Abandon

by Carla Neggers

  The chief looked at her with something approaching satisfaction. “We’ll find him, whoever he is.” He pointed to the stack of files. “You just do your reading.”

  “It won’t take me until one,” she said. “I had to read four hundred books in five months studying for my orals.”

  Delvecchio didn’t respond to her humor, although what she’d said was true. For a split second, she thought she might have gone too far, but he sighed. “See? Smart. That’s what everyone says about you, Stewart. You’re smart. You’ll be running the damn show around here in ten years if you get your head screwed on straight.”

  “My head—”

  But he walked away, and Mackenzie knew she’d been dismissed. She grabbed the top file. It was on a cold fugitive case. All the files were on cold fugitive cases.

  Why wouldn’t Delvecchio think her head wasn’t screwed on straight?

  “Gee,” she said to herself, “let’s think a minute.”

  She’d dated an ambitious, well-regarded, tough-minded FBI agent who broke all her rules about staying away from law enforcement types and happened to be investigating—on some level—a federal judge who was her lifelong friend. Even if Bernadette wasn’t suspected of wrongdoing, Delvecchio wouldn’t like having one of his new deputies in the middle of an FBI investigation.

  And she’d found herself in a knife fight while wearing a pink swimsuit. She’d blocked a slash of her attacker’s knife with a beach towel.

  She’d recognized her attacker, but couldn’t place why or where.

  To top off her bad luck, she’d received a creepy phone call in the middle of the night and hadn’t called Delvecchio.

  Lots of strikes against her, Mackenzie thought. Time to duck and cover. The best way to prove herself right now was to walk into the one o’clock meeting prepared, knowing every damn file the chief had given her to read.

  The meeting lasted for an hour, but bled into another meeting that last for two hours. Mackenzie’s eyes were rolling back in her head when she returned to her desk. But it was solid work—the start of a joint task force to pick up fugitives who’d been on the lam for way too long. If she hadn’t wowed anyone with her expertise, insight and command of her particular stack of files, she’d at least held her own.

  “Nice job in there,” a senior deputy said as he passed her desk. He didn’t even give her a chance to thank him. But she didn’t want to get a reputation just for research and analysis—she wanted to do fieldwork.

  She’d head to the firing range. She was getting her stitches out in the morning. Shooting a few rounds wouldn’t hurt.

  Like all her plans since her morning coffee, that one went out the window when Juliet Longstreet turned up. Just back from specialized training, Juliet was tall, blond and very fit, an experienced marshal who was also from northern New England—Vermont—and had experience with a case that had reached into her personal life.

  She’d also worked with Nate Winter for a time in New York.

  “Ethan and I want to take you house hunting tonight.” Ethan Brooker was a former Special Forces officer, now a White House advisor; he and Juliet were engaged to be married in the fall. “We’ll grab a bite to eat on the way.”

  “Is noncompliance an option?” Mackenzie asked.

  Juliet grinned. “No.”

  “Then I’d be delighted.”

  “Good. We’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

  Mackenzie realized she wouldn’t even get a chance to head home and change her shoes. She saw Nate’s fingers in the house hunting idea. Had he put Juliet and Ethan up to it out of concern for her welfare—or out of concern over what she’d do next?

  Maybe, Mackenzie thought, Juliet and Ethan were just trying to befriend a new deputy in town who’d just survived a knife fight.

  Probably not.

  But sooner or later, she’d have to find a place to live. The leaks would be fixed, and the house eventually would open to the public.

  If the leaks were the work of the resident ghosts, Mackenzie didn’t want to be around for what they cooked up next.

  “I’ll be ready,” she told her new friend.

  Juliet nodded, obviously satisfied. “Do you have enough to keep you busy for the next hour?”

  “You bet. If I look the slightest bit bored, someone will shove a stack of files at me. Idle hands and all that.”

  “You’re learning.” Juliet grinned. “See you soon.”

  Twenty

  Jesse looked out the impressive windows of his leased condo at the Potomac River reflecting the orange sunset and wished he’d paid more attention in his U.S. history classes. Washington was jam-packed with historic sites, museums, government buildings. Earlier in the summer, he’d been standing on a corner, debating where to get a bite to eat, and realized he was practically on top of Ford’s Theater, where John Wilkes Booth had shot Abraham Lincoln.

  Mackenzie was an academic. Political science. She would know the history of many of Washington’s more obscure sites.

  He turned away from the window. So far, the investigation into the tragic death of the congressional aide didn’t seem to be leading detectives to Cal Benton. He and his blonde had been careful, just not so careful that Jesse didn’t have pictures of them.

  But the search for Harris was heating up. Jesse felt secure that he had bought himself time to pressure Cal, but was it enough time? He couldn’t push too hard and risk having Cal take his chances with the FBI, go to them with his little insurance policy and cut a deal—Jesse in exchange for a reduced prison sentence or no prison sentence at all.

  It was a delicate balancing act.

  Jesse didn’t have to remain patient, but he had to be deliberate, purposeful.

  He headed down to the lobby and out to the parking garage, getting into his rented BMW. Cal’s car was parked at the end of the row. Perfect. He would have seen by now that someone had been inside his condo.

  And he hadn’t called the police, because he wouldn’t dare.

  Feeling his spirits revive, Jesse drove out to Arlington and the historic house where Mackenzie was staying. He had driven past the place earlier and spotted a honey-haired woman in the driveway, conferring with two contractors in separate vans. Sarah Dunnemore Winter, no doubt. He’d done his research.

  He liked the idea that he and Mackenzie both had temporary residences. It wasn’t just something they could share—it meant that her future was as yet uncertain.

  What if he and his pretty marshal were bound to be together?

  What if that was why he hadn’t killed her? Not because of her skill and luck, but because his subconscious had undermined his plans? On some level, he’d known he had to let her live.

  Her car wasn’t in the driveway. He considered slipping inside the house and waiting for her return, but that was too impulsive, too dangerous. If he was wrong and Mackenzie was on the premises, she’d have him. She was on alert these days and she was armed. He wouldn’t get away a second time.

  The house’s security system was unimpressive—one of the improvements that would likely come in time. Right now, there were no surveillance cameras on the property. It was a simple matter for Jesse to park in the shade and get out of his car. He’d grabbed a knife just like the one he’d used in New Hampshire—a straightforward Ka-Bar.

  He cut a fat pink hydrangea blossom and left it on her doorstep.

  “From a friend,” he said. “From someone who knows you better than you know yourself.”

  To be sure she knew it was from him, he left his assault knife with the hydrangea.

  Twenty-One

  The list of J. Harris Mayer’s friends and associates wasn’t as long as it once had been, but tackling just the top half of names had taken Rook and T.J. late into the evening, with little to show for their efforts. People were far more alarmed to find the FBI at their door, asking about the disgraced former judge, than they were at his absence. According to those who knew him best, the disappearing act he’d done last week
wasn’t unusual or out of character for him. He was long divorced, and his kids were grown. What was to stop him from taking off to the beach?

  Or New Hampshire, Rook thought. He and T.J. were in heavy Beltway traffic, the perfect cap to their day. T.J. was at the wheel, just as frustrated.

  When his cell phone rang, Rook had a brief urge to toss it out the window. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  He saw the readout. Mac.

  He decided not to throw out his phone. “Hey, Deputy—”

  “Rook,” she said. There was something in her voice.

  “Andrew. Does anyone call you Andrew? You have brothers. They’re all Rooks themselves. It’d get confusing at family gatherings.”

  “Mac?”

  “Humorless, Rook. You are—”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m at my house.” She cleared her throat. “Someone left me a present. A wilted hydrangea and an assault knife. Cute, huh?”

  “We’re on our way.” He looked over at T.J.

  “I’ve called the police,” she added. “Well. You are the police. So am I, but—damn. What’s wrong with me? I know this guy, Andrew. I do. I just can’t remember how. And now he’s here, and he’ll hurt someone else if we don’t find him soon.” She sucked in a breath. “All right. Get here. I’ll—”

  “You’ll take cover and wait.”

  “Right. That’s what I was going to say.” She wasn’t offended. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t hang up. I’ll stay on until the police get there.”

  “How far out are you?”

  “Fifteen minutes. Where are you?”

  “Behind my car door. Not in the vehicle.” She sounded more herself now. “If he jumps me from the bushes, I’ll nail him this time. But he’s not here. He’s a slippery creep who’s trying to get under my skin. He left his little present and took off.”

  “Likes his knives, doesn’t he?”

  “Apparently. So, what does T.J. call you—Andrew or Rook?”

  Rook wasn’t fooled by her manner. The flower and knife had shaken her. “Sometimes Andrew and sometimes Rook.”

  “My deranged hiker—he links to whatever you’re working on,” Mac said. “It’s no coincidence that you both turned up at Beanie’s house at the same time.” She paused a moment. “Maybe you need to talk to me. Let me in.”

  “Harris hasn’t told us anything actionable, Mac.” Rook heard the wail of sirens on her end of the connection. There wasn’t one thing he liked about having to hang up, but he had no choice. “You’ve got to go, I know. We’ll be there soon.”

  “It’s a pink hydrangea,” she said. “No more pink for me, I swear.”

  Even spooked, she drew on her sense of humor. She clicked off, and Rook loosened his grip on his cell phone. He filled in the gaps of his and Mackenzie’s conversation for T.J., who’d hit the gas and was navigating the traffic with ease.

  When they arrived at the historic house, an Arlington police cruiser had landed on the scene. Showing ID, Rook and T.J. walked over to the porch, where Mackenzie was speaking with an officer.

  “When you send her flowers,” T.J. muttered to Rook, nodding to the hydrangea and the knife on the porch step, “don’t send pink. And no knives. Chocolate always works.”

  As Rook exhaled, he let out a soft curse. “The hydrangea’s here in the yard. This son of a bitch waltzed right in here, cut the damn flower…” He swore again. “Bold.”

  “I’ll go talk to the locals, see what I can find out,” T.J. said.

  Rook noticed that Mackenzie had extricated herself from the detective and was heading their way. “You don’t have to make yourself scarce—”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He winked at Mackenzie as they passed each other. She stopped in front of Rook, her hair down, red curls hanging in her face. “I swear, I’d be less creeped out if he left me a severed squirrel’s head or something straightforward like that. A flower and a knife? That’s just bizarre.” With both hands, she pushed back her hair, and he could see perspiration glistening on her forehead. “I’m trying to keep an open mind. It could have been anyone, really. The attack’s been in the papers—”

  “It wasn’t anyone,” Rook said.

  “No. Probably not. I wish I’d been here and had another crack at him.”

  “Where were you?”

  “House hunting with Juliet Longstreet and Ethan Brooker.”

  Rook knew them. “How long were you gone?”

  “About two hours. He must have—I don’t know. My car wasn’t here. He wasn’t looking for a confrontation. He just wanted me to know he’s been here, to throw me off balance.” She looked back toward the porch. The crime scene guys would remove the flower and knife, test them for any trace evidence. “I’d like to hear what your FBI profilers have to say about this guy.”

  “He’s a bold, calculating sociopath who’s getting reckless,” Rook speculated. “Does this incident help you remember him?”

  “No. But we have a history. I just don’t know what it is.”

  Rook touched her fingers, a subtle move that the other law enforcement officers in the vicinity wouldn’t notice. “You okay?”

  “Frustrated.” She smiled suddenly. “Maybe it was my ghosts.”

  Joe Delvecchio pulled into the driveway, followed by Nate Winter and his wife, a stunning, visibly pregnant woman. Sarah Dunnemore Winter wouldn’t blame ghosts for the “present” on the porch steps. Like everyone else, she’d look to the man who’d attacked Mackenzie in New Hampshire.

  Rook stood aside and let Mackenzie deal with them. T.J. rejoined him, shaking his head. “I want this SOB,” he said.

  “Get in line.”

  Nate eased in next to Rook. Winter had a reputation as a serious agent, but tonight the senior deputy was at a crime scene for personal reasons. Because of his long friendship with Mackenzie, Rook thought.

  “Nothing like this happened to me my first year on the job,” Nate said. “Hell. She called you?”

  Rook nodded.

  “My uncle and I got to her father first when the saw went wild and cut him to pieces. She’d stayed with him. There was so much blood, at first we thought she was injured, too. We thought Kevin was dead. Gus found a pulse, and then we worried he wouldn’t live until the ambulance got there. He’s a great guy. Strong, decent. His wife Molly, too. He kept defying the expectations. Everyone was focused on him.”

  “Mackenzie slipped through the cracks.”

  “She’s avoided blood and gore—her words—ever since. I thought that’d get her kicked out of the academy, if her authority issues didn’t. She’s not easily intimidated, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “She hasn’t told her parents about the attack. They’re in Ireland—she wouldn’t want to upset them. She’s not used to being on that side of things. Letting people in.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Rook asked.

  Nate looked out across the driveway toward his wife and Mackenzie, who were chatting together. “If Mackenzie knew where Harris Mayer was, she’d tell you. If Judge Peacham knew, she wouldn’t necessarily tell Mackenzie. Or you, for that matter.”

  “I don’t distrust Mackenzie, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m not asking anything,” Nate said, then gave a polite nod. “I have to go.”

  Once Winter was out of earshot, T.J. gave a low whistle. “He may be a bigger hard-ass than you are, Rook.”

  “You want to translate what he just said?”

  “He said if you break Mackenzie’s heart, he’s not going to forget.”

  Rook scoffed. “You’re full of shit, T.J.”

  Unrepentant, his partner grinned. “I’ll stick around in case you need a ride home.”

  “I’ll need one,” Rook said, half under his breath.

  Within a few more minutes, most of the law enforcement officers left. T.J. gave a deliberate yawn. “My stomach’s calling for a pizza with ev
erything on it. Except anchovies. Anchovies and pepperoni just don’t mix.”

  Rook sighed. “Two minutes.”

  He walked across the steamy driveway to the porch, where Mackenzie was arguing with a young uniformed officer about how she didn’t need a cruiser making periodic checks on the place overnight. He didn’t back down—he said they’d be checking on the property, not on her. She finally relented, likely because it was the only way she’d be rid of him. The officer took his victory and retreated.

  “Kid’s got a future if he can stand up to a marshal,” Rook said.

  Mackenzie gave him a dark look. “They’re all creeped out about the hydrangea.”

  He had no idea if she was joking, but it was clear that no one liked the prospect of a stalker—and no one blamed the ghosts for the flower and the knife. “Everyone would relax better if you just weren’t here tonight.”

  “Nate and Sarah offered me their guest room, but I declined. Bad enough Sarah has this place to worry about, with a baby on the way and me here attracting trouble. She doesn’t need me underfoot at home.”

  “Come back to my place. T.J.’s starving. My nephew will be there—he’s always starving. We’re ordering pizza.” Then Rook added, “You can have the upstairs bedroom all to yourself.”

  She squinted at him, clearly not sure about the idea.

  “Look at it this way. Either I’m staying here or you’re staying at my place. If it’s not me, you know it’ll be Nate, and why would you want that? He has a new house and a pregnant wife. He’s a senior deputy.” Rook smiled. “He’s not as good-looking.”

  “I don’t know, Rook, Nate’s pretty good-looking. Of course, there’s T.J. He’s so good-looking he’s been known to stop hearts.” But she couldn’t sustain her humor, and blew out a breath. “Honestly, there’s no need for you to stay—”

  “Then grab a toothbrush, Mac, because I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  She shoved both hands through her hair, then let them drop. “All right. Give me two minutes.”