The Kill Radius

by Nichole Christoff

  I hung out in the archway leading to the rest of the house, watched their interaction. Barrett and Marc were like brotherly bookends, reaching for things so Corinne wouldn’t have to, making her smile, and keeping her mind on happier subjects than the near break-in. Ray lumbered over to me, took up space beside me. He didn’t just look tired. He looked haggard, but I knew better than to suggest he sit down.

  His thick fingers plucked a cigar from his shirt pocket. He made a show of peeling off the cellophane, but he couldn’t fool me. His eyes might’ve been on his stogie, but his attention was on Corinne, Marc, and Barrett.

  He said, “Come with me, kid.”

  Ray led the way to the living room. Once, a moth-eaten plaid recliner and a console TV housed in a faux-wood cabinet the size of a commercial dishwasher had occupied the space. During his bachelor days, that was as homey as Ray got. Now, thanks to Corinne’s influence, those things had been replaced by a sofa with orange-and-blue striped throw pillows, a deep armchair in restful blue chenille, a thick russet rug, and a bouquet of tulips the shade of sunshine gracing the credenza beneath the wall-mounted television.

  “Your soldier’s a good fellow,” Ray said, chomping on his cigar and dropping into the chair.

  I smiled, curled up on the end of the couch. “He is.”

  I didn’t need Ray’s stamp of approval, and neither did Barrett.

  Still, it sure felt good to get it.

  But then Ray said, “What’s with the DEA agent?”

  “Marc? Nothing.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Of course.”

  But the memory of kissing Marc while the rain poured down made my cheeks grow uncomfortably warm.

  And Ray noticed.

  “Look, kid, I can’t tell you what to do, but take some advice from an old man—”

  “You’re not old, Ray.”

  “Cut the military cop loose.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Ray’s disapprobation stung. And I didn’t understand it. “So, you think Barrett’s a good fellow, but I should break it off with him.”

  “Hell, kid, no need to sound so serious. You been planning to make it permanent or something?”

  If Ray had intended to make me squirm, he’d done it. Because all Barrett’s talk of having something to offer me sounded an awful lot like he had permanent on his mind. But given my previous marital experience, permanent wasn’t in the cards. I would never allow another person to have such emotional power over me. Not now and not ever. Ray certainly knew this—which made me wonder if this conversation was meant to head off another one. So, I cut to the chase and traded defense for offense.

  “What about Bran?” I demanded. “Is Bran a good fellow?”

  Ray’s brows drew together. “I don’t follow.”

  “Sure you do. He’s your business partner, isn’t he?” I edged forward on the sofa. “In fact, Bran’s such a good fellow he told Corinne not to call the cops tonight.”

  The tips of Ray’s ears burned bright red. He snatched his cigar from his mouth. “Corinne tell you this?”

  “Why did Bran prevent Corinne from calling the cops, Ray? Why did he disappear from the Lady Luck as quickly as he could? And why was he hassling a lingerie model named Monique Wells?”

  “I don’t know,” Ray said, “but I’ll ask him.”

  “What if you don’t like the answers?”

  Ray’s piercing blue eyes drilled into my gray ones.

  He knew, I realized. He knew all about his pretty, pregnant wife and his handsome young partner, and whatever they had going on. But he wasn’t going to admit as much to me. Copping to anything of the kind would make Ray look small. At least, that’s how he would view it.

  In actuality, though, nothing could reduce Ray Walther in my eyes. He’d taught me the ropes when I decided to become a private eye, but he’d been more than my boss. He’d been my mentor. And he’d been my friend. I’d always look up to him.

  But I didn’t get a chance to tell him.

  Ray struggled to his feet.

  “See?” he said. “You already know the way the world works. Good fellows don’t get the job done, kid. So you’d better cut your military cop loose while you can. You mark my words.”

  Before I could reply, Ray shuffled into the kitchen.

  He left me in his pretty living room, sitting all alone.

  Chapter 16

  Given the threat that could be lurking in the darkness just beyond Ray’s front porch and Corinne’s obvious fear, I offered to spend the night on their couch, just in case another pair of eyes and ears would come in handy. But frankly, after the confrontation I’d had with Ray, I was relieved when Corinne gave me a hug and a kiss and reminded me all about the little dinner party she had planned. Ray himself certainly didn’t ask me to stay. He shook Barrett’s hand, and Marc’s. But he merely grunted at me when I bade him good night.

  Maybe Ray truly didn’t like Barrett. Or maybe he didn’t like how I’d pressed him about Bran, Eddie, and Monique. In my heart of hearts, however, I suspected Ray didn’t like how close I’d come to the truth about Bran and Corinne.

  Marc and Barrett walked me to Barrett’s truck, its red paint gleaming gray in the residual light emanating from Corinne’s kitchen.

  When we reached it, Barrett said, “I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got to get back to the post.”

  “No problem,” Marc said. “I’ll drive Jamie to her hotel.”

  And something in his tone suggested he’d be more than willing to tuck me into bed, as well.

  Of course, Marc loved to goad Barrett. And Barrett could give as good as he got. But at this late hour—and after my encounter with Ray—I was in no mood to referee.

  Fortunately, Barrett kept his temper under wraps. He offered to give us a lift to Marc’s car, parked up the road. But as we drew next to the rented Chevy Malibu, something wasn’t right. The storm clouds had scudded across the sky above, leaving the low-hanging wedge of moon by her lonesome. In her weak light, Marc’s white car glowed like foxfire—and a jagged hole in the driver’s-side window was as dark as an underwater abyss.

  Barrett fired up a Maglite he kept in his truck. Its beam played across the shattered glass pebbling the Chevy’s driver’s seat. The car’s glove box hung open, too. Its meager contents—Marc’s rental agreement, a rudimentary map, a cardboard air freshener—were strewn across the floor.

  “Somebody must think pretty highly of you,” Barrett told Marc.

  “Eddie Jepson?” Marc asked.

  “I don’t think so.” I wrapped my arms around my middle, tried to hug some warmth into my body. As if eyes were watching from the sparse pines, I glanced up and down the street, but I didn’t see so much as a cat crossing the road. “I think Bran did this. I think that’s why he didn’t want Corinne to call the police. He didn’t want to get caught searching your car.”

  And I had a hunch he’d been hiding in the garage when I paused to check it out. He was the reason the old iron doorknob wouldn’t turn. Without a lock to keep me out, he’d kept a firm grip on the knob so I couldn’t get in.

  “No tracks,” Barrett said, sweeping his light across the sandy soil. He turned it at an oblique angle along the car’s paint. “No prints.”

  “Son-of-a-gun wiped every surface.” Marc crouched low to inspect the door himself. “Why would he do this? What was he searching for?”

  “This is my fault,” I admitted. “I kind of did the same thing to his apartment this afternoon.”

  Both men scowled at me.

  Which didn’t improve my mood.

  “I didn’t take anything,” I snapped. “I put everything back where I found it.”

  “Apparently, Bran appreciated that,” Barrett said.

  I huffed out a sigh.

  He was right.

  “Don’t call your insurance company. I’ll cover the damage for you,” I promised Marc.

  “Forget the car, babe. Wha
t if this guy catches up with you? I don’t want him swinging a crowbar or a baseball bat in your direction because you tossed his place today.”

  “He won’t.”

  But of course, I couldn’t guarantee that.

  Barrett opened his mouth, probably to point that out, but the chiming of his cellphone stopped him.

  He grimaced at an incoming text message. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll run Jamie to her hotel,” Marc offered.

  Barrett pushed his heavy flashlight into my hands. “Stick close to her, Sandoval. Just not too close.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I protested. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

  “No,” Barrett and Marc said in unison.

  And Marc was still chuckling as Barrett drove away.

  At my hotel, I refused to let Marc walk me to my room. I was tired and testy and if Bran had had the poor judgment to jump me in the hallway, I would’ve flayed him with Barrett’s Maglite. Besides, since Marc had kissed me against the cold sandstone decorating a decrepit building’s entranceway, I wasn’t sure what the hotel’s soft surroundings might inspire him to do.

  If I were honest with myself, however, I couldn’t blame Marc’s behavior entirely on him. I hadn’t sent him packing when he’d stepped into the elevator earlier this afternoon, and I sure as hell hadn’t complained when he’d kissed me this evening. I couldn’t say why I’d allowed that, and Ray’s advice to ditch Barrett for Marc made me wonder if there was something I wasn’t seeing in Barrett—or in myself. But I knew better than to try to figure it out after midnight. The wee hours of the night might court introspection, but I was old enough to know there’d be no clarity without the light of day.

  Returning to my room alone, I hung out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, drew the drapes, stripped off my clothes, and stumbled into a hot shower. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I slipped the silky peacock-blue chemise I’d brought from DC over my head and slid between the crisp sheets of the king-sized bed. Piled high with oyster-gray linens, the bed was dressed for sophisticated style and sweet dreams—and was a stark reminder that, for Barrett and me, this weekend should’ve been our first romantic getaway together.

  But here I was on Saturday night. In this beautiful bed. Alone.

  “It’s not your fault,” I grumbled to myself. “And it certainly isn’t Barrett’s.”

  No, Eddie Jepson had ended my weekend before it even began, but he’d also done much, much worse. In a move unlike the Eddie of old, he’d ended the lives of forty-one Americans. And I still had no idea why.

  Snatching up one of Ray’s notebooks from the nightstand, I flipped through it in a halfhearted search for answers. Fifteen years ago, we’d busted Eddie in the spring, about the same time Ray had been hired to take on a teenage missing person case. The client, Robert T. Wellesley, had had connections to the Mississippi State Capitol, and some said his ambitions would carry him to Washington. And when his fourteen-year-old daughter, Martha, disappeared, he and his wife, Donna, were beside themselves with worry. Because of the family’s prominence, the police suspected foul play. But then Martha’s troubles at school, her experimental drug use, and an earlier runaway attempt came to light and the case was recategorized from a suspected abduction to flight. That’s when Mr. Wellesley called us.

  Being young and female, I got to be Ray’s eyes and ears on the streets where homeless youth congregate from New Orleans to Tampa. Violence, hunger, and sexual exploitation were just a few of the dangers the kids I met faced every day, and they were understandably leery of strangers like me. But many of them offered what help they could.

  Still, Ray and I never found Martha Wellesley. It had been our one failure while I worked for him. And to my knowledge, the Wellesley girl never came home.

  But her situation didn’t shed any light on Eddie’s, and when my eyes refused to focus any longer on Ray’s cramped scrawl, I shut the notebook, laid it with the others on the nightstand alongside a fat vase of Stargazer lilies. The flowers had been waiting for me at check-in and were a token of affection from Barrett. Their fragrance lulled me to sleep instantly, and I dreamt of Barrett, Bran, and Ray’s notebooks—until movement in the room startled me awake.

  Automatically, I reached for my Beretta, but it wasn’t at my side. Instead, my fingertips brushed a cold aluminum cylinder lying atop the comforter. It registered in my sleepy brain as Barrett’s Maglite.

  Vibrating with adrenaline, I snatched it up and flicked it on, expecting to see Bran coming at me with a tire iron or his snub-nosed .38. Instead, I caught Barrett in a bright white circle of light. He threw a hand across his face to ward off the glare.

  “You scared me half to death!” I exclaimed.

  “Believe me, honey, that wasn’t my intention.”

  I lowered the beam.

  Barrett sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said, exhaustion lacing his voice.

  “You’re worn out.”

  He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Yeah, well, I’m also no closer to Eddie Jepson or whoever built his bomb. He’s probably targeting more victims right now—”

  “No, he’s probably sound asleep.” I ran my fingers through Barrett’s short, golden hair. “And you should be, too.”

  “The team regroups at dawn.”

  “Then get some rest while you can.”

  I killed the flashlight, shoved the comforter aside to make room for Barrett in the bed. In the dark, he hesitated. A long moment passed before he moved. I heard the slide of leather on wood and knew Barrett had placed his holster on the nightstand. His boots thudded to the carpet, too, first one and then the other.

  Finally, Barrett slid into bed beside me.

  He’d kept his clothes on, though I didn’t know why. It was an interesting choice, quaint and coy. Smiling to myself, I tugged the covers to his waist and he sighed.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Much.”

  Barrett’s muscled arm encircled me. He gathered me to him, held me close. I laid my head on his chest and listened to the steady thrum of his heart.

  Barrett’s breathing slowed as his fingertips drew lazy circles along my back.

  “Nice nightgown,” he said.

  “It is,” I assured him. “You should see more of it.”

  His laugh was low and easy and he pressed a kiss to my temple.

  I traced Barrett’s strong jaw with the tip of my nose. He smelled of bergamot and gun oil and his skin was as rough as sandpaper. The sensation of it sent a thrill along my spine.

  “You need a shave,” I teased.

  “I need more than that,” Barrett said.

  His arm tightened around me. He rolled me flat onto my back, deep into the sheets. And then he kissed me, hot and hungry.

  Excitement surged through me. With greedy hands, I tugged at his shirt, found my way beneath it. His skin was on fire and I was sure I would die if I didn’t get to touch more of it.

  But Barrett stopped kissing me. Against my cheek, he whispered, “I really know how to show a woman a good time, don’t I? I ask you down here, bail on you after the bombing—”

  “Adam, I’ve always been interested in more than a good time. I think you know that.”

  “I do.” Barrett turned onto his side in the dark. “You’re not interested in a long time, though, are you, Jamie?”

  I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read his feelings. But his voice was full of irritation. And I suspected I knew why.

  Barrett had always been a step ahead of me in this burgeoning relationship of ours. I’d piqued his interest years ago when he’d caught a glimpse of me while patrolling my father’s installation. And after we’d met during an investigation last year, Barrett had made the first move to get to know me better. So it shouldn’t have come as any surprise that he had long-term plans in mind. That’s the kind of man he was.

  But with a failed marriage behind me, a trail of heartbreak between then and n
ow, and now the shining example of Ray, Corinne, and Bran, I knew better than most that long-term commitments put the keys to your happiness into someone else’s hand. I couldn’t do that again. I wouldn’t. And it irked me that Barrett had chosen this moment to discuss it.

  I shoved myself to my elbows. “Where are you going with this conversation?”

  “What’s Sandoval doing in Mississippi?”

  The question threw me.

  “Marc saw me on the news, so he came down here to make sure I was okay.”

  “You didn’t invite him down here?”

  I didn’t like the way Barrett stressed the word invite. I didn’t like that he’d suggest such a thing, either. Most of all, I didn’t like that he thought I was capable of two-timing him like that.

  “No,” I replied, pumping as much frost into my voice as I could. “I did not invite Marc down here.”

  “Are you seeing him? In Washington?”

  “I’m seeing you, remember? That’s why I got on a plane yesterday morning.”

  “Are you seeing him?” Barrett repeated.

  I still couldn’t see Barrett in the dark. But I could feel him seething. I shoved Barrett and the covers aside and began to get out of bed.

  “Jamie?” Barrett hooked the crook of my arm. “Are you sleeping with Marc?”

  I snapped on the night table’s light, blinked at Barrett in the sudden glare. “Is that why you’re here instead of your billet right now? To see if you could catch me, in this room you booked for us, in bed with Marc Sandoval?”

  “Of course not.”

  But I wasn’t convinced.

  I crossed to the oak wardrobe, dug in it for one of the hotel’s complimentary bathrobes. I shoved an arm into a sleeve and hauled it on. I felt cold all over. And exposed somehow. I didn’t like it.

  “You know,” I said, “it’s awfully late. We’re both tired—”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Jamie.”

  “You’re right,” I snapped, my patience giving way at last. “I didn’t. Because you know what? You’re not worried about me fooling around with some DEA agent. You’re worried about yourself.”

  Barrett grimaced. He grabbed his boots, snatched up his holster. But if he thought he was leaving this room without hearing me out, he needed to think again.