“Of course,” Matt said.
Shane nodded. “Yes, certainly.”
“Will the trial be here, or in New York?” Matt asked.
“Both,” the agent said. “New York for conspiracy connected to the Ripley case, New Mexico for the assault and related charges, after we track Winger down.”
“Winger?” Matt said.
“Doug Galvin’s real name is Henry Douglas Winger,” the agent said. “Alias Hank Winston, Harlan Westwood, Douglas Granger and numerous others.”
Matt stared at him, frowning. “So you knew about this guy?”
“He’s been on our radar for some time.”
“On your radar?” Matt’s skin crawled and his body went tense, but he held himself very still and kept his voice low and even. “If you knew about him, why didn’t you warn Shane?”
“We had no way of knowing he’d go after Ms. Malone,” the agent said, “or that he had a partner.”
Matt’s hands clenched into fists. With a conscious effort, he kept them down at his sides. He felt like a rocket ready to launch, and all that energy was directed at this man in the black suit standing in front of him. He wanted, more than anything, to knock that smug smile off his face. He took a deep, steadying breath.
“But you knew he was Ray Ripley’s cellmate,” Matt said, still in that same, deadly calm voice. “You knew he was in Phoenix, cozying up to Shane’s grandmother. You had to know he was going after the money.”
Agent Winwood dropped his gaze to his feet. When he looked up again, his features were even more shuttered than usual. “I’ve told you all I’m at liberty to say, Mr. Brennan. You’re both free to go now, but, as I said, keep yourselves available.”
Matt watched Shane take a step toward Winwood and glare up at him. She was trembling, and the sight made his anger spike even higher.
“You knew that man was conning my grandmother,” Shane said to Winwood. “You knew he was making her fall in love with him so he could get to me. All this time, you knew?”
“As I’ve tried to make clear, that’s privileged information, Ms. Malone.”
Matt knew he was in real danger of losing control; he clamped down tighter. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You used Shane as bait. You stood back and waited for her to walk into his trap. Did you know Jordan was alive, too?”
Winwood looked pointedly at Matt’s clenched fists, then stared into his eyes, his expression cold and calculating. “Am I going to have to arrest you, Mr. Brennan? Threatening an FBI agent is a federal offense.”
“Matt, don’t,” Shane said, her voice ragged and raw. “It’s not worth it.”
After a moment, Matt consciously relaxed his fists, then put his arm around Shane again, pulling her against his side. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
As they walked out the door, Winwood called after them. “For the record, we didn’t know Jordan Ripley was alive, or we’d have kept a much closer eye on Winger. We’re on the same side, you know,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” Matt muttered under his breath. It was all he could do not to go back and deck the guy.
When they got back to the house, it was nearly surrounded by black SUVs. Yellow tape was strung everywhere and crime scene investigators swarmed like bees. They wouldn’t let Matt park next to the house, so they left Big Red at the bottom of the driveway and walked up the hill to the studio.
After he fixed Shane a cup of herbal tea and made her promise to rest for a while, Matt went to find the agent in charge of the CSI team. He ran a gauntlet of questions, showed his identification several times, asked a few questions of his own, and finally found who he was looking for outside the kitchen door—a tall, balding man with stooped shoulders.
“Agent Sheffield?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“Matt Brennan.”
“Ah. The second victim. You’ll have to run any questions by Special Agent Winwood.”
“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” Matt said. “But this one is for you. I heard there were news choppers here earlier.”
“That’s right,” Sheffield told him. “We chased them away. A bunch of yahoos with telephoto lenses, too.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “We appreciate that.”
“No problem. Can’t guarantee they won’t be back once we’re finished here.”
“I know. How long will that be?”
“Maybe a couple of days.”
“And then we can move back in?”
“Yeah, once we’ve released the scene, it’s all yours.”
Matt looked into the kitchen through the open door. Little yellow plastic tents littered the floor and counters. He knew what they were; everybody who watched television knew evidence markers when they saw them.
“What about cleanup?” he said.
“Sorry, Mr. Brennan,” the agent said, “that’s up to you. And I kind of doubt there are professional crime-scene cleaners out here in the boondocks.”
“No,” Matt said, “you’re probably right about that. That’s okay. I’ve got it covered.” He’d call around until he found someone to do the job. He wasn’t about to let Shane walk into her house until it was cleaned up. If he had to, he’d do it himself.
“Thanks, Agent Sheffield,” he said.
The agent gave him a sketchy salute and bent down to study something on the ground.
On his way back to the studio, Matt saw Shane’s peacocks up on the roof and the two cats huddled together in the corner between the main house and the patio. He was more of a dog person, but they looked so scared and lonely he took pity on them.
“Hey,” he said, crouching down and trying to appear as friendly as possible. “Hey, you guys. Want to see Shane?” They just stared at him with their big eyes. He looked around for something to tempt them with and saw the food bowls on the patio and the small cupboard attached to the wall above them. He opened the cupboard. Inside were several cans of cat food with pop-tops. He took one out and opened it, held it out to the cats.
“Are you hungry?” He waved the can at the cats. “Come on, I’ll bet you’re starving.”
First the fluffy gray one, and then the sleek black one, crept out from the corner and advanced slowly toward the smell and sight of food. Matt held the can out in front of him and walked backwards toward the studio. He was almost there, the cats trailing him, when he heard the door slide open.
“Fiona, Furball,” Shane said, “how could I have forgotten you? Come on in, my beauties.”
Both cats streaked past him, and Matt turned to see them twining around Shane’s ankles, purring so hard he could hear them from where he stood.
Shane looked up at Matt and smiled. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. “Thanks,” she said. “I was just about to come out and look for them. Have you seen Fred and Ethel?”
Matt frowned. “Fred and Ethel?”
Shane laughed at the puzzled look on his face. “The peacock and peahen.”
“Oh. You had me going there. I thought you were losing it. Yeah, they’re on the roof. They look okay.”
“Good,” Shane said. “Now, come in here and hold me.”
He walked into the studio, slid the glass door shut behind them and pulled the drapes, closing out the rest of the world.
THIRTY-SEVEN
In the outer reaches of the long-term parking lot at Albuquerque International Sunport, a team of FBI agents swarmed over a black HumVee. The hulking SUV was splashed with dried mud, the plates half-obscured by it. Bits of brush and cactus clung to the undercarriage.
The agent in charge leaned into the cab. “Looks like it’s been wiped clean,” she said. “Even the floor mats have been vacuumed.”
She backed out of the Hummer and addressed her team of four. “Let’s get this processed fast, all right? We’ll need the surveillance footage, the passenger logs, and—”
She broke off at the approach of an overweight couple in garish Hawaiian shirts draped with wilting orchid leis. Both
of them were pulling huge, wheeled suitcases. The agent held out a staying hand, but it didn’t have the desired effect.
The man let go of his suitcase and walked right up to them, fists on his bulging hips. “Hey,” he said, his voice loud, nasal, obnoxious. “What’s going on here? Where the hell is my Lexus?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Shane spent the next two days weaving and sleeping. Matt insisted on making all their meals and cleaning up afterwards. Shane had never felt so pampered in her life, even when she was the stepdaughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country. Then, everything had been done for her out of duty. Matt took care of her out of love. There was a world of difference, and she felt it sink into her soul, his care, his love.
Her weavings were turning out beautifully, and she knew it was because Matt’s love was filling her up, flowing through her, imbuing her hands with a kind of magic.
On Tuesday morning, after breakfast, Matt walked up his hill to survey the damage. Shane offered to come with him, but he said no, she should stay in the studio and weave. He didn’t want her to see the trap Jordan had set for him, how close he’d come to being burned alive.
The ruins of his house still reeked of gasoline. The straw bales were mostly intact, but he would have to replace them all anyway. Even where they were barely burned, gasoline had soaked the outer layers. All that work for nothing. Weeks of hard effort, thousands of dollars in materials, down the drain.
Matt stared at the scorched hilltop and forced his anger down and away. Anger wouldn’t rebuild his house. Shane was safe, and they were together. Jordan had failed, and now he was dead. The thought that Winger was out there somewhere still filled him with frustration, but he tried to let it go. For Shane’s sake, he had to focus on the future. Their future.
The bales Jordan had arranged as a deadly trap for him sat, charred and hulking, in front of the blackened outline of his house. All at once a fiery rage overwhelmed him and he kicked savagely at the bales until they were nothing but a heap of half-burned straw.
When he finally turned away, panting with spent rage, he saw a FedEx truck at the top of the access road. The driver got out and looked down the hill toward Shane’s house, which was still surrounded by yellow tape and overrun with FBI agents. He watched the driver start to climb back into his truck. Matt put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long, shrill whistle, waving his other hand in the air. The driver looked up and saw him, waved back. Matt started down the hill at a fast walk.
A little while later he carried two FedEx boxes into Shane’s studio, one small and one large. She looked up from her weaving and smiled at him.
“The phones are here,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “What’s in the big box?”
“I asked Jenna to send me some clothes from my apartment.” He put the small box on the kitchen counter and the large one in the closet. “We won’t need Walmart after all.”
Shane didn’t respond and he looked up to find her focused once again on the loom in front of her. Matt loved watching her work. He recalled the first time he’d seen her in her studio: the Zen-like concentration, the flowing, balletic precision of her hands. It seemed impossible that it was only a few days ago. So much had happened since then, it felt like a lifetime.
He watched her for a few more minutes, then turned to the task at hand. He opened the package that contained the satellite phones, went through the set-up procedure and made sure their new numbers were unlisted. Then he stepped outside, went online and looked up cleaning services in Silver City. He was about to start calling them when he thought about what might happen if he let strangers into Shane’s house. What if they were approached by the media? What if they took pictures and sold them to the highest bidder?
No, he couldn’t risk it. He’d have to do the cleanup himself. He wouldn’t tell Shane, because he knew she’d insist on helping, and there was no way he’d let her see that gory mess again. He’d keep his mouth shut and get it done. It was the least he could do for her. As soon as the feds let him back in the house, he’d check the cleaning supplies and get started.
Before he went back into the studio, he left a voicemail for Jenna, giving her their new numbers and letting her know his clothes had arrived.
On Wednesday morning, just before noon, Agent Sheffield knocked on the sliding glass door of Shane’s studio. Matt stepped outside and saw the CSI crew pulling down the yellow tape.
“We’re done here,” Sheffield said. “You can have your house back.”
“Good,” Matt said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
He ducked his head inside and told Shane he’d be back later. Engrossed in her work, she nodded without looking up. Matt whistled a cheerful tune as he crunched along the gravel path to the main house, watching the last black vehicle drive away.
The first thing that hit him when he opened the kitchen door was the earthy stench of dried blood. He stepped inside and started looking for cleaning supplies. He found a broom and mop, floor and glass cleaners, a gallon of bleach and a stack of rags. Then he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
A couple of hours later, when his stomach started growling, Matt cleaned himself up and walked back to the studio. When he slid the door open, Shane looked up at him and smiled. The dark circles under her eyes were less pronounced, but she still looked tired.
“You’ve been gone a while,” she said.
“Yeah, I, uh, went for a walk.” He hated to lie to her, but he didn’t want her in that house until he was finished, and he knew she’d insist on helping him. He watched her fist her hands in the small of her back, stretch and yawn.
“Looks like somebody needs a nap,” he said.
Shane laughed. “Yeah, I am a little tired.”
“You should lie down and rest for an hour or so,” he said. Then he looked at the new weavings on their looms. “You’re making good progress.”
Shane followed his gaze, studying her work from a distance. “When these three are finished I’ll have the four new pieces I promised Beth,” she said. “I was hoping to do a couple more, but I’m not sure I can manage that by Friday.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Matt said, going to her, surrounding her with his arms, gathering her in. “Beth said a dozen was enough. Let it be enough.”
She laid her head on his chest and sighed. “All right,” she said. “Whatever you say.” Then she tilted her head back and looked up at him. “But don’t expect me to always be so agreeable.”
He smiled into her beautiful blue eyes. “You can be as disagreeable as you want,” he said, “as long as you don’t run yourself into the ground. Hungry?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I was waiting for my personal chef. He’s spoiling me.”
After lunch, when Shane had fallen asleep on the sofa, Matt left her a note saying he was going to supervise work on the bridge, which was true, as far as it went. He checked on the progress at the bridge, and then he headed back up to the house.
The sun was going down when Matt closed the kitchen door on a clean house. The only lingering aroma was that of the pine-scented cleaner, which he’d used again at the end to get rid of the bleach smell. He left all the windows open to the fresh evening air and went to get Shane.
She was standing in front of the largest weaving when he slid the door open. Her arms were crossed and she was studying her handiwork through squinted eyes. He went to stand behind her, put his arms around her. She leaned back into him, sighing as she gave him her weight.
“I’m exhausted,” she said, “but this one’s done.”
He nuzzled her neck. “Gorgeous,” he said, “absolutely beautiful.”
She turned her head toward him, found his lips and kissed him. “You’re not even looking at it,” she said.
“I am too,” he said, looking into her eyes.
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
Shane laughed and turned fully into his arms.
“Hey,” Matt said,
planting a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“You do? Is it something good for dinner?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s only part of it. Come with me.” He took her hand and led her toward the door.
“What is it?” she asked. “I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one, trust me.”
Outside, Shane looked around in shock. “They’re gone!” she said. “When did they leave?”
“Just before noon,” Matt said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” He pulled her along the gravel path. She dragged at his hand.
“But what about the house?” she said. “I don’t want to see—” She stopped. “Matt, what did you do?”
He turned and shook his head at her. “Now, don’t spoil it. Just come on.”
Shane followed him to the kitchen door, hardly daring to believe what she was beginning to suspect.
“Close your eyes,” Matt said.
She closed eyes and let him lead her into the kitchen. The pine scent that greeted her was the sweetest thing she’d ever smelled.
“You can open your eyes now,” Matt said.
Shane opened her eyes and gazed in astonishment at her sparkling kitchen. The tile floor and counters were spotless, the broken chair removed from sight. The table was set with her best silver, the crystal wine glasses, her mother’s white-lace tablecloth. Her crystal decanter was there, too, filled with dark red wine and flanked by the silver candlesticks she rarely used. Tall white tapers she’d forgotten she had awaited lighting.
He’d thought of everything.
A smile stole over her face and kept getting bigger as she walked through the kitchen into the living room, where every tiny shard of shattered geode had disappeared. She could see vacuum marks on the hearth rug, and he’d even fluffed the throw pillows. Her eyes welled with tears. He’d done all this for her, in the space of a few hours. He’d cleaned her house.
“Oh, Matt,” she said, “you couldn’t have given me a better gift than this. Thank you. Thank you.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him.
Shattered Blue: A Romantic Thriller Page 24