Mistaken Identity

“It was a gift.” Her eyes clouded. “From my sister.”

“You shouldn’t leave expensive jewelry like this lying around. Take that pin you’re wearing. If those are real diamonds, it should go into a safe place at night.”

Her hand lifted to the sparkling piece. He moved closer, as if to examine the design.

“What is it, a unicorn?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in the legend, Ms. Smith?”

“About those who drink out of its horn being protected from poison or epilepsy?”

“I didn’t know that one.”

She tipped her head to the side, studying him with the same intent scrutiny he gave her. “Which legend are you talking about, then?”

Her hair danced on her shoulder like dark flame. Marsh pulled his gaze from the shimmering curtain. “I seem to remember reading somewhere that only a virgin could capture and tame a unicorn.”

Actually, he remembered exactly where he’d read that bit of nonsense—on the sales brochure the jewelry-store clerk had provided the police.

Her head dipped in acknowledgment. “True. That was supposed to symbolize the triumph of spiritual love over the ferocity of the beast. Too bad it’s only a myth,” she added, with a twist to her mouth that didn’t quite make it to a smile.

Obviously Ms. Smith didn’t believe in the power or permanency of love. That certainly fit her profile. In the past eighteen months, she’d taken up with a tattooed motorcycle jock and a drummer in a country western band before latching on to Jannisek—an association that might just get her killed.

Carefully, Marsh repositioned the bracelet on the nightstand. “If the man who broke through the glass wasn’t after jewelry…”

“Or some pervert after underwear,” she interjected coolly.

“…then I’d say we were right the first time. It was you he was waiting for—you he wanted.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Marsh refused to follow the movement of that raspberry-tinted mouth. Refused to let her nervousness sway him.

“Why did he wait outside?” she questioned, thinking back. “The front door was open when I got here. He could have walked inside.”

“Maybe he did. Maybe he searched the place, saw you weren’t here, and was on his way out again when the cab pulled up.”

And maybe he wanted to scare you enough to make sure you reacted the way you did. Reminding himself yet again that shaking up Becky Smith constituted an essential part of his plan, Marsh ignored the nervous way she had crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves.

“Why would someone come after you, Ms. Smith? Or should I call you Becky?” He aimed a smile at her. “We are neighbors, after all.”

“Um…”

He took that vague response as consent. “Any ideas, Becky?”

“About what?”

“Who might come after you? And why?”

He kept his tone even and nonthreatening, but every nerve in Marsh’s body quivered in anticipation of her reply. She took her time about it, dropping her lids, glancing away, looking everywhere but at him. Thinking, obviously, how she would answer.

“I don’t know,” she said at last.

Disappointment whipped through him. A part of him had hoped she’d cooperate voluntarily, and that he wouldn’t have to implement Phase Three.

He didn’t see any other option now. He angled his head, his gaze thoughtful as it rested on her face.

“You can tell me. In my line of work, I’ve seen about every kind of trouble people can get into.”

She took her lower lip between her teeth again. Marsh figured she would chew off a couple of layers of skin before he got through with her. Her chocolate and caramel eyes searched his face.

“I don’t know your name.”

The abrupt change in direction threw him off stride for a moment. “What?”

“I don’t know who you are,” she said again.

“Henderson. Marsh Henderson.”

“Or what you are,” she added slowly.

“I told you. I’m a cop.”

“Do you have some identification?”

He blinked, and then gave a snort of laughter. “Isn’t it a little late to be asking to see my badge?”

Her chin came up. “You know what they say, Mr. Henderson…”

“Marsh.”

“You know what they say, Marsh. Better late than too late.”

His mouth kicked up in a half grin. “That’s what they say, all right.”

Digging into his back pocket, he pulled out a black leather case. A single flip displayed his photo ID and gold badge with its blue enamel shield, surmounted by an open-winged gold eagle.

“U.S.” She read the large initials in the center of the shield easily enough, but squinted at the smaller lettering around it. “U.S. what?”

“U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. I’m a special agent with the DEA.”

“A special agent?” she echoed, paling.

Obviously, his profession made her nervous. It made a lot of people nervous. As it should, Marsh thought sardonically. Flipping the leather case shut, he slid it into his back pocket.

“I get the feeling you’re wondering just why I happened to move into the house next door.”

“Maybe I am.”