when the FBI taskforce shows up. But whatever their reason, it’s been forgotten, now that Callie’s in their presence.
All eyes are on her like maggots on a corpse.
I flash my badge at Sheriff Cox, but he says that’s not good enough. It could be a fake. I won’t argue the point, because in fact, it is a fake. Sensory Resources doesn’t issue badges. But we do have valid credentials, and Callie produces them. Sheriff Cox pretends to study them carefully before answering my questions, but what he’s really studying is the lower half of Callie’s anatomy.
Now that we’re dating, and planning to live together, I need to ask her to stop wearing camel-toe jean tights, or leggings, or whatever the hell they’re called.
When he’s done ogling her, I ask, “Was a woman staying at Jack’s house?”
“How’d you know?”
“We’ve got a top-flight research team.”
“You’ve seen her picture?”
“No.”
“She’s damn good-looking.” He gives Callie another quick mental undressing and adds, “Not compared to you, Miss Carpenter.”
Callie shows him a smile so radiant it catches him off-guard. His knees buckle. He nearly goes down.
I get it.
She’s dazzling.
Normally I’d let Callie’s flirting work its magic, but right now I’m not in the mood.
I’m pissed.
Not only that, but I’m pissed that I’m pissed. What I’m saying, I’m shocked to realize it matters to me that this jackass is molesting my girlfriend with his eyes. And I’m furious at myself for having this weakness. When you’re in my business, playing at my level, the thing that kills you is your soft spot. Your weakness. You simply can’t survive long when they learn about your weakness.
“The woman’s name?” I say, making an effort to hold my temper.
He answers me while staring at Callie. “She was going by Emma Wilson, but when I ran her ID it came up identity theft. The real Emma died twenty-one years ago in a car crash. I don’t know if the phony Emma killed Jack Russell, or was just using him, but she had his house key, credit card, and a stack of cash that likely belonged to him. She took off shortly before the blast.”
“Who saw her last?”
“Millie Reston.”
“Where’s she?”
“In there with the others,” he says, pointing to a nearby tent.
“What others?”
“The BWC’s.”
Callie looks at me, then says, “We’re not familiar with that term.”
“Normally I’d keep this confidential,” Sheriff Cox says. “But we’re a small town, and I’m not the one who found them. So basically, the whole town knows the story.”
“Except for us,” Callie says.
His eyes go straight to the swell of Callie’s breasts, and eventually her face. “You’re that movie star, right?”
“You know I’m not. You’ve seen my papers. But thanks for the compliment. What’s a BWC?”
“We don’t know. It was written on the asses—pardon my French—of the three victims.”
“Victims?” I say. “We were told there were no casualties.”
“You were told right. No one died. But a young man and two women were in the general blast area. They were knocked down, disoriented. Some fella came running up from the lake, pulled their pants down, and wrote BWC on their asses with a grease pen.”
“Makes sense.”
“It does ?”
“No, of course not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say comedy ain’t easy, and leave it at that. So what does BWC stand for?”
“We don’t know.”
“You’ve had hours to think about it.”
“Maybe it’s the bomber’s initials.”
“That’d be pretty stupid, don’t you think?”
He shrugs.
Callie says. “What else can you tell us?”
“There was a homicide a few hours before the blast. Local guy named Darryl Rhodes. Jack Russell had been banging Darryl’s wife, Abbey.”
“Abbey Roads?” Callie says. “Like the Beatles?”
“What beetles?”
Callie stares at him blankly.
He says, “Emma was staying at Jack’s house, posing
All eyes are on her like maggots on a corpse.
I flash my badge at Sheriff Cox, but he says that’s not good enough. It could be a fake. I won’t argue the point, because in fact, it is a fake. Sensory Resources doesn’t issue badges. But we do have valid credentials, and Callie produces them. Sheriff Cox pretends to study them carefully before answering my questions, but what he’s really studying is the lower half of Callie’s anatomy.
Now that we’re dating, and planning to live together, I need to ask her to stop wearing camel-toe jean tights, or leggings, or whatever the hell they’re called.
When he’s done ogling her, I ask, “Was a woman staying at Jack’s house?”
“How’d you know?”
“We’ve got a top-flight research team.”
“You’ve seen her picture?”
“No.”
“She’s damn good-looking.” He gives Callie another quick mental undressing and adds, “Not compared to you, Miss Carpenter.”
Callie shows him a smile so radiant it catches him off-guard. His knees buckle. He nearly goes down.
I get it.
She’s dazzling.
Normally I’d let Callie’s flirting work its magic, but right now I’m not in the mood.
I’m pissed.
Not only that, but I’m pissed that I’m pissed. What I’m saying, I’m shocked to realize it matters to me that this jackass is molesting my girlfriend with his eyes. And I’m furious at myself for having this weakness. When you’re in my business, playing at my level, the thing that kills you is your soft spot. Your weakness. You simply can’t survive long when they learn about your weakness.
“The woman’s name?” I say, making an effort to hold my temper.
He answers me while staring at Callie. “She was going by Emma Wilson, but when I ran her ID it came up identity theft. The real Emma died twenty-one years ago in a car crash. I don’t know if the phony Emma killed Jack Russell, or was just using him, but she had his house key, credit card, and a stack of cash that likely belonged to him. She took off shortly before the blast.”
“Who saw her last?”
“Millie Reston.”
“Where’s she?”
“In there with the others,” he says, pointing to a nearby tent.
“What others?”
“The BWC’s.”
Callie looks at me, then says, “We’re not familiar with that term.”
“Normally I’d keep this confidential,” Sheriff Cox says. “But we’re a small town, and I’m not the one who found them. So basically, the whole town knows the story.”
“Except for us,” Callie says.
His eyes go straight to the swell of Callie’s breasts, and eventually her face. “You’re that movie star, right?”
“You know I’m not. You’ve seen my papers. But thanks for the compliment. What’s a BWC?”
“We don’t know. It was written on the asses—pardon my French—of the three victims.”
“Victims?” I say. “We were told there were no casualties.”
“You were told right. No one died. But a young man and two women were in the general blast area. They were knocked down, disoriented. Some fella came running up from the lake, pulled their pants down, and wrote BWC on their asses with a grease pen.”
“Makes sense.”
“It does ?”
“No, of course not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say comedy ain’t easy, and leave it at that. So what does BWC stand for?”
“We don’t know.”
“You’ve had hours to think about it.”
“Maybe it’s the bomber’s initials.”
“That’d be pretty stupid, don’t you think?”
He shrugs.
Callie says. “What else can you tell us?”
“There was a homicide a few hours before the blast. Local guy named Darryl Rhodes. Jack Russell had been banging Darryl’s wife, Abbey.”
“Abbey Roads?” Callie says. “Like the Beatles?”
“What beetles?”
Callie stares at him blankly.
He says, “Emma was staying at Jack’s house, posing
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