CHAPTER TWO
Korine flipped on the radio as she drove to her mother’s house, her nerves on edge. Visiting her mother was painful, but she couldn’t desert her. Her mother needed her, even if she didn’t act like it.
The newscaster from the local public radio station broke into her thoughts. “The safety app, thought to be a lifesaver to some by alerting people of crimes in their area, has come under serious scrutiny. Yesterday three people in the Savannah airport jumped a man they believed to be the mugger targeting tourists in Savannah’s City Market. The man turned out to be an undercover officer. He suffered a broken arm and dislocated shoulder in the assault.”
Korine shook her head at the irony. The designer of that app had good intentions. Korine had thought of a dozen ways she could use it. Women, college coeds, and teens could be alerted of a crime being committed and avoid that area. People near a crime scene would know to watch out for a perpetrator and help the police by reporting it.
But there were obviously kinks to work out.
She turned down the drive to the big Georgian home where she’d grown up, her emotions warring inside her. Morbid, but her mother had refused to sell the house after Korine’s father was murdered. She claimed she couldn’t leave the memories behind.
Although those very memories had stolen her will to live. Depression had plagued her for years until the point where she’d slipped into a catatonic state.
Korine had hoped her promise to find her father’s killer might spark life back into her. Instead, her mother had worsened and stopped talking.
Saying a silent prayer that her mother at least recognized her presence today, Korine parked and rang the doorbell, then gently eased open the door.
“Mom, it’s Korine.”
Esme, her mother’s caretaker, appeared with a wary smile. “Hi, sweetie.”
“How’s she doing today?” Korine asked.
Esme shrugged. “Not a good day.” She gestured toward the study. “She hasn’t spoken or eaten anything. She’s been playing that CD over and over.”
Korine paused in the hallway, hearing the faint notes of the song that had been playing when her father was murdered through the closed door.
A chill slithered through her. Why was her mother listening to it?
Korine’s gaze shot to the curio holding the porcelain dolls her father had given her. They were beautiful, but unlike her mother, she needed to leave the memories behind. Surrounding herself with them only intensified her grief.
She braced herself as she opened the door and peeked inside. “Mom, it’s me, Korine.”
The familiar dark wainscoting and crown molding looked as stately today as it had twenty-five years ago. Although hardwood replaced the carpet that had once covered the floor, she could still see the blood flowing onto the white Berber and staining it dark crimson.
Worry seized Korine. Her mother was sitting so still it looked as if she weren’t even breathing.
Over the past few years, her mother had gone from bouts of anxiety and agitation, where she’d toss her husband’s CDs and medical journals all over his study, to being unable to get out of bed all day.
She’d also fussed at Korine for not taking care of her brother. Kenny was four years older than Korine and had been in and out of trouble and drug rehab since he was a teen.
Korine knelt in front of the wheelchair and pulled her mother’s hands in hers. “Mom, let’s go to the sunroom and have a cup of tea.”
“I’ll make a pot,” Esme offered behind her.
Korine gave her an appreciative smile as the woman disappeared.
But her mother didn’t respond. She stared into space, her fingers tapping the arm of the wheelchair. Esme had suggested the chair as a way to move her mother from one room to the other after her mother started staying in bed all day.
Korine’s cell phone buzzed on her hip. She snatched it and checked the number. Her boss, Director Bellows.
“I need to take this.”
Again, no response from her mother. Korine stepped over by the window and connected. “Agent Davenport.”
“It’s Director Bellows. I know you trained with Special Agent Hatcher McGee at the academy and he praised your work. His partner is out recovering from an injury, so I want you to work with him temporarily.”
Director Bellows knew they’d worked together. But thankfully, he didn’t know the whole story.
“Of course, sir. What’s the case?”
“Homicide—Sunset Cove, Seahawk Island.”
“I’m on my way.”
Korine’s pulse hammered as she ended the call—she finally had a case. A real case.
She had to leave.
She walked back to her mother and gently rubbed her back. “I’m afraid I’ll have to skip the tea today. I have to go now.”
Her mother’s chin quivered slightly, and for a moment, Korine thought she might say something. But then her face became a blank mask again.
She wanted to scream in frustration. But she’d done that before, and it did no good.
Esme stepped back into the room, her brow furrowed. “Ms. Korine?”
“I’m sorry. I have to go to work,” Korine said.
Esme nodded as Korine rushed toward the door.
Still, she couldn’t shake the sound of that blasted song from her mind as she started the car.
She had to focus, though. She was going to work with Hatcher McGee. God . . . he was legendary for solving hard cases.
And for being a hothead.
He was also damned hot in bed.
But no one knew about their indiscretion except the two of them.
At least she didn’t think he’d told anyone.
Director Bellows wouldn’t have partnered you with him if he knew.
No doubt Hatcher would be pissed to be assigned a rookie like her. A stupid rookie who’d believed him when he said he was single.
If he’d been home with his wife instead of with her the night they’d fallen all over each other in bed, his wife might still be alive.
She wouldn’t make the mistake of sleeping with him again.
She’d prove to him that she could contribute to the case. That she was a professional. That this time, she wouldn’t succumb to his sexy body and rugged charm.
That their one night of passion meant nothing to her. That it hadn’t haunted her with what-ifs and fantasies about a repeat experience.
The tune from her music box chimed in her head as she drove toward the cove, a reminder that the most important case of her life remained unsolved. That she’d trained to become an agent so she could rid the world of crime.
That sex and romance had no place in her life.
“Sometimes it’s better not knowing,” her mother had once said.
Korine didn’t believe that for a minute. The only way she could find peace was to arrest her father’s killer.
Hatcher spotted the police officer’s flashlight beam before he saw the cop. The thin stream of light washed over the edge of the dock, illuminating the body propped against the post holding up the rails.
His first thought was why hadn’t the killer shoved the body into the water? If he or she had, the body might not have been discovered for days.
Unless the killer had been interrupted or . . . he wanted the victim to be found.
Hatcher’s boots dug into wet sand as he left the parking lot and crossed to the dock. Sea oats and grass jutted up in irregular patches. He walked through the opening of the seawall created to keep the tidewater from reaching the houses in the cove.
Hurricane Matthew had caused erosion and washed debris, shells, driftwood, and seaweed onto the shore. Some of the residents and businesses were still struggling to clean up fallen trees and to repair the shattered roofs and flood damage.
Thankfully, the low tide had saved them.
Two days later, if the storm had struck during the full moon and King tides, the situation could have been devastating. Half the island might have been washed away.
Birds cawed as they flew overhead. A faint light from the lighthouse at the pier a half mile away blinked, looking almost eerie in the distance but still working, orienting ships to the port in Brunswick.
The officer glanced up and saw Hatcher, then walked toward him.
“Officer Leeks,” the man said.
Hatcher shook his hand and introduced himself, wondering why the locals had called in the Feds. They didn’t always welcome the FBI, but Savannah was short on cops, and Hurricane Matthew had stretched the island’s small officer pool thin. Sad, how looters took advantage in the wake of disaster. “Your chief asked us here?”
The officer nodded. “Yeah. Come take a look.”
He should probably wait on his new partner, but he was the senior agent, and he wanted to get started.
Hatcher’s boots pounded the wood as he followed the officer to the end of the dock. The scent of death rose in the salty air, acrid and strong, swirling in the mist. Birds had already begun to swoop down to pick at the carcass, nibbling at the flesh, the pigeons flocking. Officer Leeks lifted a bottle of water and sprayed it toward the pigeons to shoo them away.
Hatcher removed his flashlight and shined it over the body. “What do you know so far?” he asked.
Officer Leeks plugged a handkerchief over his nose and mouth as if he was about to gag. “Not much. Woman who lives in that house there”—he pointed to the small yellow clapboard house facing the cove—“said she saw someone dragging a body onto the dock.”
Hatcher’s pulse clamored. That house was where Tinsley Jensen lived. Where she’d made a prison for herself.
Focus, man, focus. He’d convinced his superior to let him continue working the case, and he couldn’t let him down.
He’d have to talk to Tinsley, but first he wanted to assess the situation. “When did the report come in?”
The officer checked his watch. “About an hour ago.”
Judging from the stench, though, the man had been dead for hours. “Have you spoken with the woman?”
“Not yet. I rushed out here first, just in case the victim was still alive.”
The rotting wooden railing of the dock looked as if it might give way, but it was keeping the dead man’s body from tumbling into the murky water.
Hatcher stooped to examine the victim.
White male, close-cropped brown hair, midfifties. Skin was wrinkly and discolored.
His head had been smashed in.
He wore dress pants and a white shirt. Expensive shoes and watch.
His clothes were intact, suggesting he hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but Hatcher wouldn’t know for certain until the autopsy.
Both pants and shirt were drenched in blood from the beating he’d taken.
Hatcher raised the flashlight to study the victim’s face again, and his heart hammered. Shit.
This was no accident or random crime. It was intentional.
And probably the reason the local sheriff had asked for the FBI.
The killer had left them a message—a pair of intertwined SS on the victim’s forehead, painted in blood.
Korine’s phone trilled just as she reached the island and turned onto the road leading to the cove. Director Bellows again.
“Agent Davenport, sir. I’m about to park at the cove.”
“Good.” His breathing sounded heavy. “I wanted to ask a favor of you.”
Korine frowned, nerves fluttering. “I’m listening.”
He wheezed a breath. “Hatcher McGee is—was—the best agent I’ve ever had.”
Was?
“Go on.”
“At Quantico, I’m sure you heard that his wife was murdered.”
She wiped perspiration from her neck. “I did, sir. That was a shame.”
“Sure as hell was. Worse, McGee blamed himself. He crossed the line. When he finally tracked down her killer, he ripped the man apart. It was brutal. Pure revenge fed by an alcoholic rage.”
He was a drinker? Disappointment flared. She’d had troubles with her brother on that front. “He was cleared of any charges, wasn’t he?”
“Only because I vouched for him during the investigation. After it was over, he sank back into his whiskey. I thought he was lost forever.”
Korine took a deep breath. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s been badgering me to put him back on active duty,” Bellows continued, “so I went to bat for him over that, too, but I stipulated that he had to quit the booze.”
She slowed her car, eyes narrowing as she scanned the dock and cottage in the cove.
“What I’m trying to say is that my ass is on the line. I need you to watch McGee and make sure he’s ready to be back. If he’s drinking or goes rogue, I want to know.”
He wanted her to spy on Hatcher McGee? Jesus. That wouldn’t sit well with Hatcher if he found out.
“Agent Davenport, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you on board?” Bellows barked. “Can you handle the job?”
An image of Hatcher’s heated eyes as he drove his cock inside her taunted Korine.
Then the photo she’d seen of him at his wife’s funeral.
Grief stricken, guilt ridden, and . . . alone.
She’d wanted to comfort him, but she’d been too furious when she’d discovered that he was still married.
That he’d lied to her.
So she hadn’t attended the funeral. The last thing she wanted was to appear needy or unprofessional.
No way she’d attempt to try to fill his wife’s shoes.
“Agent Davenport?”
“I can handle it, sir.”
“Good.” Relief tinged his voice. “I know you’re a by-the-book agent; that’s why I chose you.”
He ended the call, and Korine pocketed her phone, his words echoing in her ears. Director Bellows had no idea how badly she’d messed up before.
She couldn’t mess up again.