by Julie Miller
Logic hadn’t worked. Nice talk certainly hadn’t.
But the man’s fingers were drumming almost uncontrollably against the side of the table where he was handcuffed. He was detoxing, probably feeling a nasty headache and some stomach gripes. The knife wound on his shoulder hadn’t injured anything vital, and would probably leave an attractive scar to make him look a little tougher to his comrades behind bars. But without allowing him anything more than a couple of aspirins to dull the pain, he was probably aching pretty good right about now. His efforts to remain cavalier and play stupid to those questions were beginning to cost him.
Time to push him a little further over that nervous edge.
She knew she had an audience taking down every word on the other side of that two-way mirror and on the camera recording Bart Flemming was making in the observation room. But this show she was gearing up for was for Sherman Watts alone. Do it, Joanna. No matter what he says, no matter how he reacts, get in his face and do it.
You are stronger than this bastard ever imagined.
Joanna turned, coming in right beside him, brushing her arm against his as she braced her hands on the table. “Here’s what’s going to happen to you, Sherm. You’re going down for Agent Grainger’s murder. With DNA from that leather necklace of yours, we can put you at the site where her body was found. That’s not a life sentence, that’s a death penalty.”
“I didn’t kill no FBI agent.”
“Yeah?” She leaned in, getting right in his face. “She was a woman, wasn’t she? Women are nothing to you. They’re trash you use up and throw away, just like those bottles you suck dry every day of your life. If she got in your way, if she didn’t do what you wanted, you’d take care of her. You’d put her in her place. You like beating up on women, don’t you, Sherm?”
“That woman wasn’t beaten!”
Joanna straightened. Walked around to her side of the table and softened her voice to a more reasonable timbre. “Now, how do you know that?”
His head shot up. His dark eyes glared. He dropped his gaze when she didn’t so much as blink. “Okay. I was there. I helped throw her body into the river, but she was already dead, I swear.”
“Who hired you to dispose of the body? Who’s been paying you ten thousand dollars a month for the past six months?” She smacked the tabletop, startling him when he didn’t immediately answer. “Who hired you?”
Bam. She’d hit the trigger.
His chair toppled backward and crashed to the floor as he rose to face off against her. “Look, bitch—I don’t owe you anything. There are scarier people in the world to be afraid of than you, with your mouth and your gun and your hair—thinking you’re all that. Thinking you can use me to get what you want. That ain’t right!”
Joanna dodged to the side as he shoved the heavy metal table at her, and sent it screeching into the wall behind her. She put her hand in the air, waving off the cadre of agents and deputies no doubt running to that door to rescue her right now. She kept her eyes on Watts’s sad, sour, superior expression as he dragged the table behind him, advancing on her. “You think you’ve got something on me. You think you’re smarter. I can handle you.”
When he lunged at her, she twisted his arm behind him and put him down, face-first, on the table. “Yeah. You did that real well. Who can’t you handle, Sherm? Who are you afraid of if you’re not afraid of me?”
Trapped in the ignominious position, shaking as the rage and whiskey and fear worked through his system, Sherman Watts suddenly seemed like a scraggly, pathetic little man—not the nightmare who had turned her teenage world upside down.
She had the advantage. She didn’t even have to talk tough anymore. “Now we’re going to walk back here and have a seat. You and I are going to have a nice little chat.” Once he’d pulled the table back into place and righted his chair, Joanna sat back down across from him. She asked the fifty-million-dollar question. “Did Boyd Perkins kill Agent Grainger? Is he the man who hired you to help cover up the crime? To help him hide out on the reservation so he could continue looking for a crime family’s missing money?”
“He’ll kill me if he knows I talked to you. I think he tried to kill me already when I was up on Ute Mountain. Can you give me some kind of protection?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
At last, he nodded. “Then I want a lawyer. I’ll tell you what I know.”
“All right. Let me get someone to take your statement.” Feeling less victorious over an enemy than she felt the satisfaction of knowing she’d done her job well, Joanna got up and headed for the door.
“Agent Rhodes?”
She turned.
“I know something else. If I tell you, you’ll make that death penalty thing go away, right?”
“It depends on what you tell me.”
“I don’t have a name but…Perkins and me, well…he’s got a man on the inside. Somebody who works with you. He’s got our numbers and he…well, he called me and told me you all were lookin’ for me. I know he calls Boyd Perkins, too.”
Sheriff Martinez’s suspected leak. So there was a traitor in their midst. Joanna slid her gaze to the window, knowing each of them was hearing this, too. But Watts was more interested in how the information was going to affect him.
“So, even without a name, you’re gonna take murder one off the table, aren’t you?”
“That’s for the courts to decide. But if you’re lucky, you’ll get out of prison for one last drink before you die of old age.”
“What kind of crack is that?” For one fleeting moment, his eyes narrowed, and she thought she detected a glimmer of recognition—not that she was Naomi Kuchu’s daughter, but something else, something much, much more personal. But if any recollection of the day he’d violently used her body to repay an emotional and monetary debt had passed through his mind, he must have dismissed it as some kind of drunken hallucination. “You speak to me with respect, girl. This is a legal situation. You don’t want me suing you for harassment. You owe me that much.”
Joanna would never be able to simply dismiss the crime, but now she could move past it. She could heal. She could put Sherman Watts behind her. Forever.
She opened the door. “Mr. Watts, I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
WHEN JOANNA CLOSED that interview room door behind her and walked into the beginning of a brand-new life, the first thing she walked into was the solid wall of Ethan Bia’s chest.
Literally. She instantly pulled back from his deep-pitched groan, taking in the green hospital shirt and the thick ridges of bandages wrapping his chest underneath. His skin color was good, coppery and warm, his eyes glinted like finely polished onyx.
And while Joanna stood there in an openmouthed stupor in the KCCU hallway, he wedged a finger beneath her chin to close her mouth before leaning down to press the lightest of kisses to her lips.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Ethan.” She clutched her fingers into fists, then uncurled them. She wanted to touch him. But she might hurt him, and what was he doing here, anyway? “You’re supposed to be in the hospital. Elizabeth told me they were keeping you overnight.”
He caught her fingers in one big hand and stilled their nervous flexing. “Were you not just in that room alone with Sherman Watts?”
“You know I was.”
“Did I not promise that I would never let you face that man alone again?”
“You did.”
“Don’t you trust me to keep my word to you?”
One heartbeat passed. And then another. And then Joanna was stretching up on her toes and winding her arms around his neck. “I do.”
She supposed this PDA wasn’t the most professional behavior Martinez could list in his recommendation letter to her supervisor in D.C. She was marginally aware of people passing back and forth in the hallway, discreetly looking away or covering up a laugh as Ethan held her lightly against his chest and she willingly, eagerly—not wanting to aggravate his injuries, of course—kissed him
back.
It was when the hallway had quieted and she was simply leaning close, her head tucked beneath Ethan’s chin, that a different conversation did catch her attention. The tones were hushed, urgent and probably meant to be private.
“I can’t shake it, Miguel,” a young woman said, trying to hide the fear in her voice. “It was definitely Boyd Perkins I saw in my vision. I sense his presence close by, creeping around in the shadows where we can’t see him—and he’s looking for something. Do you believe me?”
Miguel Acevedo’s voice she recognized. Though the tender tone was a new twist from his usual sarcastic humor. “Well, after what I just heard from Sherman Watts, I’m not going to say I disbelieve. Come on, I think we ought to talk to Sheriff Martinez about it.”
“I know you’re a skeptic, but I felt this one particularly strongly. Thank you for listening.”
“I’ll always listen, sweetheart. Always.” When they rounded the corner, Joanna pulled away, concerned by the distress she’d heard in the woman’s voice. Miguel had his arm around the brunette’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple, when he realized they had company in the hallway. The woman with him seemed a little shy, but judging by the way she clung to Miguel’s waist, it was very clear that they were a couple. “Hey, big guy,” Miguel greeted them. “You’re looking a little worse for wear, there. Ethan, you remember my wife, Emma.”
“Of course.” He smiled as he kissed Emma’s cheek. “I heard you two eloped to Vegas. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He turned to his new wife and completed the introductions. “Emma, this is Agent Joanna Rhodes. She’s the newest member of our team. She played Watts like a Steinway in the interview room.”
The team appellation felt good. It felt like she might have earned a little respect, and maybe a friend or two more here in Kenner County.
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Rhodes.” Emma Acevedo smiled warmly and extended her hand.
“It’s Joanna Kuchu, actually.” Yeah. It felt right, shaking Emma’s hand and saying those words. “Kuchu is my Ute name. It means ‘buffalo.’”
It meant a lot more to Ethan.
At least, once he pulled her into the empty interview room and stopped kissing her long enough, he seemed impressed that she had used her given name.
Joanna stood between his legs as he sat on the table, looking at her with those mysterious eyes and lightly brushing that wayward strand of hair off her face. “Has Joanna Kuchu really come home?”
She reached up to stroke her finger over the proud contours of his cheek and jaw. “I want to stay. I’ve been doing a little research.”
She felt the muscle bunch along his jaw, heard him breathe in deeply to force himself to relax. “When did you have time for that?”
“On the ride into town from Sleeping Ute Mountain. Bart let me use his laptop.”
“Sounds like you work too much.” His second deep breath echoed her own. “So tell me about this research. What does it have to do with staying in Kenner City?”
All right. She’d thought this through. She knew the details. She had a plan. “I found out there’s no trained profiler or interrogation specialist in the Durango FBI office. I could be the first one in the area—consult with the crime unit here in Kenner City and serve the entire Four Corners area. Maybe one day I could select and train my own team.”
“Sounds ambitious. But then you always did dream big.” His hand settled at the nape of her neck, the skin-to-skin contact warming her straight down to her toes. “I’d like to point out that Durango is a hell of a lot closer to Kenner City and the reservation than Washington, D.C. But it’s a lot smaller, too. You might see a lot less action in this part of the country.”
Joanna smiled—nothing fake, nothing forced. It was a genuine, unburdened smile. “I don’t care about that. Seems like I’ve seen plenty of action here these past few days.” She tiptoed her fingers around his neck and tried to look as deep into his soul as he’d found his way into hers. “I never considered dreaming dreams about this place. I always thought a better life for me was out there somewhere. The only dream I ever had about the reservation was making a life with you.”
“Joanna,” he growled on a dark husk of emotion.
She pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him. “No. Let me say this. That was the dream I had before everything changed—the rape, Sheriff Watts, feeling so suffocated by the shame and rage and helplessness I felt in this place. Now I understand the healing powers of coming home. That is the most important lesson you’ve ever taught me, Ethan.”
He moved his hands down to her hips and pulled her close enough to rest his forehead against hers. “Tell me more about that dream about a life with me.”
“I want to make things work for us if it’s not too late.” She looked straight up into his beautiful eyes. “I love you, Ethan. Maybe I forgot how to for a little while. But I feel it inside me, burning stronger than ever. I know what that kind of love means now—how much I need to treasure it.” She took a deep breath and then laid her heart in his hands. “I know I have some issues…but maybe if we work on them together…Do you think you could have that kind of patience with me?”
The perpetual spring rain might have started falling once again outside. But when Ethan smiled down at her, she felt sunshine. She felt hope.
“Hell, woman. I waited fifteen years for you. I think I know how to be patient.”
He palmed her bottom and pulled her up against his chest, holding her tight, kissing her and kissing her and kissing her, groaning with a mix of pain and delight. When they finally found the courage to ease some space between them, knowing that the connection between them would never be broken again, Joanna smiled against his mouth. “All right. I just spilled my guts. It’s your turn to say something now.”
Ever a man to choose his words carefully, Ethan had only three for her now. “I love you.”
Joanna was finally where she was supposed to be. With Ethan.
Epilogue
“Over here!” Ethan shouted over the rumble of thunder and unceasing drumbeat of rain. “I found a shoe print. Too big to be the kid’s, though.”
He dropped his flashlight beside him and gritted his teeth against the aching stiffness in his rib cage so that he could pull off his KCCU jacket and lay it over the vanishing evidence.
The Griffin Vaughn estate was a huge expanse of house and land and hidden tunnels underneath, where crime boss Vincent Del Gardo had once lived and died. And now someone had used those same tunnels to get inside the millionaire’s high-tech mansion and kidnap his three-year-old son, Luke.
Ethan hadn’t even gotten Joanna back to her hotel room or asked her out on a proper date when the call had come in. All available agents, deputies, CSIs and support staff had been called in to search the grounds for any trace of the boy and what might have happened to him. While Sheriff Martinez interviewed Vaughn and his new wife, Sophie, a forensic team was dusting the interior for any prints or other trace evidence. Meanwhile, Ethan was leading a team over the grounds before this damn storm washed away anything helpful out here.
“Miguel!” he shouted again. He’d found a print outside one of the tunnel entrances that reminded him of the fancy-soled hiking boot they’d found at Sherman Watts’s trailer just three nights ago. But the rain and runoff from the tunnel’s domed entrance was quickly washing it away. He needed to get up, make his voice heard over the storm. “Miguel! You coming?”
Before Ethan could push to his feet, Joanna was there, grabbing his flashlight and bracing herself against his uninjured side to help him stand. Miguel ran up seconds later. He lifted Ethan’s jacket and shook his head. “Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve. That print is too far gone to make a comparison.”
Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the worry on their faces. Joanna voiced what they were all feeling. “How’s a three-year-old boy ever going to survive a night like this?”
After a crackle of static, an announcement c
ame over all three of their radios at the same time. It was Callie MacBride-Ryan, one of the forensic specialists working inside the house. “It’s a match. The fingerprint I found on the basement stair rail belongs to Boyd Perkins. He took the boy. I repeat. It’s Boyd Perkins. He’s back in town. He took the boy.”
Miguel swore. “I hate it when Emma’s visions are right. The damn thing is, they’re always right. I’d better get in the house to see if I can help out.”
Once Ethan and Joanna were alone again, she shook off the water from his jacket and draped it over his shoulders. “Now will you let me take you to the hospital?”
“It doesn’t fit Perkins’s profile to want to hurt the boy. Odds are, he’s using him for leverage—to get money, or information. Still…” He didn’t need to feel her fingers tucking and smoothing his wet clothes into place to know how worried she was—about him, about little Luke Vaughn—about changing her plans for the future to include him, to include them.
Ethan tucked his finger beneath her chin and let her see the conviction he felt. “He’s Kenner County stock, Nüa-rü. That means he’s strong. You survived when you had to. The boy will survive, too.”
Ethan felt Joanna’s fingers lacing with his down at his side. They squeezed each other’s hands, sharing their strength, sharing their unique connection to the Four Corners area and to each other.
Together, Ethan and Joanna, Martinez, the crime lab, Agents Ryan and Acevedo and all their support staff formed a formidable team.
The bad guys didn’t stand a chance.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3472-1
PULLING THE TRIGGER
Copyright © 2009 by Harlequin Books S.A.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.