Читать книгу Scene of the Crime: Return to Mystic Lake - Carla Cassidy - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Jackson shot straight up in bed, his heart beating frantically as early-morning light shone through the half-closed curtains on the nearby window. It took him several minutes to process the nightmares that had haunted his sleep and a little more time to realize exactly where he was.

Kansas City...the Regent Motel. He muttered a curse as he saw the time. Six-thirty, and if he remembered right, Agent Uptight’s last words to him after dropping him off the night before were that she’d be here to pick him up at seven.

Coffee. He needed coffee to take away the lingering taste of the nightmares that had chased through his sleep. He spied a small coffeemaker on the vanity and waited for it to brew the single cup. While the coffee was brewing, he unlocked his motel room door just in case Marjorie showed up early.

Once the coffee was ready, he took a big swallow and then carried the cup into the bathroom and set it on the counter while he got into the shower.

He knew Marjorie was angry that he had called a halt to the night before, but he’d also known that he wouldn’t be any real asset to her unless he took the night to catch up on some sleep. The case in Bachelor Moon had nearly drained him dry, both physically and mentally, and he’d needed last night to transition, to prepare himself for this new investigation.

At least she’d been right—while the motel wasn’t five stars, it was adequate and there was a decent restaurant next door. He’d walked there last night and had enjoyed his first taste of Kansas City barbecue...a pulled-pork sandwich and the best onion rings he’d ever tasted.

Maybe it was the sweet, tangy sauce that had given him the nightmares, he thought as he turned off the water and stepped out of the enclosure.

His dreams had been haunted by Sam Connelly, his wife, Daniella, and their little girl, Macy—the missing family from Bachelor Moon, who had yet to be found. Dashing around the edges of the darkness had been two more figures who he knew in his dream were Cole Caldwell and his wife, Amberly. And then there had been his father.

Jerrod Revannaugh had no place in his dreams, just as he had no place in Jackson’s life. The bond between father and son had been fractured long ago and finally completely broken just a little over five years ago.

He shoved away any lingering thoughts of nightmares, especially images of the man who had raised him, and instead wrapped a towel around his waist and got out his shaving kit.

Jackson knew he was a handsome man. It wasn’t anything he thought much about, just a fact he saw when he looked in a mirror. He was simply the product of good genes.

He also knew he had a charm about him that drew women to him, and though he enjoyed an occasional liaison with a sophisticated woman who knew the score, he made certain they also knew he was merely after a brief encounter and not interested in matters of the heart.

He was definitely not his father’s son. He might look like Jerrod Revannaugh, and the two men might share the Revannaugh ability to charm, but Jackson would never be the coldhearted bastard that his father had been. He always made sure his partner knew the score, unlike his father who had spent his life taking advantage of naïve women.

While he found his new partner hot to look at, she had a prickly exterior that he had no interest in digging beneath. Besides, it wasn’t as if he anticipated Agent Marjorie Clinton jumping his bones. She’d made it fairly clear that she didn’t particularly like him and would tolerate him only in order to further the investigation.

He’d managed to razor off the shaving cream on half of his face when he heard a firm knock on his door. A glance at the clock by the nightstand showed him it was ten until seven. He knew she was the type to be early.

“Come on in,” he shouted, and heard the door open. He leaned out of the bathroom to see her standing just inside the door. “You’re early.”

She shot ramrod straight. Her eyes widened and then her gaze instantly dropped to the carpeting, as if unable to look at him. “And it appears that you’re going to be late. I’ll just wait for you out in the car.”

She ran out of the room like a rabbit being chased by a hound dog and slammed the door behind her. Jackson turned back to the mirror in amusement. He hadn’t exactly been naked, but she’d skedaddled out of the room like a virgin.

He quickly finished his shaving, slapped on some cologne, grabbed his white shirt and slacks—neatly pressed the night before and on hangers—and dressed.

He had a feeling the longer she sat in the car waiting for him, the more difficult the mood would be between them. He suspected it was already going to be a long day. Her being cranky with him would only make it longer.

It was exactly three minutes after seven when he slid into the passenger seat of her car and shut the door. “Sorry I’m late. The last thing I would ever want to do is keep a lovely lady waiting,” he said with a smile.

“Stuff it, Rhett. I’m uncharmable and you might as well stop trying.” She started the car and pulled out of the parking space in front of his unit.

“Why, Scarlett, I haven’t even begun to attempt to charm you yet,” he replied with his trademark lazy grin.

She frowned. “We have a busy day ahead. We checked all the hospitals last night both here in Kansas City and in Mystic Lake. Cole and Amberly aren’t in any of them. I’ve set up an interview with John Merriweather, Amberly’s ex-husband, after nine. He didn’t want us at his place until after Max had left for school. I’ve also directed a couple of agents to check what cases Amberly was working on, and the same with Cole. There are also some other people we need to interview before the day is done. I have a list in my briefcase.”

“Wow, you’ve been a busy little bee while I was getting my beauty sleep.”

She ignored his comment and continued, “The crime scene unit worked all night at Cole’s house and basically came up with nothing. No fingerprints other than Cole’s and Amberly’s, and no evidence that anyone else had been in the house.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Any chance of breakfast before we get started on this long day you have planned?”

She picked up a white paper bag that was between them on the console and tossed it into his lap. “Two bagels, one blueberry and one cinnamon raisin. I had a feeling you’d ask.”

“Gee, I didn’t know you cared.” He opened up the bag to discover not only the two bagels, but also two small cups of cream cheese and a plastic knife.

“I don’t,” she replied. “But it appears that your creature comforts are very important to you.”

“And your comforts aren’t important to you?” he asked as he spread cream cheese over half of the cinnamon raisin bagel.

“Of course they are, but not so much when I’m working on a hot, active case.”

“This is already at best a lukewarm case,” he replied.

As she had yesterday, she wore a white blouse, a pair of dark slacks and sensible shoes. Her hair was a spill of strawberry silk across her shoulders and she smelled of fresh vanilla and sweet flowers.

She appeared not to be wearing a bit of makeup, but that did nothing to detract from Jackson’s physical attraction to her. Chemistry... It was a whimsical animal that usually made a fool out of somebody.

He ate the bagel in four quick bites and wished for another cup of coffee to chase it down. But there was no way he intended to ask her to drive through the nearest coffee shop. He wasn’t about to push his luck.

“Last night was more about my survival than creature comforts,” he said soberly. “I’d been working nonstop on the case in Louisiana. Yesterday I’d had a plane ride from hell, no food to speak of all day and not enough brain power left to be adequate at my job. This could either be a sprint or a marathon, and I’m betting on a marathon, and so I needed last night to prepare myself for the long haul. Not that I owe you any explanations of my working habits or methods.”

He settled back in his seat and stared out the passenger window. “Now, tell me about this John Merriweather,” he said, deciding he was far better to focus on solving this crime than imagine what his partner might look like without her clothes.

* * *

MARJORIE STOOD JUST INSIDE Amberly’s living room, a homey space decorated with pottery and bright colors and woven rugs celebrating her Native American heritage.

The room smelled of sage and sunshine, and it was obvious that a little boy resided here. The bookcases held not only pottery, but also puzzles and children’s books about horses and dinosaurs. A large plastic dump truck sat next to the coffee table, the bed filled with tiny army men.

Jackson prowled the room like a well-educated burglar, with booties and gloves to leave no evidence that he’d ever been here. As he moved, she tried not to think about that moment when she’d walked into his motel room and he’d leaned out of the bathroom with just the thin white towel hanging low on his slim hips.

His bare chest, sleekly muscled and bronzed, had been more than magnificent. As she’d gotten that glimpse of it, for a long moment she’d forgotten how to breathe, and she hadn’t been able to get the unwanted image out of her head.

He stopped and stared at the large painting above the fireplace. It depicted Amberly as an Indian princess on horseback. Her long dark hair emphasized doe eyes and high cheekbones. She was wild beauty captured on canvas.

Jackson turned to look at Marjorie at the same time she self-consciously shoved a strand of her hair behind an ear. “She’s quite beautiful,” he said, and then added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “But I much prefer blondes with just a hint of strawberry in their hair.”

“Does it just come naturally to you? Kind of like breathing?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, just like breathing,” he replied with a genuine grin that warmed her despite her aggravation with him. He turned back to the painting. “Painted by her ex-husband?”

“Yes, John painted it.” She’d already told him that John Merriweather was a famous painter who was known for Western settings and beautiful Native American portraits. Most of the Native women he painted looked like his ex-wife. She’d read an article in some magazine where John had talked about how Amberly was his muse.

“How did John take their divorce?” Jackson turned back to look at her.

She shrugged. “According to the local gossip, initially he took it rather hard. But I think they had become more like friends than husband and wife. Amberly once mentioned to me that John’s greatest passion was his painting.”

Jackson frowned. “I love my work, but I save my passion for living, breathing people.”

Women. She knew he meant women. Not that it mattered to her what Jackson Revannaugh’s personal passion might be. “Are you married?” The question fell from her lips before it had even formed in her head.

“No, and have no intention of ever getting married. My problem is that I love all women, but I’ve never found one who I haven’t tired of after a week or so.”

“So, you are a player,” she said, having already suspected as much.

His blue eyes held an open honesty she wasn’t sure she could believe. “On the contrary, I only date women who know I’m looking for a passing good time and nothing more serious. I don’t toy with hearts or emotions. And now, shall we get back to the case?” He lifted a dark eyebrow wryly.

Heat warmed Marjorie’s cheeks in an unmistakable blush. Thankfully he didn’t comment on it but rather moved from the living room into the kitchen.

He hadn’t even asked her if she was married or if she had a boyfriend. He probably thought she was too much of a witch to hold a man’s attention for more than a minute.

She was, and that was the way she wanted it. She had enough on her plate with her job and helping to pay for the fancy apartment where her mother lived and believed she was still a wealthy heiress.

She didn’t have time for men. She’d had one brief relationship years ago and he’d turned out to be untrustworthy, as she’d come to believe most men were. She’d been through enough men with her mother, seen what they were capable of, especially the handsome ones full of charm. Nope, she had already decided she’d eventually get a cat, but there would never be a man in the small house where she lived.

Of course, that didn’t mean she would never have sex again. Like Jackson, if she did she’d just have to make it clear to her partner that she was a one-night stand—not a forever—kind of woman.

She snapped her attention back to realize Jackson had left the kitchen. It was easy to follow the sound of his heavy footsteps down the hallway to the bedrooms.

Focus on the job, she reprimanded herself, irritated that Jackson had somehow managed to throw her off her normal game, and she’d been working with him less than two hours this morning.

It took them only minutes to check out the bedrooms and return to the living room. “There doesn’t appear to be anything here to tie into whatever happened at Cole’s house in Mystic Lake,” he said. “I think it’s time we go talk to John Merriweather.”

“He lives less than two blocks away.” She checked her watch. It was a quarter after nine. Max would have already left for school and John would be waiting for them.

Within minutes they pulled into the driveway of John Merriweather’s neat ranch house. Although John was a respected artist whose work was both expensive and in constant demand, he had remained in the house where he and Amberly had lived as a married couple over five years ago.

“John and Amberly lived here together when they were married,” she explained to Jackson. “When they divorced, Amberly bought her house close by so that Max could stay near his father.”

“Do they have a court-ordered child custody agreement?” Jackson asked.

“Not that I know of. I think they just winged it and it worked for them.”

“We’ll see if it was really working out that well, especially when a new man entered the picture,” Jackson replied as he got out of the car. “I’ll do the interview with him,” he said in a clipped tone she hadn’t heard before.

She hurried after him, wondering when she’d lost control as lead investigator. She’d allow Jackson to have his moment now, but then she would remind him that this was her case, and he’d simply been invited in to help.

John answered on the first knock. He was a handsome man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. At the moment he wore a pair of jeans, an old T-shirt and a simmering panic that shone bright from his eyes.

Jackson took care of the introductions, and John sighed in relief. “Have you found them?” he asked as he allowed them entry into the house.

“No, and that’s why we’re here. We’d like to ask you some questions.” Although the Southern accent remained, there was nothing of the lazy charmer in Jackson’s demeanor. His eyes were an ice-blue as they gazed at John.

“Ask me questions about what?” John sank down to the sofa as if unable to stay on his feet beneath the intensity of Jackson’s gaze.

Jackson remained standing, as did Marjorie, her gaze darting around the room with professional interest. Nice furniture, although the space had a lived-in look with a newspaper spread across the top of the coffee table and several matchbox cars on a highway built of paper on the floor.

The walls were filled with Merriweather’s artistic genius, framed canvases of paintings in bright colors, including several of Amberly.

“How did you feel when your ex-wife married Cole Caldwell?” Jackson asked.

“I was happy for her...happy for them. All I ever wanted for Amberly was her happiness. What’s this all about? Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with whatever has happened to them.” John’s voice held a hint of outrage.

“Were you worried that your son might start to think of Cole as his daddy, cutting you out of his life?” Jackson’s tone held an edge of suspicion that Marjorie instinctively knew he was doing on purpose.

“That’s crazy,” John scoffed. “My son loves me and I hope he and Cole love each other. A child can’t have too many people to love them in their life.”

“What did you do over the past weekend?” Jackson asked as he pulled his small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.

John released an impatient sigh. “I had Max all weekend. Friday night we went to a movie, Saturday we went to the mall and did a little shopping and then ate at the food court, and then Sunday we hung out here all day.” His hands clenched tight although he kept his voice calm. “You’re wasting precious time here. I would never do anything to hurt Cole and Amberly, especially because they are important to my son. I would never do something like that to him.”

He looked beseechingly at Marjorie. “Do you have children?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t.” His question created a wistful ache inside her, one she quickly tamped down. In order to have any children she’d have to trust a man, and that wasn’t in the cards for her.

“Then you can’t understand the love a father has for his son.” He half rose from the sofa. “You have to find them. Max needs his mother.” Tears filled his eyes and he fell back against the cushions.

“Has Amberly mentioned any problems she’s had with anyone lately?” Jackson pressed on.

John frowned. “No, not that I can think of. She went through a terrible trauma last year, but the person who tried to kill her was shot dead. Since then she’s just seemed happy with Cole and hasn’t mentioned any problems or issues with anyone.”

Jackson wrote something down on his pad and then looked back at John. “How was your relationship with Cole?”

“Fine. It was fine.” John’s control appeared to be slipping. Marjorie saw his hands once again tighten into fists in his lap, and his voice had an edge that had been absent before. “Cole is a good man, and if I’d handpicked the man I wanted in Amberly’s life, in my son’s life, it would have been a man like him.”

He looked at Marjorie again. “Please, find them. Max needs his mother. He doesn’t know that they’re missing. I just told him his mother was late in coming back from Mystic Lake. For God’s sake, don’t make me tell him she’s missing again.” The humble plea in John’s voice shot straight to Marjorie’s heart.

“Are you seeing anyone now?” Jackson asked, obviously unmoved by John’s emotion.

“Seeing anyone? You mean, like, dating?” John shook his head. “Not at the present time.”

“Have you dated at all since your divorce from Amberly?”

John’s eyes took on a hard edge of their own. “You think I’m so obsessed with my ex-wife and that I killed her and her new husband?” he scoffed. “I’ve had several brief relationships since Amberly and I divorced.”

“Why brief?” Jackson was relentless, and still with the cold demeanor that had Marjorie thanking her stars that he’d never be interrogating her.

“I have my work and I have Max—that doesn’t leave me much time for romance.” John stood. “Are we finished here? You’re wasting valuable time when you could be out hunting who kidnapped Amberly and Cole.”

“You think they’ve been kidnapped?” Jackson jotted something else in his notepad.

John raked a hand through his hair, his features once again twisted in agony. “I don’t know. I don’t know what in the hell happened to them. I just know that Amberly would never just disappear like this on Max unless something terrible happened. You’ve got to find them.”

“We’re going to,” Marjorie said, cutting off anything else Jackson might want to say. She stepped toward where John stood and pulled one of her cards out of her pocket. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, if you remember anyone who might be a threat to Amberly or Cole, call me.”

John took the card with shaking fingers and nodded. “And you’ll let me know what’s happening with the investigation?”

“We’ll keep you up to date,” Marjorie assured him.

“Like hell we will,” Jackson said a few moments later when they were back in his car. “Right now John Merriweather is at the very top of my suspect list.”

Marjorie shot him a look of surprise.

“Think about it, Maggie. Who has the most to gain from Amberly and Cole disappearing? Max’s father, that’s who. He has a great motive for wanting them gone.”

She didn’t want to even think about the fact that he’d just called her Maggie, something nobody else in her entire life had ever done. She didn’t intend to reprimand him now, as right now she was considering what he’d said about John Merriweather.

“He might have a good motive to get rid of them in a sick sort of way, but he doesn’t have opportunity. He had his son with him all weekend long,” she replied.

She pulled out of the Merriweather driveway and headed in the direction of the Kansas City field office where they would next be interviewing Amberly’s closest coworkers.

“I saw a picture of Max and his dad on the bookcase. What is he...about six?” Jackson asked.

“Seven,” Marjorie replied. “I think he’s going to be eight in a couple months.”

“I don’t know about you but when I was seven my father could have tucked me into bed and then left the house, gone to a movie, slept with a woman and been back home again before I woke up the next morning.”

She slid him a curious glance. “And where would your mother have been while your father was out through the night hours?”

“Dead. She died when I was five, of cancer. But that really doesn’t matter now—my point is that John could have easily slipped outside the house while Max slept, driven to Mystic Lake and done something to Amberly and Cole and been back before Max awoke the next morning.”

“So, supposing he made that midnight run to Mystic Lake, then where are Amberly and Cole? If he killed them, why not just leave the bodies in the house?”

“Nobody said I had all the answers, darlin’. I just have theories.”

“I think this one is kind of lame,” she replied.

“Maybe,” he agreed, the laid-back agent once again present. “John mentioned something about the last time a man tried to kill Amberly. What was that all about?”

“It’s actually the case that brought Amberly and Cole together. Somebody was killing young women in Mystic Lake and leaving dream catchers hanging over their bodies. The mayor of Mystic Lake asked for FBI help, and since Director Forbes thought Amberly was the perfect agent to assist, because of the Native American overtones, she was sent to Mystic Lake to work with Cole.”

She paused to make the turn into the parking area of the field office, a three-story brick building in the downtown area. “The perp eventually went after Amberly and trapped her in a rented storage unit. It was John’s best friend and neighbor who had taken her.”

She frowned in thought as she pulled into a parking place. “Ed...Ed Gershner was his name. He had some crazy notion that the only way John would be happy again was if Amberly was dead and John could finally forget her. Thankfully, Cole found Amberly, killed Ed and the rest, as they say, is history.”

She turned off the engine and they both got out of the car. “Hopefully these interviews will go fairly quickly. It’s got to be getting close to lunchtime by now,” he said.

Marjorie hurried after his long strides, successfully stifling the impulse to knock him upside his head.