Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  The ancient TV sat perched in the corner, switched to one of those talk shows that set people up so they could watch them being knocked back down again. Seemed to Marsh that people watched talk shows because it was easier than dealing with their own problems. Escapism.

  Frankly, looking around this place, escapism didn’t look like such a bad idea.

  The coffee table in front of the couch was littered with food and empty liquor bottles, as was the carpet. Old cartons of half-eaten takeouts lay around in haphazard heaps. Marsh almost heard the roaches licking their mandibles in succulent delectation. He tried to imagine a little girl growing up in this environment, but couldn’t. There was no way he’d leave a child here; it curdled his stomach to even think about it.

  What had made Josephine Maxwell leave Social Services when all she had to return to was this?

  Maxwell eyed the liquor in Marsh’s pocket with one arm outstretched like a supplicant. Marsh hesitated, but his small half-bottle couldn’t do any more damage. The man should have been dead years ago.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about your daughter.” Marsh watched the old man’s expression shift from wary to crafty in less than a heartbeat.

  “What daughter?”

  Marsh couldn’t decide if this was parental loyalty or if Maxwell was just trying to find out how much the information was worth. Marsh bet on the latter and decided to try the direct approach. “I need to find Josephine. Do you know where she is?”

  “Maybe I do.” The old man shrugged and began wheezing. “Haven’t seen the ungrateful slut in years.”

  Good. That made it easier to do what Marsh had to. A lot easier. The man would sell his daughter for a drink and now they both knew it.

  Marsh put the amber bottle of Bushmills on the coffee table and stepped back. He watched Maxwell approach it, cautiously, as if expecting a trap. His hand reached out hesitantly towards the neck of the bottle.

  “Do you know where she is?” Marsh asked.

  Maxwell jumped, but grabbed the bottle as he retreated to stand behind the couch like a two-year old who’d been caught doing something naughty. He unscrewed the cap with a couple of flicks of his knobby wrist and took a swig. Slowly, he wiped his mouth, shook his head, smiled as if in pain.

  Marsh pulled a couple of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and wondered why he was so irritated that this man would give up his daughter for money. He was the one paying him.

  Maxwell eyed the cash.

  “I need to find her,” Marsh repeated.

  “In trouble is she?” Maxwell looked speculatively at Marsh’s smart suit and expensive shoes. The pale eyes sharpened as they focused on the greenbacks. “Always was. Ungrateful little bitch.”

  Bitterness twisted his features. “She phones but never visits her old man.” He laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Visits the old biddy across the hall, but she thinks she’s too good for me. Forgotten where she came from.” He wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth with his filthy shirt cuff.

  Marsh didn’t blame her for not visiting, but he needed a lot more information than what the old man had given him. Maybe he’d try the woman across the hall.

  Josephine’s father had a crafty look in his eyes, vicious and sly. “Phoned me the other day, out of the blue.” Maxwell put his hand to his chin, as if he struggled to remember something. “I pressed that last caller button, you know, the one that gives you the number of the last person who phoned?” He went on scratching his head, but the gleam in his eye was anything but confused.

  “Wrote it down somewhere.” He glanced around the filthy, cluttered apartment. “Don’t know if I could find it.”

  Marsh placed two-hundred dollars on the table. “I’d be really grateful if you’d take a look for me, Mr. Maxwell.” He pulled another hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket, flicked it with his fingers. “Really grateful.”

  Maxwell took a quick swig of whiskey and headed toward the kitchen, taking the bottle with him. Marsh walked over to the old sideboard and looked through the stack of bills that were strewn across it. He’d bet a hundred-to-one that Walter Maxwell didn’t have the wherewithal to pay any of them.

  The old man was muttering in the kitchen. Marsh could hear the tip and swallow and tinkle of liquor as Walter Maxwell drank up the nectar that had controlled his life.

  A key wriggled in the apartment door, and somebody pushed it open. It bounced against the chain and held. Marsh caught his breath, his hand going to his holster, loosening the straps and preparing to draw his SIG Sauer.

  “How many times have I told you not to chain this door first thing in the morning?” A woman spoke heatedly from the hall.

  Marsh relaxed slightly and watched as Maxwell went to the door. Instead of opening it up, he stuck his hand through the crack and said, “Give me the damn mail, woman. I don’t ask for your help and I don’t need it.” Walter Maxwell slammed the door in the Good Samaritan’s face as if he didn’t want anyone to know he had a visitor.

  That suited Marsh fine.

  Walter Maxwell clutched his meager pile of mail and swaggered back to the lounge. “Nosy old bitch lives across the hall.”

  “She’s the one whom Josephine visits?”

  The man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Yeah.”

  Marsh filed the information away, along with the fact that the ‘nosy old bitch’ had access to the man’s mail.

  Walter Maxwell shuffled forward with a scrap of paper in his hands, handed it over, his gaze switching all the time between the $100 bills on the table and the one that remained in Marsh’s hand. Marsh handed him the money and looked at the phone number. There was nothing he could do if it was a dead-end, but at least he had a couple of leads to follow now.

  Marsh figured he was just one step ahead of the mob finding both Elizabeth and Josephine. If the mob found them first they were dead.

  A cockroach crawled out of a Chinese takeaway carton, negotiated cheap disposable chopsticks and scuttled across the floor. Maxwell didn’t even blink. Marsh’s stomach clenched. It was time to go.

  ***

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. It felt frigid in her lungs as it expanded to fill the spaces within her chest.

  The light was fantastic with gold shimmers that dappled the deep shadows of the forest floor, shifting and sighing with the gentle movements of lodgepole pine and western larch.

  Nat rode beside her on the gray stallion, looking handsome in ubiquitous Wranglers, a denim shirt and a faded blue sheepskin-lined jacket. His boots were old and worn, a pale-colored cowboy hat was pulled low over his eyes, making him a prime candidate for Marlborough man of the month. Elizabeth found herself watching him—the broad outline of his shoulders, the twitching of those serious lips.

  They’d gone on a trail ride. As if she was a real tourist.

  He hadn’t mentioned last night. Not the fight, not the gun, nor her slip that she’d been in law enforcement. She would have been brimming with questions and curiosity, but he was letting it slide. For now.

  The sharp tang of pine mixed with the rising scent of earth churned up by the horses’ hooves. They’d ridden for two hours straight in a loose circle around the north perimeter of the ranch. Now they were at the eastern-most edge of the property with the jagged mountains dominating the backdrop behind the trees. Fierce. Imposing. Cold.

  Shivering, she drew up her shoulders.

  Dense thickets of lodgepole pine blanketed the upper ridges with a dark-green cloak that stopped dramatically at the tree line. The icy peaks had that scrubbed clean look.

  Nat grabbed Tiger’s reins and pulled Elizabeth to a stop. With his finger pressed to his lips, he motioned for her to dismount. Elizabeth climbed down, withholding the drawn-out sigh of relief that usually accompanied the feel of solid ground beneath her feet after such a long time in the saddle.

  Nat motioned her to follow him as he approached the brush this side of the creek. Crouching low, she made her
way along, careful not to tread in the mud puddles that had grown as the snow had melted.

  She inched between straggly bushes and followed him as quietly as she could, curious as to what he had spotted across the creek. Reaching his side, she held her breath as he turned back towards her with a smile on his face and pointed through a mesh of tangled brambles towards the opposite bank.

  Elizabeth dragged her gaze away from his and spotted a tall doe standing guard over two fragile spotted fawns. The fawns’ legs were spindly, spread unevenly apart as they stood beside their mother who was drinking from the clean waters of the creek.

  Bambi’s mom.

  Elizabeth pressed closer to Nat, enjoyed the excuse to touch him without worry. The doe raised her head, her ears huge and pricked forward, listening for any hint of danger. Her nose quivered as it sifted the air for trouble, her liquid black eyes scanning the scrub, elegant, graceful and breathtakingly beautiful.

  One of the horses snorted and the deer darted into the undergrowth.

  “Wish I’d brought my camera,” Nat said, rising to his feet, and putting a hand to her waist when she nearly lost her footing in the mud. “Easy,” he said.

  Elizabeth looked up into his narrowed blue gaze and wished for one crazy moment, that she had the nerve to kiss him. Like a normal woman. Just for once, she’d like to pretend she was ordinary.

  Not rich.

  Not a target for a mob hit.

  Not a rape victim.

  His eyes darkened with molten heat, his grip tightened on her arm.

  “You gonna freak out if I kiss you?”

  She shook her head, her gaze never leaving his mouth as it lowered towards hers. Then she felt his breath just before his lips touched hers, slowly and gently, eking out a response that melted her bones. His hands cradled either side of her face, made her feel like she was the world and everything in it that mattered. She moaned and closed her eyes, her lips straining towards him.

  It was a gentle kiss as he probed her mouth lightly with his tongue, but the passion that swelled up swamped and staggered her.

  He raised his head and stared at her oddly.

  “Well,” he said, and took a half step away. “That sure beats the hell out of castrating cattle.”

  Elizabeth laughed. Startled by the sound, she looked away. She didn’t know the last time she’d felt this happy and that scared her.

  “Talking of which, Ryan is going to skin me alive if we don’t get back soon, so I guess we’d better move it.” His voice sounded rough around the edges.

  He fetched the horses from where they grazed the undergrowth beside the creek, and with the slightest touch, he helped her mount.

  She wasn’t supposed to feel these bursts of anticipation, these little tingles of desire. She was as good as dead, her heart a lifeless weight inside her chest—but she felt them anyway and savored the uncertain tug of attraction and the bittersweet feeling of hope.

  ***

  New York City, April 12th

  Marsh took the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to the Manhattan Bridge, crossed the East River through Chinatown and headed northwest. Passing the trendy craft shops and gaily-colored umbrellas, he turned into the old redbrick tenements on Grove St.

  He parked near the building where Elizabeth and Josephine had shared an apartment before Elizabeth had gone undercover, and climbed out of his BMW. It seemed a good area, tidy, with neat little trees starting to bud, protected by green painted cast-iron scrolls. Black cast-iron trelliswork edged the building and numerous window boxes promised brilliant displays come summer.

  Marsh stood in the street, lighting a cigarette. He glanced around looking for anybody suspicious, anything out of the ordinary, but it was hard to tell in Greenwich Village. He walked up the front steps and pressed the buzzer for apartment four. He looked up and saw a face peering down at him from the balcony on the top floor. Unfortunately it wasn’t the face of a willowy blonde, but rather that of a young guy showing off his hard-earned fake tan, and wearing a black wife-beater T-shirt.

  Marsh’s smile turned deadly and he crushed out the cigarette with the heel of his shoe.

  “Yeah? What can I do for you?” a fuzzy voice came through the intercom.

  “I want to speak to Josephine Maxwell.”

  A slight hesitation, a telling pause. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “You have a forwarding address?” Marsh’s voice was hard. He’d had a lousy day.

  “Sorry, pal, can’t help you.”

  Wrong answer.

  “Listen, pal,” Marsh’s voice rang like steel, his usually endless patience erased by the growing feeling of dread. “I want to speak to you about Josephine Maxwell and I don’t want to have to beat down the door to do it. Understand?”

  “Look man, I’m calling the cops.”

  “Don’t bother, I’m FBI and if I have to get a warrant to talk to you, I’m going to make your life a living hell.” Marsh waited. He could almost hear the wheels turning in the young man’s head. Come on, just open the goddamn door.

  The buzzer went off and Marsh pushed through the heavy outer doors and ran up the three-flights of stairs, adrenaline punching through his system. The young man stood by the open door of the apartment. Marsh ignored his spluttered protests and brushed past him into the living room.

  The main room was large and almost blindingly bright. White walls reflected sunlight and huge skylights dominated the ceiling. Exposed oak beams supported the roof and plants flourished every shade of living green. Enormous canvases in vivid hues dominated three of the four walls. The fourth housed a walk-in fireplace that was simple but elegant.

  He crossed the polished oak floor and stared up at one of the paintings. It was a fascinating twist of wreathing color, each one melding and evolving like a spirit. It spoke of fire and passion. Smoke and mystery. He found the signature in the bottom right-hand corner. J. Maxwell stood out in neat, stark lines.

  Another contradiction.

  Marsh turned his attention back to the young man who stood in the doorway. He couldn’t say why he’d taken such an instant dislike; maybe it was his pretty boy good looks, or maybe it was the over-sculpted body and trendy black jeans trussed up with a leather belt studded with silver. Whatever it was, he hated the little bastard.

  Marsh nodded toward the picture. “Where is she?”

  The young man closed the door and followed Marsh into the lounge, glancing toward a room off to the right.

  “She’s not here.” The tone was petulant. “I’m just apartment sitting while she’s away.”

  “Did she say how long she’d be gone?”

  The young man shrugged his pecs. “I’m just staying till this semester is over.”

  Again, that suspicious glance to the room on the right. Someone was in that room. Marsh walked over to the fireplace and picked up a framed photograph that caught his eye. It was a black and white of two young women sitting on a dock beside a quaint looking boathouse. Josephine and Elizabeth. Marsh thought of the squalid apartment where Josephine Maxwell had grown up; the contrast with this one was like looking at night and day.

  He was beginning to appreciate the bond forged between the two women, but that didn’t help him to find Elizabeth. They both needed protection and the danger grew every day as the mob trials drew closer. He didn’t want Elizabeth killed, nor did he want Josephine Maxwell punished for being her friend.

  Ignoring the shout from lover-boy, he strode through the bedroom door, expecting to find a stunning willowy blonde in hiding. The person lying naked on the bed was blond all right, but he wasn’t quite as beautiful as Josephine Maxwell. The guy was handcuffed to the bedposts and didn’t look pleased to see Marsh standing there.

  With great aplomb, he said in a beautifully cultured British accent, “Be a love would you and get the keys? These bloody things are killing me.”

  ELEVEN

  Tiger’s haunches bunched and swayed as Elizabeth and Nat made their way down the embankme
nt. Elizabeth leaned back, held tightly to the raised pommel, clinging with her legs. She’d enjoyed herself today, had even managed to stay on the horse, so far. Grabbing a branch, she superstitiously touched wood, just as her mother had always done when she’d asked for trouble.

  Elizabeth concentrated on staying in the saddle and barely noticed the route they took. The land leveled out, trees thinned and spread across a wide glade, quaking aspen replacing the pines. Nat stopped his horse, stepped down and scouted about as if looking for something on the lush valley floor.

  Elizabeth watched him and knew that with every second she spent in his company, she was falling for him, hard, like a meteor plummeting to earth. He cast a spell on her that she couldn’t break. It wasn’t just the good looks or the tough rangy body, though God knew they fueled her fantasies. It was that solid core of strength, rolled up beneath a subtle layer of tenderness and painted with honesty. Two weeks ago she hadn’t even known he’d existed, but now she craved him with every cell in her body.

  Fear of his touch was gone. Dissolved like a sugar-cube in water by each subtle glance, each fleeting contact, each soul shattering kiss. Hope grew in her heart; a feeling that she couldn’t quell even though it was dangerous. Even though it could kill her.

  She had to run before her luck ran out.

  But she couldn’t leave yet.

  Nat shouted, breaking into her thoughts. “Hey, come over here.” He held his hand out to one side as she approached him. “Watch your step.”

  Hunkered down, balanced on the soles of his battered cowboy boots, he stared at a small mound of vegetation that encrusted a rotted stump.

  “What is it?” she asked and peered closer at the innocuous-looking plant.