10
Cowboy Bill’s
11:50 p.m.
Jo sipped her beer slowly. She’d been nursing this same one for two hours. Keeping her head clear was far too important to risk a second one. Tonight’s objective required her to play her part perfectly. He would see through anything less and this one step could make all the difference.
The prelude was the hardest part. Blend in. Be cool. Pay close attention. Don’t say too much or too little. Listen carefully. Be the part.
“To tell you the truth,” Wes Cline, an up-and-coming assistant producer at CNN, said as he leaned closer, “I don’t trust anyone at the FBI or the GBI, for that matter.”
Jo rested her elbows on the table and put her forehead closer to his. “I’m with you. I’m not certain we can be confident that anyone will give us the down and dirty on a hot case like this one—not until they’re ready to anyway.”
“You said it.” He knocked back his third shot of tequila, then leaned forward again, placing his forearms on the table as she had. “I was a newly hired intern six months ago when that serial killer psychiatrist, Randolph Weller, was on the loose. I followed our top investigative journalist, Chase Whitt, all over Savannah. Turned out the FBI was not only keeping secrets; they were deeply involved in Weller’s escape. One of the former top dogs at Quantico is still under investigation. My guess is he’s going up the river.”
That was the thing about young men. They always needed to prove themselves. Wes, twenty-three and barely a year postgrad from Georgia Southern University, was kissing every available ass on this assignment in hopes of scoring brownie points. Jo singled him out in a flash. The first time she caught him alone, she introduced herself. He’d spent the initial couple minutes of that conversation immersed in a study of her cleavage. After she mentioned she was close to the Durand family, he’d stuck to her like glue.
“I’m with you on that one.” She sipped her beer. “You’re going places, Wes. I can feel it.”
He grinned before waving at the server to bring him another. “You ready for a fresh beer?”
She shook her head. “I’m good. A girl’s gotta watch those carbs.”
“I know all kinds of ways to burn off extra carbs.”
She bet he did.
Cowboy Bill’s was a nice place. The corrugated metal walls and wood floors provided that country-chic atmosphere. A big bar and plenty of pool tables kept those not interested in the dance floor occupied. The crowd was rowdy but in a happy way. Servers were efficient and the drinks were a decent price. She didn’t remember the place from before, but then she’d done all in her power to block that year from her memory banks. Not that she’d ever really been the party girl type.
Maybe that was where she’d gone wrong. If she’d learned the ins and outs of partying before she found herself immersed in the college culture she might have handled things better.
Too late for what-ifs now. She’d made the decisions she made. So had Ellen.
Now it was time to make the people responsible pay.
“Berman is convinced we won’t be finding these two girls alive.” Wes shook his head somberly.
“Why’s he so sure?” Jo ordered her heart to slow. David Berman was one of CNN’s hotshot journalists. Evidently good old Wes knew how to get assignments with the top guns.
“He ran some statistics,” Wes explained. “Based on the number of women who’ve gone missing over the past two decades and the percentage of those found alive, we’re due a couple murders.”
“Wow.” She sipped her beer. “That’s depressing. I’m guessing his headline won’t read that way.”
Wes chuckled. “Certainly not.”
Jo glanced toward the bar. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had been seated on a stool there for the past forty minutes. The bourbon on the rocks the bartender set in front of him was his third. Apparently he was no lightweight since he hadn’t slid off that stool yet. Still, he should be feeling plenty relaxed.
“Well.” Jo reached for her purse. “I see an old friend I need to catch up with before calling it a night.” She reached across the table and squeezed Wes’s hand. “You have my number. We should do this again. Soon.”
He grinned, clearly enamored with the idea of getting into an older woman’s pants. “Count on it.”
She gave him a wink and headed for the bar. With a dramatic sigh, she dropped her purse on the counter. “Vodka martini, please.”
She didn’t have to look to know LeDoux was checking her out. She could feel his eyes on her. Good. She’d selected this dress for that reason. Tight, short and the cream color looked good with her olive skin tone. She worked hard to stay in shape but it had nothing to do with luring the male species.
If anyone ever tried to hurt her again he would be in for one hell of a surprise. Jo could kick the shit out of guys three times her size, including the one sizing her up right now. She had experienced things—things that changed her view of the world and of people. Long ago she had decided that she would never again be caught off guard or unable to defend herself or to take care of herself. Mostly she preferred living in her small one-room world without ever having to deal with people.
This has to be done. It has to be over. No more silence. No more pretending.
She’d done her homework on the man seated next to her. He’d built a stellar career as a profiler with the FBI. More than one article had called him the Bureau’s Top Gun. He was a year older than Jo and the victim, Tiffany Durand, was his niece. LeDoux, she decided, was the perfect person to help her. He was just desperate enough to buy her story.
At least, she hoped he was. Time to cast a line and see if she nabbed herself a bite. If she was wrong about LeDoux... No. Being wrong wasn’t an option. He was her best and possibly her only hope.
The bartender placed the drink in front of her.
“Thank you.” She lifted the glass to her lips and closed her eyes. “Hmm.” She lowered the glass back to the counter. “If it weren’t for martinis I’d never survive assignments like this.”
She turned to the man still staring at her. “Please tell me you’re not another reporter. The last one almost talked my ear off.”
LeDoux looked away. “Not a reporter.”
His voice was deeper than she’d expected. Sandy blond hair looked a little scruffy for an FBI agent. She’d yet to see one sporting a two-days’ beard growth. The outfit—polo shirt and jeans—was not exactly what she’d expected either. The slightly wrinkled suit jacket looked more like an afterthought. Above all else it was the don’t-give-a-shit look in his eyes that told her Special Agent Anthony LeDoux was not on duty. Maybe he was only here to support his sister.
Jo had done all the research on the family she could from her iPad. Whether LeDoux was here on official business or not, some of the more recent articles she’d read about him suggested his illustrious career was also on the rocks.
That last part was irrelevant as far as Jo was concerned. He would have the connections she needed.
“I guess it’s my lucky night then.” She ate the olive and downed the rest of her drink. “Now, that hits the spot.” A nod to the bartender had him preparing another. Jo thanked him and took a deep breath. Play the part.
“You’re a local then?” She turned on the stool to face LeDoux, the hem of her dress stretched tight across the tops of her thighs as she crossed her legs. “Do you believe those two missing freshmen were taken by someone who lives in Milledgeville?”
He twisted to face her, his knee bumping into hers. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m not a local.”
“I get it now.” She sipped her martini. “You’re a cop.”
He finished off the bourbon but didn’t ask for another. Oh hell, she’d waited too long for the approach.
“Not a cop either.” He pushed the glass forward and gave the bartender a nod. “Not even close.”
He was staying, at least for a little while longer. Her heart rate leveled off. She set her glass aside and leaned forward. His eyes were brown but there were these little gold flecks. “Don’t tell me, you’re a fed.”
He looked away. “In another life.”
So much yearning and defeat were packed into those three words that Jo was caught off guard for a moment. So the rumors of his fall from grace were true.
“Well—” she smiled “—I’ve been many things, the worst of which might very well be a reporter.”
He didn’t look at her.
“I know. Scum of the earth.”
The slightest hint of a smile made his lips twitch.
“I had bigger plans but you know how it goes, shit happens.”
“Yeah.” He picked up his fresh bourbon. “Shit definitely happens.”
“So why are you here?”
For five seconds she was certain he wouldn’t answer or he’d just get up and walk away. Instead, he turned to her and said, “I’m here to find my niece.”
“Is she...?” Jo put a hand to her throat. “One of the missing girls is your niece? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. You probably need to be alone.”
She opened her clutch and reached for a couple of bills. “I swear, I’m usually better than this at reading people.” She left the cash on the counter as she scooted off the stool. “Really, I’m so sorry.”
He caught her by the wrist when she would have walked away. “Maybe you’d like a private interview.”
Jo’s pulse bumped into a faster rhythm. “Your place or mine?”
* * *
The drive to his hotel, which turned out to be the Antebellum Inn, took all of four minutes. Jo had time to change her mind. She could just turn around and drive in the opposite direction. But she didn’t. She parked her Celica behind his BMW and got out. The real question now was whether or not he would change his mind.
Heart thumping, she met him in front of his car. He reached for her hand and led her through the darkness. Rather than climb the steps to the front door they walked around the house. Trepidation slithered over her. The low lighting around the pool lit their path as he guided her to what looked like a pool house. He reached into his pocket for a key and unlocked the door. She glanced back at the dark house, nerves jangling. No backing out now.
Inside, the room was cool and dark. He turned on a lamp. The place was considerably larger than the dump where she lived in Copperas Cove. She heard the lock turn behind her. Play the part.
She needed to know who she could trust before she told her story. He could be the one. Having a fed related to a victim was a truly lucky break—maybe, possibly. Not so lucky for the victim or the family. Jo closed her eyes and blocked what she knew from experience was probably happening to the victims at that very moment.
He came up behind her and moved her hair aside to kiss her neck. She shivered. His fingers tugged her zipper slowly down her back while he trailed kisses along her spine. By the time the dress hit the floor she was trembling with need.
Usually her lovers were sloppy and in a rush. Usually she was, too.
LeDoux might be legally inebriated but he was in no hurry. He turned her around and kissed her long and deep. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He flung it aside. Together they pulled his polo free of his jeans.
Somehow they managed to finish unclothing each other before he dragged her onto the bed and buried himself inside her.
Jo stopped analyzing the situation and lost herself to the moment she would regret in the morning.
The story of her life.