Always Look Twice (8 page)

She opened the door and stepped inside. The foyer was filled with people dressed in dark suits and subdued dresses. Jeremy’s family and friends had come out in force. Annabelle glanced around the dimly lit room, anxiously looking for familiar faces.

There. Some of the tension inside her eased as she spied the two team members she had been able to reach. Tag Harrington stood talking to Noah Kincannon. Tag wore a sport coat and gray slacks; Noah a dark suit. Both men were tall with broad shoulders and military posture. Tag’s red hair had darkened over the years to a deep auburn. Noah’s hair was still dark brunet. They appeared handsome and somber and fit. They looked wonderfully alive.

That just left . . . she stiffened as she tangibly felt his gaze. ‘‘Mark.’’

He stood beside an open doorway, a little behind Frances Russo. He wore a charcoal Armani suit, a patterned tie, and dress shoes with a military shine. His eyes glittered like emeralds until their gazes met, at which point they went studiously blank. The knife he’d sunk into her heart months ago twisted a bit.

She gritted her teeth. She wanted more than anything to speak to Tag and Noah and delay approaching her ex, but good manners dictated that she pay her respects to Jeremy’s widow first. She took a step forward, then stopped when a gruff voice said, ‘‘Annabelle?’’

She noted the uniform right away, then the warm blue eyes that gleamed at her from beneath bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Lines aged his face, but his steely jaw remained the same. ‘‘Colonel Warren!’’

‘‘Annabelle, it
is
you.’’ He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hard hug. ‘‘Good Lord, woman. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’’

‘‘You, too, Colonel,’’ she replied with a smile. She was surprised to see him. As the Fixers’ commanding officer, Colonel Greg Warren had been the driving force behind their missions, though his position preventedhim from being a true part of the team. She had left a message about Russo’s death with his assistant as a courtesy. She had never expected he would make the trip for the funeral, but she was thrilled that he had. He might have information about the trouble. Perhaps that was why he was here. ‘‘I guess you received my message?’’

‘‘I did. Such sad news. Russo was a good man. It’s always hard to lose a man, but to lose someone so young and in such an unfortunate manner . . . well . . .’’ He shook his head, then glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘‘There you are. Honey, I’m sure you remember my old friend and colleague Annabelle Monroe. Annabelle, my wife, Lala.’’

A wife? The last she knew, Colonel Warren had been a widower. Annabelle turned to see a woman who could be Catherine Zeta-Jones’s sister, a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Extending her hand, she said, ‘‘Hello.’’

Lala Warren smiled pleasantly as she accepted Annabelle’s handshake. ‘‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Monroe. I wish it were under happier circumstances.’’

Annabelle considered trying to fake her way through the moment, but she decided to confess. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said, offering an embarrassed smile. ‘‘I’m having a brain freeze. I don’t recall where we met.’’

‘‘The Fixers helped my first husband and me escape from Iraq. I believe you piloted the helicopter?’’

‘‘Oh, yes.’’ Now she remembered. The husband had been a brilliant scientist, a biologist, who didn’t want to work for Saddam Hussein. That extraction was one of the first missions the Fixers ever completed.

‘‘My Stefan died four . . . almost five years ago now. An automobile accident. Not long after Greg’s wife passed away.’’

Colonel Warren patted her arm. ‘‘Lala and I have been married for two years now. I am blessed to have had two wonderful women in my life.’’

‘‘I’m glad for you, Colonel,’’ Annabelle told him honestly. He was a good man and she was pleased to see him happy.

‘‘It’s a shame it takes an unfortunate incident like this to bring us together.’’

Annabelle gave him a sharp look. Did he know that Jeremy’s manner of death was more murderous than unfortunate? She couldn’t tell, and now was not the time to ask. ‘‘Yes, it is. If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Jeremy’s wife.’’

‘‘Of course, Annabelle. Lala and I were just leaving. We’ll visit more tomorrow at the funeral.’’

Annabelle then threaded through the crowd, slowly making her way toward the widow. After acknowledging Mark with a brief nod, she took hold of Frances’s hands and gave them a comforting squeeze. ‘‘Hello, Frances.’’

‘‘Annabelle, thanks for coming.’’ Her voice was strained, her complexion pale and translucent in the room’s soft lighting. ‘‘Thanks for helping to make calls. Jeremy is surely looking down from heaven, happy to see members of the unit here.’’ Her voice cracked as she added, ‘‘You meant so much to him, you know.’’

‘‘He meant a lot to us, too, Frances.’’

‘‘Everyone loved him.’’ The widow’s eyes grew teary, but she bravely blinked the moisture away. Then as a bit of a line formed behind Annabelle, Frances Russo gestured toward the viewing room where Jeremy’s flag-draped casket was on display.

The scent of gardenia hung heavy on the air as Annabelle moved reluctantly into the room, grateful it wasn’t an open-casket event. She didn’t do dead bodies well, especially not ones that had been drained and dressed for planting. She traced her phobia back to her great-uncle Ray’s funeral and The Accident. At seven, she’d been inquisitive, bold, and . . . foolish. It had been her bad luck that the church had a staircase to the choir loft that allowed her to lean over the casket to get a better look. Lean too far over. So far that she lost her balance and fell.

She closed her eyes and willed away the memory.

A hand took her elbow. ‘‘You okay?’’ Mark asked, his tone a low, respectful rumble.

I was. Not so much now.
‘‘I’m fine.’’

‘‘You look flushed.’’

‘‘I’m fine,’’ she repeated, tugging her arm from his grip.

‘‘All right. Then let me introduce you to Jeremy’s mother. She is anxious to meet members of the team.’’

Annabelle recalled that the groom’s mother—a traditional Italian Catholic—had boycotted the Las Vegas wedding in protest. Frances had told her that mother and son took a year to reconcile. Bet she regretted that lost time now.

Mark scanned the room and frowned. ‘‘We’re still missing a lot of folks. Were you able to get hold of everyone?’’

Annabelle didn’t want to go into the situation here, so she simply said, ‘‘None of the others will be coming. I need to talk to all of you about that.’’

‘‘About what?’’

‘‘Not here.’’

Mark shot her an inquisitive look, then said, ‘‘Tag suggested we get a drink at the bar around the corner when this is over.’’

‘‘Good.’’ She worked to keep her expression as blank as his. ‘‘Introduce me to Mrs. Russo.’’

Annabelle spent the next half hour meeting Jeremy’s entire family. At some point, Noah and Tag joined her, and Mark slipped away. When Tag wanderedoff for a moment, Noah leaned toward her and asked, ‘‘What’s up, Anna-B? What’s bothering you?’’

Noah always did have good instincts. She gave her head a little shake and said, ‘‘It’ll wait until later.’’

Darkness had fallen by the time they exited the funeral home, but the surrounding area bustled with activity. When Tag suggested they walk to the bar, Annabelle didn’t protest. She honestly didn’t think anyone would be so bold as to gun them all down in the midst of so many potential witnesses. Nevertheless, she remained watchful during the brief walk and didn’t relax until they’d been seated at a quiet round table in the upstairs dining room.

The air inside Murphy’s Pub was thick with the scent of fries and yeasty beer, but the place had the homey feel that made a neighborhood bar work. After draping her coat on a rack next to the window, she’d made certain to take a seat where she could keep an eye on both the staircase and the street below. It was well past the dinner hour, and at the only other occupied table upstairs, the couple had just received their check. Without consulting a menu, all three men ordered a hamburger. Annabelle would have choked on anything more substantial than the ale she requested.

With her concentration focused on their situation and surroundings, she found herself caught off guard when Tag turned to her and asked, ‘‘So, Annabelle, what have you been up to since I last saw you? Do you have a husband and two-point-three kids?’’

Viciously, she stifled the instinct to look at Mark and kept her gaze solidly on Tag as she replied, ‘‘I’m not married.’’

‘‘Dating anyone? You know, my brother still talks about you. You’ve been his fantasy woman ever since our paths crossed that time in DC. He’s single again. Maybe . . . ?’’

‘‘I don’t think so.’’ Then, because she was a woman who did have her pride, she smiled and added, ‘‘I’m seeing someone.’’

It wasn’t exactly a lie. She recently had two dates with a friend of her brother’s, a lawyer who had come to the Islands on business. The fact that he had gone home to Kansas didn’t mean they would never have another date.

She asked Tag about his love life, which led the conversation down a similar path with Noah. Through it all, Mark kept maddeningly silent. Had Annabelle been a weaker woman, she would have allowed the tension, stress, and sadness boiling inside her the outlet the emotions craved. However, she’d rather give up chocolate for the rest of her life than cry in front of Mark ‘‘Cold-Heart’’ Callahan.

The next best thing to a good cry was a chat with her mother. She sipped her ale and wondered if it was too late to call home.

I’m seeing someone,
Mark repeated in a silent sneer, his mind drifting away from the conversation taking place around him.
Isn’t that special?

He told himself to be glad that at least she didn’t bring the sonofabitch with her. This situation blew as it was. He sure as hell didn’t need to watch her cooing up to the man she’d replaced him with. He needed to keep his mind on the business at hand—discovering the truth about Jeremy Russo’s death.

Kincannon and Harrington questioned the police findings, too. They’d each taken him aside during tonight’s viewing and expressed their disbelief at the idea that Russo had accidentally blown himself up. That’s when he’d decided to meet with the team and share his intentions to investigate the matter.

Even though he’d rather chew tenpenny nails than sit across the table from his oh-so-sexy ex.

She looked like a million dollars tonight. Like she’d told him that night on Lanai, black
was
a great color for her and the conservative cut of her dress only accentuated her curves. She’d done something different with her hair since the last time he saw her that day in her office. It looked . . . bouncy. And she had big honking diamond studs in her ears.

What’s up with that?
Annabelle had never worn diamonds. Never been much on jewelry of any kind, from what he recalled, except for that cheap-ass wedding band he’d bought at the Vegas wedding chapel. That she had worn on every one of their ‘‘weekends’’ until it slipped off while they snorkeled in New Zealand. He had intended to buy her another, but he’d never followed through.

Looked like his replacement didn’t hesitate to drop the big bucks on bling. She could have bought the ear rocks for herself, true, but knowing Annabelle, he doubted it. Much better odds that the boyfriend had given them to her. The idea made him a bit nauseous.

Mark knew that his reaction was stupid. He had expected her to hook up with someone. That was the whole idea of legally splitting the sheets, wasn’t it? Yet when he’d called her home phone the day their divorce was final and a man had answered—at six freaking a.m. her time—the reality of it had been a punch to the gut. He hadn’t liked listening to the bastard’s voice then, and he didn’t like looking at proof of his existence now.

It made him almost glad to turn his attention to something as disturbing as murder.

Small talk continued as a waitress served their drinks; then just when Mark decided to share Frances Russo’s request with his friends, Annabelle spoke up. ‘‘Guys, I have some news.’’

A note in her voice warned him. Mark looked at her hard and put the pieces together. She had contacted the others.
Someone else is dead. Well, hell.

‘‘It’s bad and it worries me,’’ Annabelle continued. Once she had everyone’s attention, she announced, ‘‘I think we have trouble. Russo isn’t the only Fixer we’ve lost. Nelson, Hart, and Anderson are dead, too. Hart and Anderson just in the past two weeks. Plus, I couldn’t reach Stanhope, Sundine, Parsons, or Holloway.’’

While Annabelle spoke, Tag Harrington froze with his beer mug halfway to his mouth. Noah Kincannon set his scotch on the table. ‘‘What was that?’’

‘‘Hart fell while climbing, and Melanie . . .’’ She briefly closed her eyes, then finished, ‘‘The ME classified Melanie’s death as a suicide.’’

‘‘Screw that!’’ Harrington declared.

Kincannon set his mouth in a grim smile. ‘‘I don’t believe that for a minute. What about Nelson?’’

‘‘He died a couple months ago in a car accident in Europe.’’

Mark drummed his fingers on the table. ‘‘Tell me about the others.’’

‘‘Holloway’s number has changed and I wasn’t able to track him down before I had to catch my plane. Rhonda Parsons is apparently on a white-water-rafting vacation. Stanhope lives in some remote mountain cabin in Colorado and doesn’t answer his phone, and Jordan Sundine . . .’’ She blew out a heavy breath. ‘‘Jordan hasn’t shown up to work in almost a week.’’

While Kincannon and Harrington grappled with the news and peppered Annabelle with questions, Mark mentally connected the dots and reached an undeniable conclusion. During a pause in the conversation, he lobbed it out like a grenade. ‘‘We’re being targeted.’’

Conversation around the table abruptly died. Annabelle licked her lips, then nodded. ‘‘Yes. I think so, too.’’

‘‘Holy crap,’’ Harrington breathed. He sat back in his chair hard.