Merciless (2 page)

She shook her head. “It isn't funny. I mean, Monroe manages to fumble everything he does, but he did attack a policeman with a Bowie knife when you had him arrested.”

It was ironic that another man who'd made terrible threats to Jon earlier in the year had died of a heart attack in prison the day before he was due to be released. Joceline had thought her boss was safe, and had breathed a sigh of relief. But it didn't last. A few days later, Monroe was arrested for human trafficking and charged and swore vengeance against the people who had landed him in jail, including Jon.

“Monroe came at the policeman with a Bowie knife, tripped on the carpet, went head-over-heels and stuck the knife in his own leg,” he reminded her with twinkling black eyes. “Then he tried to have the policeman prosecuted for assault.”

“I understand some of the people in our legal system are still chuckling over that one,” she agreed. “But even
people who fumble sometimes manage to follow through on threats.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “If he ever kills me, you can stand over my grave and say you told me so. I'm sure I'll hear you from wherever I am.”

She didn't like that thought. She averted her eyes. “Anyway, the district attorney's office felt you should be aware of Monroe's parole status.”

“I'm very grateful. You can pass that along to Mary Crawford at your leisure.”

She grinned. Mary was one of their ablest assistant D.A.s and would probably win the big office one day.

Jon was reading her expressions. “Even if she gets to be D.A., you aren't going to work for her,” he said firmly. “I'm too old to start breaking in new employees. The one we've got part-time is twisting my nerves raw.”

“Phyllis Hicks is a nice girl,” Joceline protested. “Just because she messed up one deposition…”

“Messed it up!” he exclaimed. “The woman can't even spell!”

“The spellchecker was malfunctioning,” she said defensively.

“Joceline, she's in college part-time. They're supposed to teach you basic grammar in school before you even get to college, aren't they?” He threw up his hands. “Every time I go online, I see people using the contraction for ‘it is' for the possessive form, using ‘there' for ‘their,' giving personal pronouns for inanimate objects…!”

She held up a hand. “Sir, we can't all be brilliantly
literate. And there is the spellchecker function on all modern computers.”

He glared at her. “Civilization will fail. You mark my words. If people can't spell, it's just a short jump to not being able to read instructions at all. Havoc will result.”

It was his pet peeve. She just shook her head. “Havoc can't result from not reading instructions.”

“Wait until some idiot strikes a match next to an oxygen tank and tell me that again.”

Her eyes brightened. “There was this guy on the
Miami Vice
TV series—I have it on DVD—who walked into an illegal drug processing operation with a lit cigarette and blew up the whole building…!”

“Don't tell me. You still watch the
A-Team
, too.” He rolled his eyes.

“They had to knock out B.A., Mr. T's character, every time they flew somewhere because he was terrified of airplanes,” she chuckled.

“There are all sorts of programs on television,” he began.

“Yes. How wonderful for people who can afford cable or satellite reception.” She sighed dreamily. “It's wonderful to have a DVD player, even if it's old.”

He was shocked. He'd never inquired about her finances. But now he took a closer look at her. Her clothing seemed serviceable, but quite old. Not that he cared much about women's fashions, but what she was wearing seemed several years out-of-date. Her shoes were nicely polished, but worn and scuffed.

She blushed when she noticed his intent scrutiny. “There's nothing wrong with dressing conservatively,” she muttered.

His eyebrows arched. “God forbid they should put you in stocks,” he commented.

“We don't live in Massachusetts and we aren't mucking about in the seventeenth century,” she pointed out.

“Point taken.” He sighed. “Is my brother going to pick me up for lunch?”

She put a finger to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I see a black SUV pulling into the parking lot as we speak.” She opened one eye and looked past him out the window.

He threw up his hands and walked out the door.

Joceline grinned to herself. She liked winding him up. She did it often. He was far too somber. He needed to loosen up a little and stop taking life too seriously.

Then she thought about her own situation and sighed. It was just as well that she had a sense of humor, or she'd be dead herself. Her life was no bed of roses. However, it was just as well to smile as to cry. Neither would change anything.

 

“You're out of sorts again,” Kilraven mused, eyeing the brother who resembled him so much. Well, they had the same hair color, but Kilraven kept his hair short, and Jon's eyes were very dark, where Kilraven's were pale gray and glittery. They were half brothers, but that didn't stop them from being close.

“Cammy's getting on my nerves,” Jon said tersely. “It was another dizzy debutante yesterday morning. I had half an hour on fashion and hairstyles.”

Kilraven glanced at him as he pulled into traffic. “You could use a little fashion sense. No offense.” He chuckled.

“I dress quite well, thank you,” Jon said, referring to his three-piece watered gray silk suit.

“You're elegant, all right,” said Kilraven, dressed in khaki slacks and a white polo shirt. “But your hair's way out of style.”

“I'm Lakota,” he pointed out. “Nothing wrong with long hair.”

“You're Cherokee, too,” came the droll reply.

Jon sighed. “I like my roots and my culture.”

Kilraven smiled. “So do I.”

Jon glanced at him. “You don't show it.”

He shrugged. “I'm not defined by my ancestry.”

Jon glared. “Neither am I. But I prefer the Native American side of it.”

“I wasn't making accusations,” the older man said blithely. “You're just bent out of shape because Cammy wants you to get married yesterday and present her with a dozen grandkids.”

“Aren't you and Winnie working on that?” Jon asked dryly, referring to Kilraven's new wife, Winnie Sinclair from Jacobsville.

Kilraven chuckled. “Yes, we are. I can't wait.”

“I'm glad you can finally let go of the past,” Jon said
with affection. Kilraven's wife and child had been brutally murdered seven years earlier. He'd never dreamed that his older brother would ever get married again. It delighted him that Kilraven had found such a kind and loving partner.

“You ever going to get married?”

Jon grimaced. “Not to any of Cammy's idiot candidates.”

He laughed. “This one wasn't from an escort service…?”

“I don't know.” He pursed his lips. “I need to have Joceline run a background check on her, just to see.”

“Illegal, unless she's applying for a job with the Bureau.”

Jon lifted an eyebrow. “Aren't you a stickler for rules, when you're notorious for breaking them?”

“Hey, we all mature. Some of us just do it later than others.”

“True.”

“Have you bought the new Halo game?”

Jon smiled. “I bought it a long time ago, but it's still sitting on the shelf at home.”

“You and World of Warcraft.” Kilraven sighed, shaking his head. “My young brother-in-law, Matt, is crazy for it. When he's not in school, he's online, grouping with other people to kill monsters. His latest friend is a sixty-four-year-old grandmother of three. They do dungeons together.”

Jon whistled. “Does she know his age?”

“Oh, yes. And he also plays with a group from a nursing home. They all have internet connections, and most of them play WoW. It's their sole entertainment now, since they're physically handicapped and can't socialize with the world at large.” He smiled. “You know, that's not a bad thing. It keeps their hand and eye coordination going, and gives them a window into the whole world.”

“I know. I play, too. What's Matt's WoW gamer handle?”

“One of his toons is an eightieth-level Death Knight named Kissofdeaths,” Kilraven said.

Jon's eyes bulged. “That's Matt? I've been doing random dungeons with him! He tanks and I heal with my druid.”

“I'll have to tell him. He'll roll on the floor laughing.”

“Don't you dare,” Jon warned. “Now that I know who he is, I'll ride him high.”

Kilraven pulled into the parking lot of a local Mexican restaurant and turned off the vehicle. He looked at Jon. “They cut Harold Monroe loose,” he said quietly.

“Don't you start. Joceline told me already. She's worried, too. Listen,” he said with faint exasperation, “the guy is a total idiot. He can't even walk and chew gum at the same time!”

“He's had his finger in every illegal pie in San Antonio for years. He's been accused of petty theft, running a gambling operation, not to mention houses of prostitution, and now this latest charge, pimping immigrant girls. He sleazed out of the other charges, but you and Joceline
tracked down witnesses to have him prosecuted for kidnapping the teen daughter of illegal immigrants for a local brothel,” the older man said grimly. “He swore that he'd have the case dropped and he'd get even if he ever got out. He's been in jail for three months waiting trial and he's already spent more time in solitary confinement than any other prisoner they've got.”

“Which only proves that he gets caught every time.”

“That won't do you much good if he gets caught after he's offed you,” Kilraven reminded him.

“I'm street smart,” Jon said. “I have built-in radar when it comes to possible ambushes. You should remember that I've never had a speeding ticket.”

“At the speeds you travel, I'm still amazed.”

Jon grinned. “I always know where they're hiding to catch people.”

That was true. It had dumbfounded Kilraven the first time Jon told him to slow down because there was a Department of Public Safety car sitting under a bridge over the next hill. Kilraven had just laughed, but he slowed down. Sure enough, when they topped the hill, there was the car, backed under a bridge out of sight.

“Some ability, and you a cop,” Kilraven accused.

Jon shrugged. “It wouldn't do for a senior FBI agent to be caught for speeding in his own jurisdiction,” he said.

“You shouldn't be speeding in the first place,” Kilraven reminded him.

“Everybody speeds. I just don't get caught.”

“There will come a day,” his brother predicted.

“When it does, I'll pay the fine,” Jon replied. “Are we going to eat or talk?”

Kilraven popped his seat belt and opened the door. “Okay, hide your head in the sand about Monroe. But please keep your doors locked at night and be aware of your surroundings when you're working late.”

“You're worse than Cammy.”

“I am not,” Kilraven said huffily. “I haven't sent one single unattached woman to your office for nefarious purposes.”

“I guess you haven't.”

They walked toward the restaurant. “I don't suppose you've ever noticed what's right under your nose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Joceline,” Kilraven replied easily. “She's a fine young woman. Needs a helping hand with her fashion sense, but she's intelligent and quick-thinking.”

“You just like her because she knows sixteenth-century Scottish history,” Jon accused, because the subject was his brother's passion.

“She knows European history, as well. And seventeenth-century American history.”

“Yes, she was spouting it to Cammy's candidate yesterday. She tied her up in knots. The woman was going on and on about fashion and Joceline cut her off at the ankles with historical references to dress codes.”

“Told you she was smart.”

“She is smart.” He looked at Kilraven. “But I don't want to get married. Not for years yet. I'm just thirty!”

“Almost thirty-one, little brother,” Kilraven said affectionately. “And you really don't know what you're missing.”

“If I don't know, I can't miss it. Now let's get something to eat,” he said quickly, cutting the other man off.

Kilraven chuckled as he followed him into the restaurant. Jon had actually taken Joceline on a date once, some years back. It had been a strange aftermath, including a hospital visit and some threats of legal charges. Jon never spoke of it. He kept secrets. But so did his brother. No doubt he didn't like remembering that his drink had been spiked right under his nose.

“But she's such a sweet girl,” Cammy argued over the phone. “She's pretty and she knows all the right people!”

“She spent thirty minutes giving me news bulletins on the latest fashions and hairstyles,” Jon muttered.

There was an exasperated sigh. “At least she's better dressed than that acid-tongued secretary of yours!”

“Administrative assistant,” Jon corrected. “And Joceline at least manages within her budget. She doesn't have to borrow to buy clothes.”

“It does show,” came the sarcastic reply.

Jon frowned. “Cammy, don't you remember being poor?” he asked quietly.

“I do remember, and I'm your mother, so stop calling me by my first name.”

“Sorry, force of habit. Mac does it all the time.”

“Call him McKuen, if you please. I hate that nickname.”

“So does he.”

“Your secretary has a child out of wedlock,” Cammy continued, unabated. “I hate having you associated with someone like that.”

He felt himself bristling. “We live in the twenty-first century,” he objected.

“Yes, and morality is all that separates us from savagery,” she shot back. “We have rules of conduct to keep civilization from floundering. Just look around you at the outrageous things people are doing! Women don't raise children anymore, they run corporations! Do you wonder why the crime rates among juveniles are so high? Who's teaching them values? Who's…?”

He cleared his throat. “Cammy, I'm due in court.”

She stopped short, still seething. “You should get another secretary.”

“I'm so glad you called. Have a nice day. I'll phone you on the weekend.”

“Come to the ranch for the weekend,” she suggested.

Where her candidate would be waiting with glee.

“Afraid I can't, there's a stakeout.”

“You're a senior agent, surely you can delegate!”

“Not on this one. Now I have to go. Really.”

“I don't like it that you work on that violent crimes squad. You could work white collar crime! Jon…”

“Bye, Cammy!”

“Don't call me…!”

He put down the receiver and let out a puff of air. That was when he noticed Joceline, outside the door he'd forgotten to close. She was very pale and she didn't speak. She walked in, forced a smile and laid a document on his desk. While he was trying to find something to say, and worrying about how much of that conversation she'd overheard, she walked out and closed the door.

Joceline sat down at her desk heavily and tried to block out the sound of Jon's mother's voice, which had been audible even several feet away from the telephone. Most agents used cell phones, and eavesdropping wasn't really possible, but Jon used a landline in the office. And Cammy Blackhawk's voice carried. Joceline felt sick to her stomach as she registered the other woman's overt hostility toward her.

She knew that people talked about her. Gossip was unavoidable in her situation, even in modern times, in a city. Cammy Blackhawk was a throwback to another generation, one just slightly less tolerant and open-minded than younger people today. It didn't help that Joceline was hopelessly in love with her attractive boss, or that she had uncomfortable dreams about him.

He enjoyed being single. He rarely dated, and even when he did, it was usually a professional woman, an attorney or a district court judge. Once it had been an attractive public defender. But it was usually only one date. Like the one he'd had with Joceline. She didn't dare think too much about that.

She was curious about why he didn't date. She couldn't ask him, of course. It was far too personal a question. But she'd overheard him talking to his brother once about how aggressive women could be. Knowing that his supposedly chaste reputation was like a red flag to a permissive female, she imagined that he'd been faced with imminent seduction more than once and didn't like it. As his mother was moral, so was he. They were both conservative to the back teeth, in fact.

Joceline looked at the photo of Markie that she kept in her wallet. He was a mix of his mother and father. He had his father's elegant straight nose and his black hair. His father was good-looking, and smart. She hoped that Markie would follow his father in that respect.

She sighed over the photograph. Her fascination with her pregnancy had grown by the day while she carried Markie. He was a beautiful child, blue-eyed and slender, with a mischievous expression that was characteristic of him. He loved to play hide-and-seek. He enjoyed video games, especially Super Mario Brothers. He was constantly begging for a puppy or a kitten, but she'd explained gently that it was impossible. He was in day care while she worked, although now he was in preschool part of the day, and day care the rest, and they had no yard for a dog to play in. They had no room, either. It was a one-bedroom apartment, and Markie slept in a small bed near hers. It was wiser that way at night, due to medical problems that she'd never shared with her boss. She worried about her child constantly. There were good medications for his
condition, but the ones she used didn't seem to work, especially in the spring and fall of the year. The leaves were just starting to fall in San Antonio as the weather turned cooler, and Markie was having more trouble than usual. It was no wonder that she had dark circles under her eyes and was late to work. Especially after a night like last night…

“…I said, did Riley Blake call?” Jon repeated.

Joceline jumped and dropped the small plastic photo insert she'd been holding.

Frowning, Jon picked it up. He stared at the child in the photograph with curiosity. “He looks like you,” he said finally as he handed the insert back to her.

She put it away quickly. “Yes,” she stammered. “Sorry, sir.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at her with open curiosity. “We have those bring-your-child-to-work days here, but you never bring your son with you.”

“It would be inconvenient,” she said. “Markie is a bit of a pirate when he's in company. He'd be making hats out of files and standing on the desk,” she added with a laugh.

His eyebrows arched. Cammy had said that Jon had been singularly mischievous as a young boy.

Joceline glanced at him. “They think he may have attention deficit disorder,” she said. “They wanted to put him on drugs….”

“What? At his age?” he exclaimed.

She shifted. “He's in preschool,” she said. “He unsettles the other children because he's hyperactive.”

“Are you going to let them medicate him?” he asked, with real interest.

She looked up, her blue eyes troubled. “I don't know,” she said hesitantly. “It's a hard issue to deal with. I thought I'd discuss it with our family doctor and see what he thinks, first.”

“Wise.” He drew in a long breath. “That's a decision I'd have a hard time with, too.”

She managed a smile. “Times have changed.”

“Yes.”

She searched his black eyes and her body tingled. She looked away quickly. This would never do. She fumbled her purse back under her desk. “I was going to print out that brief for you,” she said, opening a file on the computer. “And you're having lunch with the deputy sheriff in that potential federal kidnapping case.”

“Yes, we thought we'd discuss the case informally before lawyers become involved.”

She gave him a droll look. “I thought you were a lawyer.”

“I'm a federal agent.”

“With a double major in law and Arabic studies and language.”

He shrugged. His dark brows drew together. “How did you manage college?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You work endless hours and you have a small child,” he said. He didn't add that he knew her finances must have been a problem, as well.

She laughed. “I went on the internet. Distance education. I even got a degree that way.”

“Amazing.”

“It really is,” she agreed. “I wanted to know more about a lot of subjects.” Her favorite was sixteenth-century Scotland. One of her other interests was Lakota history, but she wasn't telling him that. It might sound awkward, since that was his ancestry.

“Sixteenth-century Scottish history,” he mused. He frowned. “You didn't have a case on my brother, did you? That's his passion.”

She gave him a glowering look. “Your brother is terrible,” she said flatly. “Winnie Sinclair must have the patience and tolerance of a saint to live with him.”

He glared at her. “My brother is not terrible.”

“Not to you, certainly,” she agreed. “But then, you'll never have to marry him.” He chuckled.

“My mother was a MacLeod,” she added. “Her people were highland Scots, some of whom fought for Mary Queen of Scots when she tried to regain the throne of Scotland after being deposed by her half brother, James Stuart, Earl of Moray.”

“A loyalist.”

She nodded. “But my father's family were Stewarts with the Anglicized, not the French, spelling, and they sided with Moray. So you might say they united warring clans.”

“Did your parents fight?”

She nodded. “They married because I was on the way, and then divorced when I was about six.” Her eyes became distant. “My father was career military. He remarried and moved to the West Coast. He died performing maneuvers in a jet with a flying group.”

“Your mother?”

“She remarried, too. She has a daughter…a little younger than me. We…don't speak.”

He frowned. “Why?” he asked without thinking.

“I had a child out of wedlock,” she said. “When she found out, she disowned me. She's very religious.”

He made a rough sound. “I thought the purpose of religion was to teach forgiveness and tolerance. Besides all that, didn't you just say she was pregnant with you when your father and she got married?”

“Well, it doesn't work out that way sometimes with religion, and the important point to her was that she was married when I was born. We were never really close,” she added. “I loved my father very much.” She cleared her throat and flushed. “Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to speak of such personal issues on the job.”

“I was encouraging you to,” he replied quietly. He studied her with open curiosity. “You love your son very much.”

She nodded. “I'm glad I decided not to end the pregnancy…” She almost bit her tongue off. She grabbed the phone and pushed in numbers. “I forgot to make your lunch reservations!”

Which she never did, considering it a menial chore. But
he didn't mention that. He'd upset her by asking personal questions. It hadn't been intentional. He wondered about her private life, about the child.

While she was talking, he went back into his office. He'd meant to apologize to her for Cammy's rudeness, which he was certain that she'd overheard. Then he'd been distracted by the photo of her child. She had thought of ending her pregnancy. Why? She seemed very maternal and conscientious to him, but perhaps she'd never wanted to be pregnant. Accidents did happen. It was just that his clearheaded administrative assistant didn't seem the sort to have amorous accidents, of any type. In the past four years, he didn't recall seeing her date anyone at all.

He sat down behind his desk and recalled her pregnancy. The Bureau didn't discriminate, although her condition hadn't gone down well with some people. But she'd been very quiet, very discreet, during the time she carried the child.

She'd almost died having the child, he recalled. It had disturbed him when he got his first look at her afterward. She'd been pale, listless, devastated by the ordeal.

He'd put that reaction down to pain and drugs following the caesarian section, but now he wondered even more about her history, about the shadowy father of her child.

The phone rang. He picked it up.

“It's Sergeant Marquez,” Joceline said formally and put him through.

“Marquez,” Jon said. “What are you up to?”

“If you're going to mention my run-in with the computer thief, don't you dare,” came the dry reply. “I've already been the subject of extreme censure from everybody up to and including the mayor.”

“Really? Perhaps they had a glimpse of you running nude down the street and were impressed.”

“Get a life, Blackhawk, you're just jealous of the attention I got,” Marquez scoffed. “I'll bet if you ran nude down a street, nobody would even notice you!”

Jon laughed uproariously. “We'll never know.”

“Anyway, what I called to tell you is that Harold Monroe beat the human trafficking charges with a hotshot public defender and got cut loose after the parents suddenly refused to testify,” he said. “I know the D.A.'s office probably notified you, but sometimes they're slow. I wanted to make sure you knew.”

“You're not the first person to tell me. The guy's a total loon and incompetent at that. He can't walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Even people who fumble can perform amazing feats,” Marquez said. “You watch your back.”

“I'll paint a target on it, so Monroe won't have so much trouble finding me.” Jon chuckled. “Thanks for the concern, though. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. You still following soccer?”

“Not so much. My video game is taking over my life.”

“I heard.” There was a pause. “You helped a tenth-level warrior get a bag to carry his loot in, over in the Barrens.”

Jon's eyes popped. “Yes.”

“It was one of my alts,” Marquez chuckled. “See? You never know who you're playing with.”

“Which reminds me, did you know that my brother's brother-in-law plays, too? He's got an 80 death knight.” He gave the name.

“Good grief, he fought the Horde with me in Darkshore a few months ago on the pier, before it was destroyed when the expansion came out!”