Page 21 of Concrete Evidence
“Do you cook, clean, do laundry?”
Marc squinted. “I have a can opener and a microwave. A cleaning service comes in every other week, and I send my laundry out.”
“Sounds expensive. Brother, you need to add domestic skills to your résumé.”
“For what?”
“Life skills. No woman in today’s world wants a guy who’s helpless.”
“Thanks for the marital advice.”
Her delicate features darkened.
“What’s wrong?”
Tessa sighed. “I know witnesses at the grocery where Dad collapsed said he clutched his chest. But I don’t believe he died of a heart attack. He’d gotten an excellent report from his heart doctor. Our dad was murdered. I’m sure of it.”
“Why, Tessa?” Now two women in his life suspected the worst.
“The day he died, he called me. Said after a scheduled lunch and a stop at the grocery, he’d arrange for me to have private security. He promised to tell me more when we met up again.”
14
AVERY WOULD RATHER MUCK OUTstalls than battle the terror of someone wanting her dead. How did she move forward? She’d not left her hotel room for a day and a half while indecision consumed her. It was like the shooter aimed a double-barreled shotgun—at Granddad and her. No way for anyone to live.
On Thursday, she opened her eyes, resolved. She’d do exactly what Granddad had requested by talking to FBI Special Agent Marc Wilkins. Confusion and uncertainty crawled through her, but neither the emotional pain nor worries about the future altered the truth.
She touched her stomach. A queasy excuse to avoid doing the right thing. But she’d see this through to the end.
Late afternoon, she drove to the Houston FBI office. Calling first crept into her mind, but then they’d want her name and request more personal information than she wanted to give. Twice she longed to turn around, race back to the ranch, and forget the whole tragedy. But how could she live with herself? Love complicated life.
Avery tucked her Sig and phone under the car seat beneath her and walked to the FBI security gate. The guard checked her ID, scanned her purse, and asked the purpose of her visit.
“To speak to Special Agent Marc Wilkins. I don’t have an appointment.”
He made a call before allowing her to proceed. Again she questioned the sanity of Granddad’s request. She’d rehearsed her reason for interrupting the agent’s day a dozen times, still not sure if the right words were cemented in her brain.
The guard directed her to walk a long ramp from the gatehouse to the main building. At the glass entrance, someone from inside buzzed the door, and it opened into a reception area.
“How can I help you?” a woman said from behind an enclosed area, most likely bulletproof glass.
Avery slipped her driver’s license from her wallet and inserted it in the tray below the glass barrier. “I’d like to talk to Agent Marc Wilkins about a violent crime.”
“You witnessed the infraction?”
“I think so. Is he available?”
“Have a seat, miss, and I’ll let him know he has a guest.” She pointed to a printed sign. “I need you to leave any of these items with me.”
Avery had read the prohibited items online, which was why she left her gun and phone in the car. Her 8½-by-11-inch purse contained a granola bar, keys, and a wallet. She eased onto a chair to wait for Agent Wilkins. Portraits of acclaimed agents and a display case depicting the history of Houston’s FBI invited visitors to view, but not Avery. And definitely not today.
An interior door clicked opened, and a man called her name. She stood and met intense brown eyes. A reflection of his job or how he viewed an interruption to his day?
“I’m Special Agent Marc Wilkins. I understand you’d like to speak to me about an alleged crime?”
“Yes, sir.”
He opened the door and escorted her down a hallway to the right. “We’ll meet in an interview room.”
