Clouds In My Coffee (23 page)

“Let’s start there,” Marco replies, “Do you mind if I record this interview?”

I can hear the gentleness now in his voice, he speaks almost soothingly to her and I have no doubt she’s gonna spill everything she knows about Angie, Cece, Keith and Marshall.

Good job, Agent Trevani.

Two hours later, Marco and I are on the road, having gotten detailed information from Kim about that night. It’s good information according to Marco; details on where they had picked Marshall up that night, after he’d pushed Cece’s car over the cliff, along with a confession from Marshall to Keith about what he’d done to both Angie and Cece right before he’d gone into rehab. Keith had forbidden Kim to speak of it to anyone. He’d told her one night he and Marshall had been tripping on acid and that’s when Marshall spilled everything on what he’d done to Angie and Cece. But the confession was useless.

Keith is dead. So it’s all hearsay.

“Then now what?” I halfway snap in frustration.

“No worries, mia caro, we wait on Trace Matthews.”

“Who?”

“He’s the BAU Agent coming in tonight from Quantico. He and I have discussed the finer points of this case. He’s even enlisted a Federal Prosecutor who is at our disposal. I think
we
can take it from here.”

“Oh, is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me my services are no longer required, Agent?”

He glances over at me and I can see that he’s irritated; I’m just not sure whether it’s with me or with himself. “I’m just saying that your special expertise has served to move this case to a point where it’s being handled.”

I start to reply, when my cell rings.

Fuck! It’s Ryan’s ringtone. ‘Moves Like Jagger’.

“Shit,” I say, reaching in my purse for the cell, “I meant to change that.” I silence the ringer, sending his call to voicemail.

“The asshole?” Marco asks.

“Yeah.”

“Is a reconciliation on the horizon?”

“Not for me. How about you and—?”

“Christina,” he replies. “Hardly.”

“So,” I say, “What now?”

Marco glances at the digital clock on his dash. “Got a few hours to kill before Special Agent Matthews gets in and I have to drop you off. Hungry?”

“Yes, but not for food,” I reply, giving him a sly grin.

“My place it is then,” he says, heading towards his hotel.

An hour and a half later, I slip out of the shower, while Marco stays in to finish shampooing his hair since he accused me of ‘hogging’ the showerhead.

We have spent a delicious afternoon enjoying one another’s physical attributes and Marco commented several times on my agility and flexibility. I have been thoroughly fucked and I feel amazingly refreshed and rejuvenated.

I have just toweled myself dry, using another towel as a turban for my wet hair, when I hear someone knocking at the door to his suite.

“That’s room service already,” I call out. “Hurry your ass up.”

I pull on the fluffy white hotel robe, tying it up as I make my way from the steamy bathroom to the door of Marco’s suite. He’d ordered a late lunch for us just before we hit the shower.

I open the door and immediately see it’s not room service. It’s Michelle, the waitress from the bistro that Marco had taken me to the first night we’d fucked.

Shit.

Her face reddens immediately, as her eyes scan the room number on the door confirming that she is, in fact, at the right suite.

“I—I, umm, Marco?” she sputters.

“Marco’s in the shower,” I reply, opening the door wider. “Would you care to come in and wait for him?”

She seems to have gathered her wits. “He and I made plans for lunch. I was worried when he didn’t show, being that he’s in a dangerous line of work, that is.”

“You have no idea,” I reply curtly. “Please, come in?”

“No…no, that’s okay,” she mutters, “Just let him know that I stopped by, will you?”

“Of course.”

She skitters down the carpeted hallway, nearly mowing down the hotel staff member bringing our room service cart. I sign Marco’s name to the room service slip, giving the guy a huge tip and then settle down on the sofa.

To wait.

Marco comes out of the bathroom, his thick, dark hair still damp, wearing black cotton sweats and a white t-shirt that might as well be couture because of the way he rocks it. He presents me with a sexy wink.

I scrunch my nose up in a cutesy, yet sarcastic smile. He’s not clued in . . . yet.

“Just in time, I see,” he says, plopping down next to me on the sofa and removing one of the silver domed lids from the plate. “Let’s dig in.”

“Actually,” I reply, “you were just a few minutes late.”

He gives me a puzzled look, biting into a french fry. “Not following.”

“You missed
Michelle?
Apparently, you were a no-show at lunch, and she stopped by. She was…worried.”

“Ah, shit! That’s right. I totally fucking forgot we had plans. Guess I got a little
distracted
,” he says with a laugh. “Is she pissed?”

I turn abruptly to face him. “Is
she
pissed?
Seriously?”

He cocks an eyebrow, clearly confused by my tone. “What?”

Men are so fucking clueless!

“Marco, you’ve been in Salt Lake for, what, a couple of weeks? Do you
hook up
wherever the Bureau happens to send you?”

He gives me a dark frown and I know I’ve crossed some line he’s drawn in his
Marco sand
with my question. “So, what if I do, Parrish? You haven’t had any complaints, have you?”

I stand up and walk to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I can’t believe his fucking audacity!

Man whore!

I dress in record time and then spend about five minutes blow-drying my hair. I need to be out of here. I head back out to the bedroom, find my boots and tug them on, grab my jacket and purse and then walk in front of the television that Marco has now turned on to watch.

“Take me home.”

He glances up at me and his cluelessness is very evident. “What the fuck, Parrish. Are you
pissed?
”

“Gee, I don’t know. You think?”

“What fucking reason do you have to be pissed off? I mean,
shit!
You’ve been perfectly down with us being physical, even outlining the whole ‘no strings’ deal, right? So what’s changed?”

“You’re really an idiot, aren’t you?” I say, feeling my eyes boring into him. “It’s one thing to have a no-strings affiliation, but it’s totally something else to stagger chicks like that!”

“Stagger? What the hell…
stagger?”

“Yes, Agent Trevani,
stagger
—the verb form meaning: to take turns; change back and forth. Hell, why stagger? I mean, shit, let’s get ole Michelle back over here and do a
threesome!”

I see a flash of interest spark in Marco’s eyes when I throw that one out there. “Eww, take me home. You’re a
man whore!”

He gets up and closes the distance between us, looking down into my eyes, amusement dancing in his, “That, love, is an oxymoron.”

“You’re the fucking moron if you think for one second that I share!”

And in my mind, my inner voice tells me just how fucking contradictory, hypocritical and off-the-charts this is! Talk about double standards? I guess it does work both ways!

He shrugs, grabs his keys and we head out to his car. The drive home is done in complete silence. I don’t look over at him once the whole way. He doesn’t say a word.

Once he pulls up into the driveway of my father’s home, I open the door and quickly exit his car, slamming the door behind me. I don’t look back.

I never have to see Marco Trevani, Jr. again.

And, for some reason, that bothers me.

It’s official. I’m brooding.

I haven’t left my room since returning yesterday afternoon from Marco’s. I have probably said twenty words to Dad and Sheila, making a hasty retreat upstairs as soon as I came through the door.

I half-ass listened to Ryan’s message, wondering how I was doing and letting me know that he’s packed all of the rest of my things very carefully, and will be happy to ship them to whatever address I provide.

How about shipping them to URANUS, Ryan?

As in YOUR-ANUS, you asshole!

And now I’m laying across my bed brooding and the tears show up as uninvited guests to my pity party.

What the hell have I been doing?

And I
know
what I’ve been doing. I’ve been trying my damnedest to
not
deal with the pain of my break-up with Ryan by getting another man between my legs posthaste.

As if that ever works. At my age, I should know better. There is no escaping grief. It’s part of the process of healing and one that I thought I could skip over.

Ain’t happening
.

So the tears flow as I try my best to muffle the sobs that come with them so that I don’t have my vigilant father tapping on my door wanting to talk, or worse yet, trying to fix things that can’t be fixed.

Heartbreak is a fact of life. Hell, my last two episodes have proven that to me more than the first twenty-seven years of my life ever could have!

Then I think about Cece.

My tears evaporate quickly, as I get my ass in gear. I have unfinished business with Cece. I need to go to her; to let her know. How could I have forgotten my prime purpose for even being here? I mean, shit! In the scheme of things, my heartbreak is nothing compared to what that poor girl went through.

I dress warmly and take Sheila’s car, heading to the cemetery where I know she’ll be. At least I’ll have someone to talk to; someone that I can hopefully provide some comfort to by giving her the good news. At least I
think
it’s good news. I mean, I won’t personally see how everything shakes out since Marco has basically told me that my work here is done.

As in adios, Parrish.

I find her grave and see the dirt piled up high as if it’s fresh, but I know that it’s only because of the exhumation. Sure hope she’s not pissed about that. There are fresh flowers nearby. I’m betting someone brought Mrs. Adams out here after Cece was reinterred. Probably felt like she was reliving it all over again.

The winter wind is blowing and the sky has cloud cover as if it might be getting ready to cut loose with a major winter snowstorm. I heard Dad say something about business being good with the upcoming forecast this morning as I stayed in my room, eavesdropping on him and Sheila in the next room.

I perch myself on her headstone with a heavy sigh escaping me. “Cece, it’s me,” I say, “Sorry I haven’t been out here before now, but I do have news for you.”

I wait a few moments, looking up into the gray, sepia sky, with the threatening cloud cover thick and rolling across the horizon. The sky looks just like I feel at the moment.

“If I cry, my tears will freeze,” I say aloud to no one.

“That’s funny,” a voice behind me says. “But I don’t think it’s true.”

I turn and there she is, still looking perfectly
spirited
in her cheerleading garb. I feel like we’re friends.

“Hey Cece,” I greet, “Sorry about…the exhumation and all. Maybe I should’ve warned you.”

“Hey, whatever it takes,” she replies, “No skin off my back.”

And I stop for a moment and realize just how weird that old saying is for this particular situation and then I do something I haven’t done in a while.

I laugh.

Hysterically.

I laugh until I want to roll around on the hard, frozen ground in order to make me stop.

“You cool?” she asks, a look of concern crossing over her ghostly face.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, catching my breath. “But it’s been a fucked up few weeks. I guess I needed that laugh.”

“Don’t sweat it,” she replies, smiling. “So, catch me up?”

“Yeah, sure. Okay, I have good news. The forensic results prove that Marshall injected you with something that starts with a “suck” that is a major muscle relaxer used with anesthesia prior to operations on animals. Not only that, but Marshall’s mother is cooperating and allowed Marco to search the log home in Ogden.”

“Marco?”

“Oh…sorry, he’s the FBI Agent my father arranged to assist me with this. So, the search uncovered all the stuff in that trunk, plus your silver ring from Erik. And they have Marshall’s fingerprint from the ring, plus the FBI is sending some kind of a profile expert in to interview Marshall Rydell. He’s a judge now—in Denver.”