Abandon - Carla Neggers [79]
“Plus,” Jim said, “we want to know about the redheaded marshal with the freckles.”
He was outnumbered, one of the hazards of being back in Washington—and, he acknowledged, one of its benefits. His brothers and father would want to know everything he could legitimately tell them. They’d offer their opinions and advice, and they’d ask questions, take him through how J. Harris Mayer had started out with vague tales of blackmail and conspiracy and ended up knifed to death in a seedy rooming house studio.
But as he welcomed his family into his house, Rook decided his father and brothers would have an easier time understanding the circumstances surrounding his dead informant than his redheaded marshal with the freckles.
Twenty-Eight
Mackenzie drove around the block twice before the last of the unfamiliar cars in Rook’s driveway had departed. He stood at the screen door in the front of the house. He was dressed in jeans and looked more relaxed than she’d expected. Certainly more than she felt herself.
“I had to talk my brothers out of running your plates,” he said. “Suspicious vehicle circling the block.”
“Unknown, not suspicious. There’s a difference.”
“Not to them.” He pushed open the door. “They’ll be sorry they missed you.”
“Just what I need. More Rooks.”
But as she entered the foyer, her humor deserted her, and her injured side ached. He swept a look over her that, in spite of her fatigue, or perhaps because of it, set her senses on fire.
“Lousy day today,” he said.
“That sums it up.” She headed down the short hall to the kitchen. “I called Beanie before I left to come here. She’s talked to the FBI. She never thought of the rooming house, either.”
“You did think of it.”
“Not soon enough. And Cal—she hasn’t heard from him. He still hasn’t shown up, has he?”
“Not yet,” Rook said. “It’s an August weekend in Washington. No one’s here who doesn’t have to be.”
“He’s supposed to move—”
“He can afford to pay someone while he heads to the beach.” But when she didn’t respond, Rook added, “Cal Benton’s not a stupid man.”
She stared out the window above the sink, distracting herself by wondering what Rook would say if she asked him if he needed a roommate to help with expenses. She felt rootless, in a way she never had in New Hampshire or even during her weeks in Georgia. During the weeks of intense training, she’d been too busy, too focused on not failing to notice. Now, failure was a more deadly proposition. It wasn’t just about herself anymore. When she screwed up, people could get hurt.
She glanced back at Rook, leaning against the hall doorjamb. “I saw two of your brothers. They look a lot like you. How many siblings do you have?”
“Three brothers. Scott, Jim and Steven. A prosecutor, an Arlington detective and a Secret Service agent. My father is retired from the Secret Service.”
“I guess I should be glad they only wanted to run my plates instead of shoot out my tires. Your nephew’s father is the prosecutor?”
“Scott. He’s the eldest. I’m number three.”
“They all live around here?”
“They do. They’re all married with kids.”
“Ah. That makes you the black sheep, doesn’t it? Do you get along with their wives?”
“For the most part.”
“They’re not cops,” Mackenzie said, making an educated guess.
“One’s an E.R. nurse, one works at the Smithsonian and one’s a homemaker.”
“What about your mother?”
“She and a friend opened up a gift shop a couple of years ago. Drives my father nuts. They finally put him to work to shut him up—he’s in charge of the homemade soaps.”
“You have quite a clan. It’s always been just my folks and me. We get along with the rest of the family, but my relatives are a small group and we don’t see that much of them. Of my grandparents, I only knew my mother’s mother, but she died when I was in high school. But I always had the Winters.” Mackenzie sank back against the sink. “And Beanie.”
Rook said nothing.
She angled a look at him. “I didn’t see Brian’s car.”