The Marshal Page 3

  Please. Did he even realize how repressed his emotions were? At some point, Brent would need to stop burying the agony of his mother’s death and let himself grieve. Obviously, now was not the time because this boy was locked up tight. “Thinking about your dad killing your mother. How does that feel?”

  He climbed the stairs, waving her forward. “I have no idea.”

  “Pardon?”

  Facing her, he let out a long breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I can’t go there. I’ve thought about it over the years, but I don’t want to believe he could do that to her.”

  “Did they argue a lot?”

  He shrugged. “He yelled. She yelled back. Beyond that, I don’t know. I was too young to draw any conclusions about whether they were happy or not.”

  And somehow, with all this trapped inside, he’d managed to stay sane.

  “Anyway,” he said. “The sheriff’s name is Barnes. He’s on board with you poking around, but don’t irritate him. He needs to be involved.”

  She wrote the sheriff’s name down so she could check him out. Maybe ask her dad’s contacts about him. “Involved to what extent?”

  If she had to check in before every move, they’d be sunk. She didn’t and wouldn’t work that way. Part of being good at her job—at least she hoped—meant shifting on the fly. She had no interest in checking in every ten minutes.

  “To the extent where you don’t aggravate or blindside him. If you’re coming here, give him a heads-up. If you get a solid lead, give him a heads-up. If you want to question one of his citizens, give him a heads-up. Beyond that, I’ve got your back. You need a battle fought with him, I’m your guy. I know his buttons, and that makes me good at not pushing them.”

  And, oh, her heart went pitter-patter. This man, screwed-up emotions and all, might be her dream come true. He knew how to work people without them turning on him. “Brent Thompson, I think we’ll make a great team.” She faced the house, took in the peeling paint on the front door and breathed in. “Take me inside. We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter Three

  Brent shoved his key in the lock on the front door, stared down at the weathered handle and held his breath. Beside him, Jenna moved, ratcheting up his already spring-loaded tension. Straightening his shoulders, he released the breath he’d been holding.

  “Are you okay?” Jenna asked, her voice mixing with the whistling wind.

  With all the open space out here, he’d grown immune to the wind noise. Except tonight. Tonight that wind could have been a brass band in his head. Why tonight should be any different from the thousands of other times he’d stepped into this house, he wasn’t clear on, but it definitely had something to do with Jenna-the-investigator, a near stranger wearing that red blouse with the extra unfastened button still taunting him, entering his space. The place where his life had been decimated.

  “Brent?”

  One, two, three. Go.

  He turned the lock and shoved open the door. “I’m good. Just thinking.” Flipping the inside light switch, he stepped over the threshold. “Come in.”

  When Jenna stepped in, he closed the door, shut out that damned wind and pointed to the living room floor. “Crime scene.”

  Jenna glanced around, taking in the sofa and the end tables all covered with sheets. Her gaze traveled to the front windows and the dusty drapes. Last time he’d been here, he’d forgotten to close them. Not a huge deal since his aunt and uncle watched over the place. Even if someone wanted to break in, what would they get? Thirty-year-old furniture. That’s all. Everything else had been tossed or cleared out, all their childhood memories and valuables split between Brent and Camille.

  All that was left here was the place his mother had died.

  “Wow,” Jenna finally said.

  “Yeah.”

  “This is the original furniture?”

  “Yes. The floor, too.” He gestured to the hardwood. “It’s never been refinished. In case you were wondering.”

  “I was. Thank you.”

  “Everything is relatively the same.”

  She took a step, and then halted before turning back to him. “May I?”

  “Can’t investigate standing here.”

  She walked around the furniture, peeled back a corner of a sheet to inspect the sofa then backed up to study the floor. After a minute, she squatted and ran her hand over the area where he’d found his mother beaten and bloody. Suddenly, the way Jenna’s black slacks stretched over her rear seemed a whole lot better to think about.

  Yeah, think about the beautiful woman instead. For once, he’d let his baser needs take the lead.

  “Your bedroom is down this hallway?”

  At that, he blurted a laugh. What timing.

  “What’s funny?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Yes, bedroom is down the hall.”

  She inched closer to the sofa and his palms tingled, the flicking shooting straight up his arms into his chest.

  “Right there,” he said.

  Jenna stopped and looked back at him. Her eyes, her body, the way she moved, all of it left him...affected.

  “What?” she asked.

  “One step to your right. That’s where she was when I came down the hallway.”

  Without moving, she stared at the floor, studying the details—the grain of the wood, the seams where blood had seeped, the scuff marks—he’d spent years obsessing over.

  Outside, a car door slammed. Sheriff Barnes arriving. Brent turned away from Jenna to open the door. The cruiser was parked behind his SUV. Brent held up a hand. “Hey, Sheriff.”

  Barnes, in the drab beige uniform the Carlisle Sheriff’s Department had used since Brent could remember, strode to the porch, hat in place, bat belt—otherwise known as his gun belt—snug on his hips. Over the years, Barnes had filled out, but at nearly fifty-eight, he could still chase down perps.

  He shook Brent’s hand. “Brent, good to see you.”

  Not really, but what else was the guy supposed to say? “Thanks for coming, Sheriff. Come in.”

  Barnes stepped into the house, spotted the gorgeous brunette in the killer blouse and did a double take. Right there with ya. Every damned time Brent looked at her he had that same feeling. A little helpless, a little stunned and a whole lot horny.

  Jenna glanced up, smiled and strutted toward them. Brent cleared his throat. “Sheriff Barnes, this is Jenna Hayward, the investigator I was telling you about.”

  Barnes shot him a look, and then shook his head. “But damn, if I had an investigator that looked like her, my crime rate would skyrocket. Everyone would want to be investigated.”

  In Brent’s office, if he’d made a comment like that, his superiors would have sent him to sensitivity training. Out here in Carlisle? No one much cared because they knew Barnes was a good, honest man who’d sooner sever his own hand than use it to touch a woman other than his wife. Unsure how Jenna would feel about the remark, he turned to her, offered an apologetic nod.

  “Now, Sheriff,” Jenna said, “you’d better watch yourself. I tend to get bored easily and may come looking for a job.”

  Barnes shook Jenna’s extended hand, locked eyes with her, and the way she smiled, all crooked and come-get-me, once again reminded Brent how she used her looks to play men.

  Particularly ones foolish enough to get played.

  Finally, the sheriff got a hold of himself, straightened up and turned to Brent. “I have the copies you wanted in the car.”

  “Thank you.” Brent swirled his finger. “I was about to review the scene with Jenna.”

  “Want me to do that?”

  Not a bad idea, but he wanted to give his version of what he knew from that night. “I’ll handle the first part and you can summarize the investigation. That work?”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Sheriff,” Jenna said, “I appreciate you letting me look at your files. A lot of people wouldn’t.”

  Barnes shifted
his hat between his hands. “I was a deputy back then and this was my first murder case.”

  His gaze went to the floor, the spot where Brent’s mother had died, and the damned flicking stabbed up Brent’s arms again. Anymore, he couldn’t be in this house without the failure tearing at him. He inched his shoulders back and focused on Jenna.

  “Anyway,” Barnes said, “this case has stayed with me. I’ve got patience, but I need someone with imagination who can see more than I’m seeing. All I know is I want it solved.”

  Didn’t they all.

  Brent gestured down the hallway to his childhood bedroom where the hell began. “Let’s start there.”

  * * *

  JENNA FOLLOWED BRENT down the corridor, tracking his footsteps on the threadbare rug as he demonstrated the path that led him to discovering his mother’s body. She glanced up at the peeling wallpaper—white with roses—and wondered how long it had been there.

  “I looked out the door, but didn’t see anything,” Brent said. “My parents’ bedroom door was closed, so I went to the living room, where the television was still on.”

  Something in his tone, the flatness, the lack of emotion, the detachment, again struck Jenna as odd. This was his mother and he was reciting these facts as if reading from a script.

  “The house was quiet,” he continued. “I figured my mom had fallen asleep on the couch. She did that sometimes.”

  Jenna jotted notes as she walked. At least until Brent stopped short and—smash!—she collided with him. Her chin bounced off his back, her pad fell to the floor and her pen...well...that sucker plunged into him. She gasped, dropped it and instinctively rubbed the wounded spot. A spot that happened to be on Brent Thompson’s extremely tight backside.

  The shock of her hand in a place it seriously shouldn’t have been must have registered because he spun toward her.

  Holy cow! She’d just groped a US marshal.

  And liked it.

  What a nightmare. She smacked her hand against her chest. Bad, hand, bad. A horrified giggle blurted out. And it gets worse.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to beg you to believe that was a completely—completely—unintentional thing. It was a reaction. If I’d hit your arm, I’d have grabbed it. I swear to you. Total accident.”

  Defuse it. Yes. That’s what she’d do. Before they both started stuttering. She leaned forward, went on tiptoe and, keeping her voice low, she added, “But seriously, your backside is a work of art. Pure heaven.”

  At that, Brent’s lips spread slowly, like melting butter inching across his face, and Jenna’s brain seized. The man had a smile—one he didn’t show too often—that could spark a fire in a saturated forest.

  “Heaven, huh?”

  “Pure. I am sorry, though. Really.”

  Not really.

  “You don’t look sorry.”

  But the sinful grin told her he was enjoying the game as much as she was. Sure, she liked flirting. Did it often and with purpose. But with Brent, it was just plain fun. They both knew the spark was there. They’d just chosen not to do anything with it.

  At least until she’d groped him and decided they definitely needed to do something with it.

  The sheriff stepped into view at the end of the hallway. “It got quiet. You two okay?”

  Brent’s gaze traveled to the open buttons on her blouse and back up, giving her a heavy dose of eye contact. “Are we okay?”

  “We are A-okay, Sheriff. Just having a little powwow here.”

  “Powwow,” Brent said. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “It is now, big boy.”

  A squeak from the back of the house sounded and Brent winced, the move so small she’d almost missed it. In the second it took him to realize she’d witnessed his unguarded response, he threw his shoulders back and jerked a thumb toward the end of the hallway.

  “Someone’s at the back door. Probably my uncle. Let me check this.”

  Turning from her, he strode to the end of the hall, hung a right and headed to the kitchen.

  If it was his uncle, she’d get an opportunity to put a face to a name. As she always did, she’d lay on the Miss Illinois-Runner-Up charm and let him get comfortable with her before interviewing him. She may have been rejected by the FBI, but they were clueless at how adept she was at handling men. Her four brothers could attest to that.

  Regardless, everyone here the night of the murder needed to be interviewed. Any one of them could hold one small detail they deemed irrelevant, but might actually be important. Anything was possible.

  Even twenty-three years later.

  “Hey,” Brent said. “Figured it was you.”

  “We just came from dinner.” Male voice. A little gravelly. Older. “I saw your car outside. You didn’t call.”

  Jenna and the sheriff stood in the living room giving Brent privacy with his uncle. At least she guessed it was his uncle.

  “The day got away from me,” Brent said. “Come into the living room. I want you to meet someone.”

  “Really?” The gravelly voice raised with that recognizable tone every unmarried, twenty-eight-year-old woman knew and sometimes, in her case, despised.

  Did Brent’s uncle think he was bringing a love interest home to meet his family? And what? Showing his girlfriend the place where his mother was murdered?

  Twisted.

  But, well, she’d seen plenty of twisted in this line of work. Simply put, people were weird. Brent just didn’t strike her as one of the weird ones.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Brent said.

  “You’re not getting any younger.”

  Finally, Brent laughed. “As you keep telling me.”

  He stepped into the room, his uncle on his heels. Given Brent’s size it was no shocker that his uncle stood a good six inches shorter. He wore tattered jeans with an untucked flannel shirt over a T-shirt. His scuffed work boots clunked against the hardwood as he came into the room. Under the brim of his baseball cap, one which Jenna’s mother would ask him to remove in the house, his gaze shot to Jenna and then to the sheriff.

  He nodded. “Sheriff, everything all right?”

  “Just fine, Herb. Brent asked me to meet him here.”

  “Uncle Herb, this is Jenna Hayward.”

  Herb removed his cap, came toward her and shook her hand. “Hello.”

  “Jenna is a private investigator.”

  That got his attention. He looked at Brent, and then swung back to Jenna.

  “No fooling?”

  “No fooling,” she said. “I work for a law firm.”

  Brent waggled a hand. “Remember the lawyer from last spring?”

  “The mouthy blonde?”

  “Seriously,” Brent said, “you did not just say that.”

  Oh, he sure had and Jenna couldn’t help smiling at the spot-on description of her boss. “That’s her. She’s one of my bosses.”

  Brent glanced at her. “Sorry. They were asking me about Penny and I was trying to describe her. I didn’t mean it the way it sounds.” He went back to his uncle. “Jenna is helping on Mom’s case. The sheriff came by with files.”

  “Good to hear. I’m glad you’ll get some help on this.” Brent’s uncle addressed Jenna. “We need to get her justice. She was a good girl.”

  His uncle gripped Brent’s arm, clearly a gesture of affection and support, and something kicked against Jenna’s ribs. Brent’s father may have abandoned his family, but his uncle sure hadn’t. These poor people. All these years they’d been struggling with loss and heartbreak and injustice. “Brent, do you mind if I talk with your uncle a bit?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  But Brent didn’t move.

  “Alone?”

  For a moment, he continued to stand there and then he blinked. There we go. Slowly, it all registered. “Gotcha. I’ll walk outside with the sheriff. Get those files for you.”

  “And, hey,” his uncle said, “head over and see your aunt. She misses yo
u. Jamie is there. Catch her before she goes home.”

  Jamie. Brent’s cousin. He’d mentioned her on the ride over.

  On his way out, Brent waved in that yeah-yeah-yeah way people used when being nagged. The front door closed and Jenna moved next to Herb. He focused on her face, which she’d give him bonus points for. “Thanks again for helping,” Brent’s uncle said.

  “No need to thank me. Brent is a good guy. I had no idea about his mom. It’s...well...tragic.”

  “It is. But Brent, he turned out to be a damned fine man. Taking care of his sister the way he did. A lot of boys would run from that. Not him. He latches on.”

  He sure did. “So it seems. May I ask you some questions regarding the night his mom died?”

  “Whatever you need. But the sheriff has it all in his notes.”

  Of course he did, but hearing it and reading it were necessities. “Yes, but since we’re here, I was hoping you could walk me through what went on when you got here.”

  He took in the room, studying the now-uncovered furniture. His gaze landed on the floor in front of the sofa. Slowly, he ran his hand over his face, a gesture so similar to the one she’d seen Brent use it sent a chill up her arms. Like father like son, only this wasn’t the father and Brent wasn’t the son.

  Finally, he looked back at Jenna. “She was a mess. Poor thing. I found her right here. Right where I’m standing.”

  The exact spot Brent had indicated. “When did you first see Brent?”

  “He came to the house, ran inside—we never locked the doors back then—screaming and crying. Scared the hell out of me.” He shook his head. “Long as I live, I’ll never get the sound of that boy’s screams out of my system.”

  It was hard to picture. Strong, solid Brent at five, terrified and begging for help. She hated the thought. Hated the idea that he’d dealt with that trauma. “What time was this?”

  “Just after midnight. Maybe 12:10.”

  After checking her notes and confirming the time with what Brent told her, she pointed at the front door. “You came in this way?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Usually we come in the back. Cheryl always kept that door unlocked. That night, Brent must have run out the front door because it was open when I got here.”