Night's Landing

by Carla Neggers

  “What did he say?”

  “He just talked about the painting. Something about how he was surprised that the old paintings of Amsterdam didn’t look all that different from the new paintings of Amsterdam. I think he was trying to be funny. Then he left. I moved on to another painting. I was getting a little impatient for my mother to join me so we could go find Rob and my father. I finally went back to The Night Watch and found her talking to another man.”

  “Nicholas Janssen,” Nate said softly.

  “I didn’t know. He was handsome, well dressed, silver haired. I didn’t think much of it.”

  “Did he see you?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “Your mother—”

  “She didn’t mention him. I didn’t mention him. There was no reason.” She looked off, remembering that day. “My mother was a little distracted, but nothing that concerned me. She wasn’t sweaty or upset or put out—or excited and happy. I assumed she’d met an acquaintance.”

  “What did you do after you caught up with your brother and father?”

  “We finished up at the museum and walked back to my parents’ apartment on one of the canals. It’s a long walk, but it was a beautiful afternoon. We took our time. My father does well, but his stamina isn’t what it used to be.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventy-eight. And my mother’s fifty-six.” With a burst of energy, Sarah moved into the kitchen. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. My mother is not having an affair with Nicholas Janssen or anyone else.”

  Nate followed her without comment.

  She turned on the water in the sink and filled a teakettle. “The people who make judgments about my parents based on their age difference don’t know them. They’re devoted to each other. It doesn’t mean my mother’s not aware that she’s more than twenty years younger than my father and likely to outlive him.”

  “Back to Janssen. Did your mother ever mention him? He was in the news when he skipped out?”

  “No. And I didn’t see the news reports on him, or didn’t remember them if I did.” She set the kettle on the stove, her movements tense, jerky. “Given the number of people my parents know, it’s probably to be expected one’s turned out to be a fugitive.”

  “Your mother’s attractive?”

  His question took Sarah by surprise, but she tried not to be defensive. “Yes, I think so. Other people do, as well. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  He eased onto a stool, those blue eyes never leaving her. “Probably nothing.”

  “Anyway, you’ve seen pictures of her. There are some on the mantel and there’s one in your room.”

  “Three. As far as I can see, she’s downright beautiful. Collins will get a sketch together of the men who attacked Juliet. They must be close to completing something on the guy you saw in the park. We’ll see what happens.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  He shook his head. “Any of those fried pies left?”

  “One.”

  “We can split it.”

  “Damn right, Deputy. I don’t get fried apricot pies that often.”

  He got to his feet and came around to her at the stove, caught her by the elbow. “Your parents will be all right. So will Rob. So will you.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  He smiled, the incisive eyes not so hard now. “Why the hell not?” He kissed her softly, reminded her of their lovemaking yesterday before dinner. “Good thing I’m off duty.”

  “There’s no such thing as an off-duty fed. Rob says that all the time.”

  “Think he already knows about us? The twin thing.”

  She liked the way he said “us,” as if yesterday, the night before, had meant something to him. She got two mugs out of the cupboard. “If he knows, he’d have checked himself out of the hospital bed by now. He’d drag his IV down here with him if he had to. He’s never wanted to introduce me to his marshal buddies.”

  “Now you can understand why.”

  “Nate—” She broke off, setting the mugs on the counter. “I’ve learned to take things one step at a time with my parents. They’ve always got a pot boiling. Nicholas Janssen could be a red herring.”

  “Joe Collins will want to know what he and your mother talked about.”

  “They talked for two seconds at a public museum. It’s not as if she can be accused of harboring a fugitive.” Sarah lifted the lid off a canister and dug out a couple of tea bags. “Conroy probably discovered the connection between Janssen and my mother and figures he can tie it back to the president.” She stopped still, sighing. “That weasel. That has to be what he’s up to.”

  “Didn’t President Poe go to Vanderbilt with your mother?”

  “They were in the came class.”

  “Does your mother have a college yearbook around here?”

  Sarah hesitated, then nodded. She abandoned the tea bags and retreated to the living room, pulling all four of her mother’s college yearbooks off a high, dusty shelf in the living room. She dumped them onto the coffee table and sat on the couch, Nate beside her, and flipped through the pages of the one from her mother’s freshman year.

  About halfway through, she found one small candid shot from a philosophy class with all of them together: Betsy Quinlan, John Wesley Poe and Nicholas Janssen.

  Sarah scanned each of the other three yearbooks, but there were no pictures of Janssen in any of them, including the one from what should have been his senior year.

  “He must have dropped out,” Sarah said.

  But Nate was already dialing Joe Collins’s number in New York.

  Twenty-Eight

  Juliet hurt all over when she coughed, but she managed to extricate herself from the E.R. and bypass any medical types on her way to Rob’s room. She still had on her running clothes, the hem of her shorts bloodied from her short skid across the road. The guys guarding Rob eyed her but didn’t say a word. Smart. She felt like punching someone. Not that she could muster up the strength to really nail anyone. But she was in the mood.

  Rob was on his feet, off all his IVs and looking like he wanted to escape out the nearest window.

  “Watch out,” Juliet told him. “Collins is getting cranky about deputy marshals who get out of line.”

  He gave her a ragged look. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Not without an armed guard. You’re still not fit to protect yourself, and, damn, you need protecting. I’m thinking you’ve got a big-assed target painted on your back.”

  His gray eyes seemed to focus on her for the first time since she’d entered his room. “What the hell happened to you? Juliet—”

  “I got shoved into a car at gunpoint by a couple of thugs. One got in a few smacks before I jumped out into oncoming traffic. They wanted to know about the investigation into the shooting.” She grinned and limped to his bed. “I think they picked me because I’m blond.”

  He swept a narrowed gaze over her, presumably taking in her swollen lip, the visible portion of her bloodied upper thigh and the obvious pain she was in. “They picked you because you’re a creature of habit and run at the same time every morning.” He sat on his vinyl-covered hospital chair. “And you’re my former girlfriend.”

  “There. I’ve always said you’d make a great investigator.” It was weird talking with a swollen lip. The doctor had sent her off with an ice pack, which she’d used on the way up to Rob’s room but wouldn’t use in front of him and his guards. “I swear, I’d rather get shot than have to jump out of a moving vehicle. You should see the rest of this road rash.”

  “Done. I’ll trade you my bullet wound for your road rash.”

  “You’d get my right thigh with the deal. You might not like that.”

  “I like your right thigh just fine.”

  His comment was that of a friend who’d once been a lover, a man who was facing a long recovery, who hadn’t had a chance to fight his own attacker. Juliet sat on t
he edge of his bed, a hospital no-no, careful to avoid touching anything to her road rash. “It could have been a couple of mad reporters for all I know.”

  “That’s not what you think.”

  No. She thought it was the guy his sister had seen in Central Park. She tried to grin, but it hurt. “You don’t look so good today, Dunnemore.”

  “You should see yourself, Longstreet.”

  She laughed. “Collins asked me a bunch of pointed questions. I think he’s suspicious of me. Thinks I might have faked my own kidnapping. For all I know, he’s got it in his head that I shot you and Nate.”

  “FBI’s suspicious of everyone. Collins is no exception.”

  “I’m suspicious of everyone, but he’s carrying it too far. He barged in on me in the E.R. I practically had my ass hanging out—”

  “Juliet. Jesus Christ.”

  “Sorry. I grew up as one of the boys. I can be—”

  “I wasn’t talking about your language. Collins. He doesn’t really suspect you. You got a description of the guys who grabbed you?”

  She nodded. “I’m not supposed to discuss the details with anyone.”

  “Understood.”

  “You want to get back in bed? You look like you’re fading. My God, Rob. I can’t believe…” But she stopped herself, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on how close he’d come to being dead. “Maybe I’ll just tell Collins I fell while I was on my run and made up the kidnapping just to cover for my embarrassment.”

  “This thing, whatever’s going on—it’s not a marshal’s deal. Nate knows about you?”

  Although he was up, Rob looked more haggard this morning, with dark circles under his eyes. Maybe the doctors and nurses were pushing him too hard. “Collins called him after he got through grilling me.”

  Rob sank his head back against his chair and exhaled at the ceiling, his chest bandage peeking out of his hospital gown.

  Juliet eased back to her feet. “It’s hard to look macho in a hospital gown, isn’t it?”

  “Hard to look macho with a big goddamn bullet hole in you.” She’d tried to make him smile, but failed. He had to know she was holding back on him. “You did great, Longstreet. Getting away. I’m glad you had a chance.”

  “I should have gotten the plate number. Collins would be happier with me if I had.”

  “Fuck Collins.”

  She smiled. “No way. He’s got a wife and kids, not to mention that gut—”

  That drew something of a smile. “You are going straight to hell, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Just trying to cheer up a fellow deputy. Think the FBI’s got me under surveillance? And Nate—I wonder—”

  “You and Nate’d sniff out a G-man within a thousand yards of you.”

  “They can monitor my calls and e-mails all they want—I don’t care. I just don’t like the idea of someone tailing me.”

  “You’re unnerved, Longstreet. That’s not a good place to be.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never been unnerved in your life.”

  “I’m there now. My parents turning up missing yesterday, Sarah and this anonymous note.” He shook his head, his distress at his immobility palpable. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  He shifted in his chair, giving an involuntary moan of pain. Juliet remembered laying her hand on his chest, but all the passion and the romance they’d had for each other was gone now, replaced by a steady, resilient friendship that surprised her. For the most part when men were done with her, they ran like hell.

  “Come on, Juliet. Quit beating yourself up.”

  “I should have gotten more out of these guys before I jumped.”

  “If the car had picked up speed and you jumped, you’d have broken bones instead of bruises.”

  Or she’d be dead. “They realized they hadn’t locked the doors about the time I did. But still—I could have done better.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  “Collins is interviewing witnesses himself. He really must think I staged the whole thing.” She blinked back infuriating tears. “God, listen to me. You’re the one who almost died.”

  Rob didn’t respond.

  Juliet sniffled and pulled herself together. What the hell had the doctor given her to make her so pathetic? “I’ve decided to fly down to Tennessee and talk to Nate, maybe talk to your sister. Don’t worry, I’m not going to step on FBI toes.”

  “Going to ask their permission?”

  “No. I don’t answer to them. And it’s my damn day off. I can do what I want. Rivera tried to put a security detail on me, but I’m still armed and able to take care of myself.”

  Rob grinned at her, a spark of his former self shining through his pain and weakness. “Tough as nails Deputy Longstreet.” But his humor ebbed quickly, and he tightened a fist, staring at his pale skin. “I really need to get out of this goddamn hospital.”

  “You will.” She kissed him on the top of the head. “I’ll call you from Tennessee and let you know if Nate’s been behaving himself.”

  “Juliet—”

  “Your sister’s really pretty. You know that, right? And her and Nate—whoa, when she followed him—”

  Rob made a face. “Sarah’s always thought she’d fall for some mild-mannered academic, but, watch, it’ll be some hard-ass like Nate.”

  “Think he could fall for her, or will you kill him if he does?”

  “You’ve seen her. You’ve seen them together. What do you think?”

  Juliet pretended to think a moment, but she didn’t have to—she had a fair idea of what Winter and Rob’s twin sister were like together. “I think the wolf’s guarding the proverbial henhouse.”

  “Sarah can be tough on men,” Rob said. “She’s had too many go after her just because of her looks. She’s got herself convinced now that she wants someone ‘safe.’”

  Juliet laughed. “That’s what we all think when we see Nate, isn’t it? Here’s a safe guy. Hang in there, okay? They’re both adults. Worse thing that can happen is your sister gets pregnant and has a little Nate—or little Nate twins, since they run in the family.”

  “I wish I had the strength to throw something at you.” Rob settled his gray eyes on her, a reminder that beneath the southern charm and easygoing facade was a serious, experienced federal law enforcement officer. “Be careful.”

  “Of course.”

  “Think of me languishing up here while you’re eating prune cake and drinking sweet tea punch on the porch.”

  “Trust me,” she said, “I’m not eating anything called prune cake.”

  “You already have. I made it to celebrate my assignment up here.”

  “You said it was spice cake with caramel frosting.”

  “Prune cake. I didn’t want to prejudice you.”

  “Gross.”

  “You loved it.”

  She’d loved him. But it hadn’t worked, the two of them in the same district. She was more ambitious than he was—hell, a frog was more ambitious. “I’m glad we’ve stayed friends.”

  He winked at her in the way that used to make her want to jump his bones. It didn’t anymore. It just made her feel good. “Me, too.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Nate left Sarah digging through old pictures and yearbooks and found Brooker on the small front porch of the cottage, a green-painted kitchen chair tilted back as he strummed on an acoustic guitar. It sounded as if he knew how to play.

  “You want to tell me who you are?” Nate asked.

  “I’m the gardener.” Brooker looked up from his guitar, an old one, nothing about him suggesting he gave a damn whether Nate planned to cuff him on the spot. “Go ahead. Check me out.”

  He already had. “The Dunnemores hired you in early April after they found you trespassing. What were you doing here?”

  “Fishing.” He tweaked a middle string on his guitar, making a twanging sound, and dropped his chair back down onto all four legs. “I didn’t shoo
t you. I was here with Sarah when her brother called. I didn’t hire anyone to shoot you. What other people did or didn’t do, I can’t speak for.”

  “You were questioned in your wife’s murder.”

  Brooker kept his stony gaze on Nate. “Well, good for you, Deputy. You’ve done your homework. I was questioned. Dutch authorities still don’t have a suspect in custody.” The muscles in his arms tensed visibly, as if he wanted to snap the guitar in two. “It’s been eight months. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Your wife was an army captain based in Germany. She worked in intelligence.” Nate remained on the grass, still damp from overnight showers. “You’re a West Point graduate and an army major yourself. Special Forces. Your missions are all classified, but you’re supposed to be one of the best at what you do.”

  Brooker got up with his guitar, holding it by its neck. “I’m not in the army anymore. I quit in March. I didn’t give the Dunnemores my history because it’s complicated and they didn’t ask. I’m trying to get on with my life.”

  “You didn’t use an alias.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Your wife was killed in Amsterdam. The Dunnemores—”

  “I know. Amsterdam. They left town just before Char was killed. The rest is coincidence.”

  Nate didn’t believe him. Brooker was an adept actor and liar. “Why Night’s Landing?”

  He shrugged. “I had reason to believe the Dunnemores were among the last people to see my wife alive. I wanted to ask them how she was, what they talked about. I never did.”

  “Doing a little investigating of your own?”

  “Trying to make peace with myself. Char and I—we didn’t see much of each other the two years before she died. Twenty-one days total, to be exact. I wanted to find a way to connect with her after she’d died. The Dunnemores took me for a down-and-out type. After meeting them, I realized they wouldn’t know anything about Char, her murder. I don’t know, I was a wreck. I just started in with the good ol’ boy act, and here I am.”

  Nate didn’t know what of what Brooker said was true and what was bullshit. The man had his own agenda, but who could blame him? “Nicholas Janssen?”