Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  He pulled his cell from his pocket, then looked down. “Sorry guys, I’ve got to take this one.”

  Spense didn’t say a word as they left the building, and when he climbed into the car beside her, he left his seat belt hanging out and shut the door on top of it. She could tell he was distracted and struggling to keep his thoughts in order.

  “I thought you’d be happier about the time off,” she said.

  “Me too.” He turned to her. “You don’t look so thrilled yourself. Wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

  She did. But she didn’t know whether to follow her head or her heart. She wanted to tell him that Dutch was his brother, but she still wasn’t clear if it was the right thing to do. “You first.”

  “Okay.” He put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine. “I don’t like to leave a case hanging like this.”

  “It’s not really our case,” she said without conviction.

  “Good point. We’ve been off the books from the start.”

  “Jim can’t order us off a case we were never on. And he certainly can’t tell us where to go for vacation. There’s no reason we can’t take a holiday right here in Texas.” Dutch ran to protect Spense. She was convinced of it, and Dutch needed their help, now more than ever. Spense would never forgive her if she let him walk away from his brother when he was in real trouble. But if she told him the truth . . . she couldn’t predict what he’d do next. Without a clear-­cut reason not to, she decided to wait until they had a handle on who killed Cindy and why—­or, at the very least, until they found Dutch, and he could tell him in person.

  “Make no mistake, Caity. You’re rationalizing. We’ve been told to back off. And if we don’t, Jim isn’t going to just look the other way.”

  “Unless we can find Dutch, and either exonerate him or convince him to turn himself in.”

  Spense took her hand. “You’re willing to risk your career with the Bureau for Dutch Langhorne?”

  “I-­I don’t know.” She heard her voice crack. It was more Spense’s career she was concerned about. His whole life was the Bureau. But . . . “I believe Dutch is innocent. I know the evidence is piling up against him, but I’ve interviewed more than my share of killers, and I don’t see Dutch as the kind of man who could murder his wife.”

  Spense turned her palm over in his hand. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You do?” Did he feel some connection with Dutch? Was he beginning to suspect the truth? She could hardly breathe.

  “You’re thinking about your father.” He pulled her to him. “And you’re right. We can’t walk away from Dutch. He may not be a blood relation, but he’s FBI, and that means he’s family.”

  “But what about Jim?”

  “Like you said before, if we bring Dutch home, or if we prove his innocence, all will be forgiven.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Caity. Failure is not in my vocabulary.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday, October 17

  11:00 P.M.

  Jefferson, Texas

  BY THE TIME this case was over, Spense figured, he could write a Texas travel guide.

  Welcome to Jefferson the sign said.

  “You sure we shouldn’t head out to Mrs. Langhorne’s place tonight?” Caity mumbled from her cat curl in the front passenger seat. They’d been on the road all day and half the night, traveling round-­trip from Dallas to Austin, and now this side jaunt to Jefferson to interview Dutch’s mother, Yolanda Langhorne.

  “She’s my mother’s age. I hate to wake her.”

  “I thought you wanted to see for yourself whether Dutch was there. If we wait until morning, we might miss him.”

  “If he’s holed up at his mother’s place—­which I doubt—­he’ll likely still be holed up there in the morning—­hence the expression holed up. Although I do want to see whether he’s there or not with my own eyes, the other reason I wanted to make the trip is that we have a much better chance of squeezing information out of Mrs. Langhorne in person than we do over the phone. If Dutch warned her not to talk anyone, we’re going to have to be persuasive. That means I need to be able to charm her a little, and you’ll have to bring out your you-­know-­you-­can-­trust-­me smile. If we knock on her door at this time of night, we’ll never get anywhere with her.”

  Besides, Caity needed sleep. His shoulders tensed. She still hadn’t told him why she’d stayed up until the wee hours with Dutch. Reaching across the console, he grabbed her hand. “Do you want to stay at the historic haunted Excelsior Hotel, the historic haunted Jefferson Hotel, the historic haunted bed-­and-­breakfast, or the yet-­to-­be-­haunted Bargain Bayou Inn? Free continental breakfast at the Bargain Bayou. It’s your call, baby.”

  She straightened in the passenger seat and stretched her arms high over her head. “You’re joking.”

  “Not really. Apparently, just about every room at the Excelsior has its own ghost. There’s a headless man, a woman in black with a baby, and get this, Spielberg stayed there. Supposedly he was inspired to write Poltergeist after being awakened by the ghost of a young boy in the Gould room. Across the way at the Jefferson, the stairs squeak, and ghosts pull the guests’ hair and tap on their toes. At the bed-­and-­breakfast—­”

  Caity threw back her head, laughing. A beautiful sound he hadn’t heard nearly enough since they’d arrived in Texas and met up with the morosely arrogant Dutch Langhorne. “No. I meant you were joking about the Bargain Bayou Inn. I can’t believe there’s a bayou in Texas.”

  “But the ghosts, you believe?”

  “I like to keep an open mind when it comes to the paranormal.”

  Caity had a way of surprising him. He’d never have suspected that from her. She seemed so grounded in science. “I don’t know about the spirits, but there really are Texas wetlands—­the Big Cypress Bayou. I didn’t realize it before, but Yolanda Langhorne’s cabin is very near Caddo Lake State Park.” A place his dad had taken him fishing more than once. “I don’t think we’ll have a chance to see it this trip, but I’d like to take you there someday.” He’d love to watch her face when she saw those giant cypress trees floating in the wetlands and the fish jumping in between. He’d made plenty of memories with his father there, and he’d like to make some new ones with Caity.

  As he drove, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Stretching her arms overhead pushed her chest forward, and from his angle he could see the mounds of Caity’s full breasts and the tempting way her nipples jutted against her thin shirt. “You cold?” He’d been running the air conditioner full blast. He switched it off.

  “A little. Thanks for noticing.”

  “My pleasure.” God, he wanted her. “So what’s the verdict? Headless man, or hair-­pulling ghosts?”

  “Oh, let’s just hit the Bargain Bayou. I wouldn’t want to stay at a ghost hotel when I’m this tired. I’d probably sleep right through the chains rattling and whatnot. Maybe we really will come back another time, then we can stay somewhere fun.” The hopeful lilt in her voice just about cracked his heart open. She wanted to come back to Jefferson—­with him.

  “We’ll make it happen. I promise.” He kissed her hand. “Bargain Bayou, here we come.”

  “And Spense . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s not waste our money on separate rooms—­even if they are a bargain.”

  Visions of Caity, stretched out on a bed, jolted his pulse into overdrive. He stepped on the gas—­hard.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thursday, October 17

  11:15 P.M.

  Jefferson, Texas

  THE RACKET AND rattling in Jefferson was enough to drive a man with Malachi’s gift of hearing insane. Probably all those damn ghosts.

  “Just one night,” Malachi addressed
the desk clerk at the Bargain Bayou Inn.

  Her lips started moving.

  “What?”

  She pointed at his ears.

  Of course, he’d forgotten he was wearing his noise-­canceling headphones. He slipped them off.

  “That’ll be ninety seven dollars plus tax. Sign here, please.”

  “A bargain indeed.” As he handed her cash, he smiled politely. The place was modestly furnished but really clean. The lobby smelled of fresh paint. A picture of a woman dressed like a Southern belle, parasol and all, hung above the front desk. Strange for Texas, but then again, Jefferson was once a riverboat town and quite close to Louisiana. Noting that the Bargain Bayou was relatively quiet compared to the streets of Jefferson, he decided he liked it here.

  Good thing Spenser and Cassidy had chosen this place and not one of the haunted hotels—­where the cacophony of the dead would’ve kept him up all night.

  Unlike Langhorne, they weren’t on his employer’s to-­do list. But Malachi knew they might lead him to his target, which would save him time and effort. Also, Spenser had seen his face, so on or off the list, he had to be eliminated. Following the pair from Dallas was a good way to kill two birds with one stone.

  Or three.

  Caitlin Cassidy was a nice bonus.

  Ten minutes earlier, while the ­couple checked in, Malachi had stood at a pay phone in the lobby with his back turned. To pass time, he’d checked the Jefferson phone book and found one Langhorne—­Yolanda. Had to be either his target’s mother or sister. Whichever, Yolanda would have the information he needed to locate his target and the diary—­both of which he’d somehow lost track of. Or maybe Langhorne was with Yolanda now. He smiled to himself. This had been a good plan indeed.

  But time was of the essence. He couldn’t risk Spenser’s arriving first and possibly describing him to Yolanda. He had to get to Cassidy and Spenser before they got to her. So after the ­couple exited the lobby, he’d followed them to room number 175. The entire way, he’d heard humming, smooth vibrations, two distinct octaves, entwining in perfect harmony.

  Two!

  His ears vibrated from sheer joy. The ­couple not only provided him a soothing break from the washing machines of this earth, he knew he’d hit the jackpot. Once he collected these two souls, he was positively guaranteed the magnificent death he longed for.

  He watched impatiently while the ­couple entered the room and closed the door behind them. Then he’d headed back to the lobby to check in. With the noisy strains of useless men assailing him from every direction, he’d been forced to put on his headphones. He had no time to plan the fantastic death Spenser and Cassidy deserved, but he could certainly do better than shooting them in their sleep. So as he made his way back to the lobby, he looked for something useful. Some way to give them a death less ordinary, an ending that would make their families wonder what the pair had done to deserve such a twist of fate.

  A freak accident would work.

  But nothing came straight to mind. Malachi was just about to resign himself to simply shooting them when he spotted something that gave him an idea. There, on the sidewalk, most likely waiting to be hauled off to the dump, stood the inspiration he’d been looking for.

  An old refrigerator.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday, October 18

  12:00 A.M.

  Jefferson, Texas

  DANCING IN PAJAMAS. Caitlin never realized how romantic improvisation could be. Yet here they were at the Bargain Bayou, and she’d never been so swept away. She deeply, deeply regretted not having packed sexy lingerie in the little bag she kept ready in the car for emergencies. Spense called his a go bag. He claimed he didn’t own pajamas, and therefore was currently tripping the light fantastic with her in his T-­shirt and boxers.

  But she wasn’t complaining. The cotton fabric of his shirt felt wonderfully soft against her cheek, and he’d set up her laptop, so that her favorite songs played from the computer’s speakers. At the moment they were swaying to the rhythm of Meghan Trainor’s “Like I’m Gonna Lose You.”

  Hopefully, not a portent of things to come.

  “My darling, Caity,” he whispered in her ear, and the endearment sent little shock waves of happiness through her.

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “This isn’t how I imagined our first time together would be.”

  It wasn’t how she’d pictured it either. Then all at once a thought came to her that nearly stopped her heart in her chest. “You’re not suggesting we postpone . . .” His thumb stroked her bare skin, just beneath the elastic of her pajama bottoms, and her voice trailed off into a sigh.

  “Oh, hell no.” He tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “But, close your eyes. Just for a minute or two. I want you to pretend.”

  She was bone tired, and dreamily agreeable. Obediently, she closed her eyes.

  “Don’t open them.” He pressed his fingers against her lids. “Take a deep breath, Caity. I brought you a bouquet of wildflowers. I picked them myself,” he murmured. “I made sure to get a lot of those purple ones you like so much.”

  She inhaled long and lavishly. “Lavender. Smells nice.”

  “Good girl.” His hand brushed her cheek, tempting her to gaze up at him, but she forced herself to keep her eyes closed. He wanted to set a lovely scene for her, and she wanted to let him do anything—­and everything—­he liked. “Your skin is so soft—­and in this beautiful candlelight, it’s the color of pink pearls. The candles are encircling us. Be careful not to trip on them.”

  “So many candles.” In spite of herself, she grinned. “Hope they don’t set off the smoke alarm.”

  “There are no smoke alarms on the beach, sweetheart.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Oh, we’re on the beach. I should’ve known as soon as I heard the waves crashing against the shore.” Her heart was so full. She grabbed his hands and brought them to her lips. They leaned into each other, moving more to the rhythm of their own bodies than to the music. She knew he was trying to give her more than a night in a cheap motel. But she didn’t need more.

  The music stopped, and she opened her eyes to find him staring at her. “I understand what you’re trying to do, Spense, but here’s the thing.” She’d been waiting so long for this moment. Her entire body was quivering with desire for Spense, and for him alone. “I don’t want wildflowers or candles or crashing waves.” She tiptoed up and kissed his chin. “I only want you.”

  “I want you more.” His voice came out low and gravelly. Then, to prove his point, he dragged her hand lower, and what she found was gratifying . . . very gratifying.

  A noise that sounded a lot like purring started up in her throat. It seemed he’d turned her into a domesticated kitten. If she weren’t careful, she’d wind up on his lap, begging to be petted.

  She nuzzled her face in his shoulder, and the familiar scent of his aftershave triggered a full-­body tingle. Funny how a fragrance she’d once found old-­fashioned and yes, a little boring, had now become a powerful aphrodisiac—­simply because it was Spense who wore it. Something about the way his pheromones mixed with Old Spice turned it into Spense Spice, and that was a scent she couldn’t get enough of.

  Her gaze traveled down to where her hand cupped the fullness in his boxers. She molded her palm around him, knowing she wasn’t the only one craving attention. She indulged herself in his hard, warm pleasure, then teasingly pulled her hand away, only to replace it with her hips. “Do you remember the night we met?”

  He ground against her, turning her tingles to a fiery ache. “You know I do. It was Baltimore.”

  They’d sat next to each other at a lecture on spree killers. She’d been sneaking side glances at his distracting profile, wondering who he was, and whether it would be wildly inappropriate to invite a handsome stranger in an unfamiliar city to get a drink, but she couldn�
�t work up the nerve. After the lecture, they both walked out to hail a cab, and he’d asked her where she was headed.

  “The Belvedere Hotel.”

  “Funny, that’s where I’m staying.”

  They’d shared a ride, then a few drinks back at the hotel. It wasn’t until after her second gin and tonic he’d told her his name: Atticus Spenser. That had been a bucket of ice over her head. They were both in town to testify in the same trial. Caitlin for the defense; Spense for the prosecution.

  Special Agent Atticus Spenser was the enemy, and that pull she felt in her belly every time he looked at her only made him more dangerous.

  So she’d glared at him and taken her leave with no explanation. The confused look on his face pricked her conscience, but she refused to give in to it, knowing that the next morning in court, he’d have an unpleasant surprise, and that just might give her side an advantage. Looking back on it now, she realized how wrong she’d been. She’d been unkind to one of the best men on the planet—­no, better make that the universe.

  “I remember what you were wearing the first time I saw you.” Keeping his hips in that teasing position against hers, he leaned back enough to catch her eyes. “A yellow blouse with a Peter Pan collar and tiny little raised dots. Swiss polka dots, I think they call them.”

  At the same moment her body threatened to spontaneously combust, disappointment seeped into her blissful mood. “Good try. But no, I don’t own a yellow blouse with Swiss polka dots.”

  He laughed. “No?”

  “And how do you even know what a Peter Pan collar is?”

  “Every Sunday, when I call my mother, she likes to describe to me what she wore to church—­in excruciating detail. I consider it my filial duty to let her. Last week she told me all about her pink silk dress with white piping and a Peter Pan collar.” He nibbled her ear. “Let’s see; so it wasn’t Swiss polka dots. Let me think. It was such a hot evening, maybe you were wearing a sleeveless—­”