Scene of the Crime: Return to Mystic Lake. Carla Cassidy
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can take you to Amberly’s place now. I have a couple of officers sitting on it so that nothing is disturbed.”
Together they stepped outside, where they both removed their booties and gloves. “I’ll be honest with you—at the moment what I need is a good meal, a strong drink and a soft bed,” Jackson said.
“But we still need to go to Amberly’s,” Marjorie protested.
“That can wait until morning,” Jackson said. “Whatever happened to Sheriff Caldwell and his wife happened here, not at the house in Kansas City. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Exactly,” Marjorie replied. “And we need to work through the night if that’s what it takes to get to the bottom of this.”
“It’s going to take more than a single night to get to the bottom of this,” Jackson said as he headed for her car.
She hurried after him, irritated by his lack of work ethic. She didn’t know how they solved crime in Louisiana, but they sure as heck didn’t do it in Kansas City by eating a good steak and finding a soft bed.
“But you know how important the first forty-eight hours are right after a crime,” she said as they got into her car.
“I know, but as far as I can figure, we’ve already lost our first forty-eight-hour window. My gut says they disappeared from here sometime Friday night, and here we are on Tuesday night. Besides, at this point all we have is two people not where they said they would be...nothing to indicate that an actual crime took place at all.”
“Trust me, if Amberly told Max she’d pick him up at school yesterday, nothing would have kept her away except something terrible,” Marjorie replied. “Max always came first with her.”
“Have you checked the local hospitals? Maybe one of them got sick and hasn’t had a chance to call.” He obviously read on her face that it hadn’t been done yet.
“Then that’s something you can take care of after you drop me off at whatever place I’m staying while I’m here in town.”
“You aren’t staying here in Mystic Lake. The director set you up in a motel in Kansas City. Don’t worry, there’s a restaurant right next door where you can feed your face.” She started the engine, fighting a new blast of irritation directed at him.
FBI agents didn’t work normal business hours. When in the middle of a case they worked until they physically couldn’t work any longer.
To make matters worse, as she began the drive back toward the city, not only did Special Agent Jackson Revannaugh fall asleep, but the car filled with his faint, deep snores.
She was livid that she’d put off beginning the official investigation until this Louisiana man had arrived. She was ticked off that somehow her director thought he could potentially add a valuable perspective on the crime.
As if fate hadn’t already delivered enough painful hits in her life, it had now delivered up to her the partner from hell.
Chapter Two
Jackson shot straight up in bed, his heart beating frantically as early-morning light shone through the half-closed curtains on the nearby window. It took him several minutes to process the nightmares that had haunted his sleep and a little more time to realize exactly where he was.
Kansas City...the Regent Motel. He muttered a curse as he saw the time. Six-thirty, and if he remembered right, Agent Uptight’s last words to him after dropping him off the night before were that she’d be here to pick him up at seven.
Coffee. He needed coffee to take away the lingering taste of the nightmares that had chased through his sleep. He spied a small coffeemaker on the vanity and waited for it to brew the single cup. While the coffee was brewing, he unlocked his motel room door just in case Marjorie showed up early.
Once the coffee was ready, he took a big swallow and then carried the cup into the bathroom and set it on the counter while he got into the shower.
He knew Marjorie was angry that he had called a halt to the night before, but he’d also known that he wouldn’t be any real asset to her unless he took the night to catch up on some sleep. The case in Bachelor Moon had nearly drained him dry, both physically and mentally, and he’d needed last night to transition, to prepare himself for this new investigation.
At least she’d been right—while the motel wasn’t five stars, it was adequate and there was a decent restaurant next door. He’d walked there last night and had enjoyed his first taste of Kansas City barbecue...a pulled-pork sandwich and the best onion rings he’d ever tasted.
Maybe it was the sweet, tangy sauce that had given him the nightmares, he thought as he turned off the water and stepped out of the enclosure.
His dreams had been haunted by Sam Connelly, his wife, Daniella, and their little girl, Macy—the missing family from Bachelor Moon, who had yet to be found. Dashing around the edges of the darkness had been two more figures who he knew in his dream were Cole Caldwell and his wife, Amberly. And then there had been his father.
Jerrod Revannaugh had no place in his dreams, just as he had no place in Jackson’s life. The bond between father and son had been fractured long ago and finally completely broken just a little over five years ago.
He shoved away any lingering thoughts of nightmares, especially images of the man who had raised him, and instead wrapped a towel around his waist and got out his shaving kit.
Jackson knew he was a handsome man. It wasn’t anything he thought much about, just a fact he saw when he looked in a mirror. He was simply the product of good genes.
He also knew he had a charm about him that drew women to him, and though he enjoyed an occasional liaison with a sophisticated woman who knew the score, he made certain they also knew he was merely after a brief encounter and not interested in matters of the heart.
He was definitely not his father’s son. He might look like Jerrod Revannaugh, and the two men might share the Revannaugh ability to charm, but Jackson would never be the coldhearted bastard that his father had been. He always made sure his partner knew the score, unlike his father who had spent his life taking advantage of naïve women.
While he found his new partner hot to look at, she had a prickly exterior that he had no interest in digging beneath. Besides, it wasn’t as if he anticipated Agent Marjorie Clinton jumping his bones. She’d made it fairly clear that she didn’t particularly like him and would tolerate him only in order to further the investigation.
He’d managed to razor off the shaving cream on half of his face when he heard a firm knock on his door. A glance at the clock by the nightstand showed him it was ten until seven. He knew she was the type to be early.
“Come on in,” he shouted, and heard the door open. He leaned out of the bathroom to see her standing just inside the door. “You’re early.”
She shot ramrod straight. Her eyes widened and then her gaze instantly dropped to the carpeting, as if unable to look at him. “And it appears that you’re going to be late. I’ll just wait for you out in the car.”
She ran out of the room like a rabbit being chased by a hound dog and slammed the door behind her. Jackson turned back to the mirror in amusement. He hadn’t exactly been naked, but she’d skedaddled out of the room like a virgin.
He quickly finished his shaving, slapped on some cologne, grabbed his white shirt and slacks—neatly pressed the night before and on hangers—and dressed.
He had a feeling the longer she sat in the car waiting for him, the more difficult the mood would be between them. He suspected it was already going to be a long day. Her being cranky with him would only make it longer.
It was exactly three minutes after seven when he slid into the passenger seat of her car and shut the door. “Sorry I’m late. The last thing I would ever want to do is keep a lovely lady waiting,” he said with a smile.
“Stuff