Injustice For All Page 8

  “Marshall?” No . . . couldn’t be.

  “Yeah, Marshall Abernathy.”

  Could his day get any worse? Hayden resisted the need to grind his teeth. “After you told Emily about the baby and calling off your relationship, what happened?”

  “She left.”

  “Have you heard from her since? Any type of communication? Voice mail? Text?”

  “Not me, but I’m pretty sure she’s the one who messed up our car.” Boyd stared at him through half-mast eyes. “We filed a report on it. You haven’t found who did it yet.”

  “We’re still investigating.” Hayden caught MaryBeth spying out the window. “So, have you heard from Emily since you broke it off?” Since you played around, having your cake and eating it too, no matter who got hurt?

  “Nope.”

  Hayden moved toward the stairs. “Let me know if you do, won’t you?” The badge and his faith kept him from making mincemeat of the sorry excuse for a man.

  “Sure. Hope you find your sister.”

  Wanting nothing more than to plow his fist into Boyd’s face, Hayden stomped to his cruiser and slipped into the driver’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel until his palms were raw.

  God, where is she?

  Day 73

  What was I thinking? I had to be insane to have sought out a cop.

  Then again, it could work in my favor. By all logic and reasoning, I should avoid law enforcement like the plague.

  So far, I’d managed to keep the wolves at bay. Every source I utilized told me the same thing—I’d done it. I’d successfully gotten away from the great hunters. Not that I would ever think of them as anything like that again. But I couldn’t get cocky. I still had to watch my every move to stay under the radar.

  Yet I had a legitimate reason for being in this bayou town, and I would proceed to figure out why Daniel had kept such a secret. Even from me.

  My luck held when I ran into the man I sought right in the middle of the city’s diner. I’d been able to study him without addressing him at all. I watched how he interacted with the people in town and how they related to him. Everyone seemed to love him.

  Very understandable. He seemed to be a charmer and quite handsome. Standing about six feet tall, his muscular build forced him to have a natural swagger. He wore his dark hair short and neat. Not even a hint of gray at the temples. But his eyes . . . wide and dark, they hinted at empathy and understanding. Drew people into their depths.

  I’d bet the balance of my checking account he rocked at interrogations.

  There was just something so honest and trustworthy about him. My training taught me to read people. Experience made me good at it. And in my professional opinion, this man was a force of nature to be reckoned with.

  And I needed to find out his connection to Daniel.

  Show time!

  Rafe steered the car into the diner’s parking lot. Early fall littered the sidewalks with the first leaves. The morning sun beat down on the city of Hopewell as he stretched out of the car. Taking a moment to utilize the opportunity, Rafe stared through the front windows, his gaze on the lookout for the telltale uniform. There, corner booth.

  From his research he knew Hayden Simpson was thirty-six. The man sitting with a young woman looked physically fit—broad shoulders spread under his uniform shirt. The police commissioner smiled at something his companion said . . . an easygoing grin.

  Rafe registered details about the young woman. She was very attractive, at least from what he could see of her profile. Light brownish hair cut in a straight line at the base of her neck. Her hands moved as she spoke. She threw her head back to laugh before she reached across the table to playfully slap Simpson’s hand.

  Very comfortable with one another. A great deal of affection for each other. Were they friends? Family? Lovers?

  Shaking his head, Rafe forced his mind back to the urgent matter at hand. He didn’t need to notice the woman at all. He needed to focus. Concentrate on the case. He had a lot riding on this case—like any chance of promotion. If he failed, Jackson would never give him a shot.

  He reached into the console and withdrew the smaller-than-a-credit-card digital camera. Using the zoom, he took several photos of Hayden Simpson and the unidentified woman. He’d send them to Jackson and Hartlock later to run through the system.

  Who knew what might come up?

  Rafe punctuated his steps as he left the car, gravel crunching under his loafers, and entered the diner. The enticing aroma of bacon drifted over him. His stomach rumbled. He hesitated a moment, habitually taking note of the other people in the room. Counting Simpson and his lady, four patrons, plus a waitress and a short-order cook behind the grill.

  He fingered the edge of the case folder under his arm. What was the connection? Time to find out. Silverware clattered against glass.

  The element of surprise always worked in his favor. Rafe headed to the back corner booth.

  The police commissioner and his lady friend both looked up as he stopped beside their table. Expectation hung in the lawman’s eyes, while wariness marred the woman’s greenish-blue orbs.

  Rafe whipped out his badge. “Excuse me, Commissioner Simpson. I’m Rafe Baxter, FBI. So sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I have a few questions for you.”

  FBI?

  Bella trembled as the badge shone under the diner’s dirty lights. Her mouth went drier than the Spanish moss draping the trees outside her cabin.

  Hayden offered his hand to the agent. “Hayden Simpson. Please join us.” He stood and waved the agent to sit in the space he’d just vacated, then dropped into the seat beside her. She fumbled to scoot closer to the wall.

  Bella’s stomach threatened to reverse the pepper, onion, and cheese omelet she’d just devoured.

  What had gone wrong? Where had she messed up?

  “Please forgive my rudeness, Agent. This is Bella Miller.” Hayden nudged her, all smiles and congeniality. Sometimes her best friend’s extrovert tendencies and Southern hospitality drove her insane. This was one of those times.

  Her insides turned to mush as her mind registered the man across the table from her. Nice-looking in an institutional type of way. Short, russet-brown, cropped hair. Bureau-issued suit. Broad shoulders and piercing, dark eyes. Yeah, very attractive, if you liked that type.

  She didn’t. She despised his type.

  If only he didn’t look as if he’d stepped off the cover of GQ.

  Wait a minute . . . Rafe Baxter? It’d been many years, but . . . the memory stupefied her.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” His eyes were sincere.

  What did she have to lose? She was done with her training seminars, about to head back home but had some time to kill before her flight. And he was attractive. “Sure.”

  He held open the conference center’s door. “I’m Rafe. Rafe Baxter.” He smiled and her heart flipped. “Your seminar was very informative.”

  “Thank you.” To be honest, she couldn’t even remember what she’d lectured on. After six months of giving these sessions across the United States, they’d all started to run together. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Across the conference’s campus, the light in the small coffee shop window glowed warmly against the bitter wind.

  She pushed her balled hands into her jacket pockets and let him lead her across the courtyard.

  A warm rush of air kissed her face as they entered the coffee shop. The aroma of freshly ground coffee welcomed her into its enticing fold. They placed their orders at the counter, then grabbed the table closest to the front window.

  “So, you’re an FBI agent?” She smiled as she warmed her hands against the disposable cup.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He took a short sip from his regular black coffee. “For almost four years
.”

  “Do you like it?” She always wondered if the men she worked with honest-to-goodness enjoyed what they did, or if they did it because it was all they knew.

  “I love it. This isn’t just a job for me. It’s my career.” His brown eyes sparkled as he spoke, revealing gold flecks hiding in the irises. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “It’s great that you love what you do.” She understood.

  “You’re beautiful, do you know that?”

  The alarm on her cell phone chimed, alerting her that she had to leave for the airport.

  As much as she’d lacked for an adequate comeback then, he’d stolen her voice again today.

  Hayden’s elbow dug into her side. “Bella?”

  “Ms. Miller.” The agent offered his hand.

  She shoved on a smile despite the discomfort cloaking her like a wool coat in August and shoved words past the lump in her throat. “Mister . . . Baxter, did you say?” She shook his hand, taking in his firm grip. He’d aged well. Extremely well.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She wiped her palm on her jeans. The faint scent of his cologne permeated her space and did strange things to her pulse. How could she escape now?

  “So, how can I help you, Agent Baxter?” Hayden reached for his coffee.

  The agent cut his eyes to Bella, searing her to the spot, then glanced back to Hayden. “It’s a private matter. Nothing to do with your capacity as police commissioner.”

  Baxter glanced at Bella again before directing his focus on Hayden. “I realize I’ve interrupted your time, but the questions I have are personal. About a cold case I’m working. I need your help.”

  Bella’s throat tightened, and she forced her body not to tense. How much time did she have? If she left right now, she could grab Chubbers and her ready-to-go bag and be out of town within twenty minutes. She stared at Hayden from the corner of her eye.

  Her best friend. How hurt would he be at her betrayal? Her lies? He was so honest . . . so full of integrity . . . so good. What would he think of her once he knew the ugly truth?

  She was so going to be sick.

  Instead she cleared her throat. “Why don’t I catch up with you later, Hayden?” She nudged his side. She didn’t have much time.

  “Don’t be silly.” He focused on the agent. “Bella’s like my sister—whatever you have to ask me that’s personal, you can ask in front of her.” He shrugged. “Since it’s not police business, I’m going to tell her anyway.”

  She grabbed her purse. “I should go.” Half an hour at most, then she’d be stuck.

  No, she’d be dead.

  Hayden didn’t move, just laid a hand on her arm. “No, stay.” He quirked a brow at the agent across the table.

  Bella dared not move. Dared not breathe. Did the only thing she could—paid attention to every detail, every nuance of Agent Baxter. His body language wasn’t defensive, nor was it predatory. Could it be . . . he didn’t know?

  “Okay.” He pulled out an envelope from the folder he held and slid it onto the table. It was just starting to yellow, the edges stained dark.

  She set her purse back in the booth beside her. Her heart slunk into her gut.

  Hayden took the envelope from the agent, withdrawing a card of some sort from it. Bella never had been patient, but right now curiosity clogged her throat.

  Hayden glanced at Agent Baxter. “Where did you get this?”

  “At a crime scene.”

  “I don’t understand.” Hayden flipped over the envelope to study the front. “I don’t know this person. Maybe he’s an old friend of my parents.” He stared at it again and frowned. “It’s my mother’s handwriting.”

  Bella fought the urge to yank it out of his hands. As it was, she could make out a card with blue bows as a border.

  Baxter wore a scowl. “Seems strange you never met the man, yet he kept your birth announcement for more than thirty-six years.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  She couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “What?”

  Hayden handed her the card, still holding the envelope. The card dropped to the table.

  Bella fisted her hands to avoid touching the card. No sense leaving fingerprints where the FBI could and would pull them.

  Hayden gave her a funny look. “It’s the announcement my parents sent out when I was born.” He looked at Baxter. “And you say this was found at a crime scene?”

  “Yes.”

  She scanned the card, standard birth announcement, then leaned back in the booth. Nothing wrong with it, as far as she could tell. Dare she believe she was okay?

  “What kind of crime scene?” Hayden’s voice cracked as he passed the envelope and card back across the table.

  “The man who received your birth announcement was murdered three years ago.” Baxter tapped the cardstock back into its envelope. “This was found on the floor near where he was shot to death.”

  Hayden let out a slow whistle. “I assure you, Agent Baxter, I’ve never met Daniel Tate before in my life.”

  Bella’s blood stalled in her veins. This was her worst nightmare.

  And her deadly mistake.

  Chapter Eight

  “Honesty is for the most part less profitable than dishonesty.”

  PLATO

  Was he wrong and there was no connection?

  No, Rafe’s gut instincts had never been wrong before. He needed to just trust himself. Trust his training and experience. What had he observed?

  Hayden Simpson had looked shocked and surprised. His body language reflected no knowledge of Daniel Tate.

  Rafe paused in typing his update e-mail to ASAC Hartlock. He reached for his bottled water and took a sip.

  Sure, people could and did deceive. Some were good actors. But without planning, without any warning . . . The case was three years old, so the visit had been completely unexpected. No way could Simpson have prepared his reaction.

  Simpson had vowed to ask his mother about Tate tonight. His demeanor screamed innocence and no involvement. If that was true, what did it mean for the case?

  Had this been, as Jackson had insinuated, a wild-goose chase? Had he just blown his chance to fit in?

  The streetlights outside the motel flipped on. Dried leaves blew across the parking lot. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d not eaten since lunch. He should try the diner again. Looked like it was the only place close to grab a bite to eat. Maybe he’d see or hear something that could help him. Just what, he didn’t know.

  Yet.

  What about Bella Miller? She had been stoic, unemotional. But there was something about her. Her obvious attractiveness aside, she looked somewhat familiar, but he just couldn’t place from where. Maybe she just looked like someone he knew. The fullness of her face did remind him of Maddie. The intensity of her stare . . . and what exactly was her tie to Simpson? They seemed very cozy just to be friends, yet Rafe hadn’t picked up any romantic energy between them. What was her story? Something about her seemed to pull him to her. He hadn’t felt that way since . . . well, in a long time.

  He had no business thinking about her in any way. Or any woman. He’d already broken his own code of conduct before and still hadn’t made adequate restitution for his sin.

  Rafe had to trust his instincts. Had learned to over the past decade. While he felt Simpson truly didn’t know anything about the birth announcement and Tate, Rafe’s gut still told him there was a connection here.

  The one that could unravel everything.

  After finishing the e-mail, attaching the digital photos he’d taken at the diner, then sending it into cyberspace, Rafe laid the photocopied contents of the case file out on the desk. The pictures of the suspect with the victim, Tate’s bio as well as the su
spect’s, crime-scene photos, and reports of Hartlock and Devane.

  He laid down the birth announcement last. Taking a step back, he glanced over the entire case documents. What wasn’t he seeing? He rearranged everything, putting each item in chronological order as best he could.

  What was it?

  He lifted the photograph of the suspect, Remington Wyatt, and stared. Something about her . . . Something about the tilt of her chin . . . no, the striking prominent cheekbones wasn’t what hit him. He set the photo down on the bed again and stared into her amazing crystal-clear blue eyes.

  Eyes that saw into his soul, even in a picture.

  It unnerved him. Had he experienced a similar gut reaction to her when he’d met her before? He couldn’t remember. It was years ago.

  Before Georgia had died.

  Rafe shook his head, clearing the painful memories, and lifted Remington’s bio. She’d graduated magna cum laude in psychology from the University of Arkansas. Excelled in her field. The woman was smart. That she’d eluded the bureau for three years was nothing to sneeze at.

  He glanced back at the snapshot of Tate and her taken mere months before the murder. Arms around each other, big smiles. Why would she kill him? It made no sense.

  But neither did fleeing the scene of the crime if she was innocent.

  The ringtone from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly echoed off the hotel room’s walls.

  Dropping the picture back to the desk, he snagged the cell from his belt clip and flipped it open. “Baxter.”

  “Hey there.” Despite the casual words, the tone of his best friend’s voice told him something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Please, God, not Savannah. “Hey, Darren. What’s new?”

  “We’re back at the hospital.”

  Just what he’d been afraid of. Rafe paced the small confines of the motel room. “What’s the deal?”

  “Looks like we’ll have to move her surgery up a bit from what we’d anticipated.”