Split Second (6 page)

T
ess McGowan wished she had worn different shoes. These pinched and the heels were too tall. Every nerve ending in her body concentrated on not tripping as she walked up the winding sidewalk, all the while pretending not to notice the eyes that followed her. The movers had stopped unloading the truck as soon as her black Miata pulled into the drive. Sofa ends stayed in midair. Hand-trucks remained tipped. Boxes were ignored while the men in sweaty, blue uniforms stopped to watch her.

She hated the attention and cringed at the possibility of a wolf whistle. Especially in this well-manicured neighborhood where the sanctuary-like silence would make the whistles even more obscene.

This was ridiculous; her silk blouse stuck to her, and her skin crawled. She wasn’t close to being stunning or beautiful. At best, she had a decent figure, one for which she sweated hours at the gym, and she still needed to monitor her cravings for cheeseburgers. She was far from being
Playboy
-centerfold material, so why did she suddenly feel naked though dressed in a conservative suit?

It wasn’t the men’s fault. It wasn’t even their primal instinct to watch that bothered her as much as what seemed to be her involuntary reflex to put on a show for them. The annoying habit clung to her from her past, like the scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Too easily she found herself reminded of Elvis tunes coming from a corner jukebox, always followed by cheap hotel rooms.

But that had been a lifetime ago, certainly too many years ago to trip her up now. After all, she was on her way to becoming a successful businesswoman. So why the hell did the past have such a hold on her? And how could something as harmless as a few indiscreet stares, from men she didn’t know, dismantle her poise and make her question her hard-earned respectability? They made her feel like a fraud. As if, once again, she was masquerading as something she was not. By the time she reached the front entrance, she wanted to turn and run. Instead, she took a deep breath and knocked on the heavy oak door that had been left half-open.

“Come on in,” a woman’s voice called from behind the door.

Tess found Maggie O’Dell at the panel of buttons and blinking lights that made up the house’s newly installed security system.

“Oh, hi, Ms. McGowan. Did we forget to sign some papers?” Maggie only glanced at Tess while she punched the small keyboard and continued to program the device.

“Please, you really must call me Tess.” She hesitated in case Maggie wanted to say the same, but wasn’t surprised when there was no such invitation. Tess knew it wasn’t that Maggie was rude, just that she liked to keep her distance. It was something Tess could relate to, something she understood and respected. “No, there aren’t any more papers. I promise. I knew today was the big move. Just wanted to see how things were going.

“Take a look around, I’m almost finished with this.”

Tess walked from the foyer into the living room. The afternoon sunlight filled the room, but thankfully all the windows were open, a cool south breeze replacing the stale warm air. Tess wiped at her forehead, disappointed to find it damp. She examined her client out of the corner of her eyes.

Now, this was a woman who deserved to be ogled by men. Tess knew Maggie was close to her own age, somewhere in her early thirties. But without the usual power suit, Maggie could easily pass for a college student. Dressed in a ratty University of Virginia T-shirt and threadbare jeans, she failed to hide her shapely athletic figure. She had a natural beauty no one could manufacture. Her skin was smooth and creamy. Her short dark hair shone even though it was mussed and tangled. She possessed rich brown eyes and high cheekbones that Tess would kill for. Yet, Tess knew that the men who had stopped in their tracks just moments before to stare at her would not dare do the same to Maggie O’Dell, though they would definitely want to and it would take tremendous effort not to.

Yes, there was something about this woman. Something Tess had noticed the very first day they had met. She couldn’t quite describe it. It was the way Maggie carried herself, the way she appeared, at times, to be oblivious to the outside world. The way she seemed totally unaware of her effect on people. It was something that invoked—no, demanded, respect. Despite her designer suits and expensive car, Tess would never capture that ability, that power. Yet for all their differences, Tess had felt an immediate kinship with Maggie O’Dell. They both seemed so alone.

“Sorry,” Maggie said, finally joining Tess who had moved to the windows overlooking the backyard. “I’m staying here tonight,” she explained, “and I want to make certain the alarm system is up and running.”

“Of course,” Tess nodded and smiled.

Maggie had been more concerned about the security system than the square footage or the seller’s price of any of the houses Tess had shown her. In the beginning, Tess chalked it up to the nature of her client’s profession. Of course FBI agents would be more sensitive to security matters than the average home buyer. But Tess had witnessed a look in Maggie’s eyes, a glimpse of something that Tess recognized as vulnerability. She couldn’t help wondering what the confident, independent agent hoped to lock herself away from. Even as they stood side by side, Maggie O’Dell seemed far away, her eyes examining her new backyard like a woman looking for and expecting an intruder, rather than a new home owner admiring the foliage.

Tess glanced around the room. There were plenty of stacked boxes, but very little furniture. Perhaps the movers had only begun to bring in the heavy stuff. She wondered how much Maggie was able to take from the condo she and her husband owned. Tess knew the divorce proceedings were growing messy. Not that her client had shared any of this with her.

Everything Tess knew of Maggie O’Dell, she had learned from a mutual friend, Maggie’s attorney, who had recommended Tess. It was this mutual friend, Teresa Ramairez, who had told Tess about Maggie O’Dell’s bitter lawyer husband, and how Maggie needed to invest in a substantial piece of real estate or risk sharing—maybe even losing—a large trust left in her name. In fact, Maggie O’Dell had confided nothing in Tess, other than those necessities required for the business transaction. She wondered if Maggie’s secrecy and her aloof manner were an occupational hazard that carried over into her personal life.

It didn’t matter—Tess was used to just the opposite. Usually clients confided in her as if she was Dear Abby. Being a real estate agent had proven to be a little like being a bartender. Perhaps part of her colorful past had been good preparation, after all. That Maggie O’Dell didn’t wish to bare her soul was perfectly fine with Tess. She certainly didn’t take it personally. Instead, she could relate. It was exactly the way she handled her own life, her own secrets. Yes, the less people knew, the better.

“So, have you met any of your new neighbors?”

“Not yet.” Maggie answered while she stared out at the huge pine trees lining her property like a fortress. “Only the one you and I met last week.”

“Oh sure, Rachel…um…I can’t remember her last name. I’m usually very good with names.”

“Endicott,” Maggie supplied without effort.

“She seemed very nice,” Tess added, though what little she had gleaned from the brief introduction made her wonder how Special Agent O’Dell would fit into this neighborhood of doctors, congressmen, Ph.D.’s and their stay-at-home society-conscious wives. She remembered seeing Rachel Endicott out for a jog with her pure white Labrador, while dressed in a designer jogging suit, expensive running shoes and not a blond hair out of place nor a single bead of sweat on her brow. And in contrast, here was Agent O’Dell in a stretched-out T-shirt, worn jeans and a pair of gray Nikes that should have been thrown out ages ago.

Two men grunted their way through the front entrance with a huge rolltop desk. Immediately, Maggie’s attention transferred to the desk, which looked incredibly heavy and was quite possibly an antique.

“Where ya want this, ma’am?”

“Over against that wall.”

“Sorta centered?”

“Yes, please.”

Maggie O’Dell’s eyes never left them until the piece was carefully set down.

“Dat good?”

“Perfect.”

Both men seemed pleased. The older one smiled. The tall, thin one avoided looking at the women, slouching not from pain but as though he wasn’t comfortable being tall. They unwrapped the tape and unlatched the plastic fasteners from the desk’s many nooks. The tall man tested the drawers, then stopped suddenly, snapping his hand back as though he had been stung.

“Um…ma’am. Did you know you had this in here?”

Maggie crossed the room to look inside the drawer. She reached in and pulled out a black pistol encased in some kind of holster.

“Sorry. I forgot about this one.”

This one? Tess wondered how many the agent had stashed. Maybe the obsession with security was a bit over the top, even for an FBI agent.

“We should be done in a bit,” the older man told her, and he followed his partner out as though there was nothing unusual about hauling loaded guns.

“Do you have anyone coming to help you unpack?” Tess tried to disguise her mistrust, her distaste for guns. No, why kid herself? It was more than a simple distaste, it was a genuine fear.

“I really don’t have much.”

Tess glanced around the room, and when she looked back, Maggie was watching her. Tess’s cheeks grew hot. She felt as though she had been caught, because that was exactly what she had been thinking—that Maggie O’Dell really didn’t have much. How could she possibly fill the huge rooms that made up this two-story Tudor?

“It’s just that…well, I remember you mentioning that your mother lives in Richmond,” Tess tried to explain.

“Yes, she does,” she said in a way that told Tess there would be no further conversation on the topic.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to work.” Tess suddenly felt awkward and anxious to leave. “I need to finish up the paperwork.”

She extended her hand, and Maggie politely shook it with a strong, firm grip that again took Tess off guard. The woman exuded strength and confidence, but unless Tess was imagining things, Maggie’s obsession with security sprung from some vulnerability, some deep-seated fear. Having dealt with her own vulnerabilities and fears for so many years, Tess could sense them in others.

“If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call me, okay?”

“Thanks, Tess, I will.”

But Tess knew she would not.

As Tess backed her car down the driveway, she wondered whether Special Agent Maggie O’Dell was simply cautious or paranoid, careful or obsessive. At the corner of the intersection, she noticed a van parked along the curb, an oddity in this neighborhood where the houses were set far back from the street and the long driveways afforded plenty of parking space for several cars or utility vehicles.

The man in dark glasses and a uniform sat behind the wheel, absorbed in a newspaper. Tess’s first thought was how odd to be reading a newspaper with sunglasses on, especially with the sun setting behind him. As she drove by, she recognized the logo on the side of the van: Northeastern Bell Telephone. Immediately, she found herself suspicious. Why was the guy so far out of his territory? Then suddenly, she shrugged and laughed out loud. Perhaps her client’s paranoia was contagious.

She shook her head, pulled out onto the highway and left the secluded neighborhood to return to her office. As she glanced back at the stately houses tucked away between huge oaks, dogwoods and armies of pine trees, Tess hoped Maggie O’Dell would finally feel safe.

M
aggie juggled the boxes that filled her arms. As usual she had taken on more than she should have. Her fingers searched the door, grasping for a knob she couldn’t see, yet she refused to put anything down. Why in the world did she own so many CDs and books when she had no time to listen to music or read?

The movers had finally left, after a thorough search for one lost carton, or as they insisted—one misplaced carton. She hated to think of it still at the condo, and hated even more the thought of asking Greg to check. He would remind her that she should have listened to him and hired United Movers. And knowing Greg, if the carton was still at the condo, his anger and curiosity would not leave it alone. She imagined him ripping off the packing tape as though he had discovered some hidden treasure, which to him it would be. Because, of course, it would be the one container with items she’d rather have no one thumb through, items like her personal journal, appointment calendar and memorabilia from her childhood.

She had torn her car’s trunk apart, looking through the few boxes she had loaded on her own. But these were the last. Perhaps the movers had honestly misplaced the carton. She hoped that was the case. She tried not to worry about it, tried not to think how exhausting it was to be on alert twenty-four hours a day, to be constantly looking over her shoulder.

She set the boxes on the handrail, balancing one with her hip, while she freed a hand to grab at the tightening knot in the back of her neck. At the same time, her eyes darted around her. Dear God, why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy her first night in her new home? Why couldn’t she concentrate on simple things, stupid everyday things, like her sudden and unfamiliar hunger?

As if on cue, her mouth began to water for pizza, and immediately she promised herself one as a reward. Her appetite had long been gone, making this craving a novelty, one she needed to relish. Yes, she would stuff herself with pizza garnished with spicy Italian sausage, green peppers and extra Romano cheese. That is, after she drank several gallons of water.

Maggie’s T-shirt stuck to her skin. Before she ordered the pizza, she’d take a quick, cool shower. Ms. McGowan—Tess—had promised to call all the utility companies. Now Maggie wished she had double-checked with her to make certain she had done so. She hated depending on other people, having recently found herself with a full cast of them in her life, from movers and real estate agents, to lawyers and bankers. Hopefully the water would, indeed, be on. Tess’s word had been good so far. In all fairness, there was no need to question it now. The woman had gone out of her way to make this accelerated sale go as smoothly as possible.

Maggie repositioned the boxes to her other hip. Her fingers found the knob. She pushed the door open, carefully maneuvering her way in, but still sending several loose CDs and books crashing onto the doorstep. She bent just enough to look down at Frank Sinatra smiling up at her through his cracked plastic window. Greg had given her the CD several birthdays ago, although he knew she hated Sinatra. Why did that gift suddenly feel like some prophetic microcosm of their entire marriage?

She shook her head and the thought out of her mind. The memory of their brief morning exchange stayed annoyingly fresh in her mind. Thankfully, he had left for work early, mumbling about all the construction on the interstate. But tonight he would be having his last laugh, sifting through her personal things. He would see it as his right. Legally she was still his wife, and she had given up long ago arguing with him when he shifted into lawyer mode.

Inside her new home, the wood floors’ recent varnish glowed in the late-afternoon sunshine. Maggie had made certain there wasn’t a stitch of carpet in the entire house. Footsteps were too easily muffled by floor coverings. Yet, the wall of windows had cinched the deal for Maggie, despite them being a security nightmare. Okay, so even FBI agents weren’t always practical. But each individual window was set in a narrow frame that not even Houdini could squeeze through. The bedroom windows were another story, but reaching the second floor from outside would require a tall ladder. Besides, she had made certain that both security systems, inside and outside, rivaled those at Fort Knox.

The living room opened into a sunroom with more windows. These stretched from the ceiling almost to the floor, and though they were also thin and narrow, they made up three walls in the room. The sunroom extended into and looked out over the lush green backyard. It was a colorful, wooded fairyland with cherry and apple blossoms, sturdy dogwoods, a blanket of tulips, daffodils and crocus. It was a backyard she had fantasized about since she was twelve.

Back then, when she and her mother had moved to Richmond, they could afford only a tiny, suffocating third-floor apartment that reeked of stale air, cigarette smoke and the body odor of the strange men her mother invited overnight. This house was more like the one Maggie remembered of her real childhood, their house in Wisconsin, where they had lived before her father was killed, before Maggie was forced to grow up quickly and become her mother’s caretaker. For years, she had longed for someplace like this with lots of fresh air and open spaces, but most importantly—plenty of seclusion.

The backyard sloped down only to be met by a dense wooded area that lined a steep ridge. Below, a shallow stream trickled over rocks. Though she couldn’t see the stream from the house, Maggie had checked it out at great length. It made her feel safe, as if it were her own personal moat. It provided a natural boundary, a perfect barrier that was reinforced by a line of huge pine trees standing guard like sentries, tall and straight, shoulder to shoulder.

That same stream had been a nightmare for the previous owners who had two small children. Fences of any kind were against the development’s covenant. Tess McGowan had told Maggie that the owners simply realized they couldn’t keep two curious kids from being enticed or lured by such a dangerous adventure. Their problem became Maggie’s safeguard, her potential trap. And their impulsive purchase became Maggie’s bargain. Otherwise, she would never have been able to afford this neighborhood where her little red Toyota Corolla looked out of place next to BMWs and Mercedeses.

Of course, she still would never have been able to afford the house had she not used the money from her father’s trust. Having received scholarships, grants, fellowships and then working her way through college and graduate school, Maggie had been able to leave most of the trust alone. When she and Greg got married, he was adamant about not touching the money. In the beginning, she had wanted to use it to buy them a modest home. But Greg insisted he would never touch what he called her father’s blood money.

The trust had been set up by fellow firefighters and the city of Green Bay to show appreciation for her father’s heroism, and probably to assuage their guilt as well. Maybe that was part of the reason she had never been able to bring herself to use the money. In fact, she had almost forgotten about the trust until the divorce proceedings began and until her lawyer highly recommended she invest the money in something not so easily divided.

Maggie remembered laughing at Teresa Ramairez’s suggestion. It was ridiculous, after all, knowing the way Greg had always felt about the money. Only it wasn’t ridiculous when the trust showed up on an assets sheet, which Greg had shoved at her several weeks ago. What for years Greg had called “her father’s blood money,” he was now calling community property. The following day she asked Teresa Ramairez to recommend a real estate agent.

Maggie added the boxes to those already arranged and stacked in the corner. She glanced over the labels one last time, hoping the missing one would miraculously show itself. Then, with hands on her hips, she turned slowly around, admiring the spacious rooms decorated for the time being in Early American corrugated brown. She had brought very few pieces of furniture with her, but more than she had expected to extract from Greg’s lawyerly clutches. She wondered if it was financial suicide for anyone to ask for a divorce from a lawyer spouse. Greg had handled all of their joint financial and legal affairs for almost ten years. When Teresa Ramairez had started showing Maggie documents and spreadsheets, Maggie hadn’t even recognized some of the accounts.

She and Greg had married as college seniors. Every appliance, every piece of linen, everything they owned had been a joint purchase. When they moved from their small Richmond apartment to the expensive condominium in the Crest Ridge area, they had bought new furniture, and all of it went together. It seemed wrong to split up sets. Maggie smiled at that and wondered why she couldn’t bring herself to split up furniture but could do so with their ten-year marriage?

She did manage to take with her the pieces of furniture which mattered most. Her father’s antique rolltop desk had made the trip without a scratch. She patted the back of her comfortable La-Z-Boy recliner. It and the brass reading lamp had been exiled long ago to the condo’s den, because Greg said it didn’t match the leather sofa and chairs in the living room. Maggie couldn’t recall much living having ever occurred on them.

She remembered when they had first bought the set. She had tried to break it in with some passionate memories. Instead of letting his body respond to her flirtatious suggestions, Greg had been horrified and angered by the idea.

“Do you know how easily leather stains?” He had scolded her as though she was a child spilling Kool-Aid instead of a grown woman initiating sex with her husband.

No, it was easy to leave those pieces behind. As long as the memory of their crumbling marriage stayed with them. She pulled out a small duffel bag from the pile in the corner and set it on the desk next to her laptop. Earlier she had opened all the windows to remove the stale, warm air. As the sun set behind the line of trees, a moist but cool breeze swirled into the room.

She unzipped the duffel bag and carefully removed her holstered Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. She liked the way the pistol fit in her hands. There was a familiarity and ease, like the touch of an old friend. While other agents had upgraded to more powerful and automatic weapons, Maggie drew comfort from the gun she knew best. The same gun with which she had learned.

She had depended on it numerous times, and though it had only six rounds compared to an automatic’s sixteen, she knew she could count on all six without any jamming. As a newbie—as FBI recruits were called—she had watched an agent go down, helpless with a Sig-Sauer 9 mm and a magazine half-full, but jammed and useless.

She pulled out of the bag her FBI badge in its leather holder. She laid both it and the Smith & Wesson on the desk, almost reverently, alongside the Glock 40 caliber found earlier in the desk drawer. Also in the duffel bag was her forensic kit, a small black pouch that included an odd assortment of things she had learned over the years never to be without.

She left the forensic kit safely tucked in place, zipped the duffel bag and slid it under the desk. For some reason, having these things close by—her guns and badge—made her feel secure, complete. They had become symbols of who she was. They made this feel more like home than any of the possessions she and Greg had spent their adult lives collecting. Ironically, these things that meant so much to her were also the reasons she could no longer be married to her husband. Greg had made it quite clear that Maggie needed to choose either him or the FBI. How could he not realize that what he was asking her to do was like asking her to cut off her right arm?

She traced a finger over the leather case of her badge, waiting for some sign of regret. But when none came, it didn’t necessarily make her feel any better. The impending divorce brought sadness, but no regret. She and Greg had become strangers. Why hadn’t she seen that a year ago when she lost her wedding ring and hadn’t felt compelled to replace it?

Maggie swiped at strands of hair that stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. Its dampness reminded her that she needed a shower. The front of her T-shirt was dirty and stained. Her arms were marred with black and purple scuffs. She rubbed at one to discover a bruise instead of dirt. Just as she began to search for her newly installed phone, she noticed a police cruiser whiz by.

She found the phone under a stack of papers. She dialed from memory and waited patiently, knowing it would take more than five or six rings.

“Dr. Patterson.”

“Gwen, it’s Maggie.”

“Hey, how the hell are you? Did you get moved in?”

“Let’s just say my stuff is moved.” She noticed the Stafford County Coroner’s van drive past. She went to the window and watched the van curve to the left until it was out of sight. The street had no outlet. “I know you’re swamped, Gwen, but I was wondering if you had a chance to check on what we talked about last week?”

“Maggie, I really wish you’d leave the Stucky case alone.”

“Look, Gwen, if you don’t have time, all you need to say is that you don’t have time,” she snapped, and immediately wished she could take her words back. But she was tired of everyone trying to protect her.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Maggie. Why do you always make it so goddamn hard for people to care about you?”

She let the silence hang between them. She knew her friend was right. Suddenly in the distance, Maggie heard a fire engine’s siren, and her stomach turned to knots. What was happening just around the corner? Her knees threatened to buckle at the thought of a possible fire. She sniffed the breeze coming in through the window. She couldn’t smell or see smoke. Thank God. If it was a fire, she would be incredibly useless. The thought alone scared the hell out of her, reviving memories of her father’s death.