“Make sure you reiterate that.” He bit into his sandwich, the glob of mayonnaise now headed for his gut. “These G-men have notoriously hard heads.”
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “You know I will.”
With some grumbling, the older detective left. Amanda let a puff of air pass between her lips. Maybe she’d skip lunch.
The cell phone, still in her grasp, vibrated, alerting her that she was still late. Amanda closed the reminder and picked up her office phone. “Detective Nettles.”
“So formal.” A hint of warm laughter mocked her.
Irritation hummed down her spine. “To what, do I owe the pleasure, Special Agent in Charge, Baker Jackson Robinson?”
“Whoa, whoa, watch the titles and full names. Stings the ears.” The crunch of something came over the line. Probably those apples he loved to eat to torture whomever was on the other end of the phone.
She should hang up. “Can I help you with something?”
“Aren’t we testy?” He said around another bite. “I’m surprised you took my call.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” That, right there, was the crux of the problem. She should consider seeking professional help. Did they have a class on how to say no to one FBI agent who’d figured out all the areas, in which, she couldn’t resist, professionally?
“A really long list comes to mind,” he said as if he’d reached into her brain and snatched her thoughts.
Figures. The man stole just about everything else.
Amanda tapped the edge of her desk with her forefinger. Catsky passed by her cubicle, Officer Davis, a short blonde and woman, the precinct know-it-all, at his side. She said something to the older detective.
“Is the reason you called somewhere in there?” Amanda said. The sooner they got to the point, the sooner she could hang up.
“In a hurry?” Another crunch.
She ground her molars together. “Yes.”
“Where’s the fire?”
An aggravated moan escaped before she could stop it. “Seriously? I’m hanging up.”
“I’ll call back.”
“I won’t be here.”
“I have your cell number.”
The tug of a smile started at the corner of her mouth. She forced it into submission. “I have caller ID.”
“I’ll come to your house.”
A genuine laugh erupted from her mouth. “I think that’s crossing the line, Robbie. Even for you.”
“That’s better.” A tapping sound filled her ear now. “Lawyer Boy wouldn’t let me in?”
At the mention of the nickname Robinson had given Eric from almost day one of their working partnership, her stomach soured. “I gotta go. I’m late for a meeting.”
“With your former foster sister?”
She clenched her eyes shut. In a moment of pure idiocy, she’d told Robinson about that particular chunk of her childhood and how the two women planned to reconnect. The memory, and the fact that he acknowledged it, threw their precarious professional relationship into rocky territory, uncharted.
“Color me shocked.” She tried for nonchalance. “You were actually listening.”
“Nope, sorry, doll.” He picked up the bobbling conversation and righted it with a few words.
If he’d been in the room, she might have kissed him. She shook her head. That was a bit much.
“Happened to swipe the dashboard monitor from your cruiser that particular evening. You know, you talk too much. I can never keep up. But, hey, have fun. I gotta run. Thanks for calling.” Then he hung up.
If her cell phone hadn’t buzzed for a second time, she might have stood like that for a few minutes, receiver in hand. Managed to dial his number to set him straight. To make sure he hadn’t called to wish her well, as if he cared. Instead, she replaced the phone to its cradle, jammed a few more items into her purse and rushed out of the office.
After getting in her car, throwing the old Camry into gear and merging into traffic, she dialed her former foster sister’s number. It rang several times and switched over to voicemail.
“This is Beth, leave a message and I’ll return your call.”
“Hey, Beth, it’s Amanda.” She weaved through busy downtown traffic. “I’m running a little bit late, but I’m on my way. See you soon.” She tossed her phone on the passenger seat, sped through two yellow lights and found a parking spot near the Rainbow Café.
As she exited her car, she fished in her purse for meter change and came up with a few quarters. She jammed them inside the metal machine. It ticked down from forty-five minutes.
“Seriously?” Amanda dug around in her purse for more change, but came up with lint and a forgotten piece of Winterfresh gum. She’d break her cash in a minute. She rushed inside the restaurant expecting to see Beth’s nose in a book, her dark hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. There’d be an awkward moment or two, and then they’d hug and move on as if time hadn’t separated them.
Winged creatures took flight in her stomach. This meeting had the potential to remain awkward. She’d be naïve to ignore that. Their emails had been polite, and while excitement buzzed through her fingers with each typed response, Amanda couldn’t gauge all of Beth’s answers. But that wasn’t new.
She talked of how she’d married an NFL running back who’d been traded to the Carolina Pilots last season, after playing for the Seahawks for four years. They now shared a home here, in Charlotte, with a baby on the way.
Amanda had shared the abbreviated and less exciting details of her life. She lived with her boyfriend, had a job she loved. No kids or pets.
She sounded like a nerd. With no life.
They hadn’t discussed the two years Beth had spent in their home, courtesy of the foster system, or how it had ended.
Amanda had no idea how the other woman felt about that time in their lives. Opening the subject, online, hadn’t seemed wise. Maybe, in time, they could talk about those events. And why the younger woman had never responded to any of the letters she’d written.
When her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside the café, Beth was nowhere in sight. She released a burst of air and searched for a table near the door. At least, she wasn’t the only one running behind.
A young college-aged server with shaggy brown hair and a tie-dye shirt, the café’s logo in one corner, seated her. Then he handed her a menu. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”
“Water, please. And another menu. I’m meeting someone.”
He nodded, then laid a second colorful menu on the table, across from her. She opened hers and tried to concentrate on the meal options. What if Beth didn’t show? What if she took one look at Amanda and decided reconnecting wasn’t a great idea?
The Nettles family had always kept one foster child or another, throughout the years. At an early age, she’d come to understand that, while, she could befriend these temporary siblings, they all eventually moved on. Some to other homes, to college, or to adoption.
Temporary blessings, her mother called them.
Beth’s stay had been the longest. Her departure a little harder, but expected.
“Ma’am.” The server appeared and placed a glass of water in front of her. “Is your name Amanda?”
“Yes. Why?”
“There’s a call for you.” He held out a cordless phone, irritation sliding across his face.
She patted her pockets for her cell phone, and then checked her purse. Came up empty. In her mind, she could see it on the worn fabric of her car seat.
Only two people knew she was here. Her heart started to hammer out a funny tune.
“Thanks.” She accepted it and pressed it to her ear. “Nettles.” She half expected to hear Robinson’s voice on the other end of the line. Half expected the warmth in the pit of her stomach, hearing the soft southern drawl brought. A feeling she would deny and ignore. Forever.
“Amanda Nettles.” The metallic voice assailed her ear. “Are you a football fan?”
The metallic pitch permeated everything, even the silence. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
This was the worst joke on the planet. Kids these days needed some different outlets. She’d play along. “And you are?”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Impatience laced the synthesized voice.
“Do me a favor. Go do your homework. Stay off drugs.” Then she hung up. Two seconds later, the phone rang again.
Some of the patrons glanced in her direction.
She answered, but didn’t say anything.
“There’s something you should know.” The voice bounced to her, quiet and calm. “You’ll have to make a decision. Life is filled with them, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Something cold settled on the edge of her spine and zipped lower with each syllable. “If you’re trying to be funny, it’s time to quit while you’re ahead.”
“None of that, here. Ironic, maybe. And deep down you know that or you wouldn’t have answered. You wouldn’t be spinning your water glass as if life depended on it.”
Stilling her hands on her glass, Amanda glanced around the café without moving her head. Everyone had gone back to their conversations. A couple ate their salads in silence. The younger server flirted with a group of college girls, to her right. A man with a laptop sipped on coffee while his fingers flew over his keyboard, on the left.
“I wouldn’t make it that easy, Nettles.”
What? Like a rat drawn to poison, disguised as cheese, she got up and walked toward the entrance.
“Perfect.” Giddiness fell from the word, as if they were in a Walt Disney movie, with an evil witch hoping to lure the princess into a trap. The culpability of this situation wasn’t lost on Amanda. Like those beautiful princesses, what could she expect from easy acquiescence? A sleeping death, wicked step-sisters, dwarfs.
“Tell me what you see.”
People strolled the sidewalk like any other day in Charlotte. Cars whizzed by. A taxi stopped to pick up a woman with three shopping bags. The fingers gripping the phone at her ear, slipped a tiny bit, her palm dampened by moisture.
“You’re messing with the wrong person,” she whispered. “I’m a detective with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department.”
A metallic laugh hit her ears and lingered. “I know, Amanda Nettles. I know everything about you. Your birthday’s August twentieth.”
When she would have protested the easy information, the voice continued, “You graduated from Duke University with your friend, McKenna Moore. You started as a beat cop and worked your way up, earning your detective shield almost three years ago. Your parents are Eileen and Walter Nettles. Your father’s a judge and currently on the ballot for U.S. Senator. You live with your boyfriend, Eric Dunham, because when he asked you to move in three years ago, you wanted to. You’re unsure what you want now, but the arrangement is familiar, so you say nothing. But that’s not what really eats you, is it?”
A pause stretched the seconds into hours, her heart racing to make up the difference. Her stomach climbed the ladder of her esophagus, hanging onto her uvula as a lifeline.
This was a dream. A horrible nightmare. And soon she’d wake up.
“You try not to think about Baker Jackson Robinson in more than a professional manner, but sometimes you don’t succeed. You’re ashamed that you were able to tell him you were meeting a woman named Beth Markel there, today, when you couldn’t tell Lawyer Boy.”
A skittering of panic rushed into her blood stream. Sweat developed on her upper lip. Hearing her intimate thoughts, so close to the truth, made her dizzy. An unsteady hand met the glass of the window. The radiating heat fogged the clear surface and left faint traces of the shape of her fingers behind.
Not a nightmare, then.
She swallowed the nothingness in her mouth, the action causing pain. “What do you want?”
“Your unyielding attention.”
Her mouth wouldn’t work, proving this guy had that and more.
“Speechless. Even better. There’s only sixty seconds left.”
“Before what?” She tried for a deep breath. Her chest refused to expand to accommodate her.
“Before the Carolina Pilots have to rebuild their stadium. You’re in the blast zone, dear Amanda.”
The line went dead as the words echoed in her ears. A loud boom assaulted her senses. A few of the café patrons joined her at the window, their gazes wide. Three blocks ahead, a plume of billowy, black smoke rose above the Wright Stadium and spread out, sending a shock wave over the nearby structures.
No. The phone dropped from her fingers.
“Get back!”
Screams reached her ears as the destruction stretch in her direction, in classic movie-drama slow-motion. People ran down the sidewalk.
Someone inside the building let out a shriek. A hand grabbed her arm and tugged. She shook it off. The lights flickered. A wall of smoke and debris smashed into the door. The glass shattered. A jagged object made contact with the corner of her forehead. Then everything faded.
CHAPTER THREE
Twenty minutes earlier…
The least of Jordan Bening's worries was the parking ticket sitting under the wiper blade of his GMC Denali. The biggest, sat in the passenger seat, a hospital bracelet still attached to her wrist as she gazed out the window.
“Tell me what happened.” Jordan kept his voice soft. As soft as it had been for the past several months. The effort frustrated him on several levels. Mostly, because the McKenna he grew up with and married would hate that he over thought every word.
He hated it.
One delicate hand rested on the bulge of her stomach as the other held her head, her elbow resting against the window frame.
“McKenna?”
“I fainted.” She looked at him then, her face a mask of boredom. “No big deal.”
“What?” An unmanly scream bubbled at the base of his throat. He swallowed it back. “You almost fell down a flight of stairs.” She hadn't because Rupert Dillon, both the constant thorn in his side and half-brother he couldn’t get rid of, had appeared. The other man managed to catch McKenna before something tragic had happened. The scenarios left him with little patience to rely on.
“You could be nicer to Rupert.”
A muscle flinched in his jaw and the rapid pulse of it only ticked him off. “I was nice.”
“You didn’t acknowledge him at all.”
“I thanked him.” He rubbed his head, the side with an inch long scar and almost no feeling after last year’s accident. “What were you doing there, anyway?”
“It wasn’t my original destination.” A noisy huff came from between her lips. “I’m a little embarrassed. Can we just leave it at that?”
He chewed the corner of his lip and put the truck in drive, then merged into traffic. “We can pick up your car tomorrow.”
The hand on her stomach lifted into the air, a small flick of her wrist in his direction. “It’s not like I need it for anything.”
Forget little, his patience had packed up and left.
“I’m not the enemy.” His voice inched louder than ever before, but still quieter than normal. “It’s not up to me. If I had my way, you’d be at work. God knows we could use the extra bodies right now.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his mouth, leaving a kiss on her knuckles. Hoping that would be enough to settle this discussion. A Band-Aid for a wound so large, it needed surgery.
A small smile formed on her lips.
“So, tell me what happened before you fainted.”
It fell and she pulled her hand from his. “Someone was following me.”
“He said you dropped your purse.” Jordan kept his tone neutral, as he referred to the man in the cowboy hat, which McKenna had described with accurate detail. He didn’t expect any less. “That he was trying to return it.”
“I know what you
’re thinking.” She didn’t look at him, her posture rigid.
Every part of him hurt watching her battle her demons alone. Alone, because she believed he didn’t have faith in her. That he viewed her as half-crazy, like everybody else. She, better than anyone, should know how long he’d sat in that seat, after his mother’s death.
The heated edge of anger cut through his system. He tamped it down, because he couldn’t afford to lose his cool. Not now.
“This was real. I wasn’t feeling a danger that didn’t exist.”
He nodded, but didn’t tell her he’d hired a body guard that stuck to her like glue and stayed out of sight, until today. Even if he could explain why he couldn’t take chances, she wouldn’t like it.
She wasn’t the only one with lingering paranoia from the events, over half a year ago. It didn’t take a PhD in psychology to tell him that. Sure, hiring a bodyguard would help keep McKenna safe, but staring into her blue eyes—eyes that begged him to reassure her she was not in need of heavy anti-psychotic medication—he wondered who benefited more from this secret. How much damage had he done to his wife’s psyche? Would she forgive him when he told her?
A vibration filled the car, rattling his windows and jangling the keys in the ignition. McKenna’s hand shot out and gripped his forearm. “Do you feel that?”
Jordan nodded.
“Earthquake?”
“No.” The distant sound of breaking glass reached their ears as a dark cloud rolled in their direction. A horde of people tried to outrun it. Traffic came to a stop, a car several feet ahead of them screeching to a halt. Jordan stamped on the brakes and avoided rear-ending the Volvo in front of him. He threw the vehicle into park. “Get down. On the floor. Now.”
In unison, they unbuckled themselves and hunkered against the floorboards. Jordan wedged himself between the seat and dash, covering her with his body. The movement hummed through the vehicle and glass rained down on them. Smoke wafted in through the broken windows and carried the screams of others. Something heavy hit the vehicle, scraped across the hood, then smashed into the windshield.
DISCONNECT (The Bening Files Book 2) Page 2