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He leaned forward on his elbows, clasping his hands together. “Do you have experience with common courtesy?”
She stared at him, a slight frown gathered between her eyes.
“Let me give you an example. ‘Goodbye, Zeke.’ Followed by a soft kiss on the lips.”
For a brief, tantalizing moment, her gaze dipped to his mouth, and an answering warmth stirred between his legs. When her eyes lifted, he noted genuine remorse in their depths.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. I—I’m sorry.”
The cold knot he’d been carrying in his stomach for days—weeks—disappeared. But not the want. Not the need. Those continued to claw deeper into his gut.
He sat back. “Who else might want to hurt you?”
She blinked, covering the quick flare of surprise in her eyes. “Every case I successfully close has a negative impact on someone.”
“This has the feel of a fresh wound, one not yet scabbed over. What was your most recent case?”
“O’Fallon. I—” She flinched. “I shouldn’t say anything. The case hasn’t gone to trial yet.”
“Give me the three-thousand-foot overview, so I know what we’re up against.”
“We’re?”
“We are partners, of a sort.” He cocked his head to the side. “Right?”
She sighed. “Don’t make me regret this. Please.”
“Spill it, Westcott.”
“I uncovered a collection of priceless antiquities in the basement of a home in rural Marion. The former politician had been stealing pieces for decades, intending to sell them on the black market in order to provide his five kids with an inheritance.”
“You got to be shittin’ me.”
“I’m not creative enough to make up a story like that.”
“Did the kids know about his scheme?”
“I suspect so, though Ted O’Fallon denies it. The basement looked like a distribution warehouse, complete with computers and shipping materials. There’s no way that was a one-man show.”
“What about his wife?”
“Deceased.”
“Worse-case scenario, the kids knew and were eagerly awaiting their inheritance. That’s not one pissed-off person, that’s six.”
“Eleven, if the children’s spouses were also in on the scheme.” Her eyes took on a faraway look as if she were rewinding through a mental surveillance video, then she murmured, “He said, ‘us.’” Her focus sharpened. “My attacker. He said, ‘the trouble you caused us.’”
“Sounds like there are a lot of us in this O’Fallon case.”
Deep in thought, she didn’t respond.
“What did he smell like?”
“Who? O’Fallon?”
“Your attacker.” He lifted the perspiring glass of water at his elbow and took a drink. “Everyone has a scent. Could be natural, could be sprayed on, or it could be absorbed from their environment like smoke or paint or manure. It might be a clue to his identity.”
“Alcohol. He’d definitely been drinking.”
