Hot Target (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 4) Page 5

  "Later." He sent the redhead a parting grin.

  To his amusement, she sank back onto her seat clasping a hand to her heart in a mock swoon. Women like Hilary were good for the ego, he reflected, chasing Juliet down the stairs.

  So why did he desire the one woman who wanted him only for sex and transportation?

  * * *

  Smoothing her wind-blown hair, Juliet approached the Golden Pond Retirement Community's information desk. The rambling facility, just a stone's throw from the nation's capital, had evidently been converted from an apartment complex to a senior care facility. It boasted a well-maintained lawn, fifty-year-old shade trees, and a bright yellow awning over the entry.

  Fresh-cut flowers filled vases in the lobby and cheerful watercolors adorned the walls. The aroma of food under preparation for the adjoining dining area reminded Juliet that it was nearly suppertime. She hoped they wouldn't interrupt her grandmother's meal.

  The receptionist, overly made-up and wearing a practiced smile, greeted them, her gaze sliding predictably to Tristan who hung back several paces.

  With difficulty, she turned her gaze to Juliet. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm here to see Faith Carter Brause," Juliet informed her. "Does she still live here and can she have visitors?"

  "Are you family?" Penciled eyebrows rose at the question.

  "No," Juliet said, deciding that this stranger needn't know the truth before her own grandmother did. Producing a business card, she laid it on the counter between them. "I'm Juliet Rhodes, a private investigator. A client claims to be one of Mrs. Brause's heirs. I'd like to check his story with her, if possible."

  Mascaraed eyes widened with interest. "Let me see if Mrs. Brause is up to receiving guests." The receptionist plucked up the phone beside her and punched in three numbers that Juliet memorized.

  "Hello, Mrs. Brause. There's someone here to see you. She says she's a private investigator."

  Juliet's intestines coiled with nervousness. It wasn't every day that one encountered a long-lost family member, especially when said person had never before been mentioned.

  The woman hung up. "She says you're to go right up. Room 216," she relayed. "The elevator is behind you." Her gaze strayed toward Tristan again. "Is he going with you?"

  The woman looked like she might devour him for supper if Juliet didn't whisk him away.

  "Yes," she said, grabbing Tristan's arm and pulling him along.

  As the elevator closed behind them and rose to the next floor, Tristan studied her with a sidelong look. "Are you nervous?"

  Her heart skipped at the reminder that she was about to meet a grandmother she hadn't even known existed. "Do I look nervous?"

  "No one could tell but me," he said.

  In that case, she needed to work on her poker face.

  Room 216's door stood open. Juliet gave it a tentative knock.

  "Come in," warbled a sweet voice.

  A strange emotion blew through Juliet as she walked into a space gilded with evening sunlight. A twin four-poster bed occupied the wall by the window. A cozy seating area took up the rest of the room. Juliet's gaze locked on the white-haired woman seated in the embroidered easy chair knitting something peach-colored. In her eighth decade, Faith Brause's figure still appeared lithe beneath her green blouse and navy slacks. Her polite smile froze as Juliet approached her.

  "Anya?" she inquired, snatching off her reading glasses to blink up at the younger woman.

  One look at Faith's blue eyes stripped the last remnants of doubt from Juliet's mind.

  She faltered to a halt. Those were her father's eyes. My God. She bit back the exclamation with difficulty. "No, I'm... I'm Juliet," she said, uncertain how to continue.

  Faith Brause pushed the knitting off her lap and came unsteadily to her feet. "I'm sorry," she apologized, still looking stunned. "You look so much like..."

  "Like Anya Ausfeld?" Juliet suggested.

  Startled silence filled the tidy chamber. The old woman covered her mouth with a blue-veined hand, betraying both shock and wonder.

  "Anya was my mother," Juliet explained in a voice hoarse with emotion. "That makes me your granddaughter."

  The old woman swayed on her feet, and Juliet and Tristan both leaped forward to steady her. "You should sit," Juliet said with concern.

  "I'm OK," Faith assured her, though she sank back into her chair all the same.

  Juliet found herself kneeling in front of her grandmother. "I'm sorry." She felt an urge to hug the older woman. "I'm as shocked as you are. I never heard of you before today. But this is how I found you."

  Reaching into her purse, she produced the copied paperwork and handed her grandmother the certificate. Faith glanced down at it and put her glasses back on. As she studied the single page, her hands began to tremble.

  Juliet glanced up at Tristan, secretly grateful for his company. It felt as if the earth's very core was shifting beneath her.

  At last, Faith lifted tear-filled eyes.

  "We flew to West Berlin for the wedding," she volunteered. A faraway look entered her eyes. "My son had never looked more handsome, or happier." Her gaze shifted to meet Juliet's. "WITSEC told me, eleven years ago this past October, my son was dead. An accident, they said."

  "Yes," Juliet concurred, withholding the whole truth for just a moment longer. One shock at a time.

  "When I asked what would happen to the children, I was told you were old enough to fend for yourselves. That you were safer staying away from us."

  Juliet blinked. "You knew about us?" Why hadn't her mother ever mentioned any relatives?

  "Oh, I wasn't supposed to know," Faith replied. "But every year on my birthday, I received a large envelope with no postmark, filled with pictures and writings made by little girls. Their names were blacked out, but I knew your parents had sent them to me."

  Juliet swallowed the lump in her throat. "I was sixteen when the accident happened," she confessed. "My sister was almost twenty-one. She looked after me." In point of fact, Juliet had looked after Emma as much as the other way around, but Faith didn't need to know the details.

  "My poor child." Stretching out a trembling hand, Faith stroked Juliet's hair. "Your grandfather and I would have welcomed you both."

  Juliet nodded. "It worked out well enough." She and Emma had learned to grow up quickly, relying on each other. "Did WITSEC tell you how the accident happened?" she added, wanting to prepare Faith for the blow she was bound to experience.

  The old woman lowered her hand and visibly braced herself. "No," she said.

  Juliet queried the need to cause her grandmother added grief, but how else would she learn whether Faith recognized the man Juliet had so recently remembered? "The tires on our car blew out for no reason," she said, seeing no way around telling the truth. "We fishtailed, crashed into a ditch, and struck a tree. Dad's airbag didn't deploy. Mom's seatbelt failed." Watching her grandmother's reaction, Juliet saw the color drain from Faith's face.

  "Then it wasn't an accident," Faith whispered. Instead of being shocked, as Juliet expected, she appeared heartbroken.

  "You're not surprised," Juliet realized.

  Faith shook her head, and Juliet handed her the letter. "I found this today, hidden under a false bottom in my parents' trunk."

  Taking it, Faith shot a cautious glance at Tristan.

  "I'm sorry," Juliet apologized, realizing she had yet to introduce him. "This is my friend, Tristan. He's a Navy SEAL."

  Faith visibly relaxed. "A patriot," she concluded. "Would you shut the door please, young man?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am." He strode to the door, closed and locked it.

  "Draw up a seat, child," Faith advised Juliet. "It will take me a while to read this."

  As Tristan whisked a chair from the desk, Juliet got off the floor to sit in it. She shot him a grateful smile then watched Faith's reaction as she read through her daughter-in-law's words.

  Reaching the letter's end, her grandmother loo
ked up and grimaced.

  "You already knew?" Juliet guessed.

  "Most of it, yes," Faith confessed. "Your parents explained the situation so that Paul and I would understand why they had to disappear. Anya told us there was a price on her head, but she never mentioned her associates as specifically as she did here." She held the letter up and gazed earnestly into Juliet's eyes. "Your mother essentially betrayed the Stasi. She had to go into hiding. She had no other choice, and neither did my son if he wanted to stay with her."

  "I understand," Juliet assured her.

  "From what you told me of the accident," Faith added, looking suddenly every one of her eighty-some years, "it sounds as though the Stasi must have found her anyway."

  Juliet swallowed against a dry mouth. "I was with them when it happened," she admitted, looking down at her hands.

  "Dear God." Faith covered her hands and squeezed them.

  Juliet plowed on. "I saw a man, right after it happened, looking into my mother's window. He didn't see me behind the driver's seat." She neglected to mention she'd been trapped there.

  Her grandmother's grip tightened. "I don't know who he was but—this is what he looked like."

  Freeing a hand, Juliet drew the composite sketch from her purse and gave it to her grandmother. She hoped for recognition to flare in Faith's blue gaze, but it didn't. Her grandmother's face reflected her rising repugnance and loathing as she realized she was looking at her son's killer.

  "I've never seen him before," she stated with certainty. "You think he killed them?"

  Juliet questioned her intuition one last time. Armed with the evidence she'd happened upon earlier that day, her certainty had only increased. "Yes. I saw his expression as he peered into the car. He saw my father gasping for breath. He saw my mother was already gone, which seemed to please him. Something told me to keep quiet. It was hours after he walked away that a passing truck driver happened to see our Oldsmobile in the ditch. He was the one who called the police."

  "Dear child," Faith exclaimed. Scooting to the edge of her seat, she leaned forward and caught Juliet in an embrace.

  Tears sprang to Juliet's eyes as she submitted to her grandmother's comfort. After a moment, Faith released her and sat back.

  "And you're sure he looks like this?" Faith asked, looking again at the sketch.

  "Yes, but it was eleven years ago," Juliet replied. "He would be older now."

  The wrinkles on her grandmother's forehead deepened. "But Gerard and Anya went into witness protection in December of 1984. Communism collapsed in '89, and the two Germanys were promptly reunited. What year was the accident, dear?"

  "Two thousand and six," Juliet replied.

  "That would have been"—Faith tallied on her fingers—"twenty-two years after she defied the Stasi. Would anyone hold a grudge all that time?"

  It was the same question Tristan had brought up hours earlier. Would the Stasi, which no longer existed, still be seeking vengeance after twenty-two years? "Maybe it just took that long to find Mom and Dad. The killer would have had to get insider information from the U.S. Marshals Service. That could have taken decades."

  "Your mother did say Goebel would gladly kill her," Faith pointed out.

  "Right. Plus, he apparently loved art as much as she did. What if they'd hit it off? If they were close, like student and mentor, he might have considered her actions a personal betrayal as much as a political betrayal."

  "Was Goebel even alive in 2006?" her grandmother asked.

  Juliet sighed. "I don't know. I need to get back to my office and do more research." At Faith's curious glance, she added, "It's true what I told the receptionist. I am a private investigator by occupation. Finding people is what I do."

  Faith smiled with approval. "Oh, Juliet. Why doesn't that surprise me? Your parents would be so proud of you. But tell me about your sister before you go."

  "Of course." Taking her cell from her purse, Juliet accessed her photos so she could share them. "Here's Emma. As you can see, she looks like Dad with his red hair and your blue eyes."

  "Hah! She looks like me," Faith corrected her proudly. "And who's that?" she asked, pointing to Sammy.

  "Well, Emma got married out of college to a man named Gary. It didn't work out, but this is their daughter Sammy, who's twelve now."

  Faith threw her hands up in delight. "I'm a great-grandmother!"

  "Emma just got married again, to Jeremiah, a Navy SEAL who works with Tristan."

  "They look so happy together." Faith studied the photo with approval.

  "They are," Juliet assured her. "They live in Virginia Beach, but Emma is visiting the area this week. I told her about you, and she said she could bring Sammy by in the morning if you'd like them to visit."

  "I would love that," Faith declared. "What a day," she exclaimed, shaking her head incredulously as Juliet put her phone away.

  "You can say that again," Juliet agreed. Collecting the paperwork she'd brought, she deliberated leaving a copy for Faith but decided it best not to scatter around her mother's secrets. "I'll be back to visit," she promised, putting everything back into her purse.

  "Don't worry about me, dear. You have a mystery to solve."

  "Yes, I do," Juliet agreed, standing up.

  Tristan, who'd remained on his feet the whole time, put her chair back next to the desk. Bending over Faith, Juliet gave her a heartfelt hug.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Whatever for, dear?" Faith asked as her granddaughter straightened.

  As she gazed down at her newfound family member, Juliet's throat tightened. "For not blaming my mother."

  Sorrow darkened Faith's blue eyes. "What good would that serve?" she asked. "Gerard loved his Anya more than anything, and vice versa."

  Not trusting herself to speak, Juliet gave a jerky nod and turned away. "Take care," she said, heading for the door.

  "Pleasure meeting you, ma'am," Tristan called as he led the way and unlocked the door.

  "You, too, dear," her grandmother called. "Please shut the door behind you."

  As they headed down the hall, Juliet noted Tristan's sidelong glances.

  "You OK?" he asked, pushing the button for the elevator.

  The mystery of her parents' death gnawed at her. "Of course," she said automatically.

  When he looped his arm around her and hugged her all the same, she didn't resist. It came as a relief to lean on someone in the wake of so much change.

  "Where to?" Tristan asked once they were outside and crossing the dark parking lot.

  Juliet had anticipated an evening in bed with Tristan, but finding her parents' killer took precedence to getting him out of her system.

  "Back to my office," she said with an apologetic grimace.

  "You got it, partner." With sanguinity she was beginning to appreciate, he threw a leg over the seat of his Harley. "Hop on board."

  Clasping her purse firmly under one arm and settling onto the seat behind Tristan, Juliet swallowed the impulse to correct his choice of words. First, she wasn't his partner. Second, did he have to sound like he could not care less where they went so long as they went together?

  Their relationship was temporary and superficial. The sooner they exorcised their desire, the sooner Juliet could stop feeling like she wanted Tristan to hang around. Unfortunately, she was too pressed for time to look out for her heart.

  She had a killer to catch and only the scantiest of clues as to who he could be.

  Chapter 4

  "Have a seat, hon." Tristan pushed Juliet down on one of the stools that lined her breakfast bar. It was ten minutes past midnight. He'd already dug into the fast food they'd bought on their way back from her office, but she'd yet to eat her sandwich. Considering how little he'd seen her consume at the restaurant more than twelve hours ago, she had to be famished.

  "I'm not hungry," she protested as he unwrapped her chicken sandwich and placed it in front of her on the counter.

  "Just give it a try," he insi
sted. Tristan crossed to the refrigerator and opened it to consider the contents. "Jesus." The scarcity of food dismayed him. She had stocked up on Dr. Pepper. There was a half-empty bottle of white wine and a nearly empty box of donuts, and that was it. "Don't you ever cook for yourself?"

  "Not really," she admitted.

  He grabbed two cans of soda and let the refrigerator door swing shut as he set them next to the food. Juliet had picked up her sandwich and was eyeing it with rising interest.

  "Let me guess. You spend all your time either working or working out," Tristan said.

  "Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." She took a small bite and slowly chewed.

  He couldn't blame her for feeling dispirited. Her afternoon had been one big rollercoaster ride of emotions and had ended on a flat note.

  They'd left Golden Pond hopeful of finding evidence suggesting Dieter Goebel was her parents' killer. But after five straight hours of sifting through the internet—without Hilary's help because her assistant had gone home to feed her cat—Juliet had found nothing to corroborate her suspicion.

  Dieter Goebel might have been head of the Main Directorate for Reconnaissance and number two in power behind General Secretary Erich Honecker himself, but there wasn't a single photo of him online. Considered one of the greatest spymasters of all time, Goebel had always taken great care to avoid publicity. As a result, he'd been dubbed "The Man Without a Face."

  After the Cold War was over, and with Germany reunifying, Goebel had made a vain attempt to seek asylum in Russia. He'd returned to Germany, where he'd been convicted of treason and sentenced to six years imprisonment—a sentence Goebel never completed because he mysteriously disappeared from the prison in 1992, never to resurface.

  Refusing to call Hilary back to the office, Juliet had hammered away at the mystery of Goebel's vanishing act, to no avail.

  She'd been wilting in front of her computer when Tristan had taken matters into his own hands. He'd hauled her to her feet and dragged her home—with Juliet too tired to protest.

  The bloodshot look she sent him as he stood beside her stool made him hide a grin behind a swig of soda. Even given her exhaustion, he could read sexual interest in her heavy-lidded gaze. If the events of the last six hours hadn't occupied her life so exclusively, she would probably have torn his clothes off by now.