The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [18]
“Oh, what are you so afraid of? Do you think I’m going to try to shoot my way out with a peashooter?”
“A gun won’t help you.”
“It’s the only thing that has.” She paced a dizzying circle. “I’m leaving. Tell them what you want. I won’t let them see me here. I thought confidentiality meant something in your line of work.”
“Wait—”
“I don’t have time.” She kept moving.
They both heard the first of several car doors open and then slam shut.
Angela didn’t turn around. Seconds later he heard the door of her room shut, then the telltale sound of the bolt lock sliding home. He had visions of little Angela flipping over the bed and hunkering behind it like the last man at the Alamo.
He was left alone in his kitchen, with the disorienting feeling that everything had slid out of control. What if this ex-husband had actually arrived? What was he prepared to do these days? How could he stand aside?
Then he heard the voice over the bullhorn. His shoulders relaxed. His lips twisted. No big, bad, evil Jim.
It was just his sister, summoned by Freddie, and riding to the rescue.
He squared his shoulders and prepared for the real war. Whoever had written that blood was thicker than water, had never met the Dillons.
FIVE
MARION MARGARET MACALLISTER had committed only two sins in her life. One, she’d been born the second child. Two, she’d been born a female.
She’d done her best to rectify these sins over time. In the men’s locker-room world of the FBI, she could outshoot, outfight, and outthink her fellow agents. With her cool blond looks, she’d earned the nickname Iceman. She liked it.
Until two weeks ago, when her world had started falling apart.
She’d just turned thirty-four and had been passed over for promotion again, ostensibly because she was too young. William Walker, who did get the post, was only thirty-six—and balling the deputy director’s daughter. Her father was dying of prostate cancer, a death that was taking a long time coming, and her husband of ten years had left her for a twenty-two-year-old cocktail waitress.
Then last night she’d gotten the call from Freddie. J.T. always had impeccable timing.
She motioned for the Nogales police to stay back and approached the house on her own. She wore her favorite navy blue pants suit. It was sharp and one hundred percent business. It was also too hot for Arizona. She focused on the cool feel of her gun pressed against her ribs while the dusty air stung her eyes.
“Good morning, Marion,” J.T. drawled. He lounged against the doorjamb, half naked and rumpled, as if caught mid-fuck. “How kind of you to visit.”
“We received a report of an intruder. I came to investigate.”
“All the way from D.C.?”
“Nothing’s too good for my older brother.” She smiled with brittle sweetness and had the rare satisfaction of seeing her barb strike home. “Step out of the way, J.T. The officers here will secure your house.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Jordan Terrance—”
“Freddie call you from town?” He shifted, crossing his ankles and getting more comfortable. She knew from Freddie that he drank a lot. She’d expected the alcohol to have taken a greater toll, but J.T. had always been a lucky SOB. Not even booze had thickened his waistline or sagged his middle. He was still the lean, fit man she remembered. The kid who’d won all the swimming trophies. The son whose uncanny shooting had made their father so proud. She wanted to strangle him.
“Freddie filed the report,” she replied stiffly.
“Ah, and here I thought he and I had reached an understanding.”
“What do you mean?”
J.T. made a great show of examining his fingernails. “I know he calls you, Marion. I know he’s Daddy’s little spy. You’re both so afraid that someday I’ll get drunk enough to speak the truth. Don’t worry, I’ve been speaking it for quite some time now, and nobody’s interested.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“I sent him away. Told Freddie to take a few days off—I didn’t think my visitor wanted an audience. As for myself, well . . .” He shrugged. “Freddie makes a fine margarita. Of course now I’ll have to reconsider his return.