by Kylie Brant
“But Jennings once had a girlfriend whose father was put away for life by your boss.” Nate brought the cup to his lips. Drank. “That’s all the details Shepherd shared, but it’s looking more and more like that personal connection will have to be explored further.”
She considered the possibility. “Personal connections can get sticky.” Her voice was sounding more hoarse from the effort of talking. But there was still something she hadn’t told Nate. “Baltes is the one who gave your sister the idea to take off. I don’t know how or why they met up. A distraction, he called it.”
He looked shocked. And more than a little anxious. “Last week she didn’t come home one night. I assumed she’d gone clubbing with friends. Maybe he arranged to run into her there.” He shook his head, as if bemused.
But when he looked at her again, his eyes were intent. “I do know how complicated personal connections can be. When I was running across that clearing and saw you trapped in that ring of fire . . .” His voice cracked, just a little on the last word. “I don’t pretend to understand it, whatever it is you dream. What causes it. But that will be the last damn time I ever discount it.”
It was, she thought sappily, more touching than the most fervent declaration of love. And something that had never been offered to her before, by anyone other than her boss. “I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
The muscle in his jaw clenched. “I promised myself after our last phone conversation that I’d still have the chance to tell you exactly what you mean to me. I’m in love with you, Risa.” As if to stem any protest she would make, had she been able to summon the power of speech to do so, he went on. “Yeah, I can guess what you’re going to say. I know exactly how many days we’ve known each other. It’s too soon. But it’s still there. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few hours, it’s that time doesn’t mean a thing. It’s the now that matters. And you’re my now. My future.”
One hand came up to cup her jaw. Her senses swam. Shakily she managed, “Psychological studies indicate that situations of high stress cause heightened emotion in the involved parties.”
His faced lowered to hers. “Exactly why I’m going to make sure we have plenty of boring years together to prove the psychologists are full of shit.”
She shook her head. Paused to savor the kiss he pressed against her lips. A moment later she murmured, “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I don’t need psychologists to tell me what I feel. I love you, Nate. But I wouldn’t say no to some uneventful times, regardless.” A thought struck, and for the first time worry pierced the fog of happiness. “Adam proclaimed me ready to return to work.”
He caught her bottom lip in his teeth. Tested it lightly. “Two and half hours by car in good traffic. Less by train. C’mon, after the last few days, we’ve overcome far more important things than distance.”
She tilted her head back to regard him soberly. He was more right than he could know. She’d confronted her fears. All of them. And although she knew she had further to go in that regard, she was overcoming the self-doubt that had crippled her for the last several months.
“We have,” she agreed. “I’d say we make a damn good team.” His arm went around her waist to pull her closer. She slipped her hand around his neck and sank into his kiss.
Long moments went by before she opened her eyes again. Another two or three before the fog in her brain lifted enough to realize they had an audience.
“Risa.” Ryne Robel, another of Adam’s investigators raised his coffee in salute. “Good to see you again. You’re looking . . . well.” He managed, barely, to dodge the punch his diminutive wife, Abbie, aimed at his arm.
Embarrassment filtered in. But not enough to have her stepping out of Nate’s arms. “Privacy?”
“If you want privacy, you shouldn’t be making out in a hospital corridor,” Kellan Burke observed laconically. “They’ve got rooms here, you know.”
“Everyone out.” Ramsey and Macy Reid, Kellan’s fiancée, shooed the group back to the waiting room.
Zach Sharper threw an arm over the shoulders of Cait Fleming, the willowy former model turned forensic anthropologist. As they trailed after the rest of her colleagues, Cait raised her hand over her shoulder, waggled her fingers for Risa’s perusal. The large emerald engagement ring was hard to miss. “Congratulations, Cait. Zach,” she called. The man sent them a self-satisfied grin before they turned into the doorway of the waiting room.
Risa looked at Nate. “You realize they’re all going in there to talk about us.”
He didn’t look upset at the prospect. “Then I say”—his face lowered to hers—“let’s give them plenty of material.”
He lowered the binoculars as the gleaming private jet, loaded with medical personnel and equipment, taxied down the runway. Raiker was heading back to the East Coast. Alive, unfortunately.
The frustrated rage that surged would serve no useful purpose. Jennings had been the best. And to give the man credit, he hadn’t given up. Each attempt on Raiker’s life had been more daring than the last.
For the money he’d been paid, such effort had been expected.
Failure was not.
He slipped back into the crowd. Moved with it toward the airport corridor. His father, abusive old bastard that he was, had been fond of a particular saying: If you want something done right, do it yourself.
It was abundantly clear that the only way to assure Raiker’s death would be to take the man out himself.
A plan already forming, he settled his sunglasses on his face and strolled toward the airport’s exit.
Turn the page for a preview of
the sixth book in Kylie Brant’s
exciting Mindhunters series
DEADLY SINS
Available August 2011
from Berkley Sensation!
Chapter 1
Death was rarely the result of divine intervention. Often nature could be blamed. More frequently another person was the cause. On that drizzly gray evening in early November, nature had an alibi.
If Supreme Court Justice Byron Reinbeck had known what fate had in store for him that day, he’d have spent less time writing the scathing dissenting opinion on Clayborne vs. Leland. Which, in turn, would have had him leaving his chambers at a decent hour. That would have negated the need to stop at his favorite sidewalk vendor for flowers to take to Mary Jo, his wife of twenty-five years. She was having a dinner party that evening and he was running unforgivably late.
But not being blessed with psychic powers, he pulled over at the sidewalk in question. Danny was there, rain or shine. Seven days a week, as far as Byron knew. And he never folded up shop until he’d sold his entire inventory.
“Mr. Reinbeck, good to see you.” A smile put another crease in Danny’s grizzled, well-worn face. A three-sided awning protected him and his wares. “I gots just the thing. Just the thing.” He sprang up from his battered lawn chair with a surprising spryness.
Byron turned up the collar of his overcoat, belatedly remembered the umbrella in the backseat. Hunching his shoulders a bit, he pretended to contemplate the bouquet of yellow roses thrust out for his approval. He suspected Jimmy stocked them daily, on the off chance that he’d stop.
Yellow roses were Mary Jo’s favorite.
He reached for his wallet. “You’re a lifesaver, Danny.”
The older man’s cackle sounded over the crinkle of the wrapping paper he was fixing around the bundle. “You has to be in big trouble for these flowers not to do the trick.”
A quick glance at his watch told Byron that he was only a handful of minutes away from “big trouble.” He withdrew a couple bills, intending to leave without waiting for change.
He didn’t have a chance to turn around when the sharp “crack” of the rifle sounded behind him. But he saw the splash of crimson on the front of Danny’s stained brown hoodie. Had a split second to feel pain and shock before pitching forward, his lifeless body crushing the fragrant long-ste
mmed beauties against the plywood table.
Adam Raiker rapped softly at the door of the library. Although there were three occupants in the room, only one voice bade him to enter.
Because it was the only one that counted, he eased the door open, his gaze going immediately to Mary Jo Waverly-Reinbeck. “Everyone’s gone.”
Even grief stricken as she was, there was no mistaking the command of the woman. The red sheathe she wore accentuated her pale blond hair and ice blue eyes. She was brilliant and witty and had been known to dismantle a seasoned defense attorney with a few well-chosen lines.
But it was her devotion to one of Adam’s closest friends that had endeared her to him.
Tears still running freely down her face, she held out a hand to him. “Thank you, Adam.” He crossed the room to her, aware of the impatience emanating from the other two in the room. He took her hand in his and, at her urging, sank into the seat beside her.
FBI deputy director Garrett Schulte leaned back in his chair and offered Adam a polite smile. But there was no pretense of civility from the other man. Curtis Morgan served in Homeland Security in some capacity, Adam recalled. Given his presence here, it was a position of some import. Regardless, it was Byron Reinbeck’s widow who held his focus.
“Gentlemen.” She took a moment to wipe at her face with a tissue. “I’m sure you both know Adam Raiker, by reputation if not personally. Adam is a dear family friend.” When her voice broke, she paused to compose it. “I’d like a few moments with him now. We can resume our discussion in fifteen minutes. If you’d excuse us?”
Schulte and Morgan exchanged a startled glance but the assistant director recovered first. “Of course.” When he rose, the other man followed suit. “Is there anything we can get for you?”
“I’d like a copy of the investigative report updated daily and delivered to me.” Even under the circumstances it was difficult for Adam to suppress a smile at the men’s reactions to Jo’s crisply worded request. “Perhaps you can discuss the details involved for making that happen.”
Without another word, the men moved to the open door. Through it. And when it shut behind them, Adam knew the woman had successfully distracted the two from his presence here. They were going to be kept busy employing a duck-and-dodge strategy that would allow the investigation to continue in confidence while still placating the widow of one of the most powerful men in the country. The focus on her connection to Byron Reinbeck also meant they’d underestimate the fact that Jo Waverly-Reinbeck was a brilliant assistant U.S. attorney in her own right.
If the situation were different, he might feel a bit sorry for them.
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand and sent him a watery smile. “For making the necessary calls. For getting the people out of here . . . God. I just couldn’t deal with that.”
“What about the kids?” he asked quietly. The couple had two sons, both blond like Jo, both in their teens. So far they were being shielded from the breaking news of their father’s death.
“They’re with my parents. They’ll keep the boys away from the TV until I can go and tell them in person.” Her chin quavered once, before she firmed it. “We discussed this. Byron and me. Given our professions, I always thought I’d be the likelier target. God knows I’ve had plenty of threats. Remember that Calentro drug cartel trial last year? Somehow the USMS managed to keep me safe through that, but Byron hasn’t had a serious threat in years. And still . . .”
Because there were no words, Adam released her hand to slip an arm around her shoulders. The passing minutes were filled with her soft weeping. Causing a growing desolation inside him. Helplessness. There was nothing he hated worse.
Moments later, she drew away, mopped her face. And he recognized the determined expression she wore. “You’ve told us often enough over the last couple months, but are you truly okay? Completely recovered?”
The non sequitur had him blinking. “The bullets caught me in the one area of the chest that wasn’t already scarred. I’m still a bit miffed about that, but otherwise I’m fine.”
Her gaze was intent. “Who will have jurisdiction on this? The bureau?”
“DCPD will have been first to the scene. Marshals will have sent backup. Then you have the FBI and Homeland Security, just for starters. It’ll depend on what’s discovered at the crime scene. At the location of . . .”
“Of the shooter,” she continued for him. Her tears had disappeared, as if she’d successfully willed them away. “With Byron a sitting justice, we’re likely to have every alphabet agency coming out of the woodwork trying to get a piece of this.” Her smile was fierce. “I’ve read the justice reports. Regardless of 9/11, the agencies still haven’t learned to share intelligence. I don’t want Bryon getting lost in a bureaucratic pissing match.”
He couldn’t refute her logic. Although he’d left the FBI years ago, Adam had been an agent long enough to recognize the potential pitfalls of the upcoming investigation. “What are you proposing?”
“They won’t keep me in the loop of the investigation.” She waved away anything he would have said. “I know they can’t. That’s not my forte anyway.” Her pause then was laden with expectancy. “But it is yours. And that of your agency.”
With certain regret he answered, “As good as we are at Raiker Forensics, there’s zero chance that the feds would invite us to consult on a case of this magnitude. They’d see it as a duplication of services, for one. And my relationship to Byron would be considered a conflict of interest.” Although given the man’s far-reaching career thus far, he was likely personally acquainted with several top officials in both the FBI and DHS.
“Perhaps under ordinary circumstances.” A small sound was heard in the hallway. Jo lowered her voice as she reached out to grip his hand. “I have a few hours to trade on the expressions of sympathy that will be coming my way. Having the sitting U.S. attorney general as a former boss is about to come in handy. And I fully expect the White House to call soon. President Jolson is responsible for Byron’s seat on the Supreme Court. I think he’ll grant his widow this one favor.”
Shock flickered. “Jo, if you accomplish that, I’d be working with the task force put together for this case. And given its sensitivity, I couldn’t—”
“—report directly to me? I know.” She leaned forward, her expression urgent. “But I trust you. Byron trusted you. And if you’re on this case, I won’t worry because I know you’ll cut through all the bureaucratic bullshit to get the answers.” Her voice grew thick with tears again, although there were none in her eyes. They gleamed with purpose. “I want my husband’s killer. And if things get messy, I want the real facts, not the sanitized version or whatever the feds deem publicly palatable.” Her grasp on his hand tightened. “Before I beg my former employer and the president for a favor, Adam, I’m requesting one from you.”
I’ve never asked you for anything, Adam. I’m asking now.
There was no reason for Jo’s words to have memory ambushing him. To evoke the image of another time years earlier, from another woman with similar entreaty in her eyes. In her voice. Turning away from that woman had been the right thing to do. He still believed it.
And still lived with the searing regret that lingered.
He looked down at their clasped hands. Her pale, smooth skin contrasted sharply with the furrowed scars crisscrossing the back of his palm. Some decisions, made for the best of reasons, left haunting remorse in their wake. This one didn’t even require a second thought.
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“The prudent thing to do—for all concerned—is to bow out gracefully.” FBI Executive Assistant Director Cleve Hedgelin looked at a point beyond Adam’s shoulder as he parroted the suggestion, which had no doubt stemmed from a loftier position in the agency’s hierarchy. But it was equally likely that Cleve shared the sentiment. He might have been Adam’s partner eight years ago, but he’d stayed on at the bureau. Had risen in its ranks to head of the Criminal Investig
ation Division. An agent didn’t do that without learning to toe the political line.
And after the spectacular ending of the last case they’d worked together, Cleve likely harbored his own reasons for keeping his distance from Adam. “There’s nothing that you can add to the case, and your involvement is a needless distraction.”
The office was outfitted more grandly than the cubicle Adam had been assigned when he’d worked in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He settled more comfortably into the plush armchair and sent the man a bland smile. “Stop wasting time. Attorney General Gibbons has already approved my full inclusion on this investigation. The president himself assured Jo Reinbeck that her wishes in this matter would be heeded. The agency’s objections to my presence are expected and duly noted. Let’s move on, shall we?”
An unwilling smile pulled at the corners of Hedgelin’s mouth. “Same ol’ Adam. You never were much for small talk.”
“Is that what that was?” When his thigh began to cramp, he shifted position to stretch his leg out. “And here I thought it was the usual bureaucratic BS. Agency’s been painted into a corner with Gibbons and Jolson weighing in but still thought it was worth a shot to appeal to my more tender sensibilities.”
“You never had many.”
“And I haven’t developed any in the time since I left. Tell your superiors you gave it the college try and I’m not budging. So.” His hands clenched and unclenched on the knob of his cane, an outward sign of his flagging patience. “Catch me up.”
Cleve smoothed a hand over his short hair. It was more gray than brown now, but his pale brown eyes were covered by the same style gold wire-framed glasses he’d favored eight years ago. His build was still slim, but the intervening years had left their stamp on the man’s face. Adam didn’t want to consider what showed on his own.