Simon Says Die (4 page)

 

Chapter Four

M
ADISON COVERED HER
yawn and looked out Pierce's car window at the FBI office building on East Bryan Street.

After nodding off in the recliner this morning, she'd been shaken awake an obscenely short time later. Pierce, looking impossibly refreshed, as if he hadn't been awake most of the night himself, had driven her to the cemetery to retrieve her car. Then he'd followed her home and had waited while she showered and changed.

In spite of her brilliant arguments about not needing his help, he'd bullied her into going with him to give his boss a statement about the shooting.

He opened her car door and offered her his hand.

She swatted his hand away and covered another yawn as she climbed out of the car. She'd wipe that grin off his face later, once she got enough caffeine into her system. One cup of coffee was not enough to wake up her “nice” gene.

The lettering on the glass door of the building declared that it was a technology center, rather than a field office like the sprawling complex in Jacksonville, where Pierce used to work. Its stark, plain facade had none of the Southern charm Madison associated with the rest of Savannah's historic district, which was probably why the FBI had tucked it away, a block off Reynolds Square—so no one would notice it and complain.

“After you, Sleepy, or should I call you Grumpy?” He held open the front door.

“How about I call you Dopey and we call it even?”

He laughed as she trudged past him into the tiny entryway that didn't even boast a receptionist.

She couldn't help it if she wasn't cheerful Snow White today. Being handcuffed, kidnapped, held prisoner by a cover model, and then hauled to the FBI building on just a few hours sleep did not make her want to burst into song and play with bluebirds.

“You can't ignore me forever.” He slid an ID card into an electronic reader on a metal gate. It beeped and clicked open.

“I'm not ignoring you.” She stepped through the gate. “I just don't have anything to say.”

He looked suspiciously close to grinning again as he led her down the hallway to an elevator. She crossed her arms after they stepped inside, daring him to smile at her.

“Are you never going to forgive me?” He punched the button for the second floor.

“You left me with your fiancée and told her to shoot me if I tried anything.”

His lips twitched. “She told you I said that?”

“That's the way I took it.”

He laughed. “I'm sure she was only teasing.” His grin faded and his face turned serious. “As for her being my fiancée, I've been trying to tell you—”

She held up her hand to stop him. “And I already told you this morning that I don't want to discuss her. Your personal life is no longer my business. You don't owe me any explanations.”

He gave her an odd look, but before she could figure out what that look meant, the elevator door slid open. A man in a dark gray business suit was leaning against the far wall, apparently waiting for them. He straightened and held out his hand. “Mrs. McKinley, I'm Special Agent Casey Matthews. Thank you for coming.”

She shook his hand without enthusiasm. “I'm only here because Pierce would have ruined my brother's honeymoon if I didn't agree to talk to you. This is a total waste of time.”

His eyes widened, and he glanced at Pierce.

“She's actually a marshmallow inside once you get past the prickly spikes.”

Casey let out a bark of laughter, but sobered when Madison glared at him.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said. “I'll try to make this as painless as possible.”

He led them down an interior hallway lit by harsh overhead lights, into an expansive room full of low-walled cubicles. The two dozen or so men and women sitting in front of computer monitors watched them with open curiosity. Madison got the impression they didn't get civilian visitors very often.

Casey took them to his office in the back corner, one of the few offices in the open room with real walls and a door. The computer on the wood laminate desk looked expensive and new, but the two cheap vinyl chairs in front of it were the typical, low-budget government variety. The tiny table that separated the chairs was only big enough to hold a couple of file folders.

Or maybe a cup of coffee.

“I don't suppose there's some coffee around here somewhere?” Madison asked. “The FBI guys on TV always have coffee.”

Pierce sat down in one of the vinyl chairs. “I'll get you some after we leave.”

Casey smiled. “No need to wait. I'll be right back.”

As the door closed, Madison edged over to the window and pretended interest in the street below, even though the only things she could see were the cars parked up and down the curb, and a couple of squirrels scurrying toward the corner.

“If it makes you feel better, I don't want to be here with you any more than you want to be with me,” Pierce said.

Madison stiffened and turned around.

“You're surprised,” he said. “Did you think after you left I was sitting around, miserable, hoping you would come back?”

Why not? She'd been miserable, missing him.

“Of course not.” She took the seat across from him. “I'm glad you've moved on. Theresa seems like a great girl.”

“Tessa.”

“Whatever. I really don't care.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Pierce stared at her, his dark eyes searching, as if he were looking for the answer to an important question. “No, I guess you really don't.”

Before she could figure out what
that
meant, the door opened. Casey stepped into the office, closing the door behind him.

“Here you go.” He handed Madison a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and set some cream and sugar packets down on the table.

“Thank you.” She ignored the cream and sugar and clutched the coffee between her hands, breathing in the comforting aroma. She took a deep sip. The coffee was bitter, and only lukewarm, but she didn't care. The smell alone was starting to wake her up, and the caffeine rush would finish the job in a couple of minutes. She took another sip as Casey sat down behind his desk.

His lightly graying hair was military short, like Pierce's, but he was far less imposing than the intent man sitting across from her. She imagined any criminal facing Pierce Buchanan had to be a shaking ball of nerves by the time he finished questioning them. She'd never thought of him as intimidating back when they were dating, but as he sat there watching her now, the little hairs stood up on her arms.

“Mrs. McKinley,” Casey said, “I don't know how much Special Agent Buchanan told you about why he brought you here, but basically, since one of my agents was involved in a shooting, I have to perform an investigation into the incident.”

She set her cup down on the table. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Let's start with your version of what happened yesterday morning.”

“There isn't much to tell. I looked out my kitchen window and saw a man in my backyard, the same man I've seen several times in the past few weeks, watching me. I called my brother to get his advice—”

“Why didn't you call the police?”

“Technically, my brother is the police.” She waved her hand in the air. “Regardless, I'd already called them several other times to report the same man watching my house. They never arrived in time to catch him, so they chose not to believe he'd even been there. They weren't exactly receptive to more calls from me.”

“Fair enough. Then what happened?”

“After I ended the call with my brother, I watched the man in my backyard for a while. And, well, there was just something . . . familiar about him.” She glanced at Pierce, wondering how much he'd told his boss. “I decided to confront him. He ran as soon as I stepped outside.”

“How many times have you seen him before? Where did you see him?”

“I didn't come here to talk about those other times. I'm here to talk about yesterday's shooting.”

“Standard background questions,” Pierce said. “It helps frame the overall investigation.”

She grudgingly continued. “The first time I saw him was three weeks ago, right after I moved in. He had the hood of his denim jacket pulled up, just like yesterday, so I couldn't see his face. He was standing on the sidewalk leaning against an oak tree. Technically, he wasn't on my property. When I passed by my window half an hour later, he was still there. Watching my house.”

She remembered the alarm that had shot through her. The way the man held himself, the way he stood, had reminded her of Damon. That, more than anything else, was why she'd called the police that first time. She'd hoped they would catch him and prove her irrational fears were groundless. “He never . . . did anything . . . other than stand there. But something about him made me uncomfortable.”

“And the other times you saw him?” Pierce asked.

“The second time, he was closer, standing in my backyard by a storage shed. The next time, he was actually on my front porch when I turned into my driveway.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, remembering how shocked she'd been to see him standing there, peeking in her front window.

Pierce leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “What did he do when he saw you? What did
you
do?”

“He ran. I called the police. I'd hoped they'd find a fingerprint or something, figure out who he was and why he was so interested in my house.”

“Or you,” Casey said.

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Or me.”

“Yesterday morning,” Casey said, “you stepped outside to confront him.”

“Yes.”

“And he ran?”

“Yes.”

“And you chased him?”

She felt her face heating up, just like when Pierce had asked her the same thing. “With hindsight, I know that was foolish. But at the time, honestly, I was just angry. This man kept watching my house, openly, like he didn't care if I saw him. I mean, it's like he . . .”—she shook her head, struggling to put her impressions into words—“it's like he wanted me to see him, like he was trying to scare me. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him why he was watching me, and make him stop.”

And prove to herself that the man who haunted her nightmares was really dead.

She clutched the arms of the chair. “You know the rest. Pierce jumped in front of me when the man pulled a gun. I heard the gunshot, saw Pierce fall to the ground . . .” her voice trailed off. She tried not to let the horrible images from yesterday crowd into her mind again.

Casey folded his hands on his desk. “Mrs. McKinley, Pierce told me you think the man you saw is your husband, that you think he faked his death.”

She straightened in her chair. “I thought the purpose of this meeting was to clarify
Pierce's
involvement in a shooting, not mine. I've already spoken to the police about this.”

“Why didn't you tell them about Damon?” Pierce asked.

“How do you know I didn't?”

“I read your statement.”

Madison clamped her lips shut and crossed her arms.

Pierce sighed heavily. “We're trying to help you.”

She looked at Agent Casey. “The idea that my dead husband is running around Savannah trying to scare me is ridiculous. I was overwrought yesterday. The shooter bore a resemblance to my husband, but he's not my husband.” She looked back at Pierce. “My husband is dead.” She rose from her seat, but Pierce quickly stood and moved to block her way.

“You're not the kind of woman to have hysterics, or imagine things. I don't buy for a second that you've changed your mind. You believe the shooter was Damon.” His face softened as he reached out to gently sweep her bangs out of her eyes. “Mads, talk to me. Let me help you.”

His use of her nickname in that low, intimate tone nearly made her knees buckle. But instead of stepping into his arms as her traitorous body wanted, she pushed past him, bracing herself against the tingle of awareness that shot through her when his chest brushed against hers.

This time he didn't try to stop her. She yanked the door open and stepped outside the office, only to stop short when she saw who was standing a few feet in front of her.

If it weren't for the long, red hair, Madison might not have recognized Pierce's fiancée. In contrast to her sex-kitten look last night, Tessa was all business today in a charcoal gray suit, with a conservative skirt that hung past her knees, and sensible flat shoes. An FBI badge clipped to her jacket proclaimed her as Special Agent Tessa James. She and Pierce worked together.

How cozy.

Tessa grinned sheepishly and stepped forward with her hand out. “Mrs. McKinley, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth last night. We had to wait until the case we've been working on was resolved. I couldn't risk blowing our cover.”

Madison made no move to shake the other woman's hand. “Cover?”

Tessa lowered her hand and her brow wrinkled in confusion. “We've been working a case. The engagement was fake.” She glanced past Madison. “You didn't tell her?”

Madison slowly turned around. Pierce was leaning against the office doorway, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

Heat crept up Madison's neck. She felt like a fool, the only one
not
in on an inside joke. Now all of those men's clothes in the guest bedroom made sense. And she couldn't even be mad at Pierce. He'd tried to talk to her about his fiancée several times this morning. Each time he brought the subject up, she'd shut him down, refusing to listen. He must have been trying to tell her the truth.

Part of her was thrilled that he wasn't really engaged. But that part was overshadowed by the part of her that felt like a total, complete idiot.