Hold on to Me (29 page)

Stanton shook his head. “No.”

“I need to see her, Stan. I’m going, with or without you.” His voice was thick, clogged with pain. “I have to.”

Outside, the sun gleamed off the white marble courthouse, the sky clear of clouds after the morning’s storm. Stanton refused to let him drive and Tick stared at the ordinary busyness of life going on in Coney as the town flashed by: a group of kids gathered in front of the First Baptist church, two young mothers pushed baby strollers, the parking lot at Debbie’s Main Street Café filled with cars.

Ordinary. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary, so this had to be a mistake. It had to be because he couldn’t get by without her.

This was nothing more than a nightmare, another of those weird dreams…

The two southbound lanes of Highway 19 were a sea of blue—blue and silver state patrol units, pulsing blue lights, blue uniforms. Tick leaned against Stanton’s Explorer, eyeing the traffic crawling in the northbound lanes, steeling himself for what was to come. He still couldn’t get his mind around the fact she was gone.

He’d thought standing on the tarmac, watching the small plane flip, roll and burn with his father aboard, was the worst thing he could ever experience. He was wrong—this was much, much worse.

“Tick?” Stanton watched him with sympathetic eyes. He’d tried several times to talk on the way over, but Tick froze him out, refusing to be drawn into conversation.

He blew out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s go.”

The blue sea parted, letting them pass without comment. This case would be county turf, although the state patrol was first on scene. Chris was already here, Cookie was en route. They’d left Schaefer in charge of the jail, along with what had to be half of the state’s GBI agents. Tick didn’t care who worked this case. Jurisdiction didn’t matter anymore.

Everything that mattered was gone.

An ambulance and the coroner’s hearse blocked his view of the car, but he could see the body bag lying on the ground, open and waiting. His heart jerked. Oh, God. It was real—this was really happening, and he wasn’t going to wake up screaming and sweating to find it was all just a bad dream. He walked in a living nightmare, worse than anything the night could dream up.

A state patrol sergeant stepped in front of them, tapping the edge of his campaign hat in a one-fingered salute. “Stanton. Hell of a scene, isn’t it? Tick, you look like shit. You sick?”

“What have you got?” Stanton’s voice was the quietest Tick had ever heard it.

“Caucasian female, early thirties. Shot multiple times. Looks like a small caliber, maybe a .32 or .380.”

“She was shot in the car?”

“Driver’s window is rolled down. Her seat belt is undone, but her service piece is still holstered. Doubt she even knew what hit her until it was too late. FBI credentials were in her lap.”

Nausea pitched in Tick’s stomach. “So you’re sure it’s her?”

The trooper shrugged and glanced at the evidence bag in his hand, containing a familiar black credentials folder. The shield winked in the sunlight. “Says it right here, in black and white. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent Bocaccio, Gina Anne.”

Bocaccio
?

“It’s not her.” A weak, shaky laugh escaped him. He collapsed against the nearest squad car, knees bent, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands. Relief left him limp and boneless, wrung out. “Sweet Jesus, it’s not her.”

“What’s with him?” Chris Parker’s voice floated over Tick’s head. The caffeine and nicotine conspired with the emotional merry-go-round, nausea clutching at his throat. He concentrated on breathing, forcing down the queasiness.

“He thought it was Falconetti.”

“I just saw her over at Lawson Automotive when I picked up my unit. They towed her rental car in—the line to the oil cooler busted. She’s been stranded out on 112 for almost three hours, and she’s fit to be tied, too.”

“I’ll bet.” Stanton nudged Tick’s foot with his. “Tick, who’s Bocaccio? What’s she doing here?”

The question penetrated the fog still gripping his brain. “She’s Cait’s partner, a computer expert. Cait asked her to run down some leads—”

“Bocaccio?” Chris’s voice was a surprised yelp. “That’s who’s in the car? Hell, I talked to her this morning. I took a message for Falconetti. Tick, I taped it to your door—didn’t you get it?”

Tick glanced up, shaking his head. He straightened, his legs still unsteady. “What did she say?”

Chris frowned. “Not much. She couldn’t get Falconetti at the hotel and wanted to let Falconetti know she was on her way down. Said to tell her that she’d found something she wanted to show her in person.”

That message, taped to his office door where every person in the department could see it, had signed Bocaccio’s death warrant. He wanted to be sorry and later he would be, but right now…right now, all that mattered was the fact that Caitlin was still alive, still with him. Damn if he’d wait any longer to tell her how he felt.

Stanton nodded toward the car. “Sergeant, I don’t suppose there’s a laptop in the car? Any files?”

“Yeah, right. Not even her cell phone. Nothing but her and the ID.”

Tick and Stanton exchanged a look. “Took the purse, took the computer, but left the gun. Rules out our friendly local drug dealers.”

The handheld radio attached to the trooper’s belt squawked. “Excuse me a minute.”

“He killed her, Stanton. She’d found something, and he killed her to keep it quiet. Same with Bobby Gene Butler—he knew something, and the son of a bitch killed him to stop him from talking.”

Chris tugged off his cap and scratched the top of his head. “Bobby Gene Butler is dead? When did that happen?”

“Couple hours ago. He hung himself in holding.”

Chris grimaced. “Yeah. Sure he did. And you hate fishing. You’re thinking Bobby Gene’s related to what happened with Bocaccio?”

“Unfortunately.” Stanton shot them a warning look. “We don’t need to talk about this here. Cookie’ll be here in a few minutes—we’ll let him work this one. Chris, you help him. Damn it, we’ve got to notify the FBI.”

“I’ll do that.” Tick passed a hand over his eyes. He was going to have to tell Caitlin that Bocaccio was dead, and he’d gotten the impression the two women were close friends as well as partners. Dread dragged at him. “Chris, let me have the keys to your unit. I’ll leave it in the lot at the station.”

“Thanks.” Caitlin smiled, accepting the keys Keith Lawson proffered. The young man had not only stopped alongside the highway where’d she’d been stranded, but he’d radioed his father’s wrecker service, arranged to have her car towed and then gone out to the rental company to pick up another vehicle for her. He might possess a juvenile record a mile long, but he had his good points.

He walked outside with her to the rental car. “Agent Falconetti? You said I should tell you anything I remembered about Amy, even if it didn’t seem important.”

She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair so she could meet his gaze. “I did. Did you remember something?”

“Yeah. A couple of things. I been thinking about it a lot. When I fixed her car? The vehicle she hit was white. There was paint embedded in the dent on her car. And when I called her to let her know it was ready, I could hear this guy in the background. I couldn’t hear what he said because there was a dog barking. Sounded like a big one, too.”

“Could you hear any other noises? Music or people or traffic? Anything at all?”

“No.” His shoulders slumped further. “Maybe. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t know it would be important.”

“It’s all right.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Was she calling you from her cell?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember what date? Morning, afternoon, night?”

“A couple of days before she went missing.” He shrugged. “Why?”

“Because it might give us a lead.” She jotted herself a note on the rental paperwork. Cookie had gotten a rush from simply trying to ping her cell phone. She’d let him have a run at triangulating Amy’s cell call so they could possibly match it against estimated patrol car movements. “Did you call from here, from home, your cell?”

“Here.” He looked at her askance, like he couldn’t quite figure out how any of this was going to help.

“Okay.” She tucked the note in her back pocket. “Thanks again, Keith. For everything.”

He waved as she pulled out of the parking lot. She adjusted the rearview mirror. The car was a twin to the disabled one and she wondered if the rental company had purchased anything but beige Chevrolets.

Three hours stranded doing nothing. The loss of time irritated her and she made a mental list of things to do as she drove—call about their evidence reports again, check in with Gina on the insurance claims and background checks, teach Tick what a damn watch was.

A Chandler County patrol car flashed by her, headed in the opposite direction. She glanced at the mirror again, in time to see brake lights flare before the driver executed a textbook example of a J-turn. Blue lights blazed, headlights sparking in an alternating pattern.

Her gaze flew to the speedometer. Fifty-seven. Not enough to justify that display. She pulled to the shoulder and killed the engine. Jerking her credentials from her pocket, she stepped from the car, spoiling for a fight.

She hoped it was Troy Lee, the young deputy with peach fuzz on his chin who kept eyeing her ass. She felt like grinding someone’s professional ego into the dust.

The unit slid to a stop behind her car. She started toward it, noting it was the county’s K-9 unit. The door opened, and Tick stepped from the car, hair mussed, jacket and tie gone, collar undone, sleeves rolled up.

She smiled, feral satisfaction curling through her.

Oh, even better.

She met him at the patrol car. “You know that thing on your wrist? It’s called a watch—”

“Oh God, Cait.” He reached for her, fingers warm against her skin, and jerked her into his arms. Her irritation receded, swallowed by the first brush of his long body along hers. He buried his face in her hair, his hands roving her back, caressing, touching everywhere. A long exhale shuddered through him.

With her face pressed to his throat, she took a deep breath, layers of smell filling her senses—soap, starch, coffee, cigarette smoke.

Tick.

“Calvert.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed into him. Being this close to him felt oh, so good. “I love you.”

His breathing trembled against her temple, and he lifted his head, his eyes dark and fierce. He caught her lips with his.

Engulfed in a crushing embrace, his mouth on hers, kissing her, devouring her, she could do little but hang on. He slid his long-fingered hands to her hips, pulling her into him, and she opened her mouth to him, their tongues engaged in a fierce duel. Any remaining annoyance dissipated under a rush of love and desire.

He groaned and backed her against the patrol car, his body heavy against her. She sank her fingers into his thick hair, tugging. Yanking her blouse free from her slacks, he eased his palms up and down her ribcage, touch warm on her bare skin. She moaned her approval into his mouth.

She kissed him deeper, tasting the tang of cigarettes and coffee. Gripping his hair, she pulled his head back. “You’ve been smoking.”

The words left her lips on a gasp as his mouth found her neck, suckling, biting lightly, the tip of his tongue soothing over the spot. She pressed closer, needing to be nearer.

“I love you.” He rasped the words near her ear. “I love you, Falconetti, and I’m not letting you go again.”

The declaration imbued her with a bubbling joy. “Are you asking or telling me?”

“Telling you.”

She pressed open kisses to the column of his throat, his skin salty against her tongue. “There you go, rushing—”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if you move here or if I go to Virginia with you—it doesn’t matter. I will not go through another day like today.”

His words penetrated the hot haze of need holding her captive and with reality came the realization he was shaking in her arms. Tangling her hands in his hair again, she tugged his head up, looking into his pale face. “Calvert, what are you talking about?”

He cupped her chin, smoothing her cheekbones. “I thought you were dead, that he’d gotten to you, and I couldn’t bear it. I believed you were
dead
.”

Anguish darkened his eyes, his voice a choked whisper. She stroked his temple, a soothing, tender touch. “I’m fine. The car broke down.”

He rested his face against her hair. “I can’t lose you again. Do you hear me, Cait? Never again.”

She caressed his nape, a touch designed to comfort rather than arouse. “You won’t.”

He sighed, an unsteady exhale, and she felt some of the tension leave his body. They stood in a simple embrace, and Caitlin rubbed her face against his neck, listening to his breathing return to normal. God, she loved this man.

She closed her eyes, massaging his neck and shoulders in light, soothing circles. He relaxed further against her. Her nose brushed his jaw, his scent saturating her senses. “Calvert?”

“Hmmm?”