“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 never told me what each of them does for a living,” Jackson asked.
“Cole Caldwell is the sheriff of Mystic Lake.” She turned into the driveway of an attractive ranch house where several other Mystic Lake patrol cars were parked. She pulled up next to the curb, cut the engine and then turned to face Jackson.
For the first time a hint of emotion darkened her green eyes. “Amberly works with me. She is one of the brightest FBI profilers in the area.”
Jackson’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. “That’s odd. The case I was investigating in Bachelor Moon involved a man named Sam Connelly, a retired FBI profiler from the Kansas City office.”
* * *
MARJORIE HAD BEEN SICK from the moment she’d realized that one of the missing persons was Amberly. Although the two women hadn’t been superclose friends and had never worked a case together, they’d been friendly. Everyone in the office was on edge due to this new development.
She was grateful to get out of the car, where the scent of Jackson Revannaugh’s cologne had been far too pleasant. It whispered of bold maleness and an exotic spiciness that could be intoxicating if allowed.
She didn’t like him. She knew his type...the hotshot Southern charmer who never met a woman he wouldn’t take advantage of, who skated through life on a lazy smile and smooth style.
Oh, yes, she knew his type intimately, and she wasn’t about to fall prey to his questionable charisma. All she wanted was for the two of them to work as hard as possible to get Amberly and Cole back where they belonged.
Deputy Fred Morsi stood at the door as sentry. “Nobody has been inside since you left,” he said to Marjorie, as if assuring her he’d done his job properly.
He was one of the first locals Marjorie had met when she’d arrived on scene, and he’d instantly impressed her with his earnest face and professional attitude.
Marjorie nodded and grabbed a pair of booties from a box sitting on the front porch. As she pulled them on over her black sneakers, she noticed Jackson doing the same over his expensive-looking leather shoes. He grabbed a pair of latex gloves, his easy smile gone and his mouth set in a grim line instead.
So, there was another side to the hot Mr. Southern Charm, she thought. She frowned as she realized she’d just thought of Jackson Revannaugh as hot.
Of course, she was certain most women would find him a hunk, with his slightly long, slightly curly black hair and blue eyes, with chiseled features and a mouth that looked soft and pliable. She stifled a yelp as the latex of her glove snapped her wrist.
“Shall we?” she said to the tall, broad-shouldered man who was her temporary partner. She gestured to the closed front door.
“After you, darlin’,” he replied, and then winced. “I didn’t mean that.... Force of habit.”
The front door opened into a small formal living room. The only pieces of furniture were a couple of end tables and a stack of large boxes. Jackson stopped just inside the door behind Marjorie.
His dark blue eyes narrowed and he lifted his head, like a wild animal sniffing the air for prey. “No evidence that anything happened in this room?”
“Nothing,” she replied. The small formal living room opened into a large great-room/kitchen area. Here was the evidence that something unusual had taken place.
She followed Jackson’s gaze as it traveled around the room, taking in the oversize pillows on the floor in front of a coffee table that held two half-empty wineglasses and a platter of hardened, too-yellow cheddar cheese, crackers, and grapes starting to wither and emanate a slightly spoiled scent.
Jackson picked up one of the long-stem glasses and sniffed the contents. “Fruity... I smell a touch of cherry and plum and a faint dash of damp leather. Pinot noir would be my guess.” He set the glass back on the table as Marjorie stared at him in astonishment.
“There’s a bottle of pinot noir open on the kitchen counter,” she replied in surprise.
Jackson nodded. “Like a good Southern gentleman, I know my wines, although I definitely prefer a good glass of bourbon or brandy, and preferably with a lovely lady by my side.”
“But, of course,” she replied dryly.
He frowned at the coffee table. “So, it appears our two missing souls were seated here sharing what appears to be cocktail time together.”
“And something happened to interrupt their intimate little party,” Marjorie said.
“So it seems.” Jackson turned away from the coffee table and his gaze swept around the room. “No sign of a struggle. What have we here?” Nearly hidden at the edge of one of the pillows was a small black purse. He opened it and pulled out a cell phone, a wallet and a tube of lipstick.
Marjorie’s heart tumbled a little lower in her chest as she watched him open up the slender wallet. Inside was Amberly’s identification, thirty-two dollars and two credit cards.
“If somebody came in here to confront the two, it wasn’t anybody with robbery on their mind,” he said, his voice that low Southern drawl that Marjorie found both irritating and evocatively inviting at the same time.
He placed the items back in the purse. “We’ll take that phone to your techies at the bureau and see if they can find anything useful. Maybe somebody called and the two of them rushed out of here on an emergency.”
“Amberly would have let John know,” Marjorie replied with conviction.
He walked from the coffee table toward the kitchen area, his footsteps surprisingly heavy for a man who appeared so physically fit and agile.
She followed him into the kitchen, where she knew he would find nothing suspicious, nothing that might indicate what exactly had happened to Cole and Amberly.
She leaned a slender hip against the cabinet and watched as he checked the back door, opened drawers and cabinets that were mostly empty. He pulled a small notepad and pen from the pocket of his pristine white shirt and took some notes.
He might be an arrogant, smooth-talking pain in her butt, but he also appeared
