Withholding Evidence

by Grant, Rachel

  Dominick lifted a stack of papers from his desk. “Mara found Ruby’s file in Walt’s cubicle and faxed his service record to me. It appears Ruby was caught up in the Tailhook scandal in 1991.”

  Keith bristled. “Walt sent a woman to interview an aviator who had a history of sexual harassment and misconduct?”

  “So it appears. After he was discharged, he claimed it was because he was a whistleblower, and he was fired in retaliation. He produced some documents related to a botched flight mission that had been classified. He faced charges for revealing government secrets and spent most of the nineties embroiled in legal disputes with the US government. By all accounts, he’s devolved into an antigovernment conspiracy theorist.”

  Unease trickled down Keith’s spine. Could Ruby have moved in the same circles as his father? Keith had told Dominick everything—the background check would reveal his dad’s activism easily enough, so he’d been upfront—and given their estrangement, it shouldn’t be an issue. If Keith discovered any link between his father and Ruby, he’d do a hell of a lot more than block his e-mail address once and for all.

  Dominick fixed Trina with a neutral gaze. “I’d like to hear the recording of your meeting with Ruby.”

  She pulled out a digital recorder from her purse and hit Play. Keith clenched his hands into tight fists as he listened. It was probably good that Sean had been on guard duty. Keith might have crippled Ruby. As it was, he gave Sean props for his quick reaction.

  Recording complete, Curt plugged the USB end of the recorder into his computer and copied it. “I’m going to send this to the Secret Service and FBI for voice analysis. We have recordings of anonymous threats to the president and government made over the years. It would be nice if we could make a match. The man you met was definitely Lieutenant Brian Ruby? You saw his photo in the service file?”

  “Yes. His service photos are twenty years old, but I believe he was the same man.” She leaned back in her chair. “I don’t get it. Why would Walt, a navy employee, be interviewing an antigovernment activist?”

  “According to Walt’s files, Ruby contacted him with the claim he had info on the navy’s involvement with UN peacekeeping missions. Walt seemed to think it related to his short-term assignment after Desert Storm.”

  Keith leaned on Curt’s desk. “So this wasn’t a report assigned to Walt by the department?”

  Curt met his gaze. “As far as we can tell. Mara knew nothing about it. Damn strange, and we can’t question Walt right now. Probably not for a few days.”

  Shit. They only had more questions and no answers. “Is there any chance the heart attack was triggered?” Keith asked. “Could it be part of whatever is going on?”

  Curt nodded. “It’s possible. I’ve requested blood tests to determine if there are any chemicals in his system that could mimic or trigger a heart attack, but it will be days before we know anything.”

  Keith rubbed his hand across his face. “I’m taking Trina to the safe house, then I’m going to Ruby’s.”

  “You can’t question him, Hatcher. He’s officially the subject of an FBI investigation.”

  Keith wasn’t an FBI agent and no longer served in the US armed forces, so he didn’t see how that mattered to him at all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THEY WERE BARELY inside the door of Keith’s safe house before he had Trina pinned to a wall with his mouth on hers as he boosted her up so she could wrap her legs around his hips. She groaned and pressed her center against him, loving the feel of his thick erection even though her slacks and his jeans separated them.

  His lips moved to her throat, sending erotic chills up and down her spine. “Babe.” His lips moved lower. “I’ve wanted you ever since you left the hotel room this morning.” He ground into her and kissed her again, then pulled back. “Unfortunately, Sean’s going to be here in about two minutes.”

  She bit his bottom lip. “Plenty of time for you.”

  He let out a bark of laughter and gently slapped her bottom. “I’ll make you pay for that later.” He kissed her one more time, then loosened his grip. She unhooked her legs from his waist and slid down his body until her feet touched the ground.

  “Promises, promises.”

  She left the foyer, eager to explore the house where she’d be staying with Keith for the foreseeable future. Small, clean, modern. Just outside the Beltway in Maryland, it was far from work, but she still wasn’t certain if she’d be going to the office or working from here.

  Damn if this wasn’t the strangest ten days of her life. Freaky, scary lows, but also, Keith. Just being near him sent her endorphins flying. Looking at him made her knees weak, but it was the quiet moments and conversation that had her falling in love with him.

  She circled the living room, looking for clues to him, but he’d lost everything in the explosion. This house wasn’t his, nor was the furniture. Her gaze landed on a book on the end table, and her breath caught. Not just any book. Her book. Adapted from her dissertation on the navy’s role in the Cold War, the book represented four years of her life and was her proudest accomplishment.

  And the guy who’d found her G-spot last night—and made good use of the knowledge—was reading it.

  Damn if she didn’t feel a tingle there again.

  He stepped up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “I’ve read a lot of history books, and I mean it when I say you have a great voice for narrative history. I love the fact that it’s a politically charged war, yet I’m halfway through and I have no clue what your politics are.”

  She smiled. His praise might just mean more to her than that of the small academic press editor who’d initially accepted the book for publication. She turned to face him, and his hands settled on her hips. “History is always written by the victor, giving most historical accounts biases. I believe the historian’s politics have no place in narrative history. We shouldn’t research the past only to support preexisting beliefs. We should present both sides and let the reader form their own opinion.”

  “I hope you intend to write more along these lines in the future.”

  “Maybe someday. I was actually thinking—” She stopped, then decided she may as well tell the truth. No secrets. “If I’d been able to convince you to tell me about Somalia, combined with my research into the navy’s other interventions to halt the rise of al Qaeda in East Africa, that it might be a good topic for another book. In the declassified parts, anyway.”

  He frowned, but his hands didn’t leave her body.

  “I know you aren’t going to tell me. And I’m not with you because I’m holding out hope you will.”

  His expression cleared. “Good.” He traced her jawline, then her cheek. The way he touched her made her feel beautiful, alluring. Like she was precious. “I want this to work between us, Trina. I—” He stopped.

  Her heart raced, and she didn’t think she could form words if she tried, so she waited.

  “I’ve never—” He laughed and tucked his face in her neck, breathed deeply, then met her gaze again. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone before.”

  Trina didn’t know which stunned her more: that this big, alpha, perfect former SEAL was nervous, or that he was nervous while saying he had deeper feelings for her.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m falling for you too, Keith.”

  His smile lit up his face. The chiseled cheekbones went from handsome to stunning. His thick, dark brows lowered as his eyes flashed with heat. “Glad to know we’re on the same page.”

  Heat infused her. This moment felt almost too good to be true. “Ironic that we have Walt to thank for meeting.”

  Those handsome brows drew together. “Even if he is somehow behind the explosion, I’m pretty sure we’d be following this same path without it. I distinctly remember carrying you up to my bedroom before the blast.”

  “Yes, but it was Walt who passed the Somalia assignment to me. He hates anything more recent than World War II, and once I passed the late
st security clearance bringing me up to his level, he was more than eager to dump his assignments on me.”

  “When?” he asked, new urgency in his voice.

  She thought back. “I tried to get ahold of you for at least two weeks. I had your Norfolk address at first. It wasn’t until the week before we met that I found the Falls Church address. I probably had Walt’s files for a few days before I started contacting sources, including you.”

  “What other projects did he pass on to you?”

  “A Cold War one”—she glanced at her book on the table—“which happens to be my specialty, so it made sense, and the Panama invasion—Operation Just Cause, SEAL Team 4. Most of those interviews are done. Just some follow-up needed.”

  Keith studied her with a frown. “And you didn’t have a problem with Walt dumping his work on you?”

  She’d put up with so much crap from Walt already; she hadn’t given it much thought at the time. “I’m low woman on the totem pole. Most of my coworkers have been there for decades. Everyone dumps their projects on me.” She realized Keith’s expression indicated he was angry for her sake, not that he was disappointed she hadn’t stood up for herself in the office. Warmth flared low in her belly. “It’s not a problem, because generally, I love my job. I’m a military historian working for the navy. Do you have any idea how hard it is for an historian to get a steady job outside of academia? My mom was worried I’d end up teaching high school. Don’t get me wrong—I had the best history teachers in high school, which is why I love the subject—but teaching…not in my skill set. And dealing with high school students? Shoot me now. My teachers—it was their calling. This is mine.”

  She’d pushed away from him and paced the room as she talked. She stopped and remembered her point. “So, no, in general, it doesn’t bug me when Walt dumps his work on me. I was irked when he gave me the Ruby interview, because he told me about it at Dr. Hill’s party like it was a done deal. But that was different. Mara makes sure he’s loaded up with his precious World War II projects, so it isn’t like he’s napping while I do all the work. A few times, when a project timeline was too tight for me, she’d reassign it or kick it back to Walt.”

  Keith’s body radiated with tension, as if he were connecting dots she hadn’t realized existed. “How often is an historian assigned to analyze an event that occurred only five years ago?”

  She cocked her head. His words were an acknowledgment that something had happened in Somalia five years ago, but then, he’d slipped along those lines before. “Very, very rarely. This was my first time. But it makes sense. Knowledge is power, and this study could help troops more now than if we waited fifteen years, at which point the players would have changed and the dynamics of East Africa will have shifted.”

  “And since I won’t tell you anything, what are you going to do?”

  She shrugged. “The report isn’t dependent on your cooperation. I have other sources I intend to pursue.”

  “You’re still going to write it.” His tone was clipped, possibly angry.

  She met his gaze and wasn’t certain she liked the guarded look in his eyes. “Of course.”

  He stepped back, distancing himself from her. Definitely angry.

  “Keith, if there’s something you want to tell me, you can set the record straight. Think about how much your account could help SEAL teams on future covert ops.”

  His lips flattened. “No.”

  Whereas a minute ago she’d felt fluttery and doe-eyed, now tension had entered the room and stood between them, as tangible as another person.

  A knock on the door sounded, breaking the silence but leaving the tension intact. Sean had arrived.

  CHATER TWELVE

  WITH TRINA ENSCONCED in the safe house and guarded by Sean, Keith had chosen to burn his antsy energy by taking over the Ruby surveillance detail. It was only two in the afternoon, yet a week’s worth of events had happened since he’d woken up in bed with Trina this morning.

  He’d settled in an upstairs bedroom of an abandoned, boarded-up house a block away from Ruby’s apartment. The house was one of many in the run-down neighborhood; clearly Ruby had fallen on hard times after his stint as a vaunted naval aviator. Keith trained his high-powered scope on Ruby’s front window and brought him into crisp focus.

  But Keith was distracted. His mind raced as he considered what other sources Trina might tap for information on the Somalia op. No one on his team would talk. Except Owen.

  And Owen was no longer in rehab.

  Shit. A conversation with Trina wouldn’t be good for Owen or for Keith. Probably not for Trina either.

  Hell, it would be bad for Josh and everyone on his team.

  For the first time, it crossed his mind to tell her. She’d understand the implications. But this went far deeper than typical relationship trust—and they’d only known each other for a short time. No way. Kicking that hornet’s nest could serve no purpose. She didn’t need to know. She couldn’t know. This wasn’t something that could be filed away and forgotten, like the old cabinet Trina had told him about.

  He’d been promised by the powers-that-be the op would never be declassified—there wasn’t even any sort of written record at all—because if someone opened up this baby sixty years from now, there were likely to still be repercussions.

  The Pentagon knew what happened, and they’d covered it up nicely. Why the op had been tossed to NHHC for analysis in the first place made no sense—and he had a feeling that was where they needed to be looking. He suspected someone wanted a new narrative—and they were sidestepping the official channels to get it. Hoping for an inaccurate—and public—report that couldn’t be corrected because the truth had to remain buried for every country involved. Problem was, there was only one person who could play scapegoat if any portion of the truth came out.

  Keith could well find himself wearing goat horns—and the woman who would crown him was the same woman he was falling in love with.

  TRINA HUNG UP the phone. She hadn’t expected to get through to the former SEAL so quickly. She’d run into a dead end when she tried to track him down two weeks ago. But today, when frustration with Keith’s attitude pushed her to try one more time, he’d answered the phone at his aunt’s home.

  Even more shocking, the man was eager to speak with her, and he was in the DC area. Now to convince Sean to take her to the interview.

  Sean crossed his not insignificant arms and leaned against the wall. “Not gonna happen.”

  “If we meet at the Navy Yard, it’ll be secure. You can sit in on the entire interview.”

  “No. I can’t. I don’t have your security clearance. You know it. He knows it. I sit with you, and your interview goes nowhere. So it’s not. Going. To happen.”

  “Then we’ll meet in the conference room in Building One. You can be right outside the door.”

  “Keith would kick my ass if I took you there.”

  Well, Keith wasn’t here, was he? No, he’d left minutes after Sean arrived, without bothering to explain where he was going. He’d just kissed her—admittedly, it had been a spectacular kiss—but still, he’d left, leaving all the tension between them with her, where it filled her gut and wreaked havoc in her mind. “I am not an object Keith owns, nor am I a prisoner without freedom. If you won’t take me, I’ll call a cab.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m trying not to be stupid. I’m trying to get my bodyguard to take me to my office so I can complete an assignment issued by the Pentagon.” She glanced at her watch. This had been one long-ass day, and it was only two fifteen. She’d woken up in bed with Keith, which had been perfect, the best morning after. Ever. But the day had seriously gone to hell from there, culminating in Keith making it clear he was withholding information. And with everything that had happened, she’d begun to wonder if he was withholding evidence.

  She might be falling in love with him, but she was still pissed. He could just tell her what she needed to know, but he’d re
fused, repeatedly. He didn’t seem to get the fact that a report on Somalia could do some good—maybe even save the lives of other SEALs. So she did what any self-respecting historian would do—she found a former SEAL from his unit who was ready to talk.

  “I’m calling Keith and telling him where I’m taking you.”

  “Call him. But he’s not my keeper.” Trina grabbed her purse—the only thing she had, because she hadn’t returned to her apartment before coming here—and headed for the door.

  She waited in the passenger seat of Sean’s sedan. He joined her a minute later. “Keith’s pissed.”

  “Tell him that makes two of us.”

  “I will not do that.”

  She snorted. “Today isn’t going as you expected, is it?”

  He tapped on the steering wheel. “Hardly.”

  “Yeah. Same here.” She settled back in her seat and tried to ignore the heartache that increased with every breath.

  “I don’t like Building One for the meet place—and Keith doesn’t either. We’re going back to the DOJ.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll call Curt and Lieutenant Bishop to make arrangements while you drive.”

  Thirty minutes later, they passed through the security screen and entered the Justice Department, where they were led to a private conference room. Sean stepped outside when Lieutenant Owen Bishop arrived.

  Bishop was about the same age as Keith, but tall and skinny with hollow eyes. Clearly combat hadn’t been good for him. He suffered a world of nervous tics. It was a hot summer day, stifling in the paved city, but Bishop wore a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the wrists.

  Between his choice in clothing, the twitches, and his anxious start-and-stop speech pattern, it wasn’t a huge stretch of logic to guess Bishop was self-medicating—most likely with heroin—but she suspected other substances were in the mix. He wasn’t the first veteran she’d interviewed who’d turned to drugs to fight PTSD, and her heart broke for him even while wondering if his account of the Somalia op would be reliable.