by Dani Pettrey
The wounds on Haywood’s body were deep and purposeful. Not the marks he usually found on suicide victims. Those were shallower, jagged even—the body fighting not to cut itself despite the person’s intent. And the handwriting on the suicide note was too shaky, like he was at great struggle within himself. The tentativeness of the note and the purposefulness of the cuts didn’t match—unless Haywood suddenly got very angry at himself for killing the Markums. The autopsy would show conclusive proof of what had happened and provide the evidence they needed to confirm his belief, but he knew Haywood had been murdered. The question was, by whom?
Lowell?
That made the most sense.
Avery stood above him as he worked to get a decent blood sample without any carpet fibers and then a carpet sample with blood on it. “I’m done photographing the room and items you noted.”
“Thank you,” he said, finishing his task.
She rested her hand on her hip, yoga pants on. They’d packed for a relaxing weekend, where they’d planned to hike and enjoy the scenery at Oregon Ridge Park, so they didn’t have their professional clothes with them. It felt strange working a crime scene in casual clothes . . . but he didn’t mind seeing Avery in yoga pants.
“You think they were killed here?” she asked, gazing about the room. Chairs knocked over, items strewn around the small table, blood on the carpet, heel marks through the carpet, as if someone had been dragged . . . “Maybe he dumped the murder weapon wherever he dumped the bodies.”
Murder weapon . . . Parker looked up at her, eyes wide.
Avery’s brow furrowed. “What? I know that look. You’re on to something.”
He got to his feet. “We’re searching the wrong room.”
“If they were killed here . . .” she began.
Parker shook his head. “I have all the evidence I need here, but whoever killed Haywood obviously wanted to set him up, hence the suicide note. The killer most likely forced Haywood to write the note and then killed him, staging it to look like a suicide. I bet you the weapon that killed the Markums is stashed in Haywood’s room to further set up his appearance of guilt.”
“If the killer wanted to make Haywood look guilty, why not just leave it out in the open?”
“Too obvious. That would make it all too easy, and any cop worth their salt knows cases are never that straightforward.”
“So . . . back to Haywood’s room?”
“You got it.”
“Was Samantha helpful?” Tanner asked as Declan held the apartment building door open for her with his back, his hands full with the file box and a smaller box with the items he’d taken with the Burke family’s blessing.
“Very,” he said. “And her parents? Seems like you were able to break through to Steven’s mom in spades.”
“She’s a sweet lady.”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Connect with people so easily? Get them to let down their guard?” She was a master at it, and yet her approach was in no way manipulative, but exhibited pure caring and compassion that reached the hearts of people.
“I don’t know.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “I think . . . No, never mind.”
“What? I’d like to know.”
“I think it’s just how God made me. Like a gift.” She grimaced. “That probably sounds silly or boastful.”
“Not at all. I believe God gives us all gifts to use for His glory.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
“And yours is brilliantly putting puzzles together when it looks like the pieces don’t fit,” she said as they approached their rental SUV.
He smiled. “That’s how you see me?”
“Part of you.”
His smile deepened. “And the other part?”
“You’re strong, loyal, protective . . .”
“You mean annoyingly smothering.”
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry I said that. I was frustrated. I know you were just trying to help. You didn’t know my background and were trying to look out for me. And while I don’t show it often, I do appreciate it.”
“I would have acted much differently if I’d known how well you can take care of yourself. But even so, I went overboard. You just made me nervous.”
Her nose crinkled. “Nervous?”
“You seemed so reckless . . . from my unenlightened perspective, and I felt helpless to get through to you.”
“I’d say you did a very good job getting through to me the other night.”
His face grew warm.
And she laughed. “Did I actually just make Declan Grey blush?”
When had he last blushed? Without a word he set the file box on the hood of the SUV, opened Tanner’s door, put the boxes in the backseat, and strode around to his side.
When he climbed into the driver’s seat, she was looking more serious. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” he said. But he worried about what she was going to ask. Now might not be the best—
“Why were you trying to be so protective of me? I mean, why me?”
“After our kiss, I hoped you’d figure that one out.”
“So even back then . . . ?”
He shrugged. Though not the best timing, apparently this conversation was happening. “I guess I have a lousy way of showing I care.”
“You care about me?” She scooted closer to him, and he followed suit.
He ran his fingers through her hair. “You still have to ask?” He supposed he wasn’t the best at expressing his feelings. Doing so made him vulnerable, and after Mandy in high school, and then Kate, and for a long while after, he’d given up being vulnerable.
“When?” Tanner asked.
He frowned. “When, what?”
“When did you start caring?”
“Oh . . . the day you came striding through my hospital door in that nurse’s uniform, demanding answers. You were so determined, so fired up—I respected that.”
“But you gave me such a hard time.”
“Because I assumed I wasn’t your type.” His boorish behavior had been his poor attempt at trying to distance and protect himself. Not to mention, she did vex him like no one else. It was part of the attraction, but equally part of the frustration. She was so headstrong, which he loved, but it also gave him concern. One day, he feared her steadfast dedication and headstrong personality would get her in real trouble—it had nearly gotten her killed when she’d crossed the wrong man in Cambodia while working for the Global Justice Mission.
“Not my type?” She laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Grumpy, straight-laced . . . Let’s see—what else have you called me?”
“I’m sorry. I felt there was so much more there below the surface, but you kept putting on the by-the-books-agent façade, and I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t let me see beyond that—to see the real you. I concluded you didn’t want me to.”
“I’m curious. Who do you think the real me is?”
She shifted sideways to face him better, resting her head on her hand as she propped her elbow against the headrest. “I’m just learning, but for starters, you like medieval literature—as do I—you were on the rowing team in college, you love your family deeply, and you are an aggressive rugby player. I thought you were going to kill someone during that pickup game I watched.”
“That’s kind of the point,” Declan said. “Put it all out there.”
She smiled. “Let’s see. What else? Oh, you love mint chocolate chip milkshakes. You thrive off adrenaline. You’re passionate and, if I may say, an exquisite kisser.”
“Exquisite, huh?” His smile deepened. Just that quick she had his guard slipping. Sooner or later he needed to make a concrete choice: pull back like he always did, or dive in headfirst and risk getting his heart smashed again.
She leaned in. “Very much so.” She pressed her soft lips to his, tentative at first, and tasting of banana lip gloss.
Giving up his restraint, he passionately returned her kiss, his heart thumping in his throat, his ears.
What was she doing to him, and where had his steadfast logic over emotion gone?
Blissful moments faded away as realization hit. Restraining himself, he pulled back and glanced over Tanner’s shoulder.
She blinked, her lips still pink from kissing him. “What’s wrong?”
He scanned the parking lot. “We’re being watched.”
She turned and studied the lot as well. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty darn. We better get going.”
She nodded and shifted back in her seat, pulling her seat belt across her body and clicking it in place.
They pulled out of the lot, the eerie sensation they weren’t alone refusing to leave him.
Luke pulled back to a seated position behind the wheel of his rental car after Declan and the woman he’d just learned was Tanner Shaw drove past. Luke was trained to be invisible, but Declan had sensed him. Impressive. He was clearly on top of his game. Maybe it would be enough to save him and the woman who, it appeared, had come to mean very much to him.
17
Where you headed?” Griffin asked as he and Jason swerved to avoid Parker and Avery jetting past them in the hall.
“Back to Haywood’s room,” Parker called over his shoulder.
They turned and followed. Had Parker forgotten something? Found something in the Markums’ room that led them back to Haywood’s?
Hope sprung inside. He prayed they had found something. Something that would answer at least one of the hundreds of questions dancing a jig through his mind.
He waited until they were inside Haywood’s room with the door closed before asking, “What’s up?”
“We’re looking for the murder weapon,” Parker said, scanning the room as Avery searched the closet.
“Another bit of ‘evidence’ to make Haywood look guilty,” Griff said. “Smart, Park.”
“I have my moments.”
“Any idea what kind of weapon?” Griff asked as he rifled through the dresser drawers and Haywood’s clothes. Jason looked under the bed and pulled back the sheets.
“I’m thinking something quick and quiet,” Parker said.
“But the room showed signs of a struggle,” Avery said. “Wouldn’t the neighbors, even a room removed, have heard something and reported it?”
Jason tossed the bedclothes on the floor and said, “Maybe they weren’t in their room at the time of the murder.”
“True. They could have been out on the patio late or going for a stroll.”
“It’s possible, or perhaps the neighbors are very sound sleepers.”
“Either way we need to talk with whoever is in that room,” Griffin said. “I told Jax not to release anyone staying in close proximity to this area, and we haven’t allowed anyone back in this hall, so they have to still be here.”
He paused, his mind going back to another dangling thread in the investigation. “We have to find Lowell Brentwood. If he and Emmitt—”
“Got it!” Avery said, pulling a .22 with a silencer from the wall air vent.
“Good job, love.” Parker grabbed an evidence bag and, after taking a moment to examine the gun, dropped it in the clear bag and sealed it up. “I need to run it at the lab to be certain, but it looks like it’s been fired within the last twenty-four hours.”
“So the chances the Markums are still alive just dropped tremendously?” Griffin said, knowing better than to rule anything out completely. “Let’s keep this between us. I don’t want to scare the guests any more than they already are.”
“Of course,” Avery said.
“We’ll start processing the cars now,” Parker said, gesturing between him and Avery.
“I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind,” Griffin said, anxious for answers.
“Of course,” Parker said, grabbing his kit.
“Why don’t I go help with the interviews?” Jason said.
“Sounds great.” Griffin followed Parker and Avery toward the exit door at the end of the hall, while Jason headed in the opposite direction toward the dining hall.
Parker took Avery’s hand and gave her one of his charming Irish smiles. “Sorry our getaway weekend is ending this way, love. I’d really been looking forward to spending this time with you, but. . . .” He raked his free hand through his hair. “I still can’t believe this happened.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. . . . And it’s okay. I knew what I was getting into when I started dating you.”
“Is that right?”
Griffin was beginning to wonder if they’d forgotten about him walking behind them, and just as he was about to give them a good-natured reminder, Avery leaned in to kiss Parker. But she caught sight of Griffin mere steps behind and blushed.
Griffin smiled, and she turned back around, heading outside.
“Thanks, mate,” Parker said as they walked out the door.
“Anytime.” It was the first nanosecond of relief from the shock and heartache of the morning. But before he knew it, Parker had popped Haywood’s trunk and the bloodstained interior jolted the pain right back to the surface.
Steven Burke’s partner, Chuck Franco, agreed to meet, but away from the Bureau building—which Declan found interesting, and possibly promising. Maybe Chuck had information he hadn’t been willing to share during yesterday’s call while he was in the Bureau office, under the watch of Henshaw. Or it could just be that it was a Saturday and Chuck didn’t want to go into the office. Whatever the reason, Declan was eager for the meeting.
The hair-raising sensation of being watched still rippled along the nape of his neck, but he couldn’t pin down the watcher. Until he did, he’d keep Tanner close and move forward with the investigation. It seemed a long way for Ebeid’s men to come just to watch them, as they’d made no point of contact yet, but he supposed it was possible. Or perhaps Houston held more secrets than it first appeared.
He was leaning toward the latter and would remain permanently on guard until this case was solved. Who was he kidding, he was always on guard—it had been ingrained in him at Quantico. He certainly wouldn’t have a moment’s rest until Ebeid was behind bars and his network dismantled.
As arranged, he and Tanner arrived in front of the Ollie’s hot dog cart on the corner of Carter Avenue and Memory Lane beneath a shady oak tree, its leaves rustling in the early afternoon breeze. Declan had to look at the street sign twice. It literally was called Memory Lane. It was quirky and corny enough he actually found it amusing.
“You guys like chili dogs?” Chuck asked, approaching them from behind.
“Who doesn’t?” Tanner said, making Declan chuckle.
After they made introductions, Chuck walked to the cart. “Three howling dogs.” He turned back to them. “Onions and cheese?”
“Of course,” Tanner said.
“With da works,” Chuck added.
Chuck was shorter than Declan. Maybe five-ten, probably one-seventy-five. Combed-back auburn hair with strands of gray. He reminded Declan of an eighties PI, tan trench coat and all.
The vendor handed Chuck each dog, and he in turn passed them out.
Declan inhaled the smell of the southwestern-style chili—minus the beans, of course. The red chili powder and red pepper flakes with small diced onions were just like you got at a ball game. Shredded cheddar cheese was already melting into the chili. He silently said grace, knowing Tanner would do the same, and then bit into the dog. “Mmm.” He nearly moaned. “That is a thing of beauty.”
“I told ya,” Chuck said.
“New York?” he inquired of Chuck’s accent.
“Long Island, born and raised.”
“So what brought you to Houston?”
“The Bureau had an opening in the counterintelligence division.”
“Is that what you and Burke are—Burke was? Counterintelligence?” He’d assumed counterterrorism, given Darmadi’s presence on the Hiram. P
erhaps that’s how Burke blended in so well on the ship—he was a trained spy, of sorts, which made Declan wonder how Burke’s cover was eventually blown or what caused Burke to blow it.
“Yes,” Chuck finally responded between bites, wiping the chili from the corner of his mouth with a bunched napkin clutched in his right hand. “But as you can imagine we work very closely with counterterrorism on preventing spies from extremist groups and terrorist countries from entering the U.S. or uncovering them if they’ve already made it through.”
“Have many made it through that you are aware of?”
“More than I’d like, but I’d hate it even if there was only one, so that’s not saying a lot.”
So there were others here. Declan knew it. “Was Burke good at his job?”
“Too good.” Chuck took another bite.
“Meaning?”
After swallowing he said, “Meaning sometimes he latched on to things that weren’t our division’s concern and wouldn’t let them go.”
“Like the kidnapped woman whose body was dumped in Louisiana?”
Chuck shook his head. “Not going to ask how you know about that, but yeah. Burke kept on pressing, despite our old boss, Jenkins, and our new boss, Henshaw, putting a kibosh on that line of Burke’s investigation.”
“They didn’t care about finding the killer?” Declan asked with a crisp edge of irritation.
“It wasn’t that.” Franco wiped his mouth. “Our focus is counterintelligence, not tracking some serial killer Burke blamed for every missing girl in the area.”
“Every missing girl? There was more than the one?”
“Well . . . it appeared Burke had found a legitimate pattern, but again, that was not our job.”
“Why was he was so interested in missing girls, given you are counterintelligence?”
“Because he knew one of the girls—Chelsea . . . Miller, I think. Knew her dad, at least. They went to the same church. Went fishing together. After Chelsea was found dead in December, the dad just lost it. Ended up taking his own life.”
“That’s terrible,” Tanner said.
“Yeah, Burke believed if the killer had been brought to justice, if there’d been some closure, that the dad—I forget his name—wouldn’t have taken his own life.”