by Jean Thomas
“We can’t park in front of the house,” Mark said when they reached the area. “It would announce us to the whole neighborhood.”
She had already planned for that likelihood. “We can reach the house from the back side. There’s good cover there. Take the next turn to the right.”
That turn took them along an uninhabited country road behind the development where they parked the SUV at the side of a pasture. Clare led the way across the pasture to a hedgerow. Kudzu vines, the bane of the South, grew thickly here, but she was able to locate an opening familiar to her from earlier visits. A narrow path brought them through the tangle to the backyard of the Riconi house, a single-story, brick ranch.
Mark paused to observe a tall, dense yaupon hedge that screened the property on both sides from back to street. “Whoever visited Joe Riconi that day,” he remarked, “would have been easily missed by any of the neighbors.”
“Especially if he was cautious. Apparently no shot overheard, either. We go this way,” she said, rounding the corner of the house to the attached carport where they stopped long enough to sheathe their hands with the latex gloves.
That accomplished, Mark watched with interest as she dragged a metal trash can beneath the roof of the carport, mounted it and ran her hand along the top of a central beam that supported the cross rafters.
“Ah, got it.”
Key in hand, she was prepared to step down from the trash can. Before she could do that, Mark’s big hands were around her waist and lifting her to the floor. It was an innocent action that should have meant nothing. Then why did she experience this warm sensation of intimacy?
Foolish, she censured herself as she turned away to confront the yellow crime scene tape stretched across the side door. “We’ll have to be careful not to disturb it.”
“Which means crawling under it. Should be a lot easier than barbed wire on maneuvers.”
“Or rescuing a first-grader who’s got himself stuck inside a jungle gym.”
Wriggling under the tape, with Mark directly behind her on hands and knees, she used the key to admit them into the kitchen. Once inside, with the door shut and locked behind them and on their feet again, Clare was immediately aware of the same dim stillness as Boerner’s apartment. A silence that made her jumpy at the prospect of searching the house.
Mark was apparently not affected by it, asking an easy, “Where do we start?”
“If Joe had anything he was hiding from Terry, his office would be the logical place. According to Terry, it was his private domain, off-limits to her except by invitation or when it needed cleaning.”
“You’re the guide,” Mark said, falling into step behind her.
They were careful not to get too close to any of the windows as they left the kitchen and crossed through the dining room into the living room. Trying not to imagine just where Joe’s body had lain here on the floor, Clare moved on down a long hallway. They passed the bedrooms on either side and reached the office at the end of the hall. She stopped here outside the office.
“What?” Mark asked her, his voice registering alertness.
“The door is open. Joe always kept it closed.”
“One of the cops could have left it that way.”
“Or the killer, if he was in here after he shot Joe.”
“Also a possibility. Are we gonna go on standing here, or do we start looking?”
Looking was not going to be too much of a challenge, Clare thought as they entered the office. The room was a small one, furnished with nothing more than a desk, a swivel chair in front of it, a tall filing cabinet and a lounge chair facing a television mounted in a bookcase. There were none of the pictures and ornaments here that Terry had so lovingly placed throughout the rest of the Riconi home.
Joe’s computer, she noticed, had been removed from the desktop. Probably taken away by the police.
“What do you want?” Mark asked. “The desk or the filing cabinet?”
“The desk, I guess.”
“Let’s not make the mistake of the open door,” he cautioned her. “Try to leave everything just as you find it.”
That wasn’t going to be easy, Clare decided as she began to search through the clutter her brother-in-law had left behind in all of the drawers.
They worked in silence as the moments passed. It was Mark who finally spoke after clanging shut one of the metal drawers of the filing cabinet.
“All I’m finding are the usual household records. Receipts and canceled checks, that kind of thing. No revealing papers or letters that might connect him with Boerner or his days as a mercenary. How are you doing?”
Clare didn’t answer him. Her silence had him swiftly joining her at the desk, where she was gazing down at the coiled, thin leather cord she’d discovered tucked into a corner of the bottom drawer.
“It’s the same as yours,” she murmured. “Just like the one around Malcolm Boerner’s neck.”
“And missing whatever was attached to it.”
“Joe did have one of his own. Another amulet. You know he did, Mark. This is proof of it.”
“It’s not evidence. By itself it’s just a leather cord. It couldn’t have interested the police, or they would have taken it away.”
“But someone did take away what was strung on it, and we both know who that someone had to be. Joe’s murderer. It’s why he came here.”
Clare began to tremble with a feeling of uneasiness, as if the killer was still in the house. Silly of her, but she suddenly felt the need to leave. Now, before Mark began to argue with her again about the reality of a third amulet and what it might or might not mean.
She closed the drawer on the lanyard. By itself it was of no use to them. “Let’s go,” she urged him. “It’s making me nervous being here.”
Did he want to linger long enough to search the rest of the house in case they were overlooking something of importance? She was ready to tell him that Terry was too familiar with the other rooms not to be aware of anything that mattered and to have mentioned it to them.
But Mark must have sensed how much she wanted to be out of here. He offered no objection. After glancing around to be certain they were leaving everything as they’d found it, they left the office. Clare preceded him down the hall.
She was about to emerge into the living room when she halted so abruptly that Mark bumped into her.
“What is it now?”
“The mirror over there where the fireplace wall is angled,” she whispered, pressing back out of sight. “It reflects a view of the street through the front window. Mark, someone is out there coming up the walk.”
Before she could stop him, he stepped around her to look into the mirror for himself. “There’s no one there now. Are you sure you saw someone?”
“Positive.”
“Man or woman?”
“A man.”
“Maybe just one of the neighbors nosing around. Or could be a cop checking out the house to be sure it’s still secure.”
“He wasn’t in uniform. Mark, don’t!” she pleaded with him, clutching at his arm as he started to move into the living room. “He could see you through the window if he’s still there, and if he has a gun—”
“Why should you think he might have a gun, if it isn’t a cop?”
“I don’t know. Because...well, because there was something furtive about him.”
“Clare—”
“All right, so I only had a glimpse of him. No more than a quick flash really. Just the same,” she insisted stubbornly, “I didn’t like what I saw.”
To her relief, Mark didn’t try to reason with her.
“Okay,” he said, “we’ll hang back here in the hall until we know it’s clear.”
But she could see by the grim look on his face and the taut way he was
holding his body that, being the man he was, what he wanted to do was rush out there and challenge the stranger.
They spent several long minutes listening for any sign of someone trying to get into the house. There was no sound outside.
Restless finally, Mark ventured into the living room to check the scene outside. “No movement out there,” he reported. “It’s clear for us.”
They headed for the kitchen where Clare opened her purse. “I can’t find the key,” she said, searching through the purse.
“Are you sure that’s where you put it? Maybe you slid it into one of your pockets.”
“No, I’m certain I tucked it into my purse.”
She went on looking for the key while Mark stationed himself behind her in the dining room doorway, a position that gave him a view through the front window in the living room.
In the end, Clare located the spare key, which had somehow worked itself down under a loose tissue at the bottom of her purse.
“Ah, I finally—”
“Get down!” Mark ordered her sharply.
Before she could learn why he’d cut her off, he was across the kitchen and dragging her to the floor between an island and an inside wall. “A police cruiser just pulled into the driveway. I’m thinking it’s no coincidence. Looks like that guy hanging around the place could have been spotted by a neighbor, maybe across the street, and called the cops,” he said in a low voice.
Which would explain, she thought, why whoever it was out there fled the scene. He’d either heard or glimpsed the approach of the cruiser. And now they were the target, trapped in here.
“If the officer has a key,” she said in an undertone, “then we’re in trouble.”
“Doubtful, but let’s not count on it.”
They were silent then, listening to the slam of the door on the police car. Seconds later they heard the soft rattle of the front door on the house being tested to make sure it was still locked.
They spent tense moments after that huddled on the tiles, squeezed against each other, hearing the sounds of the officer investigating the windows as he circled the house. Clare was afraid to breathe when he reached the back door, shaking the knob so loudly it seemed to match the pounding of her heart.
The officer must have been satisfied, because a minute later they caught the sound of the cruiser departing. Only then was she able to breathe again.
“I don’t know which was worse,” she said, “the mystery man out there or the cop.”
“About equal, I’d say. Let’s go before the local fire department followed by a SWAT team arrives next on the scene.”
Not so funny, Clare thought, considering the day they’d had.
Unlocking the side door, they crawled back under the tape, replaced the key, shed their latex gloves and cut across the backyard. “You know who our mystery man was, don’t you?” she asked as they picked their way through the hedgerow.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Joe’s killer, that’s who.”
They had reached the pasture where Mark stopped, turning to look down at her. “This ought to be good. Okay, teacher, why would Riconi’s killer risk turning up again at the scene of his crime?”
“Because he’s after your amulet now.”
She watched Mark inhale deeply, as if striving for patience. “Let’s suppose,” he said after releasing his breath, “that’s just possible. Then how would he have known where to find me?”
“Because he followed us.” She could see he was already about to lose that patience with her, which was why she rushed on before he could interrupt her. “No, Mark, listen to me. It all makes sense, if you think about it. If whoever this man is was Malcolm Boerner’s partner, and they did have a quarrel that ended up with him killing Boerner and taking his amulet, which he probably wouldn’t have hesitated to do, not if he’d already murdered Joe for his amulet, then...”
Clare watched Mark open his mouth with a clear intention again of stopping her there. She didn’t give him that opportunity.
“All right, so we don’t know how he knew Joe or that Joe had an amulet of his own, but the rest would fit. Like his knowing from Boerner that I was scheduled to turn up this morning at the shop with your amulet. His waiting around somewhere close by, and then when I showed up with you beside me realizing his chance wasn’t a good one and that he could have a better one tailing us to someplace that wasn’t so public.”
Clare ran out of wind by then, finally allowing Mark to make a contribution of his own. “Uh-huh, the blue sedan that seemed to be following us from New Orleans. Only we lost it way back, remember?”
“Or thought we did.”
She could tell from the expression on his face that Mark was ready to accuse her again of wild speculations. But he refrained from doing so. Maybe because he now saw merit in them. After all, he had elected to come to the house in search of a possible third amulet, and that in itself had to mean something.
As they went on across the pasture, neither of them speaking now, Clare took advantage of their silence to observe Mark’s gait. He’d been on his feet and active now for sometime. Had it been too much for his wounded leg? Apparently not, because he wasn’t limping. Not noticeably so.
When they reached the SUV, he turned to her, smiling down at her from that formidable height of his.
“Still concerned about this leg of mine, are we?”
So, as careful as she thought she’d been, he’d been all too aware of her eyeing his leg. “I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. Hey, don’t worry about it. I kinda like the idea of you thinking about me. In any terms.”
And that, along with the wicked smile, was all it took for Clare to turn to mush. She remembered again his all too potent kiss back on the levee and how strongly it had affected her. Remembered, too, Terry’s warning to her there in the jail’s visiting room.
Just watch yourself with him, will you?
Too late. She already wanted this man far more than was good for her. Wanted another of those searing kisses of his, his teeth nipping her lips, his tongue inside her mouth. All of it tugging at her senses.
There was something else that maybe did, or maybe didn’t, help matters. Something she could read in the softness of his gaze. The lieutenant no longer mistrusted her, no longer questioned her honesty. She could swear it was there in his eyes.
Funny how that in itself made him dangerous.
* * *
The drive back to New Orleans kept Mark occupied. Far too unwisely so where Clare was concerned. She had fallen asleep in a corner of the passenger seat, permitting him to glance down at her as often as he liked without being caught.
Yeah, free to...well, for starters to admire her breasts as they rose and fell with each slow, rhythmic breath she drew. That alone was an enticing sight that had him squirming inside his seat belt.
Better lift your eyes to a safer level, Griggs.
He did just that, snatching glimpses of her mouth at intervals. This wasn’t any better. Not when that mouth was slightly parted, feeding his imagination with a longing to bury his tongue deep inside her.
He wasn’t just squirming now. His wild need for her had him growing hot and heavy with arousal. Nor did he think that paying attention to any other areas of that sweet body was going to relieve his desire.
When the car swerved, threatening to go off the highway, he realized that if he didn’t focus on his driving he was going to get them into an accident.
Not just your eyes, either, lunkhead. Your thoughts could also use some control.
Right.
Obeying his self-command, he turned his mind to the problem that had taken them to St. Boniface Parish. So where were they now? Any closer to some answers?
For one thing, he was ready now to buy the theor
ies Clare had laid out for him. They did make sense. What he wasn’t ready to do, and hadn’t been when she’d presented them, was admit this to her. Doing that would only encourage her, raising hopes that could easily lead to nowhere. Because the trouble was, they had nothing solid to support those theories. Not yet. Maybe never.
What was it about those damn amulets worth murdering for? All of it seemed to go back to Afghanistan where the amulets had originated. His, anyway. And probably Riconi’s and Boerner’s as well, assuming they had served there themselves years ago. In their case as mercenaries.
Had their killer been there, as well? Afghanistan. That was the connection. Mark was certain of it.
Yeah, but even if they got the answers, would they prove Terry Riconi’s innocence? That was all Clare cared about. Freeing her sister. He wanted that for her, too.
Again, where does all of this put them? Still in the dark, that’s where, blindly feeling their way to what could be nothing more than a dead end.
Whatever the odds, soldier, rangers don’t give up.
Chapter 8
Clare was awake when Mark stopped for gas and a bathroom break for both of them. She was still in the women’s restroom when he came out of the service station. He waited for her alongside the SUV.
This stretch of the highway was a busy one, which he guessed was the reason why there was another service station opposite theirs across the road. He could have easily missed the blue sedan parked there at one of its pumps, if the squeal of tires from a sports car departing from the station hadn’t drawn his gaze in that direction.
Mark stiffened to attention at the sight of it.
Not just a blue sedan but the same make and model as the one that had followed them along this route on their way to St. Boniface Parish. Or had seemed to.
Just a coincidence with an innocent explanation? Because he wasn’t willing to believe it wasn’t the same car.
No, he decided, this time he was ready to trust Clare had been right. That the blue sedan had been deliberately tailing them. Even that its driver could be their killer and was now after his amulet.