Atonement (12 page)

“Walker's the one with the bruise on his face?”

He couldn't stop the smirk. “Courtesy of me.”

She frowned. “Granted, I know the guy probably deserved it, but really? You're proud of what you did?”

“It was either me giving him a face bashing or your sister putting a bullet in him. One Walker killed by Nic was enough.”

“Since you brought it up, what's going on? And don't you sugarcoat it, either.”

Con settled his body into a relaxed position and pulled the mug of Barry's tea that Betty had just set on the table closer to him. Betty spoiled him rotten, special-ordering Barry's from Ireland and serving it to him or Mam, when Mam managed to get out of the pub. “First, you tell me what you can of Nic's time in the marines.”

“There's not much for me to tell, since I was purposely left out of the loop. I know of three deployments, two to Iraq and one to Afghanistan, but not where she was stationed or what she did over there. My mom was the one who told me about those. The Afghanistan deployment was the last one she did, and whatever happened there forced her out of the Corps.”

“How do you know she was forced out?”

Cassy traced the rim of her mug, staring into the black liquid. Her eyes lost focus as she seemed to let her mind drift.

More than a few times Con had wondered what Nic's life was like before she moved to Eider. Hardy people lived and raised families here, and their difficult lives showed in the way they carried themselves and spoke to their fellow citizens. Nic's words and actions spoke of cynicism and anger, especially toward men who demeaned everyone around them.

“Pretty difficult to miss it when she's screaming at our father for having a hand in her being kicked out,” Cassy said, eventually.

“Yet she never revealed what it was about?”

“From what I understand, she wasn't allowed to talk about the why. I overheard Pop mention a gag order. Put two and two together, and we all know what that adds up to.”

“Something very, very bad.”

The natural lull in the conversation was the perfect time for Betty to plunk down their breakfast orders. “Eat up.” She pinched Con's cheek. “You're getting skinny, my boy.”

He chuckled and picked up his fork. “Yes, ma'am.”

The noise of the diner ebbed and flowed around them while Cassy drenched her French toast with maple syrup. Con dug into his mound of scrambled eggs, hash browns, peppers, and onions dripping with salsa and cheese.

“I figured the Irish always ate porridge or something like that for breakfast.”

He gulped down his mouthful and snorted. “I haven't lived there in more than thirty years; why would I know what they typically eat?”

“Because your mother does, and one would figure she wouldn't lose her connection to her home or let her children.”

“Except for a few choice things, my mam has done her damnedest to sever her connection with her home country, and for good reason. She doesn't care what Farran and I do, as long as it doesn't bring more troubles down on Mam's head.” Con shoveled more food into his mouth.

“Troubles? Like what?”

“Long story best not discussed over a good meal. Or ever.”

“And I thought my family cornered the market on keeping secrets.”

Placing his fork on the plate, Con wiped his mouth with a napkin, then crossed his arms on the tabletop. “Cassy, is there any way you can find out what happened to Nic on her last deployment? It might help us figure out why these cases are setting her off.”

“Doubt it. The only people who can tell us anything are the same two people who are at odds with each other: Nic and Pop—and he's a retired brigadier general. Things like gag orders mean it was probably classified.”

“You don't have any connections with anyone in the marines?”

Cassy shook her head. “Mom made sure I wasn't sucked into the secluded life of a military kid. She saw what it did to Nic and refused to lose me.” She cut into the French toast stack. “Now you're deflecting away from why we're really here. What's going on?”

Surreptitiously glancing around the diner, he leaned forward. “Not here. Too many ears.”

“Then why did you tell me to meet you here to talk about it?”

He flashed a grin. “To see you face to face, for one.” He picked up his fork. “And to give your sister a break from you.”

With a roll of her eyes, Cassy continued to eat. Until something caught her eye, and she stiffened.

He stopped eating.

“Shit,” she hissed.

“What?”

“Shit-shit-shit-shit.”

“What?” Con insisted.

Cassy stood suddenly and, bracing her hands on the tabletop, leaned forward. “Con, who called the FBI?”

His head snapped left as a man with a steaming cup of coffee left the counter and came toward them. His casual attire of jeans, a dark gray jacket over a green shirt, and leather shoes would suggest an attempt to fit in, but the guy stood out like a sore thumb in this place full of farmers and small-town folks. It was the glint of metal at his waist that put Con on alert.

The guy stopped next to their table and stared at Cassy a moment. His once-over made Con uncomfortable. There was a history between those two, and it didn't appear to have been a good one.

“Detective Rivers, what are you doing here?” His smooth Southern drawl was so out of place for southeast Iowa.

“Visiting my sister.” For someone about to jump out of her skin, Cassy's control impressed Con.

A corner of the agent's mouth lifted in a wry smile. “I didn't realize you had a sister.” He took a sip of his coffee.

“If you stuck around long enough, you might have found out,” she said in a low voice.

The agent lowered his cup.

“Well, bugger,” Con said, breaking the tension. “You mind making introductions, Cassy?”

Rolling her shoulders, she tilted her chin. “Sorry, Con. This is Special Agent Boyce Hunt. He's here to run roughshod over whatever cases you've got.”

“There's no call to be bitter, Detective Rivers. I thought we worked well together.”

Cassy exited the booth. “Excuse me, I just lost my appetite.” She tossed a twenty on the table and moved to pass Agent Hunt.

The man shifted just enough to block her. Cassy gave him a scowl, then bumped her shoulder into his, hard, and shoved past him.

Con watched her disappear out the door before saying, “Ya know, at times, I wonder why men even bother to love prickly women. Then I remember, they're just as soft and delicate as their less prickly counterparts—you just have to root around a little further until you expose it.”

Agent Hunt tore his attention away from the empty doorway and focused on Con. “You're Detective O'Hanlon, correct?”

“That'd be me.”

“Appears you're the man I need to speak with before I see the sheriff.”

Con swallowed. Oh, this couldn't be good. What was Shane dive-bombing on all of them now?

• • •

Nic emerged from the break room with a fresh cup of coffee the instant the front door buzzed open and O'Hanlon walked through with another man hot on his heels. Her instincts went on alert at the way the newcomer carried himself as the two men headed for Sheriff Hamilton's office.

A federal agent.

She went straight to her desk, set the mug down—ignoring Walker's snide comment about another intruder in their office—and then joined the group without their consent.

Hamilton scowled at her invasion. “Deputy Rivers—”

“I'm not leaving, sheriff,” she snapped and barred the doorway.

The agent eyed her, interest clearly plastered all over his face. “Rivers, huh?”

“Don't provoke her,” O'Hanlon said in a low voice.

Nic had no idea what they were talking about, and she really didn't care, but she wasn't about to be ejected from this con-fab. “Whatever you have to discuss with a federal agent includes me.”

“How do you know he's a … ?” Hamilton slid his fingers through his curling hair—he needed a haircut soon—and sighed. “Just forget I asked. I don't want to know. Shut the door, Deputy.”

Fighting back the satisfied smirk, Nic shut the office door and leaned against it with her arms crossed.

Hamilton sat in his chair and rotated it so he could look up at Con and the agent. “Since my deputy was kind enough to state that you're a federal agent, mind telling me who you are?”

“Special Agent Boyce Hunt. The Cedar Rapids office via Omaha asked me to come up.”

“Come up from where?” Nic asked.

“Memphis, Tennessee.”

Obviously O'Hanlon and Hamilton were taken aback. Nic absorbed the information.

“I asked for assistance from the FBI; I didn't expect them to send me someone who wasn't local,” Hamilton said. “No offense, Agent Hunt, but I don't see how someone from Tennessee is going to be of any help to us.”

Agent Hunt shrugged. “No offense taken, sheriff. I'm more familiar with your area than you think. I started out in the Cedar Rapids office before I landed a promotion. From what you told the Omaha SAC about what you're dealing with here, it's something I'm particularly familiar with.” He pointed at the folder on Hamilton's desk. “Is that the case file?”

Nic inched away from the doorway, studying the agent closer. Everything about him screamed for her to pay close attention. Her past experience with federal agents warned of a smoke screen. Hunt wasn't here because he was familiar with the area; he had an ulterior motive. As if sensing her scrutiny, Hunt paused in his reading and looked up at her. Like she had, he seemed to study her. The stone mask he wore told her nothing, but she got the deep sense he was sizing her up for something.

“On average, how many suicides does your county have annually?” Hunt was directing his question to the sheriff, but he didn't break eye contact with Nic.

“We don't have that many. In the last twenty years we've had maybe five total,” Hamilton answered.

The agent's green eyes slid from Nic to O'Hanlon, who had shifted to stand closer to her. “How long have you lived here, Detective O'Hanlon?”

“Almost twenty years.”

Nic braced for the question to be asked of her.

“You agree with the sheriff on his assessment, Detective?” Hunt asked.

“Going off memory, sure.” Con crossed his arms. “Got a point to this?”

Hunt ignored him and pinned Nic with his chilling gaze again. “What about you, Deputy Rivers? How long have you lived in Eider?”

“Less than four years. And no, I don't know much about the stats on suicides around here.”

“You're a sniper?” His gaze never wavered.

“Yes.”

“And where did you get your training?”

“The marines.”

That got a reaction. His eyebrows lifted.

“What does her training have to do with these suicides?” Hamilton asked.

Hunt closed the file and set it on the desk. “Sheriff, you reported that the first death, Dusty Walker, knew that you had a sniper stationed to take him down, correct?”

“That's what the report says,” Hamilton said.

“I'll need to listen to the recordings to confirm it, but from my assessment, he purposely forced you to kill him.”

The agent's words struck Nic hard in the chest, stealing her breath. Dusty had committed suicide by cop. She gripped the edge of the desk and bent over, gulping air. It had been horrible trying to cope with the fact she'd killed him to protect the kids. But this … this she couldn't accept. Hunt was wrong. He had to be. There was no way Dusty plotted for her to kill him like that. Not that way.

“Rivers, are you okay?” the sheriff asked.

She waved him off and pushed upright. The quick movements were a mistake. She became lightheaded, and the room faded into black. A strong grip on her arms brought her out of the tailspin. Nic shrugged free of the hands as her vision focused. Blinking, she looked at Hunt.

That stone mask was firmly in place, so she had no way of knowing if he'd done this on purpose to gauge her reaction, or if he truly was just stating a theory. Either way, he was still a bastard.

“Screw your assessment.” She stalked to the door. “While you boys ‘profile' these suicides, I'm going to do some actual police work.” She flung the door open, exited, and slammed it shut.

Con glared at Agent Hunt. “That was a low blow.”

“I simply gave my opinion. I didn't say it was gospel.”

“How many snipers have you worked with in the past, Agent Hunt?” he spat out.

“Enough to know how one reacts when they discover a person they neutralized for the greater good was hoping a cop would kill them because they couldn't do it themselves.”

Anger roiled in Con's veins. “You're just having a grand time pissing off the Rivers sisters?” With that parting shot, he left the office to seek out Nic.

Her desk was empty, as was Doug's and Jennings's. Con picked up on the sound of voices coming from the back and followed them to the interview room he and Nic had set up as the evidence room.

“It's not true. I know Sheila; she'd never do it,” Doug asserted.

Con hesitated in the doorway, quickly assessing the situation. Nic had Doug backed against the wall, and Jennings was blocking a laptop that had an evidence tag attached to it.

“Those are emails he sent to her,” Jennings said with authority Con didn't expect. “I've found stuff of hers he'd deleted.”

“You're making it up.” Doug lunged from the wall straight into Nic's grasp. She propelled him back, slamming him hard into the wall. “He's lying. He planted that shit.”

Con moved to assist Nic, who was struggling to keep a hold of the agitated Doug, who out-weighed her by a good thirty-five to forty pounds. She glanced at Con but didn't relinquish her hold on her coworker's collar.