by Kristi Lea
He set it aside and took her hand in his. So warm, so full of energy. So strong. So gentle. She didn’t want to have to pull her fingers away. Didn’t want to open the car door and heft her bag to her shoulder. Didn’t want to walk away, and not look back. Didn’t want to hear the hum of the car motor as he drove away.
Didn’t want to remember his whisper, just before she closed the car door. “Take care of yourself, Jo Lynn.”
***
The hotel lobby was nearly deserted in the pre-dawn stillness. Jessica yawned and rubbed her bare arms to warm them from the chill. He head ached and her stomach soured around the black coffee and muffin she had tried to nibble while she waited on the shuttle.
There was no sleeping last night, even with a hot shower and clean, soft sheets. The hotel room had felt empty after spending every moment of the past few days with Noah. She missed his scent, missed his warmth. Missed his smile and his presence. So solid. So protecting. And then there was the feel of his arms around her, his fingers caressing her bare flesh.
It was no use going there.
She stared out into the parking lot. Headlights flashed by on the interstate across the street, people on the way to early morning jobs or home from late night shifts.
If all went well, Jess would soon be in Paris where Charles had left another safe deposit box with more money. She could find a room to rent there or take a train somewhere else. And Lindsay would soon see the message she had left on the website from the travel agent’s computer yesterday. She would leave another once she was settled. Lindsay would help get Jess in contact with her lawyer, help her get a few assets transferred. And then Jess would be free of her old life. Free to start a new one.
A plain gray van turned into the parking lot, and Jess's heart skipped a beat. This was it. The airport shuttle. She hefted her backpack and stepped out onto the curb. The shuttle pulled to a stop a few yards back from the door, engine running, and the driver jumped out and walked around to open the passenger door.
She had to step around the man to climb in to the back seat. He stood annoyingly close to her back, smelling of diesel fuel and sweat, and her quivering stomach gave a lurch.
The interior light came on and Jess gasped as she recognized the man inside. It was one of Wilson’s goons who had tried to grab her in Tennessee, a pasty-faced man with a cruel gleam in his eye.
“Hello, beautiful. The boss still wants to talk to you.”
She stumbled backwards but was caught by the driver. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and pressed something hard to the small of her back. “Now, now. Let me help you with your bag, Mrs. Kingsbury. Don't want any accidents here.”
Chapter 18
The site of Cole's car sitting in Noah's driveway was not good. The sight of Cole, leaning on the passenger door, arms crossed and frowning, was worse.
Noah handed the cab driver a couple of twenties. The last in his wallet, with precious little still waiting in his bank account. This week's adventure in the heartland had not been kind to his finances. He opened his own door and hefted his suitcase with a small groan of pain. The adventure had not been good for his shoulder either. Or his heart.
“Nice flight?” Cole's eyes were hidden against the bright California sun by his glasses, his mouth set in a grim line.
“It didn't crash. You admiring the landscaping or what?” Noah nodded to the tiny patch of dead grass and overgrown weeds that constituted his front yard. A white plastic patio chair with a hole in the seat and a large urn with the sagging remains of a cactus graced the front porch.
Cole opened the door. “Need a ride?”
“It’s been a long trip. Mind if I take a nap first?”
“I mind.”
Noah nodded and sat, tossing his bag to the back seat. He buckled the seatbelt and rubbed his arm. It was tender, a little warm. Probably needed a fresh bandage. He hadn't bothered with it since dropping Jess off in St. Louis a little over twenty four hours ago.
Cole turned the car onto the freeway, headed downtown toward their office. “Your car was impounded in Tennessee.”
Noah shrugged. “Oops.”
“And left your phone behind in your room at Opryland.”
“You know what they say. What happens in Nashville…” Noah glanced out the window, watching as the Los Angeles skyline peeked into view above a sea of towering palm trees.
Cole stared straight ahead, looking deceptively relaxed as he drove, one-handed, through rush hour traffic. “The hotel staff in Chattanooga remembered you. And your guest. Have a girlfriend?”
Blood throbbed through Noah's veins, pulsing in his neck and pounding in his ears. “Just a fling. How's your love life these days?”
Cole shot him a look.
“Care to show off the rest of your investigative prowess? What did I have for lunch today? How many pairs of dirty socks do I have in my suitcase?”
“How did you get from Tennessee to Kansas City?” Cole shot back.
“Maybe I rented a car?”
“Did your girlfriend pay for it?”
“Who says I took her with me?”
A semi blared its horn as it cut them off, and Cole swerved to the right, throwing Noah into the center console. He grunted and rubbed at his sore shoulder again.
“Help me out, Noah. Give me one goddamned reason why I shouldn't read you your rights.”
“Why haven't you?”
Cole pulled off onto an exit ramp and pulled into the parking lot of an In-and-Out Burger. He killed the engine and let out a huff. He opened his mouth to speak. Once. Then again. “I need your testimony. Cutlass is on the take, and I think I can prove it. He has broken at least a dozen departmental procedures, and several laws. The evidence on the criminal activity is pretty sketchy so far, though your testimony would help. But your word isn't worth jack if you've been abetting a wanted criminal.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “I sure as hell didn't help Cutlass if that's what you are getting at. I'm still on medical leave from getting shot.”
“That’s not the criminal I referred to, and you know it. Which makes your crazy road trip look that much worse. We have two options here. One, I take you in front of the judge and we get an indictment. Two, I take you to internal affairs and we do a full-up investigation. I already have buy-in from them. One of their agents agrees that we might have a much bigger case on our hands than just a government employee accepting kickbacks.”
With Cutlass out of the picture, maybe the heat would come off of Jess. Or, it might shine the spotlight more squarely on his own part in the mess. Still, Cole hadn't accused him of anything. Yet. Cole was a good agent. A fair agent. Noah trusted him to do the right thing. So, he would level with the guy. To a point.
“I bought a car with cash. Sold it in Kansas City. I made a profit on the deal, actually. Enough to pay for my plane ticket home. I can get you the name of the dealerships if you care.”
Cole nodded. “You know how this all looks, don't you? It’s not exactly painting the picture of a stable, reliable federal agent. You know the kind of gossip Cutlass has already spread.”
Noah clenched his jaw. He knew. “I'm not my father.”
Cole lowered his voice. “From what I hear, your father died deep undercover, saving the life of a woman whose only crime was falling in with the wrong guy.”
“Who told you that story? Mother Goose?”
With a shrug, Cole continued. “No one told me that. Officially. Look, man, you know there is a lot more that happens than what the official press releases will tell you. Behind every tidy little investigation is a huge pile of crap. And some of it doesn't make us feds look too good.”
Noah stared out the window. Cars lined up in the drive through, ordering greasy sacks of tacos and sodas, fried pies and shakes. The thought of all that grease turned his stomach almost as much as the thought of a crooked agent. He phrased his next words very carefully. “What does your contact in internal affairs think about Cutlass' wedding pictur
e?”
A muscle in Cole’s jaw clenched. “That is where I was hoping you could help me out. So far, that picture is just a complication. A high-ranking cheerleader for Team Cutlass, you know?”
“Yeah. What if I get you evidence that this thing is far worse than just an agent on the take? What if, instead of cheerleader, we're talking ring leader?”
“What are you saying?” Cole took off his sunglasses.
Noah turned back to face his partner. “I am saying we should be talking to more than internal affairs. I think we need to get the CIA in on this.”
***
Jess shivered in the dampness of the hunting cabin where she'd been taken. She wasn't sure exactly where, though the rolling hills and towering pines reminded her of the Appalachians where she'd grown up. Still, it could have been the Ozarks or the foothills of the Rockies for all she knew. She'd worn a blindfold for the entire multi-hour ride in the back of the van.
The cabin was upscale, with polished wood floors and sweet cedar paneling, and a view of the treetops that normally would have sent her scrambling for her paintbrushes.
She stood and paced, again, rubbing her upper arms with fingers so frigid they chilled her even more. Her stomach gave a weak protest of hunger, and her tongue was thick with thirst. She thought about pounding on the locked bedroom door, demanding food.
She didn’t dare. She had only caught the barest glimpse of him when she was led into the house. He hovered in the hallway, watching her with eyes like daggers.
Arturo Castillo. A Cuban immigrant with a taste for fine food, a quick wit, expressive chocolate brown eyes, and the lithe body of a dancer. His type was typical among the ubiquitous waiters and catering staff of Hollywood—oozing good looks and charm, looking for a big break, and willing to sleep with whoever offered him one.
It was at one of Charles' gentlemen-only poker parties where Senator Wilson had met Arturo. Charles had provided the guest room for their trysts. And recorded every minute of them. Every moan, every groan. Every snippet of pillow talk.
The doorknob rattled.
Heart thumping wildly in her already parched throat, Jess bolted for the only defensible spot in the room—in the corner behind the now opening door. She had no weapon. The bed was made out of solid pine logs so heavy she couldn't budge it. No lamps, no sheets, no pictures on the wall—any furnishings that could have come to her defense had been removed.
Hard, clanking footsteps rattled down the hall way. They were too sharp to be the heavy boots of the van driver, too heavy to be Arturo's deft steps. High heels.
“Don't bother trying anything. My men are in the hallway and you are unarmed.” The voice was crisp, authoritative. Feminine. Tallie Wilson.
Jess stepped around the now open door into the ray of light cast by the hall where she could be seen.
“Surprised to see me?” The older woman smirked. She wore a power suit, the conservative, expensive uniform of DC wives. At her neck was a string of pearls, her hair wound into a neat chignon. She looked rich and powerful, utterly comfortable wearing clothes that cost more than a month's earnings for a lowly school counselor.
Jess shrugged, trying to hide her confusion. “A little.”
Tallie raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Don't be, and let’s make this quick before one of my husband's staffers finds me here. This...” she gestured around the room, “might be awkward to explain.”
“Not really my problem.”
“It doesn't have to be.”
Jess walked over to the bed and sat. In the hall, she saw the edge of a shadow. Arturo, maybe, or the other goon. “I don't understand. Really I don't. After all you went through...all we did. Why are you here. With him?”
The woman laughed, a forced laugh. Full of bitterness and rancor. “All we did? How dare you.”
Jessica recoiled at the utter hatred that flashed through her eyes.
“All you did was nearly ruin everything for me. My husband is this close to the top. He is campaigning tonight. Oil industry. Deep pockets, but the state of Texas has some pretty traditional family values. One whiff of a scandal and they are gone.”
Jess shook her head, breaking the eye contact. Once upon a time she had trusted Tallie Wilson. She was one of the few teachers who had encouraged her to study art. The one who had not written Jessica off as another low-class screw up. That was before Tallie had met and married Senator Wilson and given up her job in education. Before the silk suits and the manicures and the cocktail parties and junkets.
Jess had seen the wedding pictures in the paper, long after she had taken off for LA. Seeing her old mentor's dreams coming true had given Jess hope. Hope enough to leave the abusive agent-slash-boyfriend who tried to sell her body as well as her picture. Hope enough to give her confidence that she could succeed. To make her life better.
When she realized that Tallie’s fairy tale marriage was in trouble because of something that her own Charles had helped arrange, Jessica had felt so guilty. Then Tallie came to her begging for her help in covering up her husband's philandering, Jessica had been grateful to sacrifice her own image to help. A few well-staged photos and a tearful public apology on his part had salvaged his political career. And destroyed Jessica's own fledgling reputation as a reformed bad girl.
“What does this have to do with me?”
Tallie sneered. “As if you didn't know. Tell me where the necklace is.”
Jess opened her mouth and then closed it. She had given the counterfeit to Tallie after the scandal. It had the same kind of hidden storage device as her stolen jewels. The same lack of traceability. Most criminals got caught because they sent incriminating data through the internet, where it could be traced. Charles had insisted they do the couriering the old fashioned way. By hand. “Why give it back to me if you are going to hunt me down for it?”
“Not that necklace. The other one. The real one.”
Jess just stared at the woman. Hadn't she seen the news? What kind of twisted game was this? “It was stolen from my house.”
“That is the biggest pile of cow shit I have ever heard. You listen here, Jo Lynn.” Tallie reached into a pocket inside her suit jacket and drew out a small pistol. She flipped the safety and aimed it at Jess's head. “I need that necklace. Tonight. Or I will scatter your remains in the mountains where no one will ever find them.”
Jessica's mouth went dry and her knees went shaky. She willed them to stay still, not to spook the woman with the gun. Tallie's eyes were hard, cold. Dead serious. And worse, they looked completely sane. She searched frantically for something she could say to stop the woman from killing her. Anything. Apparently the truth wasn't going to work. “I...I...”
“Better make this good.”
Jess faced the reality of her death. Her fortune was gone. Her reputation in tatters. One of the few women she had once counted as a friend, one that she had looked up to, had a gun aimed at her head. She would die alone in a remote cabin in the mountains she spent her entire life trying to forget. No one would save her now. She only had one hope. Jess took a shaky breath. “I gave them to the FBI Agent. To Noah Grayson.”
Tallie's arm quavered and a mask of desperation crossed her face. “You what?”
Jess tried to step back, but she was already pinned against the paneled oak wall. She stared straight into the barrel of the gun as she spoke. “I turned them over to the FBI. I swear to you. He offered me protective custody in exchange for information. I refused and tried to leave the country on my own. To safety. Guess I should have accepted their protection.”
The gun moved closer to her, approaching like a tunnel, the bullets inside like a freight train, and Jess was strapped to the tracks like some cartoon victim.
“Well, isn't this a pickle.” Tallie laced her words heavily with her affected Southern Belle accent. “I guess we need to pay a visit to your boy toy. You better hope he has your diamonds.”
Chapter 19
Noah and Cole watched as the compute
r screen filled with numbers. Ones and zeros scrolled up and off and into oblivion for several seconds, and slowly were replaced with colored pixels. Within a few seconds the smirking face of Charles Kingsbury began to take shape, dot by dot.
It was a photo that Noah recognized from the Kingsbury files. The man wore khaki pants, a navy sport jacket and a red ascot, the very caricature of a rich man of leisure. He posed in front of the gates of his Hollywood home. It had been the cover shot of an expose from people magazine a year or two before he married Jessica.
Noah wanted to hate the man. Ever since getting assigned the case, he had built up a mental picture of an arrogant, abusive, controlling older man. A ruthless criminal who preyed on the young and vulnerable model. But to hear Jessica defend him, to see the obvious affection she had for her late husband, and the honest depths of her mourning...
All he could summon now was a pitiful form of jealousy for a dead rival.
Cole crossed arms over his chest and frowned as the CIA security expert clicked away at the keyboard. “What does it mean?”
The woman at the keyboard pushed thick glasses up on her nose and turned to consider the two agents with a frankly analytical gaze. Her long gray-brown hair was pulled into a plain ponytail, and a loose-fitting t-shirt covered a forgettable figure. If it weren't for the systematic way she seemed to silently catalog the two men, he would have mistaken Agent Sally Jones for a plain-faced secretary. “It means that we are still working on cracking the code.”
“I thought your message said you had cracked the password.”
She narrowed her eyes at Noah. “I said that I had cracked a password. This is a typical layered encryption scheme. With each distinct password we discover, we find a different piece of encrypted data.”
“How many are there?” asked Cole.
She shrugged. “There is no way of knowing for sure without asking the person who created it. The hard part is to avoid the booby traps.”