Deadly Justice (24 page)

He'd never be an easy man to love, but love him she did.  With all her heart.  The heart she'd thought dead and buried with her former fiancé.  The revelation shocked her, yet deep within a ribbon of hope began to unfurl from around the frozen recesses of her heart, and filled her with a gentle warmth. 

He stood and offered her a hand.  “I've got men checking with the medical examiner's office.  Initial police reports show a supposed self-inflicted gunshot wound.  They'll check with the M.E. but it will take a while.  Also waiting on the gunshot residue test, though I'm guessing it will show up positive.  Webster's pulled that before, and knows what he's doing.”

The bitterness in his words underscored Andrea's thoughts.  Oh, yeah, Webster had a lot to pay for. 

“Right.  So, let's sum things up in a nutshell.  Webster knew we were both here in New Orleans together.  He planted cameras throughout this building.  He watched us…last night.”  She couldn't help the slight break in her voice, remembering how she'd spent the previous night wrapped in Sam's arms, making love both on the rooftop and in his bed, yet today there was a gulf miles wide between them, because of that bastard Webster.  “We've got Lawrence Mitchell dead in my apartment in Dallas in an apparent botched murder suicide—though we both know there was never any murder intent, because Webster knew damned well I wouldn't be in my apartment.  He was definitely sending a message.  But is it for you or me—or both of us?” 

Carpenter scrubbed a hand through his hair, tousling the blond waves and she itched to run her fingers through it and muss it further.  With a resigned sigh, he spoke. 

“This seems more like a message for you.  Are you sure you don't have any information you haven't shared with me?”

“I know you don't believe me, but I honestly don't know anything else.  I've told you everything—wait, let's call Zach.  Maybe he'll have heard something about Lawrence or Webster.” 

“How could I forget about your stepbrother, who's also your CIA handler?”  Sarcasm laced each word, and she winced, feeling the direct hit.  Hey, she'd been honest with him.  A heck of a lot more honest than he'd been with her. 

“Go ahead and make the call.  I'll get us some coffee.” 

She appreciated the fact he'd given her a modicum of privacy to make the call.  Plus she really could use the caffeine.  It had been one hell of a day so far, and she needed all her wits about her.  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension coiled deep inside her. 

Zach answered on the first ring. 

“What the hell is going on?  Dallas PD is crawling all over your place.”  Typical Zach, no hello.  When business pressures mounted, his normal courteous and humorous demeanor gave way to professionalism to the point of abruptness.  Add in the cops, and he could get downright surly. 

“Lawrence Mitchell is dead, Zach.”

She heard his muttered curse over the phone.  “I know you're in New Orleans, so how'd you find out—never mind, Carpenter's probably on top of everything.  Tell me what you know.”

“There's not much yet.  Apparently Lawrence's body was found in my apartment—”

“What the hell was he doing in your apartment, Andi?” 

“I haven't got a clue.  I'm not there, remember?”  She squeezed the bridge of her nose, fighting back the beginnings of a headache.  With wary eyes, she watched Samuel set a coffee cup on the table in front of the sofa, and she mouthed thank you as she picked up the cup. 

“Right.  I'll get my guys on it, but any indication of cause of death?” 

“Police suspect a botched murder suicide plan.  Only I wasn't there for the murder part.  They suspect he killed himself, because he left a letter.”

“Suicide?  Lawrence Mitchell?  That vain little maggot wouldn't have the guts to off himself.  No, Webster did it or had it done.”

“I agree.  Sam's getting the handwriting analyzed, but you and I both know it'll be fake.”

She heard rustling papers, and could picture her stepbrother sitting behind his huge mahogany desk rifling through the stacks of papers.  His workspace to the untrained eye always appeared to be an organized chaos with three twenty-seven inch monitors across the gleaming wood top of the desk in a semicircle, and overflowing inboxes.  Yet she knew that was all for show.  He was meticulous in his organizational skills, almost to the point of obsessive compulsive, and to hear him rustling papers threw her off a bit.  What was he looking for? 

“Carpenter's guys are good.  See if they can shoot me a copy of the letter.  I can get one myself, but this way would be easier, since he's already on the job.”

“I'll ask him.” 

“Ask me what?”  Sam sat inches away, leaning back against the couch cushions, a mug of black coffee in his hands.  He appeared relaxed, though she could see the coiled intensity in the way he held his body, ready to pounce in an instant at the first sign of threat.  He wasn't fooling her, not one bit. 

“Zach wants to know if you can send him a copy of Lawrence's suicide note.” 

He nodded, pulled out his phone and began typing.  After a few keystrokes, he slid it back in his pocket.  “He'll have it as soon as we do.”

“You heard?”  She heard her stepbrother chuckle on the other end of the line. 

“Like I said before, sis, you're playing with the big boys now.” 

She huffed out a laugh.  “Yeah, I figured that out pretty quick, when they placed a tracker on me.”

Sam sat up abruptly at her words.  She gave him a saucy wink, smiling at the surprised look on his face. 

“You knew about the bug?” 

“I have to admit, Sam, it was very inventive, giving me a foot massage so you could slip it into the toe of my shoe.  But, I wasn't born yesterday, and I'm also a trained agent.  It was pretty slick though.” 

Her brother laughed.  “Foot massage?  I'll have to try that one myself.  Most people don't think to look in their shoes.” 

“Zach, we're getting off topic here.  Have you got anything new on Webster?  He said Lawrence's body was a message to me.” 

“Dammit, that's what I was afraid of.  We need to pull you out—” 

“Not going to happen.  This latest stunt of his only proves that he's afraid I'm onto something.  Have you found any more stuff Shelly hid?  There has to be something there to nail the son of a bitch.” 

Her brother sighed.  “We found another stash at her sister's house.  Shelly hid papers in her old high school yearbook in the attic.  More of the same.  Dates, routes.  There was one page, though, that didn't make sense.  It almost looked like it was written in code.” 

“Hang on a second, bro, Samuel needs to hear this.”  She tapped the button on her phone to put it on speaker, and Zach repeated what he'd just told her.  Samuel straightened beside her, intent on her brother's words. 

“Bennett, was the page in Shelly's handwriting or somebody else's?  Webster always writes things in code.  When we worked together at the DEA, all our mission-related briefs were coded in his own private code, nearly unbreakable.”  Carpenter scrubbed a hand along his jaw, listening intently for Bennett's answer. 

“Hang on, let me compare a couple of pages with the new one.”  There was a long period of silence and Andrea studied Sam, watching him from the side, trying to decipher what was going through his head.  He was an enigma, and at times like now, she didn't think she'd ever figure him out. 

“You're right, Carpenter, this writing isn't Shelly's.”

“Can you send me a copy?  I know how Webster's mind works.  I doubt it'll be the same code he used back then, but I'm probably your best shot at cracking it.  Plus I can have Carlisle start running his specialized program on it.”  The corner of his mouth kicked up after he finished talking, and Andrea felt hers curve up in response. 

“Gimme the number where you want it sent.  I'm trusting you with this, Carpenter.  Don't screw me over.  We share information fully from now on, got it?” 

“Sure, Bennett.”  Samuel picked up the coffee mug he'd set down earlier and took a sip, wincing at the taste.  Probably lukewarm at best now.  She doubted she'd want hers either. 

“Andi, give your phone to Carpenter for a second.”  Zach's tone brooked no refusal and she handed over her phone to Sam with an accompanying eye roll.  Zach was probably going into big brother mode, and didn't want to her to hear.  Like she hadn't heard it a thousand times before.  He'd been overprotective her entire life, and that hadn't changed, even when she'd moved away for college and been recruited by the CIA. 

Taking the phone off speaker, Samuel listened intently, replying with a series of monosyllabic grunts.  Gee, wasn't that helpful.  Standing, she grabbed her cup and his mug and carried them to the kitchen, dumping their lukewarm contents down the drain.  Looking out the window over the sink, it felt like the walls were pressing in, smothering her and she couldn't seem to catch her breath.  Drawing in a ragged one, she held it, felt the burning in her lungs, the rapid beating of her heart. 

With a measured, practiced slow exhale, she released the tension engulfing her.  Repeated the steps again until she felt almost normal.  She debated fixing them another cup, but decided against it.  There was a burning all-consuming need to get out of the penthouse.  As luxurious as it was, the walls were closing in and she needed to breathe fresh air. 

Sam walked up behind her, placing his hands on either side of her, grasping the edges of the apron-fronted stainless steel sink, effectively caging her within his arms.  He rested his chin on her shoulder, and leaned in close, his body pressed along her spine.  He wasn't hurting or intimidating her, but still her heartbeat raced, and she swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.

“This day has definitely gone to hell fast, hasn't it?”  His warm breath tickled along the fine hairs beside her ear.  It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to lean back against him or turn in his arms and rest her head against his shoulder.  No, the events of the morning had changed everything.

“Where do we go from here, Sam?”  She wasn't sure if she was more concerned about the case or about the two of them and where they stood.  Over the last couple of days they'd started building something.  Something more than the pursuit of Richard Webster.  Realizing she loved Sam had opened her eyes, and made her look at the entire situation differently.  More objectively. 

“Hell if I know.  Your brother's sending a copy of the coded page.  I'll take a look, but I'll probably hand it over to Carlisle.  The cameras have been taken care of.  I'm waiting to hear back from a couple of local contacts.”  His hands moved off the sink edge, and his arms curved to wrap around her waist, pulled her back against him.  Leaning against him was as normal as breathing, and the warmth pouring off him surrounded her, easing the chill that seemed to encase her, both physically and emotionally. 

“Why don't we take a walk?  Maybe head down to Café du Monde and grab some more coffee and a couple beignets?”  His raspy voice whispered in her ear, and he nuzzled against her neck, inhaling deeply.  A shiver ran down her spine at that brief intimate touch.  After all the harsh words earlier and the mistrust, this sudden reversal puzzled her.

“Why aren't you still angry?”  She turned in his arms, needing to see his face. 

He met her gaze, no evasion.  “The last few hours have changed a lot of things, but from now on I want honesty between us, no more evasion or hiding.  We started something real last night, and I'll be damned if I'll let Webster taint it or twist it into something ugly.” 

The tight band around her heart eased.  Maybe they'd be able to salvage at least a tiny part of what they'd gained over the last few days, but it would take baby steps to keep it moving forward.  Going too fast might feel delicious but there was a huge possibility that they'd crash and burn.  If they had any chance of creating something beyond a mutual hatred of Richard Webster, they'd have to move slowly.  More tortoise and less hare in their race, at least emotionally. 

It would be hard though, stepping back from last night.  He'd made her feel things she'd never felt before—even with John.  She knew she loved Sam.  Admitted it to herself, but that didn't mean they had any kind of future together.  She'd have to play a wait-and-see game and find out what his true feelings were before she'd risk exposing her heart, only to have it crushed.

“I'd like that.  Definitely could use the fresh air.” 

“Great.  Let's fill in the guys on our way out.”

P
laying with Sammy proved too easy.  He'd thought the boy would have learned better than to leave anything to chance.  Yet it had been a cakewalk to lure Mitchell to Andrea Kirkland's apartment.  The fool believed he was irresistible, and when he'd gotten a text message from Andrea that she wanted to see him, to talk about beginning a relationship that went farther than business, he'd followed along blindly like a sheep to slaughter.

Webster chuckled at his own cleverness.  Mitchell had definitely been slaughtered.  There wasn't any doubt the police would determine he hadn't committed suicide.  His highly skilled and definitely pricey associate made sure of that.  Leaving the murder suicide note had been a stroke of genius.  A taunt meant for pretty little Andrea. 

Executing the murder in her bedroom, that had been his idea.  Another red herring for the inept Dallas police.  Maybe if he left enough bread crumbs, they'd actually get their heads out of their asses and follow the trail straight to Ms. Kirkland.  Or Ms. Angela Wakefield, which was her real name. 

It had taken him a while to connect the dots.  She was good, he'd give her that.  He liked to give credit where credit was due, and she'd fooled him.  After her fiancé's funeral, he'd made it a point to express his condolences in person.  He'd been instantly riveted by her innate beauty and dignity.  Fascinated, he'd watched her every move until she'd retired to grieve in private after the funeral service. 

He'd silently watched her, his curiosity piqued.  Several weeks later, Angela Wakefield disappeared off the face of the earth.  And he'd looked.  Word spread around the Oklahoma City community through the police grapevine that she'd decided to travel, get away from the memory of her loss.