An Absence of Motive

by Maggie Wells

  “The majority but not all?” She nonchalantly picked up a corner of his sandwich and took a bite.

  “These people are insidious. You can round up as many as you can, but there will always be others to take their place.”

  “So you’re saying people around here are still producing and distributing methamphetamine?” she pressed, incredulous. “The population of those two counties combined is less than a decent-sized suburb. How many people can be involved?”

  “There were over two hundred persons of interest named in the case.”

  “And you were involved? Working with the DEA?”

  He shook his head. “Not directly. I worked for the agency but was assigned elsewhere.”

  “You were with the DEA?”

  “Yes.”

  “As an agent?”

  “Yes.”

  She gaped at him for a moment, then color rose in her cheeks. “Why are you here, then?” she demanded. “I mean, why did you leave?”

  “Personal reasons,” he said, though for some reason it cost him to maintain his usual calm demeanor when she was the person asking the questions.

  Marlee’s agitation filled the room. The air felt charged. Ionized. Like after a lightning strike. He sniffed, wondering if he’d catch a hint of ozone, but he didn’t.

  “Does my association with the DEA bother you?” He was taken aback by her reaction to discovering he’d once been a federal agent. Most people were impressed. Her father had been. But Marlee seemed...wary. He changed tactics. “Let me ask this—why does it bother you?”

  “It doesn’t,” she answered a shade too quickly.

  He set his section of sandwich aside, then leaned in, folding his arms on the desk. “It does. Why?”

  She shot to her feet, and it was all Ben could do not to follow suit. After her morning visit, he’d done nothing but think about her and her brother. He’d even gone so far as to pull Jeffrey Masters’s file and compare the notes taken by his predecessor with his own observations of the scene in the Youngs’ cabin. They had only two things in common. First, the cause of death, noted as self-inflicted by Mel Schuler on both cases, and Jeff Masters’s confirmed by the medical examiner’s office in Macon. And second, the fact that both men took their lives in cabins on—

  “I want you to come with me out to Sawtooth Lake this evening,” Marlee broke into his thoughts.

  He was still formulating a response when the office door opened and Mike strode in holding a take-out box of his own. His steps faltered inside the door, and Ben leaned over in his chair to peer around Marlee. “Can you give us a couple minutes more, Mike?”

  “I, uh, sure,” the younger man said. “I’ll go, um...there’s a bench in the square.”

  “Good idea,” Ben agreed. “Enjoy some sunshine.”

  The thermometer had already zipped past the mideighties and was nudging ninety degrees, but Mike didn’t protest. He simply left. Straightening, Ben maintained eye contact with Marlee, not speaking until the door closed again.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not asking me on a date?” he said at last.

  She colored beautifully at the insinuation but pressed on. “There’s something...off about all this. I feel it in my gut.”

  She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, and Ben lost the battle to maintain eye contact. Her long fingers splayed over her belly. Her fingernails were unpolished. It surprised him for some reason. Probably because most of the women he’d met with her means and social station kept themselves buffed and varnished to a high sheen. But not Marlee. He let his gaze travel over her, taking in the details of her slim skirt and silky blouse as he forced himself to look her in the face again. These clothes were elegant. Simple, but beautifully made and clearly expensive. Unlike the boxy blue suit she’d worn the first time he saw her, these pieces were tailored to nip in at all the key spots and allow for her generous curves in others. He got the distinct impression Marlee had not been the one to select this outfit.

  He allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. “Who buys your clothes?”

  The question caught her completely off guard. She actually took a small step back, wobbling on her high heels when she bumped into the chair she’d abandoned. “What?”

  “Your clothes.” He nodded toward her. “Whoever picked out this outfit wasn’t the same person who bought the blue suit you wore the other day.”

  “I—” she started, then stopped. “I’m not a child,” she snapped, fire flashing in her eyes and chagrin adding to the color in her cheeks. “I can dress myself.”

  “But the suit—”

  “I’d just bought it. I didn’t have time to have it altered,” she explained in a rush. “Are you also the fashion police in these parts?”

  “No, I’m a man who makes his living observing people and their actions.” Tired of craning his neck to look up at her, he rose too. “The suit was some kind of a statement. I’m not sure who was supposed to get the message, but it spoke volumes.”

  She lifted her chin in defiance. “And what did it say?”

  “It said you didn’t want to be here. That you had other plans.” Now staring down at her, he added, “Plans inconveniently interrupted by Clint Young’s death.”

  “You think I’m so cold?” she said, slashing the air with her hand. “And Clint’s death has nothing to do with anything.”

  “But you told me this morning it did,” he reminded her. “You came trotting in here this morning telling me you think there’s something connecting your brother’s death with Young’s.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, then pressed those lush lips together.

  He forced himself to soften his expression and relax his stance. They weren’t on opposing sides of an issue, only on opposite sides of a desk. “Listen, I’ve been in law enforcement most of my adult life,” he said, careful to avoid coming across as condescending. “I started out as military police, got recruited by the agency then came here. I’ve crossed paths and swords with a lot of lawyers in my time, but Miss Marlee, I think we both want the same thing here.”

  At least as far as her suspicions went, he amended only to himself. He was fairly certain Marlee Masters wasn’t thinking about him the same way he thought about her.

  When she didn’t respond to his verbal olive branch, he sighed. “I’m only making observations because I’m trying to figure out the person I’m dealing with.”

  “By commenting on my clothes?”

  “Isn’t there some saying about clothes making the man? Or, in this case, woman?” He gestured to the chair she’d vacated, and she crossed her arms over her chest, her expression mulish. Figuring she was dug in, he changed his approach. “Why do you want me to go to the lake with you?”

  “I don’t think I do anymore.”

  Ben was sure she’d meant the words as a retort, but they came out with shades of sulkiness. Suddenly, he had absolutely no trouble reconciling the beautiful woman in front of him with the girl who undoubtedly ruled the school. Repressing a chuckle, he reclaimed his seat and reached for his lunch even though he’d lost his appetite.

  When he didn’t trip all over himself to convince her, she crumbled. “I thought since you saw the scene where Clint...died, you might get something out of seeing my family’s cabin.”

  His brows knit as he wondered what could he gain from seeing the place where yet another young man had decided to end his life? And what could Marlee possibly stand to gain? Didn’t she realize she’d have been a prime suspect if there’d been any hint of foul play in her brother’s death? Then again, if a woman who had as much to lose as Marlee Masters was asking questions, shouldn’t he be paying closer attention?

  “Fine,” he agreed, even though his brain hadn’t quite finished processing her request. Still, he had no desire to take it back. “We can take my truck,” he said, picking up ano
ther sad excuse for a paper napkin and crumpling it into his palm. “What time should I pick you up?”

  Marlee shifted from one foot to the other, clearly surprised by his capitulation. Ben fought the urge to chuckle. He enjoyed keeping her off balance.

  But she recovered quickly. “I’ll meet you here. Will five thirty work? I want to run home and change.” She waited a beat, then flashed him a saucy grin. “I can’t wait to hear your breakdown on why I’d choose capris over shorts.”

  He snorted at her joke, but he wasn’t about to let the subject of his picking her up at her home pass. Her refusal of his offer brought out some latent machismo, so he pressed the issue. “I don’t mind swinging by to get you.”

  “I don’t want my parents to know I’m looking into this.”

  Her blunt statement shut him down quite effectively. She didn’t want her father to know she was keeping company with him. He couldn’t blame her. He’d dealt with enough Henry Masters types to be sure his daughter slumming with a civil servant would stir the man’s ire.

  And he was all too aware of the strikes against him in the rest of the townspeople’s eyes. He was an outsider. An outsider with mixed blood and an excess amount of melanin. A former federal agent to boot. There weren’t too many families in Masters or Prescott County who had escaped the agency’s dragnet unscathed.

  They wanted him here for the same reasons they found him lacking. After the upheaval caused by the DEA raids and adjacent charges, only someone with an unbiased eye and an indisputable reputation could set things to rights. Ben didn’t mind being the outsider. He’d never fit in anywhere until he’d joined the agency, and look where he was now. Back on the outside looking in.

  “Fine. We’ll meet here at five thirty.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Masters,” he said, slipping back into the formalities as she had.

  Without another word, she headed for the door. He watched, admiring the sway of her hips in her slim skirt and imagining the silky feel of her blouse under his fingertips. Because, no matter what their packaging, she was still a beautiful, intriguing woman, and he was undoubtedly a red-blooded man.

  Chapter Eight

  Ben went back to his place to change as well. Though the jeans and polo shirt weren’t any more or less revealing than his uniform, he didn’t want to be wearing a badge when he went poking holes in Marlee’s theories. She obviously had her hopes pinned on uncovering something at the family’s lake house.

  When he pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the municipal building, he spotted her right away. She had chosen cropped pants over shorts, but he couldn’t be too disappointed. Though covered in utility pockets and made out of what looked to be parachute sheeting, they fit her perfectly. As did the simple white tank top she’d paired them with.

  She stood in a sliver of shade provided by the angle of the sinking sun. For a moment, he wondered if she was hiding so no one would see her meeting up with him. Then he saw her smooth one of the tendrils of hair back up her neck and toward the ponytail she’d fashioned high atop her head. Hot. She was hot. In more ways than one.

  The late-afternoon sun baked the cracked cement. Heat rose off the unsheltered pavement in shimmering waves. Drawing to a halt right beside her, he kicked the air-conditioning in the SUV up a notch, then reached for the door handle. He was about to climb out when she yanked open the door and threw herself into the seat.

  “Holy Moses, it’s hot out there,” she complained. Without asking, she reached over and switched the knob to force maximum airflow through the vents. “Air. I need air.”

  Amused, he drew his leg back in and closed his door again. “I was going to open the door for you.”

  She snorted, holding up a hand to stave off any other inane offers of assistance he might have offered, and leaned in to let the vent blow directly on her forehead. “Thanks, but I can manage myself.”

  “So I see.” He twisted in his seat to swing an arm over the console. She didn’t flinch away, but her movements stilled, like those of an animal scenting the air for danger. “I keep a cooler with some bottled water in here,” he explained.

  She relaxed visibly as he popped the lid on the plastic ice chest, and he forced himself not to be offended. After all, she was a woman alone in a car with a man who was a virtual stranger. She had every reason and right to be on her guard.

  “Here.” He wiped the bottom of the dripping bottle on the front of his shirt, then offered it to her. “It’s pretty much tepid now, but...”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the bottle.

  He tried to keep his eyes to himself as she uncapped it and took a long drink, but failed. She was so damn pretty. Not beautiful in the usual blonde Homecoming Queen way, but genuinely pretty. There were freckles on her nose and laugh lines forming at the corners of her eyes. Her hair looked soft and bouncy. He curled his hands into fists on his lap to keep from taking a playful swipe at her ponytail.

  Marlee’s eyes met his as she lowered the bottle. “What?”

  “You should have let me pick you up,” he chided gently.

  “It’s just...” She stopped, clearly torn over explaining. “My mother. She tends to be high-strung, and we’re smack dab in the middle of cocktail hour. I didn’t want to play twenty questions, so I sort of slipped out of the house.”

  “I’ve met your mother.”

  She shifted to look at him, but Ben thought it best not to reciprocate. He was particularly glad he hadn’t when she said, “Then you are aware she’s under the influence of...something most of the time. Don’t worry. Daddy took the car keys away some time ago.” Her voice was sad and wistful. “She never goes anywhere these days anyway.”

  “Your mother strikes me as a nice lady struggling with her grief.”

  “Who doesn’t?” she said, her half smile self-deprecating. She settled into the seat then let out a huff of oxygen she must have been saving in case of emergency. “I haven’t been out there.” Apparently, he didn’t respond quickly enough to the confession, because she clarified, “To the cabin. It was never my thing, and, well, after...”

  “Your family used to own all the land around the lake, right?”

  She whipped her head around so fast, her ponytail smacked the passenger window. “How did you find that out?”

  He glanced over at her, then refocused on the narrow county road. “It came up in the investigation,” he said with a shrug. “Was it a secret?”

  “I guess not,” she conceded the point grudgingly, then added, “More a surprise. At least for me.”

  He chanced another look at her. “You weren’t aware your father owned the land?”

  “No. I knew we owned it.” She hesitated, then admitted, “I wasn’t aware he’d sold it.”

  “The other parcels are owned by the Masters County Sportsmen’s Club,” he informed her.

  “Whoever that is,” she said peevishly.

  She was clearly nettled by not being the only person with the facts at hand. Ben suspected if he let her steer the conversation her way, he might learn something new. “You aren’t sure who’s behind it?” He was curious to see how much she’d discovered and if she’d share her information with him.

  “I guess it was my father’s new general manager’s idea.”

  He could feel her watching him closely, and he had to admit, a beautiful woman’s scrutiny wasn’t entirely unwelcome, regardless of the circumstances. He hadn’t dated anyone since walking away from Atlanta with his life and a few haphazardly packed boxes.

  “I gather there was quite a bit of...economic fallout after the federal agencies made their presence in the area known.”

  Her careful wording added fuel to the pride he felt in playing a role in such a successful mission. It beat the tar out of the times when everything went belly-up. “We came short of
firebombing the area to flush them out.”

  “Yes,” she said, lifting a hand to indicate the approaching turnoff for the lake. He gave a brusque nod, and she let her hand fall. “I’m sorry. I guess you’ve been out here.” She laced her fingers together in her lap.

  “A couple times,” he said. “I can get to the lake road, but I may need you to tell me how to get to your place.”

  “You were at the Youngs’ the night they found Clint,” she said quietly.

  He dipped his head but kept his mouth shut.

  “Used to be only our house and the Youngs’ out here,” she explained. “Follow the lake road about a quarter mile past their place, and you’ll see our driveway.”

  He nodded. “So, your father sold these parcels off to cover real estate expenses?” he prompted, guiding her back on topic as he maneuvered the winding country road that roughly followed the same path as the lake’s shoreline.

  “Yes. Or so Wendell says,” she answered with a shrug. “Seems like swatting a fly with a sledgehammer, but I guess there were costs beyond the actual cleaning and remediation.”

  “Lost rents and all,” he concurred. He fed her a morsel of information in hopes of gaining more. “There were a number of Timber Masters employees involved. I imagine the repercussions went beyond the loss of the current tenants. They may have had a hard time finding new people to move in, given everyone found out what was happening in those houses.”

  “And my father rents the houses to people who work for the company directly,” she added.

  Ben bit his lips to keep from smiling. She’d inadvertently confirmed a point Timber Masters’s attorneys had danced around in every single interview. There was nothing illegal about choosing to rent to a specific group of people, but there certainly was an issue if they refused to lease a property because they didn’t belong to the group. Had pleasant, easygoing old Wendell Wingate been covering for a client who stepped over the line?

  But he and Marlee Masters were on the same side of whatever it was they were doing now, he reminded himself sternly. He glanced away from the road as they passed the Youngs’ driveway. He caught glimpses of the shake-shingled house through the trees, then drew a deep breath as he refocused on the road ahead of them.