Honest Intentions (The Safeguard Series, Book Five)

by Kennedy Layne

  Brett snatched the square packet and tore the edge off so that she could remove the latex ring. He’d already stripped off his jeans, kicking them away so that they rested against the railing. She managed to sit up before noticing that he’d gone commando that morning.

  “What?” Coen asked with a charming smile. He was currently on his knees one step below the landing, his hardened member exposed. “All of my clean clothes are across the street.”

  “You won’t find me complaining.” Brett took the liberty of unrolling the latex over his tip and down the length of his shaft. Her hands were trembling with anticipation. “Bedroom. We can make it.”

  “Not a chance.” Coen flipped her over onto her stomach, her hips in perfect alignment with the top step. He had her panties off and his tip at her entrance before she realized she had nothing to hold onto. “This is the perfect position, sugar.”

  And it was. He slowly entered her until she tried to dig her fingertips into the soft rug covering the hardwood floor of the landing. Her attempt at gaining some kind of leverage failed, and she had no choice but to arch her back so that he could fill her in the manner they both craved. Every determined thrust further heightened her pleasure as he gained ground. He carried her closer to that exhilarating precipice, not even fully seated to his root. It wasn’t until he leaned down and whispered a naughty command that her body obeyed as he sunk completely home.

  “Come for me, sugar.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‡

  Coen pulled down the long driveway of Calvert’s estate and the property that currently held the headquarters of the SSI firm. His window was rolled down, and he was enjoying the warm tropical breeze versus the cold arctic air he’d escaped from in Colorado. He’d waited in anticipation for over five weeks to soak up the toasty sunshine here in Florida, but he wasn’t getting the enjoyment out of being home that he thought he’d obtain stepping off the plane this evening at Orlando International Airport.

  This morning had been a nice distraction for them both.

  Nothing else. At least, he had to think of it that way.

  He removed his sunglasses. The shade that the American Elms provided from the setting sun lined the hard-packed gravel driveway. The trees had been dense with leaves earlier in the season, but they had thinned somewhat now that the cooler weather was upon them. Regardless, the seventy-degree readings were a hell of a lot more comfortable than the sub-zero temperatures of winter up north he’d just experienced.

  He’d been warm in her bed.

  Coen reached out and turned the knob on the radio with more force than necessary, silencing the cab of his truck. He didn’t need to hear about lovers who had been separated and eventually found their way back to each other.

  Brettany had been the one to set the ground rules of their tryst. He’d agreed. It was simple but sweet, really.

  So why was he still thinking about her all these hours later?

  Coen figured he lost part of his sanity due in part to the higher altitude. That was his justification to himself. It was the only reason he could come up with that would explain why Brettany’s beautiful image was constantly in his mind’s eye with her hair fanned out over the white cotton pillow with not even a crisp sheet to cover her womanly charms. Her green eyes had sparkled in delight as they went in search of their clothes after their second round in her bed. Of course, that had occurred after she’d found the box of condoms she’d had stored in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. He wondered if the expiration date on those were even from this past year. He could recall the sound of her sweet laughter as if she was sitting right next to him in the cab of his truck.

  The gravel lane finally ended as the trees faded behind the truck as Coen pulled in beside Brody’s black Jeep Wrangler. He had added bigger tires and a brush guard to the front of it since Coen had last seen it. There were numerous other vehicles parked off to the side around the gravel circle that let him know the entire team was gathered for an evening SITREP. The situational reports given during their debriefings were vital in cases like this, where there was more than one investigator tracking down leads.

  Quite often, they didn’t realize how all the pieces fit into a specific, coherent picture until the various moving parts put them into perspective. The meetings allowed the team to stay on the same page without anyone stepping on someone else’s toes or covering the same ground twice. These briefings also served to generate taskers for individual team members to track down and exploit, which in turn might lead to uncovering motive, means, or opportunity in any particular crime.

  Townes’ estate was somewhat of a paradox, a reflection of the man himself. The location of this land made one think of plantations from back in the old days of the South or at least a modernized two-story, stick built house. Instead of either of those, a six thousand square foot log home sat in the middle of vast acres of cleared land with a rather large pond. It also accommodated several matching outbuildings that were rather sizable on their own.

  These heavy log buildings were arranged in a semicircle at the end of the long drive with a log security building covering the entrance to the open parking area behind it. The only thing missing to make a fortress of the compound was a palisade between buildings, which lacked even a picket fence. It would be easy to defend the estate with just a few well-armed men with a killing field out to three hundred yards. But only a practiced eye would realize that fact. Anyone who had spent time in the military would immediately see it for what it truly was—a prepared, heavily defended position.

  It took a lot to impress Coen, but the layout of this picturesque environment with huge shade trees sheltering either side of the log home went above and beyond the norm. It could have been the large pond on the back of the property that offered a peaceful view this team required to stay sane, but he figured he was more enthralled with the layered security and surveillance equipment surrounding the perimeter. It was state of the art and one of the numerous reasons why the entire team was staying here on the compound versus their own apartments scattered all over a thirty-mile radius.

  “Well, look who’s back from the great white north.” Coen glanced out the passenger side window as he placed the gearshift into park to find that Sawyer was walking out of the side entrance to the main house. He had a carafe full of coffee in one hand and a pile of folders in the other. “What the hell is that shit on your face?”

  “I needed something to keep the frostbite at bay,” Coen replied, running his fingers down the whiskers he’d shave off later tonight before he racked out. An image of Brettany’s flushed chin from where his short beard had rubbed her skin came to mind. He pulled the key from the ignition before rolling the metal ring over his finger so that he could palm the set. It was time to concentrate on the business at hand. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that little shit figured out a way to control a weather satellite. I had a nightmare that he was laughing his ass off while hiding behind his monitors and drinking pina coladas with those fucking tiny umbrellas sticking out of them.”

  He didn’t have to name names. Sawyer was well aware that Coen was referring to Brody, their IT guru.

  “At least you had a decent rental house.” Sawyer fell into step beside Coen as they both walked down the now paved sidewalk from the main house to the outbuilding—basically a four-door garage—that was currently being used as SSI’s headquarters. They had built onto the back maintenance bay to provide enough room for the business’ open floor plan operations area. “I was stuck in the house from hell. It could literally have been Barbie’s dollhouse over there in the Garden District.”

  “It was actually pink?” Coen asked in somewhat disbelief, thinking back to when he was a boy playing with his one and only G.I. Joe doll. Molly Willows would always try and join him with her Barbie doll, carrying around a large, pink plastic house. “Tell me it wasn’t pink.”

  “Oh, it was pink, alright.” Sawyer tucked the file folders underneath his arm so that he c
ould reach out and twist the doorknob to Brody’s castle. “It even had white trim that looked like those lace dollies my grandmother used to have scattered around her living room. Brody doesn’t realize that all this shit is stacking up and that we’re going to deliver karma right back on top of his ass.”

  The team was definitely back together. Loud voices were talking over one another as Brody was lecturing Keane about staying away from the 3D printer. Apparently, it wasn’t a toy. Royce was holding a finger in one ear while holding his cell phone to the other in a fruitless attempt to hear what was being said on the other end of the line over the din. Calvert was off in the corner with none other than Camryn Novak, most likely discussing what had happened to her and if she could recall anything that could lead them to Shepherd Moss.

  Coen had never met the actress in person, but it was apparent that Sawyer had swallowed the bait…hook, line, and sinker. The man’s protective gaze landed squarely on Camryn as she immediately looked over to see who had walked in the door.

  The actress’ smile lit up the room when she saw Sawyer.

  Coen ignored the sharp knot in his stomach at recognizing the adoration this woman had for Sawyer. His situation was totally different than theirs. Brettany was two thousand miles away up in the mountains of snowy Colorado where she lived a safe life tucked away in her tiny hometown with her parents only a few miles down the road. Okay, it was relatively safe, given the recent circumstances.

  He’d been fortunate enough to have this morning to reflect upon during his later years, thinking back on that one special woman he let get away.

  He really needed to get his head on straight.

  “You must be Coen.” Camryn had untangled herself from what was probably a grilling session by Calvert, though he would have referred to it as an everyday kind of conversation. She slipped her left arm around Sawyer’s waist while holding out her other in greeting. “I’m Camryn. I’d like to preface our introduction by saying I’m nothing like my brother in any way. I’m the good sibling. I think he might have been dropped on his head one too many times as an infant.”

  “I like you already,” Coen replied with a smile, shaking her hand before shifting his sights to the spot he last saw Calvert. The man’s grey eyes were trained on him as well. It was obvious he had some detailed information that had most likely already been shared with the team. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to discuss some issues with Calvert.”

  “I totally understand.” Camryn rose up on her tiptoes and gave Sawyer a brief kiss. “I’m going to head up to the house and call Mom. I know she’s been worried and…”

  Coen left the two to discuss whatever it was they needed to talk about and made a direct beeline around the conference table and the gathered assembly toward Calvert. He wasn’t the easiest on the eyes, with what could only be considered murky grey eyes, a crooked nose, and a two-inch scar that ran horizontal to his jawline. The black tattoo of an eagle, globe, and anchor on the side of his neck probably didn’t have all the grandmothers fawning over him the way they did the two all-American boys—Keane or Sawyer. Those two were picture perfect Boy Scouts compared to the man standing in front of Coen.

  “I take it you handed off your protective detail without issue?”

  “Yes, I did,” Coen replied, pulling out a chair at a small round table that had been set up off to the side to specifically hold conversations for the group SITREPs. He took a seat and rolled up his sleeves, wishing he’d stopped at his apartment before driving straight to Sorrento. The few clothes he had up at the main house would suffice until tomorrow. “Brody’s been keeping me up-to-date on the investigation, but have there been any new developments since I left Colorado?”

  Calvert studied him as he took his time in finding a specific folder before sliding it over for Coen to read. This was one of the reasons he appreciated working under such a dedicated professional. Calvert heeded the need for professional boundaries to be kept in place. He left well enough alone unless interference was absolutely necessary, though he was somehow aware of every single detail that affected his team or the case…just as he did now.

  “My brother turned himself in this morning for violating his parole.” Coen answered the silent question before opening the folder and looking at the contents inside. He’d stated what Calvert most likely had known about yesterday. His reach was rather astounding, but it was also the reason SSI got shit done. Case in point, the intelligence written in this report. “What am I looking at?”

  “In the prosecutor’s own summary of his case to prove to the jury that Shepherd Moss’ victims spread out from the time he was in his early twenties to the time of his capture, their investigators missed something.” Apparently, so had SSI until now. It begged the question, who exactly had brought this information to their attention? “Tracy Anderson was not actually Moss’ first victim.”

  “How sure are you of this information?” Coen lifted the picture of a rather old skeleton half-buried in dirt in the middle of what looked like a dense forest. There were brief details of a case that still appeared open. He quickly perused the evidence obtained in a cold case that had been unsolved for over three decades. “There’s no evidence linking this murder to Moss, and you’re implying that this was committed by a twelve-year-old boy. That’s a far reach, even if it was my report that brought this to your attention. Moss’ casual mention of this murder in an article was mostly just fodder for his twisted fantasies involving the detailed torture of all those women.”

  “Then let me tell you a story.” Calvert flipped his seat backward, leaning his elbows over the back of the chair. One by one the other team members gathered around, though Coen figured they’d already been briefed. It must be one hell of a theory. “Caroline Marinovic was a fifth-grade teacher who went missing over summer break eighteen years ago. She was a twenty-five-year-old brunette who was engaged to be married to a man she met in the college they had both attended. One day, she just up and disappeared. Her body was found five years ago, and her murder still remains unsolved to this day. There are few facts known about her case.”

  Coen flipped through the thick file and came to a class roster, already knowing that Moss’ name wouldn’t be included. He would have been in seventh or eighth grade at the time of this offense. As far as he could tell, there was no connection.

  “Let me guess.” Brody rolled his stool closer so he could join the conversation. His Hawaiian shirt was untucked, but it was easy to distinguish the weapon underneath the loose fabric. Shit always got real when Brody took to wearing a firearm. He was more comfortable with a knife sheathed to his belt and a keyboard underneath the pads of his fingers. Coen, on the other hand, always carried. He’d unpacked his Sig Sauer P220 Elite from its shipping container to reload it and his two spare magazines the minute he cleared the airport terminal. “You think Moss had a crush on Marinovic and sought some type of revenge when she didn’t return his affection. Wait. No. I have one better. Marinovic had a predilection for young boys and little Shepherd was one of her victims, which he felt gave him license to torture and cut up his victims to the point where they suffer for days as an ode to her earlier abuse.”

  Brody wasn’t wrong in assuming serial killers had some type of trigger that involved domestic or sexual abuse early on. It certainly wasn’t something to make light of, but black humor sometimes carried them through the darkest of days. It was a common phenomenon among police and combat veterans.

  “Not even close.” Calvert gestured toward the file that was still in Coen’s possession. “Take a look at Marinovic’s fiancé.”

  Coen had to lift a few pages before he located Lucas Grove’s interview. The top portion of the sheet gave the bullet points on the man’s life.

  “Grove was a twenty-six-year-old with a BS in education at the time Marinovic was murdered.” Coen continued to read the highlights of the man’s life as it became clear the rest of his team hadn’t been fully debriefed on this lead. They were all leani
ng forward, waiting for the loaded gun to appear in the tale. “He was a biology teacher who had a clean record and a complete rock solid alibi for the night Marinovic went missing.”

  “Considering Moss was twelve at the time, are you suggesting that Grove somehow manipulated a twelve-year-old boy into committing murder at his behest?” Keane inquired, shaking his head in disagreement. “I don’t see it.”

  “Neither did anyone else until Coen sent a message to Brody last night with itemized summaries regarding some old interviews Moss gave to a couple of news outlets after his verdict had been handed down.” Calvert rubbed the scar on the side of his face, most likely not even realizing what he was doing. “Marinovic’s body was totally decomposed upon its discovery in the forest fourteen years after the fact, so there is no way to tell if there were any of those telltale carvings in her skin. Her cause of death was ruled a homicide, though.”

  “She was stabbed multiple times,” Coen said, reading some specifics off the autopsy report. “At least, according to the massive amount of tool marks found on the bones.”

  “I’m not saying Moss for certain had a role in Marinovic’s murder, but she and Grove both taught in the same school district.” Calvert reached for the glass carafe Sawyer had brought with him, most likely containing his favorite special blend usually kept up at the main house. He poured the steaming liquid into his mug, topping it off right to the brim. “No one ever connected the two for several reasons, the main one being that Moss would have only been twelve years old at the time and never even had Marinovic as a teacher in fifth grade.”

  “You think Marinovic was Moss’ first victim.” Coen scanned the rest of the criminal report, but found nothing else that would help their current problem of locating the notorious serial killer. “Even if you could prove this, how does this help us now?”