The Homecoming (25 page)

“My father was shot six months ago.”

“Doesn’t matter. The patterns of corrosion remain on the metal surface long after any finger residue is gone. And what’s really cool is that scientists have shown that even if the metal’s cleaned, heated to as high as a thousand degrees, or even painted over, fingerprints remain.”

“I never heard about that.”

“It’s not that well-known. Yet. The Brits are using it more than police in this country. But Phoenix Team likes to stay on top of things. I’m no scientist, but it has something to do with chloride ions from the salt in sweat, which produces lines of corrosion along the ridges of the fingerprint.”

“Unless killing was your business, you’d probably sweat a bit while loading a gun,” Kara said.

“That’d be my thought. The cool thing is that when metal’s heated—”

“Which is what would happen when a gun’s fired.”

“Exactly.” Cait nodded. “When it’s fired, the chemical reaction speeds up and actually makes the corrosion more pronounced. The only way to get rid of it is to abrasively scrape the surface layer of the metal off.” She studied the cartridge shell. “Which wasn’t done here. Another thing working in our favor is that different metals corrode differently. One of the ones the test succeeds best on is brass.”

Which was what gun cartridge casings happened to be made of.

“Bingo,” Kara said.

“Bingo, indeed. Whoever loaded the gun that killed your father or shot that guy in the park yesterday would’ve used their thumbs to push the shell and bullets in. That’s who you want. The people who loaded those guns.”

“I’m impressed.” And encouraged.

The other woman shrugged. “It’s my job.” Cait turned the bag over and over in her hands, studying it thoughtfully. “You said Sax feels there’s a connection?”

“There’s nothing to point to that, but—”

“Quinn has always said that he never worked with a spotter who possessed even an iota of Sax Douchett’s instincts. So, if I were you, I sure wouldn’t discount them now.”

“I’m not.” Kara retrieved the box with the skull and bone.

“Oh, wow.” Cait was gazing down at the contents of the box with the same expression Kara figured had probably been on her own face. “This is way cool.”

It was odd thinking there was another woman on the planet who thought the same way she did. “And probably old.”

“Looks that way to me,” Cait agreed. “Though I’ve seen from all my years working the cop shop in the Lowcountry how water can do a real number on human remains. But the forensic guy I know is really, really good, so we’ll see what he can do.”

She closed the box again, took a seal from her bag, stuck it on the lid, and signed and dated it as Kara’s mother had the bullet fragments from Danny’s skull, continuing the chain of evidence that could prove so important later in court.

“I really appreciate this,” Kara said. Then she asked the question she’d been holding back since the other woman’s arrival. “I guess your husband and Sax are close friends?”

“Although Quinn doesn’t like to talk about those days much, from what he’s said, they were closer than a lot of blood brothers. SEALs get their job done by not being noticed. Which means they’re a closemouthed lot at the best of times. But when two guys are out there in front, crawling through God knows what for hours on end, their entire world narrowed down to what they can see through a rifle scope, I suspect they get pretty damn good at reading each other’s minds.”

“I imagine so.” Kara considered how good Sax seemed to be at sensing
her
thoughts and wondered if it was a skill SEALs developed in training. Or perhaps it was the other way around: that men who already possessed such talent were more inclined to go into Special Operations.

“I suspect a bit of both,” Cait replied when she shared that thought.

“So,” Kara asked carefully, wanting to know more about Sax, but not wanting to appear to be digging for information—which, of course, she was, “I guess, since he made it back home, they weren’t together on Sax’s last mission. The one where Sax was captured.”

“No. Quinn had, thank heavens, already left the Navy by then. But they were together on another mission in Afghanistan that got dicey, and since Quinn had already decided that he’d rather write than fight—”

“Wait a minute.” Kara held up a hand. “Your husband is Quinn McKade? Who wrote
Kill Zone
,
Dead Center
,
American Sniper
, and
Shadow Team
?”

“That’s him. I guess you’ve heard of him.”

“He’s been a must-buy for me since his first book. And I just made the connection. . . . Wow. You’re Cait from the dedications.”

“That would be me.”

“Well, other than a minor character on a sitcom I pulled over for speeding one time on the Pacific Coast Highway, you’re my only other brush with fame.”

Cait laughed at that. Then immediately sobered. “Anyway, as I said, Quinn left the SEALs, but Sax stayed in and became a sniper for another team. Needless to say it was a tough time on all of us when he got captured.”

“I can imagine. He certainly seems to have come through the experience well. Considering.”

“You think so?”

“My late husband was a Marine who came home with PTSD problems. Problems I don’t see in Sax.”

“Maybe that’s because spec-op guys tend to be really good liars. Quinn tells me it’s because since they don’t go into a mission guns blazing, like the Marines and infantry, they often have to fit into their environment. Which requires the ability to lie their asses off when necessary. Now, as he puts it, by writing novels, he’s lying for a living.

“But just because Sax seems to not have any problems, I’d have a hard time believing that’s true. Especially since . . .”

Her voice trailed off. She frowned. “Damn. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I think it must be pregnancy brain fog. I’m talking too much.” Her breasts rose and fell like twin peaks as she sighed heavily. “I think the reason I feel comfortable discussing Sax at all with you is because he told me what good friends you are. And how far back you go.”

“To high school.” Kara wondered what, exactly, he’d told the former FBI agent.

“Yeah. That’s what he said.” Cait tilted her head and studied her with what Kara recognized as a cop look. “And you can tell me it’s none of my business, but it’s not like him to ask favors. So I’m guessing you were very close?”

“Sax’s older brother, Cole, was my husband’s best friend. When Cole and Jared went off to Marine basic training, Sax watched out for me.”

“Sounds like that hasn’t changed.”

“I guess not.” It was true. So far as it went. In other ways, everything had changed.

“Since you don’t appear to be blind, and I’m guessing that, since you were married and Sax mentioned a kid, odds are you’re not a lesbian, you’ve undoubtedly noticed that the guy’s really, really hot.”

Kara folded her arms. “Are you asking as an investigator? Or as Sax’s friend’s wife?”

“Actually, I’m asking as a woman who’s eating for three, hasn’t had anything since breakfast, and is long overdue for a lunch where I can talk about girl things like men and sex and date flicks for a change instead of bodies and bullets. And, if you happen to want to talk about a certain hot former SEAL, I’m up for that, too.”

It wasn’t what she’d planned. Then again, Sax was keeping Trey until suppertime. With her mother still in Portland, since it was technically her day off and she hadn’t had a real girls’ lunch since moving back home, there wasn’t anything to keep her from taking Cait up on her suggestion.

Plus, the idea of learning more about Sax’s life while he’d been away from Shelter Bay was more than a little appealing.

“The Sea Mist has tables overlooking the water where you can watch the whales. And the smoked clam chowder and crab cakes are to die for.”

Cait pushed herself to her feet. “Let me stop by the john to pee. Then you’re on.”

Faith woke to a gray sky. A slanting rain was hitting the window, streaming down the glass, obscuring the world outside.

Some people might find such a scene gloomy. To her it was like being wrapped inside a cocoon.

Beside her, John lay on his back, one arm over his head, the other flung over her bare breasts. When she reached down to tug the sheet up to cover herself, he mumbled a complaint in his sleep, and drew her closer.

She could have pulled away, but it felt so good to wake up in a man’s arms again. When he’d kissed her, not the light, soft brushing of lips, but that deep, soul-stealing kiss she’d felt all the way to her toes, Faith had assured herself that it was only sex. It was no big deal. People, after all, hooked up all the time. Although they might not have used the same term when she’d been in college and med school, one- night stands had pretty much been the norm. Except for her. She’d had two affairs before meeting Ben.

But each time they’d been serious relationships she’d mistakenly thought would become permanent.

The first had been her freshman year at Duke, just as the Woman’s College and Trinity College had merged into the coeducational Trinity College of Arts and Sciences, which added to the sense of change as thick as the scent of magnolia blossoms in the humid North Carolina air.

The boy she’d given both her heart and virginity to had been the son of a fisherman, a scholarship student from the Outer Banks whom she’d met her first day of freshman orientation.

His eyes had been as blue as Paul Newman’s, his body young and hard and virile, and his Southern drawl, so different from the Mid-Atlantic Main Line Philadelphia accent she’d grown up with, had turned even her name into poetry.

He’d been an art major, the most bohemian person she’d ever met, who wore torn jeans, white T-shirts, and actually went to class without shoes. Which was when Faith had discovered that male feet could be extraordinarily sexy.

He’d smoked dope, drunk cheap wine by the gallon, and, his sophomore year, grown a goatee that often rubbed her skin painfully raw in places she’d never imagined any man’s mouth touching.

Her parents, needless to say, had been shocked when she’d brought him home that first Thanksgiving. Which, looking back on it now, Faith realized, had been part of his appeal.

She’d loved him with all the fire and passion and, yes, wide-eyed, naive foolishness of a first grand love. After having her heart shattered when he unceremoniously dumped her for a model he met in his life drawing class, Faith swore off men and turned her full attention and devotion to getting into medical school.

No nun had ever embraced celibacy with the fervor and dedication she had. Until her internship, when a surgical resident—who wore his God complex like a second skin—had slid under her defenses by letting her scrub in on a trigeminal neuralgia radiosurgery using the then experimental Gamma knife technique.

He, too, had turned out to lack a monogamy gene, but she never resented discovering that he routinely slept with both attractive female interns and nurses, because during that life-altering surgery she’d found her medical calling. He’d gone on to have a brilliant medical career, only to ironically die of a brain tumor a few years ago.

Meanwhile, the artist, too, had done well; she’d recently read that his last painting had sold for half a million dollars, and he and his fifth wife—a wealthy society gallery owner who handled his paintings—had a Park Avenue apartment and homes in Florence, Italy, and Paris.

Ben, on the other hand, had been neither brilliant nor rich. What he’d been was a good man. The type of man who truly lived the “protect and serve” motto of police work. She’d known he was well-thought-of in Shelter Bay—after all, the people continued to elect him, and the last three campaigns no one had even bothered to run against him—but she’d had no idea how many lives he’d touched. It seemed everyone in town had a story to tell about some act of generosity they’d experienced from him.

John was much the same. Salt of the earth, a one-woman man, faithful to Gloria O’Roarke to the end, caring and compassionate. He was also more laid-back than Ben had been, which she might have considered a negative when she’d been younger. But now, feeling more than a little beleaguered by responsibilities, she found that trait appealing.

As if he’d sensed her studying him, he opened his eyes. And grinned sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said. “I think you wore me out.” There was an appealing twinkle in his eyes as he skimmed an appreciative glance over her. “I’m kind of out of practice.”

“If that’s how you make love to a woman when you’re out of practice, I’m really looking forward to watching you get your groove back, so to speak.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.” It wasn’t said as boasting, merely a fact, of which she had no doubt. “Then again, I’ve only ever been with one other woman.”

“Only one?”

“Glory and I lost our virginity together our senior year of high school, parked out on the cliff overlooking the coast. That was pretty much it for me. Never felt a need to look any further.”

“I met Ben later in my life. So I was with two men before him. But, like you, I was never tempted after him.”

She’d been trying to tug the sheet up, now that he was awake, but he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and smiled again over the top of their linked hands.

“Guess we both missed out on the sexual revolution,” he said with easy humor.

“I suppose so.” How could just his lips brushing over her knuckles make her want to jump his manly bones? “Though I don’t think we missed much. One-night stands and hookups were never my thing.”

“Mine either, obviously.” His expression sobered. “
This
was no one-night stand.”

It wasn’t a question, but Faith answered it anyway. “No.” They’d been headed toward last night for a while. John’s nephew getting shot had just given them both the extra shove they needed. “I don’t know where we’re going—”