“Nice job in there,” a senior deputy said as he passed her desk. He didn’t even give her a chance to thank him. But she didn’t want to get a reputation just for research and analysis – she wanted to do fieldwork.
She’d head to the firing range. She was getting her stitches out in the morning. Shooting a few rounds wouldn’t hurt.
Like all her plans since her morning coffee, that one went out the window when Juliet Longstreet turned up. Just back from specialized training, Juliet was tall, blond and very fit, an experienced marshal who was also from northern New England – Vermont – and had experience with a case that had reached into her personal life.
She’d also worked with Nate Winter for a time in New York.
“Ethan and I want to take you house hunting tonight.” Ethan Brooker was a former Special Forces officer, now a White House advisor; he and Juliet were engaged to be married in the fall. “We’ll grab a bite to eat on the way.”
“Is noncompliance an option?” Mackenzie asked.
Juliet grinned. “No.”
“Then I’d be delighted.”
“Good. We’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
Mackenzie realized she wouldn’t even get a chance to head home and change her shoes. She saw Nate’s fingers in the house hunting idea. Had he put Juliet and Ethan up to it out of concern for her welfare – or out of concern over what she’d do next?
Maybe, Mackenzie thought, Juliet and Ethan were just trying to befriend a new deputy in town who’d just survived a knife fight.
Probably not.
But sooner or later, she’d have to find a place to live. The leaks would be fixed, and the house eventually would open to the public.
If the leaks were the work of the resident ghosts, Mackenzie didn’t want to be around for what they cooked up next.
“I’ll be ready,” she told her new friend.
Juliet nodded, obviously satisfied. “Do you have enough to keep you busy for the next hour?”
“You bet. If I look the slightest bit bored, someone will shove a stack of files at me. Idle hands and all that.”
“You’re learning.” Juliet grinned. “See you soon.”
Twenty
Jesse looked out the impressive windows of his leased condo at the Potomac River reflecting the orange sunset and wished he’d paid more attention in his U.S. history classes. Washington was jam-packed with historic sites, museums, government buildings. Earlier in the summer, he’d been standing on a corner, debating where to get a bite to eat, and realized he was practically on top of Ford’s Theater, where John Wilkes Booth had shot Abraham Lincoln.
Mackenzie was an academic. Political science. She would know the history of many of Washington’s more obscure sites.
He turned away from the window. So far, the investigation into the tragic death of the congressional aide didn’t seem to be leading detectives to Cal Benton. He and his blonde had been careful, just not so careful that Jesse didn’t have pictures of them.
But the search for Harris was heating up. Jesse felt secure that he had bought himself time to pressure Cal, but was it enough time? He couldn’t push too hard and risk having Cal take his chances with the FBI, go to them with his little insurance policy and cut a deal – Jesse in exchange for a reduced prison sentence or no prison sentence at all.
It was a delicate balancing act.
Jesse didn’t have to remain patient, but he had to be deliberate, purposeful.
He headed down to the lobby and out to the parking garage, getting into his rented BMW. Cal’s car was parked at the end of the row. Perfect. He would have seen by now that someone had been inside his condo.
And he hadn’t called the police, because he wouldn’t dare.
Feeling his spirits revive, Jesse drove out to Arlington and the historic house where Mackenzie was staying. He had driven past the place earlier and spotted a honey-haired woman in the driveway, conferring with two contractors in separate vans. Sarah Dunnemore Winter, no doubt. He’d done his research.
He liked the idea that he and Mackenzie both had temporary residences. It wasn’t just something they could share – it meant that her future was as yet uncertain.
What if he and his pretty marshal were bound to be together?
What if that was why he hadn’t killed her? Not because of her skill and luck, but because his subconscious had undermined his plans? On some level, he’d known he had to let her live.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway. He considered slipping inside the house and waiting for her return, but that was too impulsive, too dangerous. If he was wrong and Mackenzie was on the premises, she’d have him. She was on alert these days and she was armed. He wouldn’t get away a second time.
The house’s security system was unimpressive – one of the improvements that would likely come in time. Right now, there were no surveillance cameras on the property. It was a simple matter for Jesse to park in the shade and get out of his car. He’d grabbed a knife just like the one he’d used in New Hampshire – a straightforward Ka-Bar.
He cut a fat pink hydrangea blossom and left it on her doorstep.
“From a friend,” he said. “From someone who knows you better than you know yourself.”
To be sure she knew it was from him, he left his assault knife with the hydrangea.
Twenty-One
The list of J. Harris Mayer’s friends and associates wasn’t as long as it once had been, but tackling just the top half of names had taken Rook and T.J. late into the evening, with little to show for their efforts. People were far more alarmed to find the FBI at their door, asking about the disgraced former judge, than they were at his absence. According to those who knew him best, the disappearing act he’d done last week wasn’t unusual or out of character for him. He was long divorced, and his kids were grown. What was to stop him from taking off to the beach?
Or New Hampshire, Rook thought. He and T.J. were in heavy Beltway traffic, the perfect cap to their day. T.J. was at the wheel, just as frustrated.
When his cell phone rang, Rook had a brief urge to toss it out the window. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.
He saw the readout. Mac.
He decided not to throw out his phone. “Hey, Deputy -”
“Rook,” she said. There was something in her voice.
“Andrew. Does anyone call you Andrew? You have brothers. They’re all Rooks themselves. It’d get confusing at family gatherings.”
“Mac?”
“Humorless, Rook. You are -”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m at my house.” She cleared her throat. “Someone left me a present. A wilted hydrangea and an assault knife. Cute, huh?”
“We’re on our way.” He looked over at T.J.
“I’ve called the police,” she added. “Well. You are the police. So am I, but – damn. What’s wrong with me? I know this guy, Andrew. I do. I just can’t remember how. And now he’s here, and he’ll hurt someone else if we don’t find him soon.” She sucked in a breath. “All right. Get here. I’ll -”
“You’ll take cover and wait.”
“Right. That’s what I was going to say.” She wasn’t offended. “Thanks.”
“Don’t hang up. I’ll stay on until the police get there.”
“How far out are you?”
“Fifteen minutes. Where are you?”
“Behind my car door. Not in the vehicle.” She sounded more herself now. “If he jumps me from the bushes, I’ll nail him this time. But he’s not here. He’s a slippery creep who’s trying to get under my skin. He left his little present and took off.”
“Likes his knives, doesn’t he?”
“Apparently. So, what does T.J. call you – Andrew or Rook?”
Rook wasn’t fooled by her manner. The flower and knife had shaken her. “Sometimes Andrew and sometimes Rook.”