Hector Sanchez was physically unable to fire an AR-15.
Nate had suggested Joe Collins make sure the autopsy on Sanchez included a check of his right hand. Not that Collins needed any advice—and he sure as hell wasn’t thrilled when Nate refused to tell him his source.
But that was the way it was—he wasn’t putting Sister Maria through an FBI interrogation. She worked in her neighborhood and believed in its people, and no matter how many times one or another of them betrayed her trust, she would never betray theirs.
The FBI had the wrong man. In her mind, it was that simple.
Except Joe Collins wasn’t yet convinced. He had solid witnesses who put Hector in Central Park with an AR-15 at the time of the shooting.
He had the weapon.
He had the silencer.
Collins, in his mild-mannered way, had reminded Nate that he was supposed to be recuperating, not meddling in an FBI investigation.
Rob tried to sit up. “I’m supposed to be blowing in that air thing more. For my lungs. Keeps me from getting pneumonia. It wears me out.” He sank back against the bed. “Christ. I’m a mess.”
“Give it time.”
“Hector was my guy. Is this going to come back and bite me in the ass?”
“I don’t know.” Nate didn’t bother with niceties, but there was no point in Rob dwelling on what he couldn’t change. “I think you were right about getting your sister out of here.”
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
She was pretty. Very pretty. Nate had come in contact with her three times in less than twenty-four hours, and he wasn’t immune to the feel of that slim body. But talk about a mustn’t touch. A seriously wounded marshal’s twin sister, the president’s surrogate daughter—an attractive academic who wanted answers to the shooting as much as any of them.
“I’m lowering the boom on her before she does something stupid,” Nate said. “She’s upset about you. It’s making her reckless.”
“Send her back to Tennessee.”
Rob obviously hadn’t changed his mind now that he was more lucid. “Why do you want her out of here?”
“Because she does things like follow senior deputies.”
“Rob, if there’s something else, now’s the time—”
“My parents,” Rob said weakly. “They’re coming?”
“That’s what I understand. I don’t have the specifics. Rob—”
“They can take over family duty. Get Sarah out of here. Wes Poe—that’s out, right? That he and my family are friends?”
“It’s out.”
“Sarah can’t stay here. At home…” His eyes were half-closed, and he was fading fast, sinking into the bed. “Tell her I’ll be there soon. Tell her she can make me a prune cake.”
A nurse came over and checked Rob’s IV line, glancing meaningfully at Nate. He took the hint. “Take care of yourself, Rob. Don’t worry about anything else. I’ll look after your sister myself.”
He managed a wry smile. “Why am I not reassured?”
Nate found Sarah chatting with Juliet Longstreet in the waiting room. He thought he heard his name mentioned, and when he walked in, even Juliet went red. “Looks like I should have eavesdropped,” he said. “What did I miss?”
“Don’t mind him,” Juliet said to Sarah. “You have to pass a jackass test to become a senior deputy.”
Nate pointed at her. “One day, Longstreet, someone’s going to take exception to that mouth of yours.”
She gave him a big, phony smile. “Just kidding, Deputy Winter.” She shifted her attention back to Sarah. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
Sarah made a move to go after her—to escape, Nate thought—then gave it up and cleared her throat, fixing her gray eyes on him. “I apologize for following you.”
“Apology accepted.” He decided not to waste any time on niceties. “Here’s the deal. I’ve talked to Rob. You’re going home to Tennessee. I’m putting you on a plane myself.”
She didn’t seem surprised and just shook her head at him. “I’m staying here until Rob’s better.”
Nate could feel himself responding to her obstinacy with a touch of his own. If they were going to get into a power struggle, he planned to win. Plus, he knew he was right. Rob was right. The woman needed to get out of the thick of things.
“I told him that,” she added.
“Your brother wants you out of here. I want you out of here. So guess what? I can pack your bags, or you can. Make up your mind.”
“It’s not like I committed a federal offense—”
“Actually, yes, it is. Interference in a federal investigation.”
“You’re not investigating—” She stopped herself. “Anyway, Juliet says you had to have known I was following you. You could have stopped me, and you didn’t.”
Leave it to Juliet to open her big damn mouth. “Deputy Longstreet is welcome to her opinion.”
Sarah tilted her head back, the gray eyes cool now, intelligent and not particularly apologetic—she didn’t regret what she’d done. “I’m not always that impulsive.”
Nate didn’t give her an inch. “From what I’ve seen so far, I’ll bet you are.”
His conversation with Sister Maria—Hector’s death—had thrown him. Rob’s certainty that he was the shooter’s target, his determination to get his sister out of New York, her friendship with the president and Nate’s own growing conviction that Dr. Dunnemore, with her pretty eyes and blond hair and her sexy southern accent, was trouble.
It made sense to put her on a plane.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said stiffly. “I thought I was following a man who’d gone through a terrible ordeal and had just heard some upsetting news. I wasn’t thinking about you as a federal agent.”
“Your mistake.”
“What, are you going to arrest me?”
“I might.”
She didn’t seem especially intimidated. “You eat, sleep and drink your work, don’t you, Deputy Winter?”
“And you don’t, Dr. Dunnemore?”
“My work doesn’t involve guns and bad guys.”
“Precisely why you’re going home.”
She bristled. “I want to see my brother.”
“Go ahead.”
She walked stiffly out of the room, but Nate was impressed. He’d done his best to wither her, and she hadn’t withered. People far more accustomed to him in a kick-ass mood would have.
He’d have to make sure he didn’t touch her again. Catching her when she’d tripped on his feet yesterday, then when she started to go down in the park, this morning when he’d marched her out the door at Sister Maria’s—no telling what would happen if he got hold of that slip of a body again.
He told himself it wasn’t the reason he was sending her home.
Sarah rode up front with Nate with her knees pressed together, her hands on her thighs and her eyes straight ahead, making no pretense that she liked one damn thing about being sent home. But it was what Rob wanted—it seemed to be what he needed—so she was going.
She didn’t care what Nate wanted. His threat to arrest her was a lot of hot air—he wouldn’t dare. Like Rob, he needed a place to put his anxiety over the shooting and Hector Sanchez’s death, and it was on her shoulders.
Having reporters shouting questions at her about her relationship with the president as she and Nate had left the hospital hadn’t helped her case, either.
Rob was fully on board in the conspiracy to get her out of town.
And maybe it did make sense. He was improving, at least physically. Their parents would be there soon and could help get him back to Night’s Landing to complete his recovery. In the meantime, Sarah would make him a prune cake and fix up the downstairs bedroom for him.
When he got home, she’d take him out on the river in the boat. They’d read books on the porch and drink gin and tonics and catch up with each other. It’d been ages since they’d had a good stretch of time together. She was between projects. She didn’t know what to do with herself—she could easily stay in Night’s Landing until Rob was back on his feet.
But she’d made it clear to her brother that she was returning to Night’s Landing to put his mind at ease, and for no other reason.
He’d been amused. “I can just see you going toe-to-toe with Nate, but I’d put money on Nate. You still care what people think. He doesn’t. He’s a good guy, but you’re not going to win with him.”
She didn’t want to win. She just wanted her brother safe and well, and if going home helped him in his recovery, even in a small way, then she’d go home.
Nate negotiated the city traffic with no indication that his injured arm bothered him in the least. “Mad?” he asked, unconcerned.
“Resigned to my fate.”
His laugh surprised her. “Is that a touch of the infamous Dunnemore drama?”
Sarah glanced over at him and saw that his color was off slightly. He had to be in at least some pain. “You’ve been researching my family?”
“Ten minutes on the Web last night. If all those reporters can do it, so can I. I found some paper you wrote on southern historical archaeology sites.”
“Did you read it?”
He gave her a quick, wry smile. “I only had ten minutes.” He made a turn into LaGuardia Airport, impervious to the crush of traffic. “Anyone else in Night’s Landing?”
“The property manager. Neighbors, friends. I won’t be alone.”
“This property manager lives in your house?”
“In a separate cottage.”
“Fancy.”
She smiled. “My grandmother used to live there. The place is lovely, and it’s very special to my family, but I wouldn’t say it’s fancy.”
“My uncle’s redecorating the house I grew up in. He did up the half bath like it’s a tropical paradise. It’s god-awful.”
Sarah laughed in spite of her determination to stay irritated. She didn’t want to let him off the hook for pressuring her, threatening her with arrest. “Why don’t you go up there to recuperate?”
He turned to her without warning, his eyes almost a navy blue in the afternoon light, then shifted his gaze back to the congested traffic ahead of him. “I wasn’t seriously injured.”
“But the trauma of being shot—”
“I’ve been shot at before.”
She didn’t push her point further. “The distinction being that the bullet didn’t actually hit you.”
“I don’t need to recuperate.”
“You want to find the real sniper before he tries again,” she said quietly, without any hint of accusation.
“Everyone does.”
“But you’re one of the victims. The FBI and your bosses can’t want you intruding—any more than you wanted me following you this morning.”
He kept his eyes pinned on the road. “I’m not worried about getting into trouble with the FBI or anyone else.”
“In a way, we’re in the same position.”
“No, we’re not.”
She decided to abandon that approach. “Does Special Agent Collins believe Hector Sanchez is their man?”
Nate didn’t answer. She started to point out the signs directing them to her gate, but he’d already made the turn.
“I see. Wrong question. You’re not going to or you can’t tell me. If the shooter, whoever it is, actually targeted you and Rob, he had to know you were going to be at that news conference. You can’t just pull off a sniper attack in Central Park without advance planning. Was Hector Sanchez capable of that kind of detailed planning?”
More silence.
“Then the real shooter—the guy who set up Mr. Sanchez—must have known he was one of Rob’s informants, manipulated him somehow because of it, and then killed him when he no longer needed him.” Sarah thought a moment. “No one’s going to think Rob slipped up, will they? Blame him because the real shooter found out about Sanchez?”
“Sarah, I’m not discussing the investigation with you.”
“Why not? I’m about to fly to Tennessee and spend the next few days baking prune cakes and fluffing pillows in anticipation of my brother’s arrival. I’m not going to meddle in the FBI’s and the Marshals Service’s business. Even if I wanted to, how could I?”
Nate glanced at her. “Time to change the subject.”
She wasn’t getting anything out of him. “How far did I really get before you were onto me this afternoon?”
“Not an inch. I saw you get into your cab.”
Sarah believed him. She told herself she wasn’t surprised and had no reason to be embarrassed, but felt a jolt of heat that, after he parked, prompted her to try to talk him out of escorting her to the gate. “I’ve got an hour. There’s no chance I’m not going to make my flight.”
“That’s right,” he said. “There isn’t.”
“You know, I’m not a prisoner you’re transporting.”
“It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you were,” he said, getting out of the car.
Sarah decided not to pursue that one.
In spite of the bullet wound in his arm, he insisted on carrying her bag, and bought her a bottle of water for her flight. He was a federal officer, and thus allowed to escort her all the way to her gate.
When her flight started to board, she felt a prick of panic at the idea of leaving. “If there’s any change in Rob’s condition—”
“I’ll let you know myself. I promise.”
She had the feeling Nate was a man who didn’t make many promises. “I’ll be on the first flight back to New York.”
“Understood.”
“All right. Fair enough.” She straightened, sighing, awkward. “Well. I guess that’s it. Take care of yourself, okay, Deputy Winter?”
He gave her that toe-curling smile. “Just get on that damn plane.”
She blew him a kiss, hoping to throw him off his hard-ass game and assert some control over her situation, but he grinned and winked at her, sending hot sparks right through her.
Just as well she was getting out of town. Another day with him, and they’d be in bed.
The thought propelled her down the jetway.
When she took her seat on the plane, the realization that she was alone hit her. Her throat tightened.
But wasn’t this what she was used to? Never mind that she’d been all but run out of town on a rail, she was on her own with no one to answer to, no one to rein in her impulses—and no one beside her, she thought with an unexpected rush of emotion. When she got to Night’s Landing, she could do as she pleased. Wasn’t it the way she liked it?
Whether she liked it or not, it was the way it was.
Nicholas Janssen waited until after midnight Amsterdam time for the call from Claude Rousseau, who should have arrived in New York yesterday afternoon. Janssen was still in the Dutch city, isolated in a suite of rooms in a seventeenth-century gabled house that had been converted into a very small, very private hotel along picturesque Herengracht, one of the finest canals in Amsterdam.