Love.
That’s what all these pictures were about. Love, family, happiness. A celebration of life.
Then she came to the ones of Castello. Standing guard. Slightly off to one side. A part of the family, yet separate. Always on duty. Finally, the ones with him catching Sami and Jake’s daughter and smiling down into the little cherub’s giggling face.
The door behind her opened.
“That’s Libby. Short for Elizabeth.” Frank’s deep voice rumbled from behind her.
“She’s so cute.”
“She’s going to be a terror when she’s a teen.”
Sydney laughed. “Oh, she’s going to be wonderful. She already is.”
He moved closer, studying all the images from the wedding she’d captured.
“I’m going to make a special album of these for Abby and Luke. A surprise wedding gift. You know, showing them all the happiness among family and friends their wedding brought about.” Dang it, she knew she was babbling. Having Frank examine her work, it made her…nervous.
“They’re very good.” He gave her a small smile over his shoulder, and continued moving slowly down the line of photos hanging on the drying wire. “You have a great eye for capturing emotions with your camera.”
Sydney let out the breath she’d been holding and relaxed. “Thank you.”
With a quiet intensity she’d come to think of as his natural state, he moved from picture to picture. He’d reach out and grasp one at just the corner to pull it closer so he could see it better. After a moment he’d move on to the next. She didn’t expect him to gush on and on about them. It wasn’t his style. His scrutiny of each image was praise in itself.
“Why don’t you like photographers?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
He didn’t answer, just kept studying her pictures—one by one. Finally, he reached the end. Turning, he leaned back against the counter.
“I don’t hate all photographers,” he finally said. He waved his hand at the line of images between them. “I certainly don’t hate the artist that created these.”
Her cheeks heated with his praise. “Thank you. But you know what I’m asking. Katie told me at the wedding that you hate photographers.”
“Katie should mind her own business.”
Sydney fought the urge to growl at him. She wasn’t going to let him evade the subject. “What happened?”
“I was fresh out of training. Assigned to the Southern Dragons drug cartel case in D.C.”
“I’ve heard of the Southern Dragons. They ran marijuana, meth and illegal moonshine from Georgia all the way up to New York, didn’t they?”
“Yes, mostly in the rural South, but anywhere on the outskirts of the big cities. It’s how they stayed out of the DEA’s headlights for so long. We were so busy trying to stop drugs crossing the borders that the homegrown dealers got a quiet foothold on the market.”
“How did they get on the radar, then?”
“Greed.”
“What do you mean, greed?”
“They decided to move into more urban areas, spread their distribution into the cities. Turf wars happened, and suddenly the DEA was very interested in what the Dragons were up to.”
“You were protecting a witness?”
“Kevin Trunket, a kid all of nineteen.” Frank paused, his jaw going hard, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes narrowed for a moment, then he blinked. “Good kid. Wanted to go to diesel-mechanics school and work on eighteen-wheelers. Instead, he got caught up in the family business by his older brothers.”
“What happened?” she prodded gently. If she was right, Frank had never shared this story with anyone before.
“Kid got picked up in a raid on one of their warehouses. He had no record and was just working on the engine of a truck. When they started questioning him, he asked if he told everything he knew could the government help him relocate. Turns out, he’d been keeping records of all the trucks he’d worked on, the names of the drivers, when they’d been sent out for deliveries, and the mileage logged. He also knew the names of the higher-ups, almost all of them related to him. Our people used that information to build their case.”
“He put his life on the line for this,” she said, admiring the young man’s courage.
“Yep. He was to give his testimony in secrecy to protect him from retribution. My job was to see that he stayed hidden between appearances. Everything went well. He testified. The cartel’s leaders and most of their crew were found guilty and sentenced to years in jail.”
“Then?”
“We were on our way out of the courthouse to take Kevin to the safe house until we were ready to set up his new identity. It should’ve been a quick exit. Only somehow we were ambushed by a bunch of camera-wielding paparazzi. While we were trying to get him through the crowd and into the car, shots rang out. People and cameras scattered. Kevin was killed instantly.”
Dear God, she knew it had to be bad.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, laying her hand on his chest.
Closing his eyes he shook his head, a tear rolling down his cheek. “It was my job, Syd. My job to keep him safe. I got distracted and he ended up dead. And you want to know the worst part?” he asked, his eyes snapping open to stare angrily at her.
“What?”
“Those photographers. Those damn vultures started taking pictures while we were trying to take down the shooter and get an ambulance for Kevin. They just stood there snapping pictures of him in a pool of his own blood.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him, holding him close. “No wonder you hate us.”
He held her tight for a few moments. His chest heaved beneath her head a few times, then the tension in his body seemed to relax in her arms. Leaning back, she gazed up at him.
“I don’t hate you. Not someone who can capture this much love and beauty with a camera,” he said, before lowering his mouth to hers, in a slow, tender kiss.
After a few moments, he eased back from her, smoothing a strand of hair from her face. “I came down to tell you I’m meeting with a police detective in a couple of hours.”
“Where are we meeting him?” she asked, stepping back to grab the camera she’d already filled with more film.
“Not we. You’re staying here.” He moved to the door.
She grabbed his arm. “You shouldn’t go alone. What if someone follows them, or something?”
He cocked his head to the side as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Worried about me?”
Duh.
“Of course, I’m worried about you. Someone hit you with a car yesterday. Presumably the same person who blew up my house.”
A slow, sexy smile spread over his face. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”
“What if they try it again? You need some backup, or whatever you lawmen types call it.”
He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her in close. “I promise to be careful, and I am taking backup.” He laid another quick kiss on her. “Dave’s coming with me.”
“Dave?”
“Sami’s oldest brother. He and Matt are both upstairs.” Frank’s face grew serious once more. “That was the other thing I came to tell you. They want to talk to you about Ian.”
“I don’t know what more I can tell them. He was in and out of my life so infrequently.”
Franks stepped back. “Just talk with them. Something they ask you might trigger a memory and that might help us find him.”
“Don’t we need to find who he was blackmailing, not Ian?”
“You’re right, we do need to find the person he’s trying to blackmail and whoever they’ve got trying to kill you. But Syd, your brother is in a mess way over his head.”
“And you think the person who killed Annabeth will kill Ian if they find him.”
* * * * *
The Three-Legged Mare was just as advertised. An Irish-American tavern with a pub feel. High-top tabl
es surrounded by tall stools in one section, booths and tables for dining in another. A third seating area was up the stairs in a loft-like setting. Large flat-screen TVs spread around so patrons could watch sports while dining or drinking. Frank had been here a few times for dinner and with some of the other marshals after work. The menu offered regular bar food and traditional Irish food like shepherd’s pie, bangers and mash, and corned beef and cabbage. The beers were everything from commercially bottled to specialty draught.
He wasn’t in the mood for any of it tonight.
The dinner crowd had thinned out, and serious baseball fans sat watching the interstate play between the Cleveland Indians and the Cincinnati Reds, when Frank and Dave arrived.
Back at Doyle’s place, he’d filled both Dave and Matt in on what had been happening, what they believed was the cause for someone gunning for Sydney, and where they were in their investigations—including bothering Luke on his honeymoon. Both brothers got a kick out of that.
“That’s Chambers,” Dave said, nodding to one of the high-top tables on their right as they entered the pub. A middle-aged, bald man with tufts of grey hair around his ears and neck was working on what resembled a Rueben sandwich, a beer in front of him. Despite his age and apparent rich diet, the man appeared to be in good physical shape.
Weaving through the noisy crowd, they approached the table.
“Edgars,” Chambers said, wiping his hand on a napkin then offering it to Dave. “Wasn’t expecting SWAT here. Just your friend.”
“Marshal Castello is family, Bob, and I’m helping him on this case.”
“Castello,” Chambers said, the tenor of his voice less friendly then a moment earlier, but he offered his hand anyways.
“Chambers.” Frank shook his hand then took one of the seats, along with Dave. The waitress came by and they each ordered a beer.
“Hope you don’t mind meeting here. When my day started out, I didn’t think I’d be seeing my house, let alone a meal,” Chambers said, before taking another bite.
“Was Abrams a friend of yours?” Frank asked.
Chambers finished off his beer as the waitress returned, ordering another one. “We worked some cases together. I’m homicide. He was major cases not usually involving murder.”
“Where were you on his case?” Dave asked.
“The techs had worked over the car. We were running finger prints, but all we found so far were Abrams’. The M.E. is doing the autopsy, we were waiting for the final report, but I can tell you we found four gunshots in him. Two to the head, two to the chest. Whoever did this shoved him into his trunk and shot him.” Chambers pushed the remains of his food away and sat back in his chair. “They shoved him in his God damn trunk.”
The table grew quiet as they all contemplated the disrespect shown to a fellow officer.
“Did you find anything else?” Dave asked after a few moments.
“The case file was in the car, untouched. His tablet was on the passenger seat, too. It hadn’t been touched, either.” He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook and opened it. “This was in his jacket. His notes so far on the case. It had three names in it.” His unwavering eyes met Frank’s. “A Sydney Peele, an Ian Peele, and yours. When I ran your name, imagine my surprise to learn one of the last people to talk to him was a U.S. Deputy Marshal. So, of course I ran it past my boss, who contacted your boss. And poof! Suddenly a cop killing has national security or some bullshit implications, and I’m told to back off.”
Frank didn’t deny the man’s accusation or question his anger. After all, he had asked his boss to get the local cops to let up on the case. He understood Chambers’ ire, especially since the dead man was one of their own.
A few moments passed. Neither spoke. It was a game of mental chicken. The one that spoke last had the upper hand.
Chambers broke first.
“You asked for this meeting. What do you need from me?”
“First, I have to ask, did you find a dent in the right front fender area of Abrams’ car?” Frank asked.
“As a matter of fact, there was. Had some blood and fibers. Our techs are running them for DNA.”
“Don’t bother. It’s mine.”
That got Chambers attention. “Yours?”
“Whoever killed your man used the car to try and kill my witness. I grabbed her to knock her out of the way. The car got my leg in the process.”
“I’ll tell the techs to confirm it. So this killer used Abrams’ car for a hit-and-run. Why? Because of the arson case he was working on?”
“I don’t think killing your man had a damn thing to do with him or anything he might’ve discovered so early in the arson case. Abrams hadn’t had time to process any of the information that my witness or I gave him, which I can tell you at the time was damn little.”
“So why kill Abrams?” Chambers asked.
Normally, Chambers would be the kind of investigator Frank would love. He asked questions—a lot of questions. And he had the tenacity of a bulldog with his favorite bone. He just wouldn’t let it go. Today, Frank was having trouble admiring that trait.
“I think it was a matter of convenience. Your man was at the wrong place, wrong time.”
“Why use Abrams’ car? Why not their own for the hit-and-run?”
“The killer is trying to leave no trail. He’s got someone helping him hunt my witness.” Frank, elbows on the table, leaned in closer. “I asked for this meeting, because I wanted to tell you that this case is more than just the murder of your man.”
“The big stop sign you’ve waved at my boss told me that.”
Frank ignored the sarcasm, closing his mouth tight.
“The problem is, we don’t know who we’re looking for, yet. We know they’ve got some high-up political connections,” Dave stepped into the conversation.
“So you don’t know who to trust?” It was a statement more than a question.
“No. And I don’t want to tip anyone’s hand that the investigation has switched from the arson case to something much more complex.” Frank let the pause speak for him. Chambers was a smart detective, he’d get the idea.
“So, while you don’t want me digging too deeply into your witness’ past or whereabouts, you’d like me to keep working Abrams’ murder, at least on the surface.”
Give the man a prize.
“Yes. I’ll send you any information that we come across that might help your investigation, and when we find out who’s pulling the strings, I promise you’ll get your killer.”
“And you’ll want information from me, I presume?”
Frank gave him a slight nod in deference. “I’d be very obliged if you’d forward the ballistics findings and any related matches on to us. It might link to some other murders.”
Chambers agreed. Frank paid the bill for all of them, including the man’s dinner and they left.
“You’re thinking the shooter is a hit man?” Dave asked, once they were in the car.
Frank shrugged. “Whoever is after Sydney was able to find her computer through her IP address. Not the usual abilities of an amateur. Then there’s the double-tap to the cop’s head.”
“So, you’ve stepped into a pile of horse shit.”
“Hip deep.”
“I have one question,” Dave said with a grin as he drove onto High Street, heading back to Doyle’s place in Clintonville.
“What?”
“Is she worth it?”
“Absolutely,” Frank answered without hesitation.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sydney sat in the overstuffed chair occupying the corner of Doyle’s command center as she worked on the photos from her Vermont trip on her laptop.
After Frank and Dave had left to meet with the police officer, she’d finished up in Doyle’s darkroom, cleaning it exactly as he’d had it before she’d invaded the space. Even standing back to admire it and laugh at how Castello would approve of her efforts.
She had to admit, sh
e might like teasing the big guy about his near-OCD neatness, but there was something to admire in someone who could be so consistent. It spoke of a steady strength. A smile toyed on her lips. But even he had his limits, and she was the one capable of pushing him over that line.
“What’s got you grinning like the cat that ate the cream?” Doyle asked from his spot by the monitors.
“Just thinking Frank would appreciate how neatly I cleaned up your darkroom,” she answered, hoping the older man couldn’t see the blush in her hot cheeks.
“Our Marshal is a bit of a neat freak, is he?”
“Calling Castello a neat freak is like saying the Pope is Catholic,” Jake said, returning with two mugs of coffee and more of the cookies his wife sent.
“That bad?” Doyle asked, taking one of the mugs.
“Not really,” Sydney said, suddenly wanting to defend Frank’s habits.
“Oh, yeah, it’s that bad,” Matt said, whirling around on one of the swivel chairs at the computers to snag two cookies. “He color-coordinates his poker chips on poker night.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Sydney set her laptop aside. “You can calculate how much you have if they’re in different piles. I do that when I play.”
A grin settled on Matt’s face and his eyes crinkled. “Yes, but do you line them up in monetary order? Lowest to highest?”
Sydney laughed. “No, I don’t go that far.”
“You should try it,” Frank said from the doorway, the deep rumble teasing her senses and warming her from the inside out. “Easiest way to tell if you’re winning or losing.”
She met his dark gaze across the room. “Did you learn anything new?”
Shaking his head, he never took his eyes off her. His gaze slowly swept over her from head to toe, as if assessing if she was still in one piece or if this whole affair had finally gotten to her. She straightened in her seat, gave him a whisper of a smile and nodded once.
All her life people kept thinking she was some little doll, easily broken. But from the day her father died she knew she was tougher than people thought and she wanted Frank to know he could count on her.
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