Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

All the blood by the bookcase was Chickie’s.

I thought the federal forensics team would take a hundred times longer than the regular police, but the exact opposite was true. They had double the personnel, were hyperefficient, and took enough pictures to recreate the entire room in single photos, if abstract art was their goal. As it was, the sheer number of people processing the room put them at done in record time.

By the time Ian and I got home, they had been there for three hours already. I would have thought I’d lost time, but as Ian reminded me, Chickie had been in surgery for a while and I’d been sick with worry, so the time sped by.

“Where’s Aruna and Janet and—”

“They’re all at home. She and Liam took Janet with them.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s get you a T-shirt and sweater and some tea, all right?”

I nodded and Kohn bolted over and hugged me like he never did, full body, all up in my space, and squeezing tight.

“Jones,” Kowalski said as he joined us. “I already called a service to get this place cleaned up, they should be here in an hour and—”

I eased out of Kohn’s hold, and he grabbed Ian next. “How did you manage that? Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving?”

“Tomorrow’s in like an hour already, but anybody works whenever as long as you pay them,” he reminded me.

“It’ll cost a mint.”

“Do you care?”

I didn’t, actually. “Thanks, Jer.”

“My pleasure,” he said, smiling at me, which was a new and different experience. “And now the fun starts,” he groused as in through the front door the suits walked.

The FBI was leading the investigation, but CPD was there, too, along with Kage—which was nice, that he would come when he was technically off for the holiday, but it was also technically his job—the OPR guy again, McAllister, who was there to listen to what I said and prepare a statement and was also a lawyer and could advise Kage, if needed. Everyone looked crisp and polished, which was impressive for them all coming though the rain and the lateness of the hour the night before a holiday. Kage looked especially good in a navy-checked suit, a black cotton long-sleeved shirt, and monk strap shoes I was fairly sure were Ralph Lauren. He was dressed to go out.

“Were you on a date?” I asked him, ballsier than normal because of the night I was having. Big highs and horrific lows.

He did a slow pan to me. “I was, yes.”

“Sorry.”

“People trying to kill my marshals take precedence over my love life, Jones, but I warn you now—there had better be no shenanigans tomorrow. Do you understand?”

“It’s not—this is not my fault.”

His dismissive grunt told me that maybe he didn’t so much believe me.

We all sat down in our living room: me, Ian, Kohn, Kowalski, Kage, McAllister, the parade of suits, and Special Agent Tilden Adair, who turned on his phone to record me. He asked me to please explain, as carefully as possible, what had transpired.

“First, I’m so sorry about your agents. Eamon Lochlyn said he killed them both. I hope they didn’t suffer.”

“Thank you, and no, it doesn’t appear that they did. We were surprised that Hartley wasn’t the one who killed them.”

“No, it was Lochlyn. Did he shoot them?”

“They were both shot, yes.”

“With the Walther?”

“The bullets would seem to be a match, yes, but we’re still waiting on ballistics to confirm.”

“Okay.”

“What gun was Hartley carrying?”

So I explained about the fancy Desert Eagle and why he shot Lochlyn, and how Barrett startled him, which was how he got shot. Then I started over, and I left nothing out. I made them all squirm a bit—except Ian and Kage, and, interestingly enough, Adair—as I recounted kissing Hartley, at gunpoint, and how he wanted to hurt me and fuck me in equal measure. I included why and for what reason Lochlyn had decided on his revenge killings and why Barrett Van Allen assisted him.

“Hartley saved your life,” Adair commented, and I realized I’d never actually met anyone with jet-black hair and matching eyes before. He was a very striking man, though “handsome” might not be the word I’d choose.

“Yes, he did.”

“My understanding was that Hartley wanted to kill you in Phoenix.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t want to be rushed when he does it. He wants to kill me on his timetable, no one else’s.”

Adair nodded. “Are you in fear for your life, marshal?”

“Not anymore.”

“Do you think that if Lochlyn and Van Allen had not killed the agents, that they would have, in fact, been killed?”

“No.”

“And what leads you to that supposition?”

“Hartley thinks everything out. He never just does anything. The agents would have fired on Hartley as soon as they saw him, but they didn’t do that with Lochlyn or Van Allen, which is probably the reason they were killed. They let them get too close because they didn’t realize Lochlyn and Van Allen posed a significant threat.”