by Dani Pettrey
“Let me guess,” Gabby said. “Right after he died?”
Emmalyne tapped her nose. “Two weeks after—his family who’d been in town at the time reported it.”
Gabby rested her hands on her womanly hips. “What do you want to bet whoever is behind Litman pays attention to the obituaries?”
“Smart,” Finn said. “He—”
“Or she,” Gabby said.
“He or she,” Finn said, “finds empty houses and uses them as drop spots while they remain empty. I’m guessing they’ve already moved on to a new place, given the bust of Mr. Jacobs at Bowen’s place.”
He turned back to Emmalyne. “Have you checked on the man who identified himself as Scott Caldwell?”
She shook her head. “No one by that name in the area. I’m guessing he made it up.”
Finn exhaled. “I’m going to have another talk with Mr. Jacobs. Maybe I can get some more information out of him.”
“And Fletcher?” Gabby asked. “And the mystery man who left with him?”
“I’d say you stay here, and I’ll go question them, but . . .”
She smiled. “You know that’s not going to happen. Not when Fletcher holds the key to this story or at least one very important one.”
“We’ll go after I talk with Jacobs.”
She sat at Finn’s desk. “I’ll be waiting.”
He shook his head and headed for Eric Jacobs.
Having gotten nothing further out of Jacobs, Finn and Gabby headed for Fletcher’s place.
There was no sign of the black sedan that had picked him up at the hospital.
“Looks like Fletcher’s bodyguard left,” Gabby said.
“Or they went somewhere else.”
“Like where?”
“No place good, I imagine.”
After knocking on the door several times without answer and peering in the window to find the house dark and still, Finn decided there was no point sticking around. “We may as well head out.”
They walked to the car, and he opened the passenger door for Gabby.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice as bottomed out as he felt.
He nodded and, with one last look at Fletcher’s house, climbed in the car.
“He’s got to come back sooner or later,” she said.
Finn sighed. “We can hope.”
fifty-seven
Noah knocked on the Laytons’ door as Rissi tapped her foot.
She hated having to be the one—ones, since thankfully Noah was with her—to inform Genevieve Layton that her husband was a thief when she was so crushed by his death. “This is going to devastate her,” she said, rocking back on her heels as uneasiness shot through her.
Noah rubbed his hands together. “Unless she knew about his extracurricular activities.”
She arched her brows. She hadn’t even considered that, but it was possible. The way things were going, anything was possible.
Genevieve opened the door. “Agents,” she said, her eyes red and puffy. “Have you found evidence to prove John was murdered?”
“Not yet, ma’am, but I’ve been told we will be getting approval to dive the Calliope tomorrow, so we should be able to gather helpful evidence, or so I pray.”
“Good.” She wrapped her arms about herself, snuggling into an oversized gray cardigan Rissi was betting was John’s.
“I’m afraid we have to ask you some difficult questions,” Noah said.
Dr. Layton’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Such as?”
“May we come in?” Rissi asked, not wanting to do this on the porch.
She stepped back, permitting them entrance. It was always easier to ask permission rather than to barge their way in, despite the fact they had a warrant. Maybe by chatting first they could cushion the blow.
“Please, have a seat.” Genevieve gestured to the floral-print sofa in the front room.
Rissi took a seat on it beside Noah.
Genevieve sat in the matching armchair catty-corner to them. “Can I get you anything? Tea or lemonade?”
“I’m good, but thank you,” Noah said.
“I’m fine too,” Rissi said.
Genevieve crossed her legs, fuzzy slippers on her feet despite the low eighty temperatures. “Now, what’s this about difficult questions?”
“First, I want to apologize for having to question you about this, given your loss, but it’s vital to our investigation.”
“If it helps you discover what happened to my John, I’m happy to answer.”
Rissi inhaled, wondering if Genevieve would keep that sentiment after the questions began.
Noah leaned forward, his hands braced on his thighs. “We have found that John was receiving payments from a company called Litman Limited. Do you know anything about his work with them?”
She shifted, her gaze darting to the side. “I’ve never heard of them.”
Rissi tensed. She was lying.
“John worked at the airport.”
“He worked at the customs office,” Rissi said, at Genevieve’s generalization of John’s job.
“Correct.” Genevieve nodded. “Not for some company I’ve never heard of.”
Noah handed her the copy of the financials they’d pulled from John and Genevieve’s joint account, the deposits from Litman circled in red.
She clutched the paper, her face tightening. “Where did you get this?”
“We had a warrant,” Noah said.
“This is our private business.” Genevieve’s voice heightened.
Rissi sat back. So, she did know.
“We believe Litman Limited was behind your husband’s accident,” Noah said.
Genevieve’s face pinched. “How is that possible? We were on a dive.”
“You won a trip on a dive charter,” Rissi said.
“Correct.”
“Had you had any connection with the dive charter prior to that?” she asked.
“We’d gone on it once before.”
“Did you know that Mo and Marv are also in Litman’s employ?”
“What . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“We believe Litman ordered Mo and Marv to kill your husband by making it look like a dive accident.”
Her thin fingers clasped together, her hands balled in her lap. “Why would they do that?”
She was no longer acting as if she didn’t know who Litman Limited was. Rather, she was asking what they’d done. Rissi stiffened. She hated when people lied. “We believe there’s a chance that John kept something he shouldn’t have,” she said.
Noah cleared his voice. “We have a warrant to check your home and property.”
fifty-eight
Rissi studied Layton’s office. It was the last room in the house to check. Was it possible her hunch was off? That morning she’d studied the customs’ manifest for a second time and had found one item Jacobs had supposedly signed for but which had different handwriting. What if Layton had forged Jacobs’s signature and kept whatever was in the shipment?
However he explained a missing package to Litman probably wasn’t good enough, because that’s probably what had gotten him killed.
Rissi searched every drawer and file cabinet while Noah kept the now-belligerent Genevieve Layton sequestered in the front room.
As she shut the top file door of the third chin-height cabinet, something rattled behind it.
Rissi pulled the drawer open and slammed it shut again. The cabinet rocked, and something hit the wall behind it.
She tried moving the cabinet, but it wouldn’t budge. Pulling the desk chair over and balancing on the spinning chair, she hoisted herself atop the row of cabinets and peered down.
A brown-paper-wrapped package three feet wide and she was guessing four feet high was wedged between the cabinets and the back wall.
Lying on her belly, she reached between the cabinets and the wall. She fished for it, her fingers finally clasping hold of the upper edge.
She lifted, an
d as soon as the top crested the cabinets, she sat up and, with both hands, lifted it the rest of the way up. “Noah,” she called.
He entered, Genevieve behind him, her face ashen.
“Let me help you,” Noah said, taking the painting-shaped package from her, then offering her a hand.
She clasped it and hopped down.
Genevieve sprang forward. “You have no right.”
Noah held her back. “Yes, we do. I prefer not to pull my weapon on you, but if you don’t step back, you’ll give me no choice.”
She swallowed and took a step back.
“Thank you,” he said, then turned to Rissi. “Go for it.”
With her gloves still in place from the search, she carefully peeled back the paper to reveal an oil painting underneath. Her eyes grew wide. “It looks like . . . the Rembrandt that was stolen from that exhibit in Holland.”
Genevieve Layton rubbed her brow, her eyes downcast.
“I remember reading about that in the news,” Noah said. “I’ll call Emmy and have her bring in the FBI’s art-theft team. They will have to authenticate it, but I’m guessing from the look on Dr. Layton’s face, it is.”
Noah cuffed her and escorted her out to the car. “The FBI will be handling this part of the investigation from here on out. Whoever is behind this has quite the smuggling ring going. He must be selling to collectors across the U.S.”
Rissi nodded. “Or someone is amassing a collection of their own.”
fifty-nine
The Collector stepped to Fletcher, handing him a three-finger glass of rum, neat. It was the least he could do before killing him. And a much cleaner way to extract the necessary information than torture, which would only destroy his pristine white carpet. From the outside, his fishing shack looked ragged, but once past the staged front room, it’d been crafted down to the last detail. It was his refuge.
“So no one knows?” He circled Fletcher’s chair, preferring not to ruin the leather with something as crude as a bullet to the head. Such things were for his hired men. Men lacking intelligence. He had far better plans. He tossed back his own rum, the liquid burning sweet down his throat. “You haven’t confided in anyone about the nature of our business?”
“I’m not stupid,” Fletcher said.
There he begged to differ. If the fool had simply brought Seavers to him so he could dispose of him directly, rather than making the asinine decision to stage a drug runners’ raid with his men, without his consent . . . Heat seared through him.
Fletcher let his bringing Will Seavers into the fold—having one man under him—go to his head, giving him the illusion that he was higher up in the pecking order than he was.
“You cost me four men, five if you count your being unable to keep Seavers in line.”
“I had no idea they’d get caught, and Seavers was getting ready to confess to our lieutenant what he’d done. There was no talking him out of it. He suddenly grew a conscience, saying he needed to do right by Tess and their boy. I had no choice but to kill him before he made that call.”
He took another swig of rum, staring at Fletcher squirming over the crystal rim of his tumbler.
At least he knew enough to squirm. They all did eventually.
“So let me see if I have this straight. Your answer for a simple problem was to stage a drug-runner attack, have my men beat you, put you in the outboard, and set you adrift, thereby portraying yourself as a hero escaping to get help.”
“Yes.” Fletcher swallowed, downing the rest of his drink.
The Collector signaled with a wave of his hand for Philippe—who’d picked Fletcher up from the hospital—to refill his glass. One more drink before the fool died.
“Your foolish actions forced me to send Juan and his crew back after you when they informed me of the night’s activity. Do you know why I did that?”
Fletcher took his crystal tumbler from Philippe, a slight tremor to his grasp. He was fearful. Excellent. His babies sensed and fed off fear.
“To add to the ruse?” Fletcher swallowed, his face reddening.
“No.” He shook his tumbler—the ice realigned exactly the way he preferred, settling on the bottom rather than stacked up on one side. “I sent them to kill you. Just as I sent another crew to kill Juan and his team in their cells.”
The blood drained from Fletcher’s face.
The Collector smiled and gave Philippe the nod to proceed.
Philippe pulled out his gun and motioned for Fletcher to stand.
Perspiration clung to his paling brow. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes,” he said, his smile widening. He took great pleasure in watching his babies feed. “I really do.”
After searching a few places in town for Fletcher, Finn got a call from Noah that he and Gabby should head back home and get some rest. They cooked up a light dinner and brought it down to the shore. Finn lit a fire in the pit, and Gabby settled onto a beach blanket. Finn refilled Gabby’s watermelon lemonade. It had sounded like the oddest concoction when she’d insisted on making it, but it was delicious—surprising and sweet—just like the woman herself.
He sank down beside her on the beach blanket and, stretching out his legs, crossed one ankle over the other. The flames spread warmth along the soles of his feet, the orange flames highlighting the amber strands in Gabby’s hair, glistening off her beautiful blue eyes.
She reclined, propping her weight on her elbows, her toes barely an inch from his. Sparks flittered up toward the star-filled sky, burning bright for a second before fading to nothingness.
She stared up at the sky. “There’s supposed to be a super moon tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
“I love super moons. They make it seem like the moon is a giant ball sitting on the ground outside my window.”
“Like you can just reach out and grab hold.”
She looked over with a smile. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he said, the breath leaving his body at the sight of her, her hair long down her back, the ends almost touching the blanket. Her eyes wide with delight. Her skin bathed in moonlight. If he could freeze a moment, it would be now. The two of them right here.
She licked her lips. “I should probably get to sleep.”
“Of course,” he said, hopping to his feet and extending a hand.
She grabbed hold, and he lifted her to her feet. “Thanks.”
They stepped on the lawn, dewy and cool.
“I can see myself to the loft,” she said, pointing over her shoulder.
“I don’t mind walking with you.”
She nibbled her bottom lip and nodded. They strolled past the picnic tables and sycamore tree beside the surf shack.
He led the way up, the sand on his feet scrubbing against his skin with each step.
Gabby stepped around him, the scent of the bonfire swirling about her, and reached for the knob. Her hands stilled, and she turned to face him, her weight against the door. “I know I don’t say it often . . . or at all . . . but I don’t want you to think . . . I mean, I want you to know . . .”
She cleared her throat and started over. “I just want you to know how much I . . .”
He took a step closer.
———
Gabby swallowed, shifting to take a step back, and realized she was as far back as she could go.
“How much you . . . ?” Finn prompted, his voice a throaty whisper.
The moonlight glinted off his green eyes.
She swallowed again, her throat suddenly parched. “I . . .” What had she been about to say? Something about . . . Oh, right. “Just how much I appreciate your concern.”
He lifted his hand to her cheek, his thumb caressing her jaw. “You know it’s much more than concern.”
“I . . .” Why couldn’t she speak? Better yet, why couldn’t she feel her legs?
“So much more,” he said, cupping her face and lowering his lips to hers.
His touch was slow, featherlight, and search
ing.
She shifted, her right foot rolling to the side. She didn’t pull away. Just stayed there, his breath lingering across her lips.
Move away! her head screamed, but she remained rooted in place. She parted her lips ever so slightly.
With a groan, he captured her mouth in his.
Thank goodness something solid was holding her up.
His long, sturdy fingers spread through her hair.
She slipped her hands behind his neck, the edge of his hair tickling her fingers.
“Gabby,” he whispered raggedly, pulling back just enough for his breath to dance across her lips.
She pressed her lips together, struggling to find her stance. “Mmm-hmm?”
He shook his head. “Never mind,” he breathed, lowering his lips back to hers. The kiss was strong and warm and dizzying.
Rising up on her tiptoes, she kissed him deeper.
He groaned, then pulling his hands from her hair, braced them on the door on either side of her.
Her breath quickened.
He hung his head, inhaling in a shaky breath. “We . . .”
She raked a hand through her hair, missing his touch. “Shouldn’t be . . .”
He nodded. “I should . . .”
“Go.” The words left her lips in the weakest of tones.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and rushed down the steps, her heart aching for him to stay.
She stumbled into the loft, closing the door behind her. Moving to the window, she watched Finn stride across the lawn. A handful of feet from his porch, he stopped and turned, looking up at her, his gaze hungry and heartfelt.
Biting her bottom lip, she waved good night.
She slumped to the floor, her heart still thudding in her chest, and closed her eyes.
Please, Father, I need your guidance. My head and heart are merging into the same place—here with Finn—and it terrifies me.
Lieutenant Russet, who commanded his prison sector, slipped him the pill in passing. Xavier held it tightly until he was back in his cell. Only moments to go, and then Antonio would be his witness, calling the guards for help.
It’d been a simple thing to get Antonio on the payroll. All he’d had to do was convey messages to the outside through his girlfriend during their visits. Every message sent out that way saved Xavier having to use the burner cell Russet had slipped him his first day in. The more he used it, the stronger the chance he’d get caught. Antonio had come in handy, and today he’d be his key to freedom.
