Revannaugh?” she asked.
“That would be me,” he replied. He opened the back door and tossed his duffel bag onto the seat and then got into the passenger seat.
She got back behind the steering wheel, bringing with her the scent of honeysuckle and spice. Clad in a pair of tight black slacks and a short-sleeved white blouse that hugged her breasts and emphasized a slender waist, she was definitely a hum of pleasure in Jackson’s overworked brain.
As she swept her hair behind one ear, he noted what appeared to be a nice-sized emerald earring. Emeralds were a good choice for her, with her green eyes.
“Well, I feel my mood lifting already,” he said as she pulled away from the curb and into the traffic lane that would take them away from the airport terminal. “Darlin’, I wasn’t expecting my driver to be such a gorgeous piece of eye candy. What a nice welcome to Kansas City.” As usual when Jackson worked his charm, his Southern accent grew thicker and more distinct.
She slid him a quick, cool glance and then focused back on the road. “You just assume I’m nothing but your driver because I’m a woman? Hmm, not only a silly flirt, but a chauvinist, as well,” she replied. “I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself yet. I’m Special Agent Marjorie Clinton, lead investigator on this case. You’ll be working with me and you’ll quickly discover I’m not anyone’s ‘darlin.’”
Jackson sat up straighter in his chair, seeking a mental shovel to get out of the hole he’d already dug for himself. “I’m not a chauvinist,” he finally said. “I was told a driver would pick me up—I just assumed you were my driver and nothing more. And you might not be anyone’s darlin’, but you’re definitely a fine piece of eye candy.”
He watched her slender, ringless fingers tighten on the steering wheel and realized he’d just made the hole a little bigger. “Since it appears we’re going to be partners, perhaps it would be nice if we start all over again. Hello, I’m Special Agent Jackson Revannaugh.”
Once again those lush green eyes slid in his direction and then back to the road. “We’re about twenty minutes from Mystic Lake, a small town on the outskirts of Kansas City. I suggest we use that twenty minutes with me filling you in on things rather than pretending to play nice together. How much do you know about the case?”
“Virtually nothing,” Jackson admitted. She might look like a hot piece of work, but there was nothing hot in the cool disdain in her eyes when she glanced at him. Focus on the work and then get the heck out of Dodge, he thought.
“I was pulled off a case I was working in Bachelor Moon, Louisiana, and instantly dispatched here with no details other than the fact that this case appears to have some similarity to the one I was working.”
“Missing persons?” She turned off a four-lane highway and onto a two-lane that appeared to take them farther away from civilization.
“Three people seemingly disappeared into thin air at some point during an evening. Evidence of an interrupted late-night snack was on the table, but the two adults and one child have yet to be found. Me and a couple of my partners were on the case for several weeks and we found no clues, no real leads to follow.”
He took the opportunity to study her. Faint freckles, evident in the fading light of day, smattered the bridge of her nose. He had a feeling she wasn’t a woman who smiled often, although he knew instinctively that a smile would light up her face, warm her features into something even more beautiful.
“We have two missing persons, but unfortunately we don’t have a specific time line as to when exactly they went missing. The couple, Amberly Caldwell and her husband, Cole, were newlyweds, and were transitioning between Cole’s house in Mystic Lake and Amberly’s home in Kansas City.”
She stopped talking and slowed to make a right-hand turn, and then continued. “Amberly has a son, Max. The boy had spent the weekend with his father, John Merriweather. The arrangement was that Amberly would pick up Max from school yesterday afternoon. When she didn’t show up, John got worried and drove to Cole’s place.”
“But they weren’t there.”
Marjorie gave a curt nod of her head. “Both of their cars were in the driveway, but he couldn’t rouse them. Unfortunately, the deputy who had been called out made the determination that it would be best to give it twenty-four hours before officially doing anything.”
“He didn’t do a well-check?” Jackson asked in surprise. A well-check would have required an officer to get inside the house to make certain the occupants were okay.
“Small police force, underzealous officers and two people who aren’t old or sick.” Her voice once again held a faint touch of derision. “It was only late this afternoon that an officer finally broke into the front door and discovered that things weren’t right inside. That’s when my director got a phone call from Roger Black, Mystic Lake’s number one deputy. Apparently our director knew what was going on in Louisiana, and that’s when you were dispatched here.”
“I’ve heard there’s nothing better than Kansas City steaks, and my first impression of the women of the city is definitely a positive one.” He couldn’t help himself. Part of the way he prepared himself, part of his process in approaching a crime, was to small talk, to attempt to get on the good side of whoever he’d be working with during the course of an investigation.
Marjorie shot him a baleful look. Apparently she didn’t have a good side, he thought, as he sighed and stared out the passenger window, where the landscape was so different from what he was accustomed to.
Here there were stately oaks and leafy maples, stretches of fields with cornstalks reaching high. There were no graceful magnolia trees or cypresses with Spanish moss hanging like ghostly spiderwebs.
Jackson had never been out of Louisiana before. Kansas City would have to work hard to match the beauty and charm of his home state.
Speaking of charm, he turned his head to look at Marjorie. “Have you already been to the scene?”
“I came from there to pick you up,” she replied. “We’ve just done a cursory walk-through of the house. The crime scene unit hasn’t touched it. Nobody else has been inside except me and a couple of the Mystic Lake deputies. We were waiting for the hotshot from Louisiana to officially begin.”
“And that would be me,” he replied easily. “So, what did the initial walk-through tell you?”
“I’d rather you draw your own conclusions by seeing it first. I can tell you this—the doors were all locked and there is no sign of forced entry anywhere.”
“Tell me more about the potential victims. Who they are and what they do.” A victim rundown was usually as helpful as an official profile of the potential perpetrator.
“Cole Caldwell, thirty-six years old. He and Amberly married less than two months ago. She’s thirty-one, has a seven-year-old son and is a beautiful Native American woman. Apparently the two of them had been spending weekends packing up Caldwell’s place and getting his house ready to put on the market, as they’d decided to live full-time in Amberly’s home in Kansas City.”
Her voice was pleasant, but her tone was all business. “Amberly shares custody of Max with her ex-husband, who lives down the block from her house. They had an arrangement that worked well for everyone involved.”
“You
