Gone Too Far (5 page)

“You sure you have time for this?” She sat down on the couch across from his desk and crossed a pair of legs that were still just as fine as they’d been when she’d caught his attention back in tenth grade.

She’d gotten dressed up. Skirt, silk blouse, heels.
Heels.
She was wearing makeup, too. She always wore a little, but today she had more than gloss on her lips. She was actually wearing mascara.

And high heels.

Noah
was
a little crunched today, timewise. But he was crunched every day. And with two jobs, two kids—one a teenager, God help them—they hadn’t managed to schedule a date night for four months. Claire had suggested lunch and he’d actually put it onto his schedule.

But now he realized that this wasn’t just lunch. This was
lunch
. As in, he was gonna get lunched.

“Yes,” he said absolutely. “I have time for this.”

His intercom buzzed, but Noah hit the Talk button. “Maddy, hold my calls. Claire and I are taking a long,
long
lunch today and we’re leaving in approximately four and one-half minutes.”

Claire started smiling when he said that second
long
, and he knew he wouldn’t be back in the office until three thirty, when she had to go pick up Dora and Devin from day camp.

“This one sounds important,” Maddy’s voice came back. “It’s someone named Sam or Roger or Ringo—he wasn’t too clear on which one it was—and he says to tell you it’s an emergency, that Mary Lou’s dead?”

“Oh, dear God!” Claire sat forward, her hand on her heart. She gestured toward the phone. “Speaker phone! Speaker phone!”

Noah pushed the button. “Hey—”

“Ringo, it’s Claire.” She spoke right over him. “I’m here, too. What on earth happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Roger Starrett’s—he’d been calling himself Sam since he’d joined the SEALs—voice was clipped and tight. “Mary Lou and Haley came here to Sarasota about six months ago, to stay with her sister. We’ve been, um, separated. We were waiting on a divorce.”

Divorce? Noah met Claire’s eyes.

Did you know about this?
she mouthed.

He shook his head. Noah hadn’t had more than a “Hi, I can’t talk right now” conversation with Sam in far more than six months.

“I lost touch with her about three weeks ago,” Sam continued, “and came out to see what was up and . . .” He cleared his throat. “I found her body in the kitchen of her sister’s house. I’m pretty sure she’s been there for just about the full three weeks.”

“Where’s Haley?” Noah asked.

Sam cleared his throat again. “I’m, uh, getting ready to go back in there to look for her.”

“Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus,” Claire breathed, tears in her eyes. “Do you really think . . . ?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Look, I’ve called the feds—the FBI—and they’re on their way, but I was wondering . . . well . . .”

Ah, Ringo, Ringo, Ringo. Apparently it was still harder than hell for him to ask for help. Even with a dead wife on the kitchen floor. “Where are you?” Noah asked, hoping he could make it easier.

Sam rattled off an address not too far from Noah’s office.

“Hang on,” Noah said. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”

Lieut. Comdr. Tom Paoletti, the former CO of SEAL Team Sixteen, who was a colleague—no, a friend—had just been brought in for some serious questioning related to last year’s Coronado presidential assassination attempt/terrorism case—a case that was extremely high priority for Max’s superiors.

They wanted it solved. No kidding. Max wanted it solved, too. But not badly enough to start tossing around some ridiculous conspiracy theory that would implicate a fine, upstanding, and completely patriotic naval officer with an otherwise impeccable record.

With the breaking news about the al-Qaeda tapes—the confirmed knowledge that there were still terrorist cells with the ability to do a crapload of damage all around the world—this was definitely not the right time to start pointing fingers and pulling one of the best Spec War commanders in the Navy out of the game.

But no. Why be smart when you can make newspaper headlines and maybe gain some public recognition points? Election day, after all,
was
coming.

And so the word had come down to Max that Tom Paoletti had been brought in for questioning regarding those weapons the terrorists had used, the ones everyone assumed had been smuggled onto the Navy base at least several days in advance of the assassination attempt. Because of the seriousness of the potential charges against him, Tom was going to be held under guard for an undetermined amount of time.

If the theory proved true and Tom did have terrorist connections, they didn’t want him out and about. Of course, when the theory was proven to be just more senseless crap, they would have taken away the freedom of an innocent man for weeks, maybe even months, and completely destroyed his career.

The thought of it made Max’s teeth hurt. This was America, for God’s sake, not Nazi Germany. Still, terrorism created fear. And fear could bring out the collaborator in even the most liberal politicians.

“I heard about Tom,” Alyssa said.

“Then you know why I can’t talk to you right now.” Max put his briefcase down beside his desk and bumped his mouse so that his computer’s screensaver would disappear. “I have to make those phone calls.”

Seven new emails. Six of them marked “Urgent.” He glanced up at Alyssa. “Close the door behind you on your way out.”

She closed the door, but when he glanced up again, she was still in his office. If this were a porno flick, she’d lock it, too, flash that smile that always gave him a cardiovascular workout, and start taking off that designer suit she was wearing in a slow striptease. They’d have sex, right on his desk.

Yeah, right. Real life was never as good as the movies.

Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and announced, “Sam Starrett called about ten minutes ago.”

Fuck.

Funny how U.S. Navy SEAL Lt. Sam Starrett’s favorite word was the first thing to pop into Max’s head whenever the man was so much as mentioned.

First things first. “Are you okay?” he asked Alyssa.

He managed to keep his voice even and matter-of-fact. And not sounding at all as if his blood pressure had just gotten high enough to make it possible for him to orbit the moon should he so much as pass gas.

“Yes.” She looked okay. She seemed as calm, cool, and collected as she always did. Which of course meant nothing because she was as good a liar as he was. “He called because—”

But that yes was all Max needed to hear. “Nine o’clock,” he said, then amended it as he looked at the pile of files Laronda had put on his desk. “Make it ten. Your place. I’ll bring the pizza and beer. We’ll talk about it then, okay?”

“Someone killed his wife.”

Oh, fuck indeed. “Someone,” Max repeated.

She knew where he was going. “Not Starrett.”

He had to laugh even though none of this was even remotely funny. “Yeah,
you’re
impartial.”

“I thought the same thing at first. But it wasn’t Starrett.” She was convinced.

Whatever Sam Starrett had said to her had been effective. God damn it. Max didn’t need this right now.
Tom Paoletti
didn’t need this right now.

“Mary Lou—his wife—has been living in Florida,” Alyssa continued. “In Sarasota. He went to see her and found the body. He said she was shot, right in her kitchen.”

In her kitchen, in Sarasota. Which was right down the Gulf coast of Florida from Tampa. Which was the last place on earth Max should go and the one place he was dying to be.

He was being good and had been staying far from Tampa. Crap, going on eight months now he’d been goddamn
perfect
when it came to Gina Vitagliano, and now this. Somewhere, God was laughing His ass off at him.

“Sam and Mary Lou had separated,” Alyssa told him. “Did you know about that?”

Holy fuck, as Starrett would say. “No,” Max said. “I didn’t.” How come he didn’t know? This was something he should have been told.

She was looking at him hard. “Are you lying?”

He laughed. “Alyssa. Please. Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, Max,” she said. “Why
would
you lie?”

No, thanks. He was not going there. “So why did he call
you
?” he countered. As if he didn’t know.

“He didn’t. He called Jules.”

Which was virtually the same as calling Alyssa. She and her partner were extremely close, and Starrett knew it.

“He’s going to be looked at as a suspect,” Max said, telling her something that she already knew. Husbands and ex-husbands were always high on the list in murder cases.

This was terrible timing. This was all Tom Paoletti needed—one of the top officers in SEAL Team Sixteen under suspicion of murder. It made the entire team look bad, like they were all killers and criminals.

If one member of a SEAL team could kill his wife, then another could sell weapons to terrorists. Damn it, it was even worse considering that Starrett had been the first to spot the weapon in the crowd on the day the President had nearly been shot. The conspiracy theorists would have a field day with this—saying that of course Starrett saw the weapon because he knew where to look.

Forget about the logic as to why, if he
were
involved, Starrett would ID the shooter, thus preventing the man from taking out his presidential target.

Logic and people who subscribed to conspiracy theories were often strangers to each other.

But okay. Here they were. There was a dead wife on the kitchen floor and a good man—Paoletti—already under suspicion of wrongdoing. Max had to go down to Sarasota and make sure that Starrett had a strong alibi and was no longer a suspect before the news about this murder leaked to the media. And if it turned out that the SEAL really
had
killed his wife . . .

Tom was royally screwed.

Max flipped through his date book, checking his schedule on his computer, too.

Alyssa knew what he was doing. “You can’t go,” she said. “You have that meeting tomorrow morning with the President.”

“Where’s Jules, again?” he asked. Alyssa’s partner, Jules Cassidy, had taken several days off. But that was before all hell had broken loose.

“His mother’s getting married today,” Alyssa said.

Shit. “Call him in.”

“He’s in Hawaii,” she informed him. “Even if you could be that cruel, it’ll take him a full day to get to Sarasota.”

“I want someone down there who knows Starrett,” Max said shortly, “and I’m not sending you.”

The moment the words left his lips, he recognized how stupid and petty and childish he was being. This wasn’t about him wanting to protect Alyssa from the emotional pain of seeing a former lover. This was about jealousy. It was fear that if she got anywhere within twenty-five miles of Sam Starrett, she’d never come back.

Alyssa was just standing there, watching him with those eyes that could see through all his layers of crap.

Max stood looking back at her, wishing that he could snap his fingers and make everything go away. Mary Lou Starrett would spring instantly back to life. Tom Paoletti would still be CO of Team Sixteen. The World Trade Center towers would still be standing. Terrorists everywhere would be thwarted at every turn.

And Gina . . .

In his perfect, finger-snap-generated world, Max had never so much as met Gina Vitagliano. If he hadn’t, he and Alyssa Locke probably would’ve been married for a year by now, and his life would be tidy and serene and blissfully satisfying, his meager hours away from the office spent with a woman who was a perfect match for him in every way. His life would be orderly—instead of this current train wreck of near-howling frustration and chaotic anxiety.

He picked up his telephone. “Laronda, Locke needs to get to Sarasota ASAP. And schedule a flight for me for late tomorrow morning, after eleven, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Max hung up the phone. “I’m sorry if I was—”

Alyssa touched him. She never touched him in the office, but now she touched his arm—just a brief squeeze. “I’ll be okay.”

She thought he didn’t want her to go because he was worried about
her
.

He was a total shithead.

Max broke his own rule for what was or was not appropriate for the office between himself and a subordinate, and as usual, when he broke a rule, he completely detonated it. He pulled her hard into his arms and held her tightly.

She was soft and warm and, yes, she smelled too good. Somehow, over the past year, this woman had become outrageously important to him—she’d become his confidante, his best friend. It would hurt like hell to lose her.

In fact, he might very well never stop bleeding.

“Be careful.” It was such an inadequate thing to say, but it was all he could manage.

“I will.” Alyssa kissed him, her lips soft against his cheek before she slipped out of his grasp. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She gave him one last smile and this time she shut the door firmly behind her.

Max gave himself a little time—at least ten or fifteen seconds—to regain his equilibrium before he got on the phone and started making those calls.