Closer Than You Think (35 page)

She rolled her eyes as she got her laptop from the empty bedroom where her things had been stored. ‘Complications, my Aunt Fanny,’ she muttered, but she knew it was the best way to deal with the situation. The alternative was too surreal.
Please excuse Faith from work. Her basement is flooded with bodies and anyone standing next to her is a target.

She opened doors along the upstairs hallway until she found Novak’s home office. Feeling awkward, she checked his desk, looking for the Internet router. The connection would be password-protected, she was certain. Novak seemed to be careful about things like that. But passwords were generally noted somewhere on the router, so she should be able to get in. If not, she knew his cell number and would ask him. She wasn’t going to be able to sleep until she got a message to her boss.

She didn’t find the router on his desk, but three framed photos caught her eye. She paused before snooping, but her hesitation was brief. In a little more than twelve hours he’d discovered almost everything about her. It seemed only fair that she should catch up.

The largest was a photo of a group gathered around a fancy table set with china and crystal and half-empty flutes of champagne. Everyone was dressed up and other tables could be seen in the background.
A wedding, maybe?

Novak sat on the far right of the table, looking relaxed – and amazing – in a black suit and a red tie. His arm rested casually on the back of the chair beside him, occupied by a blond, good-looking young man who appeared to be college age. Next to the young man was a woman about Faith’s age with a blonde beehive, wearing a lime-green strapless gown and a smile that made Faith smile back. She’d laid her head on the young man’s shoulder in a motherly way while holding the hand of the dark, dangerous-looking man on her left. The dark man scowled at the camera, one brow lifted in a warning that seemed more bark than bite.

The young woman standing behind the scowling man, hands resting on his shoulders, wore a dress identical in style to the lime-green one, but in a more gentle rose. She was laughing at the camera, undiluted happiness in her eyes. At the far left was a redhead with an easy smile who’d leaned toward the dark man for the photo, but whose arms were folded on the table in a way that said her relationship was not as personal as those shared by the others.

Framed, the photo had been printed on to a sheet of paper and signed in the margins.
Thanks for everything, Ford. Our door is
always
open to you, Love, Daphne. It’s been an honor. JC.
And in the same masculine scrawl, as if an afterthought,
You’ll be missed.
The redhead had written:
Take care of yourself or you’ll answer to me, Kate.
And above the laughing young woman’s head, a bubble with the inscription
Don’t forget you promised to come back for my wedding. Who else will keep Joseph from killing Dylan? (jk) LOL. Love, Holly.

His old work group, Faith thought with a smile. More, actually. She could tell from Novak’s relaxed posture that these people were like family.
He must miss them.

The second photo was a group of five men on the deck of a fishing boat. Faith brought it closer, squinting. The boat was called
The Fiji
. Novak was there, as was the dark, dangerous man from the first photo. It was clear that they were all friends. Novak stood out, his bright white hair a stark contrast to the dark heads of the others. It was a wonder they didn’t tip the boat, she thought whimsically. Five men the size of Novak. One was even bigger – he looked like a bodybuilder. But it was Novak who held her attention.

The third photo was of Novak with Dani when they were teenagers. Faith was again struck by the resemblance between them, made so much stronger by their near-identical coloring. Both had black hair with bold white streaks in the front. They sat astride bicycles, laughing, as if they knew a secret joke, just the two of them.

Faith felt a pang of wistfulness. She’d always wanted siblings. At the same time, she would never have subjected anyone else to the pain of her mother’s suicide.

Even her father. Especially him. Especially now. Twenty-three years ago, her father had grieved so hard when he thought his wife had died in a car accident that Faith had feared she’d lose him too. Because then she would have been all alone.

But just that fast she heard Novak’s voice, soothing her.
You’re not alone. I’m here.
He’d gotten her through those moments in the basement. In the hotel lobby. In the police station when she’d thought her heart would break.

He was a good man, one she’d come to depend on shockingly fast.

And a finely built man, too. Her stomach fluttered with the memory of all that bared skin. He was the same bronze color all over. At least everywhere but under his boxers. And maybe there too. The fluttering in her stomach moved lower, as everything within her clenched.

It had been such a long time since she’d looked at any man like that, since she’d wanted to be touched. But this morning, she hadn’t just wanted his touch. She’d
needed
it. If the Feds hadn’t rung the doorbell, they would have ended up in his bed. They still might.

Might?
Honey, it’s just a matter of time.
Hopefully not too much time. To have her long fast broken by a man who looked like Deacon Novak was the kind of bright spot she hadn’t had in her dismal world for a long time.

Job. Email. Focus
. Snapping herself back to reality, she returned the photos to his desk and checked the makeshift worktable beside it – a piece of plywood on two sawhorses. There she found the wireless router along with a dozen electronic gadgets and as many power tools. She noted the router’s password, then took her laptop to his bedroom.

Which smelled like him. All cedar and . . . delicious. Novak smelled so damn good, it was all she could do not to sniff him like a puppy. Which would be
so
attractive, she told herself with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes. Although somehow she didn’t think he’d mind.

She eyed the big bed with its rumpled sheets. That would smell like him too.

She settled against the headboard, nearly groaning when her butt sank into a soft mattress. Just how she liked them. Not like the hard hotel mattresses she’d been sleeping on for so long. She indulged for a moment by putting her face into one of his pillows and drawing a deep breath.

Yes
. It smelled just like him. And imagining him here . . . her whole body went instantly tight. And wet.
God
. Novak would be an incredible lover, of that she had no doubt.

If he survives.
The thought snuck in, leaving her cold. He was out there right now, trying to find the man who had killed so many already.
Who is trying to kill me.
Who’d very nearly killed him last night.
He would have died protecting me. He would have died before I ever got to have him.

He’d do it again, she knew. He’d risk his life for her again in a heartbeat and there would be nothing she could do to stop him. Except keep herself out of the killer’s sights as he’d asked.

Faith opened her email, composing a short note to her new boss, just as Novak had suggested. Neither of the numbers the office had on file were functional, so she gave her boss Novak’s cell in case he needed to reach her. She sent the message and then checked the news.

And sighed. Both her grandmother’s house and her hotel were top of the news on every website she checked, including the national outlets. Accompanying both stories were the same photos – aerial shots of the house, photos of the shattered glass at her hotel, and a close-up of the missing window pane in the hotel the shooter had fired from.

She had no doubt that if she turned on the television, she’d see the same images on the CNN loop. The press had connected the house to Arianna’s assault, listing the homeowner as Faith Frye of Miami, who could not be reached for comment.
Well, at least there’s that.

She was extremely surprised that no one had given the press her new name – neither the cops nor the staff at her hotel. But someone would. It was inevitable.

She opened one of the articles and sighed again. Novak’s photo was included among the pictures of the hotel devastation. They’d latched on to him like piranhas, making him part of their story, capturing his bigger-than-life persona. But not one of the stories included a photo of her – and Faith suddenly understood something that had puzzled her the night before.

She’d wondered why Novak would want to draw attention to himself. Why he’d make himself so
noticeable
when all she’d ever wanted was to become invisible. Now she understood that Deacon Novak drew media attention to himself so that victims like her might be spared.

God.
She blinked back the moisture that stung her eyes. Although he still liked the attention, she thought, clicking on a video clip with a teary laugh. He strode through the crowd of reporters like he owned them, his white hair bright in the lights, his leather coat flapping in the night. Even his ‘no comment’ seemed to create a stir.

She scanned the next story, noting that his name was linked to another article. Curious, she clicked it and let out a long, harsh breath.

Feds Find Two Dozen Unmarked Graves.
A shiver ran down her spine. It was dated almost a year ago, the photo of a grim Novak standing in a West Virginia field, surrounded by freshly dug graves as a team wearing protective gear dug a few feet away. It was a candid shot, a little fuzzy, as if taken from far away. Novak wore his black leather coat, yet possessed no swagger. His shoulders were hunched, his face lined with grief.

Faith felt like she was violating Novak’s privacy in a way she hadn’t while looking at the photos on his desk, even though the story was publicly posted. The news photographer had captured his face unguarded, his weariness palpable.

The text recounted how the team led by FBI Special Agent Joseph Carter had come to find the bodies.
Joseph Carter
, Faith thought
. He’s the JC from the picture on Novak’s desk
. The story went on to describe how Special Agent Deacon Novak had been working with archeologist Dr Sophie Johannsen for weeks to unearth the bodies, identify the remains and notify the victims’ families.

Two dozen victims. Two dozen graves.
And now he has ten more
. So far.

Oh Deacon.
She wished she were with him, if only to hold him, but she’d promised to stay put. She had to wait until he came home to give him comfort as he’d given her.

His first kiss had been so soft. Sweet. But all the kisses that followed . . .
That’s how I’ll kiss him when he comes back
. Hard and hot enough to help him forget for a little while.

But he might not be home for hours, and during that time he’d be dealing with victims. And their families. The despair he’d felt a year ago was what he’d be feeling today. Knowing that hurt Faith’s heart. She needed to ease him, not at the end of the day when he was hollowed out and weary, but now. She knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she’d at least tried.

She couldn’t text him until she got another cell, so she opened a new email, using the fact that she’d given her boss his number as an excuse for something to say.
Take care, Deacon
, she added at the end.
I’ll be waiting.
Then she hit
send
and closed her laptop.

She got into bed, tucking her gun under her pillow where she could get to it quickly. Then she pulled the rumpled covers over her body, snuggled her head into Novak’s pillow and drew his scent into her lungs. And let exhaustion take her under.

Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 10.00
A.M.

‘A pink gymnast genie?’ Bishop snickered as they walked from the parking lot at the back of the O’Bannion family attorney’s building. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘A half-naked one,’ Deacon said dryly. ‘Hearing about Faith’s uncles almost makes me glad that Adam’s father is my uncle. Almost.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘More like just not that good. Jim Kimble is very rough around the edges. Serrated, even. What did you find at King’s College?’

‘A bullet in a tree trunk and a lot of blood,’ Bishop said. ‘The bullet was the same caliber you found at the old house and in the body in the hotel room the shooter used. I left the slug with Agent Taylor, the Fed forensics guy who processed the hotels last night.’

‘Yeah,’ Deacon grumbled. ‘The one who took my coat.’

‘Poor baby,’ Bishop said, sounding just like Faith, though telling her so would only confirm in
her
mind that Deacon had lost
his
. ‘What do you know about the attorney?’ she asked.

‘Herbert Henson Senior was Faith’s grandmother’s attorney for decades, but Faith never met him until he read the will. I asked Crandall to run a check on him and the firm. Established in 1953 by Herbert Senior.’

‘Wait. The one we’re going to see? He’s still alive?’

‘And practicing. He’s eighty-six. It’s been Henson and Henson since Herbert Junior got his law degree and joined the practice back in 1978. Junior retired, but it’s still Henson and Henson because Herbert’s grandson, Herbert the Third, got his law degree and joined in 2010. They do primarily estate planning, but occasionally handle drunk and disorderly charges against their elite clientele.’

‘Did Crandall dig up any dirt on the lawyers?’