Heroes In Uniform (236 page)

“You’re welcome.” Brown smiled back. “More?”

Marsh accepted gratefully.

Brown was nothing like the hotshot Marsh had expected. The guy had the look of indentured manservant about him. Meek, mild, nothing like Pru Duvall.

“Is it always this hot in the fall?” Slowing down, he sipped politely. The cool brew slid down his throat with icy welcome.

A ceiling fan whirred softly overhead, sending waves of hot air back to the ground and providing all the relief of a hairdryer. A curtain twitched in the light breeze. The sound of children’s laughter rode the sultry atmosphere with featherlike snatches of delight. Marsh was impatient for answers, but experience told him a little small talk and courtesy would get him further, faster, than barking demands. Especially in the south.

The room was stuffed full of period clothing and antiques. Enough to start a store. Mothballs, musty and pungent, were scattered around the place like little white marbles. Marsh surreptitiously dug one out from beneath his thigh, dropped it to the floor, wiping oily hands onto his pant leg.

“Keeps the cats off the chairs and moths out of the clothes.” Thomas nodded toward the railing full of old dresses that looked like they came from the film set of
Gone With The Wind
.

“Excuse me?”

“The mothballs.” Brown’s eyes crinkled softly in amusement. “Keeps the cats from damaging the fabric.” On cue a fluffy Persian stalked out from behind the desk, tail straight up in the air as it sashayed past Marsh.

“Are you some kind of collector?”

“No, sir.” Thomas smiled. “The opposite in fact. This all belonged to Miss Pru’s parents and grandparents. She asked me to get rid of the lot.” He took a seat behind the small desk that was cluttered with papers and files, a big hulking computer monitor and an old ring dial telephone.

“Does this house belong to Mrs. Duvall too?”

The house was a moderately-sized Regency, painted a ghostly pale-blue. Shutters and intricate iron balconies added to its visual appeal and it faced onto a square with a stone fountain at its center and giant oaks providing shade and shelter from the relentless heat.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, sir. Was her grandmother’s house originally, but Miss Pru had all her things moved here when her mother, Miss Virginia, died. She grew up in one of the big mansions on Abercorn Street, but she sold it. It’s a hotel now.”

Marsh nodded. He could see Pru growing up in decadent style and splendor, much like himself. But what he didn’t see was Pru selling up and moving to this house, which though beautiful and historic, wasn’t magnificent or grand like her childhood home must have been. Mansions were good for entertaining political cronies.

“Any idea why she sold up?” Marsh queried.

The whites of Thomas’ eyes were tinged with yellow. “I don’t rightly know, sir. Miss Pru doesn’t confide in me, just pays me to look after her property down here for which I’m very grateful.”

Thomas Brown was at least fifteen years older than Pru—Marsh wondered what family skeletons he knew about.
Had they been lovers?

“How often does Miss Pru come down here, Thomas?” Marsh asked.

The other man looked down at his brown leather shoes that stuck out the side of the desk. They were well worn, but not shabby, a bit like the man himself.

“Not often.” Thomas glanced over, squinting his eyes as if considering. “Maybe twice in the last three years…well, she’s been living in Australia on and off for the last little while.”

The lovers angle seemed a bit of a stretch.

Marsh pulled out a photograph of Admiral Chambers’ painting. “You sold this painting to a company called Total Mastery NY about six months ago. Do you remember it?”

Thomas sent Marsh a look that suggested he was an imbecile.

“Of course, I remember.” Thomas folded his hands across the front of his belted pants. “I was mighty pleased to get such a good price.”

Marsh didn’t tell the man that it was worth many times what he’d received for it—or nothing at all if it was stolen.

“Where did you get the painting, Thomas?”

“From the mansion.” Swollen knuckled fingers rubbed slowly through close-cropped black hair. “Miss Pru told me to sell anything that wasn’t needed to furnish this house. She’d already taken any pictures she wanted to keep.” The man nodded toward the clothes and porcelain that cluttered every space. “It’s taken me five years, but that’s all that’s left of it now.”

This wasn’t helping. “Do you remember when that particular painting first arrived at the mansion or how it got there?”

Chocolate eyes gleamed. “I don’t even recall exactly where I found it,” he said, frowning. “But I figured when I did find it, it might be valuable because it looked so old. I sent it off to a local firm to get it cleaned.” He shrugged, bony shoulders stretching the thin cotton. “When it came back it was almost unrecognizable. All that black dirt gone.” Those wide lips smiled. “The only thing I cared about was getting the money back for the restoration and making a tidy profit. What’s all this about, Agent Hayes?”

The painting had been cleaned since it was stolen from the admiral. “Do you know if Mrs. Duvall saw the painting after it was cleaned, but before it was sold?” Marsh scrubbed his hand over his face, recognizing a looming political nightmare. Establishing provenance was going to be much trickier than he’d anticipated. Could there be two identical paintings in circulation?

“I don’t rightly know, sir.” The gentle eyes held a hint of pity. “But I don’t think so.”

“Do you have any proof of provenance?” Marsh asked. This was rapidly turning into a waste of time.

Thomas smiled, cheeks balling into tight brown apples. “All the important papers were lost in a fire after the War Between States.” Thunder rolled in the distance and white light flickered around the room. He pushed back his chair and peered out the window as the clip-clop of horses’ hooves passed by. “Ironic to be spared by Sherman only to be brought low by a scullery maid, don’t you think?

“Here comes that storm,” Thomas commented.

Marsh nodded. His whole life felt like a storm right now and here he was sitting in Savannah learning absolutely nothing. His phone vibrated in his pants pocket.

He checked the number—
shit
.

He returned the unanswered phone to his pocket. He had one more question. “How do you sell the items, Thomas? At an auction house?”

“Miss Pru sent a shipment of finer antiques and such to a fancy auction house, left me to deal with the rest.” Thomas nodded toward the computer. “I put them on the web.”

Surprised, Marsh’s eyebrows stretched high. “You sold that painting online?” Holy crap.

“Yessir.” Thomas slowly nodded his head up and down. “The beauty of the Internet.”

Folding his jacket over his arms, Marsh thanked the man and said goodbye. There were no answers to be found in Savannah. Only another layer of old wealth and a mystery that was screaming at him through the distance of time and space. The journey here was nothing but a waste of time. Marsh’s cell rang again and this time he had to answer it.

He stood on the front steps overlooking a moss-draped Savannah square. “Hayes here.”

“Marsh…”

It was Josephine, and his heart was kicked into high gear by a bolus of adrenaline and then jolted by a crack of thunder overhead.

“Are you all right?” He told himself not to panic. Vincent wasn’t some chump.

“I’m fine. Vince is right here beside me.” She lowered her voice, the words becoming muffled as if she’d put her hands over her mouth. “Did the FBI talk to you about the latest murder yet?”

“We can’t talk about this over the phone.” They were on an unsecure channel. He didn’t intend to give anything away to some bastard listening in.

Josephine’s swallow was audible—more of a gulp. “It was your date. The girl you took to the art gallery opening. He killed Lynn Richards.”

Her Last Chance: Chapter Ten

Darkness filled the unlit stairwell. A thin strip of light shone beneath one doorway, but the others were black and empty. Propping a hand against the doorjamb, Marsh concentrated on breathing. In and out. Deep calming breaths that slowed the blood in his veins to a stultified roar.

The murder of Lynn Richard had shifted something fundamental within him, like the slow grinding of a tectonic plate at a geological precipice.

He’d caught the last connecting flight back from Atlanta. And though it was nearly midnight, he’d gone straight to the Richards’ home to express his condolences. It hadn’t gone well. Their daughter was dead—because of him. Marsh balled his fists with rage. Targeting Josephine was bad enough, and Angela Morelli, and all the other women the bastard had brutalized. But he’d planned the sadistic murder of that young woman based purely on nothing more than her photograph on the front page of a newspaper…

She was so young.

Christ
. In the Navy he’d lost men under his command and regrets over their loss sat like shrapnel in his chest. But
this
? He rubbed his eyes, wanted to rage, but instead pushed himself upright and slipped the key in the door. It swung open, Vince’s Desert Eagle pointed directly at his heart.

“Good thing I called first, huh?” Marsh recognized the empathy in the other man’s gaze. Vince had done god-knows-what, in more war zones than they had states and he understood loss. They stared at each other for a silent moment before Marsh looked away.

“Pays to be extra vigilant in the kill zone, Marshall. And now is the time to remember that.” Vince holstered his weapon, picked up his overnight bag and slung it over his shoulder. “See you in the morning.”

“Watch your back, Vince.”

The other man nodded sharply. Walked away, his rapid footsteps echoing off the walls with clipped efficiency. Marsh closed the door behind him and locked up. Rested his head against the cool wood as emotion washed through him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Josephine said out of the darkness.

He spun at her voice. Watched her shadow hover uncertainly beside her bedroom door.

“Yeah.” His voice was gritty. “It was.” He rubbed his throat, hoping to rid himself of the knot that threatened to choke him.

Josephine crossed over to the windows and looked out into the dark street beyond. Footsteps echoed faintly along the street, probably Vince hurrying back to his other life. “You can’t control everything.”

“I never even wanted to go out with her.” The memory of how he’d treated her, because she wasn’t Josephine, because his mother had set them up, ate at him. He’d been a spineless prick and now she was dead.

His eyes followed her movements hungrily in the dark. The moon caught the edge of her nightshirt, rimming her profile in silver. The outline of her body was visible through the backlit fabric, her shape filling him with an aching need. Bitterness ripped through him; self-loathing crawling through his body. Even Lynn’s death couldn’t turn off his desire for her; if anything it made it worse. These hours might be all they shared. She might never be his and although he’d die to protect her, there were no certainties in life. The only certainty was death.

“I didn’t want to go on a date with her because she wasn’t
you
.” The words spilled out when he’d thought they’d stay silent inside his head.
Shit
.

Her hands gripped the material at her breast. “I—”

“Don’t say it.” He dragged his hands through his hair and moved woodenly down the stairs. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”

She came toward him, stopped a few away. “I’ve never pitied you, Marsh. I’ve hated you and the things you make me feel, but I have never pitied you. This wasn’t your fault—”

“It was my fault,” Marsh said quietly. “If
I
hadn’t taken her to the gallery opening she wouldn’t be dead.”

Her shoulders tensed and her chin lifted. “If your mother hadn’t set you up on a date, if the photographer hadn’t taken your picture, if the newspaper hadn’t put us on the front page together.” She advanced until there was nothing between them but polarized molecules of electricity. “If I hadn’t survived.”

Pain tore his chest wide open.
Jesus
. It
was
his fault. He dropped down to the couch, hands over his face, the smell of naphthalene still embedded in his skin despite endless hand washing. Repugnant. Stomach clenching. Disgusting.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, felt Josephine’s arms slide around him, lightly, uncertainly, as if she had no clue how to comfort someone. “That bastard killed her like she was worthless. Slaughtered her because he wanted to give the FBI the finger. She was eighteen.”

“I want to help. Please tell me what I can do to help.”

Handcuffs would be good. Tie him up and fuck his brains out. That’d work.
Shit
. He wanted to sink into her flesh. Bury every desperate thought in soft folds wrapped around him so tight, no guilt could steal inside his head. Then he could pretend evil didn’t run rampant and unchecked through their world. He could pretend the law would prevail and they’d nail this sick bastard and she’d be safe. But it might never happen. They might never catch him.

Josephine cradled his head to her breast and rocked him.

She was rocking
him
.

He raised his head so their eyes were level, the usual vivid blue of hers just another shade of gray in the moonlight. The skin around her mouth was tight, her lips compressed, as if she held emotion forcibly inside, unable to release it, unwilling to express it. He cupped her cheek, rubbed his thumb across the hard line of her lips and felt them relax a fraction as she released a breath. She smelled of grapefruit as if she’d recently showered, skin still slightly damp.

She never railed against fate or the terrible things that had happened to her. No matter what this killer threw at her, she didn’t give an inch and Marsh didn’t think it was because she didn’t feel the fear, but because she’d barricaded herself behind so many emotional defenses she was almost impenetrable.

Almost.

“I think you’re a better man than most.” Her hand caught his, pressing it into her cheek.