Abandon (13 page)

J.
Harris Mayer owned a white-painted, black-shuttered brick house on a narrow, prestigious Georgetown street. As Rook stood in the front room, he could see the overgrown rhododendron that grew past its first-floor window.

Harris’s neighbors probably wished he had moved or gambled away the house. Rook and T.J. had checked with them, and they clearly hoped the FBI or the local police—someone—would find Harris dead of a heart attack. His disgrace wasn’t the issue so much as the shabby condition of his house. It needed paint, extensive repairs and a couple of guys with trimming shears and chainsaws to tackle the out-of-control greenery. The windows hadn’t been washed in years. Bees had built nests in various cracks and crevices.

But Rook and T.J. and two other agents hadn’t found Mayer dead in his bed or passed out on his kitchen floor. They’d arrived an hour ago, in the heat of the afternoon, having obtained a warrant to check the house for him. The scope of the warrant limited them to searching places where a person could have fallen ill or be hiding—a closet, a shower, not a desk drawer.

“He’s skipped,” T.J. said, joining Rook from the foyer. “He’s not here.”

Rook concurred. They’d gone through the house from attic to basement, alert to anything in plain sight that would lead them back to the judge for permission to conduct a more thorough search.

T.J. eyed a slender, curve-legged desk in a corner of the threadbare but elegant room. Everything needed dusting. The house smelled musty; the central air-conditioning hadn’t been turned down low enough to keep up with the heat and humidity. The family antiques throughout the house just emphasized that Harris’s was a life squandered. He’d gone off the tracks a long time ago, well before his public downfall. It had just taken a while for him to crash.

“Wish we’d found a receipt for a plane ticket to Fiji sitting on a desk,” T.J. said. “That’d get us in here going through this place with a fine-tooth comb. I don’t have a good feeling about our friend J. Harris, Rook.”

Rook sighed. “I don’t, either. We’ll just have to keep looking for him. I don’t know if a soup-to-nuts search here would help us, but I’ll see what we can do to get an extension on the warrant.”

“If Mayer had given us more to go on…”

“I should have pushed him harder.” T.J. shrugged, taking the setback in stride. “For all we know he was blowing smoke and got tired of it, just pulled out and headed for the beach—or he decided he didn’t want to face you once you figured out he was engaging in fantasy.”

“Maybe,” Rook said, determined to keep an open mind.

They left the house. Outside, uniformed Washington police officers provided scene security, in case the neighbors got curious about strange men bursting into the discredited judge’s house. A crowd hadn’t gathered. It was too damn hot, or people were just busy, or not at home, or didn’t want to be obvious about their curiosity.

“Whoa,” T.J. said. “Is that your redheaded deputy?”

“That’s her,” Rook replied through gritted teeth.

As a federal agent herself, Mackenzie had made her way through security, and stood at the bottom of the steps, her curly hair frizzing slightly in the heat. Rook remembered kissing her last night. What the hell had he been thinking?

T.J., who was known for his good looks, trotted down the steps to the brick sidewalk. “Deputy Stewart, right? I’m T. J. Kowalski.”

“Special Agent Kowalski—nice to meet you. Andrew’s told me about you. All good, of course.”

Using his first name, Rook knew, wasn’t intended to have an affect on him, but to charm T.J. Obviously it worked, because T.J. smiled at her. “Nice to meet you, too, Deputy—”

“Mackenzie,” she corrected. “I didn’t expect to find the FBI here. Did something happen to Judge Mayer?”

“Not that we know of,” T.J. said. “What’s your business here, Mackenzie?”

She glanced up at Rook, still on the steps, then shifted her gaze back to T.J. “Harris Mayer and Judge Peacham go way back. I don’t really know him.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She gestured broadly toward the house. “No sign of him?”

T.J. hesitated a moment, as if he expected Rook to intervene—but Rook had no intention of diving into the middle of their exchange. Let Mackenzie wriggle her way out of this one. T.J. could handle her. “No,” he said. “No sign of him. The house is secure. He’s not in it. You know where he is?”

“Not a clue.” She squinted at him. “Well. I guess you answered my question for me. Again, T.J., nice to meet you.” She made a point of looking up at Rook on the steps. “Mind the heat, you two. It sneaks up on you.”

She walked back across the street and got in her car.

T.J. glanced up at Rook. “Want me to find a reason to cuff her?”

“Tempting.” Rook joined him on the sidewalk, a slight breeze stirring up the street smells. He just felt hotter. As she pulled out into the roadway, Mackenzie waved at them, then hit the gas and took off. “Think she knew we were here?”

“Hard to say. She didn’t look too beaten up from this past weekend.”

“Says she heals fast.”

“Deputy Stewart’s a wiseass,” T.J. said with some amusement. “I’ve always seen you ending up with a wiseass, Rook.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Let’s go.”

“You know, your redheaded marshal didn’t exactly shake in her shoes talking to me. Then again, people
like
me. I have a sense of humor.”

Rook ignored him, leading the way back to their car.

T.J. didn’t take the hint. “You’re not going to let yourself trust her, are you? I can’t say I blame her for wanting to know what we’re up to. She’s not a suspect. She’s not under surveillance. She’s just friends with Bernadette Peacham, our new favorite federal judge. Who is also not a suspect. Her ex-husband—”

“Isn’t a suspect,” Rook finished.

“Officially.”

“Harris Mayer isn’t, either, but we can’t find him.”

“Yeah. I don’t like that one.” T.J. opened the driver’s door and looked across the steaming roof of the car at Rook. “Deputy Stewart moves well for someone with a knife wound in her side. I wouldn’t want to underestimate her.”

“I haven’t,” Rook muttered, getting in the car. He and T.J. had a long day yet ahead of them. Time to get on with it.

It was dark when Rook finally quit work and drove out to Arlington, detouring to the historic house where Mackenzie was living. He parked behind her car and got out, remembering his optimism the first time he’d stood in that same spot a few weeks ago. He’d picked her up for dinner in Washington—nothing fancy, just an evening out to get to know each other better.

A light shone on the back porch, and a misting rain had begun to fall, forming a fine film on the steps. Rook debated turning around and heading on home. What could he do here but get himself in deeper with a woman he’d met for all the wrong reasons?

The porch door opened, and Mackenzie stepped out, her hair pulled tight into a curly ponytail, as if she’d tried to tame it once and for all in the high humidity. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a T-shirt that, somehow, made her seem even smaller than she was.

She tilted her head back, eyeing her visitor. “I could have winged you, Rook, and nobody would have said boo. Here I am injured, alone in a haunted, isolated house, and you know it, yet you sneak up on me anyway.”

“Did I scare you?”

“No. I thought you might be a ghost for a second.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts,” he said.

“Stay here a couple nights. You’ll believe in ghosts.” She took in a breath, putting up a hand as color rose in her cheeks. “Alone, I mean. Stay here a couple nights alone, and then talk to me about ghosts.”

“Nate and his wife didn’t seem to mind the ghosts.”

“Sarah wouldn’t. It’d take a lot for Nate to believe he was in the presence of any ghost, never mind the ghosts of Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee.” Mackenzie crossed her arms over her chest, her shirt rising just enough to reveal the bandages on her left side. “Would you like to come in for a minute?”

Rook took a step toward her. “I won’t stay long.”

He followed her into the cool kitchen. The small table was crowded with dishes and odds and ends, as if she’d just unpacked one of the boxes stacked along the wall. He wondered if she had plans for the evening, or if she would stay here, alone with her ghosts.

“Mac, about this afternoon at Harris’s house—”

“Not much to say, is there?”

“We want to find him.”

“Understood. If I knew where he was, I’d tell you. If I even had a clue, I’d tell you. I take it New Hampshire didn’t pan out, and you didn’t find him there.” She yanked out a chair at the table and plopped down. “He’s not wanted, officially. Is he providing you with information? He’s such a bottom-feeder. I can just imagine what all he knows.”

“We have no reason to believe he had anything to do with the attack on you.”

“Glad to hear it.” She didn’t seem to make any effort to hide her sarcasm, but bitterness wasn’t in her nature. She sighed. “Damn it, Rook. What’s going on?”

He noticed a six-inch length of spent packing tape on the floor and scooped it up, dropping it into an empty box set against the wall, next to the full ones. “Last night at Judge Peacham’s…Mac—you were holding back on her. She knew it. She just didn’t want to pressure you in front of me.”

“You FBI mind readers.”

“If it’s something I need to know, I want it. Now would be a good time.”

Mackenzie jumped to her feet, but gave a small moan and reached for her side. “Okay, so I can’t do sudden moves to throttle FBI agents just yet. Give me a couple more days.”

“Mac—”

“Whatever I told or didn’t tell Beanie last night is
personal
.”

“Are you sure?”

It was a simple, pointed question that made her snap her mouth shut. “Cal stopped here and asked me about Harris before I left for New Hampshire. Have those two cooked up something that’s got the attention of the FBI?”

“Mac,” Rook said, then sighed. “I shouldn’t have come.”

An awkward silence descended between them.

She started for the door, presumably to see him out, but Rook touched her arm, felt the same spark of attraction he’d experienced when they’d first met, and acted on it. He curved his fingers under her chin and traced her lower lip with his thumb. “Mac.” He sighed once more, shaking his head. “Damn. I wasn’t going to kiss you again.”

She didn’t resist or tell him no or shove him out the door when his mouth found hers. Instead, she kissed him back. He could feel her eagerness—the spark of desire in her. If not for her bandaged side, he’d have slipped his arms around her and drawn her closer to him, let her feel his reaction to her, her touch, the taste of her.

“You’re complicating my life, Rook,” she said, then kissed him again.

He felt a shudder of arousal. “You’re not exactly simplifying mine.”

As she stood back from him, her very blue eyes met his. “I don’t like setting myself up to be hurt.”

He smiled. “That didn’t hurt, did it?”

She opened the door for him. Outside, the rain was steady now, falling softly, without wind, thunder, lightning. There was no front moving through to push out the heat and humidity. The light from the porch hit her face, bringing out the dark smudges under her eyes. It had only been five days since Mackenzie Stewart had found herself in a fight for her life—not enough time, Rook thought, for anyone to expect her to be back to normal, especially with her attacker still out there.

He walked past her and stepped onto the porch.

She remained in the doorway. “I’ve known Beanie Peacham all my life. I don’t trust many people, but I trust her.”

“What would you do for her?” Rook asked.

“She’s never asked anything from me.”

“Maybe she knows she doesn’t have to ask.”

He expected a hot reaction, but Mackenzie didn’t rise to his bait. “You mean because I anticipate her wishes? That’s not the case. It just isn’t. I’m not being defensive, and I’m not in denial.”

“Fair enough.”

“You don’t like her.”

Rook smelled earth and some kind of flowers on the rain, and he thought of ghosts, wondered if they ever ventured out across the plush grounds, among the tall, old trees.
Man. What’s wrong with you?

He shook off thoughts of ghosts and focused on the woman in the doorway. He hated to abandon her—but what the hell else could he do? When Harris Mayer had pointed her out at the hotel last week, Rook had expected backing off from her wouldn’t be difficult. But he was wrong, and in the days since he’d left her the voice mail canceling dinner, he’d only found himself more attracted to her.

And yet he knew better than to underestimate this woman—to take her bandaged side and her response to him as vulnerability.

“I think Judge Peacham looks at you and sees the eleven-year-old, traumatized and guilt-ridden about her father’s accident,” he said. “And maybe the academic she’d hoped you’d become.”