She let out a breath. “Oh, my God,” she said, with reverence. She knew the name and the connection immediately, and it put another meaning on Monroe’s warning that his family would get back at Jon Blackhawk. If Peppy had killed a child …
“I can’t talk to Mac about this, he’d go crazy,” he told her. “And Winnie’s very pregnant,” he added, alluding to his sister-in-law’s pregnancy.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Unless we can play connect-the-dots and find somebody, anybody, tied to the case who’s willing to testify against him, I don’t know what we can do. Most of the witnesses were killed, including Dan Jones and even his girlfriend.”
“Her minister spoke to Dan Jones,” she recalled at once.
“Yes, but he didn’t actually speak to Dan Jones confidentially,” he reminded her. “So he doesn’t know anything. It’s probably the only reason he’s still alive.”
She felt uneasy. “Harold Monroe wants revenge for his arrest.”
He nodded. “He’s a notorious fumbler.”
“He’s managed to avoid jail for the most part, until the kidnapping charge.”
“Only because of Jay Copper, who’s a master of intimidation,” he replied. “But Copper’s still in jail, awaiting trial, and even he can’t do much intimidating from his present domicile. Not that he can’t hire it done,” he added heavily.
“Your brother has a friend in covert ops who watched out for Winnie Sinclair’s mother when she was in danger investigating the Kilraven murders,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he could tag along with you.”
He glared at her. “I’m a senior FBI agent,” he reminded her coldly. “I do not require a bodyguard!”
She held up both hands. “No offense, but you can’t watch your back all the time.”
“Yes, I can.”
She glowered at him. “There’s the matter of kryptonite turning up in unusual places, Superman,” she said with faint sarcasm.
“I didn’t invite you in here to insult me,” he pointed out.
“You wanted advice. I’m flattered that you value mine. Here it is. Don’t tell your brother anything until you can find a witness who knows what Bart Hancock did—if he really was involved in the murder of Kilraven’s family.”
He sat back in the chair. It was a leather chair, old and not really cushy, but very comfortable. It was odd, she thought, for such a rigid, Spartan sort of man to like a comfortable chair at his desk when he provided hard chairs for visitors. But then, he was something of an anachronism himself.
“I suppose you’re right,” he replied quietly. Privately he was thinking how hard a job that was going to be, finding anybody connected to the case who was willing to risk his life to testify against a child murderer. Even civilians knew what happened to men who went to prison for that particular crime. They didn’t last a long time incarcerated. The other inmates didn’t appreciate child killers.
“You might involve Rick Marquez and Gail Sinclair,” she advised, referring to two of the best homicide detectives on San Antonio’s police force. “They’re both familiar with the case, and Gail really is psychic. She might come up with some witness you haven’t even considered.”
He brightened a little. “That’s good advice.”
“Yes, it is,” she mused, smiling.
He glared at her. “No reason to become conceited.”
“But, sir, I have so much to be conceited about,” she said haughtily. Her blue eyes twinkled. “Want to know what the stylists are doing for the holiday season this year? How about the latest fashion buzz from Paris?”
He was looking more irritable by the second. “When I want to know those things, I’ll call Cammy and have her send her matrimonial prospect right over to enlighten me,” he said sarcastically.
Her eyes widened. “I can call her for you. Right now, if you like.”
“If you do, you’ll really be out looking for a new job,” he returned.
She shrugged. “Okay. But you don’t know what you’re missing. All those color predictions, skirt length changes …”
He stood up. “Out!” he said, pointing to the door.
She stood up, too. “Ingrate,” she muttered.
He came around the desk. He was really tall, she thought, when he stopped less than an arm’s length away from her. “You’re a fountain of wisdom from time to time, Joceline,” he said very softly. “We have our differences, but you’re a real asset here.”
She flushed. “Thanks.”
He looked down into her eyes for longer than he meant to, and was suddenly aware of a new tension, a new electricity that arced between them.
Joceline felt her heart bounce up into her throat at the intensity of his gaze. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away, and a huge shock surged up inside her like an almost tangible joy.
His eyes narrowed as he felt the same impact of pleasure. His jaw tautened noticeably.
“Your eyes are the oddest shade of blue I’ve ever seen,” he remarked quietly. “Almost a royal blue.”
“Yours are black,” she replied, searching them.
“Yes.” Involuntarily his lean, beautiful hand came up and touched her flushed cheek. “This is very dangerous,” he said in a deep, velvety tone. “I might think of it as an invitation.”
“I might point out that you’re the one inviting trouble,” she retorted and stepped back. There were reasons why she could never allow him closer than arm’s length. “My legions of male admirers would set upon you like flies on honey and sunder you limb from limb. Not only that, there’s this famous gorgeous movie star who calls me three times daily … and there he is, on the phone again!” she exclaimed, and almost ran from the office to answer the phone on her desk.
He was still laughing when he closed the door.
IT HAD BEEN a narrow escape. Joceline’s knees were weak for the rest of the day every time she gazed at her gorgeous boss. She avoided looking directly at him, because she was afraid that he was right: she had been inviting trouble.
On the other hand, he’d touched her cheek. He was the one who’d come so very close to her. It was only the second time in their years together that he’d ever approached her in an intimate way—although it wasn’t actually intimate. And he didn’t remember the first time. She hoped, she prayed, that he never would.
An hour later, still dreaming of her boss, Joceline was feeding information into the computer when the part-timer, Phyllis Hicks, stopped by her desk with a question.
“These forms are so boring,” she complained. “My dad works in the homicide department at San Antonio P.D. and I get to look at crime scene photos.” Her eyes gleamed oddly. “Murder is such an exciting thing, don’t you think?”
“Murder?”
Phyllis shifted. “The investigation, I mean. You get to catch criminals. My daddy’s real good at it.”
“Who is your dad?”
“His name’s Dave Hicks, he works with Marquez.” She made a face. “I don’t like Marquez at all.”
That was a surprise. Most people did. Most women found him attractive.
“Of course, he’s not my real dad,” she added. “My real dad is special. He thinks outside the box. He’s not afraid of anything.” She laughed. “He lets me do stuff with him. It’s very exciting.” She caught herself and gave Joceline a beaming smile. “Sorry, I get carried away. Now about this form, do I have to fill in every single space?”
