“Me.” Daci’s answer emerged a thin squeak.
“You!” Ben whirled toward her. “Why?”
Jax spread his hands. “Searching for that answer brought us here.”
“Tell me more,” the detective said.
Words clogged Daci’s tight throat. Her uncle had been murdered! Possibly because of her! If only she had some idea why or, more specifically, who was responsible, she might be able to stop this madness.
Jax filled the cop in with a terse summary of the attempts on Daci’s life over the past couple of days. He omitted reference to their current assignment of watchdogging Serena and Chase. In light of this arson and murder, he clearly shared her growing conviction that the two cases—whoever was after her and the danger to Serena and Chase—were not connected. But where did that leave her effectiveness as a marshal?
“Interesting.” The detective turned toward Daci. “Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, though, we’d like you to take a look at the body and confirm his identity. Do you think you’re up for it?”
She must look as shell-shocked as she felt. Forcing a nod, she turned and slogged through the mush to the front yard. The EMTs were starting to load the sheet-covered gurney onto the ambulance for transport to the morgue.
The lead EMT stopped as ordered and peeled the sheet back from the body’s head. Daci ceased to breathe. Her uncle’s broad face looked normal, except for the dime-sized hole in the middle of the forehead. Right between the eyes.
“You don’t want to see the back of the skull,” the EMT said. “The exit wound is where the real damage happened.”
“It’s Uncle Conrad,” she croaked, and whirled away.
Halfway across the yard, strong hands gripped her shoulders, turned her and pulled her close. Her face mashed into a firm chest that smelled of some kind of wood-spice soap.
“Let’s go home,” he said, releasing her.
She nodded wordlessly and allowed him to guide her back to the unmarked sedan.
“I’m driving.” He held out a hand for the keys.
She handed them over without protest and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Talk to me, Jax,” she said. “Not about this mess or the Naylor case, but I’ll go crazy if we sit here in silence.”
“Some of that quid pro quo you were asking for when we arrived in Boston?”
“That’ll do. Might even interest me.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
A forlorn laugh escaped her lips. “I meant it as a compliment. Right now, not much could distract me from the fact that my uncle died because someone wants me good and scared.”
“Maybe your uncle got deep in debt to some lowlife bookie who threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay up. Maybe Conrad promised you would cover the debt, and the bookie initiated the attacks to soften you up before your uncle asked for the money.”
“Plausible scenario if my uncle weren’t already dead. Why kill him before the milk’s been squeezed out of the cow?”
“Good point, but how do you know Conrad wasn’t involved some other way in whatever is causing someone to come after you?”
Daci opened her mouth, but no retort filled it. She snapped her jaw shut. What if Uncle Con was a party to this mysterious vendetta someone was trying to fulfill against her? Maybe his participation had become a threat to the killer, or Con was experiencing remorse and a desire to confess and had to be silenced? But these were speculations that had no evidence whatsoever to support them.
She shook herself. “I can’t think that way. Not when I have to go home and call my siblings to tell them their uncle has been murdered. They’re going to ask why, and I don’t want any suspicion bleeding through my voice when I answer ‘I don’t know.’ Not unless or until we have proof of Con’s involvement in whatever is going on.”
“What about the attempts on your life? Are you going to omit those when you talk to your siblings, too?”
A grand sigh escaped her chest. “You ask the thorniest questions. Anybody ever tell you you’d make a great investigator?”
Jax chuckled.
Daci sniffed and folded her arms across her chest. “Stick to the quid pro quo, okay?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where do you come from? What was it like growing up in your family? What makes you you.”
“A simple bio. I can do that. Glad it’s nothing nosy.”
His teasing tone eased the tension gripping her. Life could be bad sometimes, really bad, but she had to thank God for the light moments and the people who brought them. Maybe that’s how Grandma got through all the disappointments and obstacles in her life, being thankful for the good. She’d certainly done her best to pass the sunshine on to her often-struggling eldest granddaughter. The least Daci could do was follow her example.
Who was she kidding? She was nothing like her grandmother. Grandma Katie had been serene. Full of faith. Always ready with a smile and a soothing word. While Daci... Everyone said she was too intense. Too serious. How did she change that? Should she? If she hadn’t been like she was, what would have become of herself and her siblings in the environment where they were raised?
Someone had to make sure teeth were brushed, hair was combed, clothes were appropriate, that they showed up daily to school, and they didn’t stay up all night playing video games and eating junk food. Someone had to read the bedtime stories and keep a watchful eye on the antics in the backyard pool. And later, as grade school gave way to middle-school ages, that same someone had to run interference when controlled substances were too handy in the house for sneaking a sip or a toke. That era ended with the passing of her parents, and all the drugs and liquor were purged from the house.
But other forms of testing set in with the media scrutiny after the grisly deaths and the court tussle to see who would become guardian to her sixteen-year-old self and four siblings. And then, her grandma had been gone—stolen from their lives a mere two years after coming to live with them—and today, Grandma Katie’s remaining child had been taken in a death just as violent and cruel. A life cut short by the murderous impulses of another person. And that same person seemed to have marked her for a short life, as well.
Why does this keep happening to my family, God? I want to see the bright side, but I don’t. Help me!
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Jax’s sharp tone broke into Daci’s awareness. She sat up straight from the slump she’d fallen into.
“Sorry.” She brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I really wanted to listen, but I sort of fell into thinking and...well, praying.”
“Praying is good.”
“Yes, but I don’t do it very well or very often. Too self-sufficient.”
“Come to church with me on Sunday. You’d love my pastor. He’s as down-to-earth as they come, great sense of humor, but boy, does he shoot God’s Word straight to the heart.”
“He sounds wonderful, but no thanks.” She made herself ignore the disappointment in his eyes. “Tomorrow’s Saturday—no day care—but I’m going to have to report my uncle’s murder to DC Reynolds. I think that chat can wait until morning. Who knows whether I will get to stay on the Naylor case or not. In any event, my sibs and I will probably need the weekend to plan Uncle Conrad’s funeral.”
“Understandable, but let me know if you change your mind.” He shot her a lopsided smile.
“Will do, Mr. Persistent.”
“Part of my charm.”
A laugh sneaked past her lips. “Did I hear you mention something about a frog and a mud puddle?”
“So, you did pick up a word or two. That was the best prank ever!” An impish grin stretched his face. “It was also the worst, because it was the only time I made my stepmother cry. I never did anything like that again.”
Daci angled herse
lf toward Jax as he continued telling tales on himself. From what she could tell, he’d been a handful, but a good kid where it counted. Like her own siblings. She found herself laughing and peppering him with questions.
“Losing your mom at an early age was very sad, but in so many ways you had a terrific childhood.”
“I did.” He nodded, but the smile fell off his face. “There was one other true childhood tragedy, though.”
Daci gazed intently at his defined profile, noting the tension in his jaw and the slight hunch in his shoulders, as if he was curling in to protect himself.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said.
“I want to, even though it’s not something I talk about much. My dad and stepmom had another child, one that was biologically both of theirs, but...” Jax fell silent then cleared his throat. “My brother, Jason, was born with a congenital heart defect. No one knew about it until after he died in his sleep at six months old.”
Reflexively, Daci’s hand shot out and covered Jax’s on the steering wheel. His muscles were tense, but he turned his palm and gave her fingers a brief squeeze.
“It’s hard, you know, never getting to play with my little brother, tease him, fight with him and yet defend him from bullies on the playground. But it’s comforting to be certain I will see him again, get to know him for all eternity.”
Something like an arrow pierced Daci’s chest, and a sob bubbled from her throat.
Jax shot her a sharp look. “I take it you don’t know that for sure about your uncle.”
“No, it’s not that. I mean, yes, I have to admit I don’t have a clue where my uncle stood with God, but that’s not why your words hurt in such a good way.”
“A good way?”
“Yes, it helped my faith to have someone say out loud what I’ve been thinking and hoping all along but not talking to anyone about.” She told him about her brother born with FAS and then suddenly gone from her life without any proper opportunity to mourn.
Jax whistled through his teeth. “No wonder it’s so hard for you with Serena and Chase. I admire you for sticking to it.”
Daci smiled on the inside. Jax’s approval—even admiration—meant more to her than she thought possible. How had she become so comfortable with him in these few days that long-held secrets of her heart came spilling out? It was a good thing she’d turned down his invitation to attend church with him. Even though, strangely, the idea had appealed to her, that’s all she needed—people to start perceiving them as a couple. So not going to happen.
* * *
Jax clenched his jaw as he maintained a discreet distance between his car and Daci’s, which cruised ahead of him one lane over. A few minutes ago, they had arrived back at the parking garage to collect his vehicle, where she had firmly declined his offer to follow her home and make sure there were no unpleasant surprises at her place. But her refusal hadn’t been able to override his protective instinct. When he had been full-time in the Marshals Service, he’d been pretty good at tailing subjects without drawing their attention. This exercise would be a fair test to see if he’d maintained his skills.
What an awful day for Daci. She needed God more than she seemed to think she did. Too bad she wasn’t open to attending church—at least not with him. Issuing the invitation hadn’t been his brightest moment. If he brought a woman to church, especially an attractive, age-appropriate one, the senior Ladies Aid contingent would start planning their wedding before the service was over. They were forever, bless their hearts, trying to set him up with a “nice girl.” Apparently, at their ages of between sixty and eighty, any female under forty would qualify as a “girl.” As for “nice,” they were willing to give anyone a chance—but first the candidate would be subjected to an interrogation as thorough as any Fortune 500 company head-hunting a new CEO.
Jax shuddered. No, he didn’t want to expose Daci to an ordeal like that. Maybe she’d find a church in her own neighborhood. Yes, that would be best.
Fifteen minutes later, Jax pulled his car over to the curb several houses away from Daci’s and killed his headlights as she turned into her driveway and stopped beneath her carport. The entire street was empty—no foot or vehicle traffic. She lived in a quiet neighborhood, which was a good thing in that people who didn’t belong would be noticed. And it was a bad thing in that folks hunkered down in their own houses at night. Cries for help might not be heard, and a careful intruder could escape detection.
Daci got out of her car and went into her duplex without a hitch. Apparently, no new gift baskets waited on her doorstep. A moment later, a light came on in the front room. Very shortly, that light went off and another glow showed through a heavy curtain in a room in the back corner, probably her bedroom.
Jax released a pent-up breath. She was indoors and settling in for the night. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to put the car into gear and drive away. An all-night stakeout held no appeal, but neither did leaving Daci on her own when a killer was after her.
That business with her uncle had been as cold-blooded as murders came. Clinical. Professional. Not hot-blooded, which was the baffling aspect of this murder compared to the initial attempted hit-and-run on Daci, which smacked of impulsive rage or fear. The drive-by shooting had been definitely more planned, but gangsta style, lacking the intimacy and accuracy of the single bullet between Conrad Meyer’s eyes. Meyer must have been looking straight into the face of his killer, maybe knew him...or her.
In its holder on the dash, the face of Jax’s cell phone lit up, and his ringtone began. He grinned. Daci. He activated the Bluetooth response.
“Hello.”
“Go home.” Her voice rang out firm and clear.
“You saw me?”
“No, but you’re the protective type. Me telling you not to follow me home isn’t going to stop you from doing it. I’m inside. I’m fine. All entrances are locked and bolted, and the security system is armed.”
“Good to know. Thanks.”
“Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow if you want to join me at the office to catch up on the status of the hunt for Naylor, as well as the search for the car involved in the near hit-and-run and the van involved in the drive-by shooting.”
“Not to mention your plan of talking to DC Reynolds about tonight’s events.”
A groan carried across the airwaves. “Don’t remind me. I don’t want to contemplate that conversation any more tonight. He might be in since Naylor’s still in the wind. If not, I’ll have to call him.”
“See you in the morning, then. I’ve had some thoughts we need to talk over.”
“I can hardly wait.” She let out a dry laugh. “Now, let me get off the phone so I can call my siblings.”
“You called me, remember?”
“Now I’m calling you off. Scram, Mr. Watchdog!”
“I’m on my way. Watch my lights cruise past your place.”
Jax flipped on his headlights, put the car in gear and eased down on the accelerator. The curtain in the back room parted, and a shadowy figure waved as he went by. He waved back, even though she couldn’t see him in the darkened car.
Making his way toward to his lonely, rather sterile warehouse reno near the river, an odd, fractured sensation grew inside of him—as if he’d left part of himself with Daci. Her kind of neighborhood was the sort of place where he’d lived when he was married and looking forward to raising a family. Afterward, he couldn’t bear staying in the home he and Regan had bought together, so he sold it and moved deeper into the city. He didn’t fit in with the trendy beehive of up-and-comers in his building, mostly younger than him, but he was hardly there except to sleep, and the location was close to work.
The next morning, he worked out at his health club for about an hour and then arrived at the US Marshals office around nine. Rey wasn’t there, and Daci hadn’t showed up yet. He occupied his waiting time catch
ing up on reading reports.
Of all the reported Liggett Naylor sightings on which the Marshals Service had followed up, only one appeared credible. The escaped convict had stopped briefly to see a known associate in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Boston, which put him still in Massachusetts within the past twenty-four hours and specifically in Boston during the time period in which Conrad Meyer was killed. The proximity proved nothing, but it was an interesting coincidence. Or maybe not a coincidence. Perhaps they had been too quick to dismiss any connection with Naylor to Meyer’s death, but what that connection might be remained a mystery. Another avenue to investigate.
The RAV4 that nearly ran him and Daci over in the street had not been identified or found. However, in a report transmitted to the Marshals Service from the Springfield PD, a rusty, bullet-riddled van matching the description of the one from the drive-by shooting had been discovered hunkered in the shade of an oak tree at the edge of a public park in Chicopee, a northern suburb of Springfield. The van had been wiped squeaky-clean of prints, which added an element of professionalism to what had looked like gang activity.
Jax frowned as he laid that report aside and glanced up at the wall clock. Nearly ten o’clock. Where was Daci? A chill coursed through him. He picked up his phone from Daci’s desk, where he’d been waiting for her, and activated her number. The call went to voice mail. He grabbed his car keys and headed for the door.
“In case she’s on the way here while I’m on the way there,” he told the weekend duty clerk, “if Daci comes in, have her give me a call, would you?”
“Right!” The clerk shot him a wave.
Jax tried calling her again as he drove toward her place as quickly as he dared, but still got only voice mail. At last, her home came in view. He pulled to the curb, leaped out and dashed up to her door. All appeared peaceful and quiet, no sign of forced entry and no weird care packages on the porch, but none of that outward normalcy meant the occupant was okay. He thumbed the doorbell twice and waited, tapping his foot.
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