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       One

      Stomach fluttering, Daci Marlowe paused outside her boss’s closed office door and ventured a tiny smile. This was it—her first assignment as a US deputy marshal.

      Finally!

      After dealing with her siblings’ toddler-then-teenage tantrums until her twenties had faded in the rearview mirror, she was more than ready to begin her own career. Not even the joker who had left the ribbon-bedecked basket with its smelly contents outside her duplex door this morning would cast a shadow on this moment.

      Oh, yes, she would find out who the culprit was. That was a promise. The medium-size wicker basket had contained one jar of opened and spoiled baby food, a baby bottle a quarter full of curdled formula, an assortment of crumpled and dried baby wipes, and a diaper anointed with what her nose told her was vinegar. The block-lettered note read, “ENJOY YOUR NEW LIFE.”

      The personal nature of the practical joke should have narrowed her suspect list to one of her rowdy siblings, but something didn’t quite fit, and she couldn’t put her finger on what was off. But if she went with the theory, her brother Nate would top the list because he was the only one who lived within easy driving distance of Springfield, Massachusetts. However, he, as well as her other siblings, had called either last night or early this morning to wish her well on her first day on the new job, and her deeply ingrained imp-o-meter hadn’t detected any pending mischief in their tones.

      What if the culprit was none of them but, instead, an unseen watcher of her life? The question slithered like a snake down her spine. Daci suppressed a shiver. Stupid thought. No one but one of her brothers or sisters would link the trials and tribulations of an older sister raising a small herd of younger siblings with her first day of work in the Marshals Service.

      She glanced down at herself for a quick ready-or-not inventory. Her shiny badge hung neatly from a lanyard around her neck. It lay face-out against her button-down shirt, while her government-issue firearm rested snug against her slacks-clad hip, its weight an underscore to the gravity of her new duties.

      Today, I honor your memory, Grandma, by joining those who bring criminals to justice.

      Inhaling a deep breath of law-enforcement office odors—scorched coffee, printer ink and stale pizza—she lifted her fist and rapped smartly on deputy commander Ross Reynolds’s door.

      “Come in!”

      Her boss’s gruff bark invited her into a square room just big enough to contain a large, well-used desk stacked with paperwork, a wheeled office chair in which he sat, a metal filing cabinet, and a pair of steel and plastic guest chairs. Daci suppressed a grin. Reynolds didn’t like people getting comfortable sitting around. Yet, someone already occupied one of the guest chairs. She had expected to see the thick, jowly man seated behind the desk. The lanky blond in a navy suit and coordinating tie who assessed her with cool blue eyes had not featured in her visualization of this moment.

      The stranger in the suit rose and stuck out his hand. “Jaxton Williams,” he said. “Call me Jax.”

      She shook the man’s long-fingered hand and murmured her name, following his lead by sticking to Daci, not the formal-sounding Candace. Jax’s grip was firm and betrayed slight calluses. Despite his clothes, the guy wasn’t a total pencil pusher, though not a member of the Marshals Service, either. What was he doing here?

      Her gaze darted to Reynolds, who had folded his hands over his middle-aged paunch. The corners of his lips twitched as if he battled amusement. Was she interrupting another meeting? Hadn’t she been told to report at 9:00 a.m. sharp? She resisted the impulse to check her watch.

      “Shut the door and have a seat so we can get started,” her boss said in that gravelly voice of his.

      Fixing her eyes on him, Daci complied. The mystery man resumed his seat, also. Apparently, she’d get the answers to her questions soon enough.

      Reynolds twiddled a pen between the thick fingers of his left hand, all humor erased. “You are aware of the situation with escaped felon Liggett Naylor.”

      “Of course, sir.” Her heart leaped.

      Surely, she wasn’t being assigned to the fugitive recovery task force. Rookies didn’t get high-profile cases. And this was as high profile as it got. Two deputy marshals were dead, for crying out loud, and the Marshals Service had a serious black eye for losing a major crime boss during transport from one detention facility to another.

      But if she wasn’t going to join the fugitive recovery task force, then why bring up Naylor at all? And what could this Jaxton Williams have to do with the case? She cast him a sidelong look. Faint swipes of gray highlighted the temples of his neatly trimmed blond hair, and crow’s-feet lined the corners of his eyes. Around forty probably, less than a decade older than her age of thirty-two. Good-looking in an upper-crust sort of way. She’d had her fill of that type.

      The stern set of his aquiline features and neatly squared shoulders screamed some sort of authority. A politician? Sure, that was it. The powers-that-be must be screaming for quick action against Naylor. But her deduction didn’t answer the question of why she would be included in a political pacification meeting between a bigwig and her boss.

      Reynolds pursed his lips. “It seems you have a particular skill set we need in this situation.”

      Daci’s breath caught. What skill set had captured her boss’s attention? Maybe he’d noticed the training record she’d set in Search and Seizure? Or the natural aptitude she’d demonstrated for interrogation? Few would suspect those skills were honed to a razor’s edge before entering the training academy. A person didn’t raise four younger siblings without morphing into a cross between professional detection dog and a finely calibrated lie detector.

      “When Naylor went down for multiple counts of murder, racketeering and grand theft,” Reynolds continued, “it’s a little-known fact that his girlfriend, Serena Farnam, caved under interrogation and told us where to find him. We don’t know if Naylor is aware of her role in his apprehension, but whether he knows or not, there is a slim chance he may be dumb enough to try to contact her—either to kill her in revenge or to reunite with her if he believes she’s still loyal. We need СКАЧАТЬ