A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Shutting the door, Kendra clutched her bag, and stepped back. She waited as the BMW drove down the lane, disappearing from sight. Only then did she drop her smile.

  She would keep her promise. She wouldn’t go after Greene for revenge.

  But she hadn’t said anything about going after him for justice.

  5

  Three months later

  “You’re a dead woman, Kendra.”

  “I . . . don’t . . . think . . . so . . .” It wasn’t easy to push the words out, since the man had his sinewy arm wrapped tightly around her throat. His breath puffed in her ear. She managed to turn her head so her windpipe wasn’t crushed, and put all her power behind an elbow jab. The puff in her ear became a grunt. His hold loosened, only fractionally, but she pressed her advantage, grabbing the thick wrist, twisting. Within seconds, she’d reversed positions, pivoting and taking him down. She could’ve taken him out, with her knee hovering above a sensitive area.

  He knew it, too. His eyes widened. “Have mercy!”

  She grinned and released him, letting him flop back on the mat. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Nate.”

  His broad chest rose and fell. “Yeah. Generous.”

  Feeling winded herself, Kendra snatched the towel off a chair and swiped it against her sweaty face. It’d been a long process, but she was finally feeling like her old self. She’d regained the weight she’d lost in the hospital, and her body felt limber and strong. Her hair had even grown out long enough for her to have it styled with blunt cut bangs and a sleek bob that curved an inch below her jaw.

  She was almost ready.

  The errant thought brought her up short, chest tightening like she was having an asthma attack.

  “Hey.” Nate pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on her face. “What’s wrong? You’re looking pale, even for a white girl.”

  “I’m fine.” She began stretching. “I took you down, didn’t I?”

  “That’s only because you’re tricky.” Snatching another hand towel, he mopped up the sweat from his gleaming ebony skin. “When are you going back to the Bureau?”

  Kendra’s hesitation was so slight, he might not have noticed it if he hadn’t been watching so closely. Her face went carefully blank. “Soon.”

  “You’re ready.”

  She ignored him as she went through the stretching routine followed by some intricate yoga moves. After a moment, he joined her. “You know, several of my clients are in the Bureau. Sam White mentioned you the other day, said you’ve practically fallen off the grid.”

  “Please. Phillip Leeds was at my door just the other day.” She didn’t mention that he’d shown up at her door because she’d let six of his calls go straight to voice mail. She was tired of him urging her to see a psychiatrist.

  “Asking you to come back?”

  She straightened out of the warrior position. “He wants me back, yes. There’s a case in Florida. Someone’s been killing college girls.”

  “I saw that on the news.” He followed her as she walked to the locker room. “They need you, Kendra.”

  “And I need time.” She opened up the door to the locker room, hesitating on the threshold. “The FBI has other profilers, Nate. They can do the job without me.”

  He frowned. “You sound like you’re never going back.”

  “Of course, I’m going back,” she replied easily, tossing him a smile over her shoulder. “Where else would I go?”

  It was a lie, but she told it convincingly. Maybe she was being paranoid, but she didn’t trust Nate’s sudden interest in her career or future with the FBI. She certainly had no intention of telling him that she’d never go back to the Bureau. Hell, if everything worked out as planned, they wouldn’t want her, either—except in prison or dead.

  After showering, Kendra changed back into her pale green T-shirt, stonewashed Levi’s, and Nike cross-trainers. Declining the cup of coffee Nate suggested, she swung out of the gym. She kept her pace unhurried as she walked down the sidewalk, gym bag over her shoulder, maneuvering between pedestrians. Every once in a while, she pretended to window-shop, using the glass as a mirror to scan the crowds for a possible tail. Phillip Leeds, she knew, was becoming nervous that she was avoiding returning to active duty. He couldn’t force her, of course. Being shot in the head and severely wounded had an upside, she decided wryly. It had given her time to plan.

  The government had a shocking amount of eyes and ears everywhere, but she’d been careful. She’d paid cash for a new laptop and burn phone. It had taken her a long time to shuffle funds around. Most Americans didn’t realize the IRS tracked deposits around or above ten thousand dollars. To prevent any IRS triggers, Kendra made sure to stagger the times and amounts of money she wired to the accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland that she’d set up under bogus corporations.

  She’d also set up several new identities. The first would be Marie Boulanger. Under that name, she’d rented a charming cottage in the Cote d’Azur for the next six months. Of course, she had no intention of staying there or continuing the identity of Marie Boulanger. Instead, she’d slip into the skin of Angelica Lombardi, and settle into life in Rome for a couple of months at least. She had an aptitude for languages: Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese. That, she supposed, she had her parents to thank for, and those endless lessons they’d structured her life around. She’d be able to keep a low profile in Europe.

  Unlike Sir Jeremy Greene.

  The anger rose swiftly inside her, choking her. She’d looked him up, of course. It had taken her two seconds to find him, often photographed with some waif-thin model young enough to be his granddaughter. The latest report was that he’d be attending a fancy-dress ball at some English castle.

  It enraged Kendra. He may be feeding Uncle Sam vital intelligence—or so they believed—but he deserved to be in hell.

  She had every intention of putting him there.

  Kendra left her cell phone in her gym locker, and her car in the parking lot. She took a bus to the other side of the city, getting off six blocks from her actual destination. The Mexican Cantina was crowded with afternoon diners and smelled of frying onions and something spicy. The hostess, a young woman wearing traditional-style dress, smiled at her. “Only one?” she asked as she reached for a plastic menu.

  “What I want isn’t on the menu. ¿Dónde está Lupe?”

  The woman shot her a startled look, and then glanced around nervously. “You want to meet my uncle?”

  “I’ve already met him. I have an appointment. Tell him Kendra’s waiting.”

  “Un momento, por favor,” the woman said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Kendra studied the garish paintings on the wall. The cheerful Mexican music blended with the noise of the diners who’d come in for happy hour. The air-conditioning felt good after her six-block walk.

  The woman returned, and smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes, which remained uneasy. “Por favor, me sigue.”

  “Gracias.” Kendra followed the woman through the kitchen, earning quick looks from the men standing around steaming kettles on the stove. They exited the kitchen, stepping outside onto a small cement area. Flies buzzed around trash bins that reeked of rotting food. The woman crossed to a corrugated metal shack, and motioned to the door. “El tío Lupe le espera adentro.”

  Kendra nodded and watched the woman hurry back into the restaurant. She gave the tin door a quick rap before opening it and stepping inside. The room was long and narrow, the walls filled with shelves of canned food. At the back of the room, a fat man sat behind a desk, smoking a cigar that left a pearly haze hanging in the already gloomy interior. He was talking on the phone in rapid-fire Spanish. Seeing her, he gestured her over. “Muy bueno. Bueno. Usted ha hecho bien, Jesus. Adios.” He cradled the receiver and smiled. It was a crocodile smile that revealed crooked teeth. “Senorita, you look as beautiful as the last time we met. Sit. Sit.”

  She remained standing. “This isn’t
a social visit, Lupe. You have something for me.”

  “Ah. Always business. You are too young and too pretty to be always business.”

  Kendra said nothing. He met her stare for a few speculative moments, then sighed. Opening his desk drawer, he yanked out a dirty manila envelope and tossed it toward her. “This is what you want, si?”

  Kendra undid the clasp, and dumped the contents on the desk. There were six passports in all. She carefully inspected each one. The only thing missing was her photograph and identification. She’d take care of that later. “You do good work, Lupe.”

  “Gracias.” He inclined his head, his second chin quivering. “But not free work, senorita.”

  “Of course not.” Sliding her gym bag off her shoulder, Kendra reached inside and took out a rolled athletic sock. She handed it to him, and gathered the passports as he hurriedly peeled back the sock to reveal a thick roll of bills. He gave a little laugh, and began counting. Kendra shoved the manila envelope inside her gym bag. Her fingers grazed the gun inside. She decided to keep her hand exactly where it was until she was out on the street again. The transaction was going smoothly, but it was best not to get complacent. “Gracias and adios, señor.” She backed toward the door, never taking her eyes off the man sitting behind the desk.

  “Un momento, senorita.” He shot her a quizzical look. “A question, por favor.”

  “I was under the impression you didn’t ask unnecessary questions.”

  “Si. But it is most unusual, senorita. Why didn’t you want me to put in your photo? Your identification?”

  “Simple, Lupe. You can’t tell someone what you don’t know.”

  “You are muy careful mujer.”

  “I am a careful woman. And you, Señor Lupe, will thank me, if anyone comes seeking answers you can’t give.”

  He looked amused. “Who do you expect to come after you, senorita? The mob?”

  “No.” She pushed open the door, letting the afternoon sunlight spill into the gloomy interior. “The United States government. FBI. Maybe CIA, NSA, or Homeland Security.”

  The smile vanished, and for the first time fear flashed in his small eyes. “La madre santa de Dios,” he whispered. “Qué has hecho?”

  This time she was the one with the crocodile smile. “I haven’t done anything, señor. Yet.”

  6

  Two days later

  Kendra took the train to New York City and a cab to JFK, and flew out as French citizen Marie Boulanger. As the Boeing 747 winged gracefully over the darkening blue of the Atlantic, she tried to relax, tried not to think about everything she was leaving—and what she was planning to do. The internal battle sent her stomach churning, and had her skin feeling alternatively hot and dry, then cold and clammy. She reached for her purse, pulling out a small plastic bottle of aspirin. Popping the lid, she swallowed two tablets, swigging them down with the bottled water she’d purchased after the security check.

  “Headache?” the woman next to her inquired with a sympathetic nod.

  Kendra looked at her, careful to keep her expression confused. “Je suis désolé. Qu’avez-vous dit?”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.” The woman gave her an embarrassed smile, hurriedly retreating behind the People magazine she’d been reading.

  Kendra felt a twinge of remorse, but had decided that the best way to discourage conversation would be to pretend not to understand English. In a plane full of Americans, she knew she had a better than decent chance of sitting next to someone who wouldn’t be able to converse in French.

  Of course, she had her second line of defense, the iPod, which she now pulled out of her purse. Inserting the earbuds, she closed her eyes and forced her body, if not her mind, to relax as she listened to Bonnie Raitt’s bluesy voice sing slyly about giving someone something to talk about.

  She’d planned well, she reminded herself. Yesterday, she’d called Leeds to tell him that she would be returning to the Bureau in a week. She’d even scheduled an appointment with the FBI shrink. And if that didn’t take off the heat, she’d made damn sure that if they began looking for her too soon, the trail would lead to Mexico.

  She’d bought herself a week, maybe two. But all she needed was forty-eight hours.

  Her stomach, which had been settling, lurched up again.

  Forty-eight hours, and her life would change forever.

  Kendra had always considered herself sophisticated and well-traveled, but her breath caught in her throat at her first sighting of Aldridge Castle. Maybe it was the contrast of the velvety green lawn and the craggy gray rock of the ancient fortress beneath silky blue sky. Or maybe it was its shocking size. Hell, she’d been in towns smaller than the castle, with its raised central tower, uneven castellated chimneys, and turrets that stabbed into the heavens.

  The original tower, she’d researched, dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. Throughout the centuries, a series of wings had been cobbled onto the original structure. The effect was moody and magnificent, pulsating with prestige and barely-leashed power.

  A gravel road, pale as moon rock, cut across the huge park, which was shadowed with trees and topiary. The automobiles parked in a gleaming queue along the curb were a stark divider between past and present.

  Carefully, Kendra wheeled the Volkswagen Golf she’d rented that morning onto the drive, hearing the crunch of pebbles as she found a parking space. If her fingers trembled a little when she shut off the ignition, she chose to ignore it. Just as she ignored the acrobatic butterflies that invaded her stomach.

  Slinging her big purse over her shoulder, she made her way toward the crowd of people standing in front of the stone steps that led to the castle’s entrance hall. Most were young. Many, she knew, were professional actors. A nomadic group, which suited her purpose very well.

  A ruthlessly efficient-looking woman was pacing the stone steps. Holding a clipboard in one hand, she pointed her pen like a stiletto in the other, the object of her ire being a man standing in the front row.

  “Mark, you bloody chav, I told you to shave that silly patch on your chin.” Disapproval rang in her voice. “You’re to play a fucking footman—not some gangster rapper.” She dropped her hand, tucking the clipboard under her arm and clapping briskly. “Oy, everybody! We’ve got three hours to get dressed and into our roles before the toffs arrive. They want realism! Now, follow the signs to the servant’s hall, and get dressed!”

  Kendra waited until the throng dispersed. The woman glanced up as she approached, scowling. “Who are you?”

  “Cassie Brown,” Kendra lied. “I’m sorry I’m late—”

  “Those gits! I told them not to send me anyone with short hair.” Scowl deepening, the woman began tapping the clipboard with her pen. “We need Sherlock Holmes—not Katie Holmes!”

  “I thought this was a costume party for the early 1800s.”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “Sherlock Holmes wasn’t created until the late nineteenth century.”

  “Well, aren’t you bloody clever. And a Yank, too.” Disgust replaced anger. She stopped tapping and rolled her eyes. “What were they thinking? They say they want realism, then they send me an American who looks like a bloody flapper. Oh, fuck it!” She gave a disgruntled shrug, and flipped through several sheets attached to the clipboard. “We’re still short on lady’s maids.” Briskly, she scribbled a note and tore off a slip of paper, handing it to Kendra. She pointed toward the departing crowd. “Follow that lot there to the servant’s hall. Heaven knows what they’re going to do about your hair. We’re trying to create a mood. Stark Productions should never have given you the assignment.”

  Before the woman could change her mind, Kendra hurriedly joined the others trudging along the path. A young woman with long red hair tossed her a sympathetic look. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Don’t let that old cow bother you. You look fab. I’ve been wanting to get my hair styled like that for ages.”

  Kendra lifted a hand to
her hair, which swung in a thick ebony sheet below her jawline. Her mouth tightened involuntarily as her mind flashed to the reason she had this particular style.

  “I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you,” the girl continued, misunderstanding her expression. “Mrs. Peters has been nattering on all morning about our roles. She’s been positively batty about it. But these wankers aren’t coming for realism. They want to spend the weekend playing dress-up and getting smashed. They’ll not care whether your hair is short or long. The men certainly won’t. They’ll be more interested in shagging you.” She grinned at Kendra. “I’m Sally, by the way.”

  “Cassie.”

  “Are you an actress?”

  “You could say that.”

  Sally didn’t hear the irony. “Me, too. I’ve done the Shakespeare festivals. You Yanks love the Bard. And I was a tavern wench last summer at Littlecote House.”

  That remark drew the attention of one of the young men walking ahead of them. Turning, he gave Sally a lascivious grin. “Ah, Sally me girl, you can serve me anytime!”

  “Cheeky bloke!” Sally laughed, and did a couple of skips forward to punch him good-naturedly on the arm. “This idiot’s Ian, Cassie. And don’t believe a word he says. What’s your role here anyway?” She looked at him. “Court jester?”

  “You’re a saucy wench!” Ian looked over at Kendra. “American, eh? Hollywood? You’ve got the bone structure for the big screen, to be sure.”

  “Watch out, Cassie. Ian thinks he’s bloody James Bond.” This time Ian was the one to give her a playful swat.

  With half a smile, Kendra listened as they traded barbs. Others within earshot joined in, their banter so easygoing that Kendra suspected they’d known each other before this particular job. It was nice . . . and, just for a moment, envy speared through her. They were a team, she realized.

  She understood what it was like to be part of a team, although never with this lighthearted sense of fun. The stakes had always been too high. Catching serial killers, pedophiles, or terrorists was simply not conducive to a carefree atmosphere. The humor she was familiar with tended to be of the gallows variety, cynical and sarcastic.