The Marshal Page 15

  But what the hell? He pushed send.

  Seconds later came her reply.

  OMG! LOOK AT YOU ADMITTING YOUR FEELINGS. I’M SO PROUD. I MISS YOU TOO. SLEEPOVER=YES

  “Score,” he whispered, grinning like an idiot.

  His phone buzzed again.

  WINDOW AT MY PLACE IS FIXED. I NEED CLOTHES. MY BROTHER WILL DRIVE. MEET ME THERE.

  She was sticking to her word of not traveling alone. Finally, they were in sync.

  In many ways.

  He responded to her text, telling her that he’d pick her up and they could go to his place. He lived in a high-rise with better security.

  Plus, he wanted her in his space again. To give it life and energy rather than it being the place where he spent hours studying homicide cases. He dragged his hand over his face, and then rubbed it over his chest where that damned Jenna explosion wouldn’t let up. He had a woman in his life and it wasn’t just about sex and the release that came with it. Sex for the sake of sex never hurt, but this was different. Now, he wanted her around. A lot.

  “Yeah, dude. Things are changing.”

  Whatever. All this thinking wouldn’t solve his problems. For now, he’d take it as it came and hope like hell they found a killer.

  At 8:25 p.m. on the dot, he buzzed Jenna’s apartment. Seconds later she swung open the door. “We have to go.”

  “Where?”

  She stepped around him, hobbling on that bum ankle.

  “Are you limping? Where are the crutches?”

  “It just hurts. We have to go.”

  There went his plan for the evening. “Uh, where?”

  “Carlisle.”

  “Now?”

  He had yet to move so she latched on to him, dragging him out the door. “Yes, I just heard from my friend at the lab. She sent the report to the sheriff. Now move so I can lock this door.”

  In the world of law enforcement, getting a forensics report back in forty-eight hours took a minor miracle. Or some serious butt kissing. “How? It’s only been forty-eight hours.”

  “Welcome to the world of private labs, Marshal Thompson.”

  Gnarly, paralyzing tension rocketed into his neck. For years he’d been chasing leads on his mom’s case, and in a matter of days Jenna had uncovered possible evidence and gotten a forensics report. A damned forensics report. He should be thrilled. Or at least hopeful.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Jenna locked the door and turned to him, all blue eyes and a not-so-tight T-shirt. She held up her hands and kept her gaze glued to him. “I can see you’re freaking. That’s normal. It’s been years and suddenly we have movement and you don’t know what to think. There’s nothing to think. Let’s see what the report says.”

  Made sense. But Brent’s feet were cemented to the floor. Get going. He should have been sprinting to his car, but nope. Standing stock-still like a pansy.

  “Brent?”

  “I’m...” He dragged his hand over his face. “I don’t know.” Tired.

  Jenna stepped back, tipped her head up to look at him. “You’re scared.”

  Yes. “No.”

  “You’re afraid your mother’s blood and your dad’s DNA will be on that brick. I don’t blame you. But if we don’t get there, we’ll never know. Whatever that brick tells us has been there for twenty-three years. The only difference between yesterday and today is that we’ll know.”

  That was a good way to look at it. He took that in, considered it. “If my father’s DNA is there, I’ll lose my damned mind. I’m still hacked that he bolted on us. He’s always been a suspect, but I don’t go there.”

  She grabbed his hands and squeezed. “I know. So how about I do it for you? I’ll go to Carlisle and meet with the sheriff.”

  Did he want that? He’d always been the one funneling appropriate information to his family and—yeah—that job stunk. But he had to do it. His mother deserved it and he wasn’t willing to let her case die. Not ever.

  But someone else being the funnel for a change, giving his tired brain a rest, he could get behind. “You can’t go alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “No. I’ll go with you. I’ll sit outside while you look at the report. Then you tell me. Good or bad, you tell me. You good with that?”

  “Are you okay with that?”

  He nodded. “I am. For once, I’m okay not being in charge.”

  * * *

  BRENT HELD THE door to the sheriff’s office open for Jenna, but she stopped and hit him with those crystal blue eyes that—whap!—hit him square in the chest. How the hell did she do that? Even the ugly bandage couldn’t smother how gorgeous she was.

  “I feel like I should say something,” she said.

  “Nothing to say. After twenty-three years, I’m about to find out if my father used a brick to kill my mother.”

  Jenna winced. “It could be nothing.”

  “Or it could be something. Which we won’t know unless you get your beautiful behind in the damn building.”

  She shook her head, but laughed. “Remind me later to show you how much I appreciate the man you are.”

  “Oh, honey,” he said. “Way to distract me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Yep.” He smacked her on the rear. “Now go.”

  The sheriff came out of his office, spotted them standing in the doorway and waved. “Hey, gang.”

  Jenna strode through the small reception area, her low heels clicking on the linoleum. He inhaled the musty smell of a building vacant of fresh air and realized certain things never changed. The institutional feel of the sheriff’s office was one of them. This time, though, he had Jenna with him, and he could study the fit of her jeans and the lack of a short skirt. Couple that with the looser fitting shirt and Jenna had made changes in her wardrobe.

  Brent shook hands with Barnes. “Sheriff, thanks for seeing us so late.”

  It had been twenty-three years of gut-shredding for him, as well. It wouldn’t be a shock if he’d already looked at the report.

  “I have the report in my office.”

  Brent took a step and Jenna grasped his arm. “You wanted to wait outside.”

  Right. He had to get used to this. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. If you’ve changed your mind, it’s fine. I want us to be on the same page, though.”

  “Something wrong?” the sheriff asked.

  Brent patted Jenna’s hand and backed away. “No, sir. Jenna will take this one. I’ll wait out here.”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows hitched up. “That’s...different.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Into the office they went, closing the door behind them. The next few minutes would be torture, and it wouldn’t end when Jenna came out, because after this, whatever the news, he’d have to have a conversation with his aunt. He dropped into one of the cheap waiting-room chairs that had been there for ten years. The cushion sagged under his weight, reminding him just how sick of this place he was.

  He slid down, rested his head against the top curve of the chair and closed his eyes. Mom, I hope this is something. Failure wouldn’t do. He had to get this done.

  Eyes closed, he waited, listening for the squeak of hinges when the office door opened. He counted to sixty and when he got there, he did it again. On his fifth cycle, the door finally squeaked and he popped to his feet.

  Jenna stuck her head out. “Come in.”

  Their eyes met and held while he walked, but she wasn’t giving him any clues. Nada. Then he remembered she spent her days around liars and lawyers and there you go.

  “Have a seat,” the sheriff said.

  Brent leaned against the door frame, folded his arms, and then let them drop. “I’ll stand.”

  “The short of it is that your mom’s DNA was found on the brick,” the sheriff said.

  They had a murder weapon. Brent’s breathing hitched and he straightened, set his shoulder blades. “What else?”

&n
bsp; “Nothing. No other identifiable DNA.”

  His father’s DNA wasn’t on there.

  “So,” Jenna said, “we have a murder weapon, but nothing else that will help us identify the killer.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Didn’t that make Jenna crazy? Damned DNA. Everyone talked about how great it was. Well, yeah, but not when you didn’t have any. The reality was DNA only broke a case a fraction of the time, and this case wouldn’t be included in that fraction.

  Brent was leaning against the door frame, his shoulders back, his gaze steady, taking this news like the solid man he was.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenna said.

  “For what? You found the murder weapon. We hadn’t done that in all these years. Add this to the brick that went through your window and someone is scared.”

  “Whoever it is, we have to catch him before he takes off on us.”

  Barnes rocked back in his chair. “What’s this about a brick?”

  “Someone tossed a brick through her window the other night. No coincidence.”

  He tapped his cheek. “Is that what the bandage is?”

  “Yes,” Jenna said. “I needed stitches.”

  Hopefully it won’t scar. And once again, she was thinking like a beauty queen. No. Not like a beauty queen. Like a woman who didn’t want an ugly scar on her face.

  “Well, shoot. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. As Brent said, we’re getting closer.”

  Brent boosted himself off the door frame and took a step closer. “What’s next?”

  Needing to move, Jenna stood. “I think Russ can help.” Barnes didn’t know Russ, though, so this might take convincing. “He’s FBI and he’s good. I’d like to see if there were any other similar cases around that time.”

  Barnes pulled a face. “Like a serial killer?”

  “I don’t know. I’m looking for anything.”

  Silence ensued while Barnes mulled it over. He’d been agreeable all this time; she couldn’t imagine him not wanting FBI help. “Sheriff?”

  He finally nodded. “If you think it’ll help.”

  “I do. I’ll talk to him.”

  Another thing she’d be dragging Russ in on. Which, after the fight about meeting with Jamie, reminded Jenna that she needed to bring Brent into the loop that she’d called his father. In this situation, she hoped to travel to Mason Thompson rather than him returning home and causing more upheaval.

  Jenna tugged on the hem of her shirt and smoothed it. “We should go. Sheriff, thank you. I’m sorry the brick didn’t pan out.”

  “We have a murder weapon. I’m satisfied.”

  Well, she wasn’t.

  Outside, Jenna leaned on the porch rail and breathed in the cool evening air. Building lights illuminated the walkway, breaking up the blackness just beyond. Had she been alone, the creep factor might be too much. But the quiet soothed her busy mind.

  Brent rested against the opposite rail and crossed his legs at the ankles. “I wanted more.”

  “Me, too.”

  “At the same time, I was terrified my father’s DNA would be on that thing.”

  This is it. Time to tell him about his father. “I know you were. This has to be incredibly difficult.”

  He shrugged.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Immediately, his shoulders flew back. “Uh-oh.”

  “No uh-oh. You asked me to keep you informed. That’s what I’m doing. The number you gave me for your dad didn’t work. I asked Russ to help me and he gave me a number for your dad in southern Illinois. We’re playing phone tag and have exchanged voice mails. I was waiting until I talked to him to tell you, but this seems like the right time.”

  “This came out of your conversation with Jamie?”

  No-win situation. If she said yes, Brent would want to know what his cousin had said. Regardless of Jenna craving a little payback when it came to Jamie’s loose lips, Brent didn’t deserve to hear nasty things about his father.

  “We’ve known he’s been a suspect and I’m talking to everyone, right? Fresh eyes and all that. I just need to talk to him. Then we can rule him out.”

  “Or not.”

  Jenna chose not to respond. Cases could go either way and predictions were often wildly incorrect. “When I speak to him, I’ll let you know.”

  He grinned. “So I don’t yell at you again?”

  “Yes, so you don’t yell at me again.” She levered off the porch rail, walked the few feet to him and grabbed a handful of his shirt. Her knuckles skimmed his rock-hard abs. He must kill himself in the gym. “I don’t ever want that to happen again.”

  He glanced down at his mangled shirt and puckered his lips. “Getting a little rough for someone who needs a place to stay tonight.”

  “I can always sleep in my own bed.”

  “Not a chance. Besides, I’ve got a great bed.”

  “I know you do.”

  He tugged his shirt free and slipped his arm over her shoulders. “Then let’s go home.”

  * * *

  AFTER ANOTHER NIGHT with the incredibly irresistible Jenna—he could use more of that in his life—Brent spent the early part of his morning dealing with the processing of a federal fugitive. He strode through the lobby of the Chicago US Marshals’ district office and headed for the stairs that would take him to the fifth floor. The morning rush had dwindled, leaving the cavernous lobby with less than a dozen visitors and employees coming or going. As he approached Lenny, the guard at the reception desk, Brent tossed him a small bag of Aunt Sylvie’s cookies. Like Brent, the guy had a thing for the killer salty-sweet combo of chocolate chips and macadamia nuts.

  “You’re a good man,” Lenny said.

  “Remember that when I run out of my own stash and raid yours.”

  Brent’s phone rang and before he got to the stairs he ducked to the side to check it. Speaking of the devil. He hit the button. “Hey, Aunt Sylvie.”

  “Where are you?” The rough-edged tone she used when something had hit the fan immediately put him on edge.

  “Just walking into my office. What’s up?”

  “He’s back.”

  A woman wandered by, giving Brent a long look as she passed. Thanks, but no thanks—that was the last thing he wanted. “Who?”

  “Your father. He just showed up.”

  It took a solid ten seconds to absorb the words, but Brent’s body finally stiffened and his ears whooshed. Concentrate. He gripped the phone tighter and squeezed his eyes shut. The whooshing stopped and the lobby sounds—dinging elevator, the swish of the revolving door, clicking heels on marble—came into sharper focus. “Wait. What happened?”

  “He’s here. Right next door walking around like he owns the place.”

  Jenna was so dead. Just last night she’d assured him that she’d warn him if she’d made contact. “He does own it.”

  And didn’t that stick in his craw considering Brent had been paying the taxes and other expenses on the place since his father had bolted.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Excellent question. “I don’t know. Did you talk to him?”

  “Of course not,” she huffed. “I saw a strange truck in the driveway and sent your uncle over. He came back looking as if hell had swallowed him and told me the truck was Mason’s.”

  Already, Brent was checking his watch, figuring how long it would take him to tell his boss he had an emergency, get someone to cover transporting his witness this afternoon and get to Carlisle. “Is he still there?”

  “No. He and your uncle had words and he left. He told Herb he wanted to see the old place. Good Lord, what if he’s staying? I can’t do that, Brent. I just can’t.”

  Already with the hysterics. “He’s not staying. Trust me on that. Did he leave a number?”

  “No, but he asked for yours and your uncle gave it to him.”

  Good. Let him call. “Okay. I’ll clear my day and head out there. If he comes back, stay
away from him. Don’t upset yourself anymore.”

  He clicked off and sucked huge gulps of stale lobby air into his lungs. Damned Jenna. She had to have spoken to his father. Why else would he be here? Again she had blindsided him. The woman made him insane. Every step forward, she snatched him back. How many times would she go rogue on him, and how many times would he allow her to talk him out of being angry?

  Out of walking away.

  And if she thought she was going to give him any BS about wanting to tell him in person, he didn’t want to hear it. No chance. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open—hell with the stairs. He’d go upstairs, clear his schedule and then hunt Jenna down.

  Within the hour, Brent strode through Hennings & Solomon’s fancy waiting area to the desk where Marcie, the young receptionist, greeted him. After his stint on Penny’s protection detail last spring, Marcie readily recognized him.

  “Please hold,” she said into her headset. She connected her call and hit Brent with one of her cheery smiles. “Hello, Marshal Thompson.”

  Not feeling too cheery, the best he could summon was a nod. Damned Jenna, aggravating him. “Hey, Marcie. Jenna around?”

  “One moment.”

  Marcie located Jenna and directed him back. The Queen of Blindside stood in the hallway outside the bullpen looking nothing short of fantastic in a black skirt and not-so-clingy sweater, and that stupid punch to the chest walloped him. No time for that when his mission right now might include killing her.

  She unleashed one of her beauty queen smiles. “Well, hey there. This is a surprise.”

  It sure is. His steady, direct approach must have been a clue to his mood because her smile melted like snow on a ninety-degree day. “Conference room. We need to talk.”

  “Um, sure.” She scooted up to him, balancing on her high heels while he burned treads in the carpet. “What’s wrong?”

  He ducked into the conference room Penny had used months earlier to escape from him—her protection detail. Great choice considering his already irritated status.

  Jenna followed behind, closed the door and immediately reached for him. No touching. Hands up, he halted her. “After everything we’ve talked about, you blindsided me again.”