Dark Sky (12 page)

“You're saying he wanted me, except that doesn't make sense because I wasn't there.”

“I'm not saying anything. I'm just telling you what I know.”

“No, you're not. You're not telling me
half
of what you know.”

Their waiter stopped by their table to refill their water glasses, but took a step back in shock. Juliet made herself smile up at him. “It's okay. We're not—”

“You're the federal agent whose doorman was murdered this morning.” He seemed both repulsed and fascinated. “But you got the guy who did it, right?”

She nodded. “We did.”

He glanced around, as if expecting Juliet and Ethan might have attracted some other violent offender, then seemed to catch himself. “What a hell of a thing, killing a doorman.” He took their dinner plates and retreated as fast as he could.

“We should go,” Juliet said.

Ethan nodded, checking his watch. “We've got an hour before I have to be downtown to chat with Rivera and Collins.”

She gave him a long look. “Like being a step ahead of me, do you?”

“I called Rivera from the airport. Just aiming to make your life easier.”

“Ha. Where are you staying tonight? Got that figured out?”

“I was thinking your futon.”

“Uh-uh. It's still soaked from the broken fish tanks.”

He smiled at her from across the table. “How convenient.”

M
ia's cell phone vibrated in her coat pocket, its ring on mute, as she sipped a very hot latte at the Barnes & Noble on M Street in Georgetown, not far from her apartment. It was jam-packed this Friday night. She'd extricated herself from her office at eight—earlier than usual—and had decided to indulge herself, pretend she had a normal life. But in Washington, that would just make her boring.

The number read out as private. Not unusual, but her heart still jumped.

“Dr. O'Farrell. How are you this fine evening?”

She recognized the voice on the other end immediately. “Was that you last night? Threatening me, trying to scare the hell out of me—”

“I'm not sure where your loyalties lie. You're conflicted. Your actions lack a clarity of purpose.” He paused, then added, “Don't be surprised if people jump to the wrong conclusions about you.”

She bit back a sharp retort—she didn't want him to hang up on her. “If you and I had a chance to meet, I might be able to alleviate some of your concerns.”

“Where are you now? Holed up in some dank D.C. office building?”

“Look—” Mia glanced around at the crowded bookstore, but no one was paying attention to her. An urgent cell-phone call in D.C. Big deal. “It's time we met. You've made an extraordinary contribution to your country—”

“You were supposed to keep me in the loop about your Special Forces guy. He's not the hero you all think he is. He has his own agenda.”

Mia frowned. “You were there? In Colombia when—” She stopped herself from saying too much.
My God,
she thought.
Was he one of the kidnappers? Had he played her to that extent?

He gave a snort of pure contempt. “You said all the right words and pretended you trusted me. You used what I gave you. Then, when it mattered most, you kept me in the dark. Why?”

“It was out of my hands. I don't even know who you are—I have no way to contact you.” Mia kept her voice low, trying not to look conspiratorial or unnerved; she wasn't eager to draw attention to herself. “I'm not in a good place to talk right now—”

“I gave you
everything.
You'd never have found your genius Texan without me. I'm the one who told you Brooker could ID him. I'm the one who told you Tatro was obsessed with a blond, female marshal. Hell, half the shit Carhill gave you was because of me.”

Mia didn't know about that last comment. The rest was true. She dipped the top of her pinkie into the foam of her latte. She didn't have a name, a face, a recording of his voice. Background information. She had nothing. But the man on the other end of the connection had led her to Ham Carhill's kidnappers.

He'd manipulated her. And he was doing it again.

“What you need to understand is this,” she said coldly. “I'm not on your side or any other individual's side. I work for the people.”

“Now we're on the same page, Dr. O'Farrell. I'll be in touch.”

“You don't make the rules—”

He disconnected.

Mia shakily returned her phone to her pocket.

She'd known her lofty words would ring true to him.

A righteous voice on the other end of the phone. That was all she knew about him.

But he'd given her useful information since he'd first contacted her over the summer. Mia had assumed that his extreme views of the world and human nature put him in places where he sometimes happened on interesting tidbits. Perhaps his success—his access to her—had emboldened him. It didn't necessarily make him more competent or dangerous.

She left a tip for her latte and bought a book on her way out, a special edition of
The Three Musketeers.
She preferred unambiguous good guys and bad guys. Her vigilante was neither.

 

The shrill ring of her telephone bolted Juliet out of a deep sleep. Reaching for it, she struck a warm, hard body and damn near screamed.

Ethan.

Oh, my.

He was naked, the early morning light catching the black graphic tattoo on his upper arm. He'd thrown off his half of the blanket sometime during the night. Or had never bothered with it, seeing how the two of them had heated themselves up quite nicely.

The memory of their lovemaking—wild, uninhibited—rushed over her. There'd been a lot of sex last night. Not a lot of talking.

No
thinking.

He was wide awake. “Going to shoot me or answer the phone?”

She grabbed the sheet to cover herself, although she didn't know why. He'd touched every part of her only a few hours ago. She could still feel the sensation of his mouth and hands on her skin.

“Lord, Brooker. How much wine did I have last night?”

“You had sparkling water.”

The phone rang again, and she reached across his chest and picked up the receiver. “Longstreet,” she said, her voice raspy from sleep and what had turned into a very long day—and night.

“It's Rivera. You up?”

It was six o'clock in the morning. “More or less.”

“Get down here. Your doorman gave you a phony ID.”

Any sleepiness left her. “What?”

“Bring Brooker.”

“What makes you think he's here?”

Rivera had hung up. Juliet clicked off the phone and dropped it at the foot of her bed, raking a hand through her hair. “I've got to think.” She spoke more to herself than to Ethan.
“Damn.”

She still had the sheet with her when she climbed out of bed. Ethan ended up exposed, leaning back against his pillow, watching her. He was tanned and very fit and not at all awkward or self-conscious about being in her bed.

Juliet spun around at him. “Get dressed. We're going downtown. We've been summoned.” She ripped open a drawer and pulled out jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, then dug in another drawer for socks. “Juan isn't who he said he was.”

Ethan rolled out of bed without comment. He had his belt buckled and his boots on before she'd fastened her bra. “You don't waste any time, do you?”

He shrugged. “Habit.”

She remembered the life he'd led for so long. “Are you on leave?”

“I guess. Technically.”

What more hadn't he told her, Rivera and Joe Collins?

He withdrew a folded piece of paper from a back pocket of his jeans and opened it onto her bed. Juliet saw that it was a copy of Bobby Tatro's doctored picture of her.

She finished dressing. “You made a copy?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You knew you were giving me the original—you figured you might not see it again. Ethan—” She sighed at him. “You don't want to annoy Rivera and Collins.”

He smiled. “Too late.”

“Meddling in or impeding a federal investigation isn't a real good idea. I don't care who you've got covering your butt in Washington.”

He let her comment stand and tapped his copy of her picture. “No doorman in the background. I was thinking Tatro took the picture, but I don't know. Anything pinpoint the timing for you?”

“My jeans,” she said.

“They look good on you.”

“They're the same ones I'm wearing now. I bought them and my leather jacket in late August.”

“In New York?”

She nodded. “They're expensive, but I indulged because they fit so well. You have no idea what it's like for a woman to find the perfect pair of jeans. I hate shopping, so when I do finally drag myself to a store, I make myself try on stuff. If it fits, I buy it. Especially pants.”

Juliet stared at her image, recalling the dressing room at Saks, checking the fit of the jeans in the mirror. Ethan had just exited from her life, again, after the capture of the international assassin he'd been hunting.

She'd spent too much money on clothes that day.

“I was still thinking I'd make it to Tennessee for Nate Winter and Sarah Dunnemore's wedding.” She pulled on her holster and Glock. “Look at the angle of the shot. Whoever took my picture wasn't in my face.” She got her leather jacket. “Sure it wasn't you?”

“No, ma'am.” Ethan moved in close to her. “I'd have been in your face. You're grasping.”

Juliet took a breath. What the hell was wrong with her? “Ethan—”

She shut her eyes a moment, the full range of emotions and physical sensations of last night rushing over her. He'd taken her with the mindless ferocity of a man with nothing to lose and nothing to gain—with no thought of the past or the future. To think they had a relationship—a romance—going, she knew, was pure self-delusion.

When she looked at him again, he hadn't moved. “You're right. I'm grasping. But if you took the picture and Tatro just happened on it and had his fun, it wouldn't be so damn creepy.” She tried to smile. “It'd just be irritating.”

They took her truck, traffic light early on a Saturday morning. When they arrived at the USMS office, Mike Rivera was scowling at a grayish cup of coffee. “My powder creamer didn't melt. It looks like a debris field.”

Juliet perked up. “There's coffee?”

“If you want to call it that.”

With that ringing endorsement, Ethan passed, but she ducked out, grabbed the Big Apple mug off her desk and headed for the coffeemaker. But even she couldn't drink its contents. Deciding against making a fresh pot and leaving Rivera and Ethan alone for too long, she switched off the power and rejoined them.

She sat on one of the plastic chairs in front of Rivera's desk. Ethan, she noticed, stayed on his feet. “Have you got a legit ID for Juan?” she asked.

Rivera shook his head. “Nothing's turned up. When did he start as your doorman?”

“First of September.”

“Before or after Tatro was released from prison?”

“I'm not sure. After, I think, but only by a matter of days. The building managers hired him. They must have checked references—”

“Collins is looking into it. What kind of doorman was this guy?”

“Efficient, pleasant. We all liked him.”

“Well, who knows. Being a John Doe doesn't mean he's tied into this thing.” Rivera pinned his gaze on Brooker, who seemed to expect a higher level of scrutiny now that a man had turned up dead. “You got a look at the doorman?”

“Yes, sir. I saw him Thursday afternoon. Same time I saw Juliet's niece.”

“Why'd you stop at her building in the first place?”

“In case she was taking the day off.”

Rivera drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. “You didn't want to try here first. Thought you might get lucky.”

Ethan shrugged without answering.

“Or,” Rivera went on, “you were on Tatro's trail.”

Juliet angled Ethan a sharp look. “Were you?”

“Not specifically, no.” He spoke directly to Rivera. “I was in New York to give Juliet the picture Tatro had of her.”

The chief deputy didn't seem convinced.

Juliet shifted in her chair. “If Tatro wanted to hurt me, he could have beat me over the head or broken into my apartment any time during the past month since he got out of prison. Why wait until yesterday? Why wait until I wasn't home? Even if he and ‘Juan' were working together, same thing. They had a month.”

Rivera grunted. “If Tatro and the doorman were working together, the doorman must have done something to piss Tatro off.” He picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “As far as I can see, Major Brooker, you're the trigger—the catalyst. You and this rescue mission of yours.”

Ethan had provided some details to Rivera and Collins last night. Colombia. The rescue of an American contractor of interest at the highest levels of the U.S. government.

He'd never used the words
hostage
or
kidnapping.

And he never said who'd invited him to participate in the mission. He didn't define his role, but Juliet surmised that he'd led a handpicked rescue team—he was an officer, he was experienced, and he was the type. Their job was to get their guy out of there, not figure out what had happened and who was responsible. They hadn't had a lot of time, and there was no room for mistakes.

“Bobby Tatro didn't take Juliet's picture,” Ethan said. “He was in Colombia. Check. You'll find out he took a flight from Newark to Miami to Bogotá on the Friday of Labor Day weekend.”

Rivera lifted a brow. “We'll check. Return flight?”

“None that I'm aware of.”

“You ever put your eyes on him when you were down there?”

Ethan shook his head.

“But you have confirmation—”

“No. Not the kind you mean.”

“Your rescued American,” Juliet said. “He confirmed Tatro's involvement in the kidnapping, didn't he?”

Ethan glanced at her but didn't answer.

“Unless he was deliberately misleading you—”

“You mean unless he was lying,” Ethan said.

“Was he?”

“I don't know. My guess? He wasn't in any condition to lie, but he's smart—smarter than the rest of us. It's not out of the question.”

“Where's your guy now?” Rivera asked abruptly.

“Home.”

It was an insufficient answer, and Rivera took in a sharp breath through his nostrils, which was never a good sign. Juliet sat forward in her chair. “Tatro knew my niece's name in the coffee shop on Thursday,” she said. “What if he didn't overhear her and Juan talking? What if Juan told him?”

“It'll be interesting to see what Tatro has to say.” Rivera absently took a gulp of coffee, apparently having forgotten how bad it was, and nearly spit it out. He set the mug hard on his desk. “I want a name, Brooker. Someone in Washington I can call. Someone who can talk.”

“I'll pass along your name and number.”

Rivera swore under his breath but didn't push any further, then shifted his attention back to Juliet, his black eyes softening ever so slightly. “It'll ease your niece's mind to know your doorman didn't die because he was trying to protect her.”