Protecting Justice (The Justice Series Book 4) (25 page)

It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

She’d prostituted herself to keep the man distracted and she didn’t care. They’d christened every surface in the loft, St. Agnes looking on with her stoic face.

“Eric Pasche can smell jarred sauce from a mile away,” Fallyn said, turning back to the stove. As she stirred, Tony put his arms around her and lowered his lips to her neck. Her concentration fled and the spoon slowed.

Closing her eyes, she sighed softly, enjoying the feel of his solid body pressing against hers. For once, she didn’t want to
lean in
like all the women’s magazines told her to do. She had a career and it was great, but right now, she was also strong enough to admit, she wanted a man in her life.

Instead of leaning in, she leaned back.

Against Tony’s shoulder.

This
. She sighed.

This was what she wanted.

What would it be like to come home to him every night? To cook for him?

“Luckily,” she said, eyes closed, “I learned enough about cooking while working in dad’s restaurant, that I can fake it with the best of them.”

Steam rose from the boiling water in the second pot, the mist hovering in the air as the noodles cooked. When was the last time she’d stood over a stove and cooked for someone? She couldn’t remember. Even though she knew how to make a variety of plates most people were impressed with, she usually ordered out. Too many years working at her father’s restaurant had jaded her love of cooking.

Tony’s hands slid around her hips to her backside where he cupped her ass cheeks. His lips nibbled at her ear. “How long before dinner’s ready?”

“Not long.” She knew where this was going. Despite what he’d said about preferring fast sex, Tony was not a quick, wham-bam lover. He liked to take his time. The pasta would overcook if she let him have his way. “How much time do you need?”

“I bet I can make you come before the timer goes off.”

She turned in his arms.
To hell with the pasta
. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

He lifted her onto the counter with ease, the spoon in her hand falling to clang against the saucepot. He kissed and licked at the fine layer of perspiration on her collarbone, and she helped him unbutton her shirt. His lips moved down toward her left nipple.

She’d just unclasped his pants and he was sucking on that nipple through her lace bra when his phone went off.

Swearing, he fumbled the phone out of his back pocket. She saw him about to turn the whole thing off when he stilled. “It’s Teeg,” he said through gritted teeth. “I better take it.”

Fallyn nodded, playing with his zipper anyway, slowly lowering it to slip her fingers inside. He sucked in a breath, caught her fingers and drew them away, giving her a warning look. She chuckled under her breath and licked her lips seductively.

“What?” Tony said by way of greeting to Teeg.

She couldn’t make out Teeg’s exact words, but Tony’s brows crashed together and she stopped teasing him.

Tony put the phone on speaker and held it between them. “Say that again, Teeg.”

The techie’s voice sounded tired. “I unlocked a folder Heather had labeled personal email. Except it wasn’t email. There was only a single jpeg in the file. A screenshot of a coded text.”

Fallyn buttoned her shirt back up. “Who was it from?”

“Sending the screenshot to you now,” Teeg said, “along with what I could decode. Doesn’t make sense to me, but it may to you guys. Also, I haven’t found anything credible—or consistent—with death threats. Anything related to her shooting down that bill was mostly one-time bitching. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”

Tony’s phone dinged with the incoming jpeg file. He brought it up as Fallyn slid off the countertop and stood next to him.

They read it at the same time, then exchanged a look. “I knew it,” Fallyn said.

“You know what it means?” Teeg asked.

Fallyn scanned the words again.

D-Day, POTUS runt at MacDill.

Tony was staring at her, as if he, too, were waiting for her to enlighten him.

“MacDill,” Fallyn said. “The air force base in Tampa? That’s where Ryan Nicols’ Special Operations team is stationed. MacDill hosts the Special Operations Command and twenty-something other mission partners. They patrol the Atlantic waters.”

“D-Day,” Tony recited. “Is it saying the day the CanAir flight disappeared, Ryan was at MacDill?”

“Exactly.” Fallyn leaned her butt against the counter. “Who is the text from, Teeg? There’s only a phone number associated with it and I don’t recognize that number.”

“It’s a personal cell phone that isn’t used much. A real dinosaur bought seven years ago.” The click of keys filtered through the phone. “I managed to track down the name it’s registered to.”

Tony shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And?”

“Carl Lomax.”

“Carl?” Fallyn met Tony’s eyes, a strong sense of betrayal sending sharp lightening strikes down her arms. She gripped the edge of the counter. “He was helping Heather look into this?”

“Looks that way,” Tony said. “Heather must have figured out the Nicols angle and wanted to know where the kid was when the plane went down.”

“He warned me off, told me not to dig into this.” Fallyn shook her head in disgust. “He acted like I was a bitch for insisting Heather had been killed, and then he lied right to my face when I asked him if he knew Heather was investigating the plane’s disappearance. He told me he didn’t know anything about it.”

Tony’s fingers tightened on the phone. “Which means it’s possible he lied about not knowing Heather had a heart condition as well.”

Fallyn’s stomach dropped. What was Tony suggesting?

Teeg’s voice broke into their personal conversation. “What does Ryan Nicols have to do with the CanAir flight?”

Grey hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone about Fallyn and Tony’s theory.

Fallyn felt a new kind of heat rising in her body. The heat of treachery turning her blood to a rolling boil. “The president’s son, a member of a secret Spec Ops group, was at MacDill the day the CanAir flight went missing. I think he shot that plane down on his father’s orders. My sister was putting those links together and Carl knew about it. That rat bastard. He was helping her.”

“Or he’s the one who shut her down,” Tony said. The timer on the stove went off and Tony met her gaze. “Carl just added himself to our suspect list.”

Chapter Fifteen

Tony stopped on the walkway leading to Carl’s stately colonial in one of the tonier neighborhoods in the DC area. For a guy who’d worked for the government most of his career, he had obviously cashed in working the private sector.

He scanned the fresh paint, the scrollwork on the oversized double front doors that had obviously been hand-carved. The doors alone were probably a year’s worth of Tony’s salary.

“Here’s the deal,” he faced Fallyn.

“Uh-oh. I don’t like when people tell me what the deal is.”

“I know. But hear me out on this one. I think you’ll agree.”

She pursed her lips, clearly prepping to argue before he’d even said anything. Tony had to laugh. Everything about this woman gave him a rush. The contrary attitude, the drive, the willingness to put herself in danger to find the truth, all of it tripped his ‘she’s-special’ trigger.

He smiled. “What? No snappy comeback?”

“Oh, I have one. But you asked me to hear you out. Which I will do, considering the multiple, rib-shattering orgasms you gave me in the last twelve hours. Thank you, by the way for those. I want more.”

Yeah, he might love her.

“Plenty more of that for you, babe. But first,”—he pointed to the fancy front door—“we talk to your buddy Carl. We show him the screenshot of his text to Heather and see what he has to say.”

“Yes. That’s the plan. We talked about this already.”

Yep. Sure did. “This is the part that’ll piss you off.”

“Excellent.”

“I think you’re too close to this situation to question Carl. It’s too personal and, as good as you are, I don’t think you can distance yourself emotionally. That’ll screw up the interview. Let me talk to him. You listen and see if anything clicks for you.”

She tilted her head, nibbled her bottom lip and Tony’s mind wandered back to the things she’d recently done to him with those lips and—crap—he was gone. Toast.

Without giving her a chance to respond—or argue—he started up the walkway. “It’s a good plan,” he said. “You can be the good cop.”

Fallyn scooted up behind him, tugged on the back of his jacket. “Fine. But—”

“Ha. I knew that was too easy.”

“But…if I have a question, I’m jumping in.”

Tony poked the doorbell and heard the sing-song chime through the thick wood of the doors. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Charmer.”

One of the giant doors swung open and Carl—what? No butler?—greeted them. He wore a perfectly pressed white dress shirt, no tie, black slacks and tasseled shoes. If this was his hanging around the house outfit, the guy needed to lighten up.

“Come in,” he said waving them through.

Tony held his hand out to Fallyn then rested it on her lower back as she breezed by him. Somewhere in the last few days she’d stopped flinching every time he touched her. Welcome news since he considered himself an affectionate guy who liked physical contact with the people he cared about. Hugs, pokes, tickles, whatever; he showed his love with his hands.

“I’m home alone,” Carl said, “but let’s go into the study.”

The study. Sounded private. A place where they could talk openly. Possibly accuse a man of murder.

Fallyn led the way, chatting with Carl as they walked down a long hallway beside the curving staircase.

On an emotional level, this had to be difficult for her. These people were family friends and she’d probably visited their home hundreds of times for parties and holidays and dinners. But Fallyn? She was a beast. Nothing about her relaxed tone or the sassy swing of her hips indicated conflict.

Which was why she was so good at her job.

Fallyn, under all that cool, was a snake about to strike.

Damn, he could love her.

I’m toast.

At the end of the hallway, just before they reached the kitchen, Fallyn turned through another set of carved double doors. The
study
. The tall bookcases and dark green paint reminded Tony of something from an old movie. Old Carl was shooting for upscale and elegant, but what he got was tight and confined. Pretentious.

Carl sat behind the oversized desk and waved them to the guest chairs.
Power play.
The room, with the huge desk and wall of bookcases wasn’t big enough for a seating area.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Fallyn said.

“Of course. Anything for you. You know that. You said it was about Heather?”

Here we go…”Yes,” Tony said.

Carl inched his head to Tony, gave him a puzzled why-are-you-speaking look.

Tony sat back, crossed his feet at his ankles and settled in. “Some things have come up about Heather.”

“Like what?”

“Like that CanAir flight that crashed.”

Carl met Fallyn’s gaze then shifted back to Tony. “Again with this? She was on the Foreign Relations committee. They closed that investigation.”

“No they didn’t. And I think you know that.” Tony grabbed his phone from his pocket, tapped on the screenshot of Carl’s text and set the phone on the desk where Carl could see it. Take it in.

“We’ve uncovered this text.”

Carl glanced down at the phone, but immediately brought his gaze up.

Tony held up his hand. “Before you say anything, you should know we’ve traced the text back to your phone. We know you sent Heather this message. We
know
Heather—at the request of Senator Oren—was covertly looking into that crash, even after Foreign Relations came up with that nonsense about closing the investigation. What we don’t know is why you’re involved.”

“I’m not involved.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

And,
hello
. Carl kept his eyes glued to Tony. In Tony’s experience, if Carl wanted to launch a full-scale counterattack, he’d need reinforcements. Someone emotionally invested, someone he might try to manipulate based on their family history.

That someone, right now, was Fallyn.

And he couldn’t look at her.

Guilt.

As much as Tony had anticipated that Fallyn’s personal issues would impede this interview, it seemed he might be wrong. Tony had spent a lifetime dealing with guilt and defending against it. His mother and sisters were champs at guilt. If there were a Guilt Olympics, they’d take the gold. Every time.

Time to make Carl squirm.

Tony angled to Fallyn. “Tell him what you told me about the president’s son.”

For a second, Fallyn hesitated, searching his eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing after he’d instructed her to keep her trap shut. Yes, he’d gone off script. She could yell at him later.