Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets (17 page)

Megan forked up the last bite of her cake, then scraped the plate clean of the fudge icing. “So, you didn’t answer my question. Are you happy?”

“I like my life, yes. So, overall, I’m happy. With the exceptions you noted.”

She sighed. “I guess we should get back to murder and mayhem.”

Justin carried the tray and set it in the hall, then went into the bathroom. She retrieved the printouts he’d brought, and spread them on the table. What was the connection to her? Or Rose and Sam?

“I don’t get it,” she said when he joined her. She waved the printouts she’d been reading. “How is this all connected? You’ve got Heinrich Kaestner, who is believed to be a Nazi war criminal. And Henry Carpenter, who’s dying of cancer in some nursing home in Arizona. You think they’re the same guy?”

“I’m not the one who thinks so—I’m merely repeating what’s in those articles.”

She squinted at the pictures. “These are lousy reproductions. I can see some resemblance, I suppose, since you told me about it. But in this picture, Kaestner is decades younger than Carpenter. If his identity is important, can’t they test his DNA?”

“They didn’t exactly do DNA testing during World War II,” Justin said. “There wouldn’t be anything to match it to.”

Duh. “So, for argument’s sake, Henry Carpenter is Heinrich Kaestner. That makes Carpenter a Nazi war criminal. He’s going to die soon anyway, probably before they can bring him to trial, assuming the trip doesn’t kill him first. I didn’t know you felt so strongly about making them pay their dues.”

“I don’t. I mean, until recently I’ve never given it any in-depth thought. Do I think they should be punished? Yes. Do I think people should be dragged from their deathbeds to stand trial? I don’t know.”

Megan waved the pages. “Even if these two people are the same man, and based on these pictures, I’m not convinced they are, what does wanting to deport a dying old man have to do with me being mugged, or Betty Bedford being killed?”

“Probably nothing,” he said. “But think about it. There’s another connection.”

Her heart did a rendition of Riverdance in her chest. A chill slithered through her. “Rose. Sam. They never talk about it, but yeah, they come from Germany. You think one of them knew this Kaestner guy?”

Justin bolted to his feet. “Megan, I need your help here.” He paced to the door and back, yanking at his hair. “I can’t…I won’t have them hurt.” His voice was a soft whisper, but there was no masking the determined vehemence behind it.

As if she wouldn’t sacrifice everything for them. “Of course. What do you need?”

“I don’t want them to know. Promise me, this stays between the two of us.”

She got up from her seat and studied him. For the first time, she recognized the strain in his face, strain he’d been carrying since she arrived. It wasn’t because Rose had passed out, or their house had been ransacked. This went deeper.

“Justin. Slow down. Take a breath.” She blocked his path and trapped him in an embrace when he collided with her. She leaned into his chest, his heartbeat pounding in her ears. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

He blew out a sigh, warm against her hair.

“We’re in this together.” She raised her face to his, stared into his worry-filled eyes. Without thinking, she grazed her lips against his. Heat flamed her cheeks. She pulled away. “Sorry.”

He smiled. “Don’t be.” Some of the worry left his eyes.

“I might have some information for you, too,” she confessed, remembering the notes Gordon had shown her. Back to dead bodies.

“You go first,” he said.

“You remember the car accident I didn’t exactly witness?”

“The one the cop mentioned?”

“Yes. The dead guy had some papers in his car.” She explained how they might connect her, Rose, and Sam to the dead man.

Justin went board-stiff. “And you didn’t bother to mention it?”

“The man was dead. And then everything went crazy. It didn’t seem important anymore. Nobody’d heard of Karl Franklin. You said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t. But someone sent him after you. And my grandparents.”

“We don’t have proof. Gordon’s job is to figure out exactly who he was, and why he had those pictures.” Justin clawed at his hair again. She reached for his hands and gently pulled them away. “Keep that up and you won’t have any hair left. Now it’s your turn. Why is this guy—” she tapped the picture of Kaestner—“so important?”

“First, tell me. What do you know about Opa’s family? Did he ever tell you anything else—about his parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles?”

“Only that everyone died in the war. That’s all he ever says. He never mentioned brothers or sisters. Did you ask your mom? Maybe they told her stories.”

“If they did, she’s as close-mouthed about it as my grandparents. It’s as if life for Oma and Opa didn’t start until they hit the States.”

Megan thought for a minute, trying to sort through her memories. “I know they didn’t grow up in the same city. They didn’t meet until she was at UCLA, and Sam worked in a nearby bookstore. They met, fell in love, got married and moved to Mapleton. That’s all they’d say.”

“Yeah, that much I know,” Justin said.

“I have a feeling Sam was lucky to get out of Germany, and that he might have been caught up in some of the persecution, but he won’t talk about it. And Rose follows his lead. The most I’ve ever heard her say was that she was very lucky. And since anything else seemed painful, I never pressed. When there were stories about the Holocaust on the news, Sam would storm out of the room, cursing in German.”

“You should have heard him last week. The local paper had an article discussing whether or not the Holocaust actually happened. He was livid.” He rubbed his forehead. “But he has all those books on World War II. That might be a way to bring the conversation around to what we need to know. They shut me down when I tried to broach it over drinks.”

Megan tried to rerun that conversation. “You mean when you said you wanted to go to Europe?”

“Yes.”

“And I jumped in and changed the subject because it seemed to upset them. If I’d known, I’d have helped.”

“Not your fault. I didn’t confide in you, so you had no way of knowing I had an ulterior motive in asking.”

“And I’m assuming that motive is related to why you showed up in Mapleton.”

“You’re right. What about you?”

So he’d thought the same things about her. “Angie called. Said she had one of her feelings about Rose and Sam. And I realized how I’d let time slide by, so I came.”

“Maybe we should get Angie to figure this out,” Justin said with a wry grin.

“Wouldn’t that be nice? Seriously, tell me why you’re here. What made you think Rose and Sam are connected to your Nazi war criminal?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze wandered from her to the papers, to the ceiling, and just about every other point in the room before he sucked in a deep breath, released it, and said, “I have it on reasonable authority that he’s Sam’s older brother.”

Gordon took the lead as he and Angie ascended the staircase. His leather-soled dress uniform shoes thudded on the wooden risers. Behind him, her bare feet made no sound. Tempted as he was to take her hand, he settled for enjoying her scent.

“I definitely saw a cat in your apartment,” he said. “Black and white. He was sitting on your bedroom windowsill.”

“Not my cat,” Angie said. “No pets. Avoids problems with the Health Inspectors.”

At the open door, Gordon paused. “Don’t touch anything. Walk through, tell me what you see that’s out of place.”

He crossed the threshold, stopping on the braided rug inside the door. Gordon sensed Angie tensing behind him. He moved inside, indicating she should enter.

“Your bedroom window was open,” he said. “Is that normal?”

“Yes,” she said. “I sleep with it open if the weather is good. I’m on the second floor. I never felt unsafe.” She strode to the bedroom and approached the window, arms across her chest. “Do you think someone came in that way?”

He peered outside. A narrow brick ledge ran underneath the window and along the wall of the building. Not wide enough for easy human access, although he supposed it was possible. However, given the nearby trees, it would be an effortless journey for a nimble cat. He played his flashlight’s beam over the ledge. No footprints of the human variety, but some smudges could pass for feline.

“I think your cat burglar was an actual cat,” he said. “Probably left the way he came, after I scared him. Did you notice signs of someone using your window to get in and out when you came home? Evidence on the bed?”

“No. I was tired, but I think I’d have noticed that.”

“Bathroom window?”

“Too small,” she said, but she went to the doorway and peeked. “It’s closed, and all my shampoos and stuff are still on the windowsill.”

“He left a total mess in the other two places. But it’s worth a look around.” He forced the next words out. “Let me know if you sense anything…unusual.”

She snorted, and he knew he hadn’t disguised his cynicism. Too bad. He couldn’t arrest one of her
feelings
.

Eyes closed, she stood in the center of her bedroom. After a moment she brushed her fingers through her hair. “I feel so stupid. It was probably Donna taking a break on the couch. With all that’s happened, I’m overly sensitive, I guess.”

Her lips pursed in and out. He tried to ignore his reaction. Whether it was true or not, she believed someone might have violated her personal space, and he couldn’t dismiss her emotional response. He took her hand, turned her so she faced him, and grasped her other one as well.

Her voice had quavered. Probably not noticeable to someone who didn’t know her. He knew she was thinking ahead, wondering if she would have to lock herself into her apartment every night. He snickered. This was Angie. She’d shake off the aftereffects of her
feeling
, and life would go on. Windows wide open, he’d bet.

Her eyes blazed. “This is
my
space.” Gone was that hint of a tremor. Yep, Angie was back.

However, this second he didn’t care how the damn cat had gotten in, out, or what else might be out of place. Angie’s soft, warm hands were in his. Her robe peeked open at the neck, allowing a glimpse of the rounded tops of her breasts. Her scent enticed him. Citrusy, and maybe a hint of cinnamon, as if her bakery specialty had become a part of her. Maybe she smelled like cinnamon all over. He’d like to test that theory.

She squeezed his hands. Her eyes widened, then closed. Her head swayed from side to side.

“Angie?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m…I’m getting one of my…feelings. Oh, God, this one’s incredibly strong. Hold me.”

He gripped her biceps. “What? What do you see?” Christ, did she
really
see
stuff?

Her voice grew distant, dreamy. “I see…a man. Dressed all in black. He’s tall. Strong. He has a gun! Wait, no, he has two guns.” She panted short, rapid breaths. “No, not two. Just one. He wants something.”

Her voice grew quiet. He could barely hear her. He strained to make out her words. “From me,” she whispered. “I can sense it.”

“What, Angie?” Gordon cupped her face. “Tell me. Can you see him? Do you recognize him? What does he want?”

She opened her eyes. Her lips parted. “Come closer.”

He leaned in. She flung her arms around his neck. “Closer.” She pulled him lower, until her breath fanned his face. “He wants…wants to…”

And then her lips were against his. Warm, pliant. He gasped in surprise, and her tongue darted along the seam of his lips, teasing. He realized he’d been duped, but didn’t give a damn. He immediately silenced the little voice telling him this was inappropriate. Hell, this was perfect. He adjusted the angle of their faces so he could participate fully. That second gun she’d mentioned strained against his zipper. He lowered his hands to her round, firm buttocks, pulling her close enough to let her confirm he was armed.

His tongue dipped into her mouth, probing. She accepted him, encouraged him with soft moans. He explored the ridges of her teeth. Tongues danced, entwined. She suckled. He groaned. She gasped. He growled.

The kiss became his world. With his tongue, he showed her what he wanted to do. She didn’t break away. Instead, she took his hand and placed it on her breast.

“Angie.” It took two tries to utter her name. “This is…are you…sure?”

She gazed at him, lips swollen, eyes glistening. But twinkling. “Sure about what? That you’re the man in black I saw? Are you doubting my gift?”

He understood what she meant by gift, and it had little to do with her infamous premonitions.

“You don’t think this is too…fast? It’s not even our first date.”

She burst out laughing. “Chief, we’ve had breakfast, lunch, or dinner together at least four times a week for the past year. I think we’re past the first date stage.”

“Close the damn door. And lock it.”

She slid her fingers down his uniform shirt, flicking each button. “Be right back. But you’ve got way too many clothes on.”

Not wanting her out of his sight, he followed her. Hips swaying, she pivoted, graceful as a ballerina. She shut the door with one delicate foot, and slid the robe off her shoulders. She stood in her living room, semi-clad in plaid flannel, smiling at him. “You want to know what else I see?”

“Tell me it’s not a cat,” he said.

Her giggle sent his insides bubbling. “No, it’s not a cat.”

She moved closer, one swaying step at a time. His feet seemed rooted to the floor. “So, what is it you see?” he asked.

“It’s blurry. Maybe I’d better confirm it. Hold still, so I can see better.”

She stood about six inches from him, her body heat reaching him like the sun on a July afternoon. She tugged on his tie. It came off in her hand. She dangled it in front of him, her head tilted, a smile playing about her lips.

“I missed that one,” she said. “Didn’t picture you for a clip-on kind of guy.”

“Bad guys can’t choke you that way.”

“Ah, a practical, sensible man. Are you practical and sensible in other ways?”

He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone drier than the plains in summer. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, and twirled his chest hair in her fingers.

“Yes,” she said. “I saw this.” Unbuttoning each button, she traced the line of hair running down his chest. “The treasure trail.”

He captured her hands. “Wait,” he said. He dealt with removing his utility belt, setting it on the couch.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “We’re back to that single gun again, aren’t we?”

Growling from someplace deep in his throat, he thrust his leg between her thighs, parting them, drawing her to him. Heat flamed in her eyes. She rubbed against his leg, sighing. Her hand stroked his erection through his uniform trousers. “Fifty caliber, I’d say.”

“Angie. God, Angie. Stop that.”

Her hand stopped, but she didn’t take it away. “Do you mean it? What do you want?”

“Bedroom. Bed,” he said. And damn, she’d better have protection, because he didn’t carry condoms in his uniform.

She pushed, he retreated, and still entwined, they navigated the living room, through the bedroom doorway, across the floor, until her bed hit him in the back of the legs. He went down, pulling her with him. She sat, straddling his legs. She threw her head back, thrusting her chest forward. He took her breasts in hand, thumbing her nipples into hard, pebbled nubs. Her murmurs of pleasure skyrocketed through him. She inched forward until she was sitting on his cock. Her fingers worked at his belt buckle.

“I seem to remember saying you had too many clothes on.”

She could talk?

“Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “And you’d better be naked when I get back.”

“You giving orders?”

“Yes. You got a problem with that, Chief?”

In response, he shrugged off his shirt. When she disappeared into the bathroom, he worked at ridding himself of the rest of his clothes and getting into bed.

She returned, dropping several foil packets on the bedside table, and smelling of minty toothpaste. “That’s better,” she said, sliding in beside him. “Although I haven’t finished making sure you’re the same guy I saw in my vision.” She tossed back the covers. “But with me, it’s more
feelings
than actual visions. I think it’ll take touching to confirm it.”

The pads of her fingers sent mounting pleasure through him as she inspected him like a blind woman discovering a statue. Her lips followed her fingertips. When she reached his belly, he trapped her hands and flipped her onto her side. “My turn,” he said.

He mirrored her ministrations, but she didn’t stop him when he reached her navel. Or the soft curls of her mound. He slipped a finger inside her. Wet, hot, and ready, she moved her hips against his touch, reaching for him. Her hand encircled his erection, then cupped his balls. He sucked in a breath.

“I want you,” she said. “Now. Please.”