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“Of course not,” he said at once.
She relaxed, just a bit. A jerky little smile passed her lips. “Sorry. I worry.”
“The talk about budget cuts involves travel, not personnel. At least for now. We all worry, but until they come up with robots who won’t mind working our hours, I think we’re probably safe as far as employment goes,” he said with an attempt at humor. “I need someone to talk to.”
“There’s your brother,” she said. She frowned. “I think we have a psychology consultant in an office somewhere …?”
“Not that kind of talk,” he said stiffly. “I don’t discuss personal issues except with family.”
“Of course you don’t, sir.” She smiled vacantly.
He hated that damned smile. He averted his eyes. “It’s about the murder of Mac’s wife and child.”
“Jay Copper ordered it and he’s been arraigned for it.”
“There’s a hiccup.”
“Sir?”
He leaned back in his chair with a grimace. “Copper has a nephew who he possibly sent along with Dan Jones on the hit.” He also recalled that Copper had admitted to helping Peppy kill Dan Jones for his defection, not that they could prove it without that missing tape.
“I’m not surprised,” she replied. “He has a lot of idiot relations. Most of them are doing hard time.”
He glanced at her. “Bart Hancock isn’t. And he’s Harold Monroe’s brother-in-law.”
She was very still. The man had threatened her boss, but she hadn’t connected him with the Kilraven case. “Bart Hancock.”
“He’s Jay Copper’s nephew. His nickname is Peppy.”
She let out a breath. “Oh, my God,” she said, with reverence. She knew the name and the connection immediately, and it put another meaning on Monroe’s warning that his family would get back at Jon Blackhawk. If Peppy had killed a child …
“I can’t talk to Mac about this, he’d go crazy,” he told her. “And Winnie’s very pregnant,” he added, alluding to his sister-in-law’s pregnancy.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Unless we can play connect-the-dots and find somebody, anybody, tied to the case who’s willing to testify against him, I don’t know what we can do. Most of the witnesses were killed, including Dan Jones and even his girlfriend.”
“Her minister spoke to Dan Jones,” she recalled at once.
“Yes, but he didn’t actually speak to Dan Jones confidentially,” he reminded her. “So he doesn’t know anything. It’s probably the only reason he’s still alive.”
She felt uneasy. “Harold Monroe wants revenge for his arrest.”
He nodded. “He’s a notorious fumbler.”
“He’s managed to avoid jail for the most part, until the kidnapping charge.”
“Only because of Jay Copper, who’s a master of intimidation,” he replied. “But Copper’s still in jail, awaiting trial, and even he can’t do much intimidating from his present domicile. Not that he can’t hire it done,” he added heavily.
“Your brother has a friend in covert ops who watched out for Winnie Sinclair’s mother when she was in danger investigating the Kilraven murders,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he could tag along with you.”
He glared at her. “I’m a senior FBI agent,” he reminded her coldly. “I do not require a bodyguard!”
She held up both hands. “No offense, but you can’t watch your back all the time.”
“Yes, I can.”
She glowered at him. “There’s the matter of kryptonite turning up in unusual places, Superman,” she said with faint sarcasm.
“I didn’t invite you in here to insult me,” he pointed out.
“You wanted advice. I’m flattered that you value mine. Here it is. Don’t tell your brother anything until you can find a witness who knows what Bart Hancock did—if he really was involved in the murder of Kilraven’s family.”
He sat back in the chair. It was a leather chair, old and not really cushy, but very comfortable. It was odd, she thought, for such a rigid, Spartan sort of man to like a comfortable chair at his desk when he provided hard chairs for visitors. But then, he was something of an anachronism himself.
“I suppose you’re right,” he replied quietly. Privately he was thinking how hard a job that was going to be, finding anybody connected to the case who was willing to risk his life to testify against a child murderer. Even civilians knew what happened to men who went to prison for that particular crime. They didn’t last a long time incarcerated. The other inmates didn’t appreciate child killers.
“You might involve Rick Marquez and Gail Sinclair,” she advised, referring to two of the best homicide detectives on San Antonio’s police force. “They’re both familiar with the case, and Gail really is psychic. She might come up with some witness you haven’t even considered.”
He brightened a little. “That’s good advice.”
“Yes, it is,” she mused, smiling.
He glared at her. “No reason to become conceited.”
“But, sir, I have so much to be conceited about,” she said haughtily. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Want to know what the stylists are doing for the holiday season this year? How about the latest fashion buzz from Paris?”
He was looking more irritable by the second. “When I want to know those things, I’ll call Cammy and have her send her matrimonial prospect right over to enlighten me,” he said sarcastically.
Her eyes widened. “I can call her for you. Right now, if you like.”
“If you do, you’ll really be out looking for a new job,” he returned.
She shrugged. “Okay. But you don’t know what you’re missing. All those color predictions, skirt length changes …”
He stood up. “Out!” he said, pointing to the door.
She stood up, too. “Ingrate,” she muttered.
He came around the desk. He was really tall, she thought, when he stopped less than an arm’s length away from her. “You’re a fountain of wisdom from time to time, Joceline,” he said very softly. “We have our differences, but you’re a real asset here.”
She flushed. “Thanks.”
He looked down into her eyes for longer than he meant to, and was suddenly aware of a new tension, a new electricity that arced between them.
Joceline felt her heart bounce up into her throat at the intensity of his gaze. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away, and a huge shock surged up inside her like an almost tangible joy.
His eyes narrowed as he felt the same impact of pleasure. His jaw tautened noticeably.
“Your eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen,” he remarked quietly. “Almost a royal blue.”
“Yours are black,” she replied, searching them.
“Yes.” Involuntarily his lean, beautiful hand came up and touched her flushed cheek. “This is very dangerous,” he said in a deep, velvety tone. “I might think of it as an invitation.”
“I might point out that you’re the one inviting trouble,” she retorted and stepped back. There were reasons why she could never allow him closer than arm’s length. “My legions of male admirers would set upon you like flies on honey and sunder you limb from limb. Not only that, there’s this famous gorgeous movie star who calls me three times daily … and there he is, on the phone again!” she exclaimed, and almost ran from the office to answer the phone on her desk.
He was still laughing when he closed the door.
IT HAD BEEN a narrow escape. Joceline’s knees were weak for the rest of the day every time she gazed at her gorgeous boss. She avoided looking directly at him, because she was afraid that he was right: she had been inviting trouble.
On the other hand, he’d touched her cheek. He was the one who’d come so very close to her. It was only the second time in their years together that he’d ever approached her in an intimate way—although it wasn’t actually intimate. And he didn’t remember the first time. She hoped, she prayed, that he never would.
An hour later, still dreaming of her boss, Joceline was feeding information into the computer when the part-timer, Phyllis Hicks, stopped by her desk with a question.
“These forms are so boring,” she complained. “My dad works in the homicide department at San Antonio P.D. and I get to look at crime scene photos.” Her eyes gleamed oddly. “Murder is such an exciting thing, don’t you think?”
“Murder?”
Phyllis shifted. “The investigation, I mean. You get to catch criminals. My daddy’s real good at it.”
“Who is your dad?”
“His name’s Dave Hicks, he works with Marquez.” She made a face. “I don’t like Marquez at all.”
That was a surprise. Most people did. Most women found him attractive.
“Of course, he’s not my real dad,” she added. “My real dad is special. He thinks outside the box. He’s not afraid of anything.” She laughed. “He lets me do stuff with him. It’s very exciting.” She caught herself and gave Joceline a beaming smile. “Sorry, I get carried away. Now about this form, do I have to fill in every single space?”
Joceline told her how to input the information, but long after Phyllis went back to her typing chores, Joceline sat quietly in her chair. She felt vaguely uneasy about the young woman. Was it normal to enjoy looking at crime scene photos? They made Joceline very ill. Once she’d even thrown up when she saw one in a file that involved the vicious killing of a young woman who’d threatened Senator Will Sanders. The woman had been brutally killed, a crime for which Jay Copper was charged. But Phyllis liked them?
There was no accounting for taste, she supposed, and there was the notorious forensic investigator, Alice Mayfield Jones Fowler, who really got into her work at crime scenes and never seemed to be bothered by what she had to see. On the other hand, Alice didn’t find murder scenes exciting, either.
“I’ll never fit in this modern society,” Joceline muttered to herself. She didn’t understand the fascination with death, with zombies, with vampires …
Well, she loved the very popular vampire movie trilogy, so that wasn’t quite true. Perhaps Phyllis was just exaggerating. She might have never seen a crime scene photo. She was working in an office that dealt with violent crime, so perhaps she felt being excited by the process of crime-solving was expected.
Joceline shook her head and went back to work.
When quitting time came, she grabbed her purse, called good-night through the closed door and almost ran out of the building. She’d had enough for the day, after Phyllis’s strange questions.
Even the fact that she had a worrisome meeting with school officials next was less disturbing than her boss’s odd behavior. Joceline kept dark secrets. She had no wish to ever display them, least of all to Jon Blackhawk.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE HEAD OF the school, Mr. Morrison, and Markie’s teacher, Ms. Rawles, were very nice about it. But they were emphatic that Markie’s antics were disruptive and that he needed medication to prevent him from being a distraction to the other students.
Joceline just looked at them. She didn’t agree or disagree.
“We would like your assurance that this matter will be resolved,” Mr. Morrison said kindly. “Your pediatrician can put Markie on a medication to control his outbursts.”
She smiled blankly. “In other words, you want me to go to my doctor and order him to put my four-year-old son on drugs?”
There were shocked, indignant looks.
She stood up, still smiling. “I’ll have a long talk with my son. I’ll also speak with our family physician. We don’t have the funds to afford a pediatrician, I’m sorry to tell you. Markie’s hospital visits are expensive, and we have an allergist in addition to a family physician, but we’re rather limited in our budget. I have to have medical care for both of us, and a family practitioner is the best we can do right now.”
They were still speechless.
“I will, however, speak with my family doctor about your insistence that Markie needs to become drug dependent. And if my physician agrees with you,” she added sweetly, “then I will find another family physician.”
“Uh, Mrs., that is, Miss, I mean Ms. Perry,” Mr. Morrison stammered.
“I believe the politically correct designation is Ms.,” she said helpfully.
“We only think Markie, being so young, requires some help with his difficulty in focusing …”
“That’s right, sir, make sure that every child obeys without question so that teachers don’t have to deal with any behavioral problems.”
He glared at her. “Ms. Perry …!”
“In our defense,” Ms. Rawles said gently, “our class has thirty-five students. We’re much in the same boat as many other schools where teachers have to manage classrooms with thirty to forty students. We do the best we can. We really care about our students. But it’s so hard to teach when we have children who simply can’t pay attention. Markie is disruptive. He can’t sit still, he talks out of turn, he gets into things …”
Joceline studied her. “Do you have children, Ms. Rawles?”
“I’m not married. I certainly wouldn’t put the stigma of illegitimacy on my child,” the other woman said at once, and then flushed, because she realized that Joceline had a child out of wedlock.
Joceline smiled, but she wasn’t happy with the remark.
The principal cleared his throat. “I’m sure that whatever you and your physician decide will be fine with us.”
“Of course,” Ms. Rawles said, obviously distressed. “I’m very sorry. I never should have said such a thing to you!”
Their attitude took the edge off her temper. She could see their side of the issue, as well. “Actually Markie likes you very much, and so do I,” Joceline cut her off. “It’s all right. A lot of people have said worse things to me. His father was a very good man. We had too much to drink and did something out of character for both of us. He went missing in action overseas on duty before we could get married,” she added gently, telling the falsehood with the confidence of years of secret keeping.
The two school officials looked guilty.
“A tragedy,” Ms. Rawles spoke for both of them. “The world is changing very quickly. Sometimes new concepts are difficult.”
“I go to church, and take Markie, every Sunday,” she told them with a quiet smile. “Everybody makes mistakes. Some are more difficult to live with than others. But I love my son. I feel blessed to have him.”
They both brightened. “He’s a smart little boy.”
“That’s why he’s into everything, he’s curious,” Joceline replied. “And I have already discussed this with our doctor. He’s researching medicines, but he says that discipline might be a better choice than drugs in Markie’s case. I don’t mean hitting him with a bat to get his attention,” she added. “The doctor says that overactive children need consistency and routine and a limit to the number of toys they play with to keep them from being overstimulated. There are many new studies on both sides of the issue, but I would prefer to at least try the least drastic measure first. If it doesn’t get results, then I’ll have to consider other options. Compromise,” she added with a smile, “is the foundation of civilization.”
“It is,” Mr. Morrison agreed, rising. He seemed to relax a little.
Ms. Rawles stood up, too. She smiled. “I apologize again for my remarks.”
“It’s all right,” Joceline said again. “You’ll let me know if the situation doesn’t improve?” she asked the teacher.
Ms. Rawles nodded. “Yes, I will. And thank you for coming in to talk to us. I know your job requires long hours.”
“Your job?” Mr. Morrison asked curiously.
“She works for the FBI,” Ms. Rawles said with a grin, glancing at Mr. Morrison’s shocked face.
“My goodness!” he blurted out. “I had no idea.”
“I’m not involved in enforcement of federal laws,” she said. “I only do the paperwork that helps get criminals convicted. I keep the gears oiled.”
He chuckled. “How interesting! We’re having a Career Day here in November. Perhaps you might like to speak about your duties?”
“I would,” she said, “but my boss is very strict. He might not like it.”
“We wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with him,” he replied. “But think about it.”
“I will. Thank you both for being so understanding.”
“I have two daughters in high school,” Mr. Morrison said. “I do know how children can be.” He was very quiet. “One of my daughters took Ritalin for ADD,” he added, referring to attention deficit disorder.
Joceline wanted to ask, very badly, how that had turned out. But there was something in the man’s face that deterred her. She thanked them again, said her goodbyes and went to pick up Markie at day care.
The next day she mentioned the principal’s remark in passing to Agent Blackhawk.
“Morrison. Yes, the school principal. Sad story.”
“Sir?”
“His eldest daughter is a senior in high school. She was arrested for possession of a Class I controlled substance and convicted of intent to distribute. She’s on probation as a first offender. Her mother died of an overdose.” Joceline was shocked.
“You didn’t hear that from me,” he added. “We don’t discuss cases brought by other agencies. In this case, San Antonio P.D.”
“Yes, sir.”
He cocked his head. “She was placed on drugs in grammar school for ADD.”
“That would have been my next question until you said you wouldn’t discuss it,” she said demurely. She sighed. “They wanted me to get my doctor to put Markie on those drugs.” She looked up quickly and grimaced. “That was uncalled for. I’m very sorry, sir. Personal matters should remain personal, especially on the job.”
His black eyes were steady and quiet. “Are you going to do it?”
She moved uncomfortably. She didn’t answer.
He moved closer. So close, in fact, that she could feel the heat of his powerful body and smell the spicy cologne he wore. She looked up at him and felt her heart jump.
“Are you going to do it?” he repeated, in a softer tone.
She swallowed. “I told them I’d talk to my family physician about giving Markie drugs for behavioral modification and that, if my family physician agreed, I’d get another family physician,” she murmured dryly. “I didn’t really mean it. I want to do what’s best for Markie.”
A chuckle escaped him. “I imagine that’s not all you said.”
Her blue eyes twinkled. “Well, Markie’s teacher made a remark that hit me on the raw but I kept my cool. I can’t help that everything I think appears on my face, though …”
He shook his head. “Ms. Perry, you are an anachronism.”
“Sir?”
“It would take longer than I’ve got to explain,” he replied, checking his watch. “I’m overdue for a meeting in the SAC’s office.”
“And I have work to do.”
He pursed his lips. “Some people would consider making coffee ‘work.’”
She smiled what he’d come to think of as her trademark expression. “Some people would consider a tomato a fruit.”
“A tomato is a fruit.”
She made a face and went back to her desk.
MARKIE wanted to play his video game. He grimaced when his mother started talking about his acting out in class and his inability to sit still.
“Nobody likes me,” he muttered.
“Yes, they do. But when you won’t stay at your desk, you make a lot of problems for your teacher. You aren’t the only student she has.”
He sighed. “It’s so boring in there,” he told her. “I already know all that stuff. But I’m younger than the other kids, and they make fun of me when I can’t run like they can, on account of my lungs.”
She felt that pain all the way to her shoes, but she knew from long and hard experience that bullies were a fact of life at any age. Unless the bullying was taking a dangerous toll, she found it best to let Markie handle those problems himself. Which he did. Once, when an older child tried to force him to give up his pocket money, he yelled “Thief!” at the top of his lungs until the owner came. He was reprimanded, but the bully got in trouble, too. He never tried to extort money again. For a sickly little boy, Joceline thought proudly, Markie had a stout and brave spirit. He wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked.
“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “Your father would be proud of you, too, for the way you handle yourself when people try to pick on you.”
“My dad was brave, wasn’t he?”
“Very brave,” she replied.
“Don’t we have any pictures of him?” he asked.
This question was disturbing. She knew it would only get more difficult as time went by. “No, I don’t,” she said honestly. “I’m really sorry, Markie.”
“Did he look like me?”
She studied him with a sad smile. “Only a little,” she said, and hid her relief.
“Most of the other kids have daddies to take them places. I wish I knew him,” he told her.
She picked him up and hugged him close. “I wish you did, too.”
“You like your boss, don’t you?” he asked when she put him down.
She felt flushed. “He’s very nice.”
“He plays video games just like us,” he said.
“His brother plays them, too.”
“You don’t play much,” he accused.
She bent and kissed his forehead. “I have housework to do. Mothers are busy people. But I play with you on the weekends, don’t I?”
“Yeah. You do.” He grinned at her. “And I beat you.”
“Every time,” she agreed with a laugh.
“I might let you win next time,” he said thoughtfully.
“You might?”
He started to answer her playful reply when the phone rang.
Joceline picked up the receiver, still laughing from Markie’s teasing. “Hello?”
There was a pause. It was cold and unnerving.
“Hello?” she asked again.
“Your boss is first,” a gruff voice said. “Then you.”
“What?” she exclaimed.
A dial tone was the only response she got. She wanted to think it was a mistake, a wrong number. But she knew it wasn’t. She felt cold chills at the threatening words.
“Who was it, Mommy?”
“Just a wrong number, baby,” she said, and forced a smile. “I have to get your clothes ready for school tomorrow. I’ll be in the laundry room.”
“Okay,” he said absently, already lost in his video game.
Joceline closed the door of the playroom and leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so afraid.
She almost called her boss to tell him about the threat, but she thought she’d involved him too much already in her private life. It wasn’t a good policy, to bring domestic problems to work. She didn’t want to jeopardize his job, or her own. She didn’t want him around Markie, either.
On the other hand, she had a sneaking hunch about the identity of her caller. She couldn’t prove it. She’d only heard Harold Monroe’s voice once, when he’d called brazenly to tell her boss he was out of jail. Strange, though, the voice seemed deeper than Monroe’s. But he could be disguising it.
THE CALL BOTHERED HER. So after she reminded Mr. Blackhawk about his day’s schedule and noted that he had ten minutes free before he was due in federal court to testify on a case, she walked into his office and closed the door.
He gave her a surprised look.
She sat down in front of the desk. “I’m sorry, but I had a phone call last night, and although I can’t swear to the identity of the caller, I think it might have been Harold Monroe.”
He sat up straighter. His black eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”
“That you were first, and I was next.”
His expression was hard to read. “Do you have an answering machine on your phone?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, sir, and a ham radio and a plasma TV, a couple of sports cars …!”
“Ms. Perry,” he said curtly.
“Sorry, sir. I forgot myself. Won’t happen again.” She crossed her heart.
He shook his head. “It’s not a laughing matter.”
“I wasn’t laughing. It’s just that I don’t have the budget for that type of equipment,” she said with a straight face.
“I should have known that.”
Probably so, but, then, he and his brother—not to mention his seethingly rabid mother—were worth millions, if the gossip was true. She didn’t doubt that he could walk into the nearest electronics store and purchase the highest-ticket item it contained without blinking an eye. Joceline was on a much stricter budget.