Читать книгу Mountain Blizzard - Cassie Miles - Страница 11
ОглавлениеEmily couldn’t look away from him. Fascinated, she watched as a muscle in Sean’s jaw twitched, his brow lowered and his eyes turned as black as polished obsidian. He was outrageously masculine.
With a nearly imperceptible shrug, his muscles tensed, but his frame didn’t contract. He seemed to get bigger. His fingers coiled into fists, ready to lash out. He was prepared to defend her against anything and everything. His aggressive stance told her that he’d take on an army to keep her from harm.
When she thought about it, his new occupation as a bodyguard made sense. Sean had always been a protector, whether it was keeping a bully away from his sweet-but-nerdy brother or rescuing a stray dog by stopping four lanes of traffic on a busy highway. If Sean had been hiding in that louvered closet instead of her, he would have saved the man she now could identify as Roger Patrone.
Sean reached toward her. She yanked her arm away. She didn’t dare allow him to get too close. No matter how much she wanted his embrace, that wasn’t going to happen. This man had been the love of her life. Ending their marriage was the most difficult thing she’d ever done, and she couldn’t bear going through that soul-wrenching pain again.
“Did you report the murder to the police?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, “and to your former FBI bosses. Specifically, I had several chats with Special Agent Greg Levine. I’m surprised he didn’t call and tell you.”
“Levine is still stationed in San Francisco,” he said. “Is that where the crime took place?”
“Yes.”
“In the city?”
“Just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“In open waters,” he said. “A good place to dump a body.”
It was a bit disturbing that his FBI-trained brain and Freddie Wynter’s nefarious instincts drew exactly the same conclusion. Maybe you need to think like a criminal to catch one. “As it turned out, the ocean wasn’t such a great dump site. The victim washed up on Baker Beach five days later.”
“The waiting must have been rough on you,” he said. “It’s no fun to report a murder when the body goes missing.”
Definitely not fun when the investigating officer was buddy-buddy with her ex-husband. She’d asked Greg not to blab to Sean, but she’d expected him to ignore her request. Those guys stuck together. The only time Sean had lied to her when they were married was when he was covering up for a fellow fed.
She wondered if Sean’s departure from the FBI had been due to negative circumstances. Had Mr. Perfect screwed up? Gotten himself fired? “Why did you leave the FBI?”
“It was time.”
“Cryptic,” she snapped.
“It’s true.”
God forbid he give her a meaningful explanation! Leaving the FBI must have been traumatic for him. Sean was born to be a fed. He could have been a poster boy with his black hair neatly barbered and his chin clean-shaven and his beige chamois suede shirt looking like it had come fresh from the dry cleaner’s. He’d been proud to be a special agent. Would he confide in her if they’d fired him? “You can be so damn annoying.”
“Is that so?”
“I hate when you put off a perfectly rational query with a macho statement that doesn’t really tell me anything, like a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Hostility vibrated around him. A red flush climbed his throat. Oh yeah, he was angry. Hot and angry. They could have put him on the porch and melted the blizzard.
“I’ll leave,” he said.
“Not in this storm,” Aunt Hazel said. “The two of you need to calm down. Have some chili. Try to be civil.”
Emily stepped away from the stove, folded her arms at her waist and watched with a sidelong gaze as Sean and her aunt dished up bowls of chili and cut off slabs of corn bread. Sean managed to squash his anger and transform into a pleasant dinner guest. She could have matched his politeness with a cold veneer of her own, but she preferred to say nothing.
There had been a time—long ago when she and Sean were first dating—when she was known for her candor. Every word from her lips was truth. She had been 100 percent frank and open.
Those days were gone.
She’d glimpsed the ugliness, heard the cries of the hopeless, learned that life wasn’t always good and people weren’t always kind. She’d lost her innocence.
And Hazel was correct. She’d gotten herself into trouble from the Wynters. Though she didn’t want to be, she was terrified. Almost anything could set off her fear...an unexpected phone call, the slam of a door, a car that followed too closely. She hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since that night in James Wynter’s closet.
The only reason she hadn’t disintegrated into a quivering mass of nerves was simple: Wynter and his men didn’t know her identity. Her FBI contact had told her that they knew there was a witness to the murder, but didn’t know who. It was only a matter of time before they found out who she was and came after her. Tell him. Tell Sean. Let him be your bodyguard.
Her aunt asked, “Emily, can I get you something to drink?”
Hazel and Sean had already sprinkled grated cheddar on top of their chili bowls and added a spoonful of sour cream. They were headed to the adjoining dining room.
What would it hurt to have dinner with him? The more she looked at him, the more she saw hints of his former self, her husband, the gentleman, the broad-shouldered man who had stolen her heart. She remembered the first time they were introduced when he’d tried to shake hands and she gave him a hug. They’d always been opposites and always attracted.
“I’m not hungry,” Emily said.
“There’s no reason to be so stubborn,” Hazel scolded. “I’ve hired you a bodyguard. Let the man do his job.”
“I don’t want a bodyguard.”
She glared at Sean, standing so straight and tall like a knight in shining armor. She was drawn to his strength. At the same time, he ticked her off. She wanted to tip him over like an extra-large tin can.
Edging closer to the kitchen windows, she pushed aside the curtain and peered outside. Day had faded into dusk, and the snow was coming down hard and fast. The blizzard wasn’t going to let up; he’d be here all night. She’d be spending the night under the same roof with him? This could be a problem, a big one.
“I’ve got a question for you,” he said as he strolled past her and set his chili bowl on a woven place mat. “What kind of murder would trigger an FBI investigation?”
“The man who pulled the trigger is Frankie Wynter.”
He startled. “The son of James Wynter?”
She’d said too much. The best move now was to retreat. She stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aunt Hazel. I think I’ll go up to my room.”
Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and ran from the kitchen. In the foyer, she paused to put Hazel’s rifle in the closet. It was dangerous to leave that thing out. Then she charged up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. In her bedroom, she turned on the lamp and flopped onto her back on the queen-size bed with the handmade crazy quilt.
Memory showed her the picture of Roger Patrone sprawled back in the swivel chair with his necktie askew and his shirt covered in blood. When they came toward the closet, looking for something to wrap around poor Roger, she’d expected to be the next victim. She’d held tightly to the doorknob, hoping they’d think it was locked.
There had been no need to hold the knob. Frankie told them to get the plastic shower curtain from the bathroom. Blood wouldn’t seep through. His quick orders had made her think that he might have pulled this stunt before. Other bodies might have gone over the railing of his daddy’s double-decker yacht. Other murders might have been committed.
She stood, lurched toward the door, pivoted and went back to the bed. Trapped in her room like a child, she had no escape from memory. Her chest tightened. It felt like a giant fist was squeezing her lungs, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She sat up straight. She was hot and cold at the same time. Her head was dizzy. Her breath came in frantic gasps.
With a moan, she leaned forward, put her head between her knees and told herself to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. Breathe deeply and slowly. Wasn’t working—her throat was too tight. Was she having a panic attack? She didn’t know; she’d never had this feeling before.
The door to her bedroom opened. Sean stepped inside as though he didn’t need to ask her permission and had every right to be there. She would have yelled at him, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her pulse fluttered madly.
He crossed the carpet and sat beside her on the bed. His arm wrapped around her shoulders. His masculine aroma, a combination of soap, cedar forest and sweat, permeated her senses as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
Her hands clutched in a knot against her breast, but she felt her heart rate beginning to slow down. She was regaining control of herself. Somehow she’d find a way to handle the fear. And she’d set things right.
Gently, he rocked back and forth. “Better?”
“Much.” She took a huge gulp of air.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“I already did. I told your buddy, Agent Levine.”
“Number one, he’s not my buddy. Number two, why didn’t he offer to put you in witness protection?”
“I turned it down,” she said.
“Emily, do you know how dangerous Frankie Wynter is?”
“I’ve been researching Wynter Corp for over a year,” she said. “Their smuggling operations, gambling and money laundering are nasty crimes, but the real evil comes from human trafficking. Last year, the port authorities seized a boxcar container with over seventy women and children crammed inside. Twelve were dead.”
“And Wynter Corp managed to wriggle out from under the charges.”
“The paperwork vanished.” That was one of the bits of evidence she’d hoped to get from James Wynter’s computer. “There was no indication of the sender or the destination where these people were to be delivered. All they could say was that they were promised jobs.”
“This kind of investigation is best left to the cops.”
She separated from him and rose to her feet. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not discounting your ability,” he said. “You might be the best investigative reporter of all time, but you don’t have the contacts. Not like the FBI. They’ve got undercover people everywhere. Not to mention their access to advanced weaponry and surveillance equipment.”
“I understand all that.” He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself.
“You’re a witness to a crime. That’s it—that’s all she wrote.”
She braced herself against the dresser and looked into the large mirror on the wall. Her reflection showed her fear in the tension around her eyes and her blanched complexion. Sean—ever the opposite—seemed calm and balanced.
“Can I tell you the truth?” she asked.
“That would be best.”
She made eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. “I didn’t actually witness the shooting. I saw Frankie with the gun in his hand. He screwed on a silencer. I heard the gunshot, and I saw the bullet holes...and the blood. But I didn’t actually witness Frankie pointing the gun and pulling the trigger.”
“Minor point,” he said. “A good prosecutor can connect those dots.”
“The body that washed ashore five days later was too badly nibbled by fishes for identification.” She splayed her fingers on the dresser and stared down at them. “I was kind of hoping he was someone else, someone who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, but Agent Levine matched his DNA.”
“To what?”
“I’d given a description to a sketch artist and identified the victim from a mug sheet photo. His name was Roger Patrone.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know him.”
“He was thirty-five, only a couple of years older than you, and made his living with a small-time gambling operation in a cheesy strip joint. Convicted of fraud, he served three years.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Never married, no kids, he was orphaned when he was nine and grew up with a family in Chinatown. He speaks the language, eats the food, knows the customs and has a reputation as a negotiator for Wynter.”
“Roger sounds like a useful individual,” Sean said. “I’m guessing the old man wasn’t too happy about this murder.”
“Yeah, well, blood is still thicker than water. The FBI brought Frankie in for questioning, but one of the other guys in Wynter Corp confessed to killing Patrone and claimed self-defense. He took the fall for the boss’s son.”
Sean left the bed and came up behind her. His chest wasn’t actually touching her back, but if she moved one step, she’d be in his arms.
In a measured tone, he said, “You’re telling me that Frankie’s not in custody.”
“No, he’s not.”
“And he knows there’s a witness.”
“Yes.”
“Did you write about the murder?”
“Agent Levine asked me not to.” But she had written many articles about the evil-doing of Wynter Corporation.
“Does Frankie have your name?”
“No,” she said. “I write under an alias, three different aliases, in fact. And I have two dummy blogs. Since my communication with these publications is via the internet, nobody even knows what I look like.”
“Smart.”
“Thank you.” Her reflection smiled at his. So far, so good. She might make it through the night with no more explanation than that. There was more to tell, but she didn’t want to get involved with Sean. Not again.
He continued. “And you’re also smart to have left Frankie and the other thugs behind in San Francisco. Hazelwood Ranch seems like a safe place to stay until this all dies down.”
Unfortunately, she hadn’t come to visit Aunt Hazel for safety reasons. Her gaze flickered across the surface of the mirror. She didn’t want to tell him.
He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. “What is it, Emily? What do you want to say?”
The words came tumbling out. “Frankie is here in Colorado. The Wynter family has a gated compound over near Aspen. I didn’t come here to give up on my investigation. I need to go deeper.”
He grasped her upper arms. “Leave this to the police.”
From downstairs, there was a scream.
