He’d never used the words hostage or kidnapping.
And he never said who’d invited him to participate in the mission. He didn’t define his role, but Juliet surmised that he’d led a handpicked rescue team—he was an officer, he was experienced, and he was the type. Their job was to get their guy out of there, not figure out what had happened and who was responsible. They hadn’t had a lot of time, and there was no room for mistakes.
“Bobby Tatro didn’t take Juliet’s picture,” Ethan said. “He was in Colombia. Check. You’ll find out he took a flight from Newark to Miami to Bogotá on the Friday of Labor Day weekend.”
Rivera lifted a brow. “We’ll check. Return flight?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“You ever put your eyes on him when you were down there?”
Ethan shook his head.
“But you have confirmation—”
“No. Not the kind you mean.”
“Your rescued American,” Juliet said. “He confirmed Tatro’s involvement in the kidnapping, didn’t he?”
Ethan glanced at her but didn’t answer.
“Unless he was deliberately misleading you—”
“You mean unless he was lying,” Ethan said.
“Was he?”
“I don’t know. My guess? He wasn’t in any condition to lie, but he’s smart—smarter than the rest of us. It’s not out of the question.”
“Where’s your guy now?” Rivera asked abruptly.
“Home.”
It was an insufficient answer, and Rivera took in a sharp breath through his nostrils, which was never a good sign. Juliet sat forward in her chair. “Tatro knew my niece’s name in the coffee shop on Thursday,” she said. “What if he didn’t overhear her and Juan talking? What if Juan told him?”
“It’ll be interesting to see what Tatro has to say.” Rivera absently took a gulp of coffee, apparently having forgotten how bad it was, and nearly spit it out. He set the mug hard on his desk. “I want a name, Brooker. Someone in Washington I can call. Someone who can talk.”
“I’ll pass along your name and number.”
Rivera swore under his breath but didn’t push any further, then shifted his attention back to Juliet, his black eyes softening ever so slightly. “It’ll ease your niece’s mind to know your doorman didn’t die because he was trying to protect her.”
He didn’t bother asking more questions, raising more possibilities, just kicked Juliet and Ethan out of his office and told them to stay in touch.
Juliet nearly ripped the door off its hinges climbing into her truck. She stabbed the key into the ignition. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt and concluding that the concussion you got in August when you fell into Ravenkill Creek affected your brain. That’s why you slept with me before telling me you’d figured out the doorman was involved in this mess.”
“I’m not that complicated, Juliet.” Ethan pulled his door shut as the engine started. “Mostly I was just thinking about sleeping with you.”
“There’s more.” She jammed the truck into gear. “There’s a lot more you’re not telling us.”
“I think that’s clear.”
“This rescue mission was a black op. Off the radar.” She jammed into Reverse and hit the gas too hard, screeching out of her space, then braking hard, glaring at him. “It’s my niece who was terrorized yesterday, my apartment that was ransacked, my fish that are dead and put up for adoption—”
“Juliet.”
She ignored him, shifted into second gear. “And I’m the one you just screwed.”
“Maybe that was a mistake,” he said quietly.
Her eyes burned with fatigue, frustration, unreasonable anger. “Maybe it was.”
She wondered if Char Brooker had known even half of what her husband had done in the line of duty. An army intelligence officer herself, she still wouldn’t necessarily be privy to his missions. Even with the post-9/11 intelligence reforms, operational security would still prevent him from giving her details she didn’t need to have.
Juliet realized just how little she knew about the man sitting next to her.
Ethan said nothing on the drive back to the Upper West Side. Once in her apartment, he washed up and got his stuff together. Juliet looked at her rumpled sheets—the fitted sheet was half off—and tried to find it in herself to regret last night. But she couldn’t, and she didn’t.
She stood in her bedroom doorway, arms crossed on her chest as Ethan walked past her into the hall. “Wendy said Tatro’s eyes were stone-cold with hatred. She’d never seen anything like them.”
Ethan stopped and tucked a short curl, one of about a thousand sticking out, behind her ear. “You need a chance to clear your head.” His voice was steady, without even a hint of an edgy undertone. “Take a shower, get something to eat.”
“I’m making a pot of coffee.”
She didn’t ask him to stay. He didn’t offer.
When he was gone, Juliet latched the dead bolt behind him. Fatigue overwhelmed her. She pictured Wendy, alone, sneaking back for her dead dog’s ashes and ending up in a fight for her life.