Jackson's Woman. Maggie Price

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ where someone could see it. Do you know where he is now?”

      Claire shook her head. The day the crusty widower had sold her the building and the shop’s contents, he’d fired up his RV and taken off, vowing to stop at every antique shop, estate sale and flea market in the country.

      “He called about a week ago from southern California. You should be able to reach him on his cell,” Claire added and recited the number.

      Liz slid her pad into a pocket. She looked at Jackson with the hard eyes of a cop, then shifted her gaze back to Claire.

      “Special Agent Castle is here because he has a very different theory about the break-in and murder. Since I need to coordinate things with my partner and the lab guys, I’ll let him explain it to you.”

      Instead of turning to go, Liz slid an arm around Claire’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “I figure finding old Silas dead is just one of the shocks you’ve had tonight,” she whispered.

      Claire nodded. The other shock—Jackson’s pres-ence—was something to be discussed in detail later, girlfriend-to-girlfriend.

      The cell phone clipped to Liz’s waistband rang. She answered the call, spoke a few words then hung up. “Everything’s done downstairs.”

      Claire pulled her keys from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll walk you out and lock up.”

      She led the way down the inside stairway, acutely aware of Jackson trailing behind her and Liz.

      At the bottom of the stairs, the door to the small room she used as an office stood open. Wordlessly, Claire passed by her tidy desk and file cabinet, then stepped into the shop where the lights blazed. She turned down one of the narrow aisles bordered by cloth-covered tables and display cases loaded with candlesticks, crystal bowls and vases. When she passed by the spot where she’d found poor Silas, her gaze lowered to the hardwood floor. The sight of the pool of dried blood had her stomach clenching while the apple-and pine-scented air cloyed in her lungs.

      “Claire?” The deep timbre of Jackson’s voice registered up and down her spine.

      Pausing, she glanced across her shoulder. “Yes?”

      “You still keep the cleaning supplies in the closet behind the main counter?”

      She nodded. Did the man ever forget anything? “I don’t expect you to help me clean.”

      “It’ll go faster with two of us.” He veered off toward the waist-high counter while she and Liz moved to the front door.

      There, Liz turned, her eyes crimped with concern. “Look, I know what this guy once meant to you, but I’m a homicide cop and I don’t take anyone at face value.”

      Claire felt her face pale. “You don’t suspect Jackson…?”

      “Not now that I’ve grilled him and checked out his credentials with the State Department.” Liz flicked a look back at the closet behind the counter. “Considering the past you two share, it’s gotta be hard for you to have him here. But if his theory’s solid, I’m damn glad he is here.”

      Claire opened her mouth to ask what that theory was just as Liz’s cell phone rang.

      Muttering, Liz jerked it off her waistband and checked the display. “I’ve got to go. Call me if you need anything.” Phone pressed to one ear, Liz headed out into the night.

      Claire closed the door behind her friend, then engaged the dead bolt. From behind her came the rattle of the mop bucket.

      It took a moment, a carefully indrawn breath, a steady exhale, before she turned. Her gaze tracked Jackson as he rolled the bucket containing a mop around the counter toward the spot where Silas had died.

      “So, you have a theory about the break-in and murder,” she began. “Is the reason you’re here anything to do with what happened to Silas?”

      Jackson positioned the bucket near the bloodstain, then leaned the mop’s handle against the nearby whitewashed pine armoire. “It’s possible.” He glanced again at the floor and frowned. “Not probable, but possible.”

      She took in the hard set of his jaw, his rigid shoulders. He hunted terrorists for a living. Was it possible Silas Smith’s murder was an act of terrorism? The question might seem unbelievable if Reunion Square wasn’t a short walk from the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial. Like everyone else in the city, Claire had long ago abandoned the it-can’t-happen-here mindset.

      For the first time she noticed the shadows of fatigue under Jackson’s eyes and the small, pronounced lines at the corners of his mouth.

      “Where were you when you woke up this morning?” she asked.

      From somewhere blocks away came the shriek of a siren. Jackson turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the mullioned window that spanned the entire front of the shop. When he remet Claire’s gaze, his eyes were intent, unnervingly watchful.

      “I was in Spain.”

      “Did you travel most of today specifically to get here? Not just to Oklahoma City, but here?”

      “Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “I hopped a nonstop military transport. Taking the time change into consideration, I logged nearly eleven hours in the air.”

      She moved from the door, skirting several tables and displays before pausing a few feet from him. Beneath the shop’s bright lights, the gash that slashed his left eyebrow looked even rawer. Claire didn’t let herself try to imagine how he’d been injured. Or if he’d been in mortal danger at the time. She’d spent too many hours alone in various foreign countries while he was away on assignment, waiting for him to call, fearing he hadn’t because he was lying dead in some place with a name she couldn’t even pronounce.

      “Are you saying you flew all those hours to get here because you suspected someone wanted to kill my handyman? Some homegrown terrorist? Someone like that?”

      Jackson stepped toward her, halting when only inches separated them. His gaze narrowed, seemed to penetrate her.

      “Yes,” he said quietly, “I traveled today with the sole intention of getting here, to you, as soon as I could. But it wasn’t because I thought someone planned to slit your handyman’s throat.”

      “Then why? Jackson, why are you here?”

      “Because someone wants to kill you.”

      Chapter 2

      Jackson watched Claire’s face go pale and fear grow in her eyes. He gripped her upper arms. “It’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.”

      Beneath his hands, she swayed like a sheet in the wind. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

      He hooked a foot around the leg of a chair and dragged it away from a table loaded with china and heavy silver. With a gentle push, he nudged her into the chair.

      Dammit, he hadn’t meant to tell her that way—after finding her handyman with his throat slit, the last thing she needed tonight was another shock. Someone wants to kill you. Smooth move, Castle.

СКАЧАТЬ