoever it is you think I killed, then I wouldn’t have needed you to tell me this to begin with,” Ava explained.

  Her ticker no longer wanted to hide. It beat strongly and steadily for the first time since she’d been ushered from her apartment. Ava had always feared a copycat killer. If Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac Killer, and films like Scream and the Taxi Driver inspired copycats, of course the most notorious killer of all would. It had only been a matter of time. She’d prepared for the eventuality. She could handle this.

  “Why me? Why am I your number one suspect? Is it based solely on the fact that I’m the Blood Red Killer’s daughter or do you actually have some kind of evidence against me?”

  “We have your hair at the crime scene. The lock
et of red hair left at the scene. We ran it. It matches yours.”

  “What?” Ava squeaked the word.

  “You see,” Abbott grinned, “the Bureau kept that tidbit out of the media. They never disclosed that Blood Red Hardy left a locket of his red hair at the crime scene. It was before DNA testing became reliable. The investigators kept the information back as an interrogation tool.”

  Ava knew about the hair at the scene because she’d studied her father’s digression from every angle.

  Abbott slapped the table, calling Ava’s gaze. “Gotcha.”

  “No. If you had me, you’d wouldn’t need this dog and pony show. What you have is circumstantial at best.” Ava grabbed the end of her ponytail out for Abbott. “This has grown my entire life. It’s been cut hundreds of times. Anyone could have followed me and swiped some discarded strands.” She released her hair. “Only the original killer, someone with access to the original files, or someone close to him, would know about the hair left at the scene. It’s not a large pool of people, but it’s more than just me.”

  Ava offered her wrists. “If you’re going to indict me, do it. Otherwise, get me my lawyer.”

  6

  A burly night guard scanned Keen’s badge even though he’d already used it to access the parking garage and unlock the back doors. The sentinel’s lanky cohort studied him up one side and down the other. His dark brows wobbled. He probably wasn’t used to seeing special agents in knock-around clothes, and had likely only seen deck shoes on TV.

  Keen braced himself for a fight. Two and a half hours confined in the belly of a commercial jet had primed him for one. Add to it that the Bureau was grilling his one-time best friend for a murder she couldn’t have committed and the tiniest spark would ignite his temper.

  “Very good, Special Agent Hunt.” The guard handed over his access card.

  He grabbed the card, nodded, and bolted for the stairs, thankful he’d worked at the FBI’s DC field office for a year before transferring to Miami. Keen poured some of his anger onto the stairs, pounding up them three at a time. On the fifth floor he barreled through the metal stairwell entrance. The door slammed against the wall, and then closed with a bang. His frown turned into a scowl. A pretty boy in a grey suit that cost more than his rent turned on Keen as though Keen were the first horsemen of the apocalypse. The man’s grimace matched his own, or at least it tried.

  “You’re the lawyer?” Keen barked.

  “Mason Beaumont. You must be the knight in shining armor Preston told me about.”

  “If you’re the undefeated, killer defense attorney Preston told me about, why—for fuck’s sake—aren’t you in the room with Ava?”

  “Well hello, Keen.” His glare turned to a sour smile. “My, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Beaumont. This is serious.”

  Beaumont spread his arms. “Why the hell do you think I’m out here? Because I love to pace empty hallways while my client speaks freely to the Feds? No.” His left arm fell to his side, while the right jabbed toward a windowless door. “You know Preston Shepard’s daughter. She’s independent to a fault, and refused to let me in the room.”

  “I didn’t think the famous Mason Beaumont would let a pint-size woman push him around.”

  The lawyer stepped forward. His dress shoes landed inches from Keen’s worn topsiders, putting them eye to eye.

  Keen held himself perfectly still.

  “From what I hear,” Beaumont whispered, “I’m not the only guy she’s pushed around or away. So, back off, Hunt. Besides, I don’t think she’ll be any more excited to see you than she was to see me.”

  The muscles in Keen’s hands contracted into two perfect fists, but something held him back. Maybe he didn’t particularly feel like getting sued. Knocking a lawyer’s teeth into the back of his throat would most certainly accomplish that feat. Maybe it was his throbbing shoulder. If it was, he’d never admit it. Maybe it was the odd familiarity in the man’s features. And maybe that’s why Keen had gotten so riled from the man’s inconsequential jab. In those brown, condescending eyes, and aristocratic nose he saw his father. In the strong jaw and concealed rage he saw himself.

  “Get in there and throw around whatever legal bullshit you have to. She‘s leaving now,” Keen ordered.

  The man’s shoulders shook. “Ha, the day I take orders from a grease monkey is also the day hell frosts over.”

  Keen’s fist sank into the man’s belly, hard and fast.

  Beaumont gasped and doubled over. One hand clutched his gut. The other braced against his knee.

  Keen rubbed his shoulder. “It just got pretty chilly.”

  Beaumont growled. Head down, he ran at Keen. His shoulder became a battering ram. Keen tighten his core, but the man dozed through him, knocking the breath and his legs out from under him.

  The wall kept them from hitting Linoleum. Keen’s back met it with a resounding thud. Impact shocked his lungs into function. He inhaled a shallow breath, wrapped his arms around the lawyer’s neck and his opposite armpit, and then squeezed. They stayed locked for several bucks of Keen’s heart.

  “Give up, pretty boy.”

  The ground dropped from beneath Keen's feet. More accurately, his feet left the ground. Keen’s hold strained on the man’s neck. He doubled down, but cursed his shot shoulder. His grip slipped fractions at a time.

  Beaumont’s arms locked around his middle. The world tilted.

  Keen ground his teeth in preparation to meet the floor head first.

  “What the fuck?” A gruff and quite distinct feminine voice hollered.

  A groan slipped from Keen’s grimace.

  Why today, of all days? Wasn’t it cocked up enough without throwing Lara into the mix?

  The lawyer practically threw Keen off his shoulder, and amazingly, onto his feet. Both their chests rose and fell in rapid succession. The knot of Beaumont’s tie twisted to the right, wrinkling the once sharply-pointed collar. His shirt tails puffed out in several spots.

  “That’s a good look on you,” Keen jabbed.

  Muscles and veins stretched the skin on Beaumont’s neck and the color returned to his cheeks.

  “Don’t you boys know the rules? No fighting in the building unless I’m involved,” Lara said.

  Their gazes shifted to the tall woman with her hands crossed at her small, perky breasts. Keen kept the lawyer in his periphery. Just in case.

  “I don’t hit women,” Beaumont argued.

  “Looks like you don’t hit men either.” She pointed at Keen. “Actually, I’m inclined to let you two off the hook. That wasn’t even a real fight. More like two men hugging it out.” She pointed to the interrogation room. “I can leave and let you guys finish.”

  “I want to see Ava,” Keen demanded, ignoring her snide remarks and Beaumont’s apparent willingness—given his clenched fists—to prove her wrong.

  “I bet you do.” Lara smiled. “But she finally grew some brain cells and requested

  her attorney, not her hand-holding ex-boyfriend.”

  She made his relationship with Ava sound meaningless and immature. For a split second he wondered if that had come from Ava, then he remembered his history with Lara. He knew the comment came from a place of jealousy and hurt, though she’d used him every bit as much as he’d used her.

  Lara opened the door. “Any day now, Beaumont.”

  Beaumont stuffed his shirt into his pants, yanked his tie in the general area of straight, and headed for the interrogation room. At the threshold he snatched his briefcase from the ground next to the door.

  Keen followed closely behind. Lara’s arm shot across the entrance.

  “Come on, Lara. Let me in. You’re done here anyway.” Keen begged.

  She met him with a stony expression.

  “For old time’s sake?” Keen gave his tried and true panty melting smolder.

  She laughed, actually laughed. “I’ve classed it up a little since I let you bow me over the trunk of
your sexy car in the Hogan’s Alley parking lot. You haven’t. Still pining away I see.” Her gaze shifted to Ava.

  Oh, fuck!

  Crickets chirped in the room, which he had barely a toe inside. He looked past Lara into the small gray room to Ava. She sat across from Winslow.

  Lara Abbott may as well have kicked him in the nuts. Hell, from the slacked jaw on Ava’s chalky white face, she may as well have hacked one off.

  Their gazes connected. For a split second time and trouble suspended. Then the second vanished.

  Ava clamped her mouth shut. Determination hardened her sweet lips and rigid spine. “If you two are finished stumbling through the past, I’d like to get out of here before dawn.”

  The screech of metal on metal pulled Keen’s gaze away. Beaumont dragged a chair from the table next to Ava. His dark eye shot daggers at Keen and studied Lara a little too long for casual curiosity.

  Winslow cleared his throat and sat forward. “Best idea I’ve heard all night.”

  The thick metal door closed slowly. Keen stepped back until his shoulders hit the far wall. Ava’s mother had sent him here to help. So far he’d gotten into an elementary grade tussle and been proverbially bitch-slapped by an old lover. He plowed a hand through his hair. A long groan escaped.

  He needed inside that room. If he didn’t have information no way would he do her any good. Ava was in the middle of a shit storm and it wouldn’t do to wait around until it piled on top of her. Keen had far too long to plot and plan on the plane to DC. Things weren’t working out how he’d planned.

  Go figure.

  After five minutes of staring at the door willing it to open, he grabbed the cell from his pocket and scrolled through the contacts until he found the person he wanted. He hit send and waited.

  The thick Boston accent came through the phone in a sleepy grumble. “Ah, screw you, guy. I thought I told your ass last time not to call at such an hour. I’m an old fuck and I need my beauty rest, especially with these temperatures. You know, sometimes I wonder if you did me a favor at all getting me this job. I swear my organs baked inside my body yesterday. And if I hear, ‘Oh, it ain’t even hot yet,’ from another swamp baked, gator loving son of a Southerner, I’m gonna scream.”