Head in a Haymow Read online

  As Bernice threw her head back, she shoved hard against his chest, forcing him down on the bed. He pulled her down with him so he could bring a taught nipple to his lips. She bunched the sheet into her balled fists and ground herself against his rigid erection, releasing a desperate whimper and plummeting her head down to nuzzle his neck.

  Agent Wyatt kissed his way up her chest to her ear. “Anyone ever call you Bunny before?” He nibbled an earlobe.

  “Never,” Bernice admitted harshly. She dragged her nubby nails over his chest, raking an exposed nipple with the lightest of scratches.

  He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth and flipped her onto her side. “You're gonna get it now, Bunny.”

  He kissed her hard, hugging her butt tightly to him, riding her there. He released her with a growl, forcing her on her back. He sucked in the other nipple as he worked his hand over her stomach and into her panties where the warm gooey flesh waited for him.

  Bernice threw her head back against the pillow and cried out, the harshness of her voice startling her in the almost silent room. She needed to hear him cry out too. She worked her own hand down and into the pocket.

  “Oahh!” was his only response and he shifted himself to better accommodate her ministering.

  Her brain felt befuddled and useless in the raw primal heat of their touching. She almost lost herself in its intoxication.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Bernice searched her mouth for enough saliva to form the necessary syllables to break the exquisite tension. She hoped to God that it was just for a moment.

  “Evan?” she asked carefully. She ceased her movements.

  He had worked back to kissing the other nipple and twirling his middle finger with investigative finesse around the nub in her useless panties. He stopped, sensing a shift and looked up, hoping he was wrong. “Yeah?” he responded.

  She gazed into those gorgeous brown eyes full of passion and promise and hated herself for...well... being herself. “Did you happen to pack any condoms?”

  If a look could kill a mood, that one packed a wallop.

  Agent Wyatt closed his eyes in frustration. He questioned the mattress. “You're not using anything?”

  “No,” Bernice responded flatly. Then, “Wait!”

  “What?” He searched her features for hope.

  “We're in a hotel. They've got to have condoms in the lobby.”

  Never had she seen a man jump out of bed so quickly in her life. He yanked on his pants, careful not to damage anything in the zipping, and pulled his shoes over his bare feet. The messed up, half dressed Agent Wyatt was a shocking sight to behold.

  He grinned at her like a hero off to save the day. “I'll be right back.”

  What an inopportune time for the phone to ring.

  Big Ben going off in their hotel room couldn't have had a greater impact. They both remained motionless, staring at the phone. Finally, Bernice reached over and picked it up.

  “Hello?” She listened to the voice on the other end, recited, “Thank you,” and hung up. “Wake-up call,” she informed him.

  He nodded in abject defeat and collapsed next to her on the bed.

  “When's our first appointment?” She picked at her pillow, fidgeting.

  “One hour at the Central Bank,” he grumbled softly, staring at the ceiling.

  “So we've got an hour?” she broached.

  Agent Wyatt turned to Bernice. She looked so sweet and vulnerable crossing her arms self-consciously over her breasts. He realized in his haste he hadn't really taken the time to look at her and appreciate her. It made him a little angry inside.

  He sat up and growled, “No.”

  She looked at him annoyed and confused. “Are you angry with me?”

  His face dissolved quickly into concern. “I'm angry at myself.” He pulled her against him and palmed her face. “I want you. I want you bad. But I'm not going to put a time limit on this. I want to be with you for as long as it takes. And Bunny?” he teased, smirking, “an hour ain't gonna cut it.”

  The Central Bank of the Bahamas stood out in stark contrast to the more historic colonial buildings in Nassau. Its sandstone facade looked expensive and institutional. The interior was equally cold and imposing. Bernice supposed it was intentional. A person's money was serious business.

  A well groomed Bahamian of African descent met them in the lobby. His handshake was practiced and firm as he gestured to a nearby cubicle. Bernice felt more like they were getting a car loan rather than discussing a murder suspect.

  “It must be quite an adjustment to come down into this warm weather from all the way up in Wisconsin.” The bank rep flashed an amused grin.

  “Actually, it's approaching summer in Wisconsin so it is quite warm there as well,” Bernice corrected him.

  “Well, isn't that interesting?” he replied with an expression that told her it was not.

  “Do you have the information that I requested from you?” Agent Wyatt crisply changed the subject. He was all business now. Nevertheless, Bernice took immense pleasure in noting that the hair at the nape of his neck did have a tendency to curl, fresh out of the shower.

  “Yes, of course,” the bank rep qualified, “but you understand that I am powerless to altar or manipulate the account in any way.”

  “And as I told you over the phone,” Agent Wyatt tactfully reminded him, “I'm not connected to the IRS. I'm only interested in the account activity as it affects my murder investigation.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man repeated, slightly flustered as he shuffled through the small pile of papers on the desk. He produced a sheet and slid it forward, keeping his hand on the sheet with acute pressure and apologizing again. “I'm afraid you can take nothing with you.” He leveled a steel gaze at Agent Wyatt this time.

  The gaze was returned. “A verbal confirmation of dates and numbers will suffice.” he enunciated carefully.

  The complacent smile continued, although Bernice found it more annoying than accommodating.

  The bank rep recited, “According to our records, Jessica Breck maintains an account on the island in the amount of 260,114 US dollars.”

  “That's it?” Bernice confirmed. “What was the original amount when the account was started?”

  Agent Wyatt turned to her with a frown. She knew she was supposed to let him ask the questions, but she couldn't help herself. She shrugged at him innocently.

  “Four hundred thousand exactly. It was opened on the nineteenth of August in 2005.”

  Agent Wyatt stared at the paper in front of him, running his eyes back and forth over the information.

  Bernice echoed his thoughts. “That doesn't make sense,” she mumbled quietly. She sat frustrated for a moment. She pulled on Agent Wyatt's sleeve. He looked at her with irritation for having his train of thought interrupted.

  She bashfully smiled at him. “I have another question.”

  He rolled his eyes and waved her away as he went back to fixating on the sheet in front of him.

  Bernice addressed the bank rep. “How does Ms. Breck access the account?”

  “She has a debit card,” he replied pertly.

  “And when was the last time this card was active?”

  Agent Wyatt answered for her, pointing to the sheet. “Six weeks ago.” He furled his brows at that but said nothing.

  There was a lapse of time when no other information was exchanged. Bernice had run out of questions, and the bank rep had perfected the art of supplying information on a need to know basis. They both sat and waited on Agent Wyatt and his studying.

  He finally sat back up. Out of the blue he asked, “Is this the only account Ms. Breck maintained in this country?”

  The bank rep returned to his pile of papers and shuffled some more. He produced another sheet and slid it across his desk in the same possessive manner.

  Agent Wyatt studied that sheet too. Finally, he stood up, asking, “Do you have a lobby phone we may use?”

 
The bank rep rose as well. The incriminating documents returned to their refuge in the paper pile, which he dutifully collected. “There are a couple of courtesy phones in vestibule. You will see them as you exit.” He pointed them out the door. Bernice sensed traces of relief on his face. He left first and disappeared into the maze of office doors beyond their reach.

  Agent Wyatt searched the desk and spied what he was looking for. He quickly snatched up a letterhead notepad and bank issued ball point pen. He walked away.

  Bernice trotted up quickly along side of him. He took her hand and led her into one of the courtesy phone nooks. Instead of answering her questioning gaze, he handed her the pad and paper and instructed, “Write.”

  She frowned at being ordered around, but accepted the items and prepared to take his dictation.

  “The original account was a direct deposit from the Mutual Interest Holdings and Mortgage Exchange Corporation in the amount of approximately two and a half million dollars.”

  Bernice gaped at him and stopped writing. This only caused Agent Wyatt to look grumpy and tap the pad. “Write,” he commanded testily and continued. “The account was active from February of 2003 to August of 2005, when the account was transferred, and the two million and change were withdrawn in cash.”

  “Wow,” was all Bernice could think to say as she looked at what she wrote.

  “I'm not finished,” Agent Wyatt crisply reminded her.

  Bernice frowned and gestured dramatically, prepared to write again.

  He ignored her display and recited, “She maintains an online mortgage payment for a condo in Marsh Harbour.” Finished with his dictation, he took back the notepad and turned his attention to the phone directory inside the nook. He flipped quickly as he scanned for pertinent information.

  “Are you looking up the address?” She asked, her appetite for the hunt increasing.

  “No,” was his only reply before he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” Bernice whispered, rubbernecking over his shoulder at the directory.

  Agent Wyatt pulled her to him for a quick and surprising kiss, then shoved her out of the phone nook, winking. He turned his back on her to speak to the party on the other end of the line.

  Bernice stood out in the lobby and glared at the back of his head with the infamous expression that all men recognize when they see it as “the look”.

  Chapter 12

  Leap frogging around the Bahama Islands could be quick and dirty or slow and dirty, depending on the budget. And since the state government only allowed higher ranking officials and politicians to squander tax payer money, budget was of the essence for their trip.

  That meant taking the mail boat which left from Nassau harbor less than thirty minutes after their departure from the bank. From there, they could either take twelve hours to get to the town of Marsh Harbour proper or seven hours to land on the opposite side of the island of Abaco and pray for a taxi or hitchhike.

  Agent Wyatt chose the latter, but he bribed the captain to shuttle the SUV over with them to Sandy Point so that they could drive themselves to their destination. While he was at it, he went ahead and used all his powers of persuasion to find a cheap ride for all from Sandy Point to Nickel's Town.

  From there they would be picked up by the mail boat again the following morning. It was putting trust in strangers, but unless one of them wanted to fork over a couple of grand just for transportation, the kindness of strangers was all they had.

  They had managed to wrangle up grilled fish sandwiches and bottled water in the Straw Market before their departure. But once on the boat, the gorgeous view became passé after a few hours. Conversation was eventually required.

  “You feel like talking about why you left Minneapolis?” Agent Wyatt brought up. They were sitting in molded plastic seats in the air conditioned passenger cabin. All around them were fellow tourists and locals congregated in their own little circles and involved in their own activities.

  Bernice gave Agent Wyatt the stink eye. “You feel like talking about your divorce?”

  He smiled at her and shook his head. “Guess we play like Lutherans and talk about safe things.” He took a swig from his now-warm water bottle. “Any ideas?” he ventured.

  “How'd you grow up?” Bernice asked good-naturedly.

  And so, the remainder of the slow boat to Abaco was spent reminiscing about forgotten friends and misadventures from a simpler time

  “Shut up,” Agent Wyatt exclaimed. “She did not beat out an '81 Cutlass at the stoplight.”

  “Of course she did.” Bernice defended her story. “I was there. That was a 'gutless Cutlass', compared to her '74 Newport.”

  He almost looked hurt. “My first car was a Cutlass. It could spit gravel practically fifty feet if I gunned it. No way was it gutless.”

  Bernice raised her eyebrows. “Your first car was a muscle car? My, my, how did you rate?”

  “I inherited it from my brother,” he explained, grimacing. “He made sure to beat the shit out of it before joining the Navy. Took a whole summer just to get it running decent again.”

  Bernice nodded in apology. “But just the same,” she reasoned, “it probably had a 260 V8 with a dual carb, and Morean's Newport had a 440 with a four barrel corroborator, so there you go.” She shrugged like a girl.

  Agent Wyatt narrowed his gaze. “And what exactly were two minors doing out in the middle of the night drag racing anyway?”

  “Well, Officer,” Bernice shyly kept her gaze to the ground in mock shame. “My parents thought I was studying at Morean's, and...well... Morean's parents didn't really give a rat's ass.”

  “Bet you never got in trouble on the farm,” he smirked.

  “No. I tried, but there was always too much work to be done to be able to get into much mischief.”

  Agent Wyatt studied her then. “That why you chose to move back there as an adult?”

  Bernice watched the water going by, taking her time to answer. She thought she spied a dorsal fin jut up and down in the distance but wasn't sure enough to bother mentioning it. “Running a farm is a lot of work. There's plenty of stress and risk involved.” She adjusted her butt in the chair, stalling to finish her thought. “But the lack of complication in that kind of a life is a comfort to me. I never have to question my purpose.” She looked to him for relation. “You know what I mean?”

  Agent Wyatt nodded. Then out of the blue, he took her hand and looked back over the water. Bernice smiled at the tender gesture and let him.

  It was dark by the time they drove into Marsh Harbour. A smattering of street lights gave just enough illumination to avoid running over any wayward pedestrians. They made their way past rows of brightly painted clapboard houses, stone colonial estates, and finally modern stucco condos on their way to their destination.

  “Her house number was 216. I assume that would put her on the second floor.” Agent Wyatt scanned the fronts of the units as he slowly drove by.

  Bernice pointed. “That's 116, so the unit above that must be hers."

  They both looked up. They both noted the lights were on.

  “It appears the infamous Jessica Breck is at home,” demurred Bernice.

  Agent Wyatt smirked at her. “Perhaps we should drop in and say hello.” He pulled into the visitor's parking area.

  She gave him an odd look. “Are you serious? I thought we were gonna do a stake out or something.”

  “You've seen too many movies. I came down here to find out about Ms. Breck's knowledge of Herb's whereabouts before he disappeared, and the best way to do that is to question her.”

  Bernice was stunned. “So your plan was to just march up there and have a nice chat with a cold blooded murderess?” She sarcastically crinkled her face. “For some reason I don't see that playing out well.”

  “We don't know that she murdered anyone.”

  “She left Wisconsin and moved her bank account around the time Herb went missing.”

 
“Herb left his wife to be with her. Maybe she came down here to wait for him, and he didn't show up because someone else got to him first.”

  “So you still think it's someone back home?”

  “We have no evidence to prove she was anywhere near Wisconsin when Herb's body turned up.”

  “You said he was frozen,” Bernice pointed out. “She could have killed him before she left and-,” she stopped, still glaring at Agent Wyatt, but at a loss on how to finish her argument.

  “Ha!” he proclaimed victoriously. “Your theory still requires an accomplice.”

  “Well!” she huffed. “Even if she didn't do the wet work, you're certainly not going to get her to incriminate herself by dropping in unannounced and asking her to validate your parking.”

  Running out of common ground, they simply sat and glared at each other instead.

  That's when the lights in the condo went off.

  “Shit,” Agent Wyatt cursed softly and cut the lights and engine. He immediately got out.

  Bernice opened her door. He came around to her side of the SUV.

  “You stay here,” he warned.

  “You don't have your gun,” she reminded him. “What if she's not thrilled to see you?”

  He looked cautiously back to the condo as he answered her. “Then I need you here to be a witness, don't I?” he admonished her with an irritating arrogance. “This is my job, Bernice. Been doing it a number of years without your help, so do what the flatfoot tells you and stay in the vehicle, Ma'am.”

  Bernice got back into her seat and crossed her arms, fuming furiously at him through the window. He simply smiled back and shut her door, leaving her there.

  Bernice watched him crouch and sneak out of sight. Even she couldn't tell where he was anymore. She waited anxiously to see what would happen next.

  Suddenly, she heard a female squeak. Without even thinking, she launched herself from the vehicle and went to search it out. She followed the active shadows, not heeding that she might be putting herself in eminent danger. Her brain went frantic, thinking of all the things that could go wrong.