Jack wasn’t like regular people. Nothing about him was regular, but she’d known that when she got involved with him way back when, when things were…simpler. Hannah knew she had only herself to blame for how their relationship went up in flames. But still. They’d just had sex. And it was so damn good. How could he act as if they’d simply shared tea and cookies? It was insulting.
Hannah felt a growing pressure in her chest, and then suddenly it was hard to breathe. Just like that. Like a switch was flipped. She knew it was stress. Knew it, but it didn’t help to dispel the horrible tightness. She and Jack were alone again, and the last time they were alone, well, they’d had sex. She was furious with him, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the damn sex.
It had been heartbreakingly wonderful. No lie. She’d enjoyed every bit of his kisses and his hands on her body. If she could be assured of not being caught, she’d beg him to take her again, here, now. The elevator was large enough to accommodate, but it wouldn’t be emotionally healthy for Hannah to give in to that desire. Jack was like a drug. She craved him, forgot all her worries and responsibilities when she was in his arms, but ultimately, he always seemed to be in the center of her heartache.
Jack was heartache in a rumpled suit.
“There are never any signs of struggle from the victims,” he said. She refused to meet his gaze until she could stop thinking about their kisses, and his mouth on her breast. “What did Deming say about that?” Still, she could not look at him, especially now when her blush kept growing. She kept remembering. How it was a full-body experience to have him sheath himself inside her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. It was…wonderful. “Hannah? Just so we’re clear, I’m not here to make your life difficult.” The elevator music was interrupted by a bing, indicating the doors were opening.
Hannah glared at him, too angry for the conversation they were having, but just angry enough for the conversation they were avoiding. Exiting the elevator, she attempted to outpace him as she hurried down the hall. She wanted to outrun her thoughts and the temptation to act upon them—to find some empty room and strip his clothes off again, to touch the body she’d mourned this last year, that had visited her only in her dreams.
“Why are you here, Jack?”
“To catch a killer.”
“Then we’re clear.” They were not going to attempt to repair the past. They’d have a new beginning as peers in the bureau, and co-parents with Ellen…if he wanted to be in their daughter’s life. Damn. Nothing was ever easy with Jack.
“As mud,” he muttered under his breath. Approaching the glass exit doors, Jack tugged on her sleeve, stopping her from leaving the building just yet. “There’s a target on your back. Every moment, Hannah.” He glanced around the area, making sure he couldn’t be overheard. Then he lowered his voice. “A serial—”
“Stop. I know. Okay?” She swallowed the lump in her throat, and attempted to breathe through her escalating stress symptoms.
“You will stay close. The deal is—”
“Attached to your hip. Or do you want the glue analogy? I get it. Let’s go. Shall we?” She stepped away from him, fighting light-headedness, and hurried outside. On the sidewalk, she used her hand to indicate the bureau’s parking lot. “My car is in there.” She attempted to discreetly hold her breath, because she feared she was hyperventilating. She had all the symptoms.
Jack shook his head, and led her down New Sudbury Street as he surveilled their surroundings. “No.”
No? What the hell did that mean? No. He was so high-handed, it made her want to scream, but Hannah kept pace with him despite her urge to bitch-slap him. Calm down, Hannah.
“You should let me drive,” she said. “You don’t know the area.” Whereas, Hannah did. She’d been on her own, fending for herself and then Ellen for nearly a year now, and she’d lived to tell the tale. But now that Jack was here, she was supposed to turn every life decision, personal and professional, over to him? Even whether she drove her car or not? Hell, no! She stopped walking and glared.
Jack stopped, too, his eyes still on their surroundings, and the roofline of buildings on the street. She resisted the urge to remind him that their killer used poetry and mind games to make his kills—finesse. Execution by scoped rifle was too ham-fisted for their perp—but with Jack, it was best to pick her battles.
“Let me drive,” she demanded.
“I’m driving,” Jack said. “You’ll navigate.” His tone said he wouldn’t argue, which made Hannah want to argue even more, but then he tilted his head to the side, indicating a tomato-red 2SS Camaro Coupe. It looked new.
She snorted out a laugh, and then continued to laugh. It released some tension, and felt so good she was forced to acknowledge she hadn’t done much laughing lately. More than lately. Since Jack died.
“You and your flashy cars,” she said. “You’re a glutton for punishment.” Admiration fought with her practical streak as she studied the sleek lines of the gorgeous automobile. “Every ding, every scratch, every college student who uses your car for target practice will break your heart a piece at a time. If this work of art isn’t stolen within the week, I’ll be surprised, and I’m rarely surprised.”
“Which is ironic, considering you never fail to surprise me.” His eyes were on his car, though, and he was smiling, as if the car’s very existence made him happy. Hannah wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that smile again. “Don’t jinx me.” He unlocked the door, and slid behind the wheel.
Hannah slid into shotgun, and couldn’t resist caressing the glove leather seat. “Kiss that stereo goodbye. Statistically, it’s the first to go.”
Jack smiled, and Hannah’s heart hurt. She hadn’t seen that rendition of his smile in a long time. It was uncensored, boylike, and her favorite. “Me and this car is long overdue. I saved up and now it’s mine.” He turned the key and listened to the engine’s purr.
Hannah buckled in, telling herself to be cool. “Nothing wrong with a good rental.” She should know. She was leasing a white Camry, a good family car with all the safety features a new mother could possibly want. Ellen wasn’t getting anywhere near this sports car. She suspected it was not child-friendly, and she’d tell Jack that very thing…as soon as she told him about Ellen’s existence.
Jack shrugged. “Nothing wrong with fast food, but sometimes a man wants a real meal.” He patted the dashboard and winked at Hannah.
The wink had her shaking her head. They were friends again, huh? Fine. She’d ignore the sex, the drama in the interrogation room. She’d even ignore that he took her job, and count herself lucky. For Ellen’s sake. Didn’t mean she had to like it.
Hannah pointed down the street, giving directions as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, as if every day her dead lover appeared out of the blue and took over her world.
“The Constitution Marina is a little over a mile away,” she said. “Follow New Sudbury to Cross Street, take a right and then go north on Atlantic Avenue. It’s south of the Coast Guard base in Boston Harbor.” Jack merged into traffic, and with Hannah giving directions, arrived at the marina in under fifteen minutes. For Boston? They made good time.
“We could have walked faster,” he said. Jack pulled into the lot and searched for a parking space. “Refresh my memory on the Stone murder.”
“Pull up to the dockmaster’s office and park in front.” She pointed toward the water’s edge where yachts, sail boats and shuttle crafts bobbed in the water, next to the small building with a blue placard declaring it Constitution Marina. It was a sunny day, so people were milling on the docks, coming and going. Jack parked by the office door.
“Stone, Hannah. Tell me about Stone.”
“A witness saw something in the water,” she said. “Reached down to see what it was, and found a human hand. Homicide discovered her attached to a cinder block. The killer wanted the body
found. The depth of the water at that dock is shallower than the rest of the marina, so the length of rope used made the body’s discovery inevitable. We found the stanza in a closed Ziploc bag duct-taped to the rope. Mariner’s rope. No fingerprints. No forensic evidence that could narrow down to something even resembling a lead.”
Hannah stepped out of the car, slammed the door behind her and caught Jack’s wince as he closed his door with more care. “Take it easy, will you?” he said.
“It’s a car, Jack. Closing the door won’t break it.” He glared. She held his stare, not willing to give an inch. “Are we doing this, or are we going to argue about the car?”
It was rare Jack admitted to caring about anything. That he admitted to loving his car was a big deal, and showed emotional progress. Hannah knew she should encourage it. The greater capacity he had for love, the more he had to give to his daughter, but she resented he’d evolved for a car, and not for her.
He grimaced, and scanned the parking lot, then waved Hannah into the office first. When she stepped inside, mild salty breezes gave way to crisp air conditioning and the smell of aromatic coffee. A doorbell overhead pealed, announcing their arrival as her shoes sank into a lush, white carpet. Silver walls and whitewashed wainscoting shouted tasteful, and white satin-clad chairs with carved wood bases screamed money. The office was like stepping into a showroom…with snacks. Against the right wall, a white lacquered table supported silver platters of artfully arranged pastries on individual paper doilies, and a glass coffee carafe, with accompanying white porcelain cups. On the left was a brochure rack touting tourist sites, membership packages, and boating and slip sales paraphernalia. Ahead was an unmanned counter with an open guest book next to a cash register. A man appeared from a door behind the counter as Jack took pictures of the signatures in the book.
“Can I help you?” A tall, lean man stepped from the back room, running his fingers through his hair as if conscious that it was ruffled and needed repair. Hannah’s lack of reciprocating smile didn’t dampen his smile’s enthusiasm, highlighting his white teeth which contrasted sharply with his dark tan. Though graying at the temples, he still looked no more than late thirties. His fitted IZOD polo shirt stretched tightly over his muscular chest, and his khaki slacks were expensive, if untidy, as if hastily donned.
She flashed her credentials. “We have a few questions.”
The dockmaster absently ran his fingers through his hair again, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m in a meeting—”
“It won’t take long.” Jack indicated the nameplate, also showing his credentials. “You’re Peter Bolger? The dockmaster, right?”
“Yes.” Impatient resolve replaced his earlier curiosity. “What can I do for the FBI? Again.”
Hannah indicated the room behind him. “Is there someone back there?”
“Janice,” he called over his shoulder, keeping his gaze on Hannah. “Come out. The jig is up.” Bolger’s cheek kicked up.
A barefoot blonde, early twenties, holding a pair of sandals, stepped into the reception area in the process of buttoning her shirt. Her curls bounced and her white blouse and brief khaki tennis skirt appeared expensive. “Hello.” Though markedly embarrassed, Janice’s smile was nonetheless bright. “Peter, I’ll come back later.”
“I’m counting on that.” His gaze still on Hannah, Bolger winked.
Jack slid a picture of Stone onto the counter. “Do you recognize this woman?” The bell above the entry door pealed as Janice departed.
Bolger nodded. “Her picture made the papers, and this isn’t the first time I’ve been questioned about her. Some cop. Big dude.” Bolger spread his arms, and frowned fiercely, doing a pretty good impression of Ferguson.
“What do you know about the woman?” Jack tapped the photo with his index finger.
Hannah didn’t like Bolger. He was too measured in his responses by far, too cavalier given that they were talking about a murder that took place in his marina. She reminded herself that he was a salesman, and only worked here. It was his job to be smooth, especially when situations got tense. But still…she didn’t like him.
“I know what everyone else knows,” Bolger said. “Some chick tied her ankle to a cinder block and went for a swim off the one dock we have shallow enough for her to be found.” He shook his head, as if more annoyed the body was found than that the woman was dead. “People are still talking about it.”
Jack exchanged a measured glance with Hannah. No one who knew anything about the Stone case thought it was a suicide, and this guy’s job was to know everything that went on in the marina. It made a person wonder where this theory originated.
Bolger dropped his gaze to Hannah’s chest. He smiled a small smile, and it was so obnoxious, she had to assume he’d done it to distract her, so Hannah made a point of not being distracted.
“Why do you assume the death was a suicide?” she asked. His eyes remained on her chest.
Jack slapped his hand on the counter. The dockmaster startled, as if only then remembering Hannah wasn’t alone. When his gaze collided with Jack’s, the man frowned with annoyance.
“The papers say it’s murder,” Jack said. “What do you know that they don’t?”
“Nothing,” Bolger said with growing impatience. “You’re the FBI. You should know.” He glanced between the two of them. “Which begs the question, why is the FBI asking? This is a local matter, right? Why aren’t the police talking to me?”
Hannah’s fingers tapped on the counter, one after another, creating a rhythmic beat of fingernails on wood. So far, Peter Bolger hadn’t answered one question, and she’d lost her patience. “You don’t know. You don’t know. I’m thinking we should bring him downtown, Special Agent Benton. What do you think? Maybe his memory will strengthen if his ass hits one of the cozy chairs in the interrogation room.”
Bolger threw his hands in the air. “Listen! I’m doing my best. I know nothing, okay? Just gossip. Some people think it’s murder, some think it’s suicide. She wasn’t tied up, or drugged, so maybe suicide.” The dockmaster leaned on the counter, staring at her chest again, as if that were normal behavior. “Nobody around here knows her, so maybe murder. If we knew her, even I’d think it was suicide.”
Jack stepped into Bolger’s line of sight, which meant he had to nudge Hannah aside. At first, she didn’t know what Jack was doing, so she stepped back and waited to be read into his reasoning. But Jack acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, leaving her marginalized.
“Even you?” Jack said. “What does that mean? Who does think it’s suicide?”
Hannah stared at his back, attempting to cool her anger. Jack had his reasons for crowding her out of this interview. She was almost positive. He’d tell her when he was ready. Yet her stomach tightened, and her face flushed as she struggled to control her feelings.
“The marina’s board of directors think it’s suicide,” Bolger said. “They’ve been selling suicide since we found the body. They don’t want rumors that people are being murdered at Constitution Marina. Can’t blame them, can you? Not good for business.” Bolger didn’t look all broken up by the possibility, but then again, Hannah wasn’t sure what would break through Bolger’s demeanor of affable, carefree bon vivant.
Hannah peeked around Jack’s broad shoulders to catch Bolger’s attention. “Have there been any other unusual happenings around here?” she asked. “Strangers milling about? Residents acting out of character? Disturbances?”
Bolger craned his neck to see behind Jack, and his disappointment was palpable when he couldn’t lower his gaze to her chest. “The most action we have around here is revolving bedmates, and nobody seems all that disturbed by it.” Bolger’s saucy smile returned, until Jack slapped his hand on the counter again. It had the benefit of stopping Bolger’s creepy leer, so she began to appreciate Jack’s caveman behavior. “A few foreclosures, maybe. N
othing worthy of note.”
“We want to take another look around the marina,” she said.
“I’d give you the tour, but, well—” Bolger lifted his hands, indicating there was nothing he could do. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
The tour. Hannah shuddered at the thought, thinking nothing could be less appealing then having Bolger leer at her for the length of time it would take for a tour. “Thank you for your time,” she said, heading for the door.
“Stick around long enough,” Bolger said, “you’ll witness my murder. I’m supposed to report to the board that another millionaire isn’t paying their bills.” Then Bolger disappeared into the back room, mumbling, “Who names a two-million-dollar yacht Teapot?”
Jack bumped into Hannah’s back as she stopped short in the doorway. Looking back, past Jack who stood between her and the now unmanned counter, Hannah gave herself a moment to process Bolger’s words.
“What? Why’d you stop?” Jack said.
Hannah turned and stepped around him, back into the office. “Teapot?”
“What of it?” Jack was so close his breath warmed Hannah’s face. It reminded her she wasn’t wearing makeup, and made her self-conscious. It also had the unfortunate result of making her forget why she’d stopped short in the first place.
Bolger turned back to his spot behind the counter. “I’m sorry, did you need something else?”
Jack was impatient to leave, and was pressing on her lower back, but Hannah muscled past him, and walked back to the counter. She had to wave her hand in front of the guy’s face to make him look at her face. “How long has the Teapot been docked?”
“Three months. They been ducking my calls for two months now. Why?”
Jack’s disgruntled expression gave way to curiosity. “What are you thinking, Hannah?”
“Hannah?” Bolger’s smile brightened. “That’s a beautiful name.”
She ignored the dockmaster, and held Jack’s gaze, feeling foolish. “Tempest in a teapot.”
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