Her Marine Bodyguard (19 page)

“Thanks, guys.” And he meant it.

“No problem. We’ll be here.” Zach motioned to the first floor. “We got this. Just get the son of a bitch.”

“Oorah.” Brody had every intention of getting the son of a bitch. A knock on the door indicated Foster’s arrival. With Rowdy following, Brody headed for the door. Shannon was as safe as he could make her for the moment. After today, she wouldn’t need to worry about Weston again.

“Sorry I’m late.” Foster’s brusque tone made a mockery of the apology, but Brody didn’t care.

“What do you have?” He hadn’t slept the night before. Instead, he’d held Shannon and waited. When the nightmares came, he’d cuddled her, chased them off and made love to her. Sex wasn’t the answer to everything, but it damn sure helped. By the time dawn arrived, she’d gone into a dreamless sleep, and he’d left orders to let her sleep until she woke. He’d sent a text to Foster about Weston and talked to Rowdy about it over coffee in the middle of the night.

“Dale Weston is a nobody. He does a lot of craft shows on the weekends and otherwise lives pretty unremarkably.” Foster flipped through his notebook. “Unmarried, he has an apartment about a mile from here. He’s been turned down for membership at the Sybarite Club four times. He’s been trying to get in for the last two years.”

“How the hell did you get it?” Rowdy had his phone out. “There’s no public listing for a Sybarite Club.”

Foster smiled tightly. “He’s got a very chatty neighbor. Sixty-five-year-old busybody who doesn’t like him. Weston freelances as a graphic artist, gets assignments from a few employment agencies here in town that provide creative marketing specialists. Like I said, pretty unremarkable. But one of the guys at the station did an Internet search…seems Weston also freelances on the web, does graphic design for people and sells some really stunning replicas.”

Angling his phone, Foster held up an image.
Her Marine
jumped out on the screen. Statues modeled after it, anyway. The work didn’t seem as refined. Brody squinted and then took Foster’s phone to enlarge the image. In Shannon’s work, the face had clearly been him. She’d even added the scar near his eyebrow and the dimpled scar he’d gotten from chicken pox.

Weston’s work didn’t look like Brody at all. The features were softer and lacking real definition. “He’s changing it enough so it appears close but isn’t the exact same.” Whether it was to disguise his rip-offs so he could say they were inspired or simply because he lacked her talent, Brody didn’t care. His work invaded Shannon’s gift.

“Yeah. He’s got a lot of her stuff on there. I checked with her agent. She went through the site and said nearly every independent piece he sold was based on something your girl did. The earlier stuff is almost a carbon copy. Her more recent work, including that piece, has a surface resemblance only.” Foster’s mouth twisted. “The problem we have is this is the only evidence I can dig up on him being a douche bag is this. Her agent said they’d contact a lawyer to try and shut him down, but I can’t find anyone who is a witness to his actions. Lots of circumstantial…Shannon’s questionable memory.”

Brody lifted his gaze from the image and glared at the detective. “It’s not questionable. She remembered a scent, a hum, and his hair.”

“I believe you. I believe
her
. It’s not enough for a jury. On cross-examination, a defense attorney would shred her. She didn’t report the rape until days later. When she encountered the guy again, she didn’t report it a second time. Now, all of a sudden she remembers? It’s too convenient.” Foster held up his hands.

“He’s a cop, Brody. You can’t kill him.” Rowdy’s cool tone carried a hard edge. “He’s not wrong. We don’t have the evidence, but we do have a suspect. We dig hard enough, we’ll find something.”

“When did he try to join the Sybarite Club?” The exclusive, members-only facility was the first place Brody had met Shannon. He’d gained admittance on Luke’s recommendation. His former captain and several of the Marines at Mike’s Place were members. In addition to the live shows and burlesque atmosphere, the club also had rooms in the back and playrooms for those with the predilection for anything and everything.

“The same night you and Shannon had a date there. The club keeps records, and the manager is a friend.” Foster had to be a member, or he’d never have gotten the details. Leaning on his car, the detective scanned the street. Almost no foot traffic came through the area this early in the day. The shops around the corner didn’t open until after ten. “Bates is awake. She’s groggy, but they’re moving her out of ICU. I brought her some images to check and slipped a photo of Weston in.”

Brody sighed. “She couldn’t ID him.”

“No.” To his credit, Foster didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. “Morgan was still on watch there, and we’re keeping a plainclothes station at the hospital. Weston doesn’t know she can’t ID him, so there’s a chance he may still come at her.”

“It’s not her he wants,” Brody said, quietly.

“Actually—” Rowdy claimed Foster’s phone and studied it. “—it’s not her he hates. He wants her, sure, but he doesn’t hate her.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the detective asked before Brody could.

“Look at the big picture stuff…this jackass has been copying her work for years. If she’s right, he also raped her in college, but they didn’t even
date
then. Later, he’s fixed up with her and she takes off, doesn’t call him again. He’s still copying her work, but then her work changed.” Rowdy raised his brows and stared at both of them as though expecting them to follow his logic. “He’s obviously not able to copy the new stuff as well. What was in those letters she received?”

“The military angle,” Foster said. “He wanted her to stop sculpting military men.”

And he’d broken into her place and smashed all of her practice pieces. The loss had devastated Shannon.

“Right. If he’s the same guy who was in her room in Boston, he went after something the night of her big opening there. The only damage she reported was to her sketchbook.” Where she drew out her ideas, tried to envision what she wanted to create. She’d spent hours sketching Brody on the night they met. She still sketched him, telling him once it relaxed her. When he’d asked her to carve a piece about Rebel, it had thrilled her.

The challenge. Shannon had reveled in the challenge of capturing all the men he’d served with, in stone, because they were all different. His first date with her—she’d come because she wanted to recapture….

“Passion.” Brody wanted to swear. “Shannon’s work changed two years ago because she recaptured her passion. This fucknut thinks it’s the military work. It’s why he wants her to stop. He wanted into the Sybarite Club because it’s where she and I met. He probably thinks something inside affected her. Has he been stalking her since college?”

“If he has, he can’t hide the evidence of that. But to get a search warrant I need cause, and right now, we don’t have it.” Foster sounded pissed off. Another point to him.

“Then we get evidence.” Locking him up wasn’t the only solution to their problem. The man had hurt her—too many times.

“We can’t kill him,” Foster said.

“No, we can’t,” Rowdy agreed with the detective. “He doesn’t have to know we can’t.”

“Yeah, we’re
not
torturing him either. We keep digging, and if the guy is guilty, we will find what we need to lock him up.” The system. The detective wanted them to trust the system.

Cold rage surged through Brody’s veins and then quieted. His respiration and heart rate settled. He’d run headlong into places most men were pissing themselves to get out of. He’d gone in, done his job, and been successful more times than he’d failed. Fast response was what he did—his anger had to wait. “I don’t need to torture him. I just need to taunt the fucker. I’m not waiting for him to slip up or to try for Shannon again. He’s been doing this for years. All he has to do to not get caught right now is to wait us out.” To wait out the clock running on Brody. Rowdy had given him forty-eight hours. Less than thirty-six remained.

“You want to go see him.” It wasn’t a question, and Rowdy didn’t bother to hide his disapproval.

“Oh, yeah.” Brody smiled. “Where is he right now?”

Less than an hour later, Foster led the way into the Chase tower. Weston’s current assignment was only six blocks from Shannon’s studio. Apparently, the bastard liked to be close to her. They took the elevators to the thirty-second floor. Both Foster and Rowdy wore suits, Brody stood out in his jeans and T-shirt. A vicious part of him wanted to put on his uniform, but he didn’t currently have the right to wear it and might soon lose all rights to it. So, he’d do this as the man, not the Marine.

Only two companies dominated the floor, one that managed oil and a second that handled advertising and public relations for a broad spectrum of clients. Foster produced his badge and told the receptionist they were there to see Weston. The woman picked up the phone quickly and called her boss. Within minutes, they were led to a conference room, and Weston came in from another door.

The man focused on Foster then Rowdy. Their suits suggested authority, and the delay gave Brody time to study his target. Nearly six feet in height, his brown hair cut with military precision, leaner build, but he’d apparently been trying to build bulk, based on the muscular neck and forearms.

He had a softer build. Nothing really cut about him, but his muscles were there. He always made me think of the nerd hero you read about in books. Like he was one workout montage away from buffing up
.

So, the man had found his workout montage. He might even be able to take a real beating. Brody didn’t smile.

“Detective, they said you needed to talk….” Weston’s gaze found Brody, and his genial, bland expression fled. The man blanched, and sweat appeared on his forehead. Not saying a word, Brody stared at him.

“Yes, we have some questions regarding a case we’re investigating.” By the book, Foster had insisted and Rowdy agreed. The two cops wanted to play it straight and clean. They wanted to be able to arrest the guy. Brody hadn’t disagreed on the latter point, but as to the former, he was open to interpretation. “You are Dale Weston? You attended the University of North Texas and later, the Dallas Art Institute?”

Weston didn’t answer immediately, and if it were possible, he paled further. Dark circles stained the underarms of his dress shirt. Caught between fight and flight, the coward stood there, with a dumb expression on his face, and stared back at Brody.

Fear. Weston needed to feel it. How many years had Shannon been locked into a cage this son of a bitch had the key to?

“Mr. Weston?” Rowdy took a single step in the other man’s direction. Weston fell back three, damn near hitting the door he’d entered by. “Can you answer the question?”

“What—” Weston coughed and jerked his gaze from Brody to the other two then back. Brody didn’t smile, and he didn’t give the man a moment’s respite. The sweat practically dripped down Weston’s face by then. He fought to recover, but he couldn’t stop glancing at Brody. “Why do you need to know?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Weston.” Foster didn’t give an inch.

“Fine, I went to both UNT and the Art Institute.” No reason to offer a denial. While Weston remained pale and sweaty, he also seemed to be fighting to recover from his shock. “If that’s all you needed, I have work to do.”

“Sit down.” Rowdy tapped the table. “We have a few more questions.”

“I’m sorry, this is where I
work
, and I don’t have to answer anything.” There, the sniveling little weasel had found his courage. “If you want to talk to me again, call my attorney, Martin Fisk. I’m pretty sure you can find his number with a search.”

“I said
sit down
.” Marine training came in handy, and Rowdy’s orders had an effect on their target whether the other man liked it or not. Weston took two steps toward the table before catching himself and stopping.

“Mr. Weston, we’re investigating a series of crimes,” Foster said. “So, you can feel free to not answer our questions right now, which would constitute an obstruction of justice charge and we can take this conversation to the station.” Which wouldn’t do any of them any good unless the bastard confessed. If they had enough evidence, they wouldn’t even need this conversation. Foster would have arrested him.

After a long exhale, Weston gave them a tight smile. “Ask your questions.”

“What’s the nature of your relationship with Shannon Fabray?”

Weston waited a beat too long. “Who?”

Rowdy pulled out a copy of the college paper and set it on the table. The lifestyle section featured a photo of Shannon and Dale standing side-by-side at an art fair. How the hell Rowdy discovered the information, Brody didn’t know.

Making a show of examining at the paper, Weston couldn’t quite hide the faint tremble of his hand. The perspiration ring under his arms grew larger. The men had rattled his cage.

But not enough.

“Apparently someone I went to college with,” he lied. “Do you know everyone you went to school with?”

Foster set another stack of papers on the table. “These are from your website, StatuesForYou dot com. Interesting how each and every one of the
replicas
you’re peddling bears a striking resemblance to Fabray Originals.”

Each sheet contained the images of Shannon’s work next to Weston’s. Brody hadn’t needed the evidence of how good or how much better her work was than the cheap knockoffs Weston produced.

“Wow. What do you know? She sculpts Greek statues?” His air of cockiness couldn’t diminish the stink of his body odor. “Because no one else does.”

“And
Her Marine
?” Brody asked, speaking for the first time. Weston’s attention jumped back to him, and the other man swallowed hard. “Everyone sculpt this one, too? Of course, her work is exquisite. Detailed. Incredibly accurate and evocative. Passionate.”

Weston reacted to each adjective as though they were physical blows.

“And yours?” Brody sneered. “Pretty pathetic, cheap, and a lame effort to copy a master.”