Exposed (4 page)

He took the elevator up to the floor where the Marshall’s offices were located. Most of the desks were empty, as the other deputies were doing duty at a huge land-fraud case that was capturing not only the local but also national media attention.

For once, his injury was a blessing. At least he wouldn’t have to dodge all the photographers and reporters, while trying to escort witnesses to the courthouse, like his friends were doing now. Sometimes, it was like running a gauntlet.

Stopping in his office, he was surprised to see his desk just as he’d left it. Everything in its place. His coworkers joked about his obsessive-compulsiveness, often moving things just to watch him put them back where they belonged. It wasn’t so much that he needed to have things in order, he was simply a firm believer in organization. Growing up helping his grandfather in his auto mechanics shop had taught him many things.
Put a thing where it belongs, and you’ll know where to find it
. Granddad hated wasting time looking for things.

Frank huffed out a sigh.

Standing here in his office, staring at his clean desk, was his way of wasting time.

When the family had teased him about being on extended leave the other day, he hadn’t told them he’d already been summoned by his boss to make an appearance. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion he was about to get his ass chewed out. Something else he hated.

A hard chore is best done quick
.

Another of his grandfather’s sayings. Funny, he hadn’t thought about him in months. Now the old man seemed to be taking up residence in his head.

Inhaling deeply, he headed for his boss’ office. U.S. Marshal Dan Robertson was a by-the-book boss, and didn’t play politics. If he was pissed, Frank would know it the moment he walked in the door.

“Glad to see you’re back in the office today, Deputy Marshal Castello.” Robertson didn’t look up from the paper he was writing on.

Shit.
He’d used his title. Not a first name. Not even just a last name.
Not good
.

“Yes, sir.” Frank stood on the other side of the desk. Out of respect for the man and his office, he wouldn’t take the vacant chair until it was offered.

Robertson finally set aside the pen and studied him from head to toe. “How’s the leg?”

“Coming along, sir. Biweekly PT is going well, at least, according to my therapist.” Dan wanted formal, he’d give him formal.

“Take a seat,” his boss said, waving a hand at the chair. “Any idea how long before you can return to active duty?”

Sitting, he took the opportunity to stretch out the injured leg, but only slightly. He’d anticipated this question coming from his boss, and asked Mike for a ballpark figure earlier today. “Therapist says I’m ahead of the program. Probably another month.”

“Good thing the bullets didn’t shatter your kneecap or bones, huh?” Tension edged the question, setting Frank’s nerves on alert.

“Yes, sir. I was very lucky.”

“You know, you have a very odd idea of fun. When most guys in the Midwest take a week’s vacation in January, they tend to go somewhere warm and relax. A warm island beach. Women in bikinis. They do not fly to the nation’s snowbound capital, go undercover for another agency, and get themselves all shot to hell.”

Frank knew better than to open his mouth. Dan was nowhere near done.

“The worst part was that I had no idea what you were up to. That is, until
my
boss, the Deputy Director called to say how pleased he and
his
boss, the Director, were that we’d been part of the team helping to bring down the Red Mantle group and save the president on her first day in office. Nothing like having my ass hanging out in the wind.”

And there it was. His boss didn’t like looking like a fool any more than he did. His little excursion to do a favor for a friend had left a man he respected feeling like he’d been used and abused. Couldn’t blame him for being angry. He’d be just as mad. Probably more so, if someone had kept him in the dark about an operation that had this big an implication.

“To be honest, sir, the operation I was helping my friends with was supposed to be a simple observe and plant a microchip listening device during the gala. We, and most of the other security in the building, were caught completely off guard when the cult started firing. In fact, we were lucky we didn’t lose more people.”

“Heard that one of the people in your group helped to identify many of the terrorists trying to sneak out with the hostages.” Some of the edge had gone out of Robertson’s voice and Frank relaxed a little.

“That would be Abigail Whitson. She has a very unique talent.”

Robertson lifted a paper, glanced at it and then fixed his gaze on him. “This Luke Edgars. Same one you helped in the big takedown of Senator Klein’s sex slave ring last year? Another off-the-books excursion you got mixed up in.”

Shit.
Robertson was as relaxed as a tiger sizing up a heard of goats. “Yes, sir.”

“And he’s the brother-in-law of your former WitSec member…”

“Katie Edgars,” Frank provided, wondering where the man was going with this line of questioning.

“The one who blew her cover—”

“Actually, it was blown on our end, sir.” And, his former partner, Pete, a good man and Deputy, lost his life trying not to give up the information.

Robertson nodded. “True. And you continued her protection, albeit off protocol.”

And they stopped a madman from killing Katie, not to mention possible hundreds with stolen SAMS from a decade earlier. Frank refrained from reminding Dan of those facts. He already knew them.

“What I’m seeing here is a pattern. A pattern of you going rogue. Running cases without notifying me or anyone in this department.” Dan rested both his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together, and stared over them at him for a few minutes.

Frank fought the urge to adjust his seat like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He’d learned a long time ago that silence on his part could get the other person to tell you more information—a kind of a game of chicken for interrogation.

“Dammit, Castello, I can’t have my deputies, no matter how good or how experienced, running all over the country getting into cases run by other departments. Keeping me in the dark in the meantime. You work for me, not this Edgars family. Your first duty is to the Marshals. Had you not been playing undercover spy on your free time, you wouldn’t have been injured and I wouldn’t be down a man. Especially with all the protection of witnesses I need for this land fraud case.”

The man had a point, although if Frank wanted to be a smartass he could always point out that he could’ve just as likely been in a car accident, or struck by lightning on his free time. That wouldn’t get him any brownie points with his boss, though.

“Yes, sir,” he said, instead.

Dan slammed his hand down on his desk. “Don’t give me that placating, yes, sir, shit, Frank. No more extra cases. Anything pops up on your radar that needs looking into by the Marshals, you better be feeding me into the loop first. Otherwise, I’m going to be rethinking whether or not you want to continue
being
a Deputy Marshal. You hear me?”

* * * * *

Dan Robertson’s hardly veiled threat still rang in Frank’s ears on Saturday afternoon as he stepped out of his car and pulled on his tuxedo jacket. Luke and Abigail’s wedding wasn’t for an hour, but he’d promised to be early to help with setting out the folding chairs and tables for the reception.

The North Bank Park was located just west of downtown Columbus, below where the Olentangy and Scioto rivers merged to form the bigger Scioto River. The park itself was built on what used to be the pump house for the old Ohio Penitentiary.

He’d happily pointed out to Luke how ironic it was that two federal agents were getting married where criminals were once housed. For some reason, the kid didn’t think it was funny at all.

Locking his door, Frank left the reserved spots in the parking lot perpendicularly down the street from the park. A number of parking meters had been reserved on the street beside the park, but they should be for the Edgars’ immediate family and grandparents. Besides, his leg could use the exercise.

Walking down Neil Avenue towards the Park’s glass-enclosed pavilion where the ceremony would be held, he enjoyed the crisp June air. He had to give it to Luke and Abigail, they’d picked the perfect day for the wedding. He wasn’t overly romantic, didn’t get gushy when people talked about weddings, but he did believe good things should happen to good people. Especially when one of them almost died.

A little more than a year ago, Abigail had been in the hospital. She’d thrown herself between Luke and a knife. Nearly losing her had been the final wake-up call for the youngest Edgars brother. He’d dropped his playboy lifestyle to focus entirely on Abigail, even after she recovered.

As Frank crossed Long Street in front of the pavilion, a taxi pulled to a stop at the crosswalk. From the backseat emerged a petite woman, her blonde hair pulled up into some zany sort of a bun with strands of it falling loose like straws from an unkempt pile of hay. Dressed in green-khaki cargo pants, hiking boots and a huge, oversized blue sweater, she had two travel bags hanging off her shoulders and her hand hooked around the handle of a garment bag. Aviator-style sunglasses hid half her face.

“Let me get you some extra cash for getting me here so quickly from the airport,” she said to the driver as she fished around in one of her bags, losing her grip on the garment bag. “Oh, no!” she yelped, trying to manage everything and losing the carryon bag at the same time.

Acting out of instinct, Frank took two quick strides and grabbed both bags before they hit the pavement. “Got ’em.”

“Oh, my God! Thank you,” the woman said, turning a relieved smile up at him as if he’d saved her from dropping a baby onto the concrete. “I don’t know what I would’ve done had that crashed on the ground.”

She reached for the carryon bag, but he held it firm, wondering what the hell she had in it to make it so heavy, and nodded at the taxi driver behind her.

“Oh, yes.” She handed the other man some money and took the handle of the larger suitcase from him.

“You sure this where you want me to drop you, ma’am?” the driver asked in slightly halting English with a middle-eastern accent. He scanned around the pavilion and office buildings in the area then back at her, concern in his eyes.

The woman laughed. Not a childish tinkling or giggling, but a husky, dark, whiskey kind of sound that caught Frank smack in the middle of his chest.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, smiling at the man. “You’re probably used to your fares wanting to go to a hotel or their homes, but this is where I need to be this afternoon. It’s a wedding.”

The driver glanced at her clothes, then over at Frank before shrugging. “Most happy felicitations to you both,” he said, then climbed into his cab once more.

The woman started to protest, but the driver had already pulled out into traffic. She watched the taxi for a moment, then whirled on him. He’d never been trout fishing, but her open-mouthed expression of bewilderment reminded him of a fish he’d seen on one of those nature sports shows shown on Sundays before the football games aired.

“How could he possibly think we were getting married?” she asked.

He glanced down at the three-piece tuxedo he had on. Then, quirking one brow, he nodded at the garment bag in her hand. “I have no idea.”

That had her lips slamming shut into a line. He imagined she was glaring at him from behind those sunglasses, which he suddenly wished were gone so he could see what color her eyes were.

“I take it you’re here for the Whitson-Edgars wedding?” she finally asked.

He refrained from asking if there was more than one wedding here today. He might be a bachelor, but he knew that a sarcastic comment to an already irritated woman might result in bodily injury. Instead, he just nodded.

Suddenly her face lit up with a hundred-watt, straight-to-his-gut smile. “Oh, my God, you’ve got to be Frank. Abby’s told me all about you. A man of few words.” Letting go of her suitcase handle, she stuck her hand out to him. “I’m Sydney Peele.”

“The photographer.” He stared at her hand as if it were a cobra ready to strike, his humor and interest in the little tornado of a woman flattened like a tire running over nails in the road.

Her smile fading, she withdrew her hand and grabbed her suitcase once more. “Um, yes. I was…hoping to get here before the wedding party arrived.”

“They’re not here yet.” He wanted to hand her the heavy carryon bag, which he suspected carried the cameras she used to ply her trade into people’s privacy, and distance himself from the pariah of modern social technology.
Paparazzi. Photographers. Demon spawn
. But the woman already had both hands full of bags.

“That’s good. I promised Abby I’d be here to take pictures before the wedding started. Please tell me there’s somewhere I can change? I just got off the plane and came straight here.” There was a slight hesitation in her voice as she glanced around at the glass enclosed pavilion.

Damn it.
As much as he wanted to drop her camera case on the concrete sidewalk and possibly smash the offensive equipment of her trade, he couldn’t ignore that little signal of distress.

It was a character flaw. The need to protect. His late partner called it his hero-complex. He couldn’t let someone in trouble—even if it was simply finding a place to change clothes—fend for themselves.

“This way,” he said. Stepping around her, he led the way to the brick portion of the facility in back of the pavilion without waiting to see if she followed. At the entrance, he did hold the door for her, but refused to help wrangle the roll-on type suitcase in for her. “Third door on the right is the women’s restroom.”

“Thanks,” she said with another of those overly-bright smiles, and strutted down the hallway.

Despite her chosen profession, he had to admit those pants shifted nicely on her bottom as she sashayed away, her blonde hair bouncing like a halo around her head as she walked.