Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  “Of course.”

  “I put that gun to my head because I want to die, and I needed to feel the cold barrel of that pistol on my skin. But first, I emptied the magazine to be sure I wouldn’t do it. It’s not a matter of working up the nerve. It’s a matter of needing to live more than I want to die. I’ve got a reason to stick around.”

  Her throat went dry. He’d admitted he wanted to die. His voice, his mannerisms were convincing. He just might be telling the truth about having a reason to live. “Better make it a good one if you’re going to convince me. I’m not going to be fooled by bullshit.”

  “Okay, how’s this? I’m not checking out until I find the fucker who killed my wife.”

  He had to be telling the truth. The hard look of determination in his eyes. The rage in his voice when he spit out the word fucker. Hate was a terrible way to overcome despair. But if hatred for his wife’s murderer kept him alive, she’d take it. At least he had a purpose in life. And she knew from experience, if he could only get through this moment in time, his heart could begin to heal. It would be a long process, but he’d be past the most dangerous part. This wasn’t depression—­it was grief, and he had every reason to be despondent.

  A half smile crept across his face. “I can see the phone in the pocket of your robe, but you haven’t called 911 yet. I think you might believe me—­when I say I love my wife, and that I intend to bring down her killer. Or do you think I killed her, too?”

  “Too?”

  “Spense isn’t convinced of my innocence.”

  There was simply no point in lying. Dutch could see through her falsehoods as easily as she could see through his. “Maybe he’s not sure. But he wants to believe you’re innocent, and he’ll do anything he can to help find the killer.”

  Dutch turned his head aside, staring out the window. “Spense doesn’t much like me.”

  “You haven’t given him a reason to. Most of the time, you act standoffish with him, and the rest of the time you’re downright rude.” She took in Dutch’s profile, letting her gaze flow from his face, to his shoulders, down his body. His pajama leg was pushed above his ankle. A shiver ran down her spine, and she sat up straighter. Like Spense, Dutch had a distinctively shaped birthmark on his right ankle, centered directly above the lateral malleolus.

  There was no question in her mind at all. Not since she’d first entered the library and seen Dutch sitting in the dark like a black-­and-­white photo. Why he’d always seemed so familiar—­it had all come to her in that moment. She just hadn’t had time to deal with it, what with him holding a gun to his head. She didn’t know how she’d missed it before, back in Hollywood, but once she’d noticed the resemblance, there was no unnoticing it. It was like one of those optical illusions where you can’t see the picture hidden among the dots . . . until you do.

  “Since we’re being honest, since you’re asking me to trust you, I’d like you to answer a question. You told me earlier, back at the mansion that you’d tell me anything I wanted to know.”

  “Are we done with the hospital nonsense?”

  “It’s not nonsense, but for now, yes. You’ve convinced me you’re not going to kill yourself the minute I turn my back.”

  “Okay then, ask me anything.”

  “How are you related to Spense?”

  He poured himself another shot of whiskey, swirled it in the glass. She wondered if he would keep his word or pretend not to understand her meaning.

  He tossed back the whiskey, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and looked her dead in the eyes. “By three months, I’m his older brother.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, October 17

  2:20 A.M.

  Denton, Texas

  NOTHING LIKE A narrow escape to work up an appetite. Malachi hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-­four hours, so he stopped at a Denny’s off the 35. Besides, he wasn’t eager to report back to his employer that he’d not only failed to get the diary, he’d very nearly been caught by that FBI hotshot. But there was really no reason to check in with the Hawk until he had the goods. He’d been given the green light to handle things his own way, and that’s just what he planned to do.

  He liked the server who’d taken his order, a tired-­looking thing with wiry gray hairs sprouting out of her bun. She reminded him of his mother, who used to work at Denny’s, too. When he looked up to find a new waitress, standing pink and sweaty-­faced with a steaming plate in her hands, he stuck out his lower lip. “Where’s Coleen?”

  “I swapped tables with her. Here’s your Moons over My Hammy and tomato juice.” She set the food in front of him and leaned one hip against the table. “That’s nice you took notice of her name.” She covered the name tag on her uniform with one hand. Sugar. “Did you catch mine?”

  “No,” he lied. Sugar seemed more interested in flirting than going about her duties. That was okay, but he was starved and wanted to dive into his breakfast.

  “They call me Sugar on account of I’m a sweet one.” She popped her hand off the tag and leaned forward, pushing her cleavage in his face. “See there. For real.”

  Something stirred down below, and he decided he could eat and hold court at the same time. “Cute.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took a big bite of his sandwich and burned the roof of his mouth. To soothe the pain, he grabbed his juice and swished a bit before swallowing.

  “You from around here?” Sugar asked.

  “Argyle,” he answered between bites.

  “My brother’s got a pig farm there. Maybe you know him?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Sugar swatted his arm with her apron. “I haven’t even told you his name.”

  “I’m not acquainted with any pig farmers.” He rubbed himself beneath his napkin until he turned hard. “You got a coffee break or something, soon?”

  “I believe I do.”

  He leaned in, straining to hear, and disappointment set in. He should’ve known. Broken washing machine—­that’s all she was. Hardly worth the trouble. His erection deflated fast. “I’ll take the check.”

  “You scarfed that down.” She leaned in again, and he could smell a sweet perfume, mixed in with the grease.

  But his interest had waned. And he had work to do before he slept. He had to map out his next moves. He still didn’t have the diary. And there was a bigger problem: Nobody was allowed to see his face and live. The good news was he was looking forward to eliminating that problem—­one Atticus Spenser.

  “I can take my break now if you want.”

  “No thanks. Gotta run.”

  Sugar wasn’t special, but earlier tonight, inside that big house, he’d heard a sound he’d been craving for a long time.

  Humming.

  He’d stumbled upon a soul, and judging from the echoes ringing through that house, there might be more than one. His knees knocked furiously against the tabletop. He could hardly wait for the harvest.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday, October 17

  2:25 A.M.

  Preston Hollow, Texas

  CAITLIN’S CHIN SNAPPED back like Dutch had dealt her a physical blow. It wasn’t that it was such a surprise. It was more that she’d been desperately hoping, for Spense’s sake, that Dutch would say cousin. In her heart, though, she’d already known. Spense and Dutch were too much alike to be semidistant relations. She’d never seen cousins with matching birthmarks—­that was rare enough in siblings, or parent and child. And their height, their builds, their iron wills . . . even their facial features, minus the coloring, were practically identical.

  Dutch wheeled his chair back from the desk. “I’ll get you your own glass. I’m sure you could use another drink, and forgive me, but I’m tired of sharing.”

  Since she didn’t have to drive him to the ER at this point . . . “Why the hell not?” She
forced a smile, and he left the room.

  She didn’t want to think about the impact this revelation was going to have on Spense. His father had died suddenly when he was only eight years old, and he’d idolized his dad—­tried to emulate him every way he could. From his obsession with Rubik’s cubes right down to the Old Spice aftershave he wore, Spense was all about trying to follow in his father’s footsteps. Trying to become the man his father would want him to be. To compose herself, she organized her thoughts and turned her attention to the mechanics of what she’d just learned. How could Dutch be Spense’s older brother?

  Dutch returned, filled both their glasses almost to the top with straight whiskey, then resumed his place across from her at the desk.

  She held the glass of amber liquid up to the lamp, gazing through it, as though it were a crystal ball, wondering how Spense would take the news. She should go easy with this stuff. The world had just tilted on its axis, and the last thing she needed was for her head to start spinning, too. Gingerly, she took a sip, and the potion went down smoothly, relaxing the muscles in her tight throat and warming her cheeks. She resisted the temptation to gulp the rest. “I’ve been doing the math.”

  “And.”

  “You and Spense are three months apart, so obviously, you’re his half brother. Your red hair and blue eyes, and your last name, all came from your mother. She’s the Dutch one?”

  “Yolanda immigrated from Holland when she was sixteen.”

  “So your father, Jack Spenser . . .”

  “Began an affair with her about one year before I was born. She said he was going through some kind of rough patch in his marriage at the time—­he told her he planned to leave his wife. I knew something was wrong from a young age—­but it wasn’t until around first grade that I started asking the tough questions—­like why didn’t my dad live with us? Why didn’t we ever go to the park, or out to dinner when he was around? And the one I asked the most: Who was that other little boy who got to go fishing with my father? Jack’s wallet was loaded with photos of him and his son—­his legitimate son.”

  “That must’ve been incredibly hard on you.” But her mind was already turning back to Spense and to how hard it was about to be on him.

  “It was how I grew up, so it seemed normal at first. But once I started school and began hanging around at other kids’ houses, I found my own home life confusing. That’s when Mom decided to break things off with Jack. They split up for a few months. He even packed up his real family and left the state. He never moved back to Dallas, but the split didn’t last. They continued to see each other long-­distance, until he had the heart attack—­probably the strain of living a double life that killed him.” He tossed back more booze. “My mother didn’t dare go to his funeral. She’s the one who had it rough. I might’ve been saddled with a Jack-­ass for a father”—­he smirked as if pleased with his pun—­“but at least I had a loving mother.”

  The whiskey was calling her name. With effort, she ignored its pull. “I think we should table the rest of this discussion until Spense can be in on it. I don’t feel right hearing the details before he does. In fact, I think the two of you should talk privately. I feel like I’m intruding on a very personal moment.”

  “You didn’t mind intruding on a very personal moment when I had a gun to my head.” Dutch slapped his tumbler on the desk, and the whiskey sloshed out, sending a sticky-­sweet smell into the air. “And I’m not going to tell Spense.”

  Pondering the best approach to take, she dipped her finger into her glass, then let a drop of honeyed liquor fall onto her tongue. Like Spense, Dutch was hardheaded. Maybe she could circumvent his defenses by changing the subject and bring him back on point later. Lull him into believing she’d go along with his plan, wait for him to let his guard down, then tell him no way in hell. She wasn’t keeping any secrets from Spense. “Like I said earlier, you seem like you don’t want me and Spense around.”

  “No offense, but you got that right.”

  “So why ask us to come out here in the first place?”

  “At the time, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Jim—­”

  “Jim Edison?”

  “Yeah. Jim said he thought I should have someone on my side when the cops started in on me. And I wasn’t playing out all the possible scenarios in my head then, like I’m doing now. I was confused, so I said okay.”

  “But why ask for us?”

  “I wish to God that I hadn’t. Jim thought it was a terrible idea to bring Spense into this. He was adamant I choose someone else. In fact, he offered to step in as my advocate himself, in addition to his duties as SAC.”

  Spense had told her that Jim Edison had been his father’s best friend, and that he’d recruited both Spense and Dutch into the Bureau. Her jaw went slack. Understanding struck lightning fast and probably would’ve knocked her to the ground had she not been sitting safely in a chair. “Jim Edison knows you’re brothers, doesn’t he?”

  “After our father died, he vowed to take care of both Spense and me. He was there for me when I needed him . . . I got into a tight spot with the Bureau awhile back, but we needn’t go into that here. The point is he has my back, and Spense’s, too.”

  Dutch must be referring to that dark history she’d overheard Spense discussing with Edison on the phone, before they arrived in Dallas. Her curiosity was more than piqued by this mysterious incident that no one wanted to talk about. But she didn’t press the matter.

  “If Jim thought it was such a terrible idea, why did you insist that Spense and I be the ones to act as your advocates?”

  “First of all, I figured if anyone would give me the benefit of the doubt, it would be you. Because of your father, I knew you wouldn’t rush to judgment.”

  He’d figured right. She couldn’t help drawing the comparison between his circumstance and her father’s, no matter how hard she tried not to. Her dreams were still filled with desperate images of her father being led into the death chamber in shackles. Sometimes she still woke with her sheets drenched in sweat and her face streaked with tears. In her heart, she believed in Dutch’s innocence. The idea of his being tried for Cindy’s murder, in Texas, where the death penalty was no empty threat, knocked the wind out of her.

  “Okay, I see why you’d request my help. But why Spense? You two don’t exactly get along, and you say Jim, your mentor, was dead set against it.”

  Dutch picked up the framed photo that rested facedown and turned it over. It was of Cindy in a white sundress, her auburn hair flowing in the wind, a basket of flowers on her arm, and a wide, happy smile on her face. Must’ve been taken early on in their marriage.

  He turned the picture facedown on the desk again. “I have no one left, except my mother, and I don’t want to drag her into this. She’s been through enough in her life.” His gaze fell on the pistol.

  Caitlin had almost forgotten that the gun was still there on the desk. Her pulse quickened in her throat. She understood what it was like to be in a dark place. Her mind went back to her eighteenth birthday—­the day her father was executed. She remembered, in a very visceral way, not wanting to wake up the next morning.

  “After my father died, I didn’t know how to get through even one more day without him.” She drew in a long breath. “I’ve never told anyone this before, but I had a revolver. My mother bought it during my father’s trial for protection. A lot of ­people hated my family back then.”

  Dutch’s hand was inching for the pistol.

  She forced herself to continue. “I took the gun into my bedroom, and I locked the door. I turned it over and over in my hands, wanting to make the pain go away. Finally, I raised it up, but just as I brought it near my head, I heard my father’s voice in my ear whispering hold tight, Caity.” She reached out and covered Dutch’s hand with her own. “I couldn’t do it. Not when I knew my father would’ve given anything for the chance to see one m
ore sunrise.”

  Dutch tugged his hand away. It seemed hard for him to accept even a small kindness. Maybe he thought he didn’t deserve it.

  “Hold tight, Dutch. And don’t forget, you have a brother.”

  “Half brother.” He looked up. “One who can hardly stand to be in the same room with me. Jim was right. I should’ve never dragged Spense into this.” His voice cracked midsentence. “It’s just that for one crazy second, I thought maybe he and I could be . . .”

  “A family?”

  He ripped his gaze away from hers. “We may be blood relations, but Spense and I are hardly family.”

  “You haven’t given him a chance. And no matter what, you have to tell him the truth.” She swept her hand over her eyes, not wanting any tears to fall. She needed her strength at a moment like this.

  “No. We can’t tell him.”

  “I won’t keep it from him. It’s not right.”

  After scrutinizing her forever, he said. “You’ll keep this secret.” Resting his elbows on the desk, he pressed closer, searching her face. “Because you care too much about Spense not to. Don’t try to pretend you don’t have a thing for him. You never would’ve noticed the similarities between us if you weren’t so attuned to my little brother. You’re a connoisseur of everything Spense, and your detective work tonight proves it.”

  “I’m not going to make you a false promise, Dutch. I need you to trust me, and I need to be able to trust you. Whatever my feelings for Spense may or may not be, I won’t keep secrets from him. He and I have an understanding—­that we’ll tell each other the truth. If I lie to him about something this important, he might never trust me again.”

  “That’s a chance you’ll take, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know anything of the kind. I realize it’s not going to be easy for you. We can tell him together if you want.”

  He shook his head. “You do understand that he worships Jack.” His voice dropped lower. “And Jack worshipped him. Spense’s whole world is based on a lie. He believes his father was a good man, a great one even.”