Cal didn’t seem to be breathing. “Then you are violent.”
Jesse smirked and said, “We’re all violent.”
Thirty
Rook listened to the water run in the shower as he put on coffee. What could be more normal on a summer Saturday morning? But nothing was normal. Not today. Mackenzie had slipped out of bed early and logged on to Brian’s computer to buy an e-ticket for a shuttle up to New Hampshire. T.J. was on the way. They had work to do. As of yesterday afternoon, J. Harris Mayer had become a priority.
Last night, Rook’s brothers and father had all described incidents where they’d faced similar intransigence, arrogance and manipulation on the part of a conflicted source, with a bad outcome of one kind or another. In his own case, the outcome was as bad as it could get. Harris was dead.
T.J. turned up with a bag of doughnuts. “I figured you could use a shot of sugar this morning.” As always, he looked as if he’d stepped out of an FBI recruiting ad. But he raised an eyebrow. “Mackenzie?”
“In the shower,” Rook said.
“Sure you know what you’re doing?”
“She’s heading to New Hampshire today to see Judge Peacham.”
T.J. pulled a glazed doughnut out of the bag. “She should leave the investigating to the rest of us and go read a book.” He sat at the table. “Maybe you should, too.”
“If you’d been attacked on the lake where you grew up, would you be reading a book?”
“I wouldn’t have been in a pink swimsuit when I was attacked, that’s for sure. I’m not criticizing. I’m just saying what I think.”
“Understood.” T.J. bit into his doughnut. Rook picked out a plain one. Too much sugar and he’d be bouncing off the walls. Mackenzie hadn’t invited him to fly to New Hampshire with her. He’d awakened before dawn and watched her sleep, realizing that a part of this woman he’d made love to was still up north. She’d lived in New Hampshire all her life. No matter how committed she thought she was to her new work, he could tell she wasn’t convinced yet it was where she belonged. It wasn’t just other people’s doubts. It was her own.
She entered the room, dressed in jeans, a summer jacket and a shoulder holster. Her wound had stood up to their gymnastics last night. Rook had tried to be careful, at least when his mind wasn’t totally elsewhere.
“Don’t you two look ready to climb tall mountains and slay dragons this morning,” Mackenzie said cheerfully, the ends of her hair still wet from her shower. “You don’t have much of a blow-dryer, Rook.” Her eyes lit up when she spotted the doughnut bag. “Ah. Doughnuts. You didn’t bring just two doughnuts, did you, T.J.?”
He grinned at her. “I’m a trained, experienced FBI agent. I knew you’d be here.”
She smiled, the freckles standing out against her cheeks. “Good thinking.” She plucked out another glazed doughnut. “My cab’s about to pull up. I’ll wait outside. Thanks for letting me leave my car here, Rook.”
“Not a problem.”
“See you tomorrow night. Let me know if there are any developments here.”
“We’ll tell you what we can,” T.J. said.
She obviously didn’t like that, but didn’t argue. “I’ll do the same.”
She picked up her backpack, which she’d dragged into the kitchen first thing, as if she’d wanted to avoid going back to the bedroom with T.J. there. But Rook wasn’t convinced he knew everything about how Mackenzie thought, what drove her. For answers, he suspected he needed to spend more time in New Hampshire, where she’d lived her entire life before packing up for the training academy.
He heard the cab arrive, then pull back into the street.
“You could you have stopped her,” T.J. said.
“Uh-huh. I have more guns. And you’d back me up.”
“No way. I’m staying out of whatever you two have going on. When I see sparks, I get out of the line of fire.” T.J. finished the last of his doughnut and rinsed off his fingers. “So when are you going up to New Hampshire?”
T.J. could read people better than anyone Rook had ever worked with. He sighed. “My flight leaves two hours after hers.”
“Then let’s get rolling.”
They headed straight to Cal Benton’s condominium complex. If he hadn’t returned overnight, someone there might know where he was.
A different doorman greeted them in the lobby, young, rail-thin, with a calculus textbook open on his desk. “You the ones who left that sketch?” he asked.
“A colleague did,” Rook said.
“I think I know the guy.”
Rook suppressed any reaction. “From your work here?”
“Yeah. I’m on part-time, mostly nights and weekends.” He pushed back his chair and yanked open a drawer, pulling out the crumpled copy of the sketch of Mackenzie’s attacker. He thumped a finger on it. “Yeah, he’s the guy. I saw him getting on the elevator just the other night. Two, three days ago.”