by Sandra Brown
While authorities in Florida were investigating there, Rudkowski rounded up a team of agents and used every criminal database, domestic and abroad, to search for a connection between Marian Harris and perps known to have buried their victims alive.
A distressing number of known suspects were still at large. Some remained unidentified. Of those who had been captured and convicted, a number of them were deceased. Several had been executed for their crimes, one had been killed by another inmate during a prison riot, others had died of natural causes while incarcerated. Which left those living out their remaining days behind bars. Rudkowski saw to it that all among that number were questioned.
One had actually confessed to Marian Harris’s abduction and murder, but he was a schizophrenic and habitual confessor, who liked to brag about gory atrocities he hadn’t committed. He had, in fact, been incarcerated in San Quentin when the Florida woman disappeared.
Of those questioned who denied ever having heard of Marian Harris, there wasn’t any incriminating evidence to indicate otherwise. None could be linked to her.
The investigation again had stalled.
Rudkowski wondered why he’d been sent the familiar photograph now without a note of explanation. If newfound evidence had regenerated the investigation, why wasn’t there an accompanying brief bringing him up to speed?
He closed the attachment and went back to the email. His gaze snagged on the last word of the brief message. Too. I.e., in addition to. Also.
His Monday morning tanked.
Muttering foul epithets, he snatched up the receiver of his desk phone and told his assistant to get Deputy Gray on the line. Then he waited, drumming his fingers on his desktop until the call was put through.
“Gray?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Rudkowski. Good morning.”
Like hell it was. “I’m calling about the photograph you emailed me last night.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Has there been a development in the Marian Harris case that I’m unaware of?”
“No, sir. Well, I don’t believe so.”
“You just emailed me this on a whim? Out of the blue? Why?”
“Well, because your name came up during a conversation I had with Special Agent Easton. I assured him that you had been notified when Marian Harris’s remains were discovered. Your contact info was on the last communiqué between the FBI and our department, so I had your email address.”
Rudkowski was seeing red, but it wasn’t the deputy’s fault, so he kept his voice as level as possible. “When did this conversation take place?”
“With Agent Easton? Yesterday.”
“Did he say what had prompted him to call your department?”
“He said that, like you, he specializes in missing persons cases.”
“Um-huh.”
“He was calling specifically about the missing person case in Lexington. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“Over the weekend, I unplugged from the office and just now came in. I haven’t seen anything about it.”
“Well, Easton said there are similarities to Marian Harris. He wanted to compare the cases.”
“Of course.”
“He asked me to access the case file on Harris and give him an update. I asked for a few hours, because I had other stuff to do, but I had it all in front of me when he called back.”
“I’m sure he appreciated that.”
“I guess, but…I don’t think he knew her remains had been found. He seemed upset when I told him about her being buried alive and all. Y’all must not work that closely together, or else he would have known.”
“No, we don’t work closely together at all,” Rudkowski said, straining the words through his clenched teeth.
“He asked me to email him the picture. Later, I got to thinking that if he was investigating this new case, you might be in on it, too, being in the same state and all. That’s why I sent the picture to you.”
“Good thinking, deputy. Thank you. I’ll give Easton a call. Do you have his cell number in front of you?”
“It’s a private number, sir. Blocked. You know, because of all the classified and undercover work he does.”
Rudkowski closed his eyes and rubbed the sockets, which had begun to throb. “Of course. I forgot. Never mind. I’ve got his private number here in my data bank. I can look it up. Thanks again.”
“Sure.”
Rudkowski dropped the telephone receiver back into the cradle, picked up his cell phone, and pulled up the last cell number he had for Easton. He called it. Got his voice mail. No surprise there. The jackass wasn’t about to answer if he saw the name Rudkowski in the LED, especially if he was up to something.
Rudkowski pushed back his desk chair and marched to the door of his office, yanked it open, and barked to his assistant, “Call the SAC in Lexington.”
She raised her eyebrows and, under her breath, said, “Must be Easton.”
“Verify that they have a local missing person. Woman, probably middle-aged and well heeled. Then call Easton’s office. He’s not answering his cell, and I want to talk to him. Now. No excuses. If someone else there answers, have them drag him to the phone.”
He went back into his office and slammed the door.
He could hear his assistant’s muffled voice as she placed the ordered calls. He fumed. Maybe he should have told Easton about the gruesome discovery in Florida, but, dammit, this is precisely why he hadn’t. He’d known Easton wouldn’t leave it alone.
He’d been a thorn in Rudkowski’s side for years, ever since he’d shown up in Santa Barbara, uninvited and without sanction, and had poked his nose into Rudkowski’s investigation into a disappearance and probable kidnap case.
Easton had been young, idealistic, determined, clever, and passionate, as though designed to make Rudkowski appear old, jaded, lackadaisical, dumb, and indifferent.
To Rudkowski, Drex Easton didn’t represent a righteous crusader, but rather an accusatory finger pointing out his inadequacies. He was a recurring rash. A major pain in the ass.
Only once had Rudkowski gotten the best of him, but it had been an empty victory, which ultimately had made him look petty and Easton self-sacrificial.
His assistant opened the door, but only by a crack in which her face appeared, as though she feared he might throw something at her.
“No missing person case this week in or around Lexington, except for a man in his eighties. They put out a silver alert. He had sneaked out of his retirement home and was found a few hours later doing tequila shots and ogling the waitresses at a Hooters.”
Rudkowski had figured the missing person case was a hoax used by Easton to light a fire under the deputy in Florida. “You reach Easton?”
“He’s on vacation.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s on—?”
“I heard you,” he barked. “Since when?”
“He cleared out midday last Friday.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
“Where did he go?”
“He didn’t say. Nobody knows.”
Chapter 7
Knock-knock?”
Talia came from the kitchen onto the enclosed porch, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder. She smiled at Drex, who stood on the step on the other side of the screen door. “Hi. You’re early.”
He looked at his watch. “I thought I was ten minutes late. Wasn’t the invitation for six?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll come back.”
“Don’t be silly. Come on in.” She went over and pushed the door open for him. “Jasper had to make a quick run to the store. I forgot to get buns.”
Drex knew Jasper wasn’t in the house, which is why he had arrived early. He’d already been showered and dressed when he saw Jasper backing his car out of their driveway. He’d pushed his bare feet into his docksiders, forewent grooming his hair, picked up the box of cupcakes he’d bought earlier at the b
akery, dashed down the perilous stairs, and crossed the lawn in a gait that wasn’t quite a jog, but close.
As he stepped inside, he handed Talia the bakery box.
“What’s this?”
“I told Jasper I’d bring dessert.”
Jasper had come over in the early afternoon to extend the invitation. Drex had seen him coming, and, by the time Jasper had climbed the stairs, Drex appeared to be an absentminded writer, unaware of everything except his manuscript. He pretended to emerge from a creative fog and had accepted the invitation, but only on the condition that he provide the sweets.
Talia raised the box’s lid. “Cupcakes! Great! Dibs on one of the chocolate ones.”
“I’ll flip you for the second one.”
She smiled at him, her eyes shifting up to his hair. He scrubbed his knuckles across the crown of his head and gave an abashed grin. “Is it a mess? Sorry. Hazards of my trade.”
“Mussed hair and what else?”
“Forgetting my hair is mussed.”
She scrutinized him for a moment as though unsure what to make of him, then nodded toward the bar. “Help yourself. I’ll take these into the kitchen.”
“What can I mix for you?”
“I already have a glass of wine.”
She went into the kitchen, leaving him alone, and presenting him with an ideal opportunity to plant the listening device. The room transmitter weighed practically nothing, but he was as aware of it in his pants pocket as he would have been of a boulder.
Talia and Jasper spent a lot of time on their porch, sitting side by side in twin rocking chairs. He would like to be privy to those conversations, but the environment wasn’t an ideal place to hide the electronic transmitter. It would be susceptible to humidity and dust. Inside the house would be less corrosive and better for clearer reception.
He poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and took it with him as he wandered over to the open door of the kitchen and looked in. “Ah. You can cook.”
Talia shot him a glance over her shoulder from where she stood at the range. “I can boil water. Which is what I’m doing for corn on the cob.”
He went inside and walked over to her. Three ears of corn, still in their husks, lay on the counter. “They’re better cooked in the microwave.”
She turned toward him and slid the towel off her shoulder. “Jasper wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Jasper isn’t here.” He set his drink on the counter. “Where’s your microwave?”
She pointed to where it fit inside the cabinetry. “Are you sure about this? These are all we have, so if you ruin them—”
“I won’t. Observe and learn. Step one. Pick ripe ears of corn off stalks in field. Oh, done that already.”
She laughed.
“Step two, place ears of corn into microwave.”
“Shucks and all? Without washing them or anything?”
“As demonstrated.” He used flourishing motions like a magician to place the ears of corn in the oven. “Close door.”
“That’s step three?”
“No. That’s the second part of step two.”
“I see,” she said with a seriousness belied by the smile she couldn’t contain.
“Step three is to set the timer to cook on high for four minutes for each ear of corn.”
She counted on her fingers. “Twelve minutes.”
“Very good, sous chef. Maybe you should be writing this down.”
She tapped her temple. “Taking notes.”
“Good. Because you’ll want to remember.”
“Says you.”
“Trust me.”
“Not as far as I can throw you.”
This time her serious tone wasn’t phony, and it took Drex aback. His teasing smile collapsed. “Why not?”
She ducked her head and gave it a small shake. “Never mind.”
“No. I’d like to know why you said that.”
Raising her chin, she looked him straight in the eye. “You’re way too cool.”
“Way too cool for what?”
“Way too cool to be real.”
“Oh, I’m real, Talia.” He spoke in a low and vibrating tone that coincided with him dropping his gaze to her mouth. She didn’t step back, but her breath caught and held.
The moment lasted for only a heartbeat, then he looked back into her eyes and resumed the ribbing manner. “I’m real hungry. Let’s get cooking.” He set the timer on the microwave and dusted his hands.
“Now what?” she asked.
She tried to sound as jocular as he but didn’t quite manage it. He hadn’t touched her, but his closeness had shaken her, and the male animal in him wanted to purr with satisfaction.
But he wasn’t there to seduce her. He didn’t want her to become even more mistrustful of him than she’d already admitted to being. He needed her to be relaxed around him. Comfortable and chummy and chatty. He needed her to talk about her husband, so he could determine if Jasper Ford, seeming law-abiding suburbanite who had run a husbandly errand, was in actuality the twisted fuck who had buried Marian Harris alive.
So he tamped down the surge of testosterone and reclaimed his drink. Raising it in a toast, he said, “Now, I drink my bourbon, and you drink your wine while you anticipate the best corn on the cob you’ve ever eaten.”
She peered dubiously through the microwave window at the ears of corn rotating inside, then shrugged. “Okay. How about out on the porch?”
Following her from the kitchen, he tried not to fixate on how nicely her light denim skirt molded to her bottom. From those enticing curves it flared out and stopped short of her knees by several inches.
Her top was a black, body-hugging, stretchy thing with armholes cut high enough to reveal a lot of shoulder. He spied a few freckles beneath the strands of hair that had escaped her topknot and curled against her neck.
He wanted to give all of it a thorough, hands-on inspection.
She sat down in the rocker that he knew to be hers from having spied on her and Jasper. He was about to take the other chair, but hesitated. “Should I save this for Jasper?”
She motioned him into the chair and took a sip of wine. As they settled into their seats, she asked, “Did you write today?”
“For several hours.”
“You were at it for a long while last night.” He gave her a quizzical look; she looked embarrassed. “Your shades were up and the lights were on. I saw you sitting at the computer.”
He groaned. “I didn’t do anything uncouth or indecent, did I?”
She gave a soft laugh. “Not that I saw.”
He thought about what he’d done in his bed inspired by fantasies of her, and it wasn’t entirely faked when he swiped his brow with the back of his hand as though greatly relieved. “Whew.”
“I think writing must be harder work than most people realize.”
“I can’t speak for other writers, but for me, it’s damn hard. I did a run on the beach this afternoon just to work the kinks out.”
“Muscles tend to kink after sitting at a computer for long stretches of time.”
“True, but I was referring to the kinks in my plot.”
“Oh,” she said, laughing. “Did the run work them out?”
“After a couple of miles, some of them smoothed out a little.”
“Good.”
He extended his legs in front of him and crossed his ankles. “What about your work? Are you off again any time soon?”
“Next week. In the meantime, I’m pulling together an itinerary for a client who wants to take his entire family to Africa for a month-long tour. First class all the way. Several countries, game preserves, Victoria Falls, Cape Town, photo safaris in the bush.”
“Sounds scary.”
“I don’t send my clients anyplace that I deem unsafe.”
“No, the scary part would be traveling for a month with family.”
“Eight adults, eleven children.”
He shuddered. “Terrifying.”
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She laughed, then turned more serious and looked into her glass of wine as she ran her index finger around the rim. “Jasper told me that you’re divorced. Any children?”
“No.”
She said nothing for a time, then, in a lighter tone, “He also told me about your encounter last night.”
“Next time, I’ll phone ahead before I come prowling across your backyard. When Jasper came barging around that tree, I thought I was a goner.”
“The poor mouse was.”
“Yeah. He must’ve gone peacefully, though. Saved me from having to trap him. Or get a cat.”
She tilted her head and took him in from his hair to the scuffed toes of his shoes. “You don’t strike me as a cat person.”
“I’m not. But I’m not a mouse person, either.”
She smiled.
“Which are you?” he asked. “Cat person or dog person?”
“I’m fonder of dogs.”
“I haven’t seen one around.”
“Jasper is allergic.”
“Too bad.” He turned more toward her, tipped his head to one side, and gave her the same assessing treatment she’d given him. Nodding toward her glass of wine, he said, “Red over white?”
“Yes.”
“Tropical climes or cold?”
“I was brought up in Charleston.”
“Tropical then.”
“Right.”
“Star Wars or Star Trek?”
“Star Wars.”
He stroked his chin. “Let’s see, what else? I already know chocolate over vanilla. Land over sea.”
“My turn. I know very little about you, not even the basics. You don’t talk much about yourself.”
He spread his arms wide. “My life is an open book.” He glanced across the lawn toward the apartment. “So to speak.”
“Will your novel reveal aspects of you?”
“Undoubtedly. It’ll be subconscious, but some of me will probably sneak in there.”