Sting (25 page)

Wiley said, “Then picked up news of the murder at the Dairy Queen.”

“Right.”

“Wrong.” Shaw, who'd propped himself against the doorjamb when they came into the room, left it for the corner of Morrow's desk and planted his butt on it before he fell down. “That girl's hysterical.”

Hickam said, “Understandable. The guy she was mugging with twelve hours ago has since been shot in the head.”

“I get that, but still.” Shaw conjured an image of Linda Meeker. “Her teeth were chattering. She's out of her mind scared.”

“Of her daddy,” Morrow said. “He's a preacher. Hellfire and brimstone. Live snakes. Like that. Linda and her friend attended last night's Sunday evening services at the tabernacle, but I guess Daddy's sermon didn't take. Rather than going straight to the friend's house to watch TV, they sneaked off to the bar. She says her daddy will kill her for drinking, much less for—”

“—tangling tongues with Royce,” Wiley said.

“Words to that effect. The friend says the reverend isn't the forgiving type, that his punishment will be harsh. Even though Linda knew that coming to us was the right thing to do, the friend said she practically had to hogtie her to get her here.”

Morrow raised his chin toward the interrogation room next door. “Those two officers have been at her, singly and together, since she walked into our lobby and identified herself. All she's done is cry. Sob. Hasn't told us squat. Refuses to talk about it.”

Wiley thoughtfully pulled on his lower lip. “She's a minor. Have her parents been notified that she's here?”

Morrow nodded. “Immediately after she came in. Which didn't help with her hysterics.”

Nobody spoke for several moments, then Shaw asked, “What's the preacher's ETA?”

Hickam looked at him with suspicion and frowned. “Why?”

Shaw ignored him and repeated his question to Morrow.

The deputy consulted the wall-mounted clock. “They live out in the country, ten miles from town. Plus, the preacher subsidizes the offering plate by pouring concrete during the week. Mrs. Meeker wasn't sure which project he was on today and was going to have to locate him through the contractor.” He glanced at the clock again and raised a shoulder. “Taking all that into account, ETA is twenty, thirty minutes maybe.”

Shaw pushed himself off the desk. “Get some handcuffs.”

Y
ou're not eating anything.”

Jordie looked up from the room service club sandwich Gwen Saunders had foisted on her. “I'm not hungry.”

“You didn't eat breakfast, either.”

She realized the U.S. marshal was only trying to be kind, but Jordie resented being spoken to as though she were a child. Apparently her resentment showed. Gwen refrained from insisting.

She ate the last of her own sandwich and folded her napkin beside her plate. “Should I call them to remove the table then?”

“Yes, I'm done,” Jordie said.

“I'll ask the waiter to wrap up the sandwich. Maybe you'll want it later.”

She gave the marshal a weak smile, but her appetite wasn't going to improve until circumstances changed, and she feared that they would change only for the worse, not the better. When every projected outcome was bad, what was she to hope for?

After the room service waiter left, Gwen made sure the door to the suite was bolted, then sat down at a desk and booted up her laptop. Agitated and restless, Jordie moved to the window, pushed back the drapes, and gazed out over the downtown skyline.

Looking to her left across Canal Street, she was afforded a bird's-eye view of the French Quarter's narrow lanes. On the river, a paddle-wheeler full of tourists chugged along. The sidewalks were congested with pedestrians.

Other people were actually having a good day. They were going about their business, eating, drinking, sightseeing, enjoying the company of friends and family, untouched by tragedy, unscathed by calamities of their own making.

She envied them their sense of freedom, even if it lasted only for today. Not since that December day in her childhood had she felt entirely free. The life-altering event of that day followed her everywhere. Even on occasions calling for celebration, it was a tenacious companion that spoiled her enjoyment. Nothing she did was free of its influence. It had dictated every major decision. Much had been sacrificed to it.

Now, because of those few fateful moments, she was sequestered and under the guard of federal law enforcement officers. Her future was uncertain, her life in jeopardy.

She wasn't even free to go to work and do the job she loved. As they'd left the FBI building, she'd asked Gwen if they could stop at her office, just long enough for her to check the status of certain upcoming events that were sizable jobs and would greatly contribute to her company's annual revenue.

Gwen had denied the request pleasantly but in a nonnegotiable manner. “I'm sorry, Jordie. Agent Wiley wants you to be…protected.”

“Watched.”

“Same thing.”

“No it isn't. Not at all.”

Gwen hadn't countered because the distinction was unarguable. However, she had interceded on Jordie's behalf and gotten Joe Wiley's permission to let one of Extravaganza's employees deliver to the hotel mail and paperwork that was time sensitive, such as work orders that required Jordie's approval before projects could move forward.

It was a small victory, though. Because, once delivered, Gwen had opened each envelope and package, inspecting the contents before handing it over to Jordie.

She suffered no illusions. She was under guard. True, Joe Wiley didn't wish any harm to come to her, but he was also mistrustful of her, as well he should be. She should have told him about that trip to Costa Rica.

She hadn't wanted to go, but Panella had given her no other choice. She'd hated every minute spent in his company, had willed away the memory of those three days, and had almost succeeded in pretending that she'd never allowed herself to compromise as she had.

But by telling Joe Wiley about the trip, Josh had resurrected it and all its residual ugliness, and merely lamenting it wasn't going to wash with the authorities. In the context of their case against Panella, the consequences of her being in Central America with him could be much more severe.

The sun shone in warmly through the window glass, but she hugged her elbows as though chilled at the prospect of testifying in court about that trip. Ruefully she thought back on ordinary days when catastrophes had amounted to a late floral delivery, a shortage of tablecloths, a misprint on a program, a grease fire in a hotel kitchen. Put into perspective, those had been mild mishaps. She wished now for problems that easily solvable.

The ones confronting her now seemed insurmountable. Not the least of them was Shaw Kinnard, more specifically the emotional tumult his very name engendered.

When she saw him not bloodied and dying but alive, learned that he wasn't a notorious murderer but an FBI agent, her relief had been profound. But it was instantly squelched. When she grasped the scope of his duplicity and its impact on her, she'd barely restrained herself from lunging at him, clawing at his eyes, hurting him.

In addition to being infuriated, she'd also been sick with humiliation over her gullibility. She would never forgive herself for being taken in, for thrilling to his sexual innuendos, even a little. She'd actually begun to believe that they were more than light teases meant to provoke her. She'd begun to think that the feelings underlying them were deeper and more meaningful, to think…

Things that now seemed incredibly naïve.

Suddenly the sunlight was too bright. It was making her eyes water. She jerked the drapes closed and said to Gwen, “I'm going to lie down for a while.”

“A nap will do you good. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“Jordie?”

She turned.

“What happened between you and Kinnard while you were in that garage?”

“You know what happened.”

Speaking more softly, the marshal said, “Off the record. Woman to woman.”

“Nothing,” she said huskily. “Nothing happened.”

Gwen knew she was lying and looked at her with something akin to pity. “He was only doing his job.”

“I know.” She went into the room and shut the door, leaning back against it and whispering, “And he's very good at it.” Tears that had threatened earlier now spilled over her lower lids.

Angrily, she wiped them away. She would not cry over him.

Pushing herself away from the door, she headed for the bathroom only to be brought up short by a familiar sound—the distinctive buzz of a vibrating cell phone.

A cell phone? Hers was still in the FBI's possession. Hickam had last used it to call Shaw's burner when he staged his big reveal.

The sound persisted. She followed it over to the bureau where she'd stacked the items her office personnel had sent. Swiftly she checked the contents of padded envelopes and pushed lids off boxes until she found a box of printed invitations. She noticed now that the shipping label bore a company name she didn't recognize. She dumped out shrink-wrapped parcels of invitations, envelopes, and reply cards.

The box continued to vibrate.

She dug into a corner of it and lifted out the false bottom. There lay the phone, shimmying against the white pasteboard. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get this phone to her.

Instinctually, she snatched it up and answered. “Hello?”

“Jordie?”

Her heart clutched.

They already had Linda Meeker seated in a chair in the hallway outside the interrogation room when Morrow stalked through the door of his office, pushing Shaw along in front of him.

The young woman was hunched over, crying softly, her shoulders shaking, but she looked up, startled, when Morrow shoved Shaw into a chair diagonally across from the one in which she sat. He produced a pair of metal handcuffs and clicked one around Shaw's right wrist and the other around the leg of the chair, rattling them menacingly against the chrome to make certain they were secure.

“Your lawyer had better show up soon or I'm putting you in lock-up. And get that stupid hood off your head.” He pushed back the hood of Shaw's sweatshirt, then turned away and headed toward his office, pausing when he drew even with the girl. In a much gentler voice, he asked, “Anything I can get you, miss?”

She shook her head.

“Your folks should be here soon.” He started to move away, then glanced back at Shaw. “You. Don't bother her.”

Shaw flipped him off with his free hand and pulled the hood back up to cover his head. Morrow scowled but said nothing else before returning to his office and pushing the door closed.

Shaw muttered several cuss words, then let his gaze drift from Morrow's office door to the girl, who was regarding him warily. He stared back for several moments, then said in a low voice, “Lighten up, kid. No matter what they brought you in for, you'll probably get off doing community service. Maybe some time in juvie, and it ain't that bad.”

She immediately looked down.

Shaw rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, but left them slitted so he could watch her.

She continued to stare into her lap where her hands were clasped but restless. She'd picked at a loose cuticle on her thumb until it had bled. One minute passed, then another thirty seconds or so. Shaw was beginning to think that his plan wasn't going to work, when she shyly looked across at him again.

“Are you sick?”

He kept his head against the wall but rolled it to the side and tipped down the sunglasses to peer at her over the frames. “Not exactly. They pulled me outta the hospital on an assault warrant.”

“You were in the hospital?”

“Till about an hour ago.”

“What's the matter with you?”

“Got stabbed.” With his free hand he raised his shirttail to show her the bandage.

Her swollen red eyes rounded slightly. “Who stabbed you?”

He coughed a laugh. “Last time I'll piss her off.”

“A woman?”

“Girlfriend.
Former
girlfriend. She got me with a broken, rusty outboard propeller.”

“Mercy.”

He laughed again. “I said a little stronger word than
mercy
.”

When she smiled, Shaw shot her one back. “Good to see you smiling. I heard you crying earlier. From in there.” He indicated the interrogation room. “Sounded rough.”

Her lower lip began to tremble and misery settled over her whole being again.

“Look, kid,” he said, speaking softly, “don't let these assholes get to you. The deputy said your folks'll be here soon. They'll get you out. Whatever it was you did—”

“I didn't do anything!”

Shaw just looked at her, knowing she desperately wanted to tell what had happened, explain it, clarify it, justify it, whatever. So he gave her the opportunity by saying nothing.

“I mean…” She licked her lips. “I went to this place where I shouldn't have gone. A bar? My friend and me had fake IDs.” Then, speaking in a confidential undertone, in stops and starts, she told basically the same story her friend had told Morrow.

By the time she got to the part about leaving the bar, she was crying again in great sobs that made her choke, because she was trying to be quiet about it.

“Hey, shh,” Shaw said. “Shh. Don't be so hard on yourself. Whatever happened, I don't think it was your fault.”

“But it
was
. My friend told me I shouldn't leave with a stranger.”

“She figured him for a loser, and sounds to me like she was right.”

“But I…I…I didn't listen. I'd had so much to drink. And he told me I was hot, and that he'd never got that…that…
aroused
just by kissing.” She ducked her head, asking softly, “You know what I mean?”

He frowned guiltily. “Yeah, us guys say shit like that when we want to get on a girl. Sometimes we mean it, though. Maybe he did.”

“I don't think so. Because as soon as he pulled off the road and parked the truck…”

The words came tumbling out of her along with quarts of tears. It took every ounce of self-discipline Shaw had to remain sitting there, pretending to be nothing more than a sounding board with no vested interest whatsoever in who'd killed Royce Sherman.

The longer she talked, the more emotional she became. When she got to the nitty-gritty and described the fatal shooting, Shaw thought his heart was going to beat itself out of his chest.

“I couldn't believe it,” she said around a watery gulp. “But I knew he was dead.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I was so scared. Petrified, you know?”

Shaw nodded.

“I just sat there, frozen. I don't even know for how long. When I came to my senses, I panicked. I guess I should've called the cops, but I knew they'd tell my daddy, and he'd skin me and hang me out to dry.

“So I called my friend and told her to come get me. I ran to the main road and hid in the bushes to wait for her. And all the time, I was so scared he'd come back and kill me, too. The wages of sin is death. That's what I was thinking.”

She was crying so hard Shaw feared her breastbone would crack.

“I'm still scared he'll track me down. That's why I didn't want to tell anybody. They'll put it on the news. He'll find out my name. Then he'll find
me
.”

Shaw was like a racehorse waiting for the bell, but he kept himself slouched in the chair and shrugged with unconcern. “You said you didn't see him.”

“I didn't. But he might think I did. And I'm afraid he'll—”

At that moment, the double doors at the end of the corridor burst open and a middle-aged couple came barreling through.

The girl shrieked and collapsed upon herself in the chair.

The man, obviously the wrathful preacher, was dressed in work clothes and heavy boots. Linda's mother had an apron still tied around the waist of her flowered dress. Several deputies were right behind them, trying to stop the preacher's march down the hallway. The two deputies who'd been in the interrogation room with Linda emerged from it, assessed the situation, and quickly hustled her back into the room.