“This is Liza.”
“Where are you?”
She grimaced and hit the cappuccino button again. There wasn’t near enough liquid energy in that cup to help deal with the fallout from this conversation. “I’m on the job, Kurt. I can’t tell you where I am.”
“But you can just up and leave? Without warning? Quinn wanted to see you.”
Closing her eyes, Liza took a calming breath and let it out slowly. Dealing with her foster brother was like standing before a falling-down drunk Russian death squad—you never knew which way the bullets were going to fly.
“Look, Kurt, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to see Q. When I get back, I’ll give you a call and he can come over.”
“And when is that going to happen?”
Liza grated her molars. That man had an infuriating way of “asking.” “I don’t know. I can’t give you a timetable on this. Like I said, I’ll call when I get back.”
“Liza, that’s not good enough. I’m leaving for a new job site in two weeks. You’re going to have to stay with Quinn.”
Damn it! She slid her cup off the machine and plopped it on the counter. “While I don’t mind watching Quinn now and again, I can’t be doing this every time you head out for a job. My job isn’t stay-at-home mom, Kurt. I work for the freaking federal government, and when they say jump, I jump.”
“So, you’re telling me it’s my fault Steph is dead and I can’t handle my own kid?”
Where the hell does he come up with this shit? Strangling the exasperation sinking its ugly claws into her muscles, Liza crossed herself and hailed Mary to give her strength not to throttle her foster brother through the phone. “No, that is not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, I’ll call you when I’m on my way back to Cedar Rapids. This shouldn’t take too long.”
“I still don’t get why you’re even an FBI agent. Didn’t the government do a number on you enough to make you stay away?”
“Says the man who served his country in the military.”
Kurt chuckled, easing the taut rope of tension between them. “Hey, everyone was being patriotic after 9/11. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Steph.”
The second mention of Kurt’s deceased wife was a fist of grief punching Liza in the chest. Twenty-one months and counting, and yet neither of them could move on. “I need to get going. Tell Q I love him and sorry I missed him.”
“Don’t forget to call.”
“I promise.” She ended the call and slid the phone back in her pocket. This got more complicated with each day, week, hell, even the months that slipped by and Kurt did nothing to change his ways. She couldn’t be there to rescue him every time an emergency with Quinn came up. Her supervisor was beginning to pay too much attention to her and the screw-ups, and that woman was not someone to cross.
Behind her, the door dinged the arrival of a new customer. “Hey, Harley, didja hear? Sheriff found the superintendent’s body in the river.”
Liza froze, pausing as she was sealing the lid on her cup, and then looked over her shoulder. A round man in coveralls and a greasy Case International tractor cap waddled over to the tiny seating area where another man—presumably Harley—sat reading a newspaper and munching on a doughnut.
“Say what?” the cashier asked.
“Yeah,” Rotund Man said, “found him floating in the river. Bob was driving by and saw them pulling out the body. Sheriff was giving someone hell on his phone at the top of the hill.”
“How’d Avery end up in the river?”
That name burned a path through Liza’s brain. Oh God, please don’t let it be him. She grabbed her beverage and strode over to the register, setting the cup on the counter. Her gaze met the young man’s.
“Is that all for you?” he asked.
“I can’t believe it. Wonder how bad the sheriff is going to screw this up?” Rotund Man belched.
The muscles along Liza’s back tensed, knitting together like chain mail to deflect the verbal barrage. The words weren’t about her, but damn it, she was law enforcement and never liked to hear anything bad about a fellow cop. It was especially aggravating when it concerned someone in authority like Sheriff Shane Hamilton.
“Can you point me in the direction of the sheriff’s office?”
The hum of the coolers was deafening. The clerk’s face flushed red, as his eyes darted from Liza to the two loudmouths behind her.
“Uh, if you . . . um, take a right out of the lot and head east . . . ”—he gulped—“you’ll be in the right direction. The, uh, sheriff’s office is outside of town.”
Liza pasted on her “be nice to the public” smile. “Thanks.”
As fast as the cash register could, the young man rang up her cappuccino. “Three twenty-three.”
She passed him a five, shifting to put the two men in her line of sight. As she lifted the coffee to her lips, the edge of her coat rose, exposing the badge and gun. They averted their rapidly blinking eyes, and red fused the men’s features.
The cashier handed over her change. Shoving it in her pocket, she gave the young man a curt nod and strolled to the door. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”
There were some muttered responses she couldn’t make out.
Pushing through, she headed for her car. Tucked inside once more, Liza sat there. She’d jumped the gun when the big one slighted Hamilton, and now she had no idea for certain if her quarry was the same man they claimed was now dead.
Ah hell, I don’t need this.
The only way she was going to learn if he was truly the man she’d been after was to pay a visit to Hamilton and crew. That meeting might not go over so well with the small sheriff’s department.
• • •
The one thing Shane despised about being the sheriff was telling someone that a loved one had been killed. Roslin Avery damn near tore his heart out—if he’d had a heart left—with her imitation of a banshee. Good God. If he were still a drinking man, that little experience would have called for a double finger of Jack followed by a six-pack of Bud. But that was no longer an option.
Five thousand, eight hundred and forty-four days sober.
Not another drop after Cheyenne.
Shane pulled in behind the sheriff’s department; in the past year it had become the sanest place for him to park. Hiding out in the back seemed like the coward’s way out of dealing with the public, but what the people of McIntire County refused to understand was, he needed some privacy. In a place where everyone knew everyone’s business, he would get a lot of impromptu visitors wanting to “report” suspicious goings-on with other people in town. The end result was he or his deputies following up on these reports and wasting time better suited for other purposes.
Vacating his truck, he headed for the back door. The old brick building was holding up nicely as offices and jail. Fifty-some odd years ago, not long before Shane was born, the county had gutted a former general store and turned it into the sheriff’s home-away-from-home. The previous sheriff hadn’t bothered with updating the interior, except to add the late twentieth-century technology. After Shane took over, he’d pushed the McIntire County council for newer computers and equipment, which was the equivalent to gelding a bull while riding it. When money was tight, people turned into Scrooge McDuck. But after one of his deputies managed to find signs of some council members playing funny math with the county budget, the whole group suddenly discovered a wad of cash stashed away, even after some of their fellow members lost seats on the county council. That had been a surprise election year.
Shane paused inside the entrance to breathe in the aromatic scent of aged wood, Lysol, and freshly brewed coffee. Snickers and grunts from the front of the building tickled his interest. He crept down the hall like he was approaching a spooked horse, past the holding cells, the interview rooms, and the small “conference” room. The rattle of paper joined the barely restrained glee. Breaching the hallway’s end and stepping into the open bullpen area, he stiffened to a halt.
“Murdoch. Jennings.”
Startled to their feet, both whipped around, masks of sheer terror on both of their faces. Shane bit back a grin. Damn, he loved scaring the crap out of his underlings.
“What are you doing?”
Adam Jennings recovered first, the man having dealt with Shane’s mercurial moods longer. “Waiting on you, boss.”
“Brownnoser,” Murdoch snapped. Her gaze swept to Shane. “You’ve got a visitor, sir.” The twinkle in her eyes was probably the reason her fiancé had lost his mind and asked her to marry him.
Shane was immune to his female deputies’ wiles. Heading straight for the coffeepot, he removed his Resistol. “Who?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He peered over his shoulder. “Come again, Deputy Murdoch?”
The twinkling turned into spotlights. Crossing her arms, she tilted up that stubborn chin. Damn it to hell, she was too much like her stiff-necked father. “Like I said, it’s a surprise.”
Foregoing the tantalizing coffee, Shane strode to his partially opened door and pushed on it. The first thing to come into view was a pair of black knee-high boots, then a lean pair of crossed legs clad in dark blue jeans, a dark-red leather jacket leading up to the sleek, raven-haired woman with a cockeyed mouth and flashing umber eyes sitting on his battered leather couch. She pressed a rounded pen tip to her smooth, brown cheek.
“Hello, Sheriff Hamilton.”
“Agent Bartholomew”—he slid an annoyed glare back at Murdoch—“how nice of you to pay us a visit.” Sighing, he entered his office. “Murdoch, bring me a cup of coffee.”
“Say please.”
A snicker from the couch made his shoulders stiffen.
“Please bring me a cup of coffee, Deputy.”
“Right away, boss.”
With a shake of his head, he let the door swing closed as he moved to his desk. “Forgive me for being abrupt, Agent, but why are you here? And in my office?” He sank into his chair, relishing the cushioning on his screaming muscles.
“I have good reasons, but unfortunately, I can’t divulge a whole lot. No one is really supposed to know I’m here.” She leaned forward, her head canting to the side. “Will your deputies keep it on the hush, hush for now?”
“They can and will. If that’s what you want.”
Murdoch’s knock gave pause to their discussion.
“Bring it in.”
The young woman hiked into the office like she owned the whole damn building, carrying his mug and a thick square of something that smelled suspiciously like Mrs. Ginny Murdoch’s famous, county fair blue ribbon, lemon-blueberry coffee cake. “Here ya go, bossman, eat this. You’re cranky.”
Baring his canines, he took the mug from her. “I’m only eating it because your momma made it, not because you told me to. Or because I’m cranky.”
“Uh-huh. Jennings and I will just go make our rounds. And when you’re finished with Agent Bartholomew, you need to call Detective O’Hanlon,” Murdoch threw back at him as she vacated the office, closing the door with a clap.
The agent cleared her throat in a poor attempt to hide her chuckle. “I don’t remember her being so fresh with you the last time I was here.”
“That is the result of her actually growing into her big-girl pants and falling in love with an ex-marine.”
Bartholomew’s eyebrows dipped down. “An ex-marine?”
“Do you mean to tell me your former partner hasn’t been keeping you up on the gossip?”
She shook her head. “Other than hearing about the birth of Boyce and Cassy’s baby girl, he hasn’t told me much. Honestly, I haven’t had a whole lot of time to keep up. So, what’s the four-one-one on the Cliffs Notes version?”
“I don’t think there is a Cliffs Notes version with that family. As short as I can, Jolie is engaged to Xavier Hartmann—”
“The Australian bartender from O’Hanlon’s Killdeer Pub?”
“Yes. He was a marine, got out when he lost his leg. And here’s a kicker for ya—he’s actually Nic and Cassy’s half brother.”
“What?”
“Long story. Have Cassy tell you sometime.”
Bartholomew eased back into the lumpy cushion. “Sounds like I need to. Sweet mercy.”
Shane took a bite of Ginny’s coffee cake, the fluffy, tart, and sweet concoction melting on his tongue. It took a bushel-full of restraint not to moan in pleasure. Ginny’s baking skills could make a man wish for things best not imagined.
“What is the top-secret reason for you to be here in McIntire County?” He ate more of the quick bread, and washed down the crumbs with a bracing sip of coffee.
“I need to see the man you fished out of the river.”
Had he known she was going to drop that bomb in his lap, he wouldn’t have filled his mouth. There was no chance in hell he was going to ever let another FBI agent screw up a murder investigation in his county.
Chapter Three
Liza jolted as Sheriff Hamilton choked on a mouthful of cake and coffee, cringing a bit when a little of the food sprayed from his mouth. Maybe blurting that out when he was eating hadn’t been a tactful move.
Once he’d calmed himself by taking great gulps of coffee, he cleared his throat, coughed a few times, and then readjusted his tall, muscular frame in his chair. “Excuse me?”
“First, sorry I dropped that on you. And second, I know about the body. I happened to be taking a pit stop when a few of your more colorful residents were gabbing about it.”
“So it’s all over town by now.”
“If memory serves me right, that was going to happen around here anyway.” Time to offer an olive branch; he’d been more than cordial with her, all things considering. Top among them, Sheriff Hamilton was not fond of the FBI in any form or capacity. “I came down here, because a suspect I’ve been after for a long time was spotted in Eider.” From her leather-bound portfolio, she slipped out the last known photo she had of her quarry and passed it to Hamilton. “He’s been a slippery SOB, and I’m really hoping he’s not the same person you found.”
Hamilton studied the photo, his features betraying nothing of what had to be swirling around in that man’s head. With his attention on the picture, Liza used the distraction to study him. There was silver dusting his brown-blond hair. Did he always have curls? Of course, when she was around him, she couldn’t think of a time when he had removed his hat in her presence, so how would she know? But the dark shadows under his hazel eyes were still there. As was the stern jawline. If she had to take a wild guess at his age, she would put him close to fifty, but the fullness she expected to see in a man of his position and age wasn’t showing in his features. Shane Hamilton was lean as a whipcord.
He handed the photo back to her. “Hard to say if that’s the same man.”
She tucked the photo into her portfolio. “That means I’ll have to see him in the morgue.”
“Now, I don’t see how that’s going to be possible.”
Liza held up a finger, squashing any further rebuttals. “I’m not here to railroad you or your deputies in a murder investigation. It’s not my forte, and given my choice, I’d rather just forgo the whole viewing, but I have to know if this is the guy I’m after. If it’s not, I might need to pick that brilliant brain of yours. If he is my guy, I have to go back to my supervisor and explain to her that our suspect has gotten himself killed.”
“Which leads to you staying around and attracting the very attention you don’t want to draw to yourself, because if your supervisor is anything like Boyce Hunt, she’ll dog my ass wanting answers.”
Liza didn’t bother hiding her smile. Hamilton summed up SAC Ally Montrose in one fell swoop. “That I can’t change. I can simply lessen the pain. However, my presence here is only secretive if this guy is still alive.”
“And why is that?” Hamilt
on shifted in his chair as if in discomfort.
She bit her tongue before blurting out some absurdity about him needing to change seats. Shane Hamilton was a man’s man, cowboy to the core. And, God forbid, admitting to anything that showed weakness was tantamount to declaring himself impotent.
“You can not utter one word I tell you. If this guy hears that I’m here, he’ll vanish. It’s happened twice before, and it’s driving me batshit crazy. I’m here on a Sunday only because our information was solid, and my super was adamant that we do this on the down low.” Liza lowered her voice. “We both suspect this guy has ears in the FBI, and when he gets wind of a move against him, he’s gone, like smoke in the wind. And here’s the kicker. He never leaves Iowa.”
The sheriff’s face wrinkled. “What? Why would he not take off for parts unknown?”
“If I finally nab this guy, I’ll ask him. He does a really damn good disappearing act. Whole new identity, life, job, everything.”
“What are you after him for?”
“Embezzlement, fraud, identity theft, there’s a good chance he dabbled in money laundering in real estate, and election fraud. If you can think it, he did it. And this man is brilliant. He can be anything or anyone he wants. He’s The Talented Mr. Ripley in the flesh. It’s why I’ve had a hard time catching him.”
“And you think he’s my dead guy in the morgue?”
“Avery was what the loudmouths said in the store. According to my source, that was the name he was going by down here.”
Hamilton’s mouth quirked to the side, and he rocked back his chair. As he sat there, his gaze lingering on her, a silence like a warm, soothing blanket draped the office.
“Now, be honest with me, Agent Bartholomew. Did you happen to engage those ‘loudmouths,’ as you called them, in the store?”
Her face flamed hot. Shit!
Hamilton rocked forward and rested his elbow on the corner of his desk. “If that blush in your cheeks is any indication, I think I just exposed a flaw to your plan. If you came here with the intention of keeping your arrival quiet, you sure blew that out of the water by walking in to that store.”
Liar, Liar Page 2