The Marshal Page 10

  Coming apart. Seriously? Was he a crybaby now? All this psychobabble worming around his head might make him crazier than he’d ever be on his own. He tilted up his head, stared at the few twinkling stars and let the quiet night settle his mind.

  He closed his eyes and cracked his neck. Get to work.

  On the porch, he hesitated. Go in? Knock first? His damned house and he was knocking? Not. At the same time, Jenna hadn’t told him she’d be coming out. Whether that was because of their argument or because she didn’t want him to see what they were doing, he didn’t know.

  And he didn’t like not knowing.

  Having her rifle through his life and rip it open was his idea. He’d practically demanded that she be bold and unfiltered, and he’d gotten it. Only, he’d prefer she keep that unfilteredness to his mother’s case and not his emotional shortcomings. Some things didn’t need to be analyzed.

  Hell with it. He walked in.

  Jenna and the sheriff stood in the middle of the living room where crime-scene photos were spread in a path to the sofa. A flash of white on one of the photos—his mother’s pajama top, the one with the pink hearts—caught his eye. Sickness consumed him and he immediately brought his gaze to Jenna. Close one. As usual, that punch to the chest hit him. This time it was more of a kick. A solid boot right to his sternum. This woman tore him up. By the time she got done with him, all that compartmentalizing he’d done since the age of five would be shattered.

  But never before had he felt that boot to the chest. There were women he’d enjoyed, in all kinds of ways, but none who did this to him. Was that good or bad?

  Psychobabble. That’s what it was.

  Either way, he wanted her.

  She hustled over to him, grabbed his jacket sleeve and angled him away from the photos. “Hi.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He calculated the myriad of ways she could answer and anticipated her putting him off, making up excuses, avoiding him.

  “I’m not sure.”

  That, he hadn’t expected. “Come again?”

  She waved her arms. “I know it sounds crazy, but there’s something in the photos that’s bugging me. I needed to walk through the house again, get it set up the way it was that night and study it.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You were mad at me.”

  Had him on that one. The sheriff cleared his throat. Thank you. Brent glanced over the top of Jenna’s head. “Sheriff, thanks for coming out.”

  “Sure thing, Brent.” He pointed to the door. “I’ll give you a second. Holler when you’re ready.”

  Good plan. They didn’t need a cheering section. Brent held the door open and closed it after the sheriff walked through.

  Puckering her lips, Jenna eyed him, angling her head one way then the other. “Are you still mad at me?”

  “I don’t know. But guess what? Apparently there’s this thing adults do that’s called talking, and we should probably do it.”

  Suddenly, her face lit up and she burst out laughing. “Talking? You?”

  Yeah, me. For a second, he stared at her, but her face revealed a whole lot of nothing. Then he leaned over and kissed her. An easy press that warmed his blood but didn’t spark like the last kiss, which could have taken down a city. He backed away and ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. Great lips.

  “I want to apologize. About before. At your place.”

  Still didn’t fix the problem, but hopefully she’d recognize the step he’d taken. But was recognizing it enough? She deserved more than some broken-down guy with emotional limitations. Most of the women he’d dated had. He was just never willing to give them what they deserved.

  “I accept your apology. Thank you.”

  “I am scared.”

  Oh, damn. He’d said it. Strong men don’t do this. Needing her out of his space, he retreated a couple of steps.

  After the second step back, Jenna followed him, gripped both of his arms and squeezed. “Look at me.”

  Slowly, he breathed in and looked down at Jenna, concentrating first on her stormy blue eyes that changed with her moods, and then on those perfect lips.

  Was she speaking? Her lips were moving, but it all sounded gibberish.

  “Did you hear me?”

  He shook his head.

  She brought her hands up, cupped his face, and her palms were warm and steady and soft and made him think of things he shouldn’t necessarily be thinking. Things involving his bed over a long weekend.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The fog in his head cleared. He nodded.

  “I said I don’t blame you. You’ve been through a trauma no one should experience. Especially not a child. I think you’ve programmed yourself to constantly self-protect. Maybe I’d do the same thing. But eventually, all this self-protecting will backfire. It might be forty years down the road when you’re sitting alone on a holiday because you have no family left, but it’ll catch up. And that will be ugly. You can either let people in or you can stay closed off. Personally, I think closed off would be lonely.”

  He brought her hands down, but not wanting to break the contact—what am I doing?—held on. “Before a couple of hours ago, I hadn’t thought about it. Right or wrong, I’m doing what I know.”

  “Maybe you should let people help you so you can know something different.”

  “People do help me.”

  She jerked her hands, but not enough to break free. “You know what I mean. You have friends and your family, yes. But outside of that you have no interest in opening yourself up to anything but sexual relationships. If that’s how you want your life to be, fine. We’ll stay friends or business associates or whatever you want to call it, and that’ll be that.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “It’s not, but as much as I think your self-preservation theory is a crock, I’m not about to walk into an affair with a man who will slaughter me.”

  “Exactly why I wanted to be honest about my priorities. This case is my priority.”

  Finally, she tugged her hands free. “You’re not ready for this. We should stick with our original plan until I’m done on your case.”

  Was she kidding? He’d just emasculated himself in front of her and she was turning tail? “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

  “Don’t make me slap you. You admitted you were scared and I love that. It’s a major step. But we’re all scared, fella, and I can’t handle you falling back on the excuse that you don’t have time for a relationship. Tell me you’re scared and leave it there. Don’t bulldoze me with this no-time theory.”

  Frustration burned in his gut. This shouldn’t have been this hard. “I don’t know what to do with the fear.”

  “You do nothing with it. You—we—take it slow. Nobody says we’re getting married. We go out. We—hold on now, don’t panic—go on dates. Dinner. The movies. Ball games. If it’s a disaster, at least we tried. But hey, that’s just me. And, since I’m working your mother’s case, you don’t have to come up with excuses to break our dates. I’ll probably break them before you do.”

  Slow. She’d said it. Not him. Usually he was the take-it-slow one. This woman was destroying all of his excuses. Every last one. Son of a gun. He dug his fingers into his forehead and rubbed. At some point, he’d laugh about this. Right now? No.

  “What’s wrong? I’m blowing your theories to bits?”

  He laughed. “Pretty much.”

  “It’s not a bad thing.”

  “Feels like it.”

  She smiled at him and then tugged on his shirt. “You’re not used to it. Relax.”

  Had he ever done that? Maybe with the guys watching a game, but with women? Never. Always on guard. Waiting for them to want more of what he couldn’t give. And then they’d walk away and he’d be fine—A-okay—with it.

  The way he felt right now, if Jenna walked away, he’d tackle her, grab her ankles and beg her to stay. Talk about emasculating
.

  Man, oh, man, his life suddenly got a whole lot more complicated. “Dating, huh?”

  “Yes, Brent, dating. It’s a concept I know you have problems with.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Harsh.”

  She poked him. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Next time, try. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  That cracked her up enough that she snuggled into him, wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed. “You’re a good guy, Brent Thompson.”

  When it came to relationships, he wasn’t convinced of that. For her sake, he hoped it was true. “When we’re done doing whatever it is we’re doing at my mom’s, do you want to have a late dinner with me?”

  “Like a date-dinner?”

  “Yes, Jenna. A date. I’m asking you on a date. But if you drive me crazy with this, I’m bailing.”

  “Wow. I was simply clarifying. I’d love to have dinner with you. Thank you.”

  Step one complete. And he’d survived. “Perfect. Now what the hell are we doing here?”

  * * *

  WHILE BRENT WAITED on the porch, Jenna collected the crime-scene photos she’d spread across the floor.

  “What’s next?” Sheriff Barnes asked.

  The man had been here two hours and the gravelly tone in his voice had become more prominent. He’d already worked a full day and she was peppering him with questions, forcing him to recall a murder that happened twenty-three years ago. A murder he hadn’t been able to solve.

  She stacked the last of the photos from the living room and straightened the pile. “Thank you for doing this.”

  “It’s not a problem. You didn’t figure out what was bothering you.”

  No. She hadn’t. Thanks for the reminder.

  “Not yet. But I will. It’s here. I just haven’t tripped over it yet.”

  He gestured to the remaining photos stacked on the floor next to her briefcase. “We haven’t been through those yet.”

  “Those are perimeter shots. Some from the morning after, but most from that night.”

  “We’re here. We might as well do it.” He swung back and opened the front door where Brent waited on the porch. “You’re good.”

  A few seconds later, Brent entered the house, his big body filling the vast emptiness. This had been his home, a place he should recall happy things, memories of playing and family gatherings, Christmas mornings and birthdays. What did he see when he stepped in here?

  One day she’d ask him. Not now. Getting in touch with his feelings wasn’t high on his to-do list, and she’d already gotten a win with him admitting his fears about emotional attachments. She wouldn’t push it.

  At least not yet.

  “We’re almost done,” she said.

  Hands in pockets, his go-to stance when he wasn’t sure how he felt about a situation, he cocked his head and squinted at the photos in her hand.

  She waved the stack. “These are perimeter shots. It won’t take long to go through them.”

  He nodded. “Did you tell the sheriff about your visit to Jeffries’s?”

  Sheriff Barnes slid his gaze to Brent, then to Jenna. “What?”

  “He called his lawyer.” She scrunched her nose, thought about the wasted hours. “We’re setting up a time to chat.”

  “I’m not surprised. We’ve talked to him enough that he panics when he sees us pull up.”

  “I thought I hit on something with that hunk of cement from his collectibles.”

  The sheriff smiled, but it was one of those tight-lipped smiles that stunk of failure. “Nothing doing there.”

  She shrugged. “I snapped some pictures while he was out of the room. If nothing else, it’s something to think about.”

  Along with the bazillion crime scene photos she’d yet to get through. She’d studied all the interior shots, but only a few of the exterior ones. Exterior. Sharp, searing stabs blasted the back of her neck. “Oh, wait.”

  Brent was already in motion, moving toward her. “What?”

  Jenna dropped to her knees and fanned the perimeter shots she held, spreading them across the floor. Where is it? Where is it? “Come on. I know you’re in here.”

  Squatting next to her, Brent touched her arm. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  There. A photo of the back entrance taken the night of the murder. She studied the photo. Back door closed, folding chairs on the porch. A baseball bat originally thought to be the murder weapon but ruled out. A football and a baseball sat next to it. Next picture. Where is it?

  Flicking a couple of photos aside, she scanned two others, taken in sequence and then lined them up next to each other. Together they were a complete view of the house. The entire area had been lit up, probably by spotlights so the crime scene guys could work the area.

  “Jenna?”

  “Give me a second, Brent.”

  Go slow. Study each one. Blood stains on the porch? Displaced items? There had to be something. On the photos, she trailed her finger over the steps, and then to the side of the porch where firewood had been stored in an iron rack. “What about the wood? Was that checked?”

  “Every piece of it,” the sheriff said. “Clean.”

  “Dammit.”

  She moved on. Nothing but grass. Except. Wait. On the ground near the side of the porch, the edge of something peeked out. She went back to the stack of photos, snatched the next two pieces to her puzzle, lined them up and found nothing but more grass leading to the driveway. Whatever peeked out wasn’t visible in the other photos. Shoot.

  Glancing up at the sheriff, she tapped the photo. “Any idea what this is? Was it taken into evidence?”

  The sheriff squatted beside Brent, his gaze darting over the photos and, if Jenna guessed right, his mind racing.

  “It was dark,” he said. “We went back in the morning to make sure we got everything. Whatever that is, I don’t remember it.”

  Jenna hadn’t seen anything on the evidence list that resembled this item. If they had it, she’d know. Brent stood tall and she looked up at him. “Any ideas?”

  “Let me see that.”

  She handed him the photo. He analyzed it for a few seconds, clearly his law enforcement brain organizing thoughts and then, like a bomb had exploded, he dropped the picture and bolted. “I think I know what it is.”

  Chapter Nine

  Brent tore down the porch steps as if he was chasing a loose football. Get there, get there, get there.

  All these years his father had stored those bricks under the house. For what purpose, Brent never knew and never cared. They weren’t bothering him, so he left them there. And maybe he was wishing for it, but whatever was in that photo had the faded reddish color of a brick.

  In the pitch black, his breathing coming too fast—control that—he dropped to his knees, ripping the lattice off the bottom of the porch and sending a few hunks of wood flying. He closed his eyes. Better not to get a chunk of wood lodged there.

  After a few seconds, he opened them and adjusted to the blackness. Need light. He pulled out his phone, shined the light from the screen. Not enough.

  Jenna leaned over the porch rail. “Brent?”

  “Flip that light on. I need a flashlight.”

  Setting his phone down, he tossed the broken lattice aside and pulled off the remaining pieces. Ow. He held his finger over the light. A sliver of wood had pricked his skin. At least it wasn’t an eye. He tried to fish it loose, but the sliver broke, leaving half still lodged in his finger. He’d get the rest later.

  The porch light came on, throwing shadows across the trees behind Brent. Jenna came around the house, limping a little on that bad ankle—the crutches were where?—and carrying a giant flashlight that had to belong to the sheriff.

  “I think it’s a brick,” Brent said. “In the photo. There’s been a stash of them under the porch for years. I saw them last month when I had to fix the lattice.”

  A sudden sick feeling jabbed
at him, turned his stomach inside out. All these years he’d been chasing leads and the murder weapon could have been sitting under the damned porch. No, couldn’t be. All those bricks had been checked twenty-three years ago. Unless someone added to the pile after the fact. He let out a huff because—hell—he didn’t know what to feel. Useless came to mind. His face grew hot and his head pounded. Boom, boom, boom. A swarm of pain and rage and torment devoured his system. Coming apart. He banged his hand against the side of the porch. “It’s been under my damned porch all this time.”

  Jenna stepped closer, set her hand on his shoulder. “Brent, hold on.”

  No. He jumped to his feet, started pacing, just tearing up the ground, wanting to rip something apart because what kind of an idiot has a murder weapon sitting under a porch for twenty-three years and doesn’t know it? Dammit. “Twenty-three years. Unbelievable. After the sheriff’s office checked the initial stash, I never counted or bothered to check them again. There could be DNA on that thing! After all this time, who knows if there’s anything decent left. How stupid am I?”

  Jenna threw her hands up. “You are not stupid. I got lucky with that photo. Right place, right time. If I hadn’t seen that hunk of cement at Jeffries’s house, I may not have even caught this. And without you, we wouldn’t know the bricks were under the porch.”

  The sheriff walked up behind Jenna, stowing his cell. “Sorry. Phone call. What’s up?”

  “Brent thinks there are bricks under the house. What’s in that photo might be the edge of one. I don’t remember any bricks on the evidence list so if it is a brick, it was missed at the crime scene.”

  Brent squatted again and shined the light into the general area where he’d remembered the bricks being. There they were. A dozen or so, stacked in even piles. “They’re here. I need to crawl under there.”

  Think like a US marshal. This could be potential evidence. Evidentiary procedure had to be followed. The chain of custody alone could derail a case. It would take time, but each brick would need to be labeled with details about when it was found and who handled it. “I can’t do it.”

  Barnes nodded. “Damn right you can’t. If we find a murder weapon under there, the victim’s son shouldn’t touch it.”