Chapter 3
“Oh, joy. The fuckup fairies are here.”
Agent Julia O’Toole blinked at the dark-haired man standing beside the hospital bed and wondered if his comment had been aimed at her and her partner or if they’d simply arrived in the middle of some curious conversation. It was impossible to tell from the man’s blank face.
“Sorry to barge in like this.” She kept her tone cool, professional. “I’m Agent O’Toole. This is my partner, Agent Douglas.”
She gestured to Dillan who flashed his credentials and jerked his chin up in the yo, what’s up way of all men who’d been blessed with an angular jaw and above-average height. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“Aren’t you a little short for a fed?” The dark-haired man only spared Dillan a cursory glance before gluing his implacable stare to Julia’s face. His Southern accent was as thick and slow as molasses, as potent as Tennessee whiskey.
Her knees threatened to wobble—she’d always been a sucker for a Southern drawl. But the set of the man’s jaw, so superior and hostile, was enough to mitigate the effects of his deep voice.
Kneecaps firmly in place.
Donning her best Mark Hamill impression, she quipped, “My name is Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.”
“Huh?” A line formed between his dark, slashing eyebrows, alluding to the sad fact that her wit was wasted on him.
“Aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper?” She made a gesture like she was swinging a light saber. When he only stared at her blankly, she waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Bad joke. Blame it on growing up with three older brothers who are all Star Wars fans. Anyway”—she turned to the woman in the bed— “my partner and I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right, Miss Meadows.”
“Y’all can’t wait to do this later?” The dark-haired man’s frown was severe. It would’ve been enough to turn a lesser person into pudding. But it only made Julia study him harder.
Worn jeans and a Deadpool T-shirt that read: Maximum effort! His hair was such a deep brown it looked almost black. And he had a tan. But not from recent sun exposure. It was one of those baked-on numbers. What happened to a man after having spent a lifetime in the sun.
He didn’t have the chiseled features of the tall god standing next to him. In fact, if she were asked to describe his face, she’d say he was quintessentially a boy-next-door. Attractive in a pleasant sort of way, but nothing Hollywood would fall all over itself to splash across the silver screen.
Of course, the scar zigzagging its way across his right temple lent his otherwise amicable features a measure of interest and intrigue. And something about the way he stood gave her the distinct impression that, despite his perfectly pleasant face, his nature tended toward the dark and dangerous.
And that was all before she got to his eyes…
Crystal blue. Shrewd. Assessing. When he stared hard at her, waiting for her response, she would swear the air around her thinned.
“Wish we could wait until later. But the human mind is notoriously unreliable.” Stepping toward the bed, she finished with, “The sooner we can get in an interview with Miss Meadows, the better.”
“Better for whom? Not better for Eliza.” Blue Eyes gestured impatiently. “She’s been through hell and y’all want her to paint you a picture of it.”
“Never mind Britt,” Miss Meadows interjected. Julia clocked the woman’s accent. Posh. Studied. Definitely East Coast. “He’s feeling particularly protective tonight.”
The diamond on Miss Meadows’s left hand glinted when she absently picked at a loose thread on the hospital blanket. Julia wondered if Blue Eyes had been the one to put it there.
Speaking of…
“Britt what?” She regarded the man expectantly.
“Rollins,” he was quick to reply. “Sergeant Britt Rollins, 75th Ranger Regiment. Retired.”
Aw, that explains the edge of danger. Plus, he has the perfect posture of a military man.
“And I’m Fisher Wakefield.” The lighter-haired giant who’d been silently taking in the exchange stepped forward to shake her hand. His big mitt engulfed hers. His palm was warm and dry, hard with calluses.
He worked with his hands. That much was obvious. And the eagle feather tattoo peeking from the bottom of his short-sleeve T-shirt matched the one Sergeant Rollins sported.
Were they in the same regiment? Is the tattoo a symbol of their unit?
Julia filed the information away for later. She never knew what might be important. Something that seemed insignificant in the moment could be the thing that solved the case, or bagged the suspect, or turned out to be the piece of evidence to sway a jury.
Giving into propriety, Sergeant Rollins followed the giant’s example and stepped forward to shake. Although he offered his hand to Dillan before he offered it to her.
A calculated slight?Her eyes narrowed in consideration.
All thoughts zapped right out of her head, however, the instant his fingers curled around hers. Literally. Static buildup had a tiny lightning bolt arching between their palms.
Simple physics, she told herself, noting the thickness of his palm inside her own, the strength of his grip.
A brief image of what it would feel like if he ran his hand up her arm to gently cup her cheeks flashed through her head, shocking her with its vividness. And its inappropriateness.
Did he notice how quickly she dropped his hand?
Oh, he noticed.
The slow smirk that spread across his face told her as much.
She hated that smirk. She hated it worse that it suited him. And what she hated most? That she was thinking about him at all.
She should be concentrating on the case. On this interview.
Blaming her recent dating dry spell on her lapse, she gave herself a silent pep talk. Tell your hormones to hit the road and focus on the work, Jules.
“I promise we won’t take up too much of your time tonight, Miss Meadows,” she said at the same instant Dillan stepped forward and announced, “We just need to ask you some questions about what happened at the senator’s house while the answers are still fresh in your mind.”
What’s that crunching sound?
Oh, right. Those were Julia’s back molars.
Dillan Douglas hadn’t kept it a secret that he’d been displeased when she’d been promoted over him. In fact, he’d thrown a man fit. Which was like a toddler fit when it came to the amount of pouting but differed in the amount of ear-blistering curse words involved.
He’d managed to get his emotions under control in the two days since her new position had been announced. He no longer shot her venomous looks or sneeringly referred to her as Oh Captain, My Captain.But she suffered no illusions that he would not try his best to take over this case from her.
It wasn’t even that he thought she couldn’t do the job. It was simply that, despite her stellar track record as a junior agent, he assumed he could do it better.
Perhaps his confidence came from having an Ivy League degree. Or maybe it came from spending his entire life being treated like the king of the world simply because he’d been gifted with good looks and a Greek statue’s physique. Or, more likely, it came from being a legacy hire—his father and grandfather had been feds before him.
She’d heard him say more than once, “Being a good agent runs in my blood.” And, of course, the notion that she, the daughter of a Southside fireman and a graduate from Western Illinois University, might actually be better than him at…well…anything had never crossed his mind.
She was better than him, just FYI. She could outshoot him, outscore him on their fitness exams, and it was no secret she was the better interviewer.
Dillan was too arrogant. Too brash. Too pushy. It put witnesses and potential suspects off.
But the problem with having been born blond and female, not to mention having topped out a whopping five-feet-one-inch in height, was that people assumed her IQ must be something close to her shoe size. She’d spent her whole life being underestimated.
She was determined to prove to everyone that she deserved this promotion. That she deservedthis headline-grabbing case.
Pulling her cell from the inside pocket of her suit jacket, she smiled faintly at the woman in the hospital bed. Eliza Meadows looked small and wide-eyed with shock. But there was a determined cant to her chin that Julia respected.
“You mind if I record our conversation?” She wiggled her phone in emphasis.
Miss Meadows shook her head.
Ah. A cooperating witness. So far, so good.
Angling the phone’s microphone toward the bed, she started with the obvious. “Why were you at Senator McClean’s house tonight, Miss Meadows?”
“I’m dating Charlie.” The woman’s face contorted with anguish in the instant before she corrected herself. “I mean…I was dating Charlie.”
So…Sergeant Rollins is what? A brother? Friend? Coworker?
Even as the questions flew through her head, Julia imagined taking out her service weapon and shooting them down.
It didn’t matter to her what Rollins’s relationship with her witness was. Or, at least, it shouldn’t until it impacted the case.
“That would be Senator McClean’s son?” she clarified for the record.
“Yes.” Miss Meadows nodded slowly.
Julia allowed her gaze to drop to the rock that probably cost more than she made in five years. Miss Meadows followed the path of her eyes and Julia watched as the woman’s face tried to cave in on itself.
Covering the giant diamond with her opposite hand, Miss Meadows whispered hoarsely, “Charlie asked me to marry him tonight.”
Interesting,Julia thought.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Her words were sincere although she hadn’t delivered them with as much warmth as she would have had she not been on the job. She had to be twice as aloof and authoritative to get half the amount of respect people naturally afforded Dillan. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. But it was the way of the world. “And I’m sorry we can’t give you the privacy you deserve to grieve in peace. But what my partner said is right. It’s better if we get this initial interview over and done with while your memories are still fresh.”
“I understand.” Miss Meadows nodded weakly, and Julia noticed how she began to absently twist the engagement ring on her finger like she wasn’t comfortable with its presence there.
“Is that what this gathering was for?” Julia asked. “An engagement celebration?”
“No.” Miss Meadows shook her head and then stopped and looked momentarily confused. “I mean, I don’t think so. Senator McClean wouldn’t have invited his colleagues if that was the case, right? He’d have invited Charlie’s friends?”
Instead of answering, Julia posed another question. “So what was tonight’s gathering in celebration of?”
Miss Meadows’s forehead wrinkled, making the blood that was dried there crack and flake. “I don’t know. I got the impression it was an impromptu thing. Charlie invited me only this morning.”
“Was it usual for Senator McClean to have his fellow politicians over to his house?” Dillan piped up.
Julia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from biting Dillan’s head off. He knew better than to butt in before she’d given him the nod that it was his turn.
There was an art to interviews. And despite what Hollywood would have people believe, it didn’t involve two interviewers constantly tag-teaming a witness.
“If it was, I never knew of it. But that’s not saying much. Charlie and I didn’t really socialize with his dad. Not because there was any animosity there or anything,” Miss Meadows was quick to explain. “It’s just that the senator is a very busy man.” Miss Meadows frowned and corrected herself. “Was a very busy man.”
“One who wasn’t well-liked by his peers,” Dillan interjected. “Which makes tonight’s gathering all the more suspicious.”
Now Julia fought the urge to whack him on the back of the head like she did with her brothers when they’d done something stupid—which happened more times than she’d like to admit. The first rule of any interview was never to lead the witness.
Instead of resorting to violence, however, she continued along Dillan’s line of questioning. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
“Do you think it’s odd the senator invited over people from both houses of the legislature? I was under the impression senators don’t usually consort with lowly congressmen.”
The wounded woman’s brow furrowed. “Now that you mention it, yes. But I’m sure Senator McClean had his reasons. Charlie always said his father never did anything without a reason.”
“But you weren’t privy to his reasons?” Dillan asked.
“Like I said, Charlie and I didn’t spend much time with his dad. In fact, tonight was only the third time I’d ever been to Senator McClean’s house.”
John McClean threw an impromptu party with his son, his son’s new fiancée, and half a dozen government officials plus their spouses, Julia mused. What’s the connection between all these players?
The investigator in her knew if she could find the answer to that question, she’d probably find the answer to why the chef had tried his level best to permanently deprive them all of oxygen.
And on the subject of the chef…
“Were you introduced to Peter Sullivan?”
“Who?” Miss Meadows canted her head and frowned.
“The chef.”
“No.” The wounded woman grimaced. “The first time I saw him was when he stepped onto the patio and started spraying bullets.” Her frown deepened. “Why bullets?”
Julia blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he was a chef, right? If he wanted to kill us all, why didn’t he use the tools of his trade and poison our drinks and our food?”
It was a good question. One Julia had already contemplated. “In a situation like this, poison is risky. How could he be sure everyone ate and drank? And even if he somehow could ensure that, he couldn’t be sure they’d imbibe enough of the poison to kill them. If a perp is hoping to make absolutely certain no one walks away unscathed, bullets are the best bet.”
“But I’m living proof even bullets aren’t a sure thing.”
Indeed you are,Julia thought. Aloud she said, “You were very lucky, Miss Meadows.”
She then spent the next ten minutes asking the usual questions and was a little disappointed with the answers she received. Eliza Meadows had no clue why she’d been invited to a spontaneous party peopled with Washington D.C. glitterati.
Or at least she appeared not to know.
Julia never took anyone’s word at face value. She always made sure to confirm the stories she heard. And she had every intention to corroborate Miss Meadows’s statements because it might just be good luck, or it might mean something else entirely that the woman had survived when nearly everyone else at the party—including the shooter—hadn’t.
Nearly everyone else. There were two other survivors. And Julia needed to interview the one who wasn’t currently sprawled on an operating table.
Maybe the good senator could shine some light on why John McClean had called together that particular group, and why his personal chef—a man who’d been in his employ for three solid years—had suddenly turned on him and everyone in his vicinity.
After thanking Miss Meadows for her cooperation, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you think of anything else”—she stepped forward to hand over the card—“please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
It wasn’t the wide-eyed woman who took her information. It was Sergeant Rollins.
Again, a spark sizzled between them when their fingers briefly touched. And again, she blamed it on physics.
He’s got to be wearing wool socks or something.
Her gaze automatically pinged down to take in his biker boots. They were the steel-toed kind, big and black and clunky.
There’d been a time during her brief Goth era when those boots would have been enough to send her into a swoon. All they did now was make her eager to get her own boots upstairs and in front of Senator Chastain.
Dillan led the way, sliding through the slit in the curtains. She was halfway through herself when she felt a large, warm hand encircle her wrist.
She didn’t have to turn back to know who was touching her. The blood raging in her veins, primitive and strong, told her it was none other than Ol’ Blue Eyes himself.
She’d done her best to ignore it. And when she hadn’t been able to ignore it, she’d done her best to explain it away. But she prided herself on being honest. And that meant admitting the truth.
She was attracted to Sergeant Rollins.
Like…attracted attracted. The hot-nights-and-sweaty-sheets kind of attracted. The spend-three-days-in-bed-and-only-leave-it-for-food kind of attracted.
She might know nothing about him as a person. She had absolutely no idea if they had anything in common. But the feral, animal part of her recognized the feral, animal part of him as a potential mate.
As Dad always likes to say, when it comes down to it we’re all just a bunch of monkeys.
Bracing herself and making sure none of what she was thinking showed on her face, she turned and was greeted by the most amazing pair of icy-blue eyes and the most lickable-looking five-o’clock shadow.
“I don’t know if it matters, Agent O’Toole.” His deep voice and soft drawl swirled in her ear like a wet tongue. She struggled not to shiver. “And I’m sure you’d make the connection yourself soon enough. But Eliza Meadows is Leonard Meadows’s daughter.”
Her mind blanked. Then recognition had an imaginary lightbulb blinking to life. “Leonard Meadows, as in the chief of staff to the president of the United States?”
“One and the same.” Rollins nodded, and now her heart pounded for a whole new reason.
This case wasn’t just going to be headline-grabbing. It was going to be career-making.
Or career-breaking,a little voice whispered from the farthest corner of her brain.
She cocked her head and eyed him curiously. “So what’s a former Ranger and the chief of staff’s daughter doing here in Chicago?”
“Building custom Harley choppers,” he answered unhesitatingly. “We work at Black Knights Inc.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I’ve heard of you guys.”
She thought she saw something dart across his face. But it was there and gone so quickly, she couldn’t be certain.
“I work with Grace Jackson,” she clarified. “She’s married to one of your coworkers, correct?”
“She is.” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Are you friends with Grace?”
“Mmm.” She shook her head. “She works in the counterterrorism division. I’m on the criminal investigation side of things. But we’ve exchanged a hello or two around the coffeepot.” She lifted a finger. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t the starting pitcher for the White Sox ride one of your creations?”
Some kids were baptized Catholic. Southside Chicago kids were baptized Sox fans. It wasn’t an option.
Again, something briefly crossed his face. Something that resembled relief. But it was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving her wondering if it’d ever been there at all.
“Indeed he does.” His chin jerked down briefly. “And the point guard for the Bulls too.”
From Ranger to rider, from military man to motorcycle man. She didn’t want to be intrigued by Sergeant Britt Rollins. But there she was, completely captivated by his cowlick, forehead scar, and the way his T-shirt clung to the hard balls of his biceps when he crossed his arms.
Oh, that is so inconvenient.
Despite her better judgment—and the pressing need to get upstairs and interview the other witness—she heard herself say, “Grease-monkeying has to be less stressful than volunteering as government grist in some faraway land.”
“Pays a whole helluva lot better too.” He offered her a genuine smile and a wink. The unrepentant sexuality contained in the latter lit her on fire.
Reallyinconvenient,she thought as she turned and hurriedly caught up to her partner.