Something shifted in his posture, a subtle bunching of muscles. Almost as soon as she noticed it, he looked relaxed again.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” M.J. said, stepping up beside Tara. “Is this your company headquarters or—”
“That’s right.”
M.J. smiled. “Mind if I look around while you two talk?”
The sunglasses shifted to Tara.
“I just have a few questions,” she explained. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“Look around all you want,” he told M.J. “Jeremy can take you.”
They turned to see a man standing behind them—six-three, two-thirty, brown hair, blue eyes. He wore Army green fatigues and heavy black boots that Tara had somehow failed to hear crunching on the gravel.
M.J. thrust her hand out and introduced herself with a smile.
“Jeremy Owen,” he said briefly, shaking hands with both of them and then giving Liam a look that seemed loaded with secret communication.
Tara shot M.J. her own secret look. Are you okay with this? M.J. answered with a subtle nod before walking off with the big commando. He led her across the clearing to a corrugated metal building, where he held the door open as she stepped inside. A wooden sign above the doorway read SEMPER FI.
Tara returned her attention to Liam Wolfe. “Like I said, I just have a few questions.”
“And I have things to do. Hop in.”
He turned away, and she stared at his back, startled. After gritting her teeth for a moment, she trekked over to the passenger side of his truck. The instant she pulled the door shut, he was moving.
“So, Mr. Wolfe—”
“Liam.”
He glanced over, and she noticed he’d finally ditched the shades. His eyes were deep green, the color of the woods around him.
“How did you hear about Catalina’s disappearance?” she asked.
He steered his pickup over the gravel road. “David called me.”
“David?”
“Her husband.” He darted a look at her, probably wondering why she didn’t know this detail about the woman she was supposedly investigating.
“He called you Wednesday night or . . . ?”
“Yesterday morning. They notified him after her car turned up.”
Her car. Interesting. Hadn’t David Reyes already known his wife was missing when she didn’t come home that night? Maybe he’d been away for some reason.
Tara looked around the truck. No fancy stereo or expensive gadgets. It was toasty warm inside and smelled of wet earth. She glanced in back and saw muddy work boots on the floor. Size thirteens, if she had to guess.
She looked outside. They were no longer on a road through the trees but simply in the trees, following a route he seemed to know well. Tara listened intently and then buzzed down her window.
“Is that—”
“Our firing range,” he said. “Straight west of here.”
It wasn’t pistol fire she was hearing but rifles. “How long’s the range?” she asked.
“A thousand yards.”
She tried not to look impressed. “How many acres you have here?”
“Twelve hundred.”
“And people?”
“Here, only a handful. I keep most of my guys in the field.”
His guys. Again, she tried to mask her reaction. A twelve-hundred-acre facility, plus vehicles and employees. It was a large operation for a man who looked to be thirty-five, tops. Evidently, private security paid better than government work.
She turned to study him. Athletic body, peak condition. Ripped, as M.J. had said. His wide shoulders seemed to fill up the spacious cab.
He pulled over, and Tara’s window buzzed up as he pushed open his door.
“Stay inside if you want,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.”
Tara hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She got out and zipped her jacket against the cold. They were deep in the woods, and it was dark as dusk. A layer of pine needles carpeted the forest floor. She walked around to the back of the pickup where he was unloading wood.
Tara grabbed a pair of two-by-fours and carried them to a growing pile at the base of a tall wooden frame. Someone was constructing a tower, it looked like. For rappelling? She stacked the wood and glanced around, noting the group of tires arranged on the hard-packed path. Farther down the trail she saw parallel bars and a wall made of logs. Nestled out here in the woods, the PT course reminded her of the one at Quantico.
“You train your people here?” she asked.
“Yep.”
She returned to the truck. He scooped up an armload of two-by-fours like they were Styrofoam pool noodles. Tara grabbed two. “What are you building?” she asked.
“A cargo net.”
She gazed up at the frame. “What is that, sixty feet?”
“Seventy.” He looked at Tara, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “SEALs train on a sixty. Can’t be outdone by a buncha frogboys.”
A warm tingle filled her. Something about his eyes without the sunglasses, especially when he smiled. She looked at the frame again. “Impressive,” she said.
There was no point in denying it. Liam Wolfe was impressive. His operation was impressive.
But she hadn’t come here to be impressed.
He hauled the last of the wood as Tara stood there shivering. He seemed immune to the cold in his thin T-shirt. His muscles rippled as he stacked the lumber, and Tara watched him, suddenly struck by the certainty that he’d killed men before, probably with his bare hands.
“You used to be a Marine?” she asked.
“Retired.” He looked at her. “There’s no ‘used to.’ ”
“Mr. Wolfe, what sort of threats was Catalina Reyes concerned about?”
“Liam.” He slammed the tailgate on the now-empty truck bed. “And I don’t know.”
“Weren’t you her bodyguard?”
“Security consultant.”
She crossed her arms, annoyed by more semantics. “What’s the difference?”
He leaned back against the truck. “In some cases, life and death.”
“Okay, so you were her security consultant for how long?”
“We worked together about six months. She terminated the arrangement after she lost the election.”
“You were her security consultant for six months, and you don’t know what kind of threats she was worried about?”
“Lately? No.”
She tipped her head to the side. “I find that hard to believe.”
“That doesn’t much bother me.”
She watched him, trying for a read, but his body language didn’t offer many clues.
He wasn’t defensive. Or evasive. Or nervous. He seemed relaxed but alert. And she somehow knew he was keenly aware that he was being interviewed by a federal agent who might consider him a suspect in the disappearance—and probable murder—of a woman he knew.
Yet he seemed calm.
Tara looked over her shoulder at the path snaking through the trees. They’d been here ten minutes, and not a single trainee had come pounding down the course. They were alone, with only the chirping of birds and the distant pops of gunfire coming from the range.
Tara looked at him and caught him checking her out. His gaze lifted, and she felt a hot flush of sexual awareness.
“How’d you meet Catalina?” she asked.
“A referral from a client.”
“Mind if I ask who?”
“Yes.”
She arched her brows.
“My clients are confidential.”
She looked at the trees again, struggling not to let her impatience show.
This was a casual conversation, and he was having it willingly. She was lucky to be here. He could have asked to have a lawyer present or made her get a warrant to set foot on his property, but instead he was being cooperative.
Mostly.
“When was the last time you talked to her?” she asked. “Do you know
that much?”
He lifted an eyebrow at the edge in her voice. “Probably a few months ago. I’d have to check a calendar to know for sure.”
His tone was cool and businesslike. But there was nothing businesslike about the way he was watching her now. The simmering look in his eyes put a warm flutter in her stomach, and she had to remind herself that he was a suspect.
“When she called, do you remember what you discussed?” Tara asked.
“She had some concerns about her security system. I talked her through it.”
Just the sort of info Tara had been hoping for. “What, she didn’t think her system was up to par?”
“It was,” he said firmly. “We installed it. She needed someone to explain a few things, put her mind at ease.”
“Was there a specific threat she mentioned?”
“No.”
“Was she having marital problems that you know of?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” He paused, watching her closely with those green, green eyes. “Every married person I know has marital problems. Catie wasn’t different.”
Catie again.
“What was your relationship with her?” Tara asked.
“I told you, she was a client.”
“What about after that?”
“She was a friend.” Tara waited, but he didn’t elaborate.
“This phone call about her security system,” she said. “It would be useful if you could give me a ballpark of the timing. You can check your calendar later.”
“Before Thanksgiving.” He pulled a phone from the pocket of his jeans, then checked the screen and answered it. “Yeah.”
She watched him as he stared at the ground, listening. She hadn’t heard the phone, so he must have had it on vibrate.
“Tell him five minutes.” He ended the call and walked to the driver’s side. “Back to work.”
Tara dusted her hands on her jacket and climbed into the warm cab. The ride back was faster, maybe because of his meeting or maybe because he was ready to get away from her pesky questions.
He didn’t talk. Sitting close to him in the silence, she realized it wasn’t his size that captured her attention so much as his confidence. It was in the way he moved, the way he spoke. It permeated everything he did, even something as basic as steering his truck over the rutted road.
They reached the clearing, and Tara noted the shiny black Suburban parked at the far end of the house. By its dark-tinted windows and specialized antennae, she guessed it was Someone Important, probably one of his confidential clients. M.J. was standing beside the Explorer talking to Jeremy.
Liam rolled to a stop beside them. He turned to Tara and nodded. “Special Agent.” She was being dismissed.
“Thanks for your time,” she said, shoving open the door and pulling a business card from her pocket. “Please call me if anything comes up. I’ll be in touch after we have more information.”
He gave her a wry look and took the card. “I’m sure you will.”
THE HILLY OPENNESS was a relief after the dense woods. Tara neared the Delphi Center crime lab, going over the facts in her mind. She’d been on the case thirty-six hours now, and yesterday’s legwork had uncovered more questions than answers.
She and M.J. had spent the afternoon at Silver Springs Park, interviewing potential witnesses, including a dog walker who remembered seeing a woman matching Catalina’s description on the trail around 5:40 P.M. They’d found two other people who had been at the park that evening, both bird watchers in their late seventies. They remembered seeing the white Lexus but not Catalina.
None of the witnesses recalled suspicious vehicles or people around the trail. Silver Springs PD and M.J. were checking out everyone’s background, but all of their stories raised the same troubling point.
If the witness accounts were accurate, then whoever grabbed Catalina from the trail hadn’t parked at the trailhead. The most likely alternative was a back access road used primarily by park employees.
But why hadn’t anyone heard a struggle or a call for help?
Maybe Catalina’s assailant had disabled her. But then he would have had to carry or drag her to his vehicle, a good half mile from the trail through thick woods. On the other hand, he could have forced her at gunpoint.
But Tara didn’t buy that scenario.
A smart, educated woman—particularly one who’d been trained in self-defense by the likes of Liam Wolfe—would know better than to go willingly with an assailant, even one wielding a gun. Her chances were much better if she ran.
So maybe she hadn’t been forced. Maybe she hadn’t been murdered at all but simply walked away from her Lexus and her life. She could have run away with a secret lover. She could be running from tax problems or a bad marriage or anything at all. Until the ID came back on the victim in the woods, all Tara knew for sure was that Catalina Reyes was missing, and there were plenty of ways to be missing, not all of them bad.
But Tara knew what her instincts told her.
It was the same thing Liam Wolfe seemed to know, too.
Tara fully expected the victim in the woods to be identified as Catalina Reyes. Tara had glimpsed the body—under adverse conditions, yes, but she’d seen it. Liam hadn’t, presumably, so what made him so sure? The answer was simple. Either he’d killed Catalina or he knew details about her death.
Assuming for a minute that he hadn’t killed her, that meant he was getting info somewhere, possibly from one of those sheriff’s deputies who’d been talking about him the night the body was discovered.
So . . . a murder suspect who had an in with the sheriff’s office, an in that could easily be exploited. The prospect didn’t sit well with Tara, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She was the outsider in this investigation—a fact everyone she’d met had made abundantly clear.
Tara spied the turnoff for the Delphi Center crime lab. She pulled onto the private drive and stopped at the gatehouse. As she showed her ID to the guard, Tara’s phone chimed from the console. It was M.J.
“I talked to the husband,” M.J. informed her. “He doesn’t think it’s her.”
“He talked to you?”
“He had a lawyer present, but he agreed to the interview. I think he was worried about how it would look if he stonewalled us.”
The guard handed back Tara’s ID and waved her through.
“And he doesn’t think it’s her?” Tara asked.
“Says he’s sure it isn’t. Fact, he doesn’t even think it was Catalina who drove the Lexus to the park.”
“Who, then?”
“I don’t know. But this guy’s adamant. Says she never left work before seven. And she wasn’t a jogger. She didn’t take care of her health, according to him. He said she rarely exercised, and if she did, it was in the comfort of the air-conditioned gym at their country club.”
Tara thought of the eyewitness account about a woman on the trail. But eyewitness accounts were notoriously unreliable. People saw what they expected to see. Or what they wanted to see. Or what they believed they should see. More and more, lawyers were managing to debunk eyewitness testimony in court.
“Well, how does he explain her Lexus?” Tara asked, curving up the road.
“He doesn’t. He just insists she didn’t drive it there. At least not to go jogging—and those are his words, not mine.”
“And what’s that mean?”
“I don’t know, but we’re looking into it,” M.J. said. “I’m wondering if she had a boyfriend, maybe someone she was meeting at the park. Because—get this—the husband admits they were separated.”
“Okay, hubs just catapulted to the top of my suspect list,” Tara said. Ahead of Liam Wolfe.
“David Reyes says he moved out six weeks ago, says they’d been in counseling for months, but it wasn’t working out. And I know your next question. Yes, we got his alibi, and no, we have not yet confirmed it.”<
br />
The Delphi Center came into view, an imposing white building at the top of a hill. Tara had seen pictures but never visited in person. With its tall white columns and wide marble steps, it looked like a Greek monument. She pulled into the parking lot and found a space near the front.
“You need to vet that alibi,” she told M.J. “The soon-to-be-ex-husband is looking like our prime suspect.”
“Hence the lawyer,” M.J. said. “And I’m inclined to agree with you, except for the obvious.”
“What’s that?”
“The body, Tara.”
The emotion in her voice gave Tara pause. And she knew what M.J. meant. The crime was horrendously violent. Could a man really do that to his own wife?
The answer was yes. But M.J. was new to the job so not as jaded as Tara was.
“It might also explain the lack of noise,” Tara said logically, “or signs of struggle at the park. Maybe she knew her killer.”
“But why go public?” M.J. said. “That’s risky. If her husband wanted to kill her, why not do it at home and set it up like an accident?”
“We’re not even sure it’s her yet,” Tara pointed out. “And anyway, maybe he wanted it to look like a stranger killed her. A random act of violence. Or a hate crime. Or someone stalking her for political reasons, like one of the people who prompted her to hire bodyguards when she was running for Congress.”
“Yes, but if he wanted it to look like that, why argue with investigators about her driving her car to the park?”
They both got quiet, thinking it through.
Tara slid from the SUV, and a cold January wind whipped against her face. “I’ll call you later. I’m at the crime lab.”
“Good luck,” M.J. said. “I hope you get some answers.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Tara was looking for Dr. Walter Crumbley, and she expected a balding man in a white lab coat.
Instead she got an auburn-haired woman in faded jeans.
“I’m Kelsey Quinn,” she said, striding up to the reception desk. “I understand you’re here for Walt?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s out this week. Knee surgery. I’m covering his cases.” She glanced at the receptionist, who was handing Tara a visitor’s badge. “We set here?”
Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) Page 4