Twenty

Jesse looked out the impressive windows of his leased condo at the Potomac River reflecting the orange sunset and wished he’d paid more attention in his U.S. history classes. Washington was jam-packed with historic sites, museums, government buildings. Earlier in the summer, he’d been standing on a corner, debating where to get a bite to eat, and realized he was practically on top of Ford’s Theater, where John Wilkes Booth had shot Abraham Lincoln.

Mackenzie was an academic. Political science. She would know the history of many of Washington’s more obscure sites.

He turned away from the window. So far, the investigation into the tragic death of the congressional aide didn’t seem to be leading detectives to Cal Benton. He and his blonde had been careful, just not so careful that Jesse didn’t have pictures of them.

But the search for Harris was heating up. Jesse felt secure that he had bought himself time to pressure Cal, but was it enough time? He couldn’t push too hard and risk having Cal take his chances with the FBI, go to them with his little insurance policy and cut a deal – Jesse in exchange for a reduced prison sentence or no prison sentence at all.

It was a delicate balancing act.

Jesse didn’t have to remain patient, but he had to be deliberate, purposeful.

He headed down to the lobby and out to the parking garage, getting into his rented BMW. Cal’s car was parked at the end of the row. Perfect. He would have seen by now that someone had been inside his condo.

And he hadn’t called the police, because he wouldn’t dare.

Feeling his spirits revive, Jesse drove out to Arlington and the historic house where Mackenzie was staying. He had driven past the place earlier and spotted a honey-haired woman in the driveway, conferring with two contractors in separate vans. Sarah Dunnemore Winter, no doubt. He’d done his research.

He liked the idea that he and Mackenzie both had temporary residences. It wasn’t just something they could share – it meant that her future was as yet uncertain.

What if he and his pretty marshal were bound to be together?

What if that was why he hadn’t killed her? Not because of her skill and luck, but because his subconscious had undermined his plans? On some level, he’d known he had to let her live.

Her car wasn’t in the driveway. He considered slipping inside the house and waiting for her return, but that was too impulsive, too dangerous. If he was wrong and Mackenzie was on the premises, she’d have him. She was on alert these days and she was armed. He wouldn’t get away a second time.

The house’s security system was unimpressive – one of the improvements that would likely come in time. Right now, there were no surveillance cameras on the property. It was a simple matter for Jesse to park in the shade and get out of his car. He’d grabbed a knife just like the one he’d used in New Hampshire – a straightforward Ka-Bar.

He cut a fat pink hydrangea blossom and left it on her doorstep.

“From a friend,” he said. “From someone who knows you better than you know yourself.”

To be sure she knew it was from him, he left his assault knife with the hydrangea.

Twenty-One

The list of J. Harris Mayer’s friends and associates wasn’t as long as it once had been, but tackling just the top half of names had taken Rook and T.J. late into the evening, with little to show for their efforts. People were far more alarmed to find the FBI at their door, asking about the disgraced former judge, than they were at his absence. According to those who knew him best, the disappearing act he’d done last week wasn’t unusual or out of character for him. He was long divorced, and his kids were grown. What was to stop him from taking off to the beach?

Or New Hampshire, Rook thought. He and T.J. were in heavy Beltway traffic, the perfect cap to their day. T.J. was at the wheel, just as frustrated.

When his cell phone rang, Rook had a brief urge to toss it out the window. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

He saw the readout. Mac.

He decided not to throw out his phone. “Hey, Deputy -”

“Rook,” she said. There was something in her voice.

“Andrew. Does anyone call you Andrew? You have brothers. They’re all Rooks themselves. It’d get confusing at family gatherings.”

“Mac?”

“Humorless, Rook. You are -”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m at my house.” She cleared her throat. “Someone left me a present. A wilted hydrangea and an assault knife. Cute, huh?”

“We’re on our way.” He looked over at T.J.

“I’ve called the police,” she added. “Well. You are the police. So am I, but – damn. What’s wrong with me? I know this guy, Andrew. I do. I just can’t remember how. And now he’s here, and he’ll hurt someone else if we don’t find him soon.” She sucked in a breath. “All right. Get here. I’ll -”

“You’ll take cover and wait.”

“Right. That’s what I was going to say.” She wasn’t offended. “Thanks.”

“Don’t hang up. I’ll stay on until the police get there.”

“How far out are you?”

“Fifteen minutes. Where are you?”

“Behind my car door. Not in the vehicle.” She sounded more herself now. “If he jumps me from the bushes, I’ll nail him this time. But he’s not here. He’s a slippery creep who’s trying to get under my skin. He left his little present and took off.”

“Likes his knives, doesn’t he?”

“Apparently. So, what does T.J. call you – Andrew or Rook?”

Rook wasn’t fooled by her manner. The flower and knife had shaken her. “Sometimes Andrew and sometimes Rook.”

“My deranged hiker – he links to whatever you’re working on,” Mac said. “It’s no coincidence that you both turned up at Beanie’s house at the same time.” She paused a moment. “Maybe you need to talk to me. Let me in.”

“Harris hasn’t told us anything actionable, Mac.” Rook heard the wail of sirens on her end of the connection. There wasn’t one thing he liked about having to hang up, but he had no choice. “You’ve got to go, I know. We’ll be there soon.”

“It’s a pink hydrangea,” she said. “No more pink for me, I swear.”

Even spooked, she drew on her sense of humor. She clicked off, and Rook loosened his grip on his cell phone. He filled in the gaps of his and Mackenzie’s conversation for T.J., who’d hit the gas and was navigating the traffic with ease.

When they arrived at the historic house, an Arlington police cruiser had landed on the scene. Showing ID, Rook and T.J. walked over to the porch, where Mackenzie was speaking with an officer.

“When you send her flowers,” T.J. muttered to Rook, nodding to the hydrangea and the knife on the porch step, “don’t send pink. And no knives. Chocolate always works.”

As Rook exhaled, he let out a soft curse. “The hydrangea’s here in the yard. This son of a bitch waltzed right in here, cut the damn flower…” He swore again. “Bold.”

“I’ll go talk to the locals, see what I can find out,” T.J. said.

Rook noticed that Mackenzie had extricated herself from the detective and was heading their way. “You don’t have to make yourself scarce -”

“Yeah, I do.”

He winked at Mackenzie as they passed each other. She stopped in front of Rook, her hair down, red curls hanging in her face. “I swear, I’d be less creeped out if he left me a severed squirrel’s head or something straightforward like that. A flower and a knife? That’s just bizarre.” With both hands, she pushed back her hair, and he could see perspiration glistening on her forehead. “I’m trying to keep an open mind. It could have been anyone, really. The attack’s been in the papers -”

“It wasn’t anyone,” Rook said.

“No. Probably not. I wish I’d been here and had another crack at him.”

“Where were you?”

“House hunting with Juliet Longstreet and Ethan Brooker.”