by K. A. Tucker
And she raised Noah, who, by any standards, is the most decent guy I’ve ever met.
But Jackie Marshall was also the chief of police and an abuser of whiskey.
And had a giant bag of money for her dead partner’s daughter but didn’t have the guts to deliver it herself.
And she blew her brains out on the other side of this French door, with her son upstairs.
As far as I know, I’ve never been in a house where someone committed suicide. I wonder if the hairs on my neck would have stood on end when I stepped in that kitchen last night had I not known for a fact that’s where Jackie died. I was happy to fill a glass of water and get the hell back to my room, unsettled by the eerie silence.
I hear someone—I assume Noah—shifting around in the kitchen. Just the idea of seeing him stirs nerves in my stomach. I heard what he said about me to his friend over the phone yesterday. But what does it mean? More importantly, what do I want it to mean?
This is Noah. Jackie Marshall’s son . . .
Noah is his own person. He’s not Jackie.
But he wants to protect her—a woman who, at the very least, knew my father had been set up and never did anything about it. How do I get past that?
I do like Noah, though. More with each passing day.
But I’ve never been that girl who loves too much, too fast, too soon. That girl gets hurt too much, too fast, too soon.
So, I stay in my chair, sipping the last of my coffee and enjoying the sun cresting over a tall maple tree, not rushing in like some love-struck dimwit.
It’s the smell of sizzling bacon that finally lures me through the doors.
But it’s the view that stops me in my tracks.
Noah’s standing in front of the stove, dressed in a pair of dark-wash jeans and a white T-shirt, the cotton stretched over his broad shoulders, his hair slightly damp from a shower. “Ow!” He flinches and steps away, brushing a bubble of grease from his sinewy forearm.
“You need an apron.”
He glances over his shoulder, giving my body a quick once-over. He does that a lot. Not in a leery way. In a way that makes my heart pound. “Oh, hey. There isn’t much food, but there’s bacon. I know you love that.”
“Here. Let me.” I slip the fork from his hand, our fingertips grazing, the scent of his soap overtaking the food smells, stirring my blood.
“What time did you get up?”
“Too early. Cy needed to go out.”
He drops two slices of bread into the toaster. “Did you get a coffee?”
“Yeah. After I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to use that.” I give the high-tech machine a dirty look.
Noah checks his watch. “Alright. I locked up the cash in the safe. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Uh . . .” I frown, and gesture at the stove.
“I was making that for you.”
Of course you were. I stifle my groan. Mom said my dad was like that, bringing her coffee in bed, making her breakfast. Is that a Texas thing? Or a nice-guy thing?
Or can he not handle being in this kitchen for another second?
In any case, I see what he’s trying to do. “You’re not leaving me here while you go talk to Harvey Maxwell.”
“I’ll be back soon, I promise. And I’ll grab groceries on the way.”
“I’m going with you.”
“He’s a good guy—”
“Let’s find out how he was connected to my father before you go throwing around the ‘good guy’ label, okay? Harvey Maxwell might be the mastermind.”
Noah chuckles. “Trust me, he’s not. I have to do this on my own.”
“So you can protect more people for what they might have helped do to my father?”
Noah averts his gaze to the floor, and I feel a twinge of guilt. I need to remember the difficult position he’s in when I lash out at him.
“This is about my father, so we’re in this together, all the way.”
“It’s just . . . my mother said something that night, about it being safer not to ask questions. And I promised your mother I’d keep you safe.”
“Did you happen to notice where I’ve been living for the past fourteen years?” I can’t help the sharpness in my voice. “I don’t need you protecting me. I can take care of myself.”
The doorbell rings then, interrupting our argument, which is far from over.
I check the stove clock with a frown. “It’s seven thirty in the morning. Who would come to your door this early?”
It rings again, three times in quick succession, and Noah groans.
CHAPTER 30
Noah
“Three . . . two . . .” I count down quietly, my hand on the knob, “ . . . and let the ball-busting begin.”
“As if I’d let you bail on me.” Jenson’s dressed in his usual shorts and T-shirt. He’s even got his basketball tucked under his arm, ready to go.
“I can’t today. I’ve got a lot to do.”
“I’ll bet.” He gives me a knowing look.
“I told you, it’s not like that.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “All right! Me and Candace are hooking up later. You should come out. Dana was asking about you.”
“Nah, I’m good.” It sounds bad, but I haven’t thought about Candace’s friend for weeks.
“Why not?” Jenson’s face is full of mock innocence. “It’s a guaranteed lay, and God knows you could use one.”
I grit my teeth and glance over my shoulder. Jenson has a booming voice, the kind that carries down a hallway and right to a girl’s ears.
My move gives him the perfect chance to shove his way past me, muttering, “Knew it,” as he stalks down the hall to the kitchen. He stops at the doorway and takes in Gracie.
Her back is to him as she butters fresh toast, her slender arm flexing. “Hello, Noah’s loud friend,” she says without turning.
“Hello, girl cooking in Noah’s kitchen,” Jenson responds with a wide smirk, his eyes trailing downward, stalling on her little cotton shorts. She may have one of the most perfect asses I’ve ever seen and my friend is admiring it.
Gracie uses a fork to pile strips of bacon onto her plate. “Do you always stare?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met a girl that can keep Marshall from playing ball. I’m not sure you’re real.”
“I can come over and punch you, if that’ll make you a believer.”
Jenson laughs. He thinks this is a game. He thinks she’s joking. I think she still has that knife in her purse.
With a sigh of exasperation, she finally turns around to size Jenson up with her cool mint-green eyes, her wild, curly hair a sexy halo around her perfect face.
His grin only widens. “Hi, I’m Jenson.”
“Hi, Jenson. I’m sorry Noah won’t come out and play with you today.”
“Oh, he will. For at least five minutes, unless he wants me to start telling the hot girl in his kitchen all kinds of mortifying stories. Like this one time . . .”
With her plate in her hand, Gracie strolls over to the French door to allow Cyclops in.
Jenson’s face twists up, suitably distracted. “What the fuck is that?”
“Noah’s new dog. Isn’t he cute?”
“No, he’s not even ugly cute. He’s plain ugly.”
“I’m going to change. Don’t you dare leave without me, Noah.” With one last warning glare my way, she heads up the stairs, Jenson’s gaze on her the entire way.
He lets out a soft whistle. “Firecracker is right.”
I sigh. Why did I think she’d let me get away with ducking out on her?
“Sounds like you’ve got a few minutes to kill.” Jenson spins the ball on the tip of his finger.
I could use his ear. Grabbing the ball from his hands, I head toward the front door, happy to be out of that kitchen. “Five minutes. But don’t piss off my neighbors.”
* * *
“So she’s the reason I haven’t seen you since Thursday?”
>
Jenson bounces the ball at a steady, slow rhythm. The sound isn’t too bad, but the dirty look I got from Mr. Stiles, as he left his seat on his front porch to read his newspaper inside, tells me it’s a nuisance all the same.
Jenson’s been my best friend since the first grade. He’s also like a dog on a bone when he wants something. “Yeah, but it’s not what you think.”
“For the record, I call bullshit. But if you’re telling the truth, then you’re an idiot.” Jenson’s arms go up and the ball sails over my head and through the basketball net. It bounces back, and no sooner has he grabbed it than he throws it to me. I automatically reach for it, dribble and shoot, the action as unconscious for me as breathing is.
“She didn’t come here because of me.”
“What’s she doing here, then?”
“It’s a long story.” Where the hell do I even start?
The front door creaks open and out comes Gracie, dressed in jean shorts and a white T-shirt, her hair still a wild frame around her fresh face. She doesn’t wear makeup, I’ve noticed. She doesn’t need to.
“Eat, Noah.” She holds up a sandwich, wrapped in a napkin.
“Marry this girl or I will,” Jenson moans, following with a fake-out and spin, tossing the ball clean into the net again. “Hey Gracie, you wanna play?”
“Nope,” Gracie mumbles between a mouthful.
“Come on. Don’t be afraid. I’ll go easy on you.”
She settles onto the back bumper of my Cherokee. “I hate basketball.”
Jenson dribbles past me, muttering, “Cut bait. It’ll never work between you two.”
I shake my head, giving Gracie an apologetic smile. She responds with an indifferent shrug, her gaze doing a lightning-quick scan of my chest.
“So, why are you here?” Jenson asks with zero ounces of tact, the ball smoothly sailing through the net again.
She gives me a high-browed stare that says, You tell him what you want him to hear.
“Like I said, it’s a long story.”
The problem with Jenson is, he may act like a beer-guzzling goof, but he’s a smart son of a bitch whose brain is usually working a mile a minute. “Noah said Jackie left something for you?”
Gracie chews and calmly studies him the way she once studied me, with complete mistrust.
Finally, I offer, “Money, to help out.”
“Really . . .” He stops dribbling and closes in, dropping his voice. “Is that why you guys are acting cagey?”
Gracie and I share a glance.
“Dude . . . Come on.” He throws his hands out.
“My mom said some things before she died that made it sound like Gracie’s dad wasn’t selling or stealing drugs.”
My Cherokee sinks as Jenson leans down against the rear bumper beside Gracie. “What, like someone pinned it on him?”
“She wasn’t exactly clear, but yeah.” I hesitate. “And there may have been cops involved. At least one.” I walk him through what we know of Mantis, and the Lucky Nine drug bust, and what Dina told us. And, while I haven’t come clean with Gracie about my mother’s phone call to Klein yet, I throw out the idea that maybe Abe was killed because he saw cops stealing money at a bust and maybe one of those cops was Mantis.
Because maybe Jenson can make better sense of this than I can.
He absently rotates the basketball within his grasp. “Ninety-eight thousand dollars.”
“Exactly.”
He lets out a whistle. “So you’re gonna talk to this Maxwell guy, right?”
“That’s where I was heading before you showed up.”
“Where we were heading,” Gracie corrects sharply.
“And you don’t wanna go to the APD with this?”
I give him a knowing look. “Mantis runs Internal Affairs.”
“That shouldn’t stop you. Most of them are honorable cops who’d risk their lives for complete strangers any day of the week. Don’t let a few corrupt pieces of shit stop you from trusting them.”
Corrupt pieces of shit like my mom, maybe.
I feel Gracie’s eyes on my profile and tension slides into my shoulders. “We’ll see what Maxwell knows and go from there.”
“You’re probably better off going to the feds anyway. You must have an in with them, through your job?”
I avert my gaze. I have an in all right, thanks to the asshole stalking me. By my watch, if Klein was serious, then I have another sixteen hours before he comes knocking again. I’m not even as worried about that as I am about what Gracie’s going to say when she finds out I’m still keeping things from her.
Jenson nods slowly, his mind working. “The cops didn’t find the video.” He says it so matter-of-factly.
I frown. “Why do you say that?”
“Logic. Gracie’s mom tells the cops about this video and then suddenly a guy—who she thinks is a cop—comes looking for it. That makes me think someone working on the case tipped him off. And if this guy came to look for it—”
“The police didn’t find it on the computer.” I finally catch on to Jenson’s thinking. “It had to be an external file. A memory stick or something. Wait, did they even have memory sticks fourteen years ago?”
“Good question. I honestly don’t know how people survived back then, without all—”
“Why wouldn’t they have found this memory stick—or whatever—when they searched the house?” Gracie, always quick to poke holes in theories, interrupts.
“Because it wasn’t in the house,” Jenson says, simply. “Abe must have known how valuable it was. Maybe he’d already been threatened. You need to find this video.”
“No problem. Just find a video that my dad hid fourteen years ago,” Gracie mutters sarcastically.
“He must have given it to someone he trusted.”
“He didn’t give it to my mom,” Gracie says. “And he and Jackie were at odds, so it’s not likely he gave it to her.”
“I didn’t find anything that even remotely resembles a video file in the safe, or in that floor compartment,” I add. “So, who’s left?”
Jenson shrugs. And then he says, almost as an afterthought, “Not that a video of cops lifting money would be any good now, anyway.”
Gracie glares at him. “Why the hell not?”
“The statute of limitations would have run out years ago. But it could prove motive to something bigger,” Jenson quickly adds, looking ready to hold up his hands in surrender against her scathing look.
“Like what?”
“Like motive for murder. And there’s no statute of limitations on that.”
Jenson’s right, as usual. That doesn’t bring me much comfort, though. We’ll probably have better luck finding Betsy than we will this video.
Could she be somehow tied to it?
So many questions.
But talking to Jenson has helped. “Thanks, man.”
His phone chirps. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. Candace needs a ride to school.”
“Little sister?” Gracie asks.
“Girlfriend. She’s in her first year at UT.”
“He likes ’em young.” I smirk, taking a bite of my sandwich.
“I’m not the only one from the looks of it,” Jenson throws back, not missing a beat. “You know, we should all go out while you’re in town. I think you’d like her.”
“Like a double date? How fun!” Gracie exclaims with a wide, fake grin. She hauls herself up, the bubbly façade vanishing. “We should get going. I’ll get Cyclops.”
“We can’t bring a dog to the DA’s office.”
“We’ll leave him in your car. It’s cool enough.”
“So he can finish destroying the leather? No, we’re leaving him in the yard.”
“Fine,” she mutters, marching inside.
I snatch the ball from Jenson’s hands and dribble for the net.
He’s on his feet and stealing it off me without effort, mainly because I let him. He dekes and edges around me, sinking the ball. “So,
when are you gonna put the moves on the firecracker?”
“Kind of busy trying to solve a cover-up and murder at the moment.” But that’s Jenson—always looking for a way to get laid, no matter the situation.
“Right . . .” Jenson begins strutting around me with folded, flapping arms, making chicken sounds.
CHAPTER 31
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 24, 2003
“Better luck next time!” Mantis hollers from the door of the men’s changing room, grinning widely as he strolls in. “Not a bad game, Wilkes.” He raises his hand to deliver a fist-bump.
Normally I’d respond by reminding him how many points I scored, which is always triple what he earned, at minimum. Today, I stay quiet, hesitating a few beats before finally meeting his knuckles.
If he notices my reluctance, he doesn’t let on.
I bide my time, waiting until the last two guys are gone, leaving us alone in the room. “Saw the news on the big bust.”
“Fucking awesome haul, right?” He yanks off his jersey. The guy is a human tank—stocky legs and a thick pad of muscle around his torso, impossible to knock down. “We got a good tip.”
“Strange, though, that you didn’t find money, isn’t it? Where there’s drugs, there’s cash, I thought.”
Mantis rifles through his locker for a few beats. “He was moving his stash and decided he needed to get a little action on the way. What can I say—the guy’s as dumb as a prairie dog.”
“So, he didn’t have a duffel bag of money in his trunk?”
That sloped forehead of his looks all the more menacing as a deep frown forms across it. “What are you gettin’ at, Wilkes?”
“Just that I was at the Lucky Nine motel that night.”
He snorts, then rubs his nostrils furiously. The word is he’s broken it so many times, his sense of smell doesn’t work. That’s the only excuse anyone can come up with for how much cheap cologne he doses himself with every day. “What, Dina not giving you enough at home?”