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“Diane has no idea about you?”
She shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I never once spent the night, and we never were out in public together. It’s a quiet building, where people stay to themselves, so we were never disturbed. And Alex wasn’t what anyone would call overly controversial.”
“Except that he wanted to overhaul Congress.”
She smiled. “Who wouldn’t? But he never got anywhere. You know that. I imagine he seemed more an amusement than a threat.”
Another reason his old friend could have never been president. Voters liked candidates who actually got things done.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Taisley Forsberg.”
“You realize that I may have to compromise you in order to look into this.”
“I know, but we have to learn the truth about what happened to him.”
Maybe so. Yet he had only this woman’s word about the man in Alex’s apartment. It could all be a lie. Still, Taisley Forsberg had tapped into his own lingering doubts, ones that had clouded his brain ever since he first heard the bad news. For the past few minutes his internal radar had been on red alert but he’d detected no lies, no embellishing flourishes to provide a stronger feeling of truth. In fact, everything he’d heard carried the strong odor of fact.
She was right.
Alex Sherwood just didn’t fall off cliffs.
And that notebook from Diane’s brother. About some monumental change? What the hell?
He’d been invited to the Sherwood house.
Maybe he should put in an appearance.
“How do I find you?” he asked.
She handed him a business card and he saw that she was a lawyer with a DC firm. One he knew. “My cell phone number is on the back.”
He still held the necklace. “May I keep this for a bit?”
“It’s yours now.”
She reached for the door handle to leave.
He grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”
“It’s better you and I aren’t seen together.”
“I’m a big boy, I can handle it. Tell me where I can drop you.” Then he decided to treat her like a big girl, too. “I meant what I just said. Diane Sherwood may have to learn about you and Alex.”
A sadness crept onto her face, the eyes shining, tears finally running down her cheeks. “Alex is gone, and regardless of what she thinks might have happened between us when he was alive, I would hope she would want to know how and why her husband died.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Cassiopeia plunged into the thick Arkansas woods, doing as Cotton had asked, making enough noise to draw the sniper’s attention.
Here they were, back in the fray.
Together.
Both she and Cotton seemed to thrive off excitement. They liked to say otherwise, but they were only kidding themselves. This assignment had particularly interested him, and he’d opened up a little about his middle Georgia family and their connections to both the American Civil War and the Smithsonian Institution. Learning about his past was important to her. So when he’d asked if she’d like to come along, she’d never hesitated.
A shot rang out.
She stopped her advance.
Acting as bait was a little foolish, since there was always the possibility that a stray round could find her or another shooter might be around. She regretted messing with Cotton, not telling him she was outside the incinerator and working to get him out. He’d obviously been assaulted, the knot on his forehead serious enough that a doctor should take a look. But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not his way. On the plane trip from DC he’d told her about his mother’s relatives, part of the old landed gentry who’d supported the antebellum South and fought with the Confederacy. His father’s family had been from the northern part of Georgia, their loyalties divided between North and South, their history not as clear.
Her own parents had boasted a strong Iberian and European connection. She’d been raised to know and appreciate her heritage, though her parents eventually discarded some of it, choosing a path far different from their ancestors. Ultimately she, too, had made choices, some good, others bad, and had dealt with an assortment of lingering demons. Cotton had played a big part in some of that resolution. She’d resented and fought his involvement and tried to deny how she felt but, in the end, realized that her destiny seemed locked with his. Which now did not bother her one bit.
He was an extraordinary man.
They’d been through a lot together. Each had saved the other more than once. He showed her nothing but love and respect, and she did the same for him. If that was a sign of weakness, then weakness it would be.
She restarted her way through the underbrush, making noise, generating movement one way, then slipping quietly to another, hopefully leading the bullets to where she’d just been instead of where she was headed.
Another round cracked, the bullet whining through the trees behind her. The ploy seemed to be working. Cotton was headed for a trail leading up the ridge and she spotted another way up just ahead, one that also wound a path to the shooter. She decided to make her way there and climb from the other side. Together they could pincer their assailant.
Her life was definitely exciting. She lived in a French château, where she was rebuilding a 13th-century castle using only tools and materials available 800 years ago. Her family’s business ventures were operating on a solid footing, generating hundreds of millions of euros annually. Her father had left her the company as his only heir, apparently confident she could handle things. And she had. Occasionally she made an appearance to keep in touch, but by and large she allowed the managers freedom to operate.
She grabbed a couple of hand-sized rocks and heaved them off to her left. Both created the desired noise and attention. A shot came their way and she used the moment to hustle unnoticed for the base of the ridge. There was no defined trail, and the terrain was not steep enough to defeat a hasty climb. She hugged the ground and, using the trees and foliage for cover, headed up. This was not good for her clothes. But luckily she’d dressed in jeans, boots, and a durable shirt. Thankfully, she’d also piled her long, dark hair into a bun that kept the strands off her face. Her brow was slick, her eyes stinging from salty sweat. She’d passed on makeup today, but rarely used much anyway.
She considered herself lucky to have found someone like Cotton. He was a few years older, tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-blond hair, with a handsome face full of responsibility. No sags existed in his cheeks, no traces o
f a double chin. His green eyes danced with delight and always seemed to captivate her, as did his fight to keep the depth of his feelings to himself, which had clearly become harder for them both. Each move he made seemed judged and balanced, with no pretensions. Once there’d been a time when she’d wanted no one to invade her loneliness. When she became angry at her own weaknesses, and her heart rebelled. But after what had happened between them of late, she’d decided not to make the mistake again of thinking she could live without him.
Normally, it could be difficult to get him to leave Copenhagen. Saving the world was no longer his thing. He’d done his tour with the Magellan Billet, working twelve years as one of Stephanie Nelle’s Justice Department agents. As he liked to say, That’s someone else’s problem now. But there were issues that clearly attracted him. More and more it had become simply a matter of making money. Everyone had to eat, and his skill sets were definitely in demand. Here, though, the attraction had been a connection to his family’s heritage.
And one ancestor in particular.
Angus Adams.
Who, she’d learned, had been a Confederate spy and also went by the moniker Cotton.
She shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and kept to her crawl, the firing from above halted. Pinpricks of moisture glittered the fine hair on her arms. Cotton had to be making his way up the other side so she stopped and lay still, close to the warm ground, giving him time to take the lead.
She knew only a little about the Smithsonian Institution. One of the largest repositories of artifacts and information in the world, with a global reputation for excellence. Just to say the words invoked visions of history, mystery, and adventure.
And here they were.
Right in the middle of one.
But it wasn’t quite as glamorous as books and movies liked to depict.
She was lying belly-first on parched dirt, among thick foliage heavy with heat and bugs, someone above her shooting with a rifle.
Would she marry Cotton?
A strange thought given the circumstances.
