by KaLyn Cooper
His gaze swept up the staircase to the left before sweeping the living room on his right.
He caught a whiff of urine and wondered if Marsha had bought the kids a dog since he had been there last with Gabe. That would be a smart move for a single mother with two small children. He hadn’t heard any barking as he’d approached the house, though. Nor did a gangly puppy come tearing toward him. He negated the thought.
Although she said she was going to clean out his clothes from the bedroom, which was located upstairs, something urged him down the hallway. With the stealth of the trained special operator that he was, Matthew crept past the kitchen and family room, assuring each was empty.
Near the end of the hall, the smell grew stronger.
As he inhaled his next breath, Matthew knew the family didn’t have a dog.
He also knew what he would find in the office.
Death.
The release of everything in the body always hit him hard. Regurgitation. The bowels and bladder. Blood. Death had its own unique combination of smells that always turned his stomach.
Mentally preparing himself, he took a single step into Gabe’s home office.
The large leather executive chair facing the computer was rolled back from the desk.
His gaze traveled the room, but he couldn’t see a body.
His stomach lurched.
Fuck. He could smell it, though.
Had Marsha killed someone and ran away?
He slowed his gaze on the second pass around the room. The gun safe was wide open. Gabe liked guns and owned several. Butts resting on the bottom, his four rifles stood neatly in a row. Three of the four handgun slots were filled. The top cubbyhole was empty.
Where the hell was Gabe’s 1911?
Was someone walking around the house with it? Aiming for him?
Matt forced his feet to move.
He stepped around the large oak desk and found Marsha’s crumpled body folded between the stacks of drawers. The exit wound on the side of her head assured him he didn’t need to call an ambulance.
He did need to call the local police, though.
His mind immediately went to his wife. Although Lizzie was not as close to Marsha as Teagan, they were friends. Their children were close enough in age and played together at least once a month.
Oh, fuck.
Reaching into his pocket, Matt withdrew his cell phone and speed dialed his wife. She and the kids were on their way to that very house. Lizzie was going to help Marsha while their children played.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Where the hell were Brann and Anora?
“We’re about ten minutes out,” Lizzie replied without a hello.
“Am I on speakerphone?” Matthew asked, but he already knew the answer. Everywhere around DC mandated hands-free telephones. “Lizzie, this isn’t a good time for you and the children to be here.”
“Is Marsha upset? Has it finally hit her that he’s gone?” The compassion in her voice speared his heart as he looked at the body on the floor. He was so lucky to have such a wonderful, caring wife.
“No. We have a completely different situation here.” Matt’s gaze swept the room one more time, stopping on the computer screen centered in the middle of the desk.
I loved him so much. I just couldn’t go on without him.
Matt looked between the screen and the woman on the floor. Although he would never say he knew Marsha well, he found it difficult to believe that she would commit suicide over Gabe’s death. They had been in the middle of the divorce.
But, stranger things have happened.
“Matthew, we’ll be there in just a few minutes and I’ll help you straighten everything out.” Lizzie’s voice broke through the silence of the room.
“No,” he snapped. He didn’t want his wife or children anywhere near this scene. “Lizzie, please, take the children home and call me back. Do not, under any circumstances, come to this house. Promise me, you won’t come here.”
“Matthew.” Lizzie had taken the phone off speaker. “What the heck is going on?”
He debated for a long moment before deciding to tell her the truth. “Pull over to the side and step out of the car.”
He heard tires crunching on gravel, her door open and close.
“Matthew Saint Clare, you tell me right this minute what the hell is going on,” she demanded.
He started to take a deep breath but the instant the vile smell entered his nose, he snorted it out. “Lizzie, Marsha is dead. Suicide.” He glanced back at the note on the screen. “Maybe. But, listen, sweetheart, I haven’t even called the cops yet. I just didn’t want you or the children anywhere near this place. Please, take the children home and call me back.”
“Marsha is…” Lizzie’s voice cracked.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He needed her to turn around and go home.
“Matthew, are you going to be all right?” There it was again. The concern in her voice, this time for him. Damn, he loved this woman. How did he ever get so lucky as to find her…twice? “It’s only been a few days since…” She didn’t need to finish that sentence. It had only been a few days since they had been up close and personal with another dead body…Gabe’s.
“I need to handle this situation,” he reminded her. “I’ve got to get ahold of Logan and Teagan before I call the cops. I don’t want them walking into this blind. Now, I need you to take our children home.”
“Headed home, right now.” She sniffed back tears. He heard her crawl back into the car. “But we don’t have a home. I guess that hotel is our home, for now. Let me call my mom and see if she can hang around a little while longer and watch the kids. Teagan may need help with Brann and Anora.”
“Good thinking. I love you. Call me first before you head this way,” he added before he hung up.
Matthew began to put his next moves into order.
He needed to call Logan and Teagan. He’d let them figure out what to do with the Davis children.
Pick up the he’d box left on the porch.
Call Clarence, his computer guru at work. Local police may want that computer, but it just became part of a CIA investigation.
Take pictures of everything in the room the way he found it before dozens of uniformed cops destroyed the crime scene.
Call 911 and report the death.
Glancing at the computer screen one more time, he didn’t believe this was a suicide.
But the cops would.
Chapter Three
Logan didn’t recognize the number but saw that it was a DC area code and decided to answer. “Lieutenant Colonel Jackson.”
“Logan, are we on speaker?” Matthew Saint Clare asked, his tone serious.
“No.” Since he was driving Teagan’s car, he hadn’t bothered to pair his phone. He dared anyone try to arrest him for a hands-free violation. He’d taken several work-related calls since arriving in DC, two of them had to be scrambled and encrypted, an impossible function if using Bluetooth.
“Good. I need you to withhold any visible reaction to what I’m about to tell you.” Matt’s voice was very direct as though he were speaking to a member of his Special Operations Group.
Fucking great. What the hell was the man going to say? Logan glanced over at Teagan who started a conversation with the kids in the backseat, distracting them. She seemed to recognize what he needed without even asking.
“Understood.” Logan said as he glided off the Beltway.
“Logan, I want you to prepare yourself,” Matt warned. “I don’t want those kids to get even one vibe that there’s a problem.”
Holy fuck. Brann and Anora were in trouble. Had there been a direct threat on their lives? Was Teagan right to be worried about taking Gabe’s kids out in public with them? Had they placed the children in danger?
Logan repeated the word, “Understood.”
“Marsha is dead,” Matthew said without inflection.
Marsha is dead. The words repeated over and over
in Logan’s head but didn’t seem to make sense. No. He and Teagan were taking the children back to their mother. Marsha was moving Gabe’s shit out of her house. She wasn’t dead.
But she was.
Like a concrete block wall falling on him, Logan understood. He fought the urge to turn around and check the children in the backseat. Marsha’s children.
Fuck. Damn. Hell. They had the funeral for these children’s father the day before. How the fuck was he going to tell them that their mother was now dead?
Teagan’s voice broke through his thoughts. She was talking and laughing with the children.
God. No. How is he going to tell Teagan that her best friend was gone, forever?
“Logan, you there?” Matt was still on the phone.
“Tell me everything you can,” Logan ordered.
“About ten minutes ago, I was bringing Gabe’s personal effects from the office. When I arrived, the front door was ajar. While clearing the main floor, I discovered Marsha’s body in the office.” Matthew’s report was clear and concise for which Logan was eternally grateful. “Gunshot wound to the head.”
Logan wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. He needed to keep driving as casually as possible. “Fuck.” The word escaped on a whisper.
“It gets worse,” Matthew cautioned. “There’s a suicide note on the computer.”
“No,” Logan snapped, then remembered he was supposed to stay cool, calm, and collected. Shit. He was fucking this up.
“I’m with you, I don’t believe it,” Matthew reassured him.
Logan heard sirens in the background.
“I’ve got to go. Local cops just arrived.” It sounded as though Matthew was moving around. “Text me when you and Teagan have decided what to do with the children. If you bring them here, social services will take them away immediately. I’ve got to go. Remember, don’t call, text.” The line went dead.
A police car flew past them.
They were only about a mile from Marsha’s home. Logan didn’t know the area well, but Teagan did.
“How about we go to a park before we go home?” Logan suggested, his eyes pleading with Teagan’s. He hoped she could read the mental messages he was trying to send to her.
She forced a smile. “That sounds like fun.” She then gave him instructions to a park several blocks away. As soon as they pulled into a slot, the children hopped out and sprinted toward the playground equipment.
Before he could open his door, Teagan grabbed his arm. “What the fuck is going on?”
They could see both children while in the car, so he settled in behind the steering wheel. Just rip off the Band-Aid, he instructed himself.
“Marsha is dead.”
The look of terror on Teagan’s face grabbed his stone-cold heart and ripped it through his chest.
Fuck. He could’ve done that better. He’d treated her as though she were one of his male friends, not a woman with deep feelings for Marsha.
Logan reached for Teagan and pulled her close. “I’m so sorry. I know she was your friend.”
Gasping in a breath, she asked, “Are you sure?”
She was being so diligent trying to hold back the tears, but the dam was about to burst.
Logan nodded. “Yeah. Matthew found her.”
Teagan looked confused. “Did she fall down the stairs carrying one of those damn boxes?”
Chastising himself for not thinking of that scenario, Logan shook his head. “Gunshot to the head. There’s a note on the computer. It’s meant to look like a suicide.”
“No. No.” Teagan shook her head side to side. “Marsha would never commit suicide.” She pointed to the children on the swing set. “She loves those babies of hers. She would never leave them alone.” The first tears leaked from her eyes. “I guess I should say ‘she loved them’. Is she really…gone?”
He nodded as he pulled her in closer. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve found a better way to tell you.”
She rolled her lips inside and closed her eyes as though to shut in the pain.
“Yes. You should have,” she chastised him. As though she could no longer restrain her emotions, her entire body shook. She fell into him, her face buried in his chest.
Logan automatically wrapped his arms around Teagan’s small body. He had held her as she’d wept several times before. Over a decade ago, in Syria, when they had lost Mason, they had held each other, sharing the pain all the way back to base. A few weeks later, Logan had held Teagan once again as they buried an empty casket into the Virginia ground, pretending it was their friend and teammate Mason Sinclair.
Each time it felt right to hold her. They were friends. They shared a bond that only those who faced bullets together could ever understand. Their friendship went deeper than most. She occupied a small section of his soul.
For the next several minutes, she alternated between quakes and quivers as she dealt with her grief. He did the only thing he could, he shared his strength. He admittedly didn’t know Marsha very well. He thought he’d known Gabe but had come to realize he only knew what Gabe had wanted him to know. Always the CIA agent. Always playing the angles.
Teagan gasped in a breath.
Her head popped up and caught him in the chin.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted as she rubbed the spot on her head. White surrounded her bright blue eyes as they met his. “The kids. We have to tell Brann and Anora. Oh my God. Those poor children. What’s going to happen to them? They’re orphans.”
Okay. This was a question he could answer. “According to Matthew, when we take them back to the house, social services will come, and pick them up.”
Anger instantly replaced grief. “They will do no such thing.” She jabbed a finger toward the playground. “Those two, sweet, little children are not going into the system. I had a friend in elementary school who lived in one of those foster homes. They are not going there, if I have to kidnap them and take them to my house.”
That was a brilliant idea. “Let’s take the kids to your place, now. I’ll run back to Marsha’s house and grab them some pajamas and clothes for tomorrow. While I’m there, I’ll check out the situation. Overnight, we’ll figure out how to tell them about their mother.”
He pulled her back to him and kissed her forehead. “We’ll figure this out.” How hard could it be?
Chapter Four
Logan was pleased that Teagan had held back the tears as he drove everyone to her apartment. He knew her well enough that her quick smile was forced. Thankfully, the children never noticed her red, puffy eyes.
An hour later, Teagan was planted in the middle of her couch with Brann on one side and Anora on the other, a huge bowl of over-buttered, salty-as-hell popcorn held in her lap. An animated movie seized the attention of the children.
“I’m just going to run over and get you two some pajamas,” Logan announced on his way toward the door. No one looked at him.
As though capturing the scene with a mental camera, he inwardly smiled. That was exactly what he had always wanted, except in his dreams, he would be tucked into a corner of the couch, content to hold any one of three. Of course, the woman and children would be his. Finding the right wife had eluded him for far too long. Just another regret of choosing a military career over a normal, civilian life.
Starting a family at forty-four was a ridiculous idea. Although he knew a few men his age expecting children, they were all part of the second family and a much younger wife. Logan didn’t want an immature twentysomething girl, or a jaded woman in her thirties. He’d tried both with little satisfaction.
Teagan looked up at him and mouthed ‘Go.’ She tilted her head toward Anora whose heavy eyelids were nearly closed.
With a single nod, he left her small, two-bedroom apartment and drove to Marsha’s suburban home. From the end of the tree-lined street, three blocks away, Logan could see the blue and white flashes of light from the local police department cars in front of Marsha’s house. Two other cars, one black a
nd one white, were obviously unmarked police vehicles.
Logan wondered if every law enforcement officer on the staff had shown up.
He pulled his rental vehicle to the curb at the end of the long line. As he approached Marsha’s house, he was stopped by a uniformed policeman who looked fresh out of training.
“This is a crime scene, sir. I’ll need you to cross the street and move along quickly, please.” He was asking as much as ordering. Logan put the young man in his very early twenties. He instantly compared him to a Marine private first class, a year out of boot camp. There were so many differences, though. By the time a Marine earned his eagle, globe, and anchor, he was lethal in so many ways. He also had an air of confidence that this young man lacked.
Quickly analyzing the multiple ways he could handle the situation, he chose the most direct. “I am Marine Lieutenant Colonel Logan Jackson. That’s Marsha Davis’s home. I’m here to collect clothes for her children.”
The uniformed officer peered around Logan toward the SUV he’d rented. “Are the kids in the car with you?” He almost sounded afraid.
“No. The children are with my friend.” At the pinched look on the law enforcement officers face, Logan quickly added, “They’re with their godmother. We haven’t told them anything about the…” He wanted to call it murder but knew if he did, he’d be questioned for hours. In an investigation of this magnitude, he could only deal in facts. According to Matthew, Marsha was dead.
“Incident,” the young policeman filled in for him.
“Yes. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get the children’s pajamas and something for them to wear tomorrow.” Logan started to step around the much younger man.
“Hold it right there,” he said brusquely, snapping his palm up in a stop position. “Let me call this in.” He reached for the microphone on the shoulder and briefly relayed Logan’s request. Within a minute, a man in his early thirties wearing khakis, a white button-down shirt, and a blue blazer walked toward him. He was joined by a woman in her mid-twenties in a dark blue pant suit.
“Officer Strator, what’s going on?” The man casually dropped his right hand to his hip, close to his holstered weapon. Up close, he was considerably shorter than Logan’s six feet one inch. If the man reached five feet ten inches, he’d be surprised.