Love pushed him to the side and walked in his apartment. "For crying out loud, Evan, give me a break. I'm not an amateur."
"Of course, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply—"
"Shut up and close the door."
Makley turned around and closed the door. She was wearing a long black trench coat with black leather boots that disappeared mid-calf behind the fabric. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her brilliant green eyes bore in to him. "Do you have any news?"
"Not yet." She tossed her bag on his couch. "What about you and the President? Anything new happening that could be of use to me?"
"No. Rudd is worried about a few graves being disturbed in a couple of national cemeteries, that's about it." Makley let his eyes run up and down her torso. Her trench coat was cinched snug at the waist accentuating her figure. "If you don't have any news, why are you here?"
"A couple of reasons actually."
"I'm listening."
Love stepped closer to him. "I heard about your wife leaving, Evan, and taking your girls with her. You know, I can take care of her if you want me to…but it'll cost you."
"No. As tempting as it sounds, I'll pass. The girls need their mother, besides they're older now. One's even driving so I get to see them more often. The divorce really wasn't unexpected either. We hadn't been together as husband and wife in over a year before we split."
"Over a year? Damn. You are a frustrated man." Love removed the tie around her ponytail and let her hair fall to her shoulders. She shook her head to give her hair an unkempt look. She stepped close to him. "Which brings me to the other reason I'm here."
She was close enough he could smell her perfume. She put her hands on his chest, palms flat, and gently worked them in small circles. An instant twinge of excitement
"You know, Love's Desperate Desire can help with that too. And for you, Evan, it's on the house."
"What about your rule against getting involved with clients?"
"That's the good thing about being the boss, I can change the rules whenever I want."
"But—"
Love put her finger over his lips. He watched her systematically unbutton his shirt exposing his modestly hairy chest. She stroked her hands from side to side, top to bottom. By now his slacks showed visible signs of his arousal, but he didn't care. He'd already dreamed about a moment like this with the beautiful Abigail Love. Despite her line of work, despite the fact that she was a cold-blooded killer, he wanted her. He longed for her.
"Bedroom," she said.
More like a command.
He pointed to a door.
She grabbed his hand and led him across the room.
When they entered his bedroom, Love pulled him in front of her and slipped his shirt off his shoulders and then let it fall to the carpet. She turned him around and backed him toward his bed.
Love took two steps back and slowly loosened the belt on her coat. This was really going to happen, he thought. She let the coat hang open for a few seconds as if deliberately taunting him. He took it all in. From what he could see, she wasn't dressed underneath. Not in clothes anyway. She pulled her hands back, shrugged her shoulders, and let the coat fall to the floor.
Abigail Love had the best body he'd ever seen. Totally unblemished. From head to toe. Perfect in every way. She wore only a black lace bra and matching thong. Her boots, the ones that disappeared behind her coat, rose above her knees.
She stepped close to him again. He started to speak but she gave him the look. He knew to stay quiet. He wanted to get involved. He wanted to grab her and throw her on the bed, but he resisted. She ran her hands across his waist, working them forward until she came to his belt. He closed his eyes and felt her unlatch his belt and pull it through the belt loops. He heard it land on the floor. He felt her unbuttoned his pants and slowly unzip them. She pushed him backwards onto the bed.
She climbed on top of him. He opened his eyes when she kissed him. Her lips were wet, and warm, and sweet. Better than he ever imagined.
She pulled back and started kissing his neck, swirling her tongue below his ear.
She whispered. "Now, tell me more about these graves."
19
The temperature dropped enough during the night to blanket the island in fog. After they checked out of the hotel, Jake drove the rental car east on Centre Street, the main road in Fernandina Beach's historic district, until it turned into Atlantic Avenue. Following the directions from the nighttime desk clerk, he turned north on 14th Street and drove the mile or so until he reached his destination.
He pulled into the Bosque Bello Cemetery. A police cruiser was waiting for them. After introductions, Jake and Francesca followed the officer to the scene of the crime.
Jake scanned the misty copse of live oaks whose canopy hung over the back section of the graveyard. Sunlight struggled to break through the thick fog. Droplets of moisture danced across the broken beams of light. In the distance, crime scene tape marked off an open grave. The air was still and sticky and the few patches of grass were covered in the morning's dew. It reminded Jake of a scene from an old horror film. Ironically that story took place in a small coastal town, much like this one, and involved a strange glowing fog that rolled in from the ocean.
He and Francesca were two paces behind the officer. "Was the glass in the casket broken?" Jake asked.
"No. Looks like all they did was dig up the casket. Can't tell if it was even opened." The officer stopped and turned around. "To be honest, if we hadn't received a call so soon after we found it, we would have just stuck him back in the ground." The officer pointed to the hole in the ground. "But we were instructed to do a thorough crime scene investigation."
"Fingerprints?" Jake asked.
"None."
"Shoe impressions?" Francesca asked.
"None." The officer walked to the side of the grave and pointed to the ground slowly moving his finger toward the grass line in the cemetery. "Actually, whoever did this was careful enough to cover his tracks all the way to the grass so we couldn't get any usable impressions. He knew what he was doing."
"Or she." Francesca asserted.
"Yes ma'am. I guess that's possible. Or she." The officer pointed to two piles of dirt. "One other thing about the perp, could be left-handed." He moved to a spot next to the grave. "He…or she, stood here and dug, tossing the dirt here." He pointed to the pile next to him. Then he pointed to a depression on the other side of the grave and the pile of dirt. "And stood there and tossed the dirt to that pile."
"Could've been two diggers working in synchrony." Jake said.
The officer pushed his hand under his hat and scratched his scalp. "Could be. We never considered two diggers, but it's possible."
Jake pointed to a corner of the lower section of the casket. "Was the top liner pulled loose there and folded underneath?"
The officer looked astonished. "How could you know that? You haven't even seen the pictures yet."
"Bet our soldier was black." Francesca said.
"That's right. But—"
"We've seen the same thing at other cemeteries." Jake looked at Francesca.
Jake's cell phone rang. He looked at the Caller-ID, Fontaine. "Excuse me, I have to take this." Jake turned and walked away leaving Francesca to wrap things up with the officer.
Jake answered the call. "George, what's up?"
"Jake, your meeting tonight with President Rudd has been moved up to 10:00 p.m."
"No problem. We're almost finished here then we'll be on our way."
"Sorry, Jake. Project Resurrection is growing."
"Project Resurrection?"
"Yep. Project Resurrection. Don't blame me, Wiley and Rudd came up with the name." Fontaine explained. "Apparently an older usage of the term resurrect was used the same as exhume or disinter is today."