by Trish Reeb
"I’ve been seeing a therapist," he said over his shoulder. "We did a test run."
"You loved her very much."
"If she had asked me to climb Mount Everest, I'd have done it."
Jordan stepped over to her and stretched out his arms, lifting Alex to her feet. Holding hands, they stood on the edge of the loft staring down at the yard. At the wagon full of loose hay stationed directly below them.
They faced each other and nodded.
Simultaneously, they jumped, landing together in a heap in the middle of the wagon.
"Wee-ee." Alex giggled. She scrambled to her feet. "Let’s do it again!"
Jordan hopped over the side and reached up to help Alex.
They jumped two more times.
Afterward, they sat on the edge of the loft, feet dangling.
"Last time you almost flew over the edge of the wagon," Jordan said.
"Thanks for saving me." Alex laughed.
"Haven’t had so much fun since—" Jordan said.
"Taryn," Alex finished.
"She’s here with us now."
Alex sought Jordan's eyes. "You feel her, too?"
He nodded.
They hugged, sharing their sorrow for the first time. Two people bound by their love for another. Heads together and arms around each other, they watched the sunset until the last traces of light disappeared. Any doubts she had of Jordan’s culpability vanished along with it.
Jordan stood and offered Alex his hand. He draped his jacket over her shoulders. The sun gone, the cool night air plummeted as if someone flipped on the air conditioner. In the dark, with a little help from the moon, they descended the ladder with Jordan going first to guide Alex.
They headed back to the house.
"Uh, I don't want to pry, but what's with the bandages on your ankles and wrists?" Jordan asked.
Of course he'd seen them. She'd forgotten all about trying to shield them during their frolicking. And she wouldn't have been able to anyway.
"You heard what happened to Yolanda Morgan?" she said.
Jordan skewed his eyebrows. "I don’t live in a cave." He came to a halt and faced Alex. "I also know of Martindale's arrest." His tone changed, the muscles in his face taut with anger. "And what the media's saying about his relationship with Taryn."
"You know better than to believe the press. Martindale's innocent."
"And you know this because . . . ?"
What could she say to convince him? "There's evidence to prove otherwise."
"Like what?"
"I was there. At Foxworth Apartments."
Jordan's eyes widened. "What the hell for?"
"Following Morgan. I thought she'd kidnapped Mercedes."
"Mercedes?"
"My student." She looked deep in his eyes. "Oh, there’s so much I could tell you."
Jordan grabbed Alex by the upper arms. "I want to hear everything."
She flinched.
"Sorry." He let go. "I only know what’s reported on the news."
Alex scanned the yard. "Let's go someplace private. And warm. I’m freezing."
They jogged the rest of the way and burst into the house.
"Follow me," Jordan said, crooking a finger. He led the way to the second floor and kept going. They climbed another staircase to the attic, a finished room used as an office. "Since the kids left, no one comes up here any more. I’ve been using it." He motioned to a couch. "Let’s sit."
He’s staying here? Jealousy nudged, but she pushed it away. Alex didn’t know where to begin. She bought a minute to think about the train of events and stayed on track for the next half hour, glossing over the really bad parts.
"That's one hell of a week." Jordan peered at her closely when she finished. "You sure you’re okay?"
Why did everybody keep asking her the same question? "I’m fine." Alex extracted the flier from her purse. "Found this on my windshield when I came out of school yesterday." She handed it to him, watching his face as he unfolded the sheet of paper and read.
Jordan flipped it over and back. "What’s this?"
"It’s a Rave. Ecstasy is sold at Raves. Don’t you see? Drugs are big business."
"How does Foxworth Apartments figure into the picture?" Jordan sat forward.
Alex shrugged. "A front for their headquarters? It’s a very ritzy place."
Jordan appeared thoughtful. "It’s possible, I suppose."
"So, will you?"
Jordan groaned. "You’re jumping to conclusions, Alex."
"No, I’m not. My friend Bobbi told me the kids are talking about E."
"What do you think you'll find at the Rave?"
"Don’t know. I just have to go." She rested a hand on Jordan’s arm. "For Taryn."
"I don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?"
Alex shook her head. "I’m going with or without you."
Jordan shrugged. "Guess I’m in."
Alex smiled to herself and felt a guppy kick in her tummy. "You can keep it," she said when Jordan tried to hand the flier to her. "I have another copy."
CHAPTER 64
Cole smiled at his little white lie to Carolyn Darling. English teacher, my ass. In fact, he had no idea what subject she taught. It’d been difficult keeping a poker face when he wanted to cheer at the unexpected break connecting two more dots.
When he arrived home, he ate the last bowl of chili, packed his overnight bag, and headed to Martindale’s.
The FBI agent's efficiency apartment bore the essentials: kitchen table, easy chair, a combination table/lamp, single bed and second hand dresser. When he'd visited before, he'd been too absorbed with Alex's disappearance to take much notice. Humble, but sufficient for a guy undercover. Most likely he had digs somewhere else, probably in another city. He and Martindale hadn’t chatted much about their private lives. They weren't even on a first name basis.
"Sure you don’t want coffee?" Martindale asked as he refilled his cup.
"You call that decaf stuff coffee?" Cole tapped his water glass. "I’ll stick with this, thanks."
"How's regular instant?"
"No, thanks." Cole leaned back in the kitchen chair and fiddled with his pen. "Finally caught a break."
Martindale placed the steamy cup of coffee on the table and sat across from him.
Cole told him about his trip to Girnwood Institute.
"Okay, you found a former teacher."
"Not quite." Cole smiled broadly. "Drum roll please."
Martindale did an imitation on the table with his hands.
"Mary Winter," Cole said, throwing his pen on the table.
Martindale’s eyebrows shot up. "She worked at Girnwood? At the same time La Fontaine attended?"
"She's the common denominator between Raphael and McGerald River."
"I’ll be damned." Martindale grinned. "Here's another one for you. Chaz La Fontaine owns the Foxworth Apartment building."
Another piece of the puzzle.
Martindale navigated a snapshot out from under his notepad and slid it across the table.
They studied the picture of a young boy.
"What do you think," Martindale asked, "six?"
Cole nodded. "Possibly seven."
"Gambled that the La Fontaines had given the cops a photo at the same time they submitted Raphael’s fingerprints," Martindale said.
Again the agent had been one, make it two, steps ahead of him. So what? Why count? The guy's resourceful.
"We have software to age-enhance this." Martindale tapped the picture. "Let’s see whose face shows up. I already faxed it. We should get the results tomorrow."
"The miracle of modern technology."
They spent the next half hour reviewing the facts. Cole listed them on a sheet of paper, starting with the discovery of the body by Yolanda Morgan.
When they finished, neither spoke.
"See a pattern here?" Martindale asked, breaking the silence.
"Have to be blind not to." Cole leaned back in the chair.
/> "Alex is a fighter."
"It’s the final round," Cole said. "Gonna get rough."
"Need her down for the count." Martindale cracked his neck.
"I’m working on it."
They knew without saying Alex had provided jumper cables a number of times to get the stalled case going again. In fact, if not for her, it wouldn’t have progressed this far. It stuck in Cole’s gut like a heavy meal. Oh, Grant, get over it. Desi? God, she hadn't deserted him. The other side of it, and more in line with the truth, no matter what he’d done, short of sending Alex to Siberia, he couldn't have stopped her. Nobody’s puppet, she didn't even kowtow to the killer.
Cole nodded. "The pixels are multiplying but not enough to see the whole picture yet." He rapped his pen on the table. "Like where does Billy Jo fit? Hey, did you listen to the rest of that tape?"
Martindale nodded. "Just business as usual."
"Think we can strong arm BJ into telling us where her sister is?"
Martindale smiled slowly. "There is no Billy Jo, technically." Rhythmically, he tapped the table with alternating hands. "In Mary Winter's other life, before WitSec, her name was Billy Jo. "
Damn. How'd he miss it? He'd had clues, like the slight change in accent when Billy Jo first answered the door, the uncanny resemblance. Cole shrugged off his embarrassment. "How long you been sitting on that newsflash?"
"Found out today." Martindale's face turned serious. "And the information’s privileged."
The tension in Cole’s shoulders eased. Martindale’s admission implied a couple of things. He'd go out on a limb for the sake of the case and he trusted Cole not to reveal classified information.
"So it was Mary Winter on the tape." Cole sat back. "Hot damn." He shot Martindale a skewed smile.
"Make that hot dame. At this point, we conjecture Winter and La Fontaine."
Time to tell Martindale about Jada’s autopsy report. Cole presented a short version of Darrel’s findings.
"Talking triple homicide now. Explains Mercedes’ fear and ups the ante in trying to find her. Let’s hope she hasn’t fallen into the wrong hands," Martindale said.
"What’s your take on Mary Winter?"
On the paper in front of him, Martindale wrote Billy Jo on one side and Mary Winter on the other. "Will the real Mary Winter stand up?" he said, circling Billy Jo. "Billy Jo met Alex in the sex chamber, not MW." He drew an arrow to Mary Winter. "Respectable, dedicated, dresses conservatively." He crossed off the name. "A façade." He drew an arrow to Billy Jo. "Manipulative, shrewd, secretive. Damaged." He tapped the name with his pen. "This is who we’re dealing with."
"Deception," Cole said and wrote, ‘all warfare is based on deception to delude and confuse.’ "Remember reading that in The Art of War?" He swiveled the notepad and shoved it toward Martindale.
"I do. How do you remember it word for word?" he asked, after reading it.
"Blessed with a good memory."
"Photographic?"
"Close. My mother said I inherited it from my dad." Cole stood up. "By the time I return, the age-enhanced photo should be ready. Then, we go after La Fontaine and Winter."
CHAPTER 65
Saturday, February 17
Bent over her suitcase, Alex still hadn't decided what to wear to the funeral. She jumped when her cell phone jingled. Who could be calling? Anyone who mattered knew she'd flown to Atlanta for the funeral. She glanced at the caller ID. Cole. Her heart pounded like horse’s hooves. She’d waited two days to hear from him and now when she’d resigned herself to his not calling, it’s precisely what he did. Just like a man.
"Hello?" . . . "Cole?" . . . "Where are you?" . . . "Here? In Atlanta?" She sat on the bed, weak. God, in another hour or so, she'd see him at the funeral.
"Alex, have you decided yet?" Sheila came out of the bathroom. She raised her fingers to her lips and whispered, "Oops, sorry."
"Guess that'll be all right. Do you know where we’re staying?" . . . "Well, you’re a detective, aren’t you? We’re at the Radisson." . . . "See you in a half hour." She closed her phone and scrambled to get ready. "Cole Grant's picking us up in thirty minutes. Help me figure out what to wear." Alex ran in circles.
"Calm down, girl, you’ll bring on a stroke." Sheila rummaged through Alex’s bag.
Alex froze. The taser. "Wait. It’ll be faster if I show you my choices." She went to Sheila and led her over to the far queen size bed. "Sit here."
After holding up three outfits, they decided on a silk blue and black jacket over a black shell with black pants, accented by a metal and glass necklace in like colors.
"What’s he doing here anyway?" Sheila asked.
"Cops attend funerals all the time, hoping the killer will show," Alex said. At least that's what she read in most detective novels.
Setting up the ironing board, Sheila said, "I thought they already had their man."
"Martindale?"
"You don’t believe he did it, do you?" Sheila plugged in the iron. "How come?"
To explain would require her to reveal all that had transpired. Alex neither had the time nor did she want Sheila fretting about it. "Just a feeling."
Sheila glanced up. "That’s good enough for me. You’ve always had a sixth sense. Now get going, time’s a wasting."
Alex squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles of her toothbrush, stuck it in her mouth. "It’ll take me ten minutes," she said, talking around it.
Sheila laughed. "What, mumbly?"
Fifteen minutes later, they stood in the lobby waiting for Cole. Nervous, Alex smoothed out the fabric of her jacket. Would he be mad at her for disobeying his precious ground rules again? Did he know what she’d been subjected to while in captivity? Probably. Nancy Drew would tell him. Great. Just Great! She shifted from one foot to the other. She hadn’t worn heels in months and the straps already pinched her feet.
A car rolled into the sheltered drive. Alex’s heart skipped. A familiar figure alighted from the driver’s side. Cole, in a dark gray pinstripe suit with a light blue shirt and print tie, came through the door of the hotel.
"Hey," Alex said. She introduced Sheila. Cole pushed open the heavy glass door holding it for them as they exited. His car waited under the portico.
"I’ll sit in the back," Alex said, grabbing the door handle.
Sheila stared at her. "I don’t mind," she said, squeezing in between Alex and the open door.
Alex slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. More handsome than ever, Cole glided around to the other side of the car. Tongue-tied, she felt as self-conscious as a tween. At least Sheila would be there to help the conversation along.
Before Cole shifted the rented Camry into gear, he asked Alex, "How are you holding up?"
Perpendicular to the ground and propped up by her resolve, what more could she ask for? "I’m managing."
His cocked scarred eyebrow sent her heart into a twitter before he turned his attention to the road.
At the church, Mr. and Mrs. Richards, her hand tucked into her husband’s arm, and their family filed into the first pew. The pastor, having known Taryn since he baptized her as an infant, spoke from his heart when paying tribute to his beloved parishioner. When Alex’s parents died, the priest had not known them personally and talked in generics without emotion.
After the liturgy, guests marched one by one to the podium to reminisce about Taryn. An endless supply of friends, relatives, students, and associates wanted to share how she had touched their lives. A few, overcome with emotion, couldn't finish—precisely why Alex had declined. Some vignettes had been humorous, others awe-inspiring, and many soul-stirring. All poignant affirmations of the special person Taryn had been. Most memorable had been Jordan’s on the meaning of love, sharing an extended version of the story he told Alex in the barn.
Taryn’s brothers had created a slideshow of her life from birth through this year’s New Year’s Day. When it ended, there wasn't a dry eye in the church. Mrs. Richards remained stoic during the se
rvice but later collapsed at the burial site as they lowered the casket into the ground. Swallowing her tears, Alex couldn't watch.
Later, while she waited for Cole to take Sheila and her to the brunch, a voice whispered in her ear. "Hello, again."
Alex whipped around to face McGerald River, the first time she’d seen him since the attack on Arjay. She squared her shoulders and pushed away the anger. "I didn’t know you knew Ms. Richards."
He smiled. "She was my girl."
Alex flinched at the implied familiarity even though in the African American culture it also expressed deference to someone. "Are you going to the brunch?" she asked, hoping he’d answer in the negative.
"For sure. Catch ya later." He pointed an index finger at her and wandered off.
Until she exhaled, she hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.
Cole moseyed up to her and whispered, "So did you thank him?"
Puzzled, Alex turned to look at him. "For what?"
"For saving Arjay."
"That happened before I knew him as Redd Dog," she paused, "and tripped out on the fruit punch." They hadn't spoken of it since the night it occurred. She stared at the ground. "Speaking of which, did you find out what was in it?"
"Yep, Damiana. It’s an aphrodisiac plant."
Alex played with her necklace. "Okay then." She glared at Redd Dog, standing with his back to them, talking to a group of his peers. "Why don’t you arrest him?"
"On what grounds? Legally, we weren't there."
Bridling, she turned back to Cole. "So we let him keep using that concoction on unsuspecting girls?"
"Nothing I can do until I find something on which to base a search warrant." Cole’s eyes left hers.
Alex followed his gaze to a lone sixty-something man lingering at the gravesite.
"Excuse me. I’ll be right back," Cole said, walking away.
*
Cole approached the man staring at the mound of dirt. "Were you close?" he asked.
The stooped gray haired gentleman turned a craggy bearded face his way.
Cole stared into familiar brown eyes. "What happened to the dreadlocks?"
"Had to come," Martindale said.
"Imagine you did." As rough as Desi’s funeral had been, Cole wouldn't have missed it, either.