11. Done Fighting It

ELEVEN

Done Fighting It

The lodge had a half-mile running trail through the woods above the building.

The next morning Rus ran it three times, and in that altitude with the steep inclines, and the fact he didn’t get back to his room until three in the morning and he’d started running at six thirty, it kicked his ass.

Nevertheless, he hit his room and did his sit ups and pushups before he jumped in the shower.

He had a towel around his waist, wet hair and was about to shave when a knock came at the door.

He looked through the peephole.

Room service.

He opened the door. “Sorry, there’s been some mistake. I didn’t order breakfast.”

“Compliments of Ms. Bonner,” was the reply.

He nearly burst out laughing.

He didn’t, but he was smiling when he stepped aside, and the guy wheeled the cart in and set the food up on the table by the window.

When he left, taking the cart with him, he didn’t hand Rus the wallet to sign off on the bill.

Guess she was taking care of the tip too.

He quickly shaved and put on some shorts, olive green khakis, a belt, and a pressed white button down. He then went to the safe, pulled out the file from under his two guns and sat down to breakfast with Brittanie’s murder as company.

But his mind wandered to last night.

After Lucinda left him to it, he’d spoken with Morley, Emma, her assistant bartender, Emeril, Security Sue’s partner (he wore the same black suit uniform as Sue) and half a dozen other staff members before he wandered down to the theater.

It had been like going back in time.

Obviously, the upper floor had been updated, and that had happened recently. It was stylish, expensive, subtle and comfortable.

It was Lucinda.

The downstairs was her great-grandmother.

The first thing he noticed were the pictures on the walls around the staircase down to the lower level.

A hundred years ago, they would likely be considered pornographic.

Now, they seemed like art.

After he was waved through by Barrett in his doorman booth (cover charge was twenty-five dollars for bar and general admission seating, fifty bucks for a booth, this was hefty and still, there was a two-drink minimum), he entered Washington State’s version of Moulin Rouge. Except the lush reds, blues and black were replaced with black, purples and pinks.

It was a large space, but still seemed close and intimate.

The bar to the side was long, manned by three people and packed two deep.

The cocktail waitresses wore old-fashioned, little black dresses with pink or purple frilly petticoats under skirts that were so short, they exposed white panties with ruffles at the seat.

The small, semi-circle booths staggered back along the space in front of the stage had black velvet seats and pink or purple velvet backs. The round tables had black tablecloths and small candles in pink glass on top.

In the back of the theater, there was less posh seating and space to stand and watch.

He lived close enough, and his daughter was interested, so they hit New York for weekends that included musicals and the ballet.

So when the numbers came on the stage, Rus saw talent, but there was a reason they weren’t in a big city trying to get their big break. They were good, it worked, but mostly because the women were attractive and each number was so sexual, it was almost a choreographed group striptease.

The stars of the show were the costumes and the sets. Each dance lasted a good while, but there was at least a ten-minute lull in between so they could wow the crowd with something entirely new and patrons had plenty of time to order fresh drinks.

The place was packed, so it wouldn’t be cool to take the time of staff to ask questions.

But word got around he was there, and several of the dancers came and spoke to him between sets.

They were Brittanie’s friends, so they had reason. They wanted to help.

But he learned nothing new.

He waited it out, had a few more chats after closing, and was pleased to see Sue, Emeril or one of the bouncers escorted all female personnel to their cars even if this was the middle of nowhere and the parking lot was brightly illuminated. Not to mention there were numerous visible camaras trained on the lot and the building.

Since she left him to it after he’d finished eating, he’d not seen Lucinda. She was either busy, or, with the way she spoke about her daughter, she went home to her girl.

That morning, he was dragging.

It was a risk to have such a late night when he had no time to sleep in. That was something he wouldn’t blink at doing when he was twenty-five. Now forty-five, it no longer caught up with him, it dogged him.

But when you had nothing, you had to take every shot to find something. Anyone could have seen or heard something that would give him a lead.

The risk didn’t pan out.

But even as he drank coffee, texted Moran about a meet up, sent in a progress report suggesting they look at other sexually-motivated open cases to ascertain if there had been another copycat they hadn’t caught, re-read the reports written for him, examined photos he’d already examined, wrote notes on a yellow legal pad about any little thing that struck him, and ate eggs, bacon and toast, he didn’t regret it.

What he felt he had now was a full picture of Brittanie.

She had her flaws, but she was a good person.

Whoever did this to her was the one with the damage. Unless they turned something up in her bank accounts, texts or emails, the motive would be as twisted as the murder, and none of it would land on Brittanie.

He got a responding text from Moran, and it was time to roll out.

He wanted back in the motel room. He wanted to return to her apartment. And he wanted to hit the local lab where they were processing what they’d found in the room.

He’d been to these places and examined the pictures. He saw the pile of her clothes in the corner.

But he wanted to inspect things more closely.

Items spoke.

And when you had nothing, you had to find something else that might talk.

He wanted the brother, the father and the ex-boyfriend they couldn’t find, but he wouldn’t be doing the leg work on that. McGill and Moran’s deputies were on it.

He also wanted to go back to Ezra Corbin.

It was pure gut, but he felt Lance was out.

There was no reasoning or evidence for a revisit to Ezra, outside the fact he had no alibi.

He just didn’t like the guy.

Now was about going over old ground just to make sure they didn’t miss anything.

He called down to the valet to have his car brought around, secured the files in the safe with his guns, left his dishes where they were, tied the laces on his tan shoes, pulled on a dark-blue blazer, and exited his room.

The first thing he noticed in the lobby was Madden, Lucinda’s daughter, wearing a corduroy skirt, tights, ankle boots, and a chunky turtleneck sweater. She was sitting in a chair, her dark head bent to an iPad, her adorable face screwed up in concentration.

He swung his head left and saw, standing and talking to someone of authority in the hotel, Lucinda, wearing tan, wide-legged trousers, a slim-fit matching tan turtleneck, and an equally matching cardigan that fell to her ankles. On her feet were chocolate suede, stiletto-heeled boots.

Until that moment, Rus had tried not to think about the fact he’d left Bon Amie without any reason to go back, the slim chance she could get her dominatrix friend to speak to him being his only thread to spending time with her again.

And he wasn’t thinking about it because he wanted more time with her and wanting time with Lucinda shouldn’t be what was on his mind.

Regardless, he was both exasperated, amused and pleased she was there now, with her daughter in tow, for whatever her reason could be.

He was about to move her way when someone stepped in front of him.

Close in front of him.

In his space and face.

“Are you the agent from the FBI?”

He stopped dead and looked down his nose at the woman who had waylaid him.

She appeared young, but her long hair parted down the middle and hanging in sheets down the sides of her face was gray. She was wearing a denim shirt, jeans and one of those colorful blanket jackets. Also a lot of silver and turquoise jewelry. Her makeup was subtle, but there.

She was attractive, but not his type. He was about women who were all woman, and although she was all woman, the masculine bent to her dress and her aggressive demeanor were not his thing.

He took a step away.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

She didn’t repeat her question.

She asserted the answer. “You’re the agent from the FBI. The one investigating that woman’s murder.”

She didn’t give off the air of a reporter.

He still went cautiously.

“Can I help you?”

“Can you confirm you’re investigating the murder?”

“You are?”

She thrust out a square hand, no polish, short nails, lots of heavy rings and bracelets. “Ellen Macklemore.”

He took her hand and made light work of squeezing and releasing. “Are you a reporter, Ms. Macklemore?”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

Shit.

It was a guess, but he suspected it would be a correct one.

She was in the coven.

“What can I—?” he began.

Her eyes were going up and down him as he said those three words, and she interrupted him.

“Day off?”

Oh, hell no.

FBI wasn’t about being the men in black anymore.

But he didn’t owe her that explanation.

“Ms. Macklemore—”

This time, as he spoke, she twisted her neck to look Lucinda’s way.

He did the same, and saw she was still speaking to the member of staff, but her eyes were on them, and they were narrowed.

Great.

He hadn’t experienced it fully, but another guess he would suspect was correct: Lucinda pissed was not a good thing.

Ellen returned to him.

“Enjoying the local scenery?” Before he could speak, she went on, “A woman is dead and last night, you were on a date.”

He was being watched and talked about.

Small town, that was going to happen.

But fuck this bitch.

He held his shit and informed her in as light a voice as he could muster, “Please know, how I spend my time is not your business.”

“It certainly is when my taxes pay your salary.”

The favorite refrain of the entitled.

And one guaranteed to piss any cop right the fuck off.

Rus was not immune.

“You’re wrong, but just to alleviate your fears, last night, I had dinner with the victim’s employer while discussing aspects of the victim’s life and this case, on which Ms. Bonner was extremely helpful, as she’s been since we started the investigation. I then spent the night interviewing people who worked with and knew the victim, and immersing myself in her place of business, so I would understand more about her, the life she led and who she shared time with. I got back to my room at three in the morning. It’s now nine, I spent the last hour going over what we have on her case, and I’m heading out to meet the sheriff to continue our work in finding who did this. I take my job seriously. I take this case seriously. And I can guarantee you, since I’ve been up to my neck in the life cut short of a vibrant young woman, I know her better than you, and I care a great deal more that the person who ended her life is brought to justice. Now, do you have anything else to say?”

She looked chastened, but was opening her mouth, when Lucinda slid in by his side.

“Well, hello. This is a surprise. Do you have out-of-town visitors you’re coming to see?” she asked Ellen Macklemore smoothly.

“I…no,” Ellen replied.

“Visiting the spa?” Lucinda suggested.

“No, I—”

“Certainly you’re not here to cause trouble for a man who’s devoted his life to civil service,” Lucinda drawled.

Ellen opened her mouth.

She got nothing out because Madden was now there, asking, “Mom, is this the FBI guy?”

He looked down at her.

She stared up at him with a frank gaze that was not her mother’s amber but instead hazel, with more green than brown.

“Would you please excuse us?” Lucinda’s pure frost crackled toward Ellen. “Special Agent Lazarus has things to do today, and he doesn’t need unnecessary delays.”

“Then why are you here?” Ellen snapped.

“Because he needs me to introduce him to someone, and we have a brief window, so if you don’t mind, we must be getting on with it.”

Ellen glared at her, schooled her features, looked to Rus and said, “Good luck.” Then she painted a smile on for Madden before she walked away.

“She doesn’t seem like much fun,” Madden remarked before Ellen was out of earshot.

And she heard it, if her shoulders tightening told the tale.

Rus swallowed his chuckle.

“Baby, what have I said about saying out loud everything that pops into your head?” Lucinda asked her girl.

Madden tipped her head toward her mom. “You said be honest in all things.”

“We were talking about something else at that time,” Lucinda corrected.

To that came the cheeky, “We were?”

Lucinda assumed a look of a woman searching for strength that God gave her an astute child and what that meant in times like these and for the rest of her life.

He moved to save her.

“Madden, I’m Rus.” He offered her his hand.

Her eyes got big with excitement when she stared at his hand.

She then took it, shook it hard about five times, while saying, “Hi! Will you come talk to my class? Say yes, because I already told them you would.”

He let her go and didn’t swallow that chuckle as Lucinda clipped, “Madden Emery Bonner Rhett. Really?”

“What?” she asked her mom. “You told me to make my own opportunities.”

Lucinda looked to the ceiling and prayed, “Oh my God.”

Rus busted out laughing.

He couldn’t help it.

The latent cute had surfaced fully, it was all wrapped up in her precocious daughter, and he was loving every second of it.

She turned to him. “Do you think this is funny?”

“Did you miss the laughter?”

The peaches and cream of her skin turned more peach than cream.

He cut her a break and again looked down at Madden.

“I’d be honored to talk to your class, but I’m doing something important right now, so it might be later when I can do it.”

How the fuck he forgot what he was doing was investigating the death of her unofficial big sister, he had no clue.

But those hazel eyes filled with tears right before they disappeared in her mother’s long cardigan after she crossed to her and pressed close, hiding her face.

Lucinda rested one hand on her head, the other she wrapped around the back of her neck, and she looked to Rus.

“Sorry,” he mouthed.

She shook her head in an it’s not your fault.

She then crouched in front of her girl, cocooning her with arms and thighs, and they had a whispered conference.

And it was witnessing that, Rus was done fighting it.

He wasn’t going to embark on an affair with his vic’s employer.

But he was going to get to know her along the way, and when the time was right, he was going to embark on an affair with his vic’s employer.

And maybe, if it kept going the way it was, for the first time since Jenn, he was going to allow himself to have something meaningful with a woman he was interested in.

Madden nodded, pulled away, Lucinda straightened, and Madden looked up at him, swiping at her face.

“Sorry, Mr. Lazarus.”

“Nothing to apologize for, sweetheart,” he said gently.

She nodded and took her iPad back to the chair she’d been sitting in when he first saw her.

He turned to Lucinda.

“I made a call,” she told him. “I said pretty please. Do you have time this morning to meet with Thea? She has a break between her nine o’clock and her eleven thirty.”

“Just so I have this straight, we’re taking your daughter when I interview a dominatrix?”

“No. We’re dropping her off at my mom’s along the way.”

Full immersion in the Bonner family.

He shouldn’t be.

But since he was done fighting it, he was.

That being totally there for it.