Still Life

by Dani Pettrey

  “Funny. That seemed to be exactly what you were doing.”

  “I’m sorry. I just want you to be careful.”

  After they finished lunch and entered his lab, Avery closed the door behind them, giving them privacy and the freedom to speak without concern of hurting Kate’s feelings. “You seem so sure it’s a scam,” she said.

  “No. I just hate to see her get her hopes so high on such a slim piece of evidence.”

  “You don’t think it was Luke?” She lifted Skylar’s sweater, her gloves in place, trying to hold on to the little bit she had left of her friend.

  “I think when people have been gone that long without a word, they aren’t coming back.” He turned and looked at her, his gaze shifting to Skylar’s sweater. “I’m so sorry.” He stepped toward her. “That was horribly insensitive of me to say given the circumstances.”

  “No.” Tears stung her eyes. “You’re right. That’s always been my experience, and clearly from the video we saw, Skylar’s already gone. It’s just . . . I wish . . .”

  He stepped to her side. “Wish what?”

  She clutched the sweater tighter. “That I’d been able to reach her in time.”

  “Reach her . . . for Jesus?”

  She nodded, the gravity of her guilt in the situation pressing down on her again. “It’s my fault.”

  “That she wasn’t a Christian?”

  “Maybe if I’d tried harder, been there more . . . But actually, I was referring to leading her down the wrong path to begin with.”

  Parker’s brows furrowed.

  “I’m the one who pushed Skylar into committing her first crime when we were twelve. Twelve.” Her eyes stung with hot tears, but she fought them.

  “I don’t know the exact circumstances of what happened,” Parker said. “But people make their own choices.”

  “But she was younger than me, by a whole six months, but she still idolized me—why, I’ll never know . . .”

  “Because you are so strong.”

  “Not when it counted.”

  He tilted his head and she froze. She needed to tell him, but the words wouldn’t form.

  “Av?”

  “The point is, Skylar followed me down that path because I pushed her into it, but I could never manage to pull her back off of it.” She went into detail, explaining the first trespassing, then shoplifting, then drugs, then using guys to numb the pain when in the end that only caused more pain.

  She looked down, scared to see the judgment that had to be in Parker’s eyes.

  “Love.” He tipped her chin up. “Skylar made those choices. No one can make you do anything. And no one can make you accept Jesus as your Savior. You can only share the good news with them.”

  Good news. It was, and yet being surrounded by her past made her feel like a sheep among wolves.

  Please, Father, protect me fully.

  She’d never been in a more dangerous situation since she’d joined the criminal justice field as Parker’s crime-scene photographer.

  “There’s more. I can read it on your face.”

  Of course he could. Well, might as well go for broke. He’d either be the man she believed he was or he too would let her down, but it would be before things went any further in her heart.

  “I—”

  Parker’s phone rang, but he ignored it.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  “This . . . you”—he cupped her face—“are far more important.”

  “But it could be a call about the case. Please answer it.”

  He glanced at the number. “It’s Griffin.”

  “Answer it.”

  Reluctantly he did so and listened for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He hung up.

  “That was quick.”

  “Griff said they are swinging back by Crystal’s place for one more try today.”

  She grabbed her purse. “Let’s go.”

  He rested a hand on hers. “Let’s finish talking first.”

  “It can wait.”

  “Are you sure? It seemed pretty important.”

  “Positive.” It’d buy her more time.

  “Okay, but whatever you have to tell me, please know nothing you could say could change my love for you—other than deepening it. The more I see and learn, the harder I fall. You’re a warrior, and that’s flat-out hot.”

  She laughed. How on earth did he have the ability to make her laugh in such circumstances? “You’re a mess.”

  “Ah, but now I’m your mess.” He placed a kiss on her lips. “And only yours.”

  Still in shock, Declan entered the Merritt Athletic Club off Boston Street in Canton, not far from where Anajay Darmadi had come ashore. His mind was racing down a million possible angles, but taking this time out to meet with Moha was exactly what he needed.

  The meet had been set, and after Jari’s murder—no doubt by his own people—Declan wanted to not only catch Anajay Darmadi but also bring down Dr. Khaled Ebeid and his supposed cultural institute for abetting an international terrorist.

  He followed the meet drill, dropping his gym bag in a locker with the padlock both knew the combination to and heading for the treadmills. He climbed on the one at the end, the two machines to his right still available. Moha had been an informant—well, more of a consultant—for Declan for close to a year now, whenever matters grew heated in the Islamic community and intersected with a case Declan or one of his fellow agents was working.

  Declan started running, keeping his pace slow and steady, knowing after their talk he’d finish a strong run. He craved a release of pent-up energy and frustration.

  Why hadn’t he just left the Bureau and signed on with the private investigation firm Kate had founded after her own departure from the Bureau three years ago? It would distance him from the politics he hated. But when it came down to it, he loved his job with the Bureau. Loved his job but certainly didn’t love the bureaucracy or politics.

  Moha entered and climbed on the treadmill beside him. He started slowly, walking and offering a nod in Declan’s direction.

  Declan nodded back. The overhead TVs were loud, and nearly every man and woman in the place had headphones in their ears, no doubt listening to music or audiobooks.

  Dr. Moha Natsheh, PhD, was the curator of Islamic Art and Armor at the Walter’s Art Gallery and an associate professor of history at Hopkins’s Krieger School for the Arts and Sciences, teaching courses in social and art history of the medieval Middle East. He was a brilliant man with amazing connections in the Islamic culture of the city and among the growing communities within it—Middle Eastern and Southeast Asian being the two primary areas of growth. Declan had no doubt that Moha had met Dr. Ebeid, PhD, as Dr. Ebeid held a particular interest in the arts and medieval Middle Eastern history. He hoped Moha could shed some much-needed light on the situation and, if at all possible, on the undercurrents and inner workings of the Institute.

  “As always, everything I say is strictly confidential,” Declan began. They hadn’t alerted the public to Anajay Darmadi’s presence in the United States for one very simple yet important reason: They didn’t want panic to ensue. The chances of someone helping them find Darmadi based on his face being plastered all over the news were slim, and the massive panic such news would instill, sky-high.

  “As always, I risk my life by talking to you, so I trust you will keep my name out of all communications.”

  “Of course.” He’d given Moha his word many times. “We have a known terrorist in town. At least he entered Baltimore Saturday, and intel leads us to believe he’s still here.”

  “Tim McVeigh or 9/11?” Moha asked, clearly working hard to keep his expression neutral.

  “Foreign, highly dangerous. Responsible for several overseas bombings.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Actually, yes. Anajay Darmadi, the terrorist in question, phoned the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic upon his arrival, and they sent a car to pick him
up.”

  “You know this for certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they try to explain their actions?”

  “I was in the process of transporting the man who drove Darmadi to my office for interrogation when someone shot and killed him through my car window.”

  Moha placed his feet on the sides of the treadmill, instantly stopping, and stared at him with concern. “You are okay?” He looked him over.

  “I’m fine . . . but ticked. I’m going to find who did this, but I have a strong feeling I already know who ordered the hit.”

  “Who?” Moha moved back to his run, scanning the crowd to see if anyone was watching them.

  “Dr. Khaled Ebeid.”

  Moha shook his head as sweat drizzled down his neck. “Then you are in a very dangerous position, my friend.”

  “You know Dr. Ebeid?”

  “I’ve spoken with him on numerous occasions.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a well-spoken and highly educated man.”

  “With ties to extremist groups.”

  “So the rumor goes.”

  “Has he ever discussed his affiliations with such groups with you?”

  Moha chuckled and wiped his face with his running towel. “No. A man like that . . . he does not go about bragging and voicing his private business.”

  “But there are rumors?” He knew there were. The agent undercover had told them as much.

  “Yes. People talk.”

  “About what specifically?”

  “About how well connected and well financed Dr. Ebeid and his organization are.”

  “Well protected too. Dr. Ebeid keeps his lawyer on the premises.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What are your thoughts on Anajay’s motives for staying in the area?” If they were right that he was.

  “If he hasn’t moved it’s either because he’s lying low until he can find a way to move without notice, he’s a sleeper, or Baltimore is his target.”

  36

  Parker and Avery climbed from Parker’s Land Rover as Griffin stepped from his vehicle, Jason following suit. They were trying Crystal Lewis’s place for a second time, because both he and Avery, in particular, believed Crystal Lewis was the next step in the investigation.

  Parker and Avery approached, both wearing a nice shade of pink lip gloss on their lips.

  Griffin chuckled.

  “What?” they both said.

  He shook his head, trying to smother his laughter as Jason did the same. “Nothing. Let’s do this.”

  Parker narrowed his eyes, staring at Griff as he climbed Crystal’s metal steps. “Seriously, what was with the chuckle?”

  Griffin glanced at the pink sparkly shine on Parker’s lips and took pity on the man. “You got a little something . . .” He pointed to his own lips. “Right there. Nice shade on you, though.”

  Parker licked his lips, clearly tasting whatever fragrance the gloss held, and smiled.

  Of course Parker wouldn’t be embarrassed. Avery, on the other hand, blushed for the first time since he’d met her.

  Griffin rapped on the door, and it swung open. He frowned, and Jason pulled his gun.

  “Police, Ms. Lewis. We’re coming in,” Griffin said.

  Griffin and Jason swept the place, finding no one, and signaled Parker and Avery to enter.

  “The place has been tossed,” Griffin said.

  “Someone must have come while we were away,” Avery said in frustration.

  “On the bright side, it means we’re on the right trail.”

  “Which is?” Jason said.

  “Blackmail.”

  “Whatever was in the safe deposit box,” he said.

  “That’s my bet.” Avery rested her hands on her hips. “Now the question is whether or not it’s still here.”

  “Let’s spread out. I’ll take the kitchen,” Griffin said.

  “I’ve got the living room,” Jason offered.

  “I’ll take the bedroom,” Avery said.

  “Need help?” Parker asked with a wink.

  The second blush Griffin had ever witnessed flared on Avery’s cheeks.

  “I’ve got it handled. Why don’t you work the other bedroom she used as a catch-all?”

  Parker smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  An hour later they’d searched the entire trailer and come up empty-handed on what Crystal had taken from the safe deposit box, but Griffin had found the safe deposit box key in the sugar bowl.

  “Amateurs.” Avery rolled her eyes. “I found the fake ID Crystal used, along with the rest of these.” She tossed a handful of false driver’s licenses on the kitchen counter.

  “Good work,” Griffin said, “but the question remains—what did Crystal take from Skylar’s safe deposit box?”

  “And, better yet—” Parker said.

  “Where is it now?” Avery finished for him. “I wonder if Gary and Crystal are already attempting to blackmail Amanda and Kyle with what they found in Skylar’s box.”

  “Or are they sitting on it?” Griffin said. “We need to question Gary and Crystal if they ever show.”

  “Parker and I will stay until they show.”

  “A stakeout?” Parker smiled. “I’m game.”

  Avery smirked. “I bet you are.”

  “You two kids have fun, and behave,” Griffin said as he and Jason headed for his vehicle. “Call if you want a break, and I’ll send an unmarked patrol car.”

  “We’ll be good,” Parker said.

  “Uh-huh.” Griff shook his head and opened the trailer door, Jason beside him. “Let’s go have another chat with Gerard Vaughn. This all started with him, and he hasn’t been investigated fully on our end. It’s time we correct that.”

  37

  Being the gentleman that he was, Parker offered to wait at the trailer lot while Avery ran to the 7-Eleven up the road for stakeout supplies. Clearly you couldn’t do a stakeout without supplies.

  She grabbed snacks, drinks, the latest copy of Outside magazine, and a few Marvel comics and headed for the counter, where she inquired about Crystal on the off chance the teen working the register knew her. When Avery had been living in the park, everyone in the area knew everyone. The teenager knew both Gary and Crystal but said he hadn’t seen either of them since Gary came in last night near the end of his shift for cigarettes.

  When she returned to the spot they’d deemed the least likely to be seen from either Gary or Crystal’s trailers while still being able to keep an eye on them, Parker climbed into the passenger seat and smiled.

  Maybe he had some good news. “Anything?”

  “Nope,” he said, breaking into the bag of Doritos she’d purchased and smiling at the Marvel comics.

  “Then why the nice smile?”

  “Just happy to see you.” He popped a cheese-covered chip into his mouth.

  “I was gone all of ten minutes.”

  “Far too long.”

  She chuckled and reached for the Doritos. “You better share.”

  They read the comics, ate the Doritos, and chitchatted for over an hour, and then Avery grew quiet. She needed to tell him, if she could just muster her courage.

  Please, Father, give me the strength and don’t let him look at me differently.

  “What is it, love?” he asked, concern marring his brow.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Always know when something is bothering me?”

  He shrugged. “God-given gift.”

  “This could cause real problems long term,” she half joked.

  He intertwined his fingers with hers. “What is it?”

  She swallowed, so nervous her entire body felt like it was trembling. She slipped her hair behind her back, fidgeting it into a braid—something, anything to keep her distracted from the pain of what she was about to share.

  “What I was going to share back at the lab . . .”

  “Yes?” he s
aid softly after she was silent for a moment.

  “There’s something else about my past that you should know.”

  Genuine concern filled his handsome face, his full attention rapt on her.

  “I . . .” She shifted, embarrassed she was actually trembling.

  “Honey, what is it?” He rubbed her arms. “Are you cold? I can turn down the air.”

  “No.” She looked down, shaking her head. “It’s not that.”

  “Then, what? I’ve told you, nothing you tell me is going to make me love you any less. It’s not possible.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  He clasped her hand. “I promise.”

  She looked up at him. She’d heard the word promise before—not from him, but from others—and it always had come back void. “How can you promise before you’ve even heard?”

  “Because I know you.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Not all of me.”

  “Then tell me.”

  At the lab he’d told her that she wasn’t defined by her past but, rather, by her identity in Christ, but it still seemed too good to be true. Not on God’s end, but on hers. Could she really be beloved, protected, chosen?

  Please, Lord, I’m so terrified to have this conversation, but Parker deserves to know before he continues a relationship with me. Please help me to get the words out, because I can’t do it on my own.

  She inhaled and exhaled deeply, starting before she chickened out. “My mom left when I was eight. Just took off one day, leaving me with my stepfather, Fred.” The name alone burned acid in her throat, unsure she could even utter the next. “And his son from his first marriage, Peter.”

  “I’m so sorry. Is that why you left when you turned sixteen?”

  “Not because of my mom.” Her head dipped, shame rushing over her. “Because of Peter.”

  “Peter?” he said, clearly clueless as to the direction this was headed.

  “Peter was five years older than me and much stronger.”

  Parker’s eyes widened. Now he knew, at least part of it. She could read it on his face. “Did he hurt you?”

  She nodded and prayed God gave her the strength to continue. “At first it was just verbal bullying, then he started pushing me around, and when I turned twelve . . .” She swallowed, tears burning down her shame-filled face.