Split Second Read online

  Cunningham was fooling himself if he believed he could protect her. Eventually, Stucky would come for her. Although it had been five months since Stucky’s escape, she knew it with certainty. It didn’t matter how long it took. He would come.

  2

  TESS 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 sidewalk, all the while pretending not to notice the eyes that followed her. The movers had stopped unloading as soon as her black Miata pulled into the drive. 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 sanctuarylike silence would make the whistles even more obscene.

  It wasn’t the men’s fault. It 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.

  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. How could something as harmless as a few indiscreet stares dismantle her poise and make her question her hard-earned respectability? They made her feel like a fraud. By the time she reached the entrance, she wanted to turn and run. Instead, she took a deep breath and knocked on the oak door that had been left half open.

  “Come on in,” a woman’s voice called.

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

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

  “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. Sunlight filled the room, but thankfully all the windows were open, a cool breeze replacing the stale air. Tess 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 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. 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.

  Yes, there was something about this woman. It was the way Maggie carried herself, the way she appeared, at times, to be oblivious to the outside world. 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. 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 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 price of any of the houses Tess had shown her. In the beginning, Tess chalked it up to 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 glimpse of vulnerability in Maggie’s eyes. She couldn’t help wondering what the confident, independent agent hoped to lock herself away from.

  Tess glanced around the room. There were plenty of stacked boxes, but little furniture. 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. In fact, Maggie O’Dell had confided nothing in Tess, other than those necessities required for the business transaction.

  It didn’t matter—Tess was used to just the opposite. 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 stared out at the pine trees that lined 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 and their society-conscious wives. She remembered seeing Rachel Endicott out for a jog with her Labrador, dressed in a designer jogging suit, not a blond hair out of place nor a 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 Nikes that should have been thrown out ages ago.

  “Do you have anyone coming to help you unpack?” Tess asked.

  “I really don’t have much,” Maggie 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. “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 she backed her car down the drive she wondered whether Special Agent O’Dell was simply cautious or paranoid, careful or obsessive. At the intersection, she noticed a van parked along the curb, an oddity in this neighborhood where the long driveways afforded plenty of parking space.

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

  She pulled out onto the highway 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.

  3

  MAGGIE juggled the boxes that filled her arms. As usual she had taken on more than she should have. Her fingers grasped for a doorknob she couldn’t see, yet she refused to put anything down. Why 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—or, as they insisted, 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, 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. 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 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. 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, Maggie’s mouth began to water for pizza, and immediately she promised hersel
f one as a reward. She repositioned the boxes to her other hip. She pushed the door open, carefully maneuvering her way in, but still sending several CDs 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. Their brief morning exchange stayed annoyingly fresh in her mind. Thankfully, he had left for work early. 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 sunshine. Maggie had made certain there wasn’t a stitch of carpet in the entire house. Footsteps were too easily muffled by floor coverings.

  The living room opened into a sunroom. Windows stretched from the ceiling almost to the floor, and made up three walls in the room. The windows had cinched the deal for Maggie, despite them being a security nightmare. Okay, so even FBI agents weren’t always practical. Besides, she had made certain that the security systems rivaled those at Fort Knox.

  The sunroom 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. Below, a stream trickled over rocks. It made her feel safe, as if it were her own personal moat. It provided a natural boundary, reinforced by a line of huge pines standing guard like sentries.

  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, hands on hips, she turned around, admiring the spacious rooms. 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.

  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 Crest Ridge, they had bought new furniture, and all of it went together. It seemed wrong to split up sets. Maggie smiled and wondered why she couldn’t bring herself to split up furniture but could do so with their ten-year marriage.

  She had managed to take the pieces of furniture that mattered most. Her father’s antique rolltop desk had made the trip without a scratch. She patted the back of her recliner. It and the brass reading lamp had been exiled long ago to the den, because Greg said it didn’t match the leather sofa and chairs in the living room.

  She remembered when they had first bought the set. She had tried to break it in with some passionate memories. Greg had been horrified. “Do you know how easily leather stains?” He had scolded her as though she were 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 a duffel bag from the pile in the corner and set it on the desk.

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

  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, jammed and useless.

  She pulled out her FBI badge in its leather holder. She laid both it and the gun on the desk, almost reverently. Also in the 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 kit tucked in place, zipped the bag and slid it under the desk. For some reason, having these things close by 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.

  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. 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. Its dampness reminded her that she needed a shower. 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. As she searched for her phone she noticed a police cruiser whiz by.

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

  “Dr. Patterson.”

  “Gwen, it’s Maggie.”

  “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 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? She couldn’t smell or see smoke. Thank God. If it was a fire, she would be useless. The thought alone scared the hell out of her, reviving memories of her father’s death.

  “How about I stop over tonight?”

  Gwen’s voice startled Maggie. She had forgotten she was still on the phone.

  “The place is a mess. I haven’t even started to unpack.”

  “It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you. Why don’t I pick up a pizza and some beer? We can picnic on the floor. Sort of a housewarming party.”

  The siren began to grow distant, and Maggie realized it was not on its way to her neighborhood. Her shoulders relaxed.

  “You can pick up some beer, but don’t worry about the pizza. I’ll have it delivered.”

  “Just remember, no Italian sausage on my side. Some of us need to watch our weight. I’ll see you around seven.”

  “Fine. Sure. That’ll work.” But Maggie was already distracted as another police cruiser sped by. Without a second thought, she put down the phone and grabbed her badge. She quickly reset the security system. Then she tucked her revolver in her waistband and headed out the door. So much for seclusion.

  4

  MAGGIE hurried past three of her new neighbors who politely stayed in the street, a safe distance from the house flanked with police cruisers. The coroner’s van sat in the driveway, already empty. She ignored a police officer on his hands and knees who had gotten a roll of crime scene tape tangled in a rosebush.

  “Hey,” he yelled when he realized Maggie was headed for the door. “You can’t go in there.”

  “I’m with the FBI.”

  “Yeah, right. And this is what the FBI is wearing these days.”

  Instinctively, Maggie stood up straight and crossed her arms over her sweat-drenched ch
est. Ordinarily, she paid close attention to her presentation and attire. She was aware that her hundred-and-fifteen-pounds, five-foot-five stature did not live up to the FBI’s authoritarian image. In a blazer and trousers, her aloof attitude could pull it off. In a T-shirt and faded jeans, she realized she might not be able to.

  Finally, the officer took a closer look at her credentials. The smirk slid off his face.

  “Son of a bitch. You’re on the level. I didn’t realize this was something the FBI would be in on.”

  It probably was not. She failed to mention that she was just in the neighborhood. Instead, she asked, “Who’s leading the investigation?”

  “Oh, that would be Detective Manx.”

  She headed for the entrance, feeling his eyes follow her.

  The foyer was almost as large as Maggie’s new living room. She took her time, stepping carefully and touching nothing. The house looked impeccable, not a speck of dust, until she got to the kitchen. Scattered across the butcher-block island were all the makings for a sandwich, now dried up, wilted and crusty. A head of lettuce sat on a cutting board amongst the remnants of tomato seeds. Several candy-bar wrappers, containers left on their sides and an open mayonnaise jar waited to be cleaned up. In the middle of the table sat the sandwich. Only one bite taken from it.

  Maggie’s eyes examined the rest of the kitchen—shiny counter-tops, sparkling appliances and a spotless floor, marred only by three more candy wrappers. Whoever made this mess didn’t live here.

  She could hear muffled voices now, coming from above. She climbed the stairs, avoiding contact with the handrail. On one of the steps she noticed a clump of mud, left perhaps by one of the officers. There was something unusual in it that glittered. She resisted the urge to pick it up. It wasn’t as though she carried evidence bags in her back pocket.