They walked back in through the front entryway, down the hallway, passing the two bullet holes Morgan had put in the wall. “Bruce is going to be pissed about that,” Jackson predicted.
“I doubt he’ll give it much thought, considering everything else on his mind.” Morgan headed straight into Laura’s little room. “I’ll take the desk,” Morgan said, motioning with a raised hand. “You take the closet.”
Morgan methodically searched the desk drawers running down the left to the floor—nothing odd or of interest—then the one that ran the width across the center just under the desktop. Pencils, pens, extra nibs for her calligraphy, scissors—all the usual items you’d expect to see, but nothing that didn’t fit in.
Jackson cursed, and Morgan twisted on the chair to look back over her shoulder at him. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s film in this camera.” He lifted a Canon toward Morgan. “Forensics didn’t pull the film.”
They’d had no reason to suspect anything recorded on it had a connection to the murder. Still, they should have pulled it. “Is it a digital or film?”
“Film. Laura refused to enter the digital age.” Morgan stood up. “Let’s go get it developed and see what’s there.”
He nodded, looked down at the floor at something shiny, then bent to pick it up. “What is that?” Morgan asked.
“A coin,” he said. “A gold coin from Cook Island.” Jackson grunted, rubbed at his neck. “Now where the hell did that come from?”
“Vacation memorabilia?” Morgan suggested. “Or maybe a collection. A lot of people collect coins.”
“Not Laura. She and Bruce would have talked about any trip. She’d have sent me her itinerary, travel log, photographs—the whole nine yards.”
She would have. Morgan frowned, searched her memory, and came up dry. “Where is Cook Island?”
“I don’t know.” He looked up from the coin to Morgan. “Never heard of it.”
Morgan’s interest was piqued. “Did you and Laura talk while Bruce was in Iraq?”
“Of course,” Jackson said. “We checked in with each other at least once a week.”
Morgan walked over to the closet, straightened a nest of books and a photo album sitting on a tabletop next to a padded rocking chair along the way. “Did you call her, or did she call you?”
Jackson got a strange look on his face. “She called me.
They had a free long-distance plan.”
Morgan flipped open the photo album, saw a picture of Laura and the redhead in the entryway photo with Jackson, the woman she’d thought he’d been interested in. Judy somebody. They stood arms linked, laughing, at a location that looked like a tropical resort. Hawaii, maybe? Somewhere with that Pacific Island flavor, gauging by the sand and surf and their beach attire. It was a recent photo, too. Laura looked the same as she had in Morgan’s office, and her hair was styled the same way and the same length. She’d been on a trip somewhere. Maybe to this Cook Island …
Closing the book, Morgan thought for a second. “So you don’t know for a fact that Laura was here when she called you. She really could have been anywhere.”
“I suppose. I can’t say I paid any attention at all to caller ID. Had no reason to, you know?” He shrugged, as if the thought that she hadn’t been at home had never occurred to him.
But why should it? Bruce was on temporary duty in Iraq. Wives waited, kept the home fires burning, especially wives dedicated to their husbands, like Laura.
Morgan pulled out her cell and dialed Darcy at Home Base. When she answered, Morgan asked, “Darcy, have you pulled the phone records on the Stern residence?”
“You bet. I scanned the house and both cell phones for foreign calls, considering …”
“Did you find any?”
“No, not even one.” Darcy made a noise from her throat and then added, “Why are you asking?”
“Just a hunch,” Morgan said, downplaying her zinging intuition on this. “Can you run a check to see how many times Laura phoned Jackson while Bruce was in Iraq?” She covered the mouthpiece and told Jackson, “I need your number.”
He relayed his home, office, and cell numbers. “She usually called me at home.”
Within seconds, Darcy relayed her findings. “During that time, there were no calls from the Stern residence or from either cell phone to any of those numbers.”
Not good. Not good. Jackson was clearly waiting to hear Darcy’s findings. Morgan nodded, sharing the news that there had been no calls recorded.
Jackson frowned. “She couldn’t have checked that fast. Tell her to slow down and look again.” He tapped his palm with his index finger. “Laura phoned me every single Saturday, Morgan. Every single Saturday.”
Morgan nodded, acknowledging that she’d heard him. He looked ready to go off like a rocket, so she paused to explain. “Hang on a second, Darcy.”
“Sure thing.”
Morgan covered the mic in the phone with her hand so her words wouldn’t carry through to Home Base. “Jackson, you don’t understand. Darcy doesn’t need to double-check.”
“Apparently, she does. She’s dead-damn wrong.”
“No, she isn’t,” Morgan insisted. “Darcy has total recall. She reviews something once, and it’s in her head verbatim for life. Laura made no calls from this house or either of their cell phones. That’s a Darcy-verified fact I’d bet my life on.”
“I see.”
She thought maybe he did.
He bit his inner lip. “So where the hell was she? Where did she call from and why didn’t she tell me she wasn’t at home?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better find out.” Morgan put the phone back to her ear. “Thanks for waiting, Darcy.” “No problem.”
“Can you run a reverse check on Jackson’s home phone?”
“Do we have his permission?”
A courtesy. In a murder investigation, they could get the necessary authorizations and had most of them already. Still, Morgan looked at him. “Jackson, do I have your permission?”
“Yes, you do,” he said loudly enough for Darcy to hear. “Whatever of mine you want to examine, pull it.” “Trusting guy,” Darcy said. “Not really.” “Ah, you’re special.”
Morgan murmured. “One can but hope.”
“Jazie said he was special and you had the hots for him.”
She could deny it, but why bother? Facts were facts. No sense shooting her credibility for nothing; they knew the truth. “Yes.”
“Ouch, he’s right there, right?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Okay, then. “What exactly do you need?”
Relaxing now that the topic had shifted off her personal life and back to business, Morgan said, “I want a complete listing of all incoming calls for every Saturday during Bruce’s absence … no. No, wait.” She paused and rethought the request, then amended it. “I want a complete listing of all incoming calls for every Saturday from the time Bruce left for Iraq until three weeks ago.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Darcy.” Morgan hung up.
Jackson leaned against the doorframe. “This situation is turning into a pretzel.”
“It started out like a pretzel. Now it’s becoming a whole bag of them.” Morgan motioned to Laura’s camera. “Let’s get that film processed and see what’s on it.”
Jackson removed it from the camera and tossed it to Morgan. “Catch.”
She did and then dropped it into an evidence bag inside her purse.
“We’re not going to find anyplace to process the film tonight,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Why don’t you drop me off at the Sunrise and we’ll resume in the morning?”
He was right about the film. It was just after 10:00 P.M. Short of driving up to Home Base at Regret, which was forty miles from Magnolia Beach, there wasn’t a place open to process it. “Works for me.”
They locked up the house, walked to the car, and then Morgan drove to the harbor. Parking was atrocious; the clubs wer
e packed, and the marina was as jammed as Grand Central. Morgan looped the parking lot three times without seeing a single parking space.
Finally, on round four, Jackson spotted a car backing out. “There.” He pointed.
Morgan zipped into the vacated space and then pushed the gearshift into park. “I still wish you’d change your mind about being out here.” Her instincts screamed it was a bad idea. Should she stay and watch his back?
“I’ll be fine, and no hanging around to cover my sixes. I’d be in more trouble trying to protect myself and you.”
God, was she that transparent? “Okay, but I don’t like this.”
“Noted.”
And it didn’t make a damn bit of difference except to feed his ego. That would irk her, but honestly she sensed he needed it. He needed a little TLC and nurturing. “Shall I pick you up?”
He slid her a killer smile. “Anytime you like, Morgan.”
She laughed. It felt foreign and good, and clearly it did to him, too. “I’ll hold that thought,” she promised, and then sobered, remembering where they were and who else might be here with them. “You should reconsider and stay in my guest room.” He’d tagged the Sunrise the G.R.I.D. kill zone, and Morgan totally agreed with him on that. Of everywhere in the world, right now, this was the most dangerous place for him to be, and leaving him there set her raw nerves on edge.
“Tempting offer, but no thanks.” He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek.
“You’re hell-bent on keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?” Morgan said, recalling the old cliché.
“Something like that.” He glanced out the window. “Actually, I was thinking of checking out a couple of the bars.”
Surprise flitted through her. “Trolling for women?”
His eyes glinted steel. “Trolling for G.R.I.D. operatives.”
She moved to turn off the ignition. “I’ll come with you.” He should have backup, in case he did run into them.
“Morgan, no.” He stayed her hand on the ignition, kept her from turning off the engine. The green lights on the dashboard reflected on his face. “I wasn’t kidding. This is the G.R.I.D. kill zone, and they are after me. I’d prefer you not be here at all, much less be here with me.”
“It doesn’t matter where I am,” she said in a voice she forced level. “I’m in the kill zone, too, Jackson.” She paused and let that seep into his mind, giving him time to see the truth in it. “We can’t prove it, but we know those were G.R.I.D. assassins at Bruce and Laura’s tonight. I put a bullet in one of their shoulders. I’m as much a target as you are.”
“Not necessarily,” he countered. “They’re professionals. Kunz’s professionals. They’re not going to let personal vendettas interfere with their work for him. He wouldn’t tolerate it, and they know it.”
“I’m a professional, too,” she said softly. “Do you think he doesn’t know about me? Come on, Jackson. He knows who we are, all of us. He’s infiltrated our systems. We know that for a fact.”
“But that doesn’t mean they know. He holds everything he possibly can tight to his chest. It’s how he survives. And the room was dark. His goons might not have seen your face. You didn’t see theirs.”
“True, but they did see my Jeep parked in the street. Once they discovered people inside the house, how long do you think it took them to run the plates on all the cars around there? The third guy in the car surely pulled the plate numbers on all the vehicles in the vicinity.” If he hadn’t, he’d been a damn fool. “No, they’ve identified me already. I know it, and I’d be derelict in my job not to admit it.”
He didn’t like it and searched his mind for an objection that would stand up against her logic, but failed to find one. “Okay, then.” He let out a resigned sigh. “At least if you’re with me, I can watch your back.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Only reversed. I can watch yours.
He opened the door. “Let’s go.”
They hit two clubs on the pier, ordered drinks they didn’t touch, scanned the places, saw no one of interest, and then left to scout out a third.
Papa Bear’s. Inside, they walked over crushed peanut shells on the wooden floor—totally impractical for a beachside club with all the sand. They skirted the perimeter, which gave them a clear view of everyone present, and didn’t see any of the three assassins.
Morgan nodded toward the door, Jackson acknowledged, and they went outside. “Let’s call it a night,” Morgan suggested. “If they don’t want to be seen down here, they won’t be. It’s easy to get lost in this sea of people.” The dockside was packed.
“All right. I’ll walk you back to the Jeep.” Jackson fell into step beside her, shouldered a path between people until it thinned out, and they got to the parking lot. “Will seven o’clock in the morning work for you?”
She hit the button on her key chain to unlock the door. “Sure.” Sliding into her seat, she clicked her seat belt into place, then keyed the ignition. Her gaze lowered, down his chest. He’d untucked his shirt to hide the imprints of the guns he’d confiscated from Laura’s. “Do you have your cell phone?”
He reached to his hip, felt it there, and nodded.
“Put me on speed dial, and call if you need me.”
He smiled, hesitated a second, then leaned in and pecked a gentle kiss on her lips. “You, too.”
“Jackson?” It was a question she had to ask. She was too tired to intuit it on her own with any certainty of accuracy, and if she didn’t ask, she could kiss off sleeping a wink. Too weary to bother with subtleties, she got direct. “Do you still believe Bruce killed Laura?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he admitted, though having to voice doubt cost him. “I do think the assassins were checking out Laura’s space at the house, but I still think all of this somehow relates to Bruce’s job. I wish I could say he didn’t do it, but I don’t know it, and I can’t prove it.”
“I might agree with you,” Morgan said with a trace of bitterness, “if I knew what Bruce’s job was, at least when he was in Iraq. Not knowing, I’m floundering at making those connections.”
Forearms propped at her window, Jackson looked down at the ground. “I can’t disclose what I know about that,” Jackson said, the wheels of his mind turning in his eyes. “Let me say this. Thomas Kunz has built a multinational empire selling intelligence on U.S. personnel and weaponry systems and other assets. Bruce is an internationally known authority on biowarfare. That’s about all I can say.”
So Bruce had been checking out something that Intel had determined Kunz was interested in acquiring or exploiting. “Okay,” she said.
“It appears as if G.R.I.D. killed Laura,” Jackson continued. “But all things considered, odds rank off the charts that they killed her to manipulate Bruce.”
That, Morgan didn’t accept. “Kunz doesn’t go around when he can go direct,” she said. “I’ve been involved in one way or another on five G.R.I.D. related missions, and in every one of them, he’s gone for the jugular, straight for whatever he wanted.”
Jackson nodded. “That’s consistent with my experience,” he said, revealing that he’d had previous experience with G.R.I.D. and Kunz, too. “But when you consider that Bruce refused to answer our questions and give us what we need to work this, you have to also consider that Kunz or one of his bastard henchmen tried to go direct. My guess is they tried Bruce first and failed, and then—”
“Killed Laura to coerce Bruce into doing whatever it is Kunz wants done?”
Jackson nodded.
Revulsion slithered through Morgan. Kunz had done that before. Dr. Joan Foster had refused to work for him, so he’d killed her parents and grandparents to coerce her, and then he’d threatened to kill her husband and son. She was an expert on psychological warfare, memory manipulation, programming and deprogramming, which meant she had all the tools available to anyone to fight Kunz, and yet she’d folded.
Laura was dead. Assassins had been after Jackson.
Bruce had been framed—and likely could be cleared if he agreed to cooperate with Kunz and tell him what he wanted to know. The coercion theory would fit if …
“Jackson, do you and Bruce have any other living relatives?”
“No, we don’t. Our mother passed away two years ago. We’re all that’s left.”
Morgan’s heart beat hard and fast. Then coercion did fit. Everything that had happened fit within known Kunz and G.R.I.D. tactics.
“Let’s pick this up in the morning, okay? We’re both wiped out,” he said, stepping back from the Jeep. “Night.”
“Night.” Morgan closed her window, reversed out of the parking space, and then drove away, glancing back in her rearview at Jackson watching her go. He was an amazingly strong man and very perceptive. Damn gorgeous, too. She smiled to herself and turned onto Highway 98. God, please. When tomorrow comes, let him still be alive …
Halfway home, she decided that though Jackson’s line of logic on coercion tactics fit, that didn’t mean it was accurate. It’d be clean and efficient if it was, but Morgan’s intuition said to keep digging.
Dig deep.
Morgan blew out a weary breath. One thing came through loud and clear.
The truth had not yet been revealed …
CHAPTER 8
Morgan punched in the alarm code, entered her house, and then reset the alarm. Her skin crawled; she was on edge and uneasy, and she wasn’t used to feeling edgy and uneasy in her own home.
She blew out a resentful breath, set down her handbag, and carried her car keys with her. If push came to shove, she could sound the car alarm. That surely would get at least Justin’s mom’s attention. There was an upside to having a nosy neighbor.
The answering machine’s blinking red light snagged her attention. Morgan slid off her shoes and tapped the button to listen to her messages.
A hang-up call at 10:25 P.M.—after Morgan had left the Stern residence. By then, the G.R.I.D. assassins would have had more than ample time to run the plates on her car and find out who she was and where she lived.
An uneasy shiver crept up her back.
She tapped forward and then listened to the next call.
Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04] Page 16