She’d also worked with Nate Winter for a time in New York.
“Ethan and I want to take you house hunting tonight.” Ethan Brooker was a former Special Forces officer, now a White House advisor; he and Juliet were engaged to be married in the fall. “We’ll grab a bite to eat on the way.”
“Is noncompliance an option?” Mackenzie asked.
Juliet grinned. “No.”
“Then I’d be delighted.”
“Good. We’ll meet you back here in an hour.”
Mackenzie realized she wouldn’t even get a chance to head home and change her shoes. She saw Nate’s fingers in the house hunting idea. Had he put Juliet and Ethan up to it out of concern for her welfare – or out of concern over what she’d do next?
Maybe, Mackenzie thought, Juliet and Ethan were just trying to befriend a new deputy in town who’d just survived a knife fight.
Probably not.
But sooner or later, she’d have to find a place to live. The leaks would be fixed, and the house eventually would open to the public.
If the leaks were the work of the resident ghosts, Mackenzie didn’t want to be around for what they cooked up next.
“I’ll be ready,” she told her new friend.
Juliet nodded, obviously satisfied. “Do you have enough to keep you busy for the next hour?”
“You bet. If I look the slightest bit bored, someone will shove a stack of files at me. Idle hands and all that.”
“You’re learning.” Juliet grinned. “See you soon.”
Twenty
Jesse looked out the impressive windows of his leased condo at the Potomac River reflecting the orange sunset and wished he’d paid more attention in his U.S. history classes. Washington was jam-packed with historic sites, museums, government buildings. Earlier in the summer, he’d been standing on a corner, debating where to get a bite to eat, and realized he was practically on top of Ford’s Theater, where John Wilkes Booth had shot Abraham Lincoln.
Mackenzie was an academic. Political science. She would know the history of many of Washington’s more obscure sites.
He turned away from the window. So far, the investigation into the tragic death of the congressional aide didn’t seem to be leading detectives to Cal Benton. He and his blonde had been careful, just not so careful that Jesse didn’t have pictures of them.
But the search for Harris was heating up. Jesse felt secure that he had bought himself time to pressure Cal, but was it enough time? He couldn’t push too hard and risk having Cal take his chances with the FBI, go to them with his little insurance policy and cut a deal – Jesse in exchange for a reduced prison sentence or no prison sentence at all.
It was a delicate balancing act.
Jesse didn’t have to remain patient, but he had to be deliberate, purposeful.
He headed down to the lobby and out to the parking garage, getting into his rented BMW. Cal’s car was parked at the end of the row. Perfect. He would have seen by now that someone had been inside his condo.
And he hadn’t called the police, because he wouldn’t dare.
Feeling his spirits revive, Jesse drove out to Arlington and the historic house where Mackenzie was staying. He had driven past the place earlier and spotted a honey-haired woman in the driveway, conferring with two contractors in separate vans. Sarah Dunnemore Winter, no doubt. He’d done his research.
He liked the idea that he and Mackenzie both had temporary residences. It wasn’t just something they could share – it meant that her future was as yet uncertain.
What if he and his pretty marshal were bound to be together?
What if that was why he hadn’t killed her? Not because of her skill and luck, but because his subconscious had undermined his plans? On some level, he’d known he had to let her live.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway. He considered slipping inside the house and waiting for her return, but that was too impulsive, too dangerous. If he was wrong and Mackenzie was on the premises, she’d have him. She was on alert these days and she was armed. He wouldn’t get away a second time.
The house’s security system was unimpressive – one of the improvements that would likely come in time. Right now, there were no surveillance cameras on the property. It was a simple matter for Jesse to park in the shade and get out of his car. He’d grabbed a knife just like the one he’d used in New Hampshire – a straightforward Ka-Bar.
He cut a fat pink hydrangea blossom and left it on her doorstep.
“From a friend,” he said. “From someone who knows you better than you know yourself.”
To be sure she knew it was from him, he left his assault knife with the hydrangea.
Twenty-One