Chapter 4

The room was filled with hundreds of people Nona hardly recognized. In the far corner stood her tour manager with a bottle of Jack and a shot glass. She sighed under her breath. It was one the most irritating habits she had. However, it was hard to cut the strings, because Nona's tour manager happened to be her girlfriend of ten years. Slicing through the crowd, nodding here and there, she made her way slowly to Lana's corner.

Nona hated these things, but since making it big in the industry, these types of parties were the norm. Although she loved what she did, she missed the days of having a regular life, not having to see strangers, kiss cheeks of people she didn't know, and watch Lana shoot Jack. Whatever. She had rather have success than be stuck in her hometown working in a job she would most likely hate. That would definitely be worse.

When she finally made it over to Lana, she kissed her cheek softly and grabbed her bottle of booze. Screw it. She would have a drink. Normally Nona would never touch the stuff, but tonight she wanted one. She saw out of the corner of her eye how Lana's eyebrows came up in a slight arch of surprise. Yes, they had been together long enough for Lana to learn of Nona's distaste for alcohol. It stemmed from her younger years when both of her parents were complete drunks. She filled the shot glass and drank it down. After a few minutes, she downed another. Before she could pour her third, Lana grabbed the bottle.

"What in the world is wrong with you tonight," Lana asked softly.

"Nothing really, babe," she answered. "I hate that I have to go to Miami, but it's home," she said with a long sigh. "They're expecting me to play there. If I had my choice, I know where I would go."

Lana slid the bottle to the end of the table. Perhaps she had had enough herself. "Oh, you have heard they're tracking a serial killer out there, haven't you?"

She ended her statement with a mock evil cackle. She knew Nona had a love of the macabre. She may have laughed herself if one of the victims hadn't been a friend. Not many people knew that Nona had taken voice lessons at the same school of arts as Aspen, back when she had been Patsy Sue Greer. In fact, Nona had known her only as Patsy Sue. It was later that she learned Patsy Sue changed her name. A voice mail from a good friend in Florida led her to call and find out that Aspen Greene had been murdered by some nut job. Any other time, Nona may have laughed, but not tonight. She hadn't even told Lana, and she normally told her lover everything.

"I know. I haven't told you yet, but the psycho you're referring to killed a friend of mine," she said flatly. Her emotions were muted. It came from being gay in a strict God-fearing family of alcoholics.

Lana sucked in a sharp breath. "Hey, I'm sorry," she began. She tried to put her arm around Nona, but she shrugged it off. It wasn't a mean spirited shove, just one that meant 'back off a little.' She did. "I didn't know, Nona."

Nona nodded. "I know. It's okay." She gave Lana's cheek another soft kiss. "The thing is, I have to do this show in Miami. It's where she lived. She had this attorney chick representing her. I'm having Max to find out what her number is. I've likely missed her funeral, but at least I can extend condolences."

Max was her publicist and personal assistant, and he normally could find anyone she wanted. She didn't like Miami. She didn't like the thick air or the humidity. She liked the people even less, but at least she had a few friends and a lot of fans. She would call Max, find the attorney, do the show, and get the hell out of there. Hopefully, she would never come back. In light of what was to come, her premonitions had substance.

"Cool. At least some good can come of it," Lana said.

Nona nodded, distracted. She reached across the table and grabbed the bottle of Jack. She quickly poured a shot before Lana could take it away from her. "I certainly hope so," she said before downing the shot.

Ashcroft had long since gone to bed, but Rachel Sloane couldn't sleep. She didn't know how she was going to tell him about the phone call she had received earlier at the office. Everyone on his end were on edge because of Nona Pope's imminent return to Miami for one show. Rachel had scheduled a memorial get together for Aspen, and it was scheduled a day before Nona's show. Today, seemingly out of the blue, she received a call from someone who identified himself only as 'Max.' She was intent on slamming down the phone until he said he worked as a publicist for Nona Pope. Rachel started paying attention.

She didn't know Max, but she had spoken to him before. He told her that apparently, Nona Pope had known Aspen as well as the fact that she represented her in Florida. Her mind went over those words a million times. She knew what this meant. She was being dragged into this case, into a world that meant interacting with Frank Donovan. She didn't exactly know if she was ready to deal with him. It was difficult already. Who was she kidding? However, she had her own secrets, her own demons to deal with, and when she did, hell on earth would arrive.

Rachel's mind went back several years in the past. She thought about the day Frank announced he was leaving college to enter the CIA. She had thrown a fit over that. However, she failed to mention that she had been recruited as well. It was hypocritical of her to be that way, but she couldn't help it. They had break up after break up, but always found their way back to each other. Then came the day he was shot down. She had nearly lost her mind, proclaiming that the spy game was simply going to have to be played without her. She worked him out of her head, even after hearing he had gotten married. The pain was only slight at that news, slighter still when his twins were born. She lived her life, worked hard, and then happened to meet Jack Ashcroft. When he admitted his line of work, she nearly broke it off then. It immediately brought images of a dying lover in some foreign country she still couldn't quite pronounce. Yet, Jack promised life would be different with him, and he was right.

To this day, she could still remember the first time she saw Frank Donovan again. She had audibly gasped. When Jack asked her if she was okay, she lied, telling him he had stepped on her toes. She averted Frank's gaze when Jack introduced them. She could tell he was just as perturbed as she. But there was something else in his eyes, in the way he moved. He was telling her she was a fucking hypocrite. She had walked away from him after he healed only to take up with another man just like him years later.

Frank was right. She was a hypocrite, but she was a hypocrite with a purpose, one she had yet to tell him about. When she left Jack's side to get a drink, Frank approached her. Then and there, she wanted him back so badly her heart ached. She could see something in his eyes as well, but at that time, they were both too bitter to make a step toward anything. They spoke very briefly, trying hard to convey the awkwardness of strangers. However, it didn't take long for old habits to creep in. He offered his hand for her to shake, but when she took it, something sparked. It was more than a mere handshake between strangers, and they both knew it. It happened so fast that neither of them recognized it. When Earth came back in for Rachel, she released his hand so quickly, he nearly asked if he had somehow hurt her. As if knowing what lurked inside his mind, she told him she didn't want to see him again…couldn't see him. Her words made it sound as if she hated him and wanted him to go away. It sounded differently to her. When the shock wore off, it also sounded differently to Frank.

When he moved back to Miami after the divorce and implosion of his job in Chicago, he was very much single. When Jack told her he was moving to town, she came so very close to calling him, asking for him to meet her for a drink. She told herself it could be completely innocent. She stopped herself just as the phone began to ring on his end. What the hell was she thinking? She loved Jack. She didn't know if they would ever marry, but she had been totally faithful to him since they moved in together. She was certain he was as faithful as she. That was it. Until he came to visit her. She couldn't drive his voice out of her mind. The touch of his hand on her shoulder etched into her soul as strongly as a lightning bolt striking a tree. She groped his hand like a drowning victim. One touch. That was all it took to bring back years of never thinking of him again. She was once again that young CIA agent who saw the man she loved recovering from massive gun shots that had left deep scars, both physical and mental.

Now this. Now, she would have to see Frank more than just occasionally at super spy job functions. Now, she would have to deal with him as more than just a guy Jack talked about. She clenched her fists, damning him at every flex of her joints. She consoled herself with the thought that this case would be over soon. The FBI would find the killer and everything would go back to normal. She hoped it would. She hoped for everyone's sake that it did. Would it? Would it?

Rachel had begun to sob. There was no way she wanted Jack to hear. Covering her mouth with both hands, she left the dark bedroom and made her way into the den located three doors down from the bedroom. She closed the door and collapsed into an overstuffed easy chair. It wasn't her favorite, but it would do. Their walls and doors were thick, two of the most appealing features of the house, the ones that Jack loved so when he needed privacy. For once, Rachel was grateful for that. As soon as she dropped into the chair, one of Jack's, her hands fell away and she let out loud, braying sobs. It had been building inside her since the day Frank left, and now it was finally unleashed.

When the storm ended, she wiped her face on the sleeve of her robe. Sooner or later, she would have to tell Jack about the phone call she received. It seemed as if she was about to invite the devil inside her home, inside the only sanctum she possessed. Before Jack, Frank must know. It was as simple as that.

Earlier tonight, she and Jack had come into the den to relax after dinner. He had been away for a day, and they had some time to make up. But that didn't mean she could ignore work. She had brought in her briefcase and her phone was in there. Jack was sleeping like the dead. He would never hear with the door closed.

Rachel got up and grabbed the case, dragging it by its long strap over to the easy chair. After climbing back into its safe depths, she opened the case and dug into it. After shoving a few non-essential items aside, she spied her phone. It would take courage, but she thought she could muster what she needed to dial the number.

Unbeknownst to Rachel Sloane, Donovan was having a difficult time himself. For the past day or two, they had banged their heads against one brick wall after another. They decided to delay decoying Lily until after the memorial thing at Jack's and Rachel's. Most of their plans were at a standstill. This frustrated him more than anything. He hated waiting, even though his patience was as legendary as his impatience. This type of waiting was disturbing him in a way he certainly did not like.

Unlike Jack Ashcroft who slept soundly, Donovan was wide awake, much like Rachel Sloane. Tonight, however, he was alone. Maybe if things had been steady, perhaps if he hadn't had to insert himself back into a life he once thought was lost, he might be lying here with Lily. Although their dinner had been nice, and he was looking forward to pursuing something with her, he had yet to broach the subject. Work was one major reason…the main reason. Still, he could see it in her eyes, that feeling of being rebuffed or denied. He had sworn years ago that he would not try to have a relationship with someone he knew from work. Rachel hadn't necessarily been a colleague, but their career interests were the same at first.

Cursing under his breath, he sat up on the side of the bed. Sleep was impossible for now. He thought he had sleeping medication in the medicine cabinet he was prescribed after the divorce. He considered the hell out of popping a pill for about ten minutes or more, then decided against it. He stood, leaving behind the comfort of bed and the promise of sleep. His apartment was small, so he had few choices of where to go. It was either the bathroom or living room combination kitchen. He chose the living room.

As a new bachelor, he hadn't had time to shop for furniture, either. He had a couch, a TV, coffee table, shelf, one chair, and a dinette set. He made himself a solemn promise. If they ever solved this case, he would treat himself to a larger place to live with lots of room and new furniture. Where would he put his sons once summer arrived? They certainly couldn't sleep on the floor anymore. They were both taller than he was now.

Stretching out on the couch, he grabbed the remote control and flicked on the TV. He watched half of an infomercial, musing over the conversation he had had with the boys earlier today. They were excited about spending the summer with him in Miami, both desperate to surf in the ocean. It took his mind off the case, gave him something positive to look forward to, but also brought on a wave of sadness and loneliness so bittersweet, that it made him want to cry.

After that sense of loneliness subsided, he was brought back to his conversation with Rachel. For some damned reason, ever since he saw her again, it took hours to chase her out of his mind once he began to think about her. If everything had gone differently in their lives, they might have eventually gotten married, had children, and so on. Then again, UCs in the CIA didn't have very long life expectancies. If not for the injury, if not for their horrid break up, the possibilities would have been endless. It didn't help that she was involved with Ashcroft, either. What? Were they fated to be together? Was that it? At the thought, he chuckled bitterly. He didn't believe in such bull. Rachel always said you were more concrete than abstract.

He grunted and clenched his teeth. Where the hell did that come from? He sat up stiffly and ran his hands over his face in an attempt to chase the thought out of his head. He hadn't had many thoughts of his old life with her in years. He remembered seeing her at a work function just after his marriage had gone sour. He recalled how oddly more attractive she seemed draped around Jack Ashcroft. Was it that or was it that old feelings never died? It was as if someone had begun singing the Hallelujah Chorus in his ears. When everything had changed in Chicago and he took the job in Miami, he was highly aware that he would be working with Jack Ashcroft on occasion. Was this a conscious effort to be closer to Rachel in case things went sour? He honestly didn't think his personality was so contrived. But then again, he didn't know. He loved his sons and wouldn't trade them for anything in the world, but his bitterness was what led him into the arms of their mother. What he wouldn't give for one of Cody's lousy jokes right now.

Donovan knew that Cody still called Chicago home. He wondered how his former computer expert would feel if he called him? He stared at his cell phone lying mutely on the coffee table before him. Surely, Cody wouldn't mind hearing from him, even at this hour. In fact, he would probably think it funny in the odd way he had of rationalizing things. He reached for it right at the moment it rang. He damned near cried out. Wondering vaguely if the other fellow might be psychic, he picked up the phone and frowned. It wasn't Cody.

"Rachel?" He said her name in an uneven manner. If this was Ashcroft instead, he would have some explaining to do.

"Yes," she whispered. Although the room was pretty much sound proof, she wasn't taking any chances. "Did I wake you?"

He wanted to tell her she did, just to match her ire and bitterness. In the end, he couldn't. Something about her voice made him think otherwise. "No. What is it?"

She hated the business like tone of his voice. Considering how they were now, she couldn't blame him. She would have given anything to hear him speak like he did when they were a couple. "I'm sorry, Frank. I'm really sorry for calling you like this, especially after-"

He cut her off in mid-sentence, feeling no need to sugar coat anything. "We really don't have time to discuss apologies, Rachel. I should really be going."

"Hot date," she said bitterly. Goddamn. This was not what she wanted to say, or how she wanted to say it. "Wait, please. Don't hang up."

Donovan was damned near close to doing just that, but her latter words stopped him in his tracks. "I'm sorry myself, Rachel. Are you okay?"

His voice was softer now, without an edge. This was the Frank Donovan she remembered. "I was wrong about Nona Pope. She knew Aspen. Her publicist called my office unexpectedly. She will attend the memorial."

"Have you told Jack?"

The question was simple, one anyone would have thought to ask. Of course, she should have told Jack. Her lover was an FBI agent working on the case. It was logical. Wrong, but logical. "No."

The first thing he wanted to ask was simple. Why? Why hadn't she gone to Ashcroft first? She should have gone to him first. She didn't. It was telling, and he wouldn't have admitted it in a million years, but it filled his heart with glee. It was hateful, bitter, jealous glee. Shaking it off, cursing himself, he didn't bother asking why. She might have laughed at him. "I suggest you tell him before he comes to work. I don't know how well I can manage a poker face after this."

She placed the back of her hand on her forehead. She laughed at the absurdity of it. It wasn't close to a funny situation at all. A comedy of errors, perhaps, but nothing else. "I don't mean to laugh, but I understand all too well. I'll tell him. What now?"

"I don't know if you should be privy to that information, Rachel," he said matter-of-factly.

"I didn't want this," she said, reminding him of feelings he knew all too well. "If I could do it all over, I would not have walked out."

Unconsciously, he brought his hand up to his chest where scar tissue marred his chest. He rubbed the area roughly. He remembered the first time he had to explain it to his sons. They were on vacation in Hawaii one Christmas when the twins were barely three. Shirtless on the beach, Alton asked what had happened to Daddy's chest. His brother, Adam, goggled up at him and parroted the same question. He glanced at Megan, her eyes were flat, warning him not to lie to the boys. What three year olds would understand that their father had been shot? Santa replaced Dad's heart with a lump of coal when he was a little boy for being bad. They had laughed about it. His wife, however, hadn't thought it was so funny. It was the first in a series of arguments that would plague them the rest of their marriage.

Shaking the memory away, Donovan grimaced and closed his eyes tightly until he saw stars. "I know you wouldn't. Tell Jack. Tell him now."

"I will."

Without another word, Donovan stabbed the disconnect button and threw his phone back onto the coffee table. For the life of him, he didn't know why he answered the phone when he knew it would be Rachel. Even if the information she had to share would help the case along, it was still a bad idea in a series of bad ones to come. He stomped out of the living room and headed straight for the medicine cabinet. Sleeping pill hangover or not, he was going to take one. After that conversation, he needed sleep.

"Who was that?"

Rachel, not masking her guilt much by the start she took, spun to look at Ashcroft. He stood in the darkened doorway, a man of average height dressed in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms. He had various tattoos scattered about, one of which was in Latin that basically meant 'to a new life, may it never be darkened by old memories.' It was right above his heart. It was something she saw whenever he took off his shirt. It was a stab, really, because she needed that tattoo on her forehead. She wondered how long he had been standing there. She hadn't heard the door opening.

"Jesus, babe. You scared me," she said.

Her breath came out in sharp hitches. "Sorry," he said absently. "Who was on the phone?"

Hoping he would drop it, knowing he wouldn't do so, she managed a fake smile and a nervous laugh. "Marielle," she lied.

Marielle was Rachel's drama queen sister. If Ashcroft hadn't heard any of the conversation, he would believe that. She was younger than Rachel, somewhat histrionic, and often called very late at night when normal people were sleeping. If he called her bluff, she didn't know what she would do. She took pleasure in thinking fast. It was a skill that helped her career tremendously. Lying helped as well. But she loved to white wash it, calling it 'bending the truth' to suit her need.

"What did she do this time? Kick out her boyfriend," he asked with a wicked gleam of the eye.

Rachel's heart hammered in her chest. She felt a trickle of sweat drop down between her breasts. A good bluffer never let anyone see them sweat. It was a weakness that did not fit her profession. Linen suits, however, masked a multitude of sins. There was no linen suit, but a cotton robe worked wonders as well. She nodded. "Something like that."

He could always retrieve her phone, check it, and know immediately that she lied, but he trusted her. He wouldn't do that. It made her feel all the more guilty. For God's sake, she wasn't cheating on him, or even thinking of it.

"Coming back to bed?"

She watched as he ran his hand through his shaggy, mussed up hair. She wanted to tell him to go back to bed without her, but knew she couldn't send him off without giving him the information about Nona Pope. After all, she promised Frank she would say something. It didn't matter, though, she didn't want to tell him and couldn't exactly pinpoint why.

"In a bit." She gnawed on her lip for a few minutes. He had almost turned to leave her alone. "Jack, wait," she said, stopping him.

"Yeah?"

"I think you should sit down."

He regarded her serious expression and heard the gravid tone of her voice. "Will I like this?"

"Probably not. I don't."

Ashcroft walked over to the easy chair where she sat. Before it was a sturdy table where he liked throwing his books or whatever else he had in his hand while sitting in the chair. He dragged it closer to her and plopped down upon it. He could have easily sat in the chair next to her, but this didn't appear to be one of those occasions where they should relax. It seemed odd that she chose to sit in here to speak to her sister. He batted it aside. That conversation could come later.

"What is it?"

She shook her head and tucked her hair behind her ears. How could she jump from a light chat with her sister to the subject of Nona Pope? "I should have told you earlier, but I didn't know how. I was wrong about Nona Pope, Jack. She did know Aspen."

For a moment, he didn't quite want to connect the dots. Why was she talking about her goofy sister when she had this weighing on her mind? Something didn't add up. He wasn't sure he would like the connection in the end. "How long did you know this before deciding to tell me?"

She could have lied and said a few minutes. If she had been thinking clearly, her phone call could have been explained away as Nona's publicist. "All day," she admitted.

Her voice was no more than a harsh whisper. "And you have been sitting on this all day without telling me because of what?"

"I don't know," she said lamely. She didn't want to get into the real reason behind her refusal to say something. It wasn't the right time.

Ashcroft was angry, but nothing had been lost by her silence. Still, he wanted an answer better than 'I don't know.' Although she wasn't in the same business, she knew how important tips were. She damned well should know, she was an attorney. "Baby, I don't understand your reasoning. Or your non reasoning, I suppose." Suddenly, the importance of the phone call came back to him. "Who was on the phone? It wasn't Marielle. Was it?"

She dug in her heels. "It was," she said stubbornly. "Her call came at an awkward time, I admit. I'm already upset about this case as it is. Now it appears as if I'm being dragged into it further."

Her last words were a good dodge. Just not good enough. "What is it, Rachel," he demanded. "For a while now, I have noticed how worked up you are about this. I know you. I know how you are when your friends are involved with anything. I am here for all your gripe sessions when clients are being dragged through the mud. Aspen was murdered. You were completely fired up about it. Suddenly, you seem like you don't care, like you would rather sweep it under the rug."

She could have slapped him if she wasn't hiding another bigger secret. He stared at her intensely, as if she were a suspect. She did not like to be under the microscope. He sat closely before her, probably doing so on purpose. It was harder to escape with him so close, and he knew it. There was no where to go, no where to run.

"You're wrong," she hissed. "I care more than you could ever understand. I'm hurt that you would even suggest I don't care."

Rachel wanted him angry. If he became worked up enough, he would leave her and go back to bed. She could sit here until he fell asleep, then slip back into bed unnoticed. Her words didn't incense him, not enough for him to leave. He sat back, sighed, and ran his hand through his shaggy locks again.

"That did not come out the way I intended," he began. "I want a reason, Rachel. I don't want to hear you tell me that you don't know why you couldn't tell me." He reached out to touch her cheek, giving it a gentle caress before running his thumb over her bottom lip. It was ragged where she had chewed it. "I know you care about Aspen. Tell me. Tell what you think I can't hear."

FBI agents made lousy lovers. They could always read their partners, immediately figuring out the moment a lie was being told. If they couldn't work it out with an intense gaze, they would always use words. They were manipulative without seeming so. "I can't tell you." She was dodging a bullet. Lying without telling a lie. "Can we leave it at that, Jack? Just for tonight?"

His hand dropped away from her face. "Attorneys are lousy lovers," he said, his words mirroring her thoughts. Resigned, he stood and headed for the door. Just short of leaving her, he turned back to give her one last gaze. "It's fine for now, but I won't leave it alone."

She thanked every higher power in existence for his giving up, even if it was only for a few hours. "All right."

"I'll meet with the team tomorrow morning. We'll go from there."

"That's fine," she said. "Thank you."

He wanted to ask why it was necessary for a couple to thank each other in such fashion. He chose to drop it as he promised. Besides that, he was tired and felt no further need to continue digging in too deeply. He had another thought, another way of finding the answers to questions she wasn't prepared for.

Early the next morning, Jack Ashcroft decided to do something he swore he never would do. It was something that could completely end his relationship with Rachel. He had never had reason to mistrust her, but the game was swiftly changing these days, especially since she decided to choose stubbornness. While she was in the shower, he went into the den. Spying her briefcase, he noticed she had left it open and vulnerable for prying eyes. Yet, at home, she had no reason to worry about confidentiality. Neither did he. They didn't have any trust issues. If she were to catch him, to witness his deed, they would definitely have a different type of conversation, one dealing with having secrets.

Looking over his shoulder, he listened carefully for the shower. It was running. Rachel had no reason to jump out to check up on her snooping boyfriend. Plus, she wouldn't waste water to catch him. She drove a hybrid, recycled, and all that. Rachel Sloane was a good citizen. Careless, perhaps, but good. He found her cell phone after a few moments of rummaging around, not before sticking himself with the sharp edge of a letter opener. Deftly, he held back a curse and stuck his bleeding finger into his mouth. His free hand grabbed the phone. Effortlessly, he tapped the screen with his thumb, found a folder that contained all the numbers she last dialed, and hit pay dirt. Blessed with short term memory loss, she hardly ever erased any numbers. It was something he counted on. He saw the number from last night and stared at it for a very long time. Ashcroft had no trouble recognizing the number. It wasn't Marielle's. It was Frank Donovan's. What the hell? Why had she been speaking to Donovan?

With more questions in his head than answers at the moment, he dropped the phone back into her briefcase. It appeared that one Rachel Sloane had some explaining to do. No one had time for this, not with a serial killer haunting Miami.