The Collective (2 page)

Phil grinned, his anxiety vanishing. He had learned early in their relationship that Carla enjoyed the soft, tangled, dreamy intimacy of late-night sex. Sometimes she stroked or nibbled or licked him awake in the small hours of the morning.

“Guess I’m not the only one who’s restless tonight,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you complaining, Colonel?”

“Not even a little.”

“Then hurry back.”

Brain buzzing with the anticipation of sex, he turned away, toward the boys’ room. An unfamiliar shadow loomed in the
hall, half-silhouetted in the twins’ open doorway, and his smile faded. For the tiniest moment, Phil hesitated, presuming this was yet another in a lifetime of illusory nighttime shadows, but as he blinked, the shadow lunged at him.

His training kicked in along with his fear, but not fast enough. That tiny hesitation cost him his life. His skull slammed against the soft green paint of the corridor wall and powerful hands gripped his throat. He heard Carla screaming in the bedroom, heard her struggle to disentangle herself from the sheets as the footfalls of a second shadow rushed to attack her.

From the boys’ bedroom, however, he heard only silence.

Alexandria’s Old Town reeked of money and history. Gabled buildings overlooked tree-lined cobblestone streets where finely dressed men and women slipped out of expensive cars and into exclusive restaurants and boutiques. Many of the best and brightest of Washington, D.C., strolled through Old Town on any given night, enjoying the view across the Potomac from Virginia to D.C. and happy to be away from the capital for a while.

There were other facets to Old Town, of course—plenty of theaters and coffee shops and less expensive restaurants. Josh Hart had sometimes wandered through its antiques stores and bookshops. It would be hard to think of himself as a tourist—his apartment was less than half a mile away—but neither did he feel like a local. In the handful of months he had lived in Alexandria, he had rarely been at home for more than a few days in a row. Alexandria offered plenty of nightlife, but he had so little opportunity to take advantage of it that most of the time he felt like a foreigner. And he sure as hell didn’t have time for a relationship.

The very idea of dating amused and wearied him. During the occasional flirtation, he had been called things like sweet and funny and charming, but there always seemed to be a distance between himself and women that he could not bridge. He made them nervous. Or maybe it was the job that created the uneasiness.

He liked to blame the job for his divorce. It was convenient. But he knew that a large part of the blame lay in his own hands. The only way to sustain a relationship was to effectively persuade a woman that she was more important than the job, and he had never been that good an actor. The job came first, always.

“So, you actually work for Homeland Security?”

Josh arched an eyebrow and smiled, studying the woman sitting across the table from him. Molly Bechtel, thirty-one. Never married, no kids. Shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, a few freckles, mouth a little too wide and nose a little too long, but the pieces all fit together into a very attractive whole. In fact, what he liked most of all was her spark, the feisty gleam in her eyes. It wasn’t a small thing, considering he hadn’t expected to like her at all.

“I do,” he said. “Why, did you think Mikayla was lying to you?”

“I thought she might be exaggerating,” Molly replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done so in order to get me on a date.”

The waiter brought their salads, sliding them onto the table with an almost ghostly grace before vanishing again. Josh had chosen Hannah’s for several reasons, the wait staff among them. The place was a little pricey, but unlike in similar restaurants he had patronized, the servers didn’t hover. Perfect for a blind date.

Not that Josh was an expert. The last blind date he’d been on had been his sophomore year in college, and he’d ended up marrying the girl. But when Mikayla, one of the trainers at his neighborhood gym, insisted on setting him up with Molly, he had been unable to come up with a reason to refuse. He had been sure it would be a terrible mistake, but Molly had turned out to be anything but. With eyes full of
wisdom and a playful smile, she had shocked him into foolish babbling for the first thirty seconds. They were only on the salad course, and already he wanted to see her again.

Josh took a sip of his wine. “So, have you been on a lot of blind dates?”

She relented, one corner of her mouth lifting in a playful smile. “No, actually. Just the one. It didn’t go very well.”

“And is this one going well?” he asked, watching her through the glow of the candle in the center of the table.

A sly smile stole over Molly’s face. Josh liked the way that smile made him feel. She pretended to be thinking it over, but as she glanced past him, her expression faltered. Her brows knitted in curiosity, and whatever she had been about to say was forgotten. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked instead.

“Fire away.”

Molly smiled again, but it seemed forced. “What does your ex-wife look like?”

“
Rebecca?
Why?”

“There’s a woman sitting at the bar. Small, blond, mid-thirties, looks like she’s in great shape. She came in a few minutes ago and she keeps looking our way, like she has something she wants to say.”

Josh glanced over at the bar and saw the blond hair, not to mention the slight bulge at the small of the woman’s back that gave away the presence of a weapon. Not sure if he was irritated or concerned, Josh pushed his chair back. “Excuse me a second.”

“If it’s your ex, just tell me now and I’ll go. I like you, but I don’t like complications.”

Josh sighed. “She’s not my ex, she’s my partner.”

Molly raised a dubious eyebrow. “And does she usually stalk you on your dates?”

“Not usually, no.”

Leaving Molly behind, Josh weaved through tables to reach the bar, where Rachael Voss sipped at a strawberry margarita. As he approached, Voss saluted him with the paper umbrella from her drink.

“I
did
try to call,” she said. “Bad boy, turning your phone off.”

Josh tried not to smile at her gentle chiding, but couldn’t manage it. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m on a date.”

“So you said. And I’ll hand it to you, she’s very pretty. I figured a blind date would be more like Quasimodo than Esmerelda.”

“I’d remind you how long it’s been since
your
last date, but I assume you didn’t come down here just to tell me to turn my phone back on.”

Voss slid off the stool and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. Her expression softened as she looked at him. They were partners, yes, but she was also his best friend, and an electric current of temptation often crackled between them, daring them to become more than that. They had not succumbed to that temptation yet, unwilling to risk their partnership, but Josh was closer to Rachael Voss than to anyone else in his life.

“I’m sorry,” Voss said. “It looked like the date was going well. I hope she’ll understand.”

“Shit.” Josh glanced over at Molly, who watched him curiously and a bit suspiciously, perhaps thinking that Voss really was his ex-wife. “Where are we headed?”

“Florida. Quadruple homicide in Fort Myers with possible terrorist involvement; multiple agencies and police departments are en route to the site. The plane’s already waiting for us.”

Josh exhaled, nodding. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Voss started toward the door. She’d only managed three steps before she turned back. “Josh?”

He gave her a questioning look.

“Turn your phone on.”

As she departed, Josh made his way to the table. Molly’s curious expression had given way to disappointment. Josh figured she must have been able to read his face just as well as he could read hers.

“You’re leaving?” she asked as he slid into his chair.

“I have to. I’m sorry to have to abandon you like this.”

Her irritation flickered, then seemed to extinguish itself. “I guess this is why you don’t date much, huh? Duty calls?”

Josh smoothed the tablecloth with his hands. “It is, and it does. Thanks for understanding. Maybe I can make it up to you when I get back?”

Molly smiled, but he could still see an edge of disappointment and annoyance in her eyes. “Give me a call when you’re back in town,” she said, “and I’ll think about it.”

Josh took out his wallet, slid out enough cash to pay for both dinners—though his would go uneaten—and left it on the table with a heavy water glass on top of it. For a second he felt like a john, leaving money on a prostitute’s dresser before slinking home to his wife, and when he glanced at Molly he had the terrible feeling that she knew just what he was thinking.

He fought the urge to apologize again. Four people had been murdered and someone in authority thought there might be a terrorist connection. He shouldn’t feel bad about having to leave. That was the job, and anyone who might even consider getting involved with him had to understand that.

But as he walked to the door, he knew he wouldn’t be seeing Molly again.

The second he hit the sidewalk, he fished out his cell phone and turned it on. Voss stood at the curb, leaning against her aging blue Audi. Without a word, she went around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. Josh climbed into the passenger seat.

The quiet between him and Voss was the only intimacy in his life. Sometimes it felt like love and sometimes it felt like faith. Whatever it was, he knew Voss would take a bullet for him if it came to that, and the feeling was mutual.

It would have to be enough.

The guy beating the shit out of his wife looked lit up with violence, the way people said that pregnant women glowed. Six foot three, maybe two hundred fifty pounds of undrafted football goon, he had stormed out of Jillian’s like he thought the paparazzi should be waiting. They weren’t. This was Boston, not L.A.—no matter how many movies the state’s tax incentives lured to shoot there.

There
were
cameras, but most of them were still inside the club. Local network affiliate news vans were parked up on curbs, the reporters mostly doing their jobs on the second floor of Jillian’s. Three members of the New England Patriots defensive line were hosting a fund-raiser for a battered-women’s charity—oh, the irony—attended by loads of other players, not to mention guys from the Red Sox and the Celtics and their wives, who seemed almost as famous as their husbands.

Cait McCandless sat behind the wheel of the Channel 7 news van and wondered if any of the Boston Bruins players were in there. Nobody had mentioned them, and it made her curious. Had they not been invited, or was there some political issue involved that she didn’t know about? Not that she gave a damn about hockey—she was a football girl—but it was still an interesting question.

Supposedly there were actors at the party, too. Homegrown types—Matt Damon and the guy who used to star in
The Shield
. No Denis Leary, though. The guy loved Boston and did all kinds of charitable work with firefighters and such, but he was like an honorary Bruin or something, so maybe he was showing solidarity with his hockey brethren.

Cait was pretty sure Denis Leary would have knocked the wife-beater on his ass.

The Channel 7 news crew, on the other hand, didn’t do a damn thing.

The washed-up football player had called himself A-Train when he’d played for Boston College—some kind of play on his real name, which nobody cared enough to remember anymore. A couple of ugly arrests and rumors about steroids had made him untouchable, but somehow he’d gotten an invitation tonight.

Or maybe he hadn’t, considering how quickly he’d left the party. His wife—in a shimmery gold dress, with killer heels and her long brown hair in copper-highlighted ringlets—was just a few steps behind him. She had looked equal parts pissed and fabulous as she started turning right, heading off down Lansdowne Street, while he turned left toward the parking garage.

He hadn’t let her go far, catching her by the wrist and hauling her alongside him toward the garage. She’d started screaming at him, feral and full of spite. When that got no response, she tried to pull away. And then she hit him.