Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sterling stood in the middle of the yard with his hands on his hips while Juniper gave her statement to Dawson near the police cruiser. It had been one hell of a night, though not the kind of night he'd expected. Glancing down, he chuckled at his misbuttoned shirt.
As he began to work the buttons, he mentally opened a file in his brain. He'd labeled it: Strange Happenings During Buddy's Vacation.
Sterling hated to admit it, but he couldn't wait for Buddy's return tomorrow. Not that Sterling wasn't capable of being a team leader. He was more than capable. He'd done it for half his career in the CIA. But truth be told, he didn’t mind taking orders. These days, he preferred it.
He flipped through the digital mind file. Nothing that had happened had been too outrageous. Doyle had come to town and was currently having the time of his life with Tara. It wasn't a coincidence, and Doyle had admitted that.
There'd been the hold-up at the Crab Shack. That was definitely out of the ordinary. Sterling couldn't remember the last time there'd been a robbery like that in Calusa Cove, if ever.
The bullshit between Cullen, his ex, and Graham.
And of course, there was the arrival of Graham's father Royce, who wanted to hire Aegis on the condition that they got rid of Cullen.
Not gonna happen.
But what bothered Sterling the most was the job Doyle wanted to hire him for and its possible connection to Shrike.
When he'd called Nick to discuss, Nick told him flat out he believed Shrike had their fingers in the recent sale of two military missiles and that he believed whoever was in charge of Shrike, was not only in a position of power, but in a position inside the US government.
But how did any of these events, gator included, connect back to Sterling and possibly to Juniper and her role—whatever that might truly be?
Sterling didn't have an acceptable answer, and he'd have to table his thoughts as Dawson was headed in his direction while Juniper was being escorted into her home by Jasper, who’d arrived ten minutes ago.
"What's Juniper doing?" Sterling asked.
"I thought it might be a good idea if she and Jasper made sure nothing was damaged or stolen from inside the house," Dawson said.
"Good idea." Sterling stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I really appreciate you coming out here, tonight."
"Anytime." Dawson glanced back at the boards. "Crime scene unit's on its way from the state police. They'll process the porch, probably half the yard. It’ll take a few hours."
"She shouldn't stay here."
"I suggested she stay with you," Dawson said. "Told her to pack a bag. But there's also room at Harvey's, and Audra can have a room made up in a jiff if you'd rather she go there."
"No. My place is fine."
"That's what I figured." Dawson looped his fingers in his belt. "I think you should know something about our friend Anthony."
"The burglar from the Crab Shack?"
Dawson glanced over his shoulder as Juniper and Jasper stepped through the front door.
"According to Anthony, he wasn't going for the till.
He claims a man hired him. Paid him ten grand, cash, to walk in and put on a show—wave the gun around.
And get this. He was told to get arrested. That this same man would post bail."
"Seriously?" Sterling had heard a lot of things in his life, but this was a new one.
"Well, no one showed to post bail, so Anthony started talking."
"And the ten thousand?"
"Sitting in his account. He showed me the receipts." Dawson shrugged. "That's all I've got. No name. No description worth a damn. No idea what 'a show' was supposed to accomplish. But I don't like it. Not with people like Royce hanging around town making Cullen nervous, and now, a baited gator."
"Yeah, there’s some weird shit happening."
"You can say that again." He waved his hand toward the house. "Jasper will stay until state gets here. I've got to head home. Call if you need me."
"Thanks, man."
"Anytime."
Sterling stood there and watched Dawson climb into his vehicle and drive off.
The crunch of footsteps on crushed shell caught his attention. "Hey you." He turned. "Everything okay inside?"
"Nothing was touched." She stood next to him with a small backpack slung over her shoulder.
"We need to talk," he said. "So, you might as well crash at my place."
"Agreed, and thanks."
He took her bag, which was a lot heavier than it looked, and placed it in the backseat of his truck.
It would take all of five minutes to drive down the road to his place, eight minutes if they hit the two lights.
The Crab Shack and the Marina were both dark at this hour.
Most people had turned their outside lights off and had gone to bed.
Calusa Cove wasn't a town that stayed up late. But it rose before the sun.
Sterling had the distinct impression that this might be a long night. He hoped it would still be a good one. Though he suspected the conversation might be difficult. But if what he believed to be true actually was, she was only doing her job. He couldn't fault her for that.
"It's so dark," she said. "Even with the moon and stars."
"But it's a beautiful view." He pulled the truck under the carport, reached over the seat and snagged her bag.
"Come on." He couldn't believe his luck when this place had gone on the market.
It cost him more than he wanted to spend, and Buddy thought he was nuts, but it was worth every penny to sit on his deck at night with a glass of whiskey and listen to the water gently lap at the shoreline.
He let her in ahead of him and didn't turn on the overhead, just the lamp by the couch, then went to pour two bourbons because his hands needed the work.
He brought hers over and stopped a step closer than the handoff required because no matter what, he still cared about her and that wouldn't change.
"So," he said. "From your roof, with those cameras, you've got a clean line right into my front room.
" He handed her the glass. "How else have you been watching me? "
"It's not like that."
"No? Because from where I'm standing you just took the drink and didn't tell me I'm wrong."
She took a big gulp. "I'm probably going to lose my job, but you're the whole reason I'm in this town."
"Which agency?"
"Does it matter?"
"Humor me. I've narrowed it down, and I'd like to know if I win anything." He took a sip. "FBI. CIA. Homeland. Or the kind that doesn't come with a badge—you know, the kind that comes, takes what's inside my head, and then dumps the body."
She laughed. "I don't kill the men I'm trying to sleep with," she said. "Bad for morale." She set the glass on the side table and squared her shoulders. "Special Agent June Stratton. FBI, National Security Division. I'm here to protect what's in your head. But you already knew that."
"Stratton?" He ran his fingers through his hair. Jesus Christ. This couldn't be happening. He tossed his drink back in one gulp, picked up the bottle, and didn't bother pouring it in the glass. Instead, he walked toward the picture window, bottle in hand, and stared out into the dark water.
"You say that like you know me," she whispered. "The FBI version. Not the Juniper Calusa Cove manufactured version. Which, by the way, is still me. And I like being the person who pours you a drink and feeds you food four times a week."
"I think I'd like all versions of you," he admitted. What he didn't like was knowing other things. Things he needed to tell her right now. And if he’d thought finding out she was spying on him was a mood killer? Well, this was sure going to make it worse. "Junie Stratton, right?"
"How do you know that?"
The water didn't give him anything. It never did at this hour—just black glass with the dock lights smeared across the surface, and somewhere out past the end of the dock, the inlet bending toward the bay.
He'd stood at this window at least a hundred nights with a glass in his hand and let the view help empty his mind.
It wouldn't empty now. It held her reflection, small and still behind him by the couch—watching him and waiting for him to explain how he knew her name so intimately.
He could keep her waiting. But that wouldn't be nice, and he was raised to be a gentleman, so he set the bottle on the sill and turned around. "I knew your husband," he said the words as softly as he could, but he could tell by the way her eyes grew wide, they'd landed harshly.
She didn't budge, and the glass stayed at her chest, both hands around it. "What? How?"
"I met him in a bar outside of Norfolk about four years ago. It was an unofficial business meeting. Lasted about four hours, I believe."
She set her glass on the side table and stared at him without blinking. "I was vetted. If you had known my husband, I wouldn't have been assigned to you. It's not possible you and Mark handled the same case."
"I said unofficial."
"Mark worked a few of those," she said. "And I knew every operative he worked with, and he never once mentioned you. I’d remember."
"It was one meeting called by a mutual friend." He moved from the window to lean against the back of the couch, close enough now that the lamp caught both of them, and the water released her reflection.
He wasn't surprised that she was on the defensive. He would be too. He also wasn't surprised that Mark hadn't mentioned him by name. Sterling "The Librarian" Fox couldn’t be whispered too often without consequences. Especially, in a covert op situation. Even more so when it was off the books.
That was both a blessing and a curse. Just like his mind.
"Who was your mutual friend?" she asked. "What was the meeting about?"
Sterling decided to tackle the conversation in bite size chunks. He'd need to feed her the intel so she could process the information, sorting out personal from professional, which would be hard since it was all intertwined.