Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (9 page)

“Have to get home before the storm hits,” Jewels mumbled to herself, hurriedly slipping into her heels and gulping the last swig of the Thirst Quencher before dumping the cup in the wastebasket under her desk. Folding the original SPOF map in two and tucking it under her left arm along with the two envelopes, she dug her handbag out of the big drawer and whipped it over her right shoulder. Scampering to the door, she quickly unlocked it, flinging it open.

Belinda, who had been standing next to the office door like an unsophisticated eavesdropper, reared back in surprise. “You all right, Jewels?”

“Of course I’m all right, but thanks for asking,” she replied with a little too much pep in her voice while affectionately nudging Belinda on the arm as a show of gratitude for her concern.

Raising a disbelieving eyebrow, Belinda strained a smile. “How about I walk you to your car,” she offered, zipping up her pink windbreaker and tightening the hood around her face for protection from what was soon to be pelting rain.

“That would be great, especially if you don’t mind if we make a detour to Production.” A slight smile romped across Jewels’ face as she thought: except for the missing strip of iconic fur that should be encircling Belinda’s cinched up face, her secretary looked like a cartoon Eskimo bundled up for an ice fishing adventure.

Belinda nodded that the detour was agreeable to her.

“Please see that this goes out first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, handing her the letter addressed to Hines.

Eying the addressee, Belinda widened her eyes. “Agent Hines, huh?” A playful grin vaulted across her face.

Jewels answered with a simple tilt of her head.

On the way out Jewels dropped off the other envelope in Production and casually stuffed the map in her purse. As they exited the building gabbing, Jewels laughed and giggled, purposely melodramatic, at nearly everything Belinda said. But between the bursts of forced gaiety, her eyes scoped the landscape. No sign of a green Dodge ... yet.

THE HUMVEE’S WINDSHIELD
wipers slapped to the beat of the last few bars of the golden oldie. After a few commercial spots, the music resumed. It was CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” ... again. And again Jewels wondered,
Could the song be an omen of treachery to come?

Her eyes cut to the rearview mirror. No sign of the green pickup. “Well, at least that’s a
good
omen,” Jewels assured herself, before singing along with the radio.

The pelting rain subsided into occasional drops. The wipers screeched and moaned an irritating tune as they scraped against the nearly dry glass.

Switching off the wipers, she piloted the Humvee around the bend of the sleepy highway. Her driveway came into view. A white sedan was parked on the opposite side of her rural mail box. The car reeked of plain clothes law enforcement. Locals or feds? Soon enough she’d know.

Like magnificent skyscrapers lining the streets of downtown Manhattan, tall pines towered along both sides of the half-mile private lane, leisurely winding back to a spectacular two-story farmhouse dressed in a crisp, white wraparound porch. It was the perfect country home in the perfect, peaceful country setting.

Jewels poked the garage door opener hooked on the sun visor. The door rose. As the big four wheeler crept into the garage, a quick look in the rearview mirror revealed the unmarked cop car had followed her down the lane. At least it wasn’t a green Dodge pickup.

With the driver side door ajar, her left foot dangling out, she snatched the SPOF map out of her purse and carefully refolded the white paper placemat into a small square. Reaching under her left armpit inside her bra, she stuffed the map, adjusting it so the corner of the paper would not be revealed through the semi-sheer material of her white silk blouse. Picking up the bloody jacket and draping it over her arm, she slid out of the Hummer, slamming the door shut.

Before exiting the garage, out of habit Jewels skimmed her hand under the front driver side wheel-well to verify the hideaway spare key to the Humvee was still there. It was. Hiding a spare key under the wheel-well of every vehicle they owned was a habit Robert had instilled in her.
Never know when a spare key will come in handy
, he used to tell her.

After completing the hidden key ritual, she walked confidently out of the garage to meet the cops.

THE GREEN RAM RUMBLED
slowly passed Jewels’ driveway. The driver visually tracked the white sedan until it disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the dense trees.

This was bad; an unexpected turn of events that could have far-reaching, devastating effects. The general had to be informed right away. But the order was clear: don’t break radio silence unless it’s an emergency. A
dire
emergency.

“If this ain’t fuckin’ close to a
dire
emergency I don’t know what is,” he thundered, reaching for the CB mic, stopping short of picking it up. “Nah. Forget it,” he told himself. “What’s the point? Nothing can be done right now anyway.”

Cloaked in a heavy army boot, his size 15 foot mashed the gas pedal. The Cummins diesel responded, roaring like an agitated lion. Seconds later the metallic howl of the green Dodge faded as it sped away, leaving only remnants of the summer’s quick-moving rain shower in its wake.

ONCE THE COPS WERE IN VIEW,
Jewels instantly recognized the caramel-colored, feathered, full head of hair adorning the passenger. “Agent Hines,” she mumbled, rolling her eyes in uneasy anticipation of the possibility his visit could involve a face-to-face high pressure solicitation for a date, even though just hours earlier she had
almost
called him back to accept his dinner invitation.

But the fact Theodore wasn’t alone was a clue the visit must be official FBI business, Jewels reasoned feeling somewhat relieved. At least he wasn’t going to hound her for a date. She wasn’t in a socializing mood and especially not with the sometimes overbearing Agent Hines.

All of a sudden, an icy fist wrenched Jewels’ innards. Her face drained of color. “What
official
business would the FBI have with me?” she whispered to herself. Sharon’s murder was the first, the only, answer she could fathom. Was Sharon involved in
something
the FBI was investigating?

Another question leaped into her mind. If the FBI did, in fact, have Sharon under investigation, which would be serious, what becomes of her promise not to turn the SPOF map over to the cops? After all, Hines and his partner weren’t just local law enforcement boys. They were feds. The F-B-I.

What should she do about her promise? Allowing her eyes to slide shut for a brief moment, she combed her soul for the answer, the
right
answer. Her heart was telling her to trust her friend. To keep the faith of a dying woman. To be true to herself by honoring her word.

But the voice of reason was quick to remind her of the reality of the situation, warning if the FBI
was
investigating Sharon or SPOF—whatever or whoever that was—and Jewels kept her promise, she risked facing federal charges for withholding evidence in a current investigation ... federal charges that could land her hard time in prison.

The sound of a car engine being put to rest prompted Jewels to open her eyes. The passenger door swung open first. Instantly, as usual, the aroma of Hines’ Ralph Lauren Polo cologne preceded his physical presence, which was not exceptional, but by no means repulsive.

He was about six-foot-two with a solid, athletic build. A cleft chin, chiseled jaw line and a straight, thin nose. Biscuit brown, spaniel eyes were set against mildly pocked, sun-browned skin. And Hines was a sharp dresser. Always wore expensive tailored suits, looking more like a highly-paid corporate executive than a law man.

Granted, Theodore Hines presented an acceptable physical package. But how could she ever take any man seriously who felt the need to wear so much cologne? What was he trying to cover up? She was sure she couldn’t imagine and certain she didn’t want to find out.

“Jewels,” an exuberant Agent Hines greeted, smiling widely and striding toward her with open arms.

Rebuffing his invitation for a hug, she extended her hand. “Agent Hines.”

Shaking her hand, he passed her a puzzled look. “Miz Andrasy, this is Special Agent Folsum,” Hines said mocking her formality as he cocked his head toward the trainee.

Jewels looked over Agent Folsum. Young for an FBI agent, she thought. Maybe twenty-three, but wondered if he was older than he appeared. He reminded her of a slightly chunky, baby-faced Jimmy Smits.

After climbing just two steps up the side stairs of the wraparound porch, Jewels paused. “Now what does the FBI want with me?”

Though she didn’t know it, Jewels’ suspicions about Folsum’s age were right on. He looked nearly a decade younger than he was at thirty-one. Formerly a low-ranking FBI analyst, he had recently completed his Field Agent training at the FBI’s facility in Quantico. Anxious to exercise his new authority, he seized the opportunity to respond to Jewels’ inquiry.

Skirting the edge of the flower bed on the sidewalk at ground level, he kept his eyes on her while hurrying his pace to get ahead of her slow ascent onto the porch. Clearly, he was positioning himself to beat her to the front door. Once about ten feet in front on her, Folsum stopped, thrust his hands on his hips, stood stiff and stared coldly up at Jewels. “Hold it right there, Miss,” he barked, purposely lowering his voice to sound authoritative. More threatening.

Jewels had already been standing still and continued to do so. Annoyance swept her face. “What?” she said, with a hostile sigh. “You been practicing this take-no-shit look in front of the bathroom mirror and think you’re going to use it on me now?”

Agent Folsum’s face heated up, but he continued to stare her down.

Swiveling her head over her shoulder, Jewels shot Hines a dirty look, expecting him to say something, but he just stood on the sidewalk, looking up at her on the stairs. “Hmph,” she huffed, refocusing her simmering eyes on Folsum, “So now what? Gonna, shoot me?” Her tone and demeanor sarcastic.

Folsum and Hines remained motionless at the edge of the fancy red brick walkway, gazing up at her.

“Probably not a good idea,” Jewels badgered, stomping up the remaining few steps onto the porch, briskly walking about thirty feet toward the front door.

The moment she started moving, Folsum sprinted into a dead run the length of the porch and up the front steps, cutting her off before she reached the entry. With hands planted on his hips and chest puffed out, he tarried, blocking Jewels from her own front door. It was that take-no-shit look again.

Not in the mood for this crap, Jewels folded her arms across her chest, squared her shoulders and widened her stance, posturing for a standoff. “Ooooouuuuwww. Big, bad FBI man gonna try intimidation tactics to keep me from entering my own home?” Jewels taunted, fury building, becoming more and more pissed ... at Hines for not calling off his wanna-be enforcer.

Folsum swiftly retrieved a pocket notebook and pen from the inside of his suit jacket, clicked the top of the pen, then engaged his machine gun mouth to rapidly fire damning questions. “The woman in the deli, exactly who was she to you? What was your relationship with her? Why did you decide to meet? How long have these meetings been going on—”

“Enough,” Jewels angrily interrupted, gesturing a quick swipe of her extended thumb across her throat as if to cut it. “Do you have a warrant? Are you here to arrest me?”

Folsum and Hines stood like statues, mute and unmoving. Befuddled looks washed their faces.

Wagging her head in aggravation, “I didn’t think so,” she said with a huff. Narrowing her eyes at Folsum, she quickly looked him up and down, “Now get out of my way, young man, or I’ll call my attorney.”

Folsum, once again red-faced, immediately stepped aside and backed down the steps, allowing plenty of room for her to pass.

Stamping toward the front door, she paused, “If the FBI must speak with me, they may do so after my attorney arrives.” Fumbling with the keys, she madly searched for the one that fit the door.

Hines shot daggers at Folsum who responded with wide eyes and raised shoulders.

Agent Hines trotted up the porch steps. “Miz Andrasy, wait,” he admonished, tapping her on the shoulder.

Shrinking from his touch and keeping her back toward him, she continued fiddling with the house key. Butterfingers! She dropped the keys, stooped down, quickly picked them up.

When she stood up, this time Hines grabbed a meaty hold of her shoulder, forcefully spinning her around to look at him.

Jewels wobbled on her stilettos, but quickly gained balance. “Get your hand off me.”

“Please, Miz Andrasy, let me explain,” he calmly said, instantly releasing his grip and taking a step away from her. Shaking his head in regret, he meekly explained, “Agent Folsum ... well, he’s new and a bit overzealous. And, well ... he didn’t mean anything by that, really. And, well ... I’m really sorry. It’s just that ... well—”

“Pretty deep subject for such a shallow mind,” she coolly interrupted before forcing a laugh.

Hines and Folsum volleyed quizzical looks back and forth for a second before cautiously laughing, too.