Naked Truth (Crimson Romance) (18 page)

It hurt, but it was the truth. Damn it.

Kennedy watched as the woman picked up her phone and fiddled with it. “I should try again,” she announced, and then she pressed the redial button.

• • •

Cullen glanced over as Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket and then replaced it again. “Hoping Kennedy will call?” he suggested, his tone mild.

“No,” Jack ground out. “I’m sure she’s busy cozying up with her husband right now.”

“Did you even give her a chance to explain? Or did you do what you normally do and react without thinking? I bet you just stormed out before she could say a word, didn’t you?”

Jack glowered at his partner and best friend. “Shut the hell up,” he suggested. “And focus on the case.”

“There’s no case to focus on,” he grumbled as the group of oiled and barely-dressed men headed onto the stage for their last performance of the evening. “She isn’t here; she isn’t at the hotel. She isn’t at her house in Oklahoma, although after what the agent told us he found, I’m pretty confident our perp is not all there in the head.”

Jack grimaced. “Yeah, a refurbished crib that’s thirty years old, a baby room when there hadn’t been the likelihood of a baby in two years. That agent said the room smelled like it had been painted just recently.”

“Don’t forget all those hand-written notes he found about Danny and his shows.”

Jack wouldn’t soon forget. He suspected the same batshit crazy woman had been in Kennedy’s house a few days ago, had been the one to cut him with a knife pulled from the block in Kennedy’s kitchen. He fought the urge to call Kennedy, just to make sure she was okay. Whether she wanted to be with him or not was irrelevant. He didn’t want her to die.

“Pretty damn incriminating,” Cullen went on. “If only we had a damn suspect. Where the hell did she go?”

Jack’s phone beeped, indicating he had a message.

“Why aren’t you checking your voicemail?” Cullen asked.

“I’m not interested.”

“How do you know it isn’t Kennedy?”

“I don’t want to talk to her, either,” he lied. “Besides, I know it isn’t Kennedy because the calls are from an unknown number.”

“Check them,” Cullen urged.

“Fine. Jesus,” Jack muttered, as he lifted the phone to his ear and listened to the messages. His mouth went dry and his heart began to race.

“What?” Cullen demanded, watching him intently.

“It’s Maloney. I’m sure of it. Listen.” He offered the phone to Cullen, who snagged it and held it to his own ear.

After listening to the second message, Cullen gave him back the phone. “I think you’re right. What does she have that you want?” he asked, sounding baffled.

“No idea,” Jack said, and then he froze. The attack in Kennedy’s home. “Shit,” he swore as he fumbled with the phone, trying to push buttons with suddenly clumsy fingers.

“What?” Cullen demanded. “What?” he repeated when Jack didn’t immediately answer.

“Kennedy,” Jack snapped, and he finally managed to punch the button to call her phone number. “No answer. Call Sabrina.”

Cullen immediately complied, and hung up after a brief conversation. “She hasn’t seen Kennedy, but she’s calling Vanessa.”

Cullen’s phone rang and he answered it immediately, listened for a moment, and then hung up again. “Vanessa says Kennedy isn’t at her house, she hasn’t seen her all evening, and she found Kennedy’s purse lying in the front yard when she arrived a little while ago.” He began walking as he talked, and Jack didn’t hesitate to fall into step next to him.

“That stupid fucking bitch! Doesn’t she had a goddamn brain cell in her head?”

• • •

“I don’t know,” Vanessa whined a few minutes later in response to the brutal dressing down he gave her while Cullen prowled through the house looking for clues. “I … I didn’t think,” she stuttered, choking on her sobs.

“Her purse was lying on the front lawn,” Jack snapped. “And her car is still in the carport. None of this made you think? It didn’t occur to you that this might be off?”

Vanessa shook her head so vehemently her hair whipped back and forth. She flapped her hand at Jack. “The way you two act together all the time, I … I thought you had just been in the heat of the moment and she was just overwhelmed and … and…” She sank onto the couch and dissolved into shoulder-racking sobs.

Jack turned away from the sight, working to pull his own emotions under control. “Useless,” he snarled. “The killer fucking has Kennedy. Goddamn it, she has Kennedy.” His voice rose with his agitation. Clearly, he’d been lying to himself when he claimed not to want to see her. He desperately wanted to see her. Alive and well.

“Where’s Jerry?” he abruptly asked, turning back to the watering pot sitting on the couch.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I don’t know. No one was here when I arrived. No one, I swear!”

Not that he wanted to go there, but it occurred to Jack that had Kennedy been with her ex—no, her
husband
—she might still be sitting in her own living room right now, and this entire scenario wouldn’t be happening.

In his head, he saw Shannon, floating in a bathtub of blood-tinged water. Kennedy’s face replaced that of the dead woman, and Jack ruthlessly pushed away the thought.

I won’t let her die.

Cullen placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of the self-induced nightmare. “Let’s talk through the voicemails,” he commanded. His voice was calm, and Jack spared a moment to appreciate what he was doing. And then he focused on getting her back.

“Just gave me a number to call. What do I have that she wants? What the fuck could possibly be as important as Kennedy?”

Cullen snapped his fingers. “The necklace,” he said. “The jewelers all said it was old. Family heirloom maybe?”

“I bet it belonged to the daughter.”

“You’re right,” Cullen replied, slapping the wall for emphasis. “Call her. Set up the trade. Try to get her to a place that works to our benefit.”

Five minutes later, Cullen was the one swearing a blue streak. “A goddamned, wide-open cotton field? That’s the best you could do?”

“She didn’t give me much of a choice,” he defended himself. And in truth, he was willing to do whatever the hell the woman said, just so long as she did not hurt Kennedy.

“Let’s go,” Cullen barked. “We’ll barely get there on time since we have to swing by headquarters first.” As they raced from Kennedy’s house, they both held phones to their ears, reporting in, asking for backup, and talking to the evidence room attendant about getting the necklace sooner rather than later.

An hour later, Cullen pulled his truck over to the side of an old, two-track lane that ran through the middle of two massive cotton fields. He and Jack sat side by side on the bench seat, surveying the landscape. The rain that had been threatening all day had recently broken free of the clouds, so now the road was muddy and hadn’t been graded recently—if ever. The clouds hid the moon, lending the area an eerie, almost-pitch blackness.

“How the hell are we supposed to see?” Jack complained.

“If we can’t see, neither can the Maloney bitch. And since we have agents posted all over the damn place, that’s a good thing. Come on, let’s go save your woman.”

“She isn’t mine,” Jack muttered, but he lifted the collar on his FBI-issue rain slicker and climbed out of the truck.

They fanned out, Cullen slipping off into the rain-soaked darkness, while Jack headed straight for the meeting place. The plan, according to Maloney, was simple: They would meet near an old tree stump in the middle of this specific cotton field. Jack would give her the necklace, and Marie would give him Kennedy. The phone conversation had been brief.

“I know you will do the trade, so don’t try to bluff. I’ve been watching you. I know you love her.”

Called out by a goddamned psychopathic killer. He hadn’t even realized he was in love with Kennedy, but Marie Maloney knew. It pissed him off even more that she was right, and that despite the fact that Kennedy wasn’t his to love, he still did, and would do whatever it took to save her.

Jack used a small penlight to help guide him through the rows of wet plants. Creamy white flower petals clung to his pants legs, quickly soaking the material and making it difficult to walk. He flashed his light ahead and saw a lone figure, head ducked down, away from the pelting rain, huddled in a rain slicker with the hood pulled up. Jack approached cautiously, the memory of Marie Maloney’s skill with a knife still fresh in his mind. He knew Cullen and a dozen other agents were hiding in the vicinity, but that did not mean he should be a fool and throw caution to the wind.

When he was close enough, Jack flashed his penlight over the huddling person and frowned. The stature was wrong, plus, where the hell was Kennedy? A hand thrust out from under the rain slicker.

“Necklace,” a rough voice demanded. The owner of the voice was very clearly trying to disguise it, but he could still tell he was dealing with a man instead of a woman.

It didn’t make sense. Why was he meeting with a man? Jack’s senses sharpened as every muscle in his body tensed, the instinct to fight riding him hard. He wanted to grab this guy and pummel him, even though he had no idea how involved the guy was in this mess, or whether or not Kennedy was safe. Jesus, he was turning into a freaking caveman.

“Who are you?” he demanded, forcing himself to stay calm.

“Necklace,” the man insisted again. His voice faltered, and Jack thought it sounded curiously familiar.

“Where’s Kennedy?”

“Someplace safe,” the man said. “I get the jewelry first, then I call and have her released. Now give me the damn thing.”

That voice …
No fucking way.
In two long strides, he reached the man, grabbed the hood of his rain slicker, and jerked it off his head, freeing a handful of hair in the process if the owner’s cry of pain was an indication.

“Jerry Coster,” he said with disgust. “You’re in league with the fucking Stripper Killer?”

Jerry stumbled and almost fell over as he tried to pull himself out of Jack’s grip. Jack twisted Jerry’s arm behind his back, making it impossible for him to flee. Not that it would have mattered. If the chickenshit tried to run, Jack would shout for his backup to take Jerry down.

“Damn, you freaking scalped me,” the little pissant whined.

Jack twisted his arm higher against his back, until the asshole was practically crying.

“I didn’t do anything,” he blubbered. “I’m not in league with anyone. I’m just—I’m just doing a favor for someone. Making a little extra cash.”

“Where is she?”

“Where’s the jewelry? I’m supposed to collect a necklace with a cross pendant made of diamonds. It better be the real thing, too,” he warned, although his bravado was clearly shaky.

“You aren’t getting the goddamned necklace until you tell me where the hell Kennedy is.”

“I don’t know,” Jerry admitted. “I’m supposed to collect the necklace, and then call and let her know. She’s going to tell me where to meet her, and then she’s going to pay me.”

“What about Kennedy?” Jack asked. His blood was suddenly running cold in his veins. Jerry clearly only cared about his payment, and Maloney cared only about the necklace. So where did that leave her prisoner?

“I don’t know,” Jerry insisted. “Look, if I don’t call soon, she might hurt Kennedy. You don’t want that, do you? But if I get the necklace and call, then probably she’ll just let your girlfriend go.”

Probably.
Jack doubted it.

“Do you even care if Kennedy lives or dies?” If this sorry excuse for a husband cared at all about her, why had he stayed away for the past three years?

Jerry’s shoulders hunched. “Sure I do. I mean, Kennedy’s pretty cool. At least, she used to be. But I need the money, man. I have debts. I owe some people, and they aren’t very nice. This little job is going to get me back on track. I … I won’t have to fear for my life anymore.”

Until the next loan shark came along. He’d read the information he’d dug up on Kennedy and her errant husband, as much as it hurt to do so. He knew Jerry Coster had a giant gambling problem, that he was always a half step away from going under, or, worse, losing a limb or possibly his life to one of the shady loan sharks who preyed on idiots like him. How the hell Kennedy had hooked up with someone like Coster, Jack would never know.

Unable to resist, he asked the question out loud.

“Hey,” Jerry protested. “I can be charming when I want to be.”

Jack could be charming, too. His charm had landed him in the back of a limo with Kennedy, had given him the most amazing sex with the sweetest, most wonderful woman. Did she regret letting him lure her into bed with him? Did she fear that if she stayed there, things would turn out like they had with Jerry?

“Did she know about the gambling?”

Jerry didn’t even need to answer. Jack could see it on his face.

“You lied to her,” he guessed.

“I never lied,” Jerry insisted. “I was clean when we met, when we dated. I didn’t start gambling again until after we were married.”

“And?”

“And then I just never told her about it.”

“You cheated on her. That’s lying.”

“I never cheated on Kennedy.” Jerry shook his head, spraying water everywhere. “Dude, you’ve obviously slept with her. Would you cheat on her?”

Jack punched him. On principle.

The lying bastard rubbed his jaw, glaring at Jack through the pouring rain. “What the hell was that for?”

He ignored the question. “Why the hell does everyone think you cheated on her?”

“No idea.”

The only person who knew that answer was Kennedy. Who was currently being held prisoner by a woman who liked to carve people up with a knife.

Jack twisted his hand into Jerry’s coat, and the man made a strangled noise as he was forced up to his tiptoes when Jack pulled him close to look him in the eye.

“You’re going to help me save her, asshole. If you don’t, I will personally feed you to your goddamned loan sharks. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

The sound of a ringing phone jerked Kennedy from a light doze. She blinked her bleary eyes and watched as her captor answered.