Chapter Thirteen #2
“It does raise more questions than answers,” Landon conceded.
Not the least of which was whether or not looks could be deceiving in the fatal scenario before them.
And what Davenport’s death said or didn’t say about Eddie’s status.
Or being able to effectively connect the dots between Davenport and Pimentel and his criminal organization under investigation for art theft and forgery.
* * *
UPON SECURING A search warrant, after the body was removed by the Lexington County Coroner’s Office, evidence of criminality was seized from Fred Davenport’s apartment. This included a cache of firearms and ammunition, two jars of HMTD, pipes used to make bombs, and illegal narcotics.
As far as Landon was concerned, Davenport had clearly equipped himself with the means to carry out future small- and large-scale bombings in addition to the use of handguns to complete assignments as a hired gun.
But his murderous ways had taken a big hit with Davenport’s own life ending mysteriously.
Had he truly chosen to check out before they could arrest and interrogate him? Or had the bomb-and-murder suspect—and Raquelle’s attacker—been silenced in the same way that Eddie might or might not have been?
Landon wrestled with these questions in his office as a video chat request came on his laptop.
He saw that the caller was Nancy Kincaid, a physical scientist from the FBI Laboratory.
She had been sent the handgun Davenport allegedly killed himself with and ammo from it to compare with the weapon and bullets used to kill Lim Ramírez.
He accepted it and said, “Hey.”
Nancy, who was in her forties and had short brunette ombré hair, gazed back at him with aquamarine eyes and responded, “Hey. Got something for you…” She took a breath.
“The Korth 2.75-inch Carry Special .357 Magnum handgun, ammo, and spent shell casing that you sent to the lab were tested. They matched perfectly with the three bullets and shell casings fired from the gun barrel—with five lands and grooves and a right-hand twist—of the weapon that killed Lim Ramírez. It was the same revolver,” she emphasized.
“Figured as much,” Landon said, sitting back.
It lent credence to Davenport using the same gun he murdered Ramírez with to shoot himself.
Or was it only made to look this way by someone hoping to tie up loose ends?
One in particular. “Did you submit the firearm ballistic evidence into the NIBIN database?” he asked, using the acronym for the ATF’s National Integrated Ballistic Information Network that contained digital ballistic imaging info on gun-related crimes for cross-referencing across the country.
“Yeah, we did.” Nancy smiled. “The gun was traced and originally purchased legally in Huntington, West Virginia, three years ago. It was reported stolen the following year and used eight months ago in a drive-by shooting in Greensboro, North Carolina, which left a teenaged victim in critical condition—but he survived.”
“Okay.” Landon didn’t necessarily believe that Davenport was the culprit or gun thief, suspecting that he had purchased the gun on the black market without asking questions that would never be answered truthfully—and added it to the firearms collection he had amassed as a gun for hire.
Along with being an improvised bomb maker and user.
The important thing was that it linked the Korth 2.75-inch Carry Special .357 Magnum revolver to two deaths—both related to Eddie Jernigan’s disappearance—and ostensibly the art-crimes case against Ivan Pimentel.
* * *
RAQUELLE WAS RELIEVED with the news that the man suspected of bombing Eddie’s pontoon and accosting her, Fred Davenport, was now dead—an apparent suicide victim.
She was admittedly surprised that he would rather die than be held accountable for what he had tried to do to her brother.
Somehow in her brief interaction with him, Davenport had struck her as a man full of himself and not one to make it easy for the authorities by taking himself out of the equation.
But then again, what did she know?
“Hope we never have to see each other again,” Julia Ellicott told her lightheartedly when the U.S. marshal had been cleared to end the bodyguard assignment.
Raquelle chuckled. “Me too.”
“You have a nice day.” Julia smiled at her. “And keep playing the piano.”
“I will,” she promised and saw the marshal out.
After changing into exercise attire and tying her hair up, Raquelle went out for a run.
The freedom of being in the woods and in touch with nature was something she never wanted to take for granted.
Any more than the sanctity of life. Or how it felt to be loved when she and Landon were married. Could they get back there again?
When she got back to the house, Raquelle phoned Landon for a video chat. Her face brightened when she saw his handsome features appear on the small screen. “I was wondering if you’d like to come for dinner this evening,” she asked him without prelude.
His eyes lit up. “Of course I would.”
“Great.” She grinned thoughtfully. “See you at seven thirty.”
“Count on it,” he told her, and they left it at that.
Raquelle grabbed her handbag and popped over to the store to pick up a few items. Afterward, she took a shower, put on a fresh set of clothes, and went to the kitchen to prepare a traditional Native American meal.
It included roasted duck, wild rice with berries, vegetable soup, cornbread, and Indian pudding.
She would serve sweet wine to wash it all down.
When Landon arrived, looking dashing in his clothes, she greeted him warmly. “Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he insisted, sporting a wide grin.
And I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else, Raquelle admitted to herself. “Dinner’s ready.”
Landon sniffed in the scent of food and declared, “Smells tantalizing. Can’t wait to eat.”
She smiled. “It won’t be long. Make yourself at home.”
In her mind, Raquelle didn’t imagine that would be too difficult, as this place would always belong to both of them. At least in spirit.
Soon, they were seated on upholstered tufted chairs at an acacia-wood rectangular table in the dining room.
“How do you like it?” Raquelle asked hesitantly, knowing just how long it had been since she cooked him a meal.
Landon regarded her while eating and waited to clear his throat before responding, “This is incredible. I love your cooking—always have.” He broke off a piece of cornbread. “Trust me when I say you haven’t lost a step in the kitchen.”
She had to laugh. “You think?”
“Yeah, I do,” he reiterated, putting the cornbread inside his mouth. “Guess I just needed to be invited to remind me of what I’ve been missing.”
Raquelle blushed. “I think that goes both ways,” she confessed, using a spoon to scoop up soup. “We gave up a lot—without fully realizing it—till it was too late…”
Landon met her eyes. “I did realize it,” he told her in earnest. “Just wasn’t sure how to get it back—or if we ever could.”
“Hmm…we’ll see about that.” She wasn’t sure where to go from there. But was more than open to seeing if they could learn from their mistakes and make up for them.
“Good.” He sliced a knife into the roasted duck and switched subjects. “We’ve been able to tie the revolver that killed Fred Davenport to the gun used to kill Lim Ramírez in the woods near Eddie’s apartment. It’s a good bet that Davenport targeted the drifter, believing him to be Eddie.”
Raquelle cocked a brow. “After he failed to blow up Eddie with his boat?”
“Yes, looks that way.”
“And all to keep Eddie from spilling the beans about wheeling and dealing in stolen and forged Native American art?” she asked in disbelief, rolling her eyes.
“That appears to be the size of it,” Landon said firmly, then sipped his wine. “Ivan Pimentel has blood on his hands, in more ways than one. We’re very close to making him pay for this, along with his cohorts.”
“That’s good to know.” Raquelle tasted her own wine musingly. “And what about Eddie? Will we ever know what happened to him? Or hear from him?” The thought of being left hanging for the rest of her life was unsettling to say the least.
“Yes, to both.” Landon lifted a forkful of wild rice with berries. “I’ll make it my business to get to the bottom of his whereabouts—and help you to deal with it one way or the other.”
“Thank you.” It was the most she could expect from him, knowing full well that he was as frustrated as her. And as determined to know the truth about her brother.
After having Indian pudding with another glass of wine, Landon got up abruptly for a trip to his personal vehicle. He returned with a guitar case and said, “I thought if you were up for it, we could play the guitar and piano together like we used to.”
Raquelle beamed. “Sounds great to me.” She was delighted to see if they were as in sync today as when married. Something told her that would be no more of a problem than in bed, where they picked up so easily from where they left off.
When the music ended satisfactorily, Raquelle invited Landon to her primary suite. She watched as he assessed the large room with its rustic decor and furnishings as though for the first time.
He turned to her and said, “It’s nice—but you were always the main attraction for me in this room.”
“Ohh…” She colored, feeling flattered. “Let’s see just how long it takes for that sentiment to come back to you,” she dared him as the desire to be intimate again had her totally at his beck and call.
He kissed her deeply and said with desire, “I promise, not long at all.”
Landon didn’t disappoint as they made love and went the extra mile in pleasing one another, as if to put an exclamation mark on their heated chemistry and making up for lost time.
For her part, Raquelle knew that she was falling in love again with her ex-husband. Assuming she had ever truly fallen out of love with him. The only question was whether that was enough to leave everything on the table in wearing her heart on her sleeve while letting bygones be bygones.
She fell asleep on that note, safely tucked in Landon’s arms.