“Ditto,” she said softly, slipping the now-silent laptop into her bag, where she’d already placed the remains of the burner phone. She’d have to find a place to dump it on theway back home.
“I hope I haven’t scared you off,” he said, putting his cup back on the table.
“No.” She smiled, ignoring the fact that her head was itching beneath the stupid wig. Sometimes it drove her nuts. “I have an appointment I need to get to, but it was nice meeting you.”
He twirled his cup in large hands. “I don’t suppose you live anywhere near DC and would like to meet up for something more substantial than coffee? Say dinner and drinks? Or just drinks? Or maybe more coffee, if that’s your thing?” His dimple appeared again. “I like coffee. It could become our thing.”
The girl she’d been at twenty-two would’ve jumped at the offer. The woman she’d become couldn’t afford the risk. He was handsome and seemed kind, but his brand of charm led to pain. Or it could lead to pain. Either way, she had a daughter to protect, and going for dinner and drinks with a nice guy wasn’t going to happen. Not for a long time, if ever. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m seeing someone.” It was the easiest way to refuse his invitation. “And I don’t live anywhere near DC. I’m just here to do some research for a book.”
His expression dropped, but his smile remained in place. “Fair enough. Tell your boyfriend he’s a lucky man.” He patted her hand and quickly withdrew. “Would you at least give me your name? So I can tell my buddies all about the gorgeous blonde I met in the middle of nowhere who turned me down?”
She chuckled. “Sure. I’m Sylvia.”
“Sylvia.” He rolled the name over his tongue. “It suits you. Very pretty.”
“Thank you. My mother liked it.” It was too easy to lie these days. “And you? First name only. Let’s keep this intrigue going.” She took one last minute to enjoy flirting with a man as if she had nothing to lose.
He held out a hand, waiting until she’d placed hers in it to shake. “I like intrigue. Sylvia, I wish I’d met you before you’d met this other very lucky guy. Remember me fondly. My name is Fletcher.”
Chapter Eleven
The call woke Jethro out of a nightmare in which his mother died in his arms. Again. He reached for the phone. “Hanson.”
“We have another body,” Detective Tate Bianchi said. “Along with anothernote for you.”
Jethro shoved himself from the bed. “Give me the address. I’ll be right there.”
Tate rattled off the address and thenended the call.
Thirty minutes later Jethro found himself on the fifth hole tee box at the Blue Ridge Golf Course, just over the DC and Virginia border. An officer was waiting to lift the crime tape and escort him over to Tate.
Yet another white tent had been erected to protect the body fromthe elements.
“Evening,” Tate said, his dark coat wet and his boots muddy. “Though it’s not, is it?”
“No.” Jethro ignored the crime scene techs buzzing around and crouched for a better view of the deceased man. The guy appeared to be in his late sixties or so, with thick gray hair and a paunch. He was dressed in silk pajamas and his feet were bare, while a bloody hole in his forehead showed a bullet’s path through his brain. There was also a mess of evidence that he’d been disemboweled. “Who is he?”
Detective Buckle drew up alongside Tate, a notebook in her gloved hands.
“Name was John Randolf, and he was a securities officer in the Miltonery and Masterson Investment firm. No record. His prints were on file because of his job; otherwise he doesn’t pop in the system.” The wind whipped her curly hair around and snow hung in the thick tendrils. “Any idea how he and the first victim mightbe connected?”
“My best guess is that they aren’t connected,” Jethro said, standing and sliding his hands into his wool coat pockets. “What didthe note say?”
Tate lifted his phone to his face, illuminated from behind because of the powerful lights set around the perimeter. “Let me read it to you, Professor.” His tone was pissed.
Dear Jethro,
How are you, brother? It’s nice to be on the same continent with you again. Feels right. Feels like we can pick up where we left off, but we both know that’s not true. Isla is dead, and that’s your fault. I’m away from home, and that, too, is your fault. Most of all, everyone you care about is in danger, and that is…you’ve got it. Your fault.
Until next time,
Fletcher
Tate shoved the phone into his pocket. “Tell me about your connection to this victim.”
“I don’t have one,” Jethro said, hunching his shoulders against the cold. Ice was crusting over the dead man’s eyes, and Jethro’s stomach lurched.
Buckle stepped toward him. “The note clearly says that everyone you care about is in danger, thus you must care about this victim. Stop messing around with us and tell us what is going on with your brother. Who is he, where has he been, and why is he killing on US soil now?”
