Always Look Twice (11 page)

Standing beside Annabelle, Tag leaned over and murmured in her ear, ‘‘As long as he’s the only one of us heaven gets today, I’ll be happy.’’

Annabelle’s lips twisted with a rueful smile. Actually, she wasn’t worried about their safety at the moment. Mark had hired private security for this event—extensive private security who had established a perimeter that would make the Secret Service proud.

She was glad of the respite. This was the first time since she’d realized the Fixers had a problem that she felt able to relax, able to mourn. Listening to Russo’s friends and family talk about his plans and hopes and dreams created a lump in her throat the size of a baseball. Hearing them talk about his ‘‘accident’’ made her mad. Jeremy deserved better.

Her gaze drifted to Mark, Tag, Noah, and Colonel Warren, and determination dissolved the lump in her throat. Jeremy would have better, by God. They’d catch the person who killed him if it was the last thing she ever did.

Annabelle choked back the hysteria-edged giggle that wanted to bubble from her mouth. Her emotions pulsed with turmoil today. Funerals for friends tended to make a woman both cranky and a little crazy.

Having to hang around her ex-husband placed the freaking cherry on top.

And yet, that stubborn part of her psyche made her determined to quash everything but the professional within her. She refused to allow anyone to see her fear or her fury. As far as the feelings Callahan stirred inside her . . . well . . . maybe this contact would help her rid herself of those last few tenacious tentacles of attachment.

Mark Callahan had proved difficult to get over. While she lectured herself against comparing other men with her ex, she found herself doing it every single time she dated someone new. No one measured up, not enough to intrigue her beyond a few dates, and certainly not enough to go to bed with—even after she’d relaxed her standards in that regard. The day her divorce was final, when she’d been weak and lonely and afraid, she’d poured too many glasses of wine and the whole miserable story to her brother, Adam, who’d been visiting with his family at the time. He had promised to keep her secret if she promised to listen to his advice.

Sleep with someone, Annabelle,
he’d told her.
Just once. I know you have an old-fashioned outlook in that area and I can’t believe that I’m actually telling you to do it, but after listening to you today, I’m afraid it’s going to take that for you to get beyond Mark Callahan. The man is not a god—

He is in bed,
she’d drunkenly moaned.

Remembering now, she sighed. The woman standing beside her handed her a tissue, and Annabelle realized that a pesky tear had indeed overflowed to dribble down her cheek. Dammit. She wiped away the tear, then saw that Tag, Noah, and Mark had witnessed the betrayal. Great. Wonderful.

Death. Life. Procreation. Divorce. Death. Good Lord, she was losing it.

‘‘Excuse me.’’ She turned and threaded her way to the back of the crowd. She needed to move, to walk off some of this nervous-energy edge. Jeremy would understand. The man had understood the ins and outs of explosives—both the physical and emotional kind.

She opened her black umbrella as she stepped from beneath the tent and strode away from the grave site, walking blindly, ruining her shoes in the sopping grass in the process. At some point she grew aware of a presence behind her. She prayed it wasn’t Mark.

St. Mary’s was a large, old cemetery with ornate monuments and sepulchres that dated back over two hundred years. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed exploring the place. Right now, she simply wanted out of here.

The hand on her shoulder told her that wasn’t to be. ‘‘Hold on, Annabelle.’’

She halted and turned in relief. ‘‘Colonel Warren.’’

‘‘Are you all right?’’

‘‘Yes. I’m fine. I just . . . too much sugar at breakfast, I guess.’’

He slipped his hand to her elbow and guided her to a covered bench nearby. ‘‘I wanted to speak with you and I feared you were leaving. Sit down, please.’’

Annabelle waited while the colonel took a seat beside her. As usual, he got directly to the point. ‘‘Callahan brought me up-to-date with recent events. I’m concerned about the Balkan connection, and I’d like to hear your take on it.’’

‘‘Balkan connection?’’

‘‘Ćurković. Radovanovic.’’

Annabelle frowned. ‘‘Sir, I don’t think that situation has anything to do with this one. Mark’s brother was kidnapped and killed after the unit disbanded. That syndicate has no reason to move against the Fixers.’’

‘‘Callahan seems to think it’s possible and he believes you might be the catalyst. He mentioned a relatively recent event in Hawaii?’’

She ground her teeth, then said, ‘‘I was undercover on a job and I have absolutely no reason to believe that my cover was blown. Callahan is paranoid when it comes to the Eastern European Mafia. He doesn’t see straight when anything is even tangentially connected to his brother’s death. Sir, if we are correct in our assumptions and the unit is being targeted, then the perp is connected in some way to the unit, not the Callahan family. Otherwise, Mark might be burying one of his brothers today instead of Jeremy Russo.’’

‘‘I hope you are right, Monroe.’’ The colonel blew out a heavy sigh, his lantern jaw set hard as he stared out over the graveyard. ‘‘It’s bad enough we have to fight the damned drug, gun, and human traffickers in the Balkans. I’d hate to think they are so entrenched that they are killing our people here in America in their own suburban workshops. After they retired! If that’s the case, we will never be able to relax our guard.’’

‘‘Whoever is doing this has a personal grudge, Colonel.’’

‘‘I tend to agree. However, we can’t afford to ignore any possibility. I told Callahan I’d try to find out what Ćurković’s heirs have been up to of late. To that end, can you brief me on your involvement with Radovanovic?’’

‘‘Certainly, sir.’’

She took a minute to organize her thoughts, then gave a succinct report of the happenings in Hawaii. After a few follow-up questions, he said, ‘‘Hmm . . . as much as I despise the drug runners, I hate the sex traffickers the most. I wish your Italian friend much success in his efforts.’’

‘‘I’ll pass that along next time I talk to him.’’ She expected Paulo to call this afternoon.

Colonel Warren continued. ‘‘Now, I intend to stay in contact with the team until this situation is resolved, so you’ll be hearing from me. In the meantime, I trust you to be my eyes in the field just in case Callahan is correct. If you uncover even a hint of involvement by Radovanovic, I want to know.’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

The colonel put his hands on his knees and rose to his feet. ‘‘I’d best get back to my wife before she thinks I deserted her. You take care of yourself, Monroe. That’s an order. I don’t want to attend one of these events for you.’’

‘‘Yes, sir,’’ she repeated, smiling.

‘‘Are you returning to the grave site or are you staying here?’’

Looking past his shoulder, she saw Mark waiting a short distance away, slowly twirling his umbrella. She sighed. ‘‘I guess that depends on my team leader.’’

The colonel frowned. ‘‘He looks to have a burr up his butt, doesn’t he?’’

Annabelle took a closer look. The colonel was right. Anger glimmered in Mark’s eyes, and his lips pressed in a grim line. Oh, no. This wasn’t good. A sense of dread swept over her as she stepped out into the rain. ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘I had a phone call. We have another body. It’s Rocky Stanhope.’’

The colonel muttered a curse, and Annabelle’s stomach sank. ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked.

‘‘I’m not sure. A woman he has been seeing called me. She was hysterical. She said that right before he died, he told her to call me rather than the authorities.’’

‘‘Did this just occur today?’’

‘‘I’m not sure. I couldn’t get much out of her. We need to leave immediately. I told her we would be there this afternoon.’’

‘‘Be where?’’ the colonel asked.

‘‘Colorado,’’ Mark replied. ‘‘Stanhope lived—and died—in a mountain town in Colorado.’’

As his private jet winged its way toward Colorado, Mark decided he didn’t have second thoughts about his decision to partner with Annabelle during the investigation. He figured he was going on at least thirty-seven thoughts by now. Never before had he found it so difficult to keep his mind focused on the business at hand.

His team was dying, and instead of concentrating on the data he’d collected overnight as part of his attempt to learn why, his attention kept drifting to the woman who sat on the opposite side of the plane.

They’d both changed clothes for the trip. He wore jeans and a polo. She’d donned jeans and a white oxford shirt. She sat with her legs crossed, subconsciouslykicking her foot, which allowed her slip-on canvas flat to slip off her heel and dangle from her toes. It drew his gaze like a magnet. The familiar scent of the lotion she used on her skin teased him, and that little moan of pleasure she made when she indulged in an afternoon piece of chocolate tormented him. As a result, by the time the Citation landed at Telluride Regional Airport, he’d worked his way through only half of his research and he departed the jet feeling grouchy and a little bit mean.

If he didn’t get his wits together, he was liable to get them both killed.

He took a look around, pausing a moment to appreciate the majestic beauty of the San Juan Mountains. ‘‘I’m not surprised Rocky settled in the mountains. He had a passion for snow skiing, remember? Skiing in the winter and fishing in the summer. The man knew how to live.’’

‘‘And now he’s dead,’’ Annabelle replied.

Mark grimaced. Man, did that suck.

‘‘We have to catch this guy, Callahan.’’

‘‘We will.’’ He pictured his old teammate as he’d last seen him at Russo’s wedding, his head thrown back with laughter at something Anderson had said. ‘‘We damn sure will.’’

The rental car Mark had arranged for was ready and waiting for them. As they climbed in a four-wheel-drive SUV and fastened their seat belts, he handed her a file folder. ‘‘Rocky’s lady friend owns an art gallery, and she asked us to meet her there. You want to navigate for me?’’

Annabelle opened the manila folder and scanned the top page. ‘‘Take this road down the hill until it dead-ends at the highway. Turn right.’’

Mark waited for her to say more, but when that didn’t happen, he started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. He should be accustomed to the cold-shouldertreatment by now, since she’d barely spoken to him all day. Annabelle’s words and actions toward him had been all business.

At the funeral, she’d spent her time talking to Harrington and Kincannon. During their three-hour plane ride, she’d studied her own research and notes.

He told himself he was glad for it.

He knew he was lying.

They reached the bottom of the hill and he turned onto the highway. Annabelle glanced back at the directions. ‘‘Go about three miles into town. Then you’ll take another right on Pine. Mercer’s gallery will be in the second block.’’

They were close. Mark felt that familiar buzz of anticipation. Stanhope’s girlfriend claimed she might have seen the killer. Aloud, he mused, ‘‘We might have caught a break with Brooke Mercer. A physical description of the killer could confirm Rad’s involvement.’’

Annabelle opened her mouth, then reconsidered and shut it without speaking. Annoyed, Mark snapped, ‘‘You are underestimating that organization, Annabelle.’’

‘‘No. I think it is much more logical to believe that whoever is killing off our team members has a grudge against the unit.’’

Mark rolled down his window to breathe in the fresh mountain air, hoping it would wash away his frustration. He could admit that at times he wasn’t exactly reasonable when it came to the likes of Radovanovic, but his family had underestimated the bastards in the past and look how that had turned out. His youngest brother—the only innocent one among them—had paid the ultimate price.

Poor, snakebit John—he’d never caught a break. Being punished for the mistakes of others had turned out to be his lot in life. For instance, he had been an innocent bystander the night his three older brothers got liquored up and carelessly set that god-awful fire. Only thirteen at the time, John hadn’t been drinking that night. Instead, he’d tried to stop his older brothers’ foolishness and had been rewarded for his efforts by being banished from Brazos Bend just like Mark and Luke and Matt.

At least the old man had sent John to military school rather than wash his hands of him like he had done with his older sons. Well, that’s what Mark and his brothers had believed at the time, anyway. Only recently had they discovered that Branch had arranged for someone to be watching over each of them without their knowledge. ‘‘Damned manipulative bastard,’’ Mark muttered.

‘‘Excuse me?’’ Annabelle asked.

‘‘Sorry, I was thinking about something else.’’ He slowed down as they entered the old mining town with its quaint Victorian houses and downtown area. With ski season over and the summer tourist season yet to begin, traffic was sparse on both the road and the sidewalks. ‘‘What’s the name of the street again?’’

‘‘Pine.’’ Her cell phone rang just as she spoke. She checked the number and smiled as she flipped the phone open. ‘‘Hi, Mama.’’

Annabelle held the phone slightly away from her ear, and as a result, Mark heard both sides of the conversation. The first thing her mother asked was when she was coming to Kansas.

‘‘I don’t know how long this job will take, Mom, but I promise that the minute I’m finished, I’ll head for home.’’

‘‘What sort of job is it again?’’ Mrs. Monroe asked. ‘‘Your father said something about finding a deadbeat dad? That’s not dangerous, is it? You promised me you wouldn’t do anything dangerous anymore.’’