Читать книгу Untameable - Diana Palmer - Страница 10

JOCELINE AND MARKIE walked toward the exit an hour later. They’d spent the balance on their game cards, although Mac and Jon had subsidized them, in a nice way.

“Thanks,” she told Jon at the door. “Markie had so much fun. So did I,” she added, but with averted eyes.

“It’s all right to admit that you like something I do,” he murmured dryly. “You so rarely approve of my actions.”

“We wouldn’t want you to get a superiority complex, would we, sir?” she asked.

“Why do you call him ‘sir’?” Markie asked.

“He’s my boss,” she replied.

“Oh. Like those guys in the military call their bosses ‘sir.’”

“Something like that,” Joceline agreed.

“Does he put you in ‘time-out’ if you do something bad?” Markie persisted.

“I would never do such a thing,” Jon assured him. “And your mother has never done anything bad.” He hesitated. “Nothing really bad,” he amended, giving her a speaking look.

“Menial tasks are not part of my job description, sir,” she reminded him. She smiled.

“Making decent coffee isn’t menial.” He sighed.

“That depends on your definition,” she retorted.

“You shoot real good,” Markie told the tall man. He was looking pointedly at the bulge under Jon’s jacket. “You got a gun.”

“That’s right,” Jon told him. “I work for the FBI.”

“I know. Mom talks about you all the time.”

“We should go,” Joceline said, a little flushed. “Thanks again,” she added. “I’ll see you Monday, sir.”

“Mommy …” Markie protested as she rushed him out the door.

Mac had been listening. He glanced at his brother. “Talks about you all the time, huh?”

“I’m sure he meant in a work-related way,” Jon said stiffly. “Joceline has worked for the agency for several years.”

“So have you.”

Jon glared at his older brother. “She works for me. Period.”

Mac pursed his lips, but he didn’t reply. He just chuckled and went back to the table where Winnie was waiting for him.

JON WAS OUT of humor when he walked into the office Monday morning. Joceline was still putting away her jacket and purse, having only just beaten him to work.

“You’re late,” he muttered.

She pointed to the clock over her desk. She was absolutely on time. It was eight on the dot.

He shrugged and went into his office to see what he had on his day planner. The phone rang while he was searching it.

His intercom buzzed. “Yes?” he replied.

There was a pause. “It’s for you, sir. A Mr. Harold Monroe.” She said the name pointedly.

He frowned and picked up the phone. “Blackhawk,” he said.

“Hiya,” he replied. “Remember me? I’m out now waiting for a new trial. I’ll beat that trafficking charge. I got a great lawyer.”

“Congratulations,” Jon said. “I’ll send over balloons.”

There was a pause. “Balloons?”

“For the celebration.”

“Cele … oh. Oh! Ha ha ha.”

“Was there something else?”

“No, nothing else. I just wanted you to know I was out.”

“Thank you.”

Another pause. “You made a mistake.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You want to be careful. My family gets even with people who hurt it. Always. I’ll be seeing you, Agent Blackhawk.”

He hung up.

Jon stared at the receiver before he replaced it. “It takes all kinds,” he muttered.

He was on his way out the door when Joceline called to him.

“Rick Marquez wants you to stop by his office while you’re out,” she told him. “He says it’s important.”

“What is it about?” Jon asked, turning.

She put a finger to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I see mountains. Trees. Birds flying.” She opened her eyes. “However, not being psychic, I have no idea.”

“He didn’t say?”

“Apparently not.” She smiled vacantly. She cocked her head. “Would you like to know what the new skirt length is out of the Milan fashion shows …? Sir, it’s not polite to turn your back on people who are talking to you!” she called after him.

“One day I’ll strangle her,” Jon muttered to Rick Marquez while they were sitting at the detective’s desk, drinking coffee. He’d just related Joceline’s latest verbal coup.

Marquez chuckled. “You’d never replace her,” he commented. “I’ve seen paralegals come and go. Joceline is in a class all her own.”

“I know.” The other man sighed. “I wouldn’t have half my cases solved without her. She can dig out information that I can’t get. I have no idea how she pulls it off, either.”

“She’s psychic,” Marquez said with big eyes.

“She is not. She’s just very good with a telephone, and she can talk people into telling her things that they don’t want to.”

“She’s a paralegal. Why isn’t she working for a judge or at least a firm of attorneys?” Marquez asked with a curious frown.

“She started out as legal secretary to a firm of attorneys. But the senior partner retired, several more attorneys joined the firm and she was doing the work of three paralegals with the pay of one,” Jon said. “We got her as a result. It was a good thing that Garon Grier didn’t have her put on the rack when he started work at the office,” he added thoughtfully.

Marquez burst out laughing. “What?”

“He was used to female workers making coffee for him. Joceline doesn’t do menial tasks. Or what she considers menial tasks.”

“Our administrative assistants make coffee,” Rick said smugly. “Good coffee,” he emphasized with a pointed look at Jon.

Jon sighed. “None of us can make drinkable coffee. On a bright note, our potted palm seems to thrive on caffeine.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everybody dumps their coffee into it when we aren’t looking.” He chuckled.

Marquez sighed. “Oh, the adventure of working at a federal office.”

“At least we have decent expense accounts,” he replied. “We don’t have to have a receipt for a cup of ice.”

Marquez made a face. “It was a very hot day and our air conditioner wasn’t working.”

“You’re from Mexico originally, and you live in southern Texas. You should be used to the heat,” Jon commented.

“Yeah. Go figure.” Marquez wasn’t comfortable talking about his childhood. In fact, nobody except his adoptive mother, Barbara, in Jacobsville, even knew what his background was. And neither he nor Barbara knew the whole truth, but they were trying to find it. However, he had no plans to share that news with his visitor, even though he liked and respected the FBI agent.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Jon said, sensitive to the expression that flashed just briefly across the other man’s face. “I know about racial issues. You might have noticed that my ancestry includes feathered headdresses and mounted combat.”

Marquez relaxed, and smiled. “So does mine, actually. One of my forebears was Comanche.”

“Really? So was one of mine,” he replied.

“No kidding? Small world.”

“My mother has Cherokee, my father was full-blooded Lakota,” Jon said.

Marquez’s eyebrows arched. “Cherokees come from back East originally.”

“Yes, they were relocated on the ‘Trail of Tears.’ Cherokees were rounded up in 1838 and removed to Oklahoma in late 1838 and early 1839, in the winter cold and snow without proper clothing, because of gold discoveries.” He shook his head. “One of my ancestors said that we could never coexist with a materialist culture, because we shared everything and the conquerors wanted to own everything,” he added.

“Interesting thought.” He put down his coffee cup and became somber. “Harold Monroe’s been hinting about retribution to one of my informants.”

“I heard they cut him loose.”

“Yes, they did. Like the rest of his family, he has something of a reputation for revenge.” He looked pointedly at Jon. “He’s been accused of racketeering, gambling, prostitution, you name it, but he’s never spent more than a day in jail on any charge. One of the prosecutors in a murder case against his uncle-by-marriage died under mysterious circumstances, along with the only witness, and he was let go. Nothing was ever proven. You had Monroe in jail for several months while his lawyer worked to get the charges dropped.”

“He should blame himself for putting little girls in the hands of pimps.”

“That’s not how he sees things. He said the kid was living in starvation-level poverty. He was just helping her find a better life. Simple.”

“Yes. I saw the result of that better life,” Jon said without elaborating, but the expression in his eyes was eloquent. “Well, they can drop charges, but I still have witnesses who’ll testify. One was the man who sold his daughter to Monroe.”

“That’s the problem.” Marquez grimaced. “The witness says he won’t testify and he’s withdrawn his statement.”

“No problem,” Jon said. “I know where we can find three more witnesses in the same family, two of whom are perfectly willing to testify despite any threats from Monroe.”

“Give me their names and we’ll help you locate them so you can get depositions, since it’s a federal charge he was arrested on,” Marquez replied. “Why didn’t the witnesses come forward before?”

“Because they fell through the cracks,” he said. “We had one witness, the father, who gave us a deposition, and the mother, as well as a sister. The federal prosecutor didn’t think he needed more than a handful. Now we do.” He shook his head. “I hope they don’t go the way of the witness who was supposed to testify against Jay Copper at his trial about the death of that teenager in Senator Sanders’s case. He accidentally fell off a ten-story building.”

Marquez wrote down the names of the witnesses. “We do our best,” he said defensively.

“So do we, and it wasn’t a criticism. Unless you’re really psychic, you can’t foresee a murder in your city.”

“It would be nice if we could.” Marquez sighed. “I just hope Monroe doesn’t walk on this one.”

“With the federal charges dropped on a technicality,” Jon said, grinding his teeth at the so-called technicality, which involved a slipped link in the evidence chain, “and new charges pending, the ball may be in your court if we can’t make ours stick. You can still get him for trafficking, though. We’ll help.”

“He won’t walk. I promise.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you watch yourself.”

“You’re giving Monroe too much credit,” Jon said. “He’s a beer short of a six-pack.” He pursed his lips. “Maybe two beers short of a six-pack.”

“He may be, but he’s dangerous. You got him on a trafficking charge. But he’s worked his way out of numerous other charges including one daylight robbery. That one was committed as a juvy—” which meant a juvenile offender “—and he only drew a few days in detention before he turned eighteen.”

“Yes, he managed to get first offender status and kept his nose clean until his record was wiped,” Jon said. “But he was twenty-five when he was accused the next time, and he got a good attorney, courtesy of his boss, Hank Sanders, the racketeer brother of Senator Will Sanders who’s up on murder charges.” He smiled. “Hank turned out to be a good guy. He saved my brother’s butt in the standoff with Jay Copper, just after Mac and Winnie came back from their honeymoon.”

“Some honeymoon, trying to convince Senator Will Sanders’s wife, Pat, to tell what she knew about the murder of Kilraven’s wife and little girl,” Marquez amended.

“Which she did, but Copper ordered the murder of Mac’s wife,” Jon said somberly. “He said that the perp, the late Dan Jones, wasn’t ordered to kill Melly, Mac’s little girl, but I never believed him. One of his idiot goons turned state’s evidence and verified that Copper told Jones to get both the wife and child. He’ll pay for Melly’s death, and Monica’s. The D.A. has asked for the death penalty.”

“Good luck to him,” the other man said cynically. “Juries don’t like to order it.”

Jon nodded. “I had to sit in a death-penalty case once. You think, this guy should die for the crime he committed. But when you put your vote to it, and realize that you’re ordering the guy’s death, well that’s a whole other thing.”

“A matter of personal conscience,” Marquez agreed. “A very hard decision to make, for any human being.” He studied Jon. “But it’s you I’m worried about. Monroe may be an idiot, but he has an uncle who’s knee-deep in the local mob, Jay Copper, and a brother-in-law who’s been in and out of prison for years, Bart Hancock. Hancock walked on accessory charges linked to Jay Copper’s arrest, because the tape Winnie got of Copper telling the story of the murders went mysteriously missing. Hancock has been implicated in two murder-for-hire plots and never got much past arraignment. He makes sure there are no witnesses.”

“There’s something in the back of my mind about Hancock. Wait! Now I remember,” Jon said. “Joceline dug up some information on him that was supposedly classified. Don’t ask—” he held up a hand “—she has sources. Anyway, Hancock was in spec ops in Iraq during the 2003 invasion.”

“That’s right. He worked with a private contractor. There was a big stink about civilian casualties, and Hancock was in it up to his neck. His buddy was an officer in the private corporation that ran the coverts, and he cleaned up Hancock’s record so he wasn’t prosecuted.” He sighed heavily. “They say he killed children and enjoyed it.”

Jon’s jaw set. “What a sweetheart.”

“Isn’t he, though?”

“Yes.”

Jon’s mind was busy. The man who died linked to Melly’s murder, Dan Jones, was a bit of a mystery. Jon had always wondered if the man was really going to confess that he’d done it. He didn’t seem the sort to kill children. But Jay Copper’s spec ops nephew, he had been friends with the perp, and the accomplice who’d gone with the perp to commit the murders was never found. What if …?

“You’ve remembered something, haven’t you?” the other man asked, noting the facial expression of his visitor.

Jon nodded. “Yes, that there were two shooters at Mac’s house that night. We only identified one. The tape had Jay Copper talking about his nephew, Peppy, who helped Dan Jones kill Monica. He said the child got in the way. Peppy was questioned but he suddenly had a supposedly airtight alibi for that night. Then the tape where Jay Copper told about Peppy’s part in the murder went missing from the evidence room …”

“I’d forgotten that.” Marquez opened a file on his computer and his dark eyes narrowed as he read what was on the screen. “Peppy. His full name is Bartholomew Richard Hancock. And his brother-in-law is Harold Monroe, which makes Monroe Jay Copper’s nephew by marriage. I don’t have to tell you Copper’s reputation for getting back at anyone who works against his family.” He glanced at Jon, whose face wore a look of utter astonishment. “You never made the connection, did you?”

It had been four months ago, the end of the trail when all the suspects in Dan Jones’s death, and at the same time the Kilraven murders, were fingered. Only Senator Will Sanders and Jay Copper had been arrested and sent to jail pending trial. But the man, Peppy, had slipped out of the noose with the help of a slick attorney and had never been charged even as an accessory, thanks to that missing tape, which, through an unfortunate lapse, had not been copied or transcribed before it was stolen. Jay Copper denied he’d ever implicated Peppy. The fact that Kilraven, and Winnie, were closely involved helped to discount their testimony about it. Pat Sanders had suddenly backtracked on her own testimony, despite the efforts of Hank Sanders, the senator’s brother, to coax her to repeat it.

Harold Monroe had been arrested by Jon on the human trafficking charge not a week after Peppy Hancock had slipped out of the accessory murder charge in the Kilraven case. Jon and Joceline had worked tirelessly to find the evidence to connect him with the trafficking, which they’d been investigating prior to his most recent arrest. But no, Jon had never made the connection.

“So Harold Monroe may be an idiot,” Marquez agreed, “but Hancock isn’t. You want to watch your back. He might target anyone close to you, but especially Joceline, since she helped you get evidence on him. His uncle Jay would know she helped. He has somebody in law enforcement feeding him information. We’ve never been able to identify who.”

Jon sighed. “Why is life so complicated?”

Marquez indicated the office they were sitting in. “This is a police precinct. If you want answers to philosophical questions, you should consult a psychologist.”

Jon glared at him. “Thanks a lot.”

Marquez grinned. “You’re welcome. More coffee?”

Knowing that Peppy, alias Bart Hancock, had possibly been involved in the murder of Mac’s daughter, Melly, was like carrying live dynamite to Jon. He didn’t know if he should tell his brother at all, at least not until he could do some more checking. If Marquez was right, and he usually was, that meant the murder of Mac’s wife and child hadn’t been completely solved at all. Mac had thought Jay Copper, having ordered the hit, had been brought to justice and would pay for the child’s death. But if Peppy had helped the late Dan Jones with the hit—that was another whole can of worms. And Peppy was married to Harold Monroe’s sister. What a mess. A threat Jon had laughed off suddenly became a real possibility, and not just a danger to himself.

He went back to his office and sat down heavily at his desk, staring at the wall opposite. Joceline called him on the intercom and he didn’t even hear it. He was sick at his stomach.

She poked her head in the door and frowned when she saw his expression. “Something wrong?”

He nodded. He glanced at her. His black eyes were glittery. “Come in and close the door. Do I have anything urgent pending?”

“No.” She closed the door and sat down on the uncomfortable straight chair in front of his desk. No comfortable seats for this boss; he didn’t like people overstaying their welcome. She was uncomfortable, too, and not just from the chair. Was he going to fire her? She was a bundle of nerves lately. She had a meeting pending with both Markie’s teacher and the owner of the preschool about his behavior. They were going to recommend drugs, she just knew it. She had no money, no option to change his school for a more expensive one. She was in the hot seat and she didn’t like it.

“Am I being fired due to budget cuts?” she asked bluntly.

He noted her worried expression. Joceline was a single parent with only the bare necessities and even though she had great prospects, it might take time for her to find a new job.

“Of course not,” he said at once.

She relaxed, just a bit. A jerky little smile passed her lips. “Sorry. I worry.”

“The talk about budget cuts involves travel, not personnel. At least for now. We all worry, but until they come up with robots who won’t mind working our hours, I think we’re probably safe as far as employment goes,” he said with an attempt at humor. “I need someone to talk to.”

“There’s your brother,” she said. She frowned. “I think we have a psychology consultant in an office somewhere …?”

“Not that kind of talk,” he said stiffly. “I don’t discuss personal issues except with family.”

“Of course you don’t, sir.” She smiled vacantly.

He hated that damned smile. He averted his eyes. “It’s about the murder of Mac’s wife and child.”

“Jay Copper ordered it and he’s been arraigned for it.”

“There’s a hiccup.”

“Sir?”

He leaned back in his chair with a grimace. “Copper has a nephew who he possibly sent along with Dan Jones on the hit.” He also recalled that Copper had admitted to helping Peppy kill Dan Jones for his defection, not that they could prove it without that missing tape.

“I’m not surprised,” she replied. “He has a lot of idiot relations. Most of them are doing hard time.”

He glanced at her. “Bart Hancock isn’t. And he’s Harold Monroe’s brother-in-law.”

She was very still. The man had threatened her boss, but she hadn’t connected him with the Kilraven case. “Bart Hancock.”

“He’s Jay Copper’s nephew. His nickname is Peppy.”

She let out a breath. “Oh, my God,” she said, with reverence. She knew the name and the connection immediately, and it put another meaning on Monroe’s warning that his family would get back at Jon Blackhawk. If Peppy had killed a child …

“I can’t talk to Mac about this, he’d go crazy,” he told her. “And Winnie’s very pregnant,” he added, alluding to his sister-in-law’s pregnancy.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Unless we can play connect-the-dots and find somebody, anybody, tied to the case who’s willing to testify against him, I don’t know what we can do. Most of the witnesses were killed, including Dan Jones and even his girlfriend.”

“Her minister spoke to Dan Jones,” she recalled at once.

“Yes, but he didn’t actually speak to Dan Jones confidentially,” he reminded her. “So he doesn’t know anything. It’s probably the only reason he’s still alive.”

She felt uneasy. “Harold Monroe wants revenge for his arrest.”

He nodded. “He’s a notorious fumbler.”

“He’s managed to avoid jail for the most part, until the kidnapping charge.”

“Only because of Jay Copper, who’s a master of intimidation,” he replied. “But Copper’s still in jail, awaiting trial, and even he can’t do much intimidating from his present domicile. Not that he can’t hire it done,” he added heavily.

“Your brother has a friend in covert ops who watched out for Winnie Sinclair’s mother when she was in danger investigating the Kilraven murders,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he could tag along with you.”

He glared at her. “I’m a senior FBI agent,” he reminded her coldly. “I do not require a bodyguard!”

She held up both hands. “No offense, but you can’t watch your back all the time.”

“Yes, I can.”

She glowered at him. “There’s the matter of kryptonite turning up in unusual places, Superman,” she said with faint sarcasm.

“I didn’t invite you in here to insult me,” he pointed out.

“You wanted advice. I’m flattered that you value mine. Here it is. Don’t tell your brother anything until you can find a witness who knows what Bart Hancock did—if he really was involved in the murder of Kilraven’s family.”

He sat back in the chair. It was a leather chair, old and not really cushy, but very comfortable. It was odd, she thought, for such a rigid, Spartan sort of man to like a comfortable chair at his desk when he provided hard chairs for visitors. But then, he was something of an anachronism himself.

“I suppose you’re right,” he replied quietly. Privately he was thinking how hard a job that was going to be, finding anybody connected to the case who was willing to risk his life to testify against a child murderer. Even civilians knew what happened to men who went to prison for that particular crime. They didn’t last a long time incarcerated. The other inmates didn’t appreciate child killers.

“You might involve Rick Marquez and Gail Sinclair,” she advised, referring to two of the best homicide detectives on San Antonio’s police force. “They’re both familiar with the case, and Gail really is psychic. She might come up with some witness you haven’t even considered.”

He brightened a little. “That’s good advice.”

“Yes, it is,” she mused, smiling.

He glared at her. “No reason to become conceited.”

“But, sir, I have so much to be conceited about,” she said haughtily. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Want to know what the stylists are doing for the holiday season this year? How about the latest fashion buzz from Paris?”

He was looking more irritable by the second. “When I want to know those things, I’ll call Cammy and have her send her matrimonial prospect right over to enlighten me,” he said sarcastically.

Her eyes widened. “I can call her for you. Right now, if you like.”

“If you do, you’ll really be out looking for a new job,” he returned.

She shrugged. “Okay. But you don’t know what you’re missing. All those color predictions, skirt length changes …”

He stood up. “Out!” he said, pointing to the door.

She stood up, too. “Ingrate,” she muttered.

He came around the desk. He was really tall, she thought, when he stopped less than an arm’s length away from her. “You’re a fountain of wisdom from time to time, Joceline,” he said very softly. “We have our differences, but you’re a real asset here.”

She flushed. “Thanks.”

He looked down into her eyes for longer than he meant to, and was suddenly aware of a new tension, a new electricity that arced between them.

Joceline felt her heart bounce up into her throat at the intensity of his gaze. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away, and a huge shock surged up inside her like an almost tangible joy.

His eyes narrowed as he felt the same impact of pleasure. His jaw tautened noticeably.

“Your eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen,” he remarked quietly. “Almost a royal blue.”

“Yours are black,” she replied, searching them.

“Yes.” Involuntarily his lean, beautiful hand came up and touched her flushed cheek. “This is very dangerous,” he said in a deep, velvety tone. “I might think of it as an invitation.”

“I might point out that you’re the one inviting trouble,” she retorted and stepped back. There were reasons why she could never allow him closer than arm’s length. “My legions of male admirers would set upon you like flies on honey and sunder you limb from limb. Not only that, there’s this famous gorgeous movie star who calls me three times daily … and there he is, on the phone again!” she exclaimed, and almost ran from the office to answer the phone on her desk.

He was still laughing when he closed the door.

IT HAD BEEN a narrow escape. Joceline’s knees were weak for the rest of the day every time she gazed at her gorgeous boss. She avoided looking directly at him, because she was afraid that he was right: she had been inviting trouble.

On the other hand, he’d touched her cheek. He was the one who’d come so very close to her. It was only the second time in their years together that he’d ever approached her in an intimate way—although it wasn’t actually intimate. And he didn’t remember the first time. She hoped, she prayed, that he never would.

An hour later, still dreaming of her boss, Joceline was feeding information into the computer when the part-timer, Phyllis Hicks, stopped by her desk with a question.

“These forms are so boring,” she complained. “My dad works in the homicide department at San Antonio P.D. and I get to look at crime scene photos.” Her eyes gleamed oddly. “Murder is such an exciting thing, don’t you think?”

“Murder?”

Phyllis shifted. “The investigation, I mean. You get to catch criminals. My daddy’s real good at it.”

“Who is your dad?”

“His name’s Dave Hicks, he works with Marquez.” She made a face. “I don’t like Marquez at all.”

That was a surprise. Most people did. Most women found him attractive.

“Of course, he’s not my real dad,” she added. “My real dad is special. He thinks outside the box. He’s not afraid of anything.” She laughed. “He lets me do stuff with him. It’s very exciting.” She caught herself and gave Joceline a beaming smile. “Sorry, I get carried away. Now about this form, do I have to fill in every single space?”

Joceline told her how to input the information, but long after Phyllis went back to her typing chores, Joceline sat quietly in her chair. She felt vaguely uneasy about the young woman. Was it normal to enjoy looking at crime scene photos? They made Joceline very ill. Once she’d even thrown up when she saw one in a file that involved the vicious killing of a young woman who’d threatened Senator Will Sanders. The woman had been brutally killed, a crime for which Jay Copper was charged. But Phyllis liked them?

There was no accounting for taste, she supposed, and there was the notorious forensic investigator, Alice Mayfield Jones Fowler, who really got into her work at crime scenes and never seemed to be bothered by what she had to see. On the other hand, Alice didn’t find murder scenes exciting, either.

“I’ll never fit in this modern society,” Joceline muttered to herself. She didn’t understand the fascination with death, with zombies, with vampires …

Well, she loved the very popular vampire movie trilogy, so that wasn’t quite true. Perhaps Phyllis was just exaggerating. She might have never seen a crime scene photo. She was working in an office that dealt with violent crime, so perhaps she felt being excited by the process of crime-solving was expected.

Joceline shook her head and went back to work.

When quitting time came, she grabbed her purse, called good-night through the closed door and almost ran out of the building. She’d had enough for the day, after Phyllis’s strange questions.

Even the fact that she had a worrisome meeting with school officials next was less disturbing than her boss’s odd behavior. Joceline kept dark secrets. She had no wish to ever display them, least of all to Jon Blackhawk.