Facing It (11 page)

God, this sucked.

Beecham slowed to turn into a long gravel drive that opened up beside a large white farmhouse sheltered by a stand of tall pines. He parked behind a now-familiar white Z71, a Volvo to its side. The interior light flashed on when he opened his door and Jennifer sucked in one last deep, calming breath. Time to get her game face on.

She met him at the edge of the red brick pathway leading to the wide porch running along the back of the house and opening up to a generous sundeck. Solar lights spilled little pools of golden light along the way and ceiling fans with soothingly dimmed lights turned in lazy circles on the porch. Jennifer looked everywhere but at Beecham while he knocked at the back door. It was a nice place, well-landscaped with a mixture of old plants and new, rockers and an antique church pew gracing the porch, chaise lounges and an outdoor dining set complementing a large gas grill on the deck.

It spoke of home and family and happiness, and any other night, she would probably have enjoyed the aspect of a friendly dinner there.

The door swung inward and around Beecham’s arm, Jennifer caught a glimpse of Calvert, casually dressed in jeans, a steel blue golf shirt and leather boat-and-deck shoes. His shirt bore a handful of small damp spots and an aroma of baby shampoo wafted from him as he shook Beecham’s hand.

“Hey, Beech, good to see you. Settles.” He nodded in Jennifer’s direction and stepped back. “Come on in. Cait’s putting Lee down”—he indicated the front of his shirt with a rueful grin—“since I did bath duty. I need to fire up the grill and get those steaks going. Y’all make yourselves at home, grab something to drink from the fridge and come out to the deck.”

The inside of the house was as inviting as the exterior, but Jennifer didn’t, couldn’t, relax. Frowning, she studied Calvert as he pulled a platter of steaks and a container of vegetable skewers from the refrigerator. Something was different, something she couldn’t put her finger on. The guy seemed almost human.

Relaxed. That was it. This was the first time she’d not seen him carrying a hard edge of tension, as he chuckled at some offhand comment of Beecham’s. Hell, even Beecham seemed to be unwinding in Calvert’s presence.

So she’d be the only one wound tighter than her nephew’s ancient jack-in-the-box. Wasn’t that fucking wonderful?

She needed that drink all over again. Filled with gratitude, she accepted Calvert’s offer of a beer before the investigator went out to the deck. She cast a spurious look at Beecham’s glass of sweet iced tea. Hope that worked for him.

With the cold longneck in hand, she wandered along the interior wall of the keeping room, lined with photos in neat arrangements. It could have been her mother’s wall of photographic fame—family groupings, weddings, birthdays, graduations, special moments. There were almost as many baby photos as her mother displayed proudly.

At least no one here would tell her she should find a man and add a couple of babies to the pictorial infant-fest or remind her she was facing thirty head on with no prospects of the former or the latter.

The coffee table in the comfortable living area held haphazard stacks of snapshots and a set of open, waiting photograph storage boxes. These people were photo crazy; her mother would love them. Tipping up her bottle, Jennifer took a draw, the icy, bitter liquid tickling down her throat with a warm sense of afterburn. God, maybe that would help take her edge off.

Fat chance, since every nerve in her body sang with the knowledge that Beecham remained at the kitchen island behind her, silent, watching. Silent was good. She had nothing more to say to him.

“Feel free to look through those if you like.” Falconetti’s husky voice cut through the tension. “It’s not like I’ve even started organizing them. Hey, Beech.”

Affection warmed her tone and Jennifer’s ears picked up the rustle of cloth and the tinkle of ice in a glass being set aside. Aw, a hug. Wasn’t that just all warm and fuzzy?

Tilting her bottle up for another slug, she sank onto the couch and lifted a photo from a stack. Falconetti was right—there was no rhyme or reason here, baby shots of Lee jumbled in with wedding photos. A beach wedding, Calvert in a tux and bare feet, his arms wrapped around Falconetti from behind, a wide grin on his face, her face without its icy Bureau set as she looked up at him. Gorgeous dress, a white silk slip-style—simple, sleek, elegant. Nothing like the hideously expensive, hideously poufy gowns her sisters had chosen for their nuptials.

Fishing expedition. Honeymoon pics. Calvert’s bachelor party, maybe? More baby photos. Lee was a cute kid, all big dark eyes and wide grin, black hair sticking out from his head. Between the beer and the mindless activity of peering into someone else’s life, Jennifer’s inner tension loosened. As long as Beecham stayed on his side of the room and kept his mouth shut, she’d be just fine.

Christmas party. Graduation shots of a tall dark-haired youth. Jennifer flipped that one over and there it was, staring up at her, the implications slamming whatever calm she’d gained right out of her.

Beecham and Falconetti, wearing stupid glittery New Year’s Eve hats. And to his right, in the curve of his arm, a stunning redhead whom he looked at with what appeared to be good old-fashioned passionate love.

Jennifer blinked.

The image didn’t change, and Beecham’s blue gaze remained filled with a mingled tenderness and longing that turned her stomach. She closed her eyes. A deep breath did little to center her. Behind her the door opened and closed, and the sounds of someone moving about the kitchen, liquid splashing, wafted over her. Let that be Falconetti. Let Beecham have gone outside to indulge in some basic male bonding with Calvert over charring decaying animal flesh.

Just give her a freaking break. Just one.

“I’d planned on putting those in albums.” Falconetti’s voice came from somewhere above and to Jennifer’s right. “You see how far I got with that.”

Jennifer opened her eyes in time to see her fellow agent sink onto the ottoman before the plush leather chair. She lifted her beer. “At least you have the photos. Mine are still on my digital camera.” She laughed, cringing as the sound came out shaky and bitter. “It makes my mother crazy.”

Falconetti nodded and Jennifer burned under her scrutiny. God, this had been a mistake. She should have refused to come, should have told Beecham he could handle this. All they were going to do was talk anyway, damn it. He didn’t need her for that.

He didn’t need her for anything, obviously.

She tapped a fingertip against one of the wedding photos and smiled, the expression so brittle it hurt her face. “Great dress.”

“Thanks.” Sweet reminiscence colored Falconetti’s tone and she tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear. She lifted a small stack of the glossy photographs. “You know, I think there’s one of Beecham and Tick at our reception.”

She didn’t want to talk about him. She just wanted—

“Here it is.” Falconetti laid it on the table. Jennifer gave it an unwilling perusal. It was a good shot, fairly close, both men laughing and relaxed. She flexed a hand against her knee and sipped at her beer. An impish smile lit Falconetti’s face and she held another snapshot aloft. “And here we have Beecham crashing my bachelorette party.”

Dutifully, Jennifer glanced at it. She paused, frowning. His eyes were different in that photo. He grinned, on the verge of a laugh, one arm slung around Falconetti’s shoulders in friendly camaraderie, but the light glowing in his eyes in the New Year’s Eve photograph was gone.

Well, the redhead hadn’t been apparent in his life the last two and a half years, so obviously she was gone too.

She darted one more quick look at the photo of Beecham and the redhead. Falconetti picked it up, the tiny spasm of grief she’d worn in the diner darting over her face again. She tapped the picture against her palm. “My partner.”

Oh holy cripes, did the woman live
here
? Was that why Beecham was acting so damn weird? Holy shit.

With her luck, gorgeous redhead was invited to dinner.

“She was killed a few months before I married Tick.” Falconetti laid the photo aside, her green eyes dark and wistful. She straightened, pinning on a bright smile. “I’m sorry. Not great dinner conversation, is it? Tell me about—”

“I’m sorry.” The shocked words finally made their way past Jennifer’s numb lips. My God, the woman was
dead
. She was dead and Beecham had obviously loved her. And Jennifer had never known, even with all the late-night conversations they’d shared. Her heart ached for him, but at the same time, a few of the painful pangs belonged to her. Another example of how little she really knew about him beyond the day-to-day working relationship. “That must have been horrible for you.”

“It was bad.” Falconetti moved a shoulder in an elegant, albeit uncomfortable shrug, as though she wanted to leave the topic behind. “So where are you from?”

“Tennessee. Um, outside of Nashville.” Jennifer tried to pull her frenzied thoughts together enough to make coherent small talk.

Falconetti’s perfect-hostess expression made an appearance. “It’s a nice city.”

The door swung open and Calvert’s deep laugh preceded the men into the house. Jennifer finished off her beer and patted her thigh with one damp palm. She couldn’t look at her partner. How could she want to hug and comfort him over what had to be a devastating loss and want to get as far away from him as possible at the same time?

The busyness of settling at the dinner table saved her, giving her time and purposeful movement to pull everything together. She even managed to distance herself from the exquisite torture of sitting at Beecham’s side as Calvert outlined for them the plans for his sister, offering her something tangible and real to focus on. After dinner, he gifted her again, bringing out a manila folder packed with scanned copies of handwritten ledger pages.

Stephen Chason’s ledgers.

Ruthie had possession of Chason’s ledgers. And now they had copies of them. With reverent fingers, Jennifer paged through the file, her excitement growing with each column, each digit, each page. Here was something real, something in black and white she could make sense of. Pure, unbelievably profitable money laundering. None of the chimerical puzzles that made up Harrell Beecham here.

This she could deal with.

This explained why Stephen Chason had seemed so edgy in South Carolina, why he’d been so eager to find his wife and children. He didn’t want Ruthie back. He wanted what she had in her possession. A frisson of unease trickled down Jennifer’s spine as she recalled Chason’s hands engulfing the stray puppy’s head, how he’d squeezed and twisted. What would he do to Ruthie for defying him this way, putting him at risk for prosecution?

“Jennifer?” Beecham’s terse tone pulled her from the morass of memories. One hand in his pocket, he jingled the rental keys. “Are you ready?”

She flushed and darted a glance at Calvert. She held the folder close to her chest. “May I keep these?”

He nodded, his eyes dark with renewed tension as unspoken understanding flashed between them. He wanted Ruthie safe more than she did, was willing to do whatever it took to make that happen. She could almost like the guy.

Almost.

Like she could almost love Harrell Beecham, if only things were different.

She was quiet. Harrell glanced sideways at Jennifer, Tick’s folder neatly aligned on her thighs, her posture straight and perfect, hands folded over one another atop the file. She stared straight ahead, her face set in impassive lines, filtered moonlight occasionally flitted across her features. She was too quiet, her earlier fit of pique seemingly forgotten and gone for good.

He almost preferred her riled and needling him. There was something so real and passionate and alive about her when she was giving him what-for that he wasn’t sorry for letting her beneath his skin.

Hell, all he wanted was a happy medium, not her tense and frustrated anger causing her to strike out at him with sarcasm nor this cold, emotionless silence. He wanted his partner back. No, he wanted
Jennifer
back. He tightened his hands on the wheel and negotiated the sharp double “S” curve.

“You loved her, didn’t you.” The quiet statement came out of nowhere, startling him. “Falconetti’s partner, I mean.”

The car swerved once and he quickly brought it back to center. He darted a look at Jennifer, who continued to gaze ahead. How the hell did she know about Gina?

“I…” He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and gather his thoughts. “I thought I did.”

She didn’t respond and he clutched the wheel. His chest tightened and he swallowed. “I guess I loved what I thought she was.”

Jennifer didn’t turn in his direction, didn’t move at all. “What do you mean?”

“She…she simply wasn’t the person I believed her to be. So I can’t honestly say I was in love with
her
.” Maybe the explanation would satisfy her. He wasn’t going to get into all the ways Gina hadn’t been what he thought. She was dead and he wanted her memory to rest in peace. She deserved that at least.

“I can understand that.” Her soft voice filled the dimness around them. She tapped her thumb once atop her other hand. “It would be hard to love an idea instead of a flesh-and-blood person.”

“Yeah.” The edges of the town of Coney opened up around them, a handful of houses, a convenience store, a small restaurant under a huge oak tree. She shifted against the seat, wrapped her arms over her midriff, and turned her face to the window. Braking for a traffic light, he glanced at her profile, outlined by the garish lights of a used car lot.