Lori Avocato - Deep Sea Dead

Once out of the lounge, I grabbed Tim’s arm. “Look, I’ve go nothing more to tell you about Jackie’s death. That night I told you guys all I knew. All I’d seen. I have no motive other than once I caught her painting her toenails on my bed.”

With a typical FBI solemn face, he took his notebook out of his breast pocket, pulled out a little pencil like the one I’d gotten from Uncle Walt’s golf bag and sneaked into a mental hospital on my last case, and started to write.

I froze on the spot.

“Color?” he asked.

“What?”

“What color nail polish?”

The old phobia of being arrested when I was not guilty sped through my Coors-affected mind. “What…what are you…I didn’t do…Tim, you have to believe…I had nothing-”

All I could hear was the pencil clatter to the floor while Tim’s lips covered mine.

If this was part of being arrested, maybe I’d never seek treatment for that phobia. Being arrested wasn’t as bad as I thought.

It was actually quite delicious.

With Tim’s lips still on mine, my mind went blank-except for the shear pleasure of the tingling feeling sailing throughout my body.

Slowly he pulled back and looked at me. Not as a Fed though. Nope. More like a man. A man who seemed…interested.

I thought he might apologize for the kiss, but instead he just smiled, and I think mumbled the word “nice.” I couldn’t help but sigh, and then said, “I hope that’s not the way you question all your possible witnesses.”

He chuckled. “No. It isn’t.”

I was glad he didn’t use some clichéd line like, Only the pretty young ones. “Good. Because I was starting to have visions of you and Stella…never mind.”

He laughed and took my arm. “You really that tired, or would you like to get a coffee?”

If I admitted I wasn’t tired, he’d know I was blowing off Hunter. Then again, who cared? “Coffee sounds like too much caffeine, but decaf tea would hit the spot.”

He shook his head slightly and smiled. Then he led me toward the elevator and pressed the DOWN button.

Jagger popped into my thoughts, doing his head-shaking thing, but it wasn’t the same-at least that’s what I told myself. How could I compare the good-looking but clean-cut, shorthaired Tim with the dark, dangerous, delicious Jagger?

I couldn’t or shouldn’t, so I decided I wouldn’t.

On the elevator, Tim kept holding onto my arm and it felt nice. If I were in the habit of doing one-night stands, like some of my friends, this would be an opportune moment.

But I was Pauline Sokol, good Catholic girl whose conscience would have her mumbling incoherently if she did something so out of character.

Still, the kiss was wonderful.

Tim leaned over and kissed me on the cheek this time. When we were nearly at the bottom floor, I looked out the window and dreamily said, “Ha. There goes another Remy look-alike in one of those dumb salmon tee shirts.”

I guess an FBI agent is never really off duty. He pulled back, looked out the window, and said, “Shit!”

When the door opened, Tim was out before me in the proverbial flash and running across the lobby. I stood in shock for a few seconds and then headed after him.

It really was Remy!

Had to be.

I took in a deep breath and was glad I’d been a jogger for the last thirteen years. Before I knew it, I was running through the doors after Tim, and the clatter of footsteps on the metal stairs sounded ahead. A door opened and shut below.

Tim cursed and jumped over the railing, just making it to the staircase below before he fell to the bottom deck. Yikes! He was through the door before I made it down. When I opened it, I saw him at the end of the hallway, which led out to one of the lower decks.

“Tim!” I shouted, but when he turned to answer, I watched a lounge chair come flying through the air-and smack into the back of his head. I screamed and ran faster as I watched him fall to the ground.

He was out cold. I grabbed my linen handkerchief from my purse and put pressure on the wound. It wasn’t too big, only a small gash, but damn head injuries bled a lot worse then they were. Hopefully he didn’t have any brain trauma. “Tim. Tim!”

He opened his eyes. “What the hell?”

“Good. You’re alive.”

“Is that what you’d call this?”

I took his hand and placed it on the handkerchief. “Hold this really tightly. I’ll call for help.” I hurried to a phone on the wall, called the infirmary and told Rico where we were. “You all right?” I asked, hurrying back.

“I’ll live,” Tim mumbled.

“Good. Stay here.”

I ran ahead and around the curve of the deck-then froze when I heard a splash. I looked over the railing; Remy was in one of the lifeboats, pulling the starter on the motor and then sailing off.

Foolishly, I shouted to stop.

He looked at me and gave me a third-finger salute.

When I got back to Tim, I knelt down beside him and pressed my hand on his. “I got it now.”

He looked at me. “Where’d he go?”

As Rico and two other crewmembers came rushing over to us, I shut my eyes for a second and whispered, “You don’t want to know.”

After Tim was stitched up and told me for the hundredth time that it wasn’t my fault that I had called his name, making him turn around, I walked him to his cabin, where he promised to stay put until morning. I still think he blamed me though, but he didn’t act like it. He was that good of a liar.

The other agent was called and instructed to keep waking Tim through the night to make sure he didn’t have a concussion and remained coherent.

On the way to his cabin, I told him about the lifeboat, and we realized that Remy, being a longtime crewmember, knew how to get it down and use it.

I also thought that now I was much safer onboard, but didn’t voice that tidbit to Tim.

Probably he still thought that I never saw Remy.

Inside Tim’s cabin, which, by the way, was huge, with a balcony and two rooms (courtesy of the taxpayers?), I helped him to the couch near the windows. “Can I get you something?”

He shook his head and then said, “Damn it!”

“I don’t recommend shaking. Doc Pete will have a look at those stitches tomorrow and make sure your brain wasn’t involved.”

He looked at me.

I raised my hands in the air. “No comment. I’m certainly not going to tease you after you’ve been injured with some low-blow brain joke.” I sat next to him and asked, “You think Remy is headed for Bermuda?”

“We’re set to dock there by morning. So, I’m sure he is. My partner sent word ahead to the authorities to be on the lookout for him.” He leaned back and sighed. “We’ll get him.”

I was dying-no pun intended-to find out if Tim was convinced that Remy was the killer. But he looked rather worn and even a bit pale. I took his pulse, out of habit, despite his protests and led him to his bed. He slipped out of his suit jacket, shirt and slacks while I turned around, and I tucked him in.

When I noticed his reflection in the mirror opposite the bed, I couldn’t help but bite my lip to keep from swooning. The guy was built like a brick wall and had tattoos on both upper arms. From here I couldn’t see what they said, but one was clearly a sun design. Neat. They really looked neat and sexy. Who would have thought Pauline Sokol would go for a guy with tattoos?

Come to think of it, Jagger had to have one or two somewhere on his body-I’d just bet he did.

And promised myself that some day, I’d have my answer.

Once back in my cabin, I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about tonight. Betty had the night shift, so the place was all mine-and that meant no snoring with a British accent. I did feel horrible about Tim getting injured though. Not to mention the fact that Remy got away.