Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Marshal

The Marshal
Adrienne Giordano


His painful past is their present dangerThe last thing U.S. Marshal Brent Thompson needs is distraction from his work. But distraction–in the form of a sexy Chicago investigator–is exactly what he gets. Jenna Hayward is as alluring as she is determined, driven to help aprehend the murderer who killed Brent's mother twenty-three years ago. With a shared mission–and a steadily rising attraction that jeopardizes Brent's resolve to stay unattached–the pair must work together to get answers…before the murderer makes them his next victims.







His painful past is their present danger

The last thing US Marshal Brent Thompson needs is distraction from his work. But distraction—in the form of a sexy Chicago investigator—is exactly what he gets. Jenna Hayward is as alluring as she is determined, driven to help apprehend the murderer who killed Brent’s mother twenty-three years ago. With a shared mission—and a steadily rising attraction that jeopardizes Brent’s resolve to stay unattached—the pair must work together to get answers…before the murderer makes them his next victims.


Looking at her had become an exercise in torture. Send her in.

He wanted her. Plain and simple. Whether that want would go away after a few hours of fun—as usually happened—he couldn’t be sure. This wanting, the one keeping him up at night, felt different. Rooted. Like it wouldn’t die with fast, primal sex.

What he didn’t need was a woman getting inside his head and staying there. His adult existence had consisted of the hunt to find his mother’s killer. It was, in fact, all he knew—emotionally speaking. He had no room for anything else. No room. Zero.

When he found the killer, maybe then. Now? No way. He’d blow off his own head trying to juggle a relationship with his mom’s case.

But Jenna was looking at him with those amazing blue eyes and that punch to the chest ripped his air away.

Hell with it.


The Marshal

Adrienne Giordano






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ADRIENNE GIORDANO, a USA TODAY bestselling author, writes romantic suspense and mystery. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the wheaten terrorist (terrier). For more information on Adrienne’s books please visit adriennegiordano.com (http://adriennegiordano.com) or download the Adrienne Giordano app. For information on Adrienne’s street team, go to www.facebook.com/groups/DangerousDarlings (http://www.facebook.com/groups/DangerousDarlings).


CAST OF CHARACTERS (#uf10116fd-a1df-57e7-b742-6fcf23d4e1cf)

Brent Thompson—A protective and loyal deputy US marshal trying to solve his mother’s twenty-three-year-old murder case.

Jenna Hayward—Former beauty queen turned private detective who works for Hennings & Solomon and has been asked to assist Brent on his mother’s cold case.

Penny Hennings—A sassy Chicago defense attorney and Jenna’s boss at Hennings & Solomon.

Special Agent Russell “Russ” Voight—FBI agent who is also Penny’s boyfriend and a friend of Brent’s. Russ assists Jenna and Brent in the investigation.

Aunt Sylvie—Brent’s mother’s sister. She lived next door when the murder occurred and became the mother figure in Brent’s life.

Jamie—Brent’s older cousin and another protective female in his life after his mother’s death.

Uncle Herb—Sylvie’s husband and Jamie’s father. Uncle Herb became a father figure to Brent after his father moved away.

Sheriff Barnes—Sheriff in Carlisle, Illinois, who was the first responder the night Brent’s mother died.

Mason Thompson—Brent’s father and a suspect in his wife’s murder.

Terrence Jeffries—A drug addict who lived in Carlisle and was a suspect in the murder.


For those who’ve known personal tragedy and understand that the heart never forgets.


Contents

Cover (#u2b70f5dd-7e31-566f-ae06-b2a1c7389fc9)

Back Cover Text (#ud4dc354f-1245-5bb0-95ce-86dcfbe93f11)

Introduction (#u0c3a958a-9b40-560b-88d4-7262f162021a)

Title Page (#u0b152de8-b6ba-5b3d-bb84-daa960e58379)

About the Author (#u2d66f7c3-8f9e-5090-869f-2e75f6b21a8b)

Cast of Characters

Dedication (#uc7a312ca-2185-52f3-b55e-d4b1a5ed33e8)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#uf10116fd-a1df-57e7-b742-6fcf23d4e1cf)

This was a switch.

Deputy US marshal Brent Thompson stood in a Chicago hotel ballroom among a throng of impeccably dressed political big shots that, for once, he didn’t have to protect.

Tonight he was a guest.

Whether that made him happy or not was anyone’s guess. But he’d stay another hour for Judge Kline, a woman he’d spent two years watching over after her husband and children were murdered by some nut who’d been on the losing end of a ruling. Judge Kline had ordered him to pay a $1,200 fine and somehow he was mad enough to wipe out her entire family, leaving her to deal with guilt and rage and heartache.

Crazy.

Sometimes—sometimes? Really?—Brent didn’t understand people. Or maybe it was their motivations he didn’t understand, but the human race baffled him.

Tonight Judge Kline, who’d refused to allow her life to collapse under grief, was smiling. A welcome sight since her eighty-five-year-old mother had decided to throw one hell of a shindig for the judge’s sixtieth birthday.

“Brent?”

Brent turned and found the ever-polished Gerald Hennings, Chicago’s highest-profile defense attorney, weaving through the crowd. Accompanying him was a petite blonde in a floor-length bright blue gown. She had to be over fifty, but may have had a little work done to preserve her extraordinary looks. Her perfect cheekbones, the big blue eyes and sculpted nose were duplicates of the ones Brent recognized from Hennings’s daughter, Penny. Didn’t take a genius to figure out this woman was Mrs. Hennings. Brent held his hand out. “Mr. Hennings. Nice to see you.”

Five months earlier, Brent had been assigned to protect Penny Hennings after yet another nut—plenty of nuts in his world—had attempted to kill her on the steps of a federal courthouse. Penny had nearly put Brent into a psych ward with her relentless mouthiness and aggressive attitude, but he’d formed a bond with her. A kinship. And, much like Judge Kline, they’d remained friends after his assignment had ended. For whatever reason, emotionally speaking, he couldn’t let either one of them go. The fact that they’d all experienced tragedy might be the common denominator, but he chose not to think too hard about it. What was the point? None of them would ever fully recover from their individual experiences. All they could do was move on.

Hennings turned to the woman at his side. “I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Pamela. Pam, this is Marshal Brent Thompson. He was the marshal.”

She smiled and—yep—he was looking at Penny in twenty-five years.

“I know,” Mrs. Hennings said. She stepped forward and gripped both of his arms. “Thank you.”

The gesture, so direct and heartfelt, caught him sideways and he stiffened. Freak that he was, he’d never gotten comfortable with strange women touching him. Most guys would love it. Brent? He liked his space being his.

But he stood there, allowing Penny’s mother to thank him in probably the only way she knew how. He could go on about how he’d just been doing his job, which was all true, but even he understood that he’d worked a little harder for Penny. She reminded him too much of his younger sister, Camille, and he hadn’t been able to help himself. “You’re welcome. Your daughter has become a good friend. And if I ever need legal advice, I know who to call.”

Mrs. Hennings laughed.

Mr. Hennings swooped his finger in the air. “You’re not working tonight?”

“No, sir. Judge Kline is a friend.”

“How nice,” Mrs. Hennings said.

“Yes, ma’am. I worked with her for two years. She would always tell me if my tie didn’t match. That happened a lot.”

“As the mother of two sons, I’m sure your mother appreciates that.”

Mother.

Mr. Hennings cleared his throat and, in Brent’s mind, the room fell silent. He glanced around, looking for...what? Confirmation that the room at large wasn’t listening to his conversation?

Maybe.

All around people gabbed and mingled and pretty much ignored Brent. Imagined it. He exhaled and once again the orchestra music—something classical—replaced the fog in his brain.

He’d fielded comments about his mother almost his entire life. It should have been easier by now.

Except for the nagging.

Twenty-three years of gut-twisting, anger-fueled obsession that kept him prisoner. “My mother died when I was five, ma’am.”

Social pro that she must have been, considering her husband’s wizardry with the press, Mrs. Hennings barely reacted. “I’m so sorry.” She turned to Gerald, shooting him the stink-eye. “I didn’t know.”

Moments like these, a guy had to step up and help his brother-in-arms. “No need to apologize. I think about her every day.” And knowing how this conversation would go, the curiosity that came with why and how such a young woman had died, Brent let it fly. “She was murdered.”

Social pro or not, Mrs. Hennings gasped. “How horrible.”

Brent sipped his club soda, gave the room another glance and came back to Mrs. Hennings. “My sister and I adjusted. We have a supportive family.”

“I hope they caught the person who did this.”

“No, ma’am. It’s still an open case.”

A case that lived and breathed with him and had driven him into law enforcement. If the Carlisle sheriff’s office couldn’t find his mother’s killer, he’d do it himself.

“Are the police still looking into it?”

Brent shrugged. “If they get a tip or some new information. I work it on my downtime, but downtime is short.”

Mrs. Hennings, obviously still embarrassed by bringing up the subject of his dead mother, turned to her husband. “Can’t one of your investigators help? You do all sorts of pro bono work for clients. Why not this?”

“Pam, those are cases where we’re defending people. This is different.”

Brent held up his hand As much as he’d like help, he didn’t want a domestic war started over it. “Mrs. Hennings, it’s okay. But thank you.”

Still, down deep, Brent wanted to find the person who’d wrecked his family and had saddled him with a level of responsibility—and guilt—no five-year-old should have known. Every day, the questions haunted him. Could he have helped her? Should he have done something when he first heard a noise? Was he a crummy investigator because all these years later he still couldn’t give his mother justice?

At this point, if he couldn’t find this monster on his own, he’d take whatever help available. Ego aside, justice for his mother was what mattered.

Mrs. Hennings kept her gaze on her husband. “You were just complaining that Jenna is bored with her current assignments. After what Brent did for Penny, give Jenna his mother’s case to investigate. It’ll challenge her and keep her out of your hair. Where’s the problem?”

Mr. Hennings pressed his lips together and a minuscule, seriously minuscule, part of Brent pitied the man. If he didn’t agree with his wife, his life would be a pile of manure.

Mrs. Hennings shot her husband a meat cleaver of a look, then turned back to Brent. “My husband will call you about this tomorrow. How’s that?”

With limited options, and being more than a little afraid to argue because, hey, he was no dummy either, he grinned at Mr. Hennings. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

* * *

JENNA SLID ONTO one of the worn black vinyl bar stools at Freddie’s Tap House, a mostly empty shot-and-a-beer joint on the North Side of Chicago.

How the place stayed in business, she had no idea. On this Wednesday night the sports bar down the block was packed, while the only people patronizing Freddie’s were an elderly man sitting at the bar and a couple huddled at a table in the back.

The bartender glanced down the bar at her and wandered over. “Evening. Get you something?”

You sure can.

“Whatever’s on tap. Thanks.”

He nodded and scooped a glass from behind the bar, pouring a draft as he eyed her black blazer and the plunging neckline on her cashmere sweater. “Haven’t seen you in here before. New in town?”

As much as she’d tried to dress down with jeans, she hadn’t been able to resist the sweater. When dealing with men, a little help from her feminine wiles—also known as her boobs—never hurt. “Nope. New in here, though.”

“You look more Tiffany’s than Freddie’s.”

Already Jenna liked him. “Are you Freddie?”

“Junior.”

“Sorry?”

“Freddie Junior. My dad is Freddie. I took over when he retired.”

He slid the beer in front of Jenna. Once more she looked around, took in the polished, worn wood of the bar, the six tables along the wall and the line of empty bar stools.

“Slow night,” Freddie said.

Lucky me. She opened her purse, pulled out a fifty and set it on the bar. Next came the photo taken the week prior by a patron in this very bar. He glanced down at the fifty, then at the photo.

“I’m not a cop,” Jenna said. “I’m an investigator working for a law firm.”

“Okay.”

She pointed at the photo of two men with a woman in the background. Jenna needed to find that woman. “Have you seen her in here?”

He picked up the photo and studied it. “Yeah. Couple of times. When a woman like that walks into a beer joint, there’s generally a reason. Kinda like you.”

Figuring it was time to put her cleavage to work, Jenna inched forward, gave him a view of the girls beneath that V-neck and smiled. Most women would love the idea that a fifteen-pound weight gain had gone straight to their chest. Jenna supposed it hadn’t hurt her ability to claw information from men—and maybe she used it to her advantage. But she also wanted to be recognized for extracting the information and not for the way she’d done it.

Did that even make sense? She wasn’t sure anymore. All she knew was her need for positive reinforcement had led her to using her looks to achieve her goals. That meant wearing clingy, revealing clothing. Such a cliché. But the thing about clichés was they worked.

“Any idea what her reason for being here was?”

Freddie took the boob-bait and leaned in. “No. Both times she met someone. Why?”

All Jenna could hope was he’d gotten the woman’s name. “My client is being held on a robbery charge. He says he was in here the night of the robbery and he met this woman. Her name is Robin.”

“Where’d you get the picture?”

“Friends of my client.”

He dropped the picture on the bar and tapped it. “Birthday party, right?”

“Yes. My client and six of his friends. Any idea where I can find her?”

“Nah.”

“Did she pay by credit card?”

If she paid by credit card, there would be a record of the transaction, and Jenna would dig into the Hennings & Solomon coffers and pay Freddie a high, negotiated sum for a look at his credit card receipts. From there, she’d get a name and two calls later would have an address for Robin-the-mystery-woman.

“Cash.”

Shoot.

Freddie may have been lying. Jenna studied him, took in his direct gaze. Not lying. At least she didn’t think so. Again with the wavering? Didn’t she have a good sense about these things? Yes, she did. For that reason she’d go with the theory that Freddie seemed to be a small-business owner who wanted to stay out of trouble while trying to make a living. She dug her card and a pen out of her purse, wrote her cell number on the card and placed it next to the fifty on the bar.

“How about I leave you my card? If she comes in again and you call me, there’s a hundred bucks in it for you.”

Freddie glanced at the card. After a moment, he half shrugged. “Sure. If I see her.”

Jenna took one last sip of her beer, slid off the stool and hitched her purse onto her shoulder. “Thanks.” She nodded toward the fifty. “Keep the change.”


Chapter Two (#ulink_c8b70c7d-ce79-59d4-9a14-a094c0dacc27)

At 9:00 a.m. the following morning, Jenna stepped into the Hennings & Solomon boardroom and found her boss, the man known around Chicago as the Dapper Defense Lawyer—Dapper DL for short—sitting at the end of the table. Not a surprise since he’d called this impromptu meeting by sending her a text at 7:00 a.m.

Not that she minded the text. When that happened, it meant he needed help, and that little boost—that feeling of being the one that Gerald Hennings, defense lawyer of all defense lawyers, called on—never got old. From the beginning, he’d had faith in her. Even when her application to the FBI had been denied and she’d taken a job at a PI firm as their quasi receptionist-turned-investigator, he’d seen potential and had hired her as one of his two full-time investigators. She’d always be grateful for the opportunity to prove herself.

She’d also be grateful that he’d never—not once—hit on her. Most men did. Simple fact. As a former Miss Illinois runner-up, part of her success came from men wanting to sleep with her. And, let’s face it, some men were idiots. When those idiots wanted to seduce a woman, they started talking.

A lot.

“Sorry for the sudden meeting,” Mr. Hennings said.

“No problem, sir.”

Given his choice of the conference room rather than his office, she assumed others would be joining them and took a seat two chairs down.

Penny Hennings, Gerald’s daughter and a crack defense attorney herself, swung in, her petite body moving fast as usual. “Sorry I’m late.”

She hustled around the table and took the seat next to her father. The guys around the office secretly joked about the killer combo of Penny’s sweet looks and caustic mouth. A viper wrapped in a doll’s body.

“You’re not late,” Mr. Hennings said. “Relax.”

“Hi, Jenna.” Penny high-fived her across the table. “I love these unscheduled meetings. It’s always something juicy.”

Mr. Hennings smirked. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s not a client.”

Penny made a pouty face. “Boo-hiss, Dad.”

The boss laughed and shook his head at his daughter. “I ran into Brent Thompson at a function last night.”

Now that got Jenna’s attention. She’d worked with Brent briefly. He’d been assigned to protect Penny from a psycho who’d tried to blackmail her into throwing a case. Each time Jenna had locked eyes with the studly marshal, her blood had gone more than a little warm. He had a way about him. Tough, in charge and majorly hot.

“Really?” Penny said as if the idea of her father and Brent running in the same social circles was ridiculous. “You ran into Brent? Was he working?”

“No. He was a guest at Judge Kline’s birthday party. Apparently he was one of the marshals assigned to her after her family was murdered.”

“Huh. I had no idea. That man is full of surprises.”

“We got to talking about his mother.”

For whatever reason, Penny’s eyebrows hitched. “Really.”

Jenna cocked her head. “That’s the second time you’ve said ‘really.’ What about his mother?”

Still focused on her father, Penny ignored the question. “He doesn’t usually talk about her. I don’t know the whole story. He mentioned it to Russ, and Russ told me.”

Russ—Penny’s FBI agent boyfriend-soon-to-be-fiancé, if Penny had anything to do with it—was a great source of information, and Jenna had learned to use him sparingly, but thoroughly. “What about Brent’s mother?”

Mr. Hennings turned to Jenna. “She was murdered twenty-three years ago.”

Frigid stabs shot up Jenna’s neck. If her boss wanted shock factor, he’d succeeded. “Wow.”

Penny glanced across the table. Momentarily stymied, Jenna gave her the help-me look. “The case is still open,” Penny said.

Her father turned back to Jenna. “You’ve indicated you’d like more challenging work.”

Despite her temporary paralysis, Jenna sensed an opportunity coming her way. “Yes, sir.”

“You know what they say about being careful what you wish for.”

“Sir?”

“Brent’s mother’s case, it’s cold. My wife has gotten it into her head that we should have our investigators work it.”

Jenna sucked in air. A cold case. Simply amazing. For months she’d been craving something more than paper trails and fraud cases. Something she could tear apart and hone her skills on. But this? Could she handle a murder? If it were here in the city, she might be able to pull it off. Her list of contacts was growing, and her retired detective father still had people who owed him favors.

“Hang on,” Penny said.

Yes, hang on. “Did the murder happen here?”

Penny threw up her hand. “Hang. On. Dad, I’ll do anything for Brent, but we’re attorneys. This case has no defendant. Therefore, no client. How do we do this if there’s no client?”

“It’s pro bono.”

Penny dropped her head an inch. “I’m... Wait... I’m confused. Again, no client. How are we working pro bono if there’s no client?”

“We’re helping a friend. I’m not sure how we’ll do the paperwork. There may not be any paperwork. I really don’t know. All I know is that your mother had that look about her.”

Penny sat back and sighed. “I know that look.”

Jenna raised her hand. “Where did the murder happen?”

“Carlisle, Illinois,” Mr. Hennings said. “About sixty miles south of here.”

Oh, no. She had zero contacts that far away. Even Russ probably wouldn’t be able to help her. Although, maybe he knew someone who knew someone. Heck, maybe she knew someone who knew someone.

“You’re hesitating. I assumed you’d be interested.”

“I am. Interested.”

I think. Breaking a cold case would send her value on the professional front soaring. A cold case would prove she had skills beyond her looks.

Still with her hands folded, Jenna took a minute to absorb it all. Twenty-three-year-old murder. Sixty miles away. No contacts. Juggling it with other cases. Piece of cake. Hysteria cramped her throat. I can do this. She inhaled, straightened her shoulders and channeled Jenna-the-lioness, the Jenna everyone around the office knew.

“I can handle it, sir. Thank you.”

“Good. Penny is your point person on this.” He turned to Penny. “You’re the logical choice. I can’t give it to one of the associates. Technically, this case doesn’t exist. Plus, he’s your friend.”

Jenna flipped her thumbs up. This was a chance to have a profound impact on someone’s life. “Works for me. Let’s solve a cold case.”

* * *

“GOOD MORNING, MARSHAL THOMPSON,” Penny Hennings said in the snarky voice that had earned her the Killer Cupcake moniker from law enforcement guys who’d been on the rough end of one of her cross-examinations.

Brent stepped into the Hennings & Solomon conference room—a place he’d been countless times before—and smiled. “Good morning, Ms. Hennings,” he shot back in a damned good imitation.

Penny popped out of her chair, cornered the huge table and charged him.

He held his arms out and folded her into them. “You’re like a teeny-tiny bird,” he cracked.

She gave him a squeeze, then shoved him back. “Well, I was going to be nice, but now I’m not.” He unleashed a teasing smile and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t think that smile will work on me,” she said with sisterly affection. “I’m a lawyer. I’m immune.”

“Yes,” came a female voice from the end of the table. “But I may not be.”

He’d know that voice anywhere. Jenna. Five months ago he’d been standing in the hallway right outside this room and spotted her amazing body gliding toward him in a way that would make any red-blooded male drop to his knees. He’d seen her dozens of times since then, and she’d invaded his mind on a regular basis. She was one of those women lucky enough to have her weight evenly distributed, but with a little extra magically landing in all the right places. With her long legs—perfect for a guy who clocked in just shy of six-four—and a body that was more lush than slim, Jenna Hayward gave him an itch he seriously wanted to scratch.

Right now, though, he needed fresh eyes on his mother’s case, and his mother always took precedence.

He held his breath, readying himself for the sight of Jenna to knock him daffy. By now he knew to prepare for it. That first day? He’d been toast. He released his breath, turned and there she was, sitting with her shoulders back and one hand resting on the tabletop. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulders and draped over her red blouse. The blouse with one more button undone than was technically appropriate. He studied that extra button and imagined...

Don’t.

He brought up his eyes and found her staring at him, head tilted. Their gazes held for a long second, the blue of her eyes sparking at him and—yeah, baby—he started to sweat. Slowly, knowing exactly where his mind had gone, her lips eased into a smile that should have dropped him like a solid right hook. Bam!

“Nice to see you, Jenna,” he said.

Very nice.

She stood and he moved to the end of the table, holding out his hand. She took it, gave it a firm but brief shake. “Hello, Brent. Always a pleasure.”

“It’s like a reunion in here,” Penny said.

Penny. Right. They had company. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and took the seat across from Jenna, leaving the head of the table open for Penny. Her meeting, her power spot.

He waited for Penny to get settled and then angled toward her. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s the least we can do. You know I hate to get mushy, but you mean a lot to us. If we can help you get some kind of closure, we’ll do it.”

Brent slid his gaze to Jenna. Talking details about his mom in front of people he barely knew never came easy. The basic stuff about her murder and the case still being open, he’d gotten used to. Now he’d have to get comfortable with Jenna real quick. And not in the way he wanted.

He swiveled his chair to face her. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s been twenty-three years. The case is as cold as they get.”

“I don’t mind a challenge, and if we can figure this out, well, I suppose we’d all be...satisfied.”

“I’d be more than satisfied. But listen, there’s no pressure here. If you can dig up some leads, it’ll help. A fresh look might crack it.”

“Maybe,” Jenna said.

“Where do we start?” Penny asked.

“I can tell you what I know, take you to the crime scene, go over whatever notes I have. The sheriff is a good guy. I can’t see him being subversive. Right now, he’s got an unsolved murder messing with his violent crime statistics.”

Jenna’s eyebrows hit her hairline. Yeah, that statistics line sounded harsh. He sounded harsh. After spending eighty percent of his life wondering what happened to his mother, he’d forced himself to detach. Emotional survival meant burying the pain. Stuffing it away.

Coping 101. Brent style.

The phone at his waist buzzed. “Excuse me, I need to check this.”

Text from his boss. They had a tip on a federal fugitive. He shot a text back, stood and buttoned his flapping suit jacket. “Ladies, I’m sorry. I need to go. Jenna, call me with your schedule. Outside of work, I’m at your disposal.”

She gave him that slow smile again—simply wicked—and his chest pinged. Son of a gun. In a matter of minutes, she’d figured out how to distract him from thoughts of his mother.

Whether that was good or bad, they’d soon find out.

* * *

THAT EVENING JENNA rode shotgun in Brent’s SUV while they drove the sixty miles south to Carlisle, Illinois, a place so foreign to city girl Jenna that she wasn’t sure she’d even speak the same language.

Maybe that was a tad extreme, but Brent had exited the tollway and immediately engulfed them in miles and miles of farmland. Could she get a Starbucks? A Mickey D’s? Anything commercial?

Not even six o’clock and the late October sky suddenly had gone black. She smacked her legal pad against her lap. Marshal Hottie had taken off his suit jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves a few times. The slightly messy look fit him. The suit look fit him, too. He was one of those men who could wear anything and still look good. Not fussy, pulled-together good, but rugged good.

She smacked her pad against her leg again and he glanced down at the offending noise before going back to the road. The man had an amazing profile. Strong. Angled. Determined. Even the bump in his nose added to his I’m-in-charge persona. She’d like to see his hair—those fabulous honey-brown strands—a little longer, but he was working the short, lawman look nicely.

“I’m not great with sitting,” she said.

“Not the worst thing. We’re only five minutes out.”

“Can you give me a quick overview? Are you okay with that? I don’t want to upset you while you’re driving.”

“Jenna, it’s been twenty-three years. If I need to, I can recite the facts of my mom’s case in my sleep.”

“I guess after a while it becomes...what? Rote?” Ugh. What a thing to say. “Wait. No. Bad word choice. I’m so sorry.”

Brent shifted in his seat, switched hands on the wheel. “First thing, you’ve got to get over that.”

“What?”

“Worrying about offending me. I’m fairly unoffendable. And when it comes to my mom, if finding her killer means dealing with you speaking freely, I’m on board. Do your thing, Jenna. Don’t get hung up on my emotions. If it’s too much, I’ll remove myself and let you work. I need you focused on my mom, not me. Got it?”

Well, hello, big boy. “I sure do.”

“Good. I called the sheriff this morning and let him know we were coming. He’ll meet us at the house—the crime scene—so you can take a look.”

Jenna jotted notes. “This is the house you grew up in?”

“Yes. My father still owns it.”

“Does he live there?”

“No. He’s off the grid. Haven’t seen or heard from him in nine years.”

She stopped jotting. “What’s that about?”

“Wish I knew. When I was in college, he paid off the house and left me in charge of Camille, my then seventeen-year-old sister. I was on a football scholarship and had to figure out how to stay in school, play ball and get my sister through high school. My aunt and uncle lived next door so they helped until Camille graduated and went to college. Now she lives in the city with her newly acquired husband.”

And, wow, Marshal Brent was a machine with the way he recited his life history. “Who lives in the house?”

Brent cleared his throat. “We lived in it until Camille left for college and I could afford to move to the city. Now it’s empty. It’ll stay that way until we figure out who killed my mother. I pay all the bills and the house needs major work, but I don’t want anything painted or repaired. There might still be evidence somewhere.”

In an odd way, it made sense. Who knew the secrets buried in the floors and walls? Any major construction would wash away potential evidence. “I understand. It’s smart. And amazing that you’ve maintained the house on your own.”

Not to mention the fact that at nineteen, an age when most young men were focused solely on the number of women they could sleep with, he’d managed to help raise his younger sister. “Your dad, is he a...um...”

“Suspect? Yes. The husband always gets a look. They haven’t been able to clear him.” She tapped her pen and Brent glanced at her. “Get over this hesitation, Jenna. I need you unfiltered and open-minded.”

Sideways in her seat, she focused on him. She couldn’t quite grasp his he-man attitude. Sure, he had the physical size of a tough guy, but even the most hardened men had to feel something when their mother had been murdered.

But he wanted unfiltered. She’d give it to him. “Tell me what happened.”

A corner of his mouth lifted and hello again, Marshal Hottie.

“Atta, girl. It was just after midnight and we were sleeping in our rooms. I woke up to a noise in the living room—I’d later find out it was my mother hitting the floor after someone blasted her on the skull. We never found a weapon.”

Jenna jotted notes in her quasi shorthand, but paused to look at him. His features were relaxed, as if he was deep in thought, but other than that, she sensed no anxiety. They might as well have been out for a Sunday drive given his body language.

“I heard the back door shut. I figured it was my dad coming home. He worked second shift at a manufacturing plant. Farming equipment. But the house got quiet. Usually, when my dad came home, he walked straight back to their bedroom and the floorboards squeaked. That night? No squeak. I stayed in bed for a few minutes thinking about it, and then got up to look.”

“Were you scared?”

“No. I don’t know why. I should have been.”

Jenna took notes, letting him focus on the road and on the facts of his mother’s murder. Facts she was stunned he remembered with such clarity and, again, recited rather...dispassionately. He hooked a left onto another rural road and pressed the gas. What speed limit sign? “You left your room?”

“I walked down the hall to the living room and found her on the floor.” He tapped the top of his forehead. “Bleeding. Then I got scared. My mom’s sister and her husband live next door and I ran there. My uncle went back to check on her. He called 9-1-1 from the kitchen phone, grabbed my sister and brought her to be with me. My aunt and uncle put us in their bed and told us to go back to sleep. By then, I was too scared to do anything so I stayed there.” He glanced at Jenna and then back at the road. “I can’t figure out if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

“Probably both.”

“Finally,” Brent said. “She’s unfiltered. That’s what we need. For twenty-three years the same man has had this case. He’s done a decent job, but he only sees what he sees.”

Just ahead, a crossing came into view. To the right, a few houses with lit windows dotted the two-lane road. Brent cruised past them and continued on for a quarter mile to a second set of twin, single-story homes with cute porches she’d bet were great for sitting on during summer. One house was dark, the other with only a porch light. He pulled into the driveway of the darkened one, parked and cut the engine.

“This is it,” he said. “If my aunt and uncle are home, they’ll be over in three minutes. Guaranteed.”

Jenna sat forward, scrunched her nose at the darkness. “I’m assuming the electricity is on.”

“It’s on. We’ve got ten minutes before the sheriff arrives. You want to go in?”

She nodded.

He slid from the SUV and came around to open her door. A gentleman. Love it. The front porch light flashed on and she flinched.

“Sorry,” Brent said. “Motion sensor. Should have warned you.”

“No problem.”

Side by side, they walked to the porch. Brent swung his keys on his index finger once, twice, three times, and then snatched them into his hand.

Jenna stopped at the base of the stairs. “What about other suspects?”

“The sheriff thinks it might have been a robbery gone bad. Back then the only one in town who locked their door was my dad. Every night after he came home he’d lock up. My mom would wait for him. The working theory is an intruder came through the unlocked back door and tried to rob the place.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Maybe. Carlisle isn’t that big. Eight hundred people. Everyone knows everyone. There was a junkie who lived across town. He’s moved away since, but they looked at him hard thinking he needed cash to score drugs. Couldn’t make a case.”

Junkie. Jenna made a note on the pad she’d brought from the car. “Does the sheriff know where he is?”

“I keep tabs on him. I’ll get you his address. Then there’s my dad. He left work that night and said he came straight home. No one knows what time he left the plant, and there was no security video inside the plant back then. He punched out at midnight, but theoretically his buddies could have punched him out. Guys did that all the time.”

“How does that feel?”

“What?”

Please. Did he even realize how repressed his emotions were? At some point, Brent would need to stop burying the agony of his mother’s death and let himself grieve. Obviously, now was not the time because this boy was locked up tight. “Thinking about your dad killing your mother. How does that feel?”

He climbed the stairs, waving her forward. “I have no idea.”

“Pardon?”

Facing her, he let out a long breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I can’t go there. I’ve thought about it over the years, but I don’t want to believe he could do that to her.”

“Did they argue a lot?”

He shrugged. “He yelled. She yelled back. Beyond that, I don’t know. I was too young to draw any conclusions about whether they were happy or not.”

And somehow, with all this trapped inside, he’d managed to stay sane.

“Anyway,” he said. “The sheriff’s name is Barnes. He’s on board with you poking around, but don’t irritate him. He needs to be involved.”

She wrote the sheriff’s name down so she could check him out. Maybe ask her dad’s contacts about him. “Involved to what extent?”

If she had to check in before every move, they’d be sunk. She didn’t and wouldn’t work that way. Part of being good at her job—at least she hoped—meant shifting on the fly. She had no interest in checking in every ten minutes.

“To the extent where you don’t aggravate or blindside him. If you’re coming here, give him a heads-up. If you get a solid lead, give him a heads-up. If you want to question one of his citizens, give him a heads-up. Beyond that, I’ve got your back. You need a battle fought with him, I’m your guy. I know his buttons, and that makes me good at not pushing them.”

And, oh, her heart went pitter-patter. This man, screwed-up emotions and all, might be her dream come true. He knew how to work people without them turning on him. “Brent Thompson, I think we’ll make a great team.” She faced the house, took in the peeling paint on the front door and breathed in. “Take me inside. We’ve got work to do.”


Chapter Three (#ulink_e9812ae3-32ac-5a06-9e31-d3b0579dfd88)

Brent shoved his key in the lock on the front door, stared down at the weathered handle and held his breath. Beside him, Jenna moved, ratcheting up his already spring-loaded tension. Straightening his shoulders, he released the breath he’d been holding.

“Are you okay?” Jenna asked, her voice mixing with the whistling wind.

With all the open space out here, he’d grown immune to the wind noise. Except tonight. Tonight that wind could have been a brass band in his head. Why tonight should be any different from the thousands of other times he’d stepped into this house, he wasn’t clear on, but it definitely had something to do with Jenna-the-investigator, a near stranger wearing that red blouse with the extra unfastened button still taunting him, entering his space. The place where his life had been decimated.

“Brent?”

One, two, three. Go.

He turned the lock and shoved open the door. “I’m good. Just thinking.” Flipping the inside light switch, he stepped over the threshold. “Come in.”

When Jenna stepped in, he closed the door, shut out that damned wind and pointed to the living room floor. “Crime scene.”

Jenna glanced around, taking in the sofa and the end tables all covered with sheets. Her gaze traveled to the front windows and the dusty drapes. Last time he’d been here, he’d forgotten to close them. Not a huge deal since his aunt and uncle watched over the place. Even if someone wanted to break in, what would they get? Thirty-year-old furniture. That’s all. Everything else had been tossed or cleared out, all their childhood memories and valuables split between Brent and Camille.

All that was left here was the place his mother had died.

“Wow,” Jenna finally said.

“Yeah.”

“This is the original furniture?”

“Yes. The floor, too.” He gestured to the hardwood. “It’s never been refinished. In case you were wondering.”

“I was. Thank you.”

“Everything is relatively the same.”

She took a step, and then halted before turning back to him. “May I?”

“Can’t investigate standing here.”

She walked around the furniture, peeled back a corner of a sheet to inspect the sofa then backed up to study the floor. After a minute, she squatted and ran her hand over the area where he’d found his mother beaten and bloody. Suddenly, the way Jenna’s black slacks stretched over her rear seemed a whole lot better to think about.

Yeah, think about the beautiful woman instead. For once, he’d let his baser needs take the lead.

“Your bedroom is down this hallway?”

At that, he blurted a laugh. What timing.

“What’s funny?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Yes, bedroom is down the hall.”

She inched closer to the sofa and his palms tingled, the flicking shooting straight up his arms into his chest.

“Right there,” he said.

Jenna stopped and looked back at him. Her eyes, her body, the way she moved, all of it left him...affected.

“What?” she asked.

“One step to your right. That’s where she was when I came down the hallway.”

Without moving, she stared at the floor, studying the details—the grain of the wood, the seams where blood had seeped, the scuff marks—he’d spent years obsessing over.

Outside, a car door slammed. Sheriff Barnes arriving. Brent turned away from Jenna to open the door. The cruiser was parked behind his SUV. Brent held up a hand. “Hey, Sheriff.”

Barnes, in the drab beige uniform the Carlisle Sheriff’s Department had used since Brent could remember, strode to the porch, hat in place, bat belt—otherwise known as his gun belt—snug on his hips. Over the years, Barnes had filled out, but at nearly fifty-eight, he could still chase down perps.

He shook Brent’s hand. “Brent, good to see you.”

Not really, but what else was the guy supposed to say? “Thanks for coming, Sheriff. Come in.”

Barnes stepped into the house, spotted the gorgeous brunette in the killer blouse and did a double take. Right there with ya. Every damned time Brent looked at her he had that same feeling. A little helpless, a little stunned and a whole lot horny.

Jenna glanced up, smiled and strutted toward them. Brent cleared his throat. “Sheriff Barnes, this is Jenna Hayward, the investigator I was telling you about.”

Barnes shot him a look, and then shook his head. “But damn, if I had an investigator that looked like her, my crime rate would skyrocket. Everyone would want to be investigated.”

In Brent’s office, if he’d made a comment like that, his superiors would have sent him to sensitivity training. Out here in Carlisle? No one much cared because they knew Barnes was a good, honest man who’d sooner sever his own hand than use it to touch a woman other than his wife. Unsure how Jenna would feel about the remark, he turned to her, offered an apologetic nod.

“Now, Sheriff,” Jenna said, “you’d better watch yourself. I tend to get bored easily and may come looking for a job.”

Barnes shook Jenna’s extended hand, locked eyes with her, and the way she smiled, all crooked and come-get-me, once again reminded Brent how she used her looks to play men.

Particularly ones foolish enough to get played.

Finally, the sheriff got a hold of himself, straightened up and turned to Brent. “I have the copies you wanted in the car.”

“Thank you.” Brent swirled his finger. “I was about to review the scene with Jenna.”

“Want me to do that?”

Not a bad idea, but he wanted to give his version of what he knew from that night. “I’ll handle the first part and you can summarize the investigation. That work?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Sheriff,” Jenna said, “I appreciate you letting me look at your files. A lot of people wouldn’t.”

Barnes shifted his hat between his hands. “I was a deputy back then and this was my first murder case.”

His gaze went to the floor, the spot where Brent’s mother had died, and the damned flicking stabbed up Brent’s arms again. Anymore, he couldn’t be in this house without the failure tearing at him. He inched his shoulders back and focused on Jenna.

“Anyway,” Barnes said, “this case has stayed with me. I’ve got patience, but I need someone with imagination who can see more than I’m seeing. All I know is I want it solved.”

Didn’t they all.

Brent gestured down the hallway to his childhood bedroom where the hell began. “Let’s start there.”

* * *

JENNA FOLLOWED BRENT down the corridor, tracking his footsteps on the threadbare rug as he demonstrated the path that led him to discovering his mother’s body. She glanced up at the peeling wallpaper—white with roses—and wondered how long it had been there.

“I looked out the door, but didn’t see anything,” Brent said. “My parents’ bedroom door was closed, so I went to the living room, where the television was still on.”

Something in his tone, the flatness, the lack of emotion, the detachment, again struck Jenna as odd. This was his mother and he was reciting these facts as if reading from a script.

“The house was quiet,” he continued. “I figured my mom had fallen asleep on the couch. She did that sometimes.”

Jenna jotted notes as she walked. At least until Brent stopped short and—smash!—she collided with him. Her chin bounced off his back, her pad fell to the floor and her pen...well...that sucker plunged into him. She gasped, dropped it and instinctively rubbed the wounded spot. A spot that happened to be on Brent Thompson’s extremely tight backside.

The shock of her hand in a place it seriously shouldn’t have been must have registered because he spun toward her.

Holy cow! She’d just groped a US marshal.

And liked it.

What a nightmare. She smacked her hand against her chest. Bad, hand, bad. A horrified giggle blurted out. And it gets worse.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to beg you to believe that was a completely—completely—unintentional thing. It was a reaction. If I’d hit your arm, I’d have grabbed it. I swear to you. Total accident.”

Defuse it. Yes. That’s what she’d do. Before they both started stuttering. She leaned forward, went on tiptoe and, keeping her voice low, she added, “But seriously, your backside is a work of art. Pure heaven.”

At that, Brent’s lips spread slowly, like melting butter inching across his face, and Jenna’s brain seized. The man had a smile—one he didn’t show too often—that could spark a fire in a saturated forest.

“Heaven, huh?”

“Pure. I am sorry, though. Really.”

Not really.

“You don’t look sorry.”

But the sinful grin told her he was enjoying the game as much as she was. Sure, she liked flirting. Did it often and with purpose. But with Brent, it was just plain fun. They both knew the spark was there. They’d just chosen not to do anything with it.

At least until she’d groped him and decided they definitely needed to do something with it.

The sheriff stepped into view at the end of the hallway. “It got quiet. You two okay?”

Brent’s gaze traveled to the open buttons on her blouse and back up, giving her a heavy dose of eye contact. “Are we okay?”

“We are A-okay, Sheriff. Just having a little powwow here.”

“Powwow,” Brent said. “Is that what it’s called?”

“It is now, big boy.”

A squeak from the back of the house sounded and Brent winced, the move so small she’d almost missed it. In the second it took him to realize she’d witnessed his unguarded response, he threw his shoulders back and jerked a thumb toward the end of the hallway.

“Someone’s at the back door. Probably my uncle. Let me check this.”

Turning from her, he strode to the end of the hall, hung a right and headed to the kitchen.

If it was his uncle, she’d get an opportunity to put a face to a name. As she always did, she’d lay on the Miss Illinois-Runner-Up charm and let him get comfortable with her before interviewing him. She may have been rejected by the FBI, but they were clueless at how adept she was at handling men. Her four brothers could attest to that.

Regardless, everyone here the night of the murder needed to be interviewed. Any one of them could hold one small detail they deemed irrelevant, but might actually be important. Anything was possible.

Even twenty-three years later.

“Hey,” Brent said. “Figured it was you.”

“We just came from dinner.” Male voice. A little gravelly. Older. “I saw your car outside. You didn’t call.”

Jenna and the sheriff stood in the living room giving Brent privacy with his uncle. At least she guessed it was his uncle.

“The day got away from me,” Brent said. “Come into the living room. I want you to meet someone.”

“Really?” The gravelly voice raised with that recognizable tone every unmarried, twenty-eight-year-old woman knew and sometimes, in her case, despised.

Did Brent’s uncle think he was bringing a love interest home to meet his family? And what? Showing his girlfriend the place where his mother was murdered?

Twisted.

But, well, she’d seen plenty of twisted in this line of work. Simply put, people were weird. Brent just didn’t strike her as one of the weird ones.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Brent said.

“You’re not getting any younger.”

Finally, Brent laughed. “As you keep telling me.”

He stepped into the room, his uncle on his heels. Given Brent’s size it was no shocker that his uncle stood a good six inches shorter. He wore tattered jeans with an untucked flannel shirt over a T-shirt. His scuffed work boots clunked against the hardwood as he came into the room. Under the brim of his baseball cap, one which Jenna’s mother would ask him to remove in the house, his gaze shot to Jenna and then to the sheriff.

He nodded. “Sheriff, everything all right?”

“Just fine, Herb. Brent asked me to meet him here.”

“Uncle Herb, this is Jenna Hayward.”

Herb removed his cap, came toward her and shook her hand. “Hello.”

“Jenna is a private investigator.”

That got his attention. He looked at Brent, and then swung back to Jenna.

“No fooling?”

“No fooling,” she said. “I work for a law firm.”

Brent waggled a hand. “Remember the lawyer from last spring?”

“The mouthy blonde?”

“Seriously,” Brent said, “you did not just say that.”

Oh, he sure had and Jenna couldn’t help smiling at the spot-on description of her boss. “That’s her. She’s one of my bosses.”

Brent glanced at her. “Sorry. They were asking me about Penny and I was trying to describe her. I didn’t mean it the way it sounds.” He went back to his uncle. “Jenna is helping on Mom’s case. The sheriff came by with files.”

“Good to hear. I’m glad you’ll get some help on this.” Brent’s uncle addressed Jenna. “We need to get her justice. She was a good girl.”

His uncle gripped Brent’s arm, clearly a gesture of affection and support, and something kicked against Jenna’s ribs. Brent’s father may have abandoned his family, but his uncle sure hadn’t. These poor people. All these years they’d been struggling with loss and heartbreak and injustice. “Brent, do you mind if I talk with your uncle a bit?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

But Brent didn’t move.

“Alone?”

For a moment, he continued to stand there and then he blinked. There we go. Slowly, it all registered. “Gotcha. I’ll walk outside with the sheriff. Get those files for you.”

“And, hey,” his uncle said, “head over and see your aunt. She misses you. Jamie is there. Catch her before she goes home.”

Jamie. Brent’s cousin. He’d mentioned her on the ride over.

On his way out, Brent waved in that yeah-yeah-yeah way people used when being nagged. The front door closed and Jenna moved next to Herb. He focused on her face, which she’d give him bonus points for. “Thanks again for helping,” Brent’s uncle said.

“No need to thank me. Brent is a good guy. I had no idea about his mom. It’s...well...tragic.”

“It is. But Brent, he turned out to be a damned fine man. Taking care of his sister the way he did. A lot of boys would run from that. Not him. He latches on.”

He sure did. “So it seems. May I ask you some questions regarding the night his mom died?”

“Whatever you need. But the sheriff has it all in his notes.”

Of course he did, but hearing it and reading it were necessities. “Yes, but since we’re here, I was hoping you could walk me through what went on when you got here.”

He took in the room, studying the now-uncovered furniture. His gaze landed on the floor in front of the sofa. Slowly, he ran his hand over his face, a gesture so similar to the one she’d seen Brent use it sent a chill up her arms. Like father like son, only this wasn’t the father and Brent wasn’t the son.

Finally, he looked back at Jenna. “She was a mess. Poor thing. I found her right here. Right where I’m standing.”

The exact spot Brent had indicated. “When did you first see Brent?”

“He came to the house, ran inside—we never locked the doors back then—screaming and crying. Scared the hell out of me.” He shook his head. “Long as I live, I’ll never get the sound of that boy’s screams out of my system.”

It was hard to picture. Strong, solid Brent at five, terrified and begging for help. She hated the thought. Hated the idea that he’d dealt with that trauma. “What time was this?”

“Just after midnight. Maybe 12:10.”

After checking her notes and confirming the time with what Brent told her, she pointed at the front door. “You came in this way?”

“Yes, ma’am. Usually we come in the back. Cheryl always kept that door unlocked. That night, Brent must have run out the front door because it was open when I got here.”

“Brent was with you?”

That might have been a trick question—no might about it—because she knew where Brent had been. He’d told her. Still, it never hurt to let the witness give his own assessment.

“No. He was back at the house. Poor kid was howling something about his mom and blood. My wife called 9-1-1 and I came back to check on Cheryl and get the baby—Brent’s sister. We always call her the baby.”

Staying focused on the scene, Jenna moved to the entryway. “So you’re on the porch and the door is open.”

“Yeah.” He walked over and opened the door, letting a burst of cool air in as he pushed it back against the wall. “It was like this when I came in.”

Jenna faced the living room, accessing the layout—sofa blocking her view of where the body would have been, the end table and side chair that could have hindered the murderer—all of it part of an investigation that had gone nowhere in twenty-three years.

Herb walked back to the sofa and pointed. “She was right there. Kind of curled up, but not really. Her hair was all bloody.”

Head wounds bled more than others due to all the blood vessels. Jenna had learned that from her dad.

She drew a map of the room, marking an X where the body had been found. “Were these chairs here back then?”

“Yes. They may have moved them when they were living here, but Brent put everything back when he started working on the case.”

“Then what happened?”

Herb scratched his cheek and then gestured to the floor. “I leaned over her, checked her pulse. I couldn’t find one, but I’m no doctor. By then, Barnes—he was a deputy then—had pulled in. I ran back to get Camille before she woke up.”

More notes. He’d left the body so he could get Camille. Parental instinct would be to protect the child. Made sense. “The sheriff arrived and you went back to your house with Camille? Did she see the body?”

“No. I covered her eyes when I carried her out. I took her next door and came back. My wife was trying to get hold of Mason.”

“Brent’s father?”

“Yes, ma’am. She wanted to warn him, but we didn’t have cell phones back then, and he’d already left work. I waited for him to pull up while the paramedics were in here with Cheryl.” He flipped his palms up, and then let them drop. “Helluva night, that one.”

The heaviness in his voice, weight saddling his vocal chords, drew her gaze. For her, this was a job. For them, she couldn’t imagine. “Do you need a break?”

“Maybe I do.” He started for the door, but then stopped and gestured to the floor. “All these years I’ve been thinking about what my nephew saw. I don’t know how a boy recovers from that.”

Jenna’s guess was the boy in question hadn’t recovered. All he’d done was bury the pain deep enough that it would allow him to go forward, to keep searching, to get justice.

Only problem was, all the anger he’d stuffed inside him would eventually go boom. And that would cause an emotional landslide.

Obviously wanting to be done, Herb turned toward the still open door. “Do you need anything else?”

“Not right now. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“It’s all right. I want to help. If we solve this, it’ll give Brent and Camille peace. Maybe then he’ll sell this damned house.”

“It must be hard living right next door.”

He shrugged. “If someone lived here, gave the house some life, it wouldn’t be so bad. Now it’s just an empty place where my sister-in-law died. It’s a damned morgue.”

* * *

OUTSIDE, THE GARAGE spotlight illuminated the driveway, and Brent spotted his aunt Sylvie marching across the patch of grass separating the two homes. She made a direct line for him, her face, as usual, passive. No pinched brows, no big smile, no tight cheeks. Nothing to indicate her mood. He’d always said she’d make a great spy. Bringing up the rear was his cousin, Jamie, who wore that slightly amused grin that meant she wasn’t the only one in trouble.

He shifted his gaze back to his aunt and—yep—all that passive behavior meant one thing, she was about to yell at him for staying away so long.

Might as well take it like a man.

While the sheriff unloaded the copies of evidence files, Brent walked across the driveway, the heels of his dress shoes clapping against the pavement and the lack of traffic noise reminded him that he wasn’t in Chicago anymore. Coming back here, with all the contrasts to the city, brought back all that bubbling agony he fought to control. And he didn’t want that. He wanted it buried where he didn’t have to deal with it. What he needed was to stay strong—for Camille, for his aunt and for his uncle.

They could turn into basket cases if they chose, but not him. His day would come, though. When they found his mother’s killer, then he’d figure out how to deal with all the garbage he’d packed inside him.

“Hey, Aunt Sylvie.” He held out his arms and his much smaller aunt stepped into them.

“Don’t Hey-Aunt-Sylvie me, young man. You know you’re in trouble. You didn’t even call to tell us.”

She backed away from the hug and stared up at him. Since his mother had died, his aunt had turned her fanatical focus on him and Camille. Whether it was her own grief or simply wanting to make sure they had a mother figure in their lives—maybe both—was still up for debate, but Brent never questioned it. Aunt Sylvie always made sure they were cared for and had hot food in their bellies.

For that reason alone, he always answered when she called. No matter what.

Even when she griped at him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up at work and didn’t get a chance to call.”

Jamie stepped around her mother, went on tiptoes and smacked a kiss on Brent’s cheek. “Hey, cuz. Good to see you.”

“Hi, James.”

He’d started calling his cousin James when they were kids and the nickname had stuck. She never seemed to mind.

Obviously done ranting, Aunt Sylvie waved at Barnes, who’d finished digging a file box from his car and had set it on the trunk. “Sheriff, how are you?”

“I’m good, Sylvie. You all right?”

“Oh, we’re just fine.” She shot Brent the stink-eye. “Wouldn’t mind seeing my niece and nephew a little more.”

Guilt, Brent had enough of. Hell, he had enough guilt to fill the Chicago River. “You know how to drive. And Chicago is only an hour.”

As usual, her mouth dropped open and she gasped. “Look at you with that smart mouth.”

“Merely an observation.”

Jamie cleared her throat. “What’s in the box, Sheriff?”

The sheriff glanced at Brent, unsure how much to reveal, so Brent took that one. “That’s for me. Copies of Mom’s files.”

With that bright spotlight shining down on her, Aunt Sylvie whipped her gaze between Brent and the sheriff. Brent knew right where her mind had gone. “Has something happened? A lead?”

Dang. He’d been insensitive. He knew her. Knew how her mind worked and the slow-curling panic that fired every time the sheriff pulled into one of these driveways.

And Brent hadn’t warned her.

Gave her zero notice about Jenna investigating. Moron.

Brent touched her arm. “No. But there’s someone I’ll introduce you to in a minute. She’s inside talking with Uncle Herb. I think she can help us.”

“Who is she?”

“An investigator. Remember the lawyer I helped last spring?”

“That adorable little blonde?”

Adorable. Penny would hate that. She’d like Uncle Herb’s description better. “Yes. The investigator works for her law firm. They offered to help with Mom’s case.”

Aunt Sylvie cocked her head. “She’s good, this investigator?”

“She is.”

And she’s got a body that drives me insane. Not that he’d say that, but he was a man, and men had needs. Needs that Brent had been sorely neglecting lately. Needs that maybe Jenna could help him with.

When they were done finding a killer.

Because as much as Brent fantasized about a long night with Jenna in his bed, his priority was catching his mother’s killer. If he and Jenna got involved, something told him it would get ugly when he walked away. And walk away, he would. He liked coming and going as he pleased and not having to explain himself to anyone. He didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

The snick of the front-door latch sounded and they all turned toward the house. Jenna came down the porch steps.

She walked toward them, her coat flying open to reveal her blouse and the slacks that fit her curvy body in all the right ways.

“Wow,” Jamie said. “She’s pretty.”

Aunt Sylvie gave him a bored look. “This is your investigator?”

Brent grinned. “Yep!”

“Which body part made this decision?” she whispered.

“Well, look at you with that smart mouth,” he said in his best Sylvie voice.

Without giving her an opportunity to respond, he waved Jenna over. “Come meet my aunt and cousin.”

After doing the introductions, Brent turned to Aunt Sylvie. “Jenna will be poking around. Don’t freak when you see a car in the driveway.”

“Yes,” Jenna said. “I’d like to chat with both of you, at your convenience, of course.”

Aunt Sylvie pressed her lips together, and then shot a look at Uncle Herb who nodded. She didn’t like talking about her sister. Ever. Growing up, Brent had craved stories about his mom, but the memories were too painful for his aunt and she typically ran from the room sobbing. Over the years, Brent had been conditioned not to talk about his mother. Which pretty much stunk.

“Of course,” his aunt said. “If it’ll help. I’m available anytime.”

“Thank you. I’d like to read through the sheriff’s files first. Would it be all right if I call you in a day or two?” She looked at Jamie. “Both of you?”

“Sure,” Jamie said. “Anytime.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, have you eaten?” his aunt asked Brent. “I could fix you something.”

A meal would serve him good right now, but the night had dragged on and, as hopeful as he was about the new energy Jenna brought, talking about his mother, reliving that night, had drained him. Time to get back to Chicago, where the sounds of the city would drown the noise in his head. Silence, he’d learned long ago, was his enemy. During high school and college, football helped smother it. With football, the energy it took to step to the line and get his head beat in was all the distraction he needed. When he became a marshal—nothing boring there—silence was no longer an issue. Pretty much, the US Marshal Service was involved in everything from judicial and witness security to asset forfeiture. If it involved federal laws, US marshals were there. One day he could chase down a fugitive, the next make sure a witness didn’t get blown away by someone they’d just testified against.

Out here, in his childhood hometown where the streets were desolate after six o’clock and the only outside noise came from birds or cicadas or blowing leaves, the quiet created emotional chaos.

Gotta go.

He leaned down, kissed his aunt’s cheek. “We need to get back to the city. Maybe on the weekend.”

“Saturday,” she said. “After church.”

He laughed. By now he should know better than to throw out a maybe. His aunt took a maybe and turned it into a definitely.

“You could come early and go to church with us.”

Now she wanted church too. Years since he’d done that. Which was a shame. He used to enjoy church, but now it gave him too much time to reflect on things he shouldn’t reflect on. “Don’t push it. Saturday for dinner. I’ll be here. I’ll see what Camille is doing. Don’t worry. I’ll channel the guilt from you.”

She waved her hands. “Oh, with the sass.”

He kissed her again. “I love you. Good night.”

“I love you, too. Drive carefully. No speeding.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turned to Jenna. “All set?”

Please let her be all set.

She nodded. “You bet.”

He shook hands with the sheriff. “Thank you. I’ll call you with any updates.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

On the way to his SUV, he grabbed the file box off the back of the sheriff’s cruiser, the weight of it, as always, easy to handle. Most of what was in that file he’d probably seen already. Except for the photos. Being a marshal, he’d learned to take emotion out of a case. Even when it came to his mother. He could read the forensics reports, investigator notes and the autopsy report. All of it, he could handle. Even some of the crime scene photos showing the exterior of the house or certain pieces of evidence were tolerable. But not the ones of his mom’s body. Those were a different damned beast, and he couldn’t find a compartment big enough to control the massive anger those pictures would unleash.

Balancing the box against the SUV, he opened the back door, shoved the box on the seat and walked around to get Jenna’s door. By the time he’d gotten there, she already had her hand on the handle.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“Again with this?”

When he’d picked her up at her apartment, she’d teased him about the gesture. What she didn’t know was his aunt would skin him if he abandoned his manners. Plus, he liked doing it. “Yeah. Again with this. Get used to it and don’t argue.”

He held open the door and waved her into the car. To that, she tilted her chin up and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And the look on her face, so serious with her cheeks sucked in and her gaze straight ahead, made him laugh. Really laugh.

In front of his mother’s house no less. Helluva thing.

She slid into the car and the interior light illuminated her face and the grin that—wait for it—would cause the punch to his chest. Jenna Hayward was beautiful, but she wasn’t one of those everyday beautiful women you could find anywhere you looked. On sight, she took a man’s legs out from under him. Bam!

He leaned in to get a whiff of her perfume, something floral but light. Not allergy inducing. Thank you. Once again, his eyes went to that extra undone button on her blouse and the lush skin under it. He caught a glimpse of lace and swore under his breath. “Okay, Miss Illinois, cut the wisecracks.”

She straightened up. “Miss Illinois?”

“You think I’m going to let you anywhere near my mother’s case without checking you out?”

* * *

HE KNEW. Not that it was some big secret, but she didn’t necessarily flaunt her beauty queen background. In her line of work, it didn’t gain her anything. All she knew was that at the age of twenty-one, after years of working the pageant circuit, years of hearing her mother coo over how beautiful her daughter was, and the resulting pressure of it all, she’d had enough. Enough of the dieting, enough of having to look a certain way at all times, enough of the show. She simply wanted to be Jenna. A pretty girl who liked to eat cake and pester her detective father with questions about cases.

Playing along, she scissored Brent’s silky tie between two fingers. Nice tie. Nice man. Nice everything. And she so adored the way he interacted with his family. Teasing, but firm and loving when they tried to give him any nonsense.

“My pageant days aren’t classified information. All you have to do is check Google. And, by the way, you failed. I didn’t win. I was the runner-up.”

His lips lifted slightly as he watched her play with his tie. “I didn’t fail. I knew that, but decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. Those judges were either blind or stupid. I’m guessing beauty contest judges need eyesight, so that leaves stupid.”

Did that just send a hot flash raging? This was their problem. That connection, that heat she couldn’t ignore. “Marshal Thompson, are you flirting with me?”

“Nope. Calling it like I see it.”

She flicked away the tie. “I was fifteen pounds lighter then.”

Where did that come from? Sure, her brothers liked to taunt her about packing on a few pounds, but her pageant weight was impossible to maintain. And Jenna had a thing for food. In that she liked it.

“Yet another tragedy,” Brent said.

“What?”

“That you were fifteen pounds lighter.”

In the lit interior of the car, she studied his face. Looking for the tell that he was charming her into possibly removing her clothes. Which, if he kept talking like that, just might happen. Without a doubt, every one of her brain cells must have evaporated. Only explanation for this attack of flightiness.

“You don’t like skinny women?”

“Brent?” his aunt called from the front of the house. “Everything okay?”

He backed away and straightened. “We’re good! Seat belt jammed.”

He shut the door, came around the driver’s side, hopped in and fired the engine. “If we stay here, she’ll be all over us.”

Jenna waited. Would he answer her about the skinny women thing? Part of her wanted to know. The other part wanted to run. Although the extra fifteen pounds had only brought her to a size eight, it still bothered her. Made her wonder what men saw when they looked at the ex-beauty queen whose body had gone fluffy.

At the road, Brent hit the gas and the car tore through the blackness of the country road, the only sound being the radio on low volume. Tim McGraw maybe, but Jenna couldn’t tell. She was more of a pop music girl.

“No,” Brent said.

“No what?”

“I don’t like skinny women. And it’s a damned shame you think you looked better fifteen pounds lighter because, honey, you’re wrong.”

Oh, she might like where this conversation was heading. “I don’t think I looked better.”

“Liar.”

“Hey!”

“Just admit it and be done with it. I saw your picture—nice gown by the way—and I can promise you, from a completely male perspective, you looked like a bean pole back then. A guy my size would break that girl in half.”

“Did you somehow get drunk when you were outside with your family?”

He smiled at that and she liked the sight of it.

“Calling it like I see it,” he said again.

“Well, thank you, I suppose. For the compliment.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It never hurts to hear someone appreciates your looks.”

For a quick second, he turned and the dashboard glow lit his face as he helped himself to a look at her body. “I definitely appreciate your looks. I’d imagine most men do. I think you know that.”

The side of his mouth quirked again—all male and sexy and devilish—and my, oh, my, Jenna’s stomach did a flip. “You’re flirting with me.”

“I might be.”

“Is that wise?”

He laughed. “Probably not. But as I recall, you do your share of flirting.”

She shifted sideways in her seat and the belt scraped the side of her neck. Darn it, that’d leave a mark. Forget it. She needed a snappy comeback, but the big ox was right. Her flirting wasn’t personal, though. What? How insane would she sound if she said that? When she flirted, she did it to get somewhere, to make progress. Flirting for her had become a tactic. A strategic tool in her arsenal.

“We’re adults,” she said. “Let’s just throw it out there that there’s chemistry between us. Or am I totally wrong?”

Sounding a little desperate here, Jenna. What was it with her? Always needing the ego boost. Always needing approval. Blame it on her years of being judged in contests and her failure to get into the FBI, but she couldn’t get through the day without wondering what people thought of her.

“You’re not wrong.”

“About the chemistry, or flirting not being wise?”

“Both.”

She sighed, turned to the front again. “I need to do a good job on this, Brent. It’s important to me.”

“News flash, honey, it’s important to me, too. If you don’t want me flirting with you, I won’t flirt, but you set that tone the second I met you in the hallway outside Penny’s office last spring. Make up your mind what you want from me, Jenna. If you want this all business, it’ll be all business. It can’t be both ways. You decide.”

This man could have grown up in her household. So direct and strong and honest. “I want to do a good job for you. For your mom. She deserves that.”

“Yes, she does.”

“I like flirting with you. For once, it’s not a prop. It’s fun and you have a great smile that I don’t think you show enough. It makes me feel good that I can get you to smile.”

And again, it all rolled around to what made her feel good. Pathetic. She waved her hands and looked out the window. “No flirting.”

“Fine. No flirting. And yeah, you get me to smile, and that doesn’t happen a lot.”

So much for no flirting.

“There’s one thing I want to know.”

“What’s that?”

He glanced at her. “I’m not being a jerk here, I’m seriously curious.”

“I’ve been warned. Ask away.”

“How does someone go from being the runner-up in the Miss Illinois pageant to being a private investigator? And, again, I’m not being a jerk.”

“I don’t mind. People have asked me this question a million times. My father is a career detective. I’ve always been fascinated by what he does. I’d sit and ask him questions. Two of my four brothers are also cops and will probably make detective. I guess you could say we played a lot of real-life Clue when I was little.”

“So, how’d you get to being a PI? Why not join the PD?”

Leave it to him to pursue it. Most people were satisfied with the my-dad-is-a-detective line and dropped the subject. Not Brent. He had to know it all. She looked out the window where the tollway lights dimmed in the distance.

She turned back to him. “I was a psychology major in college.”

“I could see that. You study people.”

“I like to know what makes them tick. After I graduated, I couldn’t see myself in an office all day counseling people. I needed to be out and moving, so I applied for the FBI.”

He shot her a look, and then went back to the road. “You wanted to be an agent?”

“I did. And I wanted it bad.”

“Did you go to the academy?”

“Nope. Never made it that far. They rejected me.”

There, she’d said it. Not many people knew and she held her breath, waited for a crack about the beauty queen wanting to play G-man, or in her case, G-woman.

But Brent watched the road ahead as the tollway entrance drew closer. Shouldn’t have said anything. The man was a US marshal. He’d succeeded where she’d failed. What did she expect him to say? Dumb, Jenna. Heat rose in her cheeks—thank goodness the car was dark—and she rested her head back.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “You’d have made a good agent. You wouldn’t have needed your cleavage to do it, either. Don’t sell yourself short, Jenna. You’re beautiful, but you’re smart, too. Don’t ever forget that.”

The air in her chest stalled and she squeezed her eyes closed. No one, not even her mother who often rolled her eyes at Jenna’s clothing choices, had ever said that. He knew. But she couldn’t get crazy here. He wasn’t offering a glass slipper. All he offered was an opinion.

Still resting her head back, she eased out a breath. “You might be flirting with me, but I don’t care. Thank you for saying that.”

He shrugged. “That time I wasn’t flirting. It’s not complicated. I like you and you’ve got a brain. You don’t need to be half-naked to be good at what you do.”

Suddenly, Jenna wished he’d been flirting, because she might have just fallen a little in love with Brent Thompson.


Chapter Four (#ulink_c6015512-2086-5b18-848c-c3435a27605b)

Two days later, on a sunlit Saturday morning that reminded Jenna that October could be a beautiful month, she pulled into the driveway of Brent’s childhood home and absorbed her first daytime sight of it. What she’d missed the other night was the peeling paint on the porch poles, the rotting window frames and the roof that needed to be replaced. All of it added to the permeating sadness from a house that hadn’t been truly lived in—or loved—for years.

And here she was, digging up—metaphorically—the body buried there. After sorting through the copies of reports, photos and witness statements the sheriff had provided, Jenna needed more time at the scene. Something bugged her. And the lack of a murder weapon was top on her list.

Blunt force trauma. That’s all the report had said. Crime scene photos showed a wound with a right angle. Square weapon? Possibly, but that could be anything. A trophy, a kitchen appliance, a statue. Plenty of household items had square bottoms.

Across the yard, Brent’s cousin exited her parents’ home. Like the other night, Jamie wore her shoulder-length dark blond hair pushed back in a headband that Jenna assumed was her go-to look. Also her go-to look would be loose jeans and a navy sweatshirt on her average-sized frame, and Jenna found herself a little envious of the comfort wear. The only place Jenna wore that look was inside her own home.

Jamie spotted the strange car in the driveway and paused. Finally, recognition dawned and Jamie waved.

Time to work.

Jenna gathered her purse and her briefcase and swung open the car door. A crisp breeze blew her hair sideways and she shoved it from her face. Next time, she’d do a ponytail. With all this open space, her hair couldn’t be counted on to cooperate. “Hi, Jamie. How are you?”

“Hi. It’s Jenna, right?”

“Sure is.”

“No Brent?”

“He had errands this morning. He said he’d catch up with me in a bit.”

Jamie turned toward the house, her gaze focused as her shoulders drooped. “He thinks he can handle all this, but I worry about him. This house is an albatross.”

Negative energy oozed around Jenna, sending prickles up her arms. How did Brent’s family stand the constant reminder of tragedy? Jamie shifted back to her, the fine lines around the woman’s eyes deepening as she squinted. Being a woman who could peg another woman’s age fairly accurately—a gift really—Jenna put Jamie at thirty-nine.

“You were a teenager when his mom died, right?”

“Yes. Fifteen.”

Ooh, so close. Only a year off. “It must have been rough on all of you.”

“Not as rough as Brent and Camille had it. And even my useless uncle.”

Jenna nodded. “Brent told me about that. He said his father has always been a suspect.”

“As far as I know.”

“What do you think?”

“I think he’s spineless and doesn’t have the stomach for murder. But I’ve lived in this town all my life and wouldn’t have believed it would happen here, so what do I know?”

That was about as direct of an answer as Jenna could ask for. “Do your parents hear from Brent’s father?”

“If they do, they don’t tell me.” She shrugged. “We don’t talk about him much.”

In an odd way, Jenna understood. Nothing would change the man abandoning his family, so what was the point of stewing? Stewing wasted time and already battered emotional reserves.

“Do you remember anything from that night?”

Jamie sighed. “Sometimes it feels like it was yesterday. I woke up when I heard the sirens. I came out of my room and my mom told me Brent and Camille were sleeping and I should be quiet. Then she sent me back to my room.” Jamie turned, pointed to one of the side windows on her parents’ house. “I watched from that window. I wasn’t sure what happened, but I got scared—really scared—when I saw the ambulance. It was...”

She stopped, put one hand over her mouth and the other over her eyes. Her shoulders hitched and instant guilt landed on Jenna. She touched Jamie’s arm. “I’m so sorry to put you through this.”

After a few seconds, Jamie dropped her hands and heaved a giant breath. “It’s not your fault. I know we have to do this.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway, I saw Brent’s dad arrive, and he started yelling and going crazy. I knew it had to be Aunt Cheryl.”

The window Jamie had pointed to was midway between the front and rear of Brent’s house, so Jenna walked to it and surveyed the immediate area. Only a sliver of the back porch could be seen from that location. “Did you see anyone come out the back? Maybe walk through here?”

“No. I was asleep until I heard the sirens.”

Nothing here. And Jenna was losing precious time to restage the murder scene before Brent arrived. Based on witness statements found in the sheriff’s file, she’d prepared a timeline showing when each person came into play. Who knew if it would amount to anything, but that was part of the investigative allure. Sometimes the most obscure details broke open a case.

Jenna wanted to break open this case.

Without asking, as she’d often done, for her father’s advice. If it came down to it, she’d ask. Her ego wasn’t so giant that she wouldn’t seek help when needed, but for now she’d do this alone.

She walked back to Jamie. “Thank you for talking with me. Every little bit helps. I’m going to head inside and look around.”

“Sure. I only came by to drop the pies off for tonight. My parents are out. Will you be all right by yourself?”

Jenna waved her off. God knew she’d been in worse places than this. Three weeks ago she’d been traipsing the south side of Chicago at two in the morning looking for a drug dealer, but she hadn’t exactly been alone then. Like today, her .38 had accompanied her.

“I’ll be fine. Brent will be along soon.”

Jamie took a pen and scrap of paper from her purse. “Here’s my cell number. I only live five minutes away. Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Anything I can do, just let me know.”

Jenna stuck the paper in her jacket pocket and waited for Jamie to drive off before digging out the house key Brent had given her.

For a few minutes, she’d been afraid Jamie would stay and, at this stage, Jenna needed time alone at the scene. Family members would distract her. They’d stand around, disrupting the energy and asking questions when she needed quiet. If they didn’t ask questions, they’d be thinking them and she’d sense it.

Times like these, it was better for her to work solo.

Inside, she dumped her purse on the floor and, remembering her father’s constant warnings, locked the door behind her. Could never be too cautious. A spear of light through the closed drapes illuminated the darkened room. Jenna assumed someone must have closed the drapes after they’d left the other night. She flipped the light switch and the overhead fixture came on. Not great lighting, but it would do. And she had a flashlight if necessary.

She glanced around at the covered furniture. Need to see it. Yes. She’d pull off all the coverings to see what was under them, and then pull the cushions to search for bloodstains. Crime scene reports indicated blood had only been found on the floor, but Brent wanted fresh eyes and she would provide them.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/adrienne-giordano/the-marshal/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.