by Mel Gough
She ran a bath. Sinking into the foamy hot water was heaven. Muscles she hadn’t even noticed getting tight unkinked, and her body relaxed. Stretching out with a sigh, she closed her tired eyes. But as soon as the fragrant steam began to settle on her skin, her mind was back on the case.
Why was there no evidence? How could Barry disappear into thin air? The murderer had to have known the vic. Their unsub was close to the band, Carrie could feel it. But all the alibis had checked out. What were they missing?
Carrie sat up, annoyed. She’d been in the bath for maybe five minutes, but it was doing no good. She could float around until she shriveled like a prune; it wouldn’t soothe her. Her bruised synapses needed a stronger sedative.
She stood up so suddenly, water sloshed over the rim. At least she was clean now. She toweled off and smoothed her hair into shape. The steam had made it stand up in all directions.
She had one clean, semi-casual top left. Gotta find out if the hotel offers laundry service. She slipped on jeans and sneakers.
For an early weekday evening, the bar was busy. Carrie, used to travelling and visiting all kinds of establishments on her own, carried her notebook with her. The Glock rested on her hip, concealed by the blazer she never went without. As she sat, she caught a glimpse of the jacket’s lining. Shit, it was beginning to fray where the gun rubbed against it. Few of her jackets lasted more than a few months.
She settled at the bar and opened the page with her summary notes. She’d wanted distraction, sure. But sometimes, a change of scenery was exactly what was needed to see evidence in a new light.
“Good evening, Agent McDonald.”
Carrie looked up. Corey Hart stood there, smiling a smile Carrie found hard to look away from. He indicated the bar stool next to hers. “May I?”
She nodded before her instinctive reticence could kick in. He slid onto the seat gracefully, the muscles in his arm rippling as he supported himself against the bar. He nodded at the bartender. “Scotch, and another one for the lady.”
The hairs prickled on the back of Carrie’s neck. Presumptive men were a huge turn off. But she’d winced at the prices on the menu and had ordered only a small glass of house red, which would hardly scratch the edges of her restlessness.
“It’s not exactly the greatest bar in town,” Corey said while they waited for the drinks. If he’d noticed Carrie bristling, he ignored it. “But after the day we’ve had I haven’t got the energy to find another place.” He indicated her notes. “Work keeping you up?”
She flicked the pad shut and immediately wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t as if there were secrets in there. And now he had to think he’d gotten under her skin. “It’s a puzzling case. Those tend to get to me.”
His eyes darkened and his elegant forehead creased as if in pain. “It’s a damn shame about Barry.” His voice was laden with sadness. “He was one of the good guys. The best, really. They’re not exactly ten a penny in this business.”
“Did you spend time with him outside of work?” Carrie hadn’t planned to carry out any more interrogations that day, but she went with the flow.
Corey shook his head. “Only on tour. And way back when we made the album. But I hadn’t seen him in years before we started planning the tour.” He paused, contemplating. “Lou and Jay would come to visit sometimes, or I went back east to see them. Barry lived in Upstate New York, but he wasn’t around when I was in the city.”
“You live in Beverly Hills?”
Corey nodded. “Most of the time. I moved back in with Jay and Lou while we got ready for the tour. They have a place in Chelsea. Since everyone lived east, it made sense for me to be the one to relocate.”
“Did Barry ever talk about other clients? Anyone that was giving him grief?”
“You mean like blackmailing?”
Carrie’s gaze narrowed. “It’s a possibility,” she conceded. “Though there’s no evidence of that right now. What made you think of blackmail?”
Corey shrugged, looking troubled. “I’m not sure. To answer your question, no, he didn’t mention anyone giving him trouble. But he’d seemed kinda off for a while. Like there was a lot of pressure on him. I can assure you, it wasn’t coming from us.”
“I’d imagine putting together a concert tour is stressful.”
Corey shrugged again. “Sure it is. But he enjoyed that kind of challenge. He was a great manager, he kept all the balls in the air. That’s why the thing with the fucked-up deposit was so strange.”
“And you didn’t get any sense of what it could have been that was putting this unusual pressure on him?”
Corey shook his head. “He and I, we weren’t that close. It was Jay he confided in, they were thick as thieves most of the time.” He held up his hand as Carrie got ready to ask the obvious. “No, he didn’t tell Jay anything either. That’s partly why Jay blew his gasket like he did at dinner. He’d tried to get Barry to tell him what was up for days. He was frustrated.” He gave her a look from the dazzling eyes that was almost furtive. “We’re close, Jay, Lou and I. We talk about things that bother us. Not very butch, I guess.” He shrugged his wide shoulders.
Carrie inclined her head. “Fair enough. Mr. Hart—”
“Corey, please.”
“All right. Corey, I appreciate you telling me all this—”
“But this isn’t the time or place for an interview?” That dazzling smile again. “I agree. Agent McDonald, would you care for another drink?”
To her surprise, both her glasses were empty. I shouldn’t… “All right.” Her mouth worked without her say-so. “But only another small one.”
When the drinks arrived Corey lifted his glass. “I’m glad to see that the ‘Just the facts, ma’am’ stereotype of the G-man was vastly overinflated.”
It was impossible not to return his impish grin. “There are many myths about FBI agents that are vastly overinflated.” Carrie clinked glasses with him. “As I’m sure there are for rock stars, too.”
She’d hoped her repartee would amuse him, but Corey’s expression turned glum. He looked down at his hands, turning his scotch glass on the napkin. “There sure are.” He didn’t look up. Then he squared his shoulders and when he met her gaze again a slightly strained smile was back in place. “How long have you been with the FBI?”
“Fifteen years this July.” Having such a long, private conversation with someone connected to a case was very unlike her. It was difficult to resist his charms. Moreover, she didn’t want to.
“You know what I’m obliged to say to that?”
Carrie grinned. Her face was starting to hurt. She hadn’t smiled this much in months. “That I can’t possibly be old enough for that to be true?” She scoffed. “Believe me, I am.”
He dipped his head. “Touché.” He leaned closer. “This isn’t exactly a case for the feds, is it?”
Was he buttering her up so she would divulge confidential details? Did he have any reason to do so? “Barry’s body was found on federal land.” A frostiness crept into her voice, and it wasn’t lost on Corey. He leaned back, throwing up his hands.
“Fair enough. Butting out. But for the record, I was only making conversation.”
Carrie studied him. The contrite glance he threw her went right to her heart. He’s an honest guy. And he was confounding many expectations. “Don’t worry about it.”
Corey took a big gulp from his glass. Would he get up and leave now? Carrie really didn’t want that. But she kept silent, her mind blank. She might fool everyone with her tough special agent persona, but when it came to small talk, she often felt at sea. But it didn’t seem like he wanted to go anywhere either.
“Where are you based when you’re not catching killers in Texas?” His tone was back to gentle curiosity.
Carrie’s relief was surprising and uncomfortable. “Baltimore Field Office. But I haven’t seen much of my desk recently. My specialty is organized crime, and those guys are much more numerous than we have agents, so we lend a hand
where we can.” Again with the excessive detail. Why was it so easy to talk to this guy? “You must know a fair bit about that? Being away from home, I mean.”
Corey nodded. “When we were younger, this was our best life.” He glanced around the elegant bar with its understated luxurious décor. “Only the hotels didn’t start out this swanky.”
Carrie snorted. “You should see where the Bureau usually puts us up. They’ll have a fit when they see my travel expenses this month.” It slipped out against her better judgment. The wine was starting to make itself felt. Criticizing her employer in front of murder suspects wasn’t her style.
Oh, come on, he’s no more a suspect than the bartender. Carrie eyed the well-coiffed young guy now serving a martini to an elderly man in an expensive suit. Maybe she should haul him in for questioning, too. Maybe this was a conspiracy by the entire Four Seasons staff. Maybe this was an episode of Twin Peaks. She giggled.
Corey’s eyebrow went up. “Something amusing, Agent McDonald?”
She shook her head, forcing down the laughter threatening to erupt again. She nodded at her fresh glass of wine. “This was a bad idea.”
He shrugged. “That’s never stopped me. It’s kind of in my rock star job description, but at least the smashing up of hotel rooms has been made optional.” His eyes twinkled. Carrie giggled. She clamped a hand over her mouth. His amusement faded as he continued. “I don’t mind telling you, the older you get, the harder it is squaring this lifestyle.”
“I can’t imagine the hardship is overwhelming.” Carrie didn’t bother to keep a slight note of scorn from her voice. “I hear the benefits package is substantial, and the company good.” She glanced across the bar at a group of young women in scanty clothing who were observing Corey’s every move.
Corey snorted softly. “True enough.” But when he followed her gaze, his shoulders tensed. He stood.
Carrie’s heart sank. She didn’t want him to leave. But he beckoned her to follow. More relieved than she would’ve cared to admit, Carrie picked up her glass. They went to the other end of the room, where a number of small tables sat in semi-darkness.
“They’re less likely to come over when you’re sitting at a table.” He threw a look toward the girls still hovering. “I’m not in the mood for autographs tonight.” His expression was stony, and he downed his drink in one. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the fans. Without them, we’d be nothing. And for the most part I enjoy hanging out with them.”
“So I hear.” Carrie kept her voice low. “That’s why you have a watertight alibi for the night of Barry’s murder.”
He looked startled, then shook his head in disbelief. “Figures, huh?” Then something seemed to occur to him and he leaned in closer. “For your information, I can vouch for Jay and Lou’s alibi being just as watertight.”
“I want to believe you.” She glanced into his mesmerizing eyes again. The urge to tell him everything, the frustration with the case and how much she felt like a fish out of water was overwhelming. But instead, she forced herself to break eye contact and push away her wine. “I think I had enough.”
“I swear, I wasn’t trying to get you drunk.” Corey looked worried. “Are you feeling okay?”
She nodded sheepishly. “I’m fine. I should’ve paced myself. I may have forgotten to eat dinner.”
Corey signaled a passing waiter. “Can we get some pretzels here?” He raised his glass. “And one refill.” He turned to Carrie. “Or do you want to get something more substantial?”
Carrie shook her head. “Eating late gives me nightmares.”
“Same for me.” Corey smiled. “I’d never met an FBI agent until today. You’re not what I expected.”
“You caught me with my guard down.” The effects of the wine were beginning to diminish, but Carrie didn’t mind this admission.
“Do you like your job?”
“Yes.” She’d never had to think twice about the answer to that question. Even when she didn’t care for a case, she’d never wanted to do anything else. Her career had almost ended once; she didn’t want to risk that again.
“Is it one of those jobs that you love even when you hate it?”
How did he know? Carrie bit her tongue. Instead of answering, she modulated the question. “You know about that kind?”
He gave a grimace and a shrug. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to card-carrying members of the club.”
That got her a laugh. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” Corey’s voice was softer and more serious than the banter warranted.
“Deal.” Carrie studied him. In the dim light, his face had taken on a much softer aspect. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever had a prolonged, private conversation with, but he looked much more real sitting at this table, fiddling with his empty glass.
“I still love this gig.” He also seemed to be in a confiding mood. “With all the bells and whistles, and the baggage too. Pay’s amazing, most days you can sleep in, and the fans love you. I enjoy people, Agent McDonald.” He smirked, and it went right through Carrie. A tingling rose from the base of her spine, and her heart rate sped up.
“The best thing’s the music, though. It’s the only job I remember ever wanting to do.” He shook his head. “It’s been fucking incredible, pardon my French. But for the first time I wonder if the price is worth paying—” He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he looked up again, his eyes were full of a pain so raw it seemed to fill the room. “Why did this happen to him, Agent McDonald? Why Barry?”
The depth of his grief was palpable. Carrie’s heart gave a spasm of sympathy. It was unsettling and touching, seeing this self-assured, famous rock star sitting there with tears in his eyes. She didn’t know what to say. Her dealings with a victim’s family and friends were usually brief.
Biting her lip, she squeezed his hand on the table. “I’m so sorry, Corey.” It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.
He let out a long breath, throwing himself back in his seat. He scrubbed both hands over his face. For a moment, he remained motionless. Then he dropped his hands. His gaze, still misted with tears, held hers.
“Come upstairs with me,” he said in a voice so low Carrie had to rely on reading his lips to be sure of the meaning.
She considered pretending she hadn’t heard. But he looked so vulnerable, she couldn’t be cruel. “Mr. Hart—” she began. Her windpipe seemed blocked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Corey, I can’t do that.”
He looked like he wanted to protest, but then he just looked away. “Of course you can’t.” He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh, not meeting her eyes.
Using the table for support, he pushed himself to his feet. Leaning close, he said, “Good night, Agent McDonald.” His breath was warm and soft with the smell of Scotch.
He straightened up and walked away, wiping his eyes once with the back of his hand. Nodding briefly at the fans who clamored for his attention, but not slowing his step, he disappeared toward the elevators.
Something caught Carrie’s attention from the corner of her eye. She looked down. On the table, where Corey’s hand had been, lay a small cardboard square, like the one her room key had been attached to. Carrie picked it up. The number written on it in blue ink read 508. One floor down from Barry’s room.
In all of her years with the Bureau, Carrie had never been tempted to get involved with someone connected to a case—if you ignored her relationship with Shane.
It’s not even an FBI case. But it was her case now. She had to resist temptation.
But he’d been so sad. His pain had touched her in a place she kept closed off from the world. And her attraction to him was undeniable. He wasn’t a suspect, and he was clearly interested. How often did that happen these days?
Carrie picked up her abandoned wineglass and downed the last couple of inches in one. Then she stood, clutching the cardboard with his room number. She almost ran toward the elevators, before she could
change her mind. This wasn’t like her, she always kept control. It really was all kinds of wrong.
Then why does it feel so right?
He didn’t seem surprised when he found her knocking on his door. “Nice to see you again, Carrie.”
“I have a feeling I’ll regret this come morning.” Her heart beat so fast it would burst from her chest any moment.
Corey stepped aside and bowed her inside. “How about I make sure you don’t?”
6
The door fell closed and he stepped into her space, taking her in his arms. He hesitated, maybe worrying he’d gone too fast, but she smiled, and he relaxed. The first kiss was sweet and hot, and went on for a minute.
He tasted of toothpaste. A hint of booze infused the minty layer, and Carrie savored the sensation. He was a touch shorter than she’d estimated, and when she looked down he was barefoot. His feet were long and elegant, with carefully pedicured nails. Pale hair covered the toes, and Carrie wondered what it would feel like to touch them.
“Hey.” He tipped her head back up. “I wasn’t done here.”
Her tongue tingled as he resumed the kiss, exploring her mouth. She closed her eyes so she could better concentrate on the sensation. His lips were sensuous and agile, just like she’d imagined. The slight scratch from his late-night stubble added to the excitement.
A warmth began to blossom at the base of her spine. Susan was right. She needed this, badly.
A noise escaped from her throat without her say-so. He chuckled and pulled away. Carrie suppressed another sound. She wasn’t ready to relinquish his mouth. “What?”
“You were purring.” His eyes crinkled as he grinned at her. It was hella sexy.
“No, I wasn’t.” She thought for a moment. “Okay, maybe.”
He gave a smoky chuckle. “It’s very cute.”
That gave her pause. She hadn’t been called cute very often. Mostly, in these situations she hadn’t been called anything. The few times she’d given in to scratching this itch she’d not allowed the other party time to talk. “I wasn’t trying for cute.” It came out in a growl, but he only chuckled again.