Monroe, Melody S. - Verdict (Siren Publishing Classic) (9 page)

“Great.” Or had he been outside for a quick rendezvous?
Stop it. He saved your life.
“Why don’t you shower first? I need a few minutes to take off these tags and figure out what to wear.”

He shrugged. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Stone drew the drapes close, locked the door and propped up a chair under the knob. He didn’t bother with the flimsy chain. “That should keep any unwanted person outside for a while.”

He stepped next to the bed, pulled his shirt over his head and dumped it in the trash. Then he unsnapped his jeans. Her gaze stayed riveted on the way his pecs flexed with each movement. She swallowed hard. “What are you doing?” Once he’d locked them in, her anxiety level dropped until he started his strip tease.

“The trashcan in the bathroom won’t hold all my ruined smoky clothes.”

He shucked off his shoes and dropped trou.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Look away
. Dammit, she couldn’t. Guilt at her lustful leering forced her to flip around.

Stone chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” She had to ask.

“I know you were married. You must have seen a man in his underwear before.”

“You aren’t my husband.” A quick vision of her and Stone together flashed in her mind, and she cleared her throat. “Would you mind getting naked in the bathroom?”

“I wasn’t going to strip completely.”

Oh.

Packages rustled and his bare feet padded across the room to the bathroom. She dropped onto the bed, exhausted from the exchange. She’d never been a prude, but with Stone, she didn’t know how to react. The last year of her marriage to Carlton had been as lifeless as Travis Simmons’ dead body.

After a moment of rest, she got up and sorted through her purchases to decide what to wear. Whether she looked presentable or not shouldn’t matter, but somehow her appearance had become important to her. She hadn’t minded wearing a baggy sweatshirt and equally ill fitting pants back at the town house, so what had changed? The day at the beach? The hamburger he’d gone out of his way to bring her? Nothing about his relationship with Peter Caravello had been different, so should she trust him because he’d saved her life?

She refused to address her own internal dialogue and went back to organizing her clothing. Ten minutes later, Stone stepped out of the bathroom and all thoughts of what to wear disappeared. Did he clean up nice or what? He was dressed in tight jeans and a body-fitting T-shirt. Her first reaction was that he’d make a great cover model, and she blinked to clear her head.

Her eyes told her to trust him, but the lawyer in her said to hold back judgment a little longer. She suspected something inside her might snap if she believed in Stone. She just might give into her desire to have his luscious body under her control. God knows she could use a good time in bed to take her mind off her problems.

“Next.”

He had the nerve to smile, as if he could read her mind. She wasn’t staring that hard, was she?

Head held high, she picked up what she needed and brushed past him into the steamy bathroom. A hint of mint and lemon mixed with the steam sent her thoughts in the absolute wrong direction. He’d been naked in here. Wet and naked. A big, fluffy towel lay wadded on the floor. For a brief moment she was tempted to pick it up and smell his scent, but the sane side of her said to undress before she got herself more confused.

She made sure to lock the door. The last thing she needed was for Stone to accidentally on purpose come looking for something he theoretically left in the bathroom, and she’d be completely undressed with soap clinging to her breasts and between her thighs. She’d never been tempted to play with herself sexually until she’d laid eyes on Mr. Eye Candy himself.

Move.
Getting out of the stinky clothes was wonderful, but the sensation didn’t compare to the hot shower. While she wanted to spend an hour in the bathroom, they couldn’t afford to stay in one place long. She washed her hair as quickly as the pain allowed and dressed in record time.

As she stepped out of the bathroom, Stone had his feet on the small table, his arms across his chest and a smile of his face. Without a brush to pull through her wet tangled hair, she must look like Methuselah.

His eyes widened. “Nice.”

She couldn’t tell if his comment was sarcastic or not, so she let it slide. “Thanks. Can we go now?”

He jumped up. “Sure. You’re the boss.”

“As if you believe any part of that statement.”

“But I do.”

He picked up her suitcase, along with his duffel and held open the door. As was his usual procedure, he scanned the parking lot while she got in the car. The man did take his job seriously.

He backed out of the parking space. “While you were in the shower, I called T-Squared.”

“Who?”

“Tom Traynor, or T-Squared for short. We work together.”

She appreciated he didn’t keep this phone call a secret. “Because?”

“I had asked him to get the names and addresses of the remaining jurors, which he delivered. Turns out only three are on the east coast.”

“You still think it’s a good idea to warn them? The Bureau might not appreciate the interference.” She needed Stone safe, too.

“I don’t have a choice.” His jaw clenched. Never a good sign.

An ache rippled up her spine. “Can’t the Bureau assign each of them a bodyguard?”

“Contrary to popular belief, we don’t have unlimited resources. I already asked.”

 
“If I hadn’t been injured, would I have been on my own?”

His lips thinned. “Most likely.”

She didn’t like his answer. “Which means I mostly likely would be dead.”

“But you’re not.”

For now.

With the addresses of the three the remaining jurors in hand, they drove north to Lake City, Florida, which took exactly three hours. The exit had about fifty restaurants all clumped near the interstate. They stopped at a cute cafe with a chicken proudly displayed on the sign. Her meal tasted better than anything she’d eaten since the explosion. Maybe it was the sensation of freedom that gave back her taste buds.

They didn’t dawdle or talk about the case, which was fine by her. Once Stone refueled across the street from the restaurant, he peeled out of the station.

“You know where you’re going?” she asked.

He nodded toward the GPS. “I already programmed the address.”

“Did you call Mr. Marcadis to let him know you wanted to speak with him? Going to his house and knocking on his door might scare him, badge or no badge.”

“Can’t be helped. T-Squared only had the address.”

“Too bad.”

As Stone drove to their destination, she took in the rather rundown surroundings. Strip malls flanked car dealerships, and there were more mobile homes than site built ones.

When he pulled onto Marcadis’ street, police cars and an ambulance sat in front of a yellow wooden house. Every muscle tensed. She checked she’d locked the door.

“What’s happening?” She rolled down her window to get a better view and shivered as a blast of cold air sent a chill across her face.

“I don’t like it, whatever it is.”

Her chest hurt, and not from the stitches, but from the blood knocking around inside. Had Mr. Marcadis been injured? “Maybe your friend gave you the wrong address.”

“Doubtful.” Stone drove on by and circled the block. “Once I find a place to stop, I want you to get in the back and lie down on the seat.”

His sharp tone sent her on alert. “Why? No one knows I’m here.” Surely, he wasn’t planning on securing her to the seat?

He pulled over to the side of the road and put the car in park. “The killer knows your face.”

Chills shook her.

He clicked open the doors. “If the ambulance is there, someone got to him before we did. No telling where our attacker is right now.”

This time she didn’t argue and slipped out the passenger side, hopped in the back seat, and lay down, her chest heavy. She prayed the juror was still alive and could identify the maniac out to get them all.

Chapter Seven

Stone never liked flashing his badge just to gain information, but sometimes the situation called for using his credentials to get what he needed.

A wide-eyed cop stepped closer and examined the badge, the man’s thumbs jammed in his belt. “FBI?” The cop whistled. “Never had one of you guys here before. How can I help, Detective?”

“Does this house belong to Phillip Marcadis?”

“He’s a renter. Stan Kranc owns the place.”

Two men in white, facing each other, led a wheeled cart through the open screened front door. A black body bag sat on top. Damn it. They were too late. He swallowed, anger and frustration twisting his gut.

“Watch out, everybody. Coming through,” one of the attendants called, and he and the other two cops stepped aside.

Stone nodded to the body before facing the cop. “Is that Mr. Marcadis?”

“Afraid so.”

He schooled his features. “How did he die?”

The young cop flipped opened his pad. “We can’t be sure until the Medical Examiner gives his report, but apparently he was changing a ceiling fan and forgot to turn off the power.”

Electricity seemed to be the culprit again. “You going to treat this as a homicide?”

“Homicide around here?” He chuckled. “No.” The young cop sobered. “You think there was foul play? The guy was by himself.”

“Killers do come into homes, murder the victim, then leave.”

The cop looked away. Stone watched the men load the body into the ambulance, then did his usual neighborhood scan. Often murderers liked to stay around, even offer assistance, just to see the neighbors and law enforcement squirm or panic.

No one, however, appeared interested.

He returned his attention back to the cop. “How long has Mr. Marcadis lived here?” He had the details, but he needed to see if the local police had a clue.

The cop looked to his partner. “You know when, Vern?”

The older man hiked up his pants. “I talked to Dalia Wilson, the neighbor, and she said he only moved in two days ago. Guess he was fixing up the place. It needed it. Ole man Kranc never did give a damn about repairs.”

He debated telling them about the Caravello trial but decided the FBI needed to do the investigation, not two local cops who probably had never dealt with a homicide. “He didn’t have a roommate?” He doubted a bodyguard had been assigned, but he wanted to be sure.

“If he had, Dalia would have known. She keeps an eye out for everything.”

“Maybe this Dalia saw someone. Like a friend visiting.”

The old cop stepped into their circle. “Unfortunately, Ms. Dalia was at her daughter’s all morning. Said when she came home, she saw no one go near his place.”

Bad luck again. “Mind if I have a look inside?”

The two men exchanged glances. “I don’t know why the FBI would be interested, but go ahead.” Vern’s jaw clenched.” Just don’t touch any evidence.”

Stone hid his smile. “Promise.”

The scent of bleach blasted him the moment he entered the living room. Given the torn drapes and stains on the carpet, maybe Mr. Marcadis was trying to make the place livable. What was Richard Thomason thinking, asking a juror to move into this sty? He better not pull that trick on him in the future or there’d be hell to pay. If there had been a bodyguard, he would have made a stink with the Bureau. Lake City didn’t look like a town with a shortage of rentals. Thomason should have found something better.

He forced down his disgust and studied the scene. A ladder was positioned under a ceiling-mounted junction box. An old fan lay on the floor. Problem was, there was no new fan kit nearby. Who took down an old fixture without buying a new one first, assuming he wanted to replace the thing?

The chalk outline of the body was off to the side of the ladder. As a kid, Stone often jumped off ladders to the side to see how far he could long jump. The force of his foot pressing against the rung usually toppled the ladder. From where the body was positioned, it looked like that’s what had happened here, only the ladder was still upright. If Marcadis was electrocuted and fell to the side, why hadn’t it fallen over, or at least moved? Something didn’t add up.

He did a walk-through, looking for the new fixture but found nothing to indicate how Marcadis had died. Maybe the juror had been changing the fan and the killer threw the power switch from OFF to ON. Regardless of the method, Phillip Marcadis was dead. Didn’t much matter how.

Having satisfied his curiosity, he opened the screen door, stepped onto the porch, and glanced around. Middle-class homes filled the middle-class neighborhood.

“Find anything?” Vern said, as he climbed the three steps to the sagging wooden deck.

“No. I’d dust the power panel for prints.”

Vern puffed out his chest. “Planned to.”

“Great. Good luck.”

Using the remote, Stone clicked open the car door, strode down the drive and jumped in the driver’s side.