The Longest Silence Page 7

  That was the thing about young men. They always needed to prove themselves. Wes, twenty-three and barely a year postgrad from Georgia Southern University, was kissing every available ass on this assignment in hopes of scoring brownie points. Jo singled him out in a flash. The first time she caught him alone, she introduced herself. He’d spent the initial couple minutes of that conversation immersed in a study of her cleavage. After she mentioned she was close to the Durand family, he’d stuck to her like glue.

  “I’m with you on that one.” She sipped her beer. “You’re going places, Wes. I can feel it.”

  He grinned before waving at the server to bring him another. “You ready for a fresh beer?”

  She shook her head. “I’m good. A girl’s gotta watch those carbs.”

  “I know all kinds of ways to burn off extra carbs.”

  She bet he did.

  Cowboy Bill’s was a nice place. The corrugated metal walls and wood floors provided that country-chic atmosphere. A big bar and plenty of pool tables kept those not interested in the dance floor occupied. The crowd was rowdy but in a happy way. Servers were efficient and the drinks were a decent price. She didn’t remember the place from before, but then she’d done all in her power to block that year from her memory banks. Not that she’d ever really been the party girl type.

  Maybe that was where she’d gone wrong. If she’d learned the ins and outs of partying before she found herself immersed in the college culture she might have handled things better.

  Too late for what-ifs now. She’d made the decisions she made. So had Ellen.

  Now it was time to make the people responsible pay.

  “Berman is convinced we won’t be finding these two girls alive.” Wes shook his head somberly.

  “Why’s he so sure?” Jo ordered her heart to slow. David Berman was one of CNN’s hotshot journalists. Evidently good old Wes knew how to get assignments with the top guns.

  “He ran some statistics,” Wes explained. “Based on the number of women who’ve gone missing over the past two decades and the percentage of those found alive, we’re due a couple murders.”

  “Wow.” She sipped her beer. “That’s depressing. I’m guessing his headline won’t read that way.”

  Wes chuckled. “Certainly not.”

  Jo glanced toward the bar. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had been seated on a stool there for the past forty minutes. The bourbon on the rocks the bartender set in front of him was his third. Apparently he was no lightweight since he hadn’t slid off that stool yet. Still, he should be feeling plenty relaxed.

  “Well.” Jo reached for her purse. “I see an old friend I need to catch up with before calling it a night.” She reached across the table and squeezed Wes’s hand. “You have my number. We should do this again. Soon.”

  He grinned, clearly enamored with the idea of getting into an older woman’s pants. “Count on it.”

  She gave him a wink and headed for the bar. With a dramatic sigh, she dropped her purse on the counter. “Vodka martini, please.”

  She didn’t have to look to know LeDoux was checking her out. She could feel his eyes on her. Good. She’d selected this dress for that reason. Tight, short and the cream color looked good with her olive skin tone. She worked hard to stay in shape but it had nothing to do with luring the male species.

  If anyone ever tried to hurt her again he would be in for one hell of a surprise. Jo could kick the shit out of guys three times her size, including the one sizing her up right now. She had experienced things—things that changed her view of the world and of people. Long ago she had decided that she would never again be caught off guard or unable to defend herself or to take care of herself. Mostly she preferred living in her small one-room world without ever having to deal with people.

  This has to be done. It has to be over. No more silence. No more pretending.

  She’d done her homework on the man seated next to her. He’d built a stellar career as a profiler with the FBI. More than one article had called him the Bureau’s Top Gun. He was a year older than Jo and the victim, Tiffany Durand, was his niece. LeDoux, she decided, was the perfect person to help her. He was just desperate enough to buy her story.

  At least, she hoped he was. Time to cast a line and see if she nabbed herself a bite. If she was wrong about LeDoux... No. Being wrong wasn’t an option. He was her best and possibly her only hope.

  The bartender placed the drink in front of her.

  “Thank you.” She lifted the glass to her lips and closed her eyes. “Hmm.” She lowered the glass back to the counter. “If it weren’t for martinis I’d never survive assignments like this.”

  She turned to the man still staring at her. “Please tell me you’re not another reporter. The last one almost talked my ear off.”

  LeDoux looked away. “Not a reporter.”

  His voice was deeper than she’d expected. Sandy blond hair looked a little scruffy for an FBI agent. She’d yet to see one sporting a two-days’ beard growth. The outfit—polo shirt and jeans—was not exactly what she’d expected either. The slightly wrinkled suit jacket looked more like an afterthought. Above all else it was the don’t-give-a-shit look in his eyes that told her Special Agent Anthony LeDoux was not on duty. Maybe he was only here to support his sister.

  Jo had done all the research on the family she could from her iPad. Whether LeDoux was here on official business or not, some of the more recent articles she’d read about him suggested his illustrious career was also on the rocks.

  That last part was irrelevant as far as Jo was concerned. He would have the connections she needed.

  “I guess it’s my lucky night then.” She ate the olive and downed the rest of her drink. “Now, that hits the spot.” A nod to the bartender had him preparing another. Jo thanked him and took a deep breath. Play the part.

  “You’re a local then?” She turned on the stool to face LeDoux, the hem of her dress stretched tight across the tops of her thighs as she crossed her legs. “Do you believe those two missing freshmen were taken by someone who lives in Milledgeville?”

  He twisted to face her, his knee bumping into hers. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m not a local.”

  “I get it now.” She sipped her martini. “You’re a cop.”

  He finished off the bourbon but didn’t ask for another. Oh hell, she’d waited too long for the approach.

  “Not a cop either.” He pushed the glass forward and gave the bartender a nod. “Not even close.”

  He was staying, at least for a little while longer. Her heart rate leveled off. She set her glass aside and leaned forward. His eyes were brown but there were these little gold flecks. “Don’t tell me, you’re a fed.”

  He looked away. “In another life.”

  So much yearning and defeat were packed into those three words that Jo was caught off guard for a moment. So the rumors of his fall from grace were true.

  “Well—” she smiled “—I’ve been many things, the worst of which might very well be a reporter.”

  He didn’t look at her.

  “I know. Scum of the earth.”

  The slightest hint of a smile made his lips twitch.

  “I had bigger plans but you know how it goes, shit happens.”

  “Yeah.” He picked up his fresh bourbon. “Shit definitely happens.”

  “So why are you here?”

  For five seconds she was certain he wouldn’t answer or he’d just get up and walk away. Instead, he turned to her and said, “I’m here to find my niece.”

  “Is she...?” Jo put a hand to her throat. “One of the missing girls is your niece? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. You probably need to be alone.”

  She opened her clutch and reached for a couple of bills. “I swear, I’m usually better than this at reading people.” She left the cash on the counter
as she scooted off the stool. “Really, I’m so sorry.”

  He caught her by the wrist when she would have walked away. “Maybe you’d like a private interview.”

  Jo’s pulse bumped into a faster rhythm. “Your place or mine?”

  * * *

  The drive to his hotel, which turned out to be the Antebellum Inn, took all of four minutes. Jo had time to change her mind. She could just turn around and drive in the opposite direction. But she didn’t. She parked her Celica behind his BMW and got out. The real question now was whether or not he would change his mind.

  Heart thumping, she met him in front of his car. He reached for her hand and led her through the darkness. Rather than climb the steps to the front door they walked around the house. Trepidation slithered over her. The low lighting around the pool lit their path as he guided her to what looked like a pool house. He reached into his pocket for a key and unlocked the door. She glanced back at the dark house, nerves jangling. No backing out now.

  Inside, the room was cool and dark. He turned on a lamp. The place was considerably larger than the dump where she lived in Copperas Cove. She heard the lock turn behind her. Play the part.

  She needed to know who she could trust before she told her story. He could be the one. Having a fed related to a victim was a truly lucky break—maybe, possibly. Not so lucky for the victim or the family. Jo closed her eyes and blocked what she knew from experience was probably happening to the victims at that very moment.

  He came up behind her and moved her hair aside to kiss her neck. She shivered. His fingers tugged her zipper slowly down her back while he trailed kisses along her spine. By the time the dress hit the floor she was trembling with need.

  Usually her lovers were sloppy and in a rush. Usually she was, too.

  LeDoux might be legally inebriated but he was in no hurry. He turned her around and kissed her long and deep. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He flung it aside. Together they pulled his polo free of his jeans.

  Somehow they managed to finish unclothing each other before he dragged her onto the bed and buried himself inside her.

  Jo stopped analyzing the situation and lost herself to the moment she would regret in the morning.

  The story of her life.

  11

  Cherry Tree Apartments, Macon

  Thursday, April 12, 2:00 a.m.

  Miles Conway was one hell of a lucky bastard. He grinned as he pushed the bedroom door open and she walked in. His dick thumped against his fly just watching her move. He couldn’t remember when he’d had one this fresh.

  As she crossed the room she tossed her big bag—the massive ass kind chicks loved to tote around these days—on the floor and reached for the hem of her skintight dress. He closed the door and leaned against it, watched her reach beneath the sleek fabric and tug the lacy thong down her thighs.

  A chick after his own heart—straight to the point. Oh yeah, he was one lucky bastard.

  Maybe turning forty hadn’t fucked with his ability to draw in the younger chicks as badly as he’d thought. And this one was all his. No strings. No leveling of the playing field with a little compliant cocktail. He pushed off the door and strode to where she stood, her arms twisted behind her, fingers tugging at the zipper tracing her spine. She licked her lips and he thought he’d have to fuck her with the dress on.

  Patience. If he played this right he might get an hour of magic on video.

  He pushed her hands away and dragged the zipper slowly down to that perfect little dimple where her ass began. Damn he couldn’t wait to tap this bitch. She was so fucking hot.

  The dress fell to the floor and she stepped out of it, racy stilettoes all that was left of her fashionista outfit. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes hooded as if she, too, was already burning up. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

  Miles laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He grabbed the hem of his V-necked tee and pulled it over his head, tossed it aside. He was usually the one who gave the orders. He liked being in control. But he could see the fun in being the submissive one from time to time. Especially with this chick. This one was special, he could tell. Jeans went next and that was it. Underwear and socks were two things he never bothered to wear. Ready was his middle name.

  While she watched, he climbed onto the bed and stretched out. He didn’t mind her staring. His body was his temple and he took very good care of it. Like a movie star or a rock star, the way he looked was part of the job. He had used his looks and his charm to lure so many pretty girls into his sweet trap he’d lost count. Young things were his specialty. There was money to be made with the tender ones. Young, usually innocent, girls showed up for college with wide eyes and big dreams. Then, after a while, they got lonely. So lonely. And ripe for the picking. All they wanted was someone to care about them—to love them and touch them in just the right ways.

  It was so freakin’ easy to spot the neediest ones. The ones who would never dare tell. College campuses were the perfect hunting ground.

  Not this time though. This time, she had spotted him outside the club. She came to him, wanted him. Tempted him. He liked it.

  A change of pace could be a good thing.

  By God, he was about to give her every hard inch of what he had. “Come on, baby. I’m ready.”

  She bent down and picked up her bag, carried it to the bed and placed it next to him.

  He grinned. “Got some tricks in there, huh?”

  She smiled as she straddled his hips. “And they’re all just for you.”

  “I don’t do handcuffs,” he warned. He’d made that mistake once and ended up having to take the bed apart to get out of the motel after the bitch left him that way.

  She reached into her bag and brought out a condom. “Don’t worry. I don’t do handcuffs either.”

  He growled, “Hurry up.” His dick was already nudging the slit in that sweet naked cunt of hers. He hated hairy pussy. Bare was the way to go. Good girl.

  She tore the package open with her mouth, then licked her lips. When she’d smoothed the slick rubber onto him, he shuddered. He was so fucking ready. She guided him deep inside her. He groaned. Jesus, she was hot and snug.

  He reached for her tits, barely a handful but enough. He took one in each hand as she started to rock. She did this little maneuver with her thighs, tightening them against him at the same time her pussy cinched like a vise. Man, he was ready to explode. He closed his eyes and lifted his hips. He wanted more.

  “Go, baby, go,” he murmured.

  While she rocked, she reached into her bag again and brought out silk scarves. She leaned forward, leaving nothing but his tip throbbing inside her. He almost lost it as she tied his right hand to the headboard with the scarf.

  “You’re okay with this, aren’t you?”

  He nodded and arched his hips to get back inside her. Right now he would have agreed to most anything. “Oh yeah.”

  She did the same with his left hand, and then she smiled down at him. For one instant he was caught off guard—his gut clenched. There was something familiar about her eyes. Did he know her?

  “Relax,” she urged as she executed another of those vise-like moves, and then pressed harder down onto him.

  His eyes closed as those hot, mind-blowing contractions started deep in his belly. The world could come to an end right now and he wouldn’t care... All that mattered was that freakin’ awesome pressure building, making his dick throb and swell, ready to explode.

  Something hit him hard in the chest.

  His eyes shot open.

  Red oozed from a narrow slit in his chest. What the hell? His chest hurt like a son of a bitch. “Motherfucker!” He gasped. Coughed. Tried to yank his hands loose.

  The big ass knife she held came down again, stabbing deep into his gut, and then twisting. Blood spurted. He gasped
, a terrible seal-like sound. He couldn’t get enough air inside his chest.

  Where the hell was all that blood coming from?

  Another blaze of pain seared through his chest. He couldn’t breathe...

  He couldn’t get loose.

  Air. He needed air. He gagged. Gasped.

  She leaned down closer, driving the knife deeper with her weight. He grunted the strangest sound. She pressed her cheek to his, hot blood squirting between them, and then she whispered to him.

  Smiling, she rose up and started rocking slowly against him once more.

  His mind wouldn’t work, wouldn’t wrap around the words she said. He tried to speak. Couldn’t. Blood was no longer spurting from his gut—it only oozed. He felt his heart stutter, then stop.

  Was he supposed to feel it stop like that?

  He’d always thought if your heart stopped you were dead, but he wasn’t dead yet, just helpless. He could still see... Could still hear and even feel...

  Moving faster now, she cried out, head flung back in orgasm.

  He groaned... Sick, sick bitch.

  His vision narrowed and just before the darkness engulfed him, he came.

  Those awful words she’d said followed him into the nothingness.

  12

  Antebellum Inn

  7:30 a.m.

  Tony jerked awake. He blinked. What the hell?

  Memories of the woman he’d picked up at the bar flashed one after the other in his brain. He checked the other side of the bed. Empty. The sheets on that side were cold. She’d been gone for a while.

  He ran a hand through his hair and prayed the throbbing would go away. What the hell had he been thinking? He was supposed to keep himself together. Angie and Steve were counting on him. Tiffany was counting on all three of them.

  A bang on the door jerked his attention there. Angie? Not likely. Even if his sister was thoroughly pissed she wouldn’t try and break down the door. He swept aside the sheets and dropped his feet to the floor. Grabbing his jeans, he tugged them on. Hopefully nothing worse had happened while he was going stupid last night.