US Marshall 03 - The Rapids (11 page)

But they broke apart as suddenly as they’d come together. A timer might have gone off, or an alarm reminding them of who they were and what they were about.

Rob backed up a step, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect that to happen.”

Maggie took in a ragged breath. “Ha.”

He grinned at her. “Okay, I didn’t expect it to happen the way it did. I’ve been thinking it might
sooner or later, but—” He smiled at her, not even breathing hard. “I don’t want to get you fired.”

“Trust me, Bremmerton can find more reasons to fire me than sneaking a kiss with a good-looking marshal.”

His expression turned serious. “Maggie—”

She didn’t let him draw her out. Just stick to the facts. “You must need to get back to New York. Did you tell Chief Rivera everything?”

Rob pulled open the door to the hall. “He doesn’t know you’re a redhead with the most beautiful turquoise eyes—”

“That charm again.”

He laughed. “It’s a killer, isn’t it?”

They walked downstairs, past the view that Libby Smith had said she loved so much. When they reached the back porch, Maggie felt the carrot-orange soup burning up her throat. “You’re going to look into William Raleigh, aren’t you?”

“Discreetly, but yes.”

“Let me know—”

“Of course.” There was no sarcasm in his tone. “Bremmerton?”

Maggie thought a moment. “I think he knows more than he’s saying, but I can’t be more specific than that.”

Rob sighed. “Fair enough. You’ve got my cell phone number. You know the number at the office. Call. I can be back up here in less than an hour if I break the speed limits.”

She walked with him to his car.

He winked at her. “I’d kiss you goodbye—”

“We’ve given the locals enough to talk about, don’t you think?”

After he left, Maggie felt the afternoon humidity in the air. There was no breeze. She heard bees in the dahlias and a crow far off in the distance, but no birds, it seemed, nearby.

Libby waved from the vegetable garden, but kept to her task which seemed to be picking loose leaf lettuce. Maggie continued on to the back porch, where Star Franconia was cleaning tables and taking in short, quick gulps, as if she were trying to keep herself from crying. Maggie didn’t disturb her and ducked inside.

There was no sign of Andrew in the garden, on the porch or inside.

Maggie had no idea what to do with herself. There was no evidence the Franconias or their staff or any of their guests were engaged in criminal wrongdoing.

Why had William Raleigh sent her here?

Who the hell was he?

When she and George Bremmerton had talked that morning, he’d all but vouched for Raleigh. That counted for something, even if he was being vague.

She headed back up to her room, telling herself that it was necessary, okay and actually quite smart of her to be in Ravenkill on her own.

I
t was early evening when Ethan arrived at JFK.

He didn’t know what’d happened to Raleigh. Probably wandering around Amsterdam, checking out the sights and talking to himself. Maybe hitting the bottle. Trying to talk himself out of a psych ward. Ethan was a decent judge of character, but the year since his wife’s death had left him less certain about everything he’d once taken for granted.

He paid a fortune for a cab to take him to the Upper West Side building where Juliet Longstreet was borrowing an apartment from a friend who was off to Hollywood for six months.

Deputy Longstreet wouldn’t be happy to see him. But he didn’t have money for a New York hotel, and he’d be happy to see her.

He didn’t know why.

He talked his way past the doorman. It wasn’t that hard, which made him think she needed a new door
man. When he got up to her floor, her door was shut and locked up tight, and it occurred to him she could be on vacation.

But surely not Deputy Longstreet. It’d been just four months since two of Janssen’s goons had dragged her off the street into their car with every intention of killing her. She’d escaped, jumping into oncoming traffic and getting a hell of a road rash on her upper thigh. Ethan’d seen the rash when it was still raw and bloody, because she’d also turned up in a limestone cave in Night’s Landing, where he’d been posing as the Dunnemores’ property manager.

She’d still be trying to prove to herself and all the other marshals that she had handled herself well back in May. She had—she’d done great. But she wasn’t going to take his word for it.

Ethan plopped down on the floor in front of Julia’s door. He hadn’t been at his best when they’d met, either. He’d been playing a good ol’ boy from west Texas working as a property manager while he tried to make his mark in Nashville as a songwriter. He
had
written a few songs, all bad.

Juliet had come to Night’s Landing already beat-to-shit by Janssen’s goons. Then she and Ethan had found them dead at President Poe’s childhood home.

Ethan was convinced Juliet had saved his life by giving him a chance to jump into the Cumberland River and escape certain death.

Then he got to save her life when he found her tied up, gagged and left in a cave on a vertical bluff above the Cumberland. Not that she saw it that way.

He’d done what he could to help and took off a little later the same day.

He hadn’t seen Deputy Longstreet since.

He leaned back against the door and wondered if she’d cuff him when she saw him. Arrest him for something. Breaking and entering. Harassing a federal agent. Annoying her.

The elevator dinged and she got off, blue eyes on him, blond hair sticking out every which way. She looked like August in New York had gotten to her. Her arms were loaded with, as far as Ethan could judge, a bag of perlite, a flyswatter, a jug of organic skim milk and a bag of Hershey’s chocolate nuggets.

She dropped it all and went for her gun.

“Jesus Christ, Longstreet,” Ethan said, not moving, “you have great reflexes. Unbelievable. Where were you when I needed you in Afghanistan?”

She didn’t draw her weapon, just finally stared at him, her stuff all over the floor. “Brooker. Goddamn it. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. You’re not a moment too soon. Nature calls.”

“I should arrest you—”

“You should not arrest me. I’m not wanted for any crimes.” He nodded to her milk jug. “Look, it didn’t break. Is that because it’s organic?”

“It’s because it’s a good bottle.” She had a red spot on the V of exposed skin above her shirt. Sunburn or emotion. “You skipped out on the scene of a double homicide.”

“Ancient history. I’ve talked to the FBI and the marshals. We’re square.”

She pointed a finger at him. “I’m going to see to it nobody wants to talk to you. Understood?”

“If I can use your bathroom, I’ll tell the FBI and the marshals everything I told them all over again.”

“When did you talk to them?”

“Two days after I skipped out on the caves and the snakes and the fried apricot pies in Night’s Landing. Didn’t they tell you?”

She sighed. “Sort of. I wasn’t sure I believed them.”

“Figured they were coddling you? You know, about that bathroom…I wasn’t kidding.”

He thought she might have smiled. “All right, all right. Help me pick up this stuff. And if you’re carrying, you’d better have the right paperwork. New York gun laws are very strict.”

He knew all about New York gun laws. He wasn’t armed, but that wasn’t something he planned to tell her, federal agent or no federal agent. He picked up her perlite and the milk; she grabbed the chocolate and the flyswatter.

“You’ve got something like sixty-five locks on that door,” he said. “I’m pleading with you.”

“You’re not the pleading type.”

Although she was armed, he expected he could get her keys off her. He had at least four inches on her, not to mention combat experience. But Juliet Longstreet was tough and he didn’t want to fight her.

She unlocked her door, and he followed her into her apartment. She had on jeans and a tank top under a dark pink shirt that draped over her gun.

“How’s the road rash?” Ethan asked her.

“Healed.”

“Leave scars?”

“A few.”

It’d been nasty, he remembered. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“That’s because I’m not beaten and bloodied.”

He glanced around her living room, plants and fish tanks on every available surface. The place was small and probably way overpriced, even for New York.

She gestured toward a door up a short hall. “That’s the bathroom.”

“Going to get out your cuffs while I’m in there?”

“I might.”

She wasn’t softening.

He ducked into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror above the pedestal sink wasn’t reassuring. If he were Longstreet, he’d cuff him and haul him to the FBI just on looks alone.

She was leaning against the wall in the short hall, arms crossed on her chest, when he finished. He
liked the direct way she looked at him. Not intimidated. “Where’d you come from?” she asked.

“West Point, by way of west Texas.”

“Since then.”

“Classified.”

She rolled her eyes. “Since Tennessee in May. Where were you, say, last night?”

He ignored her question and studied her, wondering why he’d come here and not some flophouse of a hotel. He saw that the paleness and sunken eyes, the pained expression that had been there in May were gone. Her cheeks were pink, her skin lightly tanned. “The marshals wanted to know what you and I did in that cave.”

“For God’s sake, I was tied up—”

He grinned. “Like I said.”

She cleared her throat, dropping her arms to her sides. “They wanted to know why I let you go.”

“You didn’t. You had to prioritize. It was more important to help Sarah Dunnemore and Nate Winter get your bad guy. I wasn’t a threat.”

“I’m calling the FBI and Chief Rivera—”

“Can we eat first? I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Brooker—” She kicked the wall with her heel. “What do you want?”

“Dinner. A night.” He left her to chew on that while he walked back to her small kitchen, calling back to her over his shoulder. “How much you pay for this place?”

“Not nearly what I should.”

“No air-conditioning, no view—”

She followed him and stood next to a counter. “No garbage disposal, either. But there’s an elevator and a doorman.”

“Doorman’s useless. He let me in.” Ethan pulled open her refrigerator and frowned at its limited contents. One Amstel Light, eggs, a head of lettuce. “There’s nothing in here.”

“Another thing about New York, you can get whatever you want delivered.”

He shut the fridge door. “That works.” He smiled at her. “You look like you want to frisk me, Deputy, and not for all the right reasons.”

“It’s Juliet,” she said tightly. “I’m not dealing with you in any official capacity. You’re a guest in my home.”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

“Don’t you have a home of your own, somewhere?”

“No.”

“The family ranch in west Texas—”

“My brother runs it. I could pitch a tent there if I wanted to.”

“I checked out your ranch, Brooker. You could build a mall there.”

He walked past her, back into the living room, and stood in front of one of her four fish tanks, bending down so that he was at eye level with a goldfish. “I
had a goldfish once. Bought it at a fair. The bowl wasn’t big enough, I guess, and it jumped out. The dog got it.”

Juliet ran a hand through her short blond curls, a gesture Ethan found very sexy. But it’d been a long couple of days—a long year. She blew out a sigh. “It’d be easier if you gave me a reason to cuff you, read you your rights and get you the hell out of my apartment.”

“Wouldn’t it, though.”

“You heard about Nick Janssen’s arrest in the Netherlands?”

“I did.”

“That wasn’t you who provided the tip on where to find him?”

He didn’t want to encourage her to think he planned to tell her a damn thing. The more questions he answered, the more she’d ask. The camel’s nose under the tent. He moved to another fish tank, then fingered one of her spider plants. “Pretty much into fish and plants, aren’t you?”

“One fish led to another, one plant led to another. You know how it is.”

“They look like a lot of work.”

“An American diplomat was murdered Saturday morning in Den Bosch, the Dutch town where Janssen was picked up. Thomas Kopac. He worked at our embassy in The Hague.”

Ethan didn’t respond, instead walking over to her
cluttered table, where he started flipping through a stack of take-out menus. “You weren’t kidding about the options. Any place you can get a burger?”

“Lots.”

“Would that suit you? A burger, fries, salad?”

“You’re avoiding my questions because you don’t want to lie to a federal agent.”

“I’m hungry and tired, Juliet. That’s it.”

She gave up. “A burger and salad. No fries. And you get the futon.” She paused a beat, her gaze not as direct now. “I’m still checking with people.”

But not right away, he realized. Not tonight.

An act of trust.

Ethan picked up the phone and handed it to her to call in their order. Her trust had to be a one-way street. At least for now. And tomorrow he had business to attend to that didn’t involve any marshals, even one willing to feed him and put him up for the night.

Maggie waited until nightfall to call her mother, using her cell phone as she sat cross-legged on her bed. A passing shower had left the air moist and a bit cooler, the wind sucking her curtains against the wet screen.

If the light was just right, her mother wouldn’t pick up the phone. At night, Maggie thought, her odds of reaching Cora Spencer, painter, were better.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey, there,” Maggie said. “It’s me.”

“Maggie! I’m so glad you called. I just got in from a walk. It’s hotter than blue blazes here. How are you?”

“Doing fine. You haven’t heard?”

A half beat’s pause. “Heard what?”

Her mother didn’t watch the news. If the world were ending, if a hurricane were bearing down on her, she would rely on a friend or neighbor to let her know. “Nothing. Never mind. You’re doing okay?”

“Great. I’m working hard, teaching at the community college. Isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?”

“I’m in New York,” Maggie said.

“Oh. On business, I assume? Well, I know you’ve got an important job to do.”

And she didn’t want to know any of the details. She never asked questions. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she was tired of caring, worn out from it. She wanted a quiet life with routines. She liked painting pretty pictures of gardens and beaches and flamingos and visiting with friends, talking about nothing more serious than whether there was a riptide or it was safe to swim in the warm water outside her apartment.

If she was a little self-absorbed these days, she was allowed. Or so Maggie told herself. Her mother had been married to a man with wanderlust and secrets, and her only child was the same. She’d figured out a way to have a life of her own and to let them—now just Maggie—have theirs.

“I was wondering,” Maggie said, “did Dad ever mention Ravenkill, New York?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“The Old Stone Hollow Inn. Does that sound familiar?”

“No.” She didn’t ask why Maggie wanted to know.

Maggie unfolded her legs and stretched out on the bed, leaning back against fluffy pillows with lace-trimmed cases. “Do you ever recall meeting a man named William Raleigh?”

“I’m sure I haven’t met him, no.”

“He’s in his midsixties, maybe late sixties. White hair. Red-faced, probably from drinking—”

“Maggie, I don’t know him. I’m sorry I can’t help you. If he’s a friend of your father’s, I’ve put that part of my life behind me.”

“I understand. Thanks.”

Maggie knew there was nothing more to talk about. Her mother wouldn’t ask questions. She didn’t know about Tom Kopac and Nick Janssen. She’d listen if Maggie wanted to tell her, but the most basic information would suit her. Her daughter was fine. She was in New York or The Hague or wherever.

Her problems were her own, for her to solve.

Even before her father had wandered off from his marriage, Maggie had known that her mother wouldn’t be there for her. She didn’t mean not to be. She just wasn’t.

But Cora Spencer didn’t expect Maggie to be there for her in return, either. At her father’s funeral, Maggie remembered, she and her mother had been more like two old friends who’d cared for him rather than mother and daughter.

After they hung up, Maggie wondered what her mother would have done if she’d asked to spend a few days with her after pulling a new friend out of a Dutch river minutes after he’d been murdered.

It would have been fine. They’d have gone for walks and talked about her latest paintings.

Libby winced at the creaking sound the door made when she opened it.

It’s past midnight. No one can hear you.