Flirting With Disaster (5 page)

“This is your home,” he said. “Where you sleep at night.”

“I work here, too. It’s no big deal.”

No big deal. Right. Here he’d been warming to her, and the woman was a freak. A freak who looked at pictures of dead people all day. In her secluded cabin. In the dark woods. “Well,” he managed to say, “the house is all clear. You’re safe.”

“Thank you. Want to sit down and stay awhile?” she teased.

“No, thanks,” he muttered as he brushed by her. Her laughter followed him to the front door. “Have a good night,” he called over his shoulder. “And lock the door.”

Or bar it. From the outside.

Maybe this woman’s secret was more dangerous than he’d suspected.

CHAPTER THREE

I
T
WAS
11:00
P
.
M
.,
and Tom was staring at the computer instead of sleeping. He’d planned to get right back to Judge Chandler’s basement and do some research into Isabelle West, but instead he’d walked in to find his second-in-command, Mary Jones, yelling at their tactical commander over the phone.

Mary, the senior deputy marshal whenever Tom was out of the room, had rightly made the decision to move the judge’s twenty-six-year-old daughter into his home for the trial. Veronica Chandler lived alone in an apartment just off Jackson town square, and Mary had decided that the woman would be safer in her father’s home, where the security detail could keep an eye on her, as well.

Chris Hannity, the tactical command specialist, had bristled at being cut out of the decision, especially as he’d already scouted Veronica’s place and had made schedules to patrol her block.

An acute case of male pride, as far as Tom was concerned, and he’d quickly dismissed the issue with a few curt words for Hannity.

“He’s still pissed about that disciplinary hearing,” Mary said from behind him, her Southern drawl ruining the hard edge of the words. She set a plate of cookies at his elbow. “The cookies are courtesy of Veronica Chandler.”

“Thanks. And he’ll get over it.”

“You think? It’s been a year. I told you not to report it.”

Tom grabbed a cookie and shot Mary a look, noticing that she was chewing on her thumbnail. She did that only when she was tired enough to forget. “He called you a dyke. In front of me.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve heard.”

“Then he chose the wrong place to say it. And you’re chewing your nail again.”

“Shit,” she muttered, clenching her hand into a fist and forcing it to her side.

“He’ll get over it,” Tom repeated. “And he won’t disrespect you or anyone else on the team again.”

Mary was forty-five, but she looked a lot younger. Couple that with her small frame, curly blond hair and heart-shaped face, and she sometimes had trouble commanding respect. Actually, that wasn’t true. She commanded respect. Her men followed her orders to a T. But there were always a few holdouts on other teams who considered her authority an insult to their testicles.

She made it a policy never to show weakness in front of those assholes, and she hated giving away that she might be stressed.

“I already read the day’s report,” he said as he polished off a second cookie. “Everything’s in place for the trial?”

“Yes. You still think we’ll hear from the brother again?”

“I hope not,” Tom said, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension. “But I’ve got a bad feeling. And the judge? How is he handling the detail?”

Mary shrugged. “He seems entirely comfortable with an entourage. Like he was born to it.”

Tom snorted. That was no big surprise. The judge was a blowhard and pretty damn impressed with his position in the community.

“He actually calls Wes his ‘driver.’”

Tom guffawed at how much that must chap Wes’s hide. “I’ve got to see that myself.”

Mary grinned. “It’s pretty awesome.”

They both turned toward the stairway when the door to the first floor opened, expecting Wes to head down, but these footsteps were soft and light.

A young woman Tom recognized as Veronica Chandler stuck her head past the wall, her blond hair swinging. “I just wanted to check and see if you needed anything before I turn in.”

Tom stood. “No, we’re all set up down here. Thank you for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you know Jill Washington up the road? She’s an amazing baker.”

The woman smiled. “No, my father only bought this house two years ago, and I was living in New York then. And these cookies went straight from the tube to the oven.”

“The perfect recipe,” Mary said.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Veronica called as she headed back upstairs. She looked happy enough to be here. Tom suspected she was relieved. She’d spent two of the past three evenings here already. What was the point in driving home in the dark to sleep?

It was the same reason Tom was in the basement, after all.

“I’m heading out,” Mary said.

“You can take the cot, if you want. I’ll sleep here. It’s a fold-out couch.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. If I wanted to wake up to obnoxious men, I’d change my dating habits.”

“Are you calling me obnoxious?”

“No comment.” She eased her feet into the heels she wore on duty to add a couple more inches to her height.

Tom cleared his throat. “So what’s your age range?”

“For what?”

“Dating.”

She frowned at him and grabbed her coat. “That’s a weird question.”

“I’m just making conversation.”

“Bullshit. You know somebody? Is it that new girl in Intake? She’s only twenty-one. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“It’s no one,” he said. “Forget I said anything.”

“Stop trying to take care of me. I’m not one of your lost causes.” She tugged a knit hat over her blond curls and glared at him for a moment before heading toward the staircase. “Ten years on either side,” she tossed back without slowing down.

“Good to know,” Tom responded, not bothering to hide his smile.

But as soon as Mary’s footsteps hit the first floor and the door closed behind her, Tom was left alone with his thoughts. And those thoughts were not on Jill anymore; they were on her freaky-ass neighbor. What the hell was up with Isabelle West?

He closed his email program and opened his browser to try her name again, but there were still no good clues, so he searched for anatomical art instead. He clicked around for a good half an hour, learning what he could about it. What he saw was pretty on par with what he’d glimpsed at her house. He didn’t like one bit of it.

He could handle seeing dead bodies on the job. It was rarely a complete surprise. He usually had the chance to brace himself against the sight so he wasn’t snapped back to that long-ago moment when he’d found his brother. But tonight had sneaked up on him.

He took a deep breath and cleared the search window then tried a new one for “medical paintings” and her name. He got back garbage. That was weird. She obviously did well for herself. She must have a legitimate career. So why was she missing online?

Tom sat back in his chair and tapped a pen to his chin for a minute then thought of the other painting he’d seen in her home. The vivid realism of it. The beauty. And the very short signature in the corner.

He typed in “I. West” and “anatomical painting” and hit the mother lode.

“Bingo,” he breathed. Here was her career. She’d been telling the truth.

There wasn’t much to get from the search results, other than that confirmation. Her work wasn’t meant for private buyers. The hits were all sites where posters and textbooks could be purchased. There was no author biography anywhere. No pictures or stories about her.

Still, the morbidity of the whole thing niggled at his brain. Combined with her initial hostility, Tom decided he couldn’t ignore that prickling he’d felt on the back of his neck earlier.

He signed in to the National Crime Information Center to do a quick check on her background. Two hours later, he was even more confused. Isabelle West didn’t seem to be a criminal. There were no warrants, no arrests, not even a traffic ticket as far as he could tell. So she wasn’t a criminal. But she also hadn’t existed before 2002.

CHAPTER FOUR

“G
OOD
G
OD
,
I
SABELLE
, you have got to be kidding me!”

Isabelle stared in confusion at her friend. Lauren was standing on the front porch, wearing a tight red dress and heels, and she was glaring daggers.

“What?” Isabelle asked.

“It’s Sunday! I texted you this morning!”

“It’s Sunday?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure you sent a text?” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to angle the paintbrush in her fingers so that she didn’t get cadmium green in her hair. “I didn’t get it.”

Lauren sighed. “Have you been anywhere near your phone today? Is it charged?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m working. I guess you may as well come in.”

“Nope. We’re going out. It’s girls’ night.”

“I’ll have to cancel—”

“No, you won’t. You canceled last Sunday, remember? Let’s go.”

Now it was Isabelle’s turn to glare. “I’m not going anywhere. I look like shit.”

Lauren nodded and made a shooing motion. “Wash your face and put your hair up. If you don’t have any clean jeans then put on a dress. Surely those don’t have paint on them.”

Well, some of them did. But it was too cold for a dress anyway. Then again, Lauren was wearing one, along with high-heeled boots. Isabelle had cute boots that Jill had helped her pick out. She supposed she could throw something together.

She looked over her shoulder toward her studio, but Lauren pushed past her and pointed to the bedroom. “Do it. Sophie’s not here to protect you anymore. It’s just me and my cruel demands.”

“I think I read a book like that recently,” Isabelle muttered.

“Yeah, well... Wear something pretty for me or you’ll be punished.”

“Does this mean I’m not allowed to wear panties?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Fine. Let me get rid of the brush first.” As much as she resented having to stop painting, she still smiled as she ditched the brush and hurried to clean up. She’d gotten in almost ten hours of work, after all. Even she could be satisfied with that.

So she did exactly as Lauren instructed. She washed her face and pulled her hair up into a neater knot than usual, and she even put on makeup. Then she stared into her closet for five minutes before finally deciding that she just wasn’t into dresses right now.

She settled on her favorite pair of skinny jeans and a gold top she’d worn only once before. It was sleeveless and low-cut and too sparkly, but what the hell. Tonight was girls’ night out. Plus, she’d found her last pair of clean underwear, and that was something to celebrate. Of course, that meant she’d have to do laundry tomorrow. Or just go commando. Probably the latter.

“I’m ready!” she called out as she walked back into the living room, but her smile transformed into an O of surprise when she saw Tom standing there with Lauren.

Isabelle fought down her alarm. She’d almost decided he wasn’t onto her the night before. But then he’d asked to search her house, and she was fighting that fear again.

“Hello,” she finally said.

“Hi.” His eyes swept down to her cleavage then back up so quickly she could’ve imagined it. But she hadn’t. Maybe he really had been interested in her internet porn.

She relaxed enough to smirk. “Braving the house of horrors? This must be important.” She met Lauren’s questioning look. “He saw my work. He’s not a fan.”

Lauren huffed, but he shook his head.

“It’s not that you’re not talented. I just...” His gaze slid toward the kitchen and the double doors beyond. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Want another look?” she asked.

“No!”

Isabelle laughed so hard that she snorted. “It’s funny because he’s a big strong US marshal,” she explained to Lauren.

“Oh, that is funny!”

They both grinned at him for a long moment while Tom frowned back. “I was just stopping by to check on you.”

“Hey,” Lauren said, “are you here working on Judge Chandler’s case?”

“Yes.”

“I saw his daughter today at the library! She said she’s staying at her dad’s place for a while. It’s right around the corner, isn’t it? We should invite her over for a girls’ night in. We have to replace Sophie.”

Isabelle’s smile fell. “We do?”

Lauren nodded, and her voice went quiet. “I talked to her last night. She was tiptoeing around it, but I think she’s finally going to turn in her notice at the library. She’s living her dream.” Lauren nudged Tom. “Which is riding around the country on a motorcycle with a big tattooed guy. Isabelle, she’ll be back for a week on Tuesday. Don’t forget!”

Tom cleared his throat. “I’d better let you get to your evening.”

Isabelle remembered her wariness. “Did you need something?” she asked.

“Not really. I was making the rounds of the area and decided to stop by.”

Her paranoia made her want to snap at him, but she forced it back. She’d decided she didn’t need to worry about him. If he were really on a stakeout, looking for her father, he’d never have walked right up and introduced himself. Isabelle had overreacted. There was nothing to fear.

She shrugged. “Everything is good. Aside from the horrifying carnage in my studio, I mean.”

“Right. Well. I hope you’re taking this seriously now. Lock your door. Be careful when you get home tonight.”

“I will,” she said. “Scout’s honor.”

As soon as he closed the front door behind him, she winked at Lauren. “I was never a Girl Scout.”

“Yeah, he could probably tell by the way you held up two fingers instead of three.”

“Oops.” Isabelle cringed. “Oh, well. He’s too polite to call me on it.”

“Polite, huh? I was going to say ‘fucking sexy,’ but I guess that’s just me.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s
just
you.”

“Oh, really? Honey, I’m gonna need all of these details.”

Isabelle laughed off Lauren’s curiosity, but she could feel her cheeks warming. He really was sexy. And if she could keep him focused on her paintings instead of her past, he wouldn’t be a threat to her. “There aren’t any details.”

“Then I need reasons why. You’ve been whining about your sex drought for the past year, and now the gods have dropped a hot US marshal on your doorstep, and you haven’t devoured him yet? You’ve got some ’splaining to do, missy. Over drinks.”

“Fine. But only over drinks.” Isabelle excused herself to grab her purse, feeling strangely discomfited around her friend. Tom being there had reminded her that she wasn’t lying to only him; she was lying to everyone.

Somehow it hadn’t felt that way with her girlfriends, at least not since those first few conversations. They knew who she was. Who she really was
now
. But having Tom around reminded her that her whole life was a lie.

No. Not her whole life. Just her past. Everything she was doing now was real and genuine, and she was not going to let one US marshal ruin that.

She grabbed her little clutch purse. “Ready?” she called out as she headed back to the living room.

Lauren waved toward the front door. “This girls’ night has officially begun. Let’s do this.”

* * *

F
ROM
THE
COVER
of the trees on the far side of the road, Tom watched the taillights of the car move slowly away. He felt guilty standing in the dark, watching, but he was in the woods only because he was heading back to the judge’s on a trail he’d already cut through the snow. He wasn’t spying. Much.

The problem was that he hadn’t had a good reason to stop by Isabelle’s tonight. He hadn’t really needed to check on her. Everything had gone quiet in anticipation of the start of the trial tomorrow. They hadn’t heard one word from the defendant’s brother or any of his other supporters. Of course, that silence had Tom on edge, too, but not as much as his suspicions about Isabelle.

Or whatever her real name was. That name was a lie. He was sure of it. She wasn’t from Washington, she wasn’t Isabelle West and she wasn’t an innocent isolationist suspicious of the feds.

“Or you’re overreacting,” he muttered.

If he used a little creativity, he could imagine that she was a girl from rural Washington State who’d been raised by parents from Cincinnati, who’d kept her off the grid until she was in her twenties. That might explain the slight accent that had nothing to do with the West Coast and the fact that there were no property, tax or motor-vehicle records for anyone named Isabelle West before 2002.

That slim possibility aside, he had no idea who she could be. A criminal, certainly. Or maybe just a woman escaping a bad past. If she’d been a victim of domestic violence, judges had the leeway in almost every state to issue an off-the-record name change. Or maybe she was just a girl who’d gotten herself into a bad situation and had been forced to make a run for it.

“Shit,” he muttered, finally turning back to make his way through the woods. He had a problem. He knew he did. A compulsion to help people whether they wanted it or not.
Especially
those who didn’t want it.

A problem, maybe, but it wasn’t an unreasonable one. Often the people in the worst trouble were the least likely to ask for help. He knew that firsthand. And Isabelle showed all the symptoms of someone like that. She was prickly and proud and smart and self-contained. She hadn’t even wanted him to check her place for an intruder. How would she ever reach out about something weightier?

He took a deep breath and tried to lose himself in the walk. The moon was almost full, and it glowed from every snowy surface, so he had no trouble making his way. But the beauty surrounding him wasn’t as peaceful as it had been when he’d walked Isabelle home.

He’d gone back tonight hoping to discover more of who she was. He hadn’t paid close enough attention the night before. At least he knew who was in the picture with her now. Her girlfriends. And it must mean something that she hadn’t had one other framed photograph in the house. No family. No kids. No history.

Maybe he should just let it go. Mary joked all the time about his determination to fix things that were none of his business. He knew it was about his parents and their tendency to stick their heads in the sand and hope for the best. He loved them, and he’d never say it, but his brother would’ve had a hell of a better shot at survival if they’d stepped up and interfered.

His cell phone rang, destroying the silence of the forest and startling him from his thoughts. He was surprised to get a call out here. Service was spotty even when he wasn’t in the trees.

“Duncan,” he answered.

“We got another letter,” Mary said without preamble. “Where are you?”

“About one minute out from the Chandler house. Where are you?”

“Just pulling up,” she said as lights swept over the trees far ahead of him. “Security guards finally decided to go through the Saturday mail delivery at the courthouse.”

Tom cursed. “Didn’t we ask them to bring any mail to us?”

“I guess the weekend shift didn’t get the news.”

“Hold on,” he said, picking up his pace along the packed trail of snow. “I’ll be right there.”

The lights from the judge’s cabin blazed through the trees. Another car pulled up as he got there. Hannity got out. “A threat to the judge’s family,” he said immediately, falling into place next to Tom as he jogged up the stairs.

“Mary already moved Veronica here,” Tom said pointedly, “so that’ll make this easier to address. What else?”

“He mentioned a bomb.”

“Shit. We’re gonna need another team—”

“Already on it.”

“Anderson?”

“Yes. He says he can have a K-9 unit here in three hours.”

“Have a plan drawn up before he gets here,” Tom ordered. “We’ll sweep the area around the house for footprints and evacuate the judge’s home if we find anything. If not, let’s focus on the courthouse.”

Mary was waiting for him with a copy of the letter. He grabbed it and started through the four pages of single-spaced ranting. Things were about to get a whole lot busier around here.