Trace of Doubt

by DiAnn Mills

  “Suit yourself.” I left the condo. Never thought once I left prison I’d have to fight so hard to survive. Although I didn’t see either of the two bodyguards, for certain one of them followed me.

  Miami’s heat and humidity mirrored many of my days in Texas, but this early morning brought a balmy breeze. I strolled to the coffee shop, taking in the sweet scent of tropical flowers, lovely songbirds, and the quiet hum of the morning beneath a blue cloudless sky. Inside the café, an old Bee Gees tune of “Stayin’ Alive” met my ears. I casually observed every person. One could be the FBI agent assigned to me, and I selected a likely candidate. I examined the bags of whole bean coffee, bought a book about their coffee beans, and left for the park.

  A few joggers and walkers wove around a paved path. Willing my body to relax, I kept my sights on a bench next to a cypress tree near a gazebo. Once there, I opened the book where I could enjoy my latte and contact Denton. I slipped my phone inside the pages of the book and lifted the book to cover my mouth. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hey,” I said. “Good morning from Miami.”

  “Miss me so badly you had to sneak away to call?”

  “You wish.” The sound of his voice spread warmth through me. “Denton, remember when you told me that you were falling in love with me?”

  “Nothing’s changed there.”

  I smiled and prayed for much-needed courage. “I . . . I’m falling in love with you too.”

  He chuckled. “We are a pair.”

  “What was God thinking?”

  “My mamaw always said, ‘God’s up to somethin’ good.’” He paused and perhaps like me, he wished he saw the future. “Are you safe?”

  “For the moment. I’m in a park a few blocks from Marissa’s condo. I’m sure Eli had me followed. I’ll make this short. I shared lunch with Marissa and an interesting man, a business and personal friend. They are involved, and he wants to marry her. Supposedly he’s in the restaurant business. I was denied his last name, but she called him Feng. There’s a meetup in San Francisco with the two of them and another man by the name of John. He’s offered them a business deal that she’s hesitant to accept. She told Feng she’s afraid.”

  “We know about him. Marissa’s been seen in Miami with a Chinese businessman by the name of Feng Liu, who owns what appears to be a legitimate import-export company dealing in the supply of automobile parts. We suspect Liu’s smuggling heroin worldwide and is in tight with a man in San Francisco by the name of John Rudder, who owns an auto parts distribution warehouse. The theory is Rudder is receiving Liu’s inferior merchandise and selling to unsuspecting buyers and that heroin is somehow involved in the transactions.”

  “I have no idea where Marissa’s interests are vested other than she got started money laundering through cash businesses and bakeries.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No.” I forced a laugh—one I didn’t feel. “I can’t give up. Got to find a way into her head. She’s spent thousands of dollars on clothes and disguises for my future with the constant threat of not disappointing her hanging over my head. Why allow me to accompany her to private meetings? Does she think I’d never betray her, still have this sister-loyalty thing? Why groom me for a potential position, then turn around and leave my body in a ditch? I’m sorry. You don’t have the answers either.”

  “Let’s get you to a safe place. What you’ve told me is enough.”

  “Nothing that will stand up in court.”

  Denton relayed his visit to Randy Hughes. “Glad he’s in a good place, as long as it sticks. Is Eli Chandler often at the condo?”

  “Yes. I think he lives in the building. At one time he and Marissa were an item. He’s made mistakes, as we already know, but he’s still in the picture. Makes me wonder if he’s Aria’s father.” I glanced above the pages and in the distance, I saw a man who’d been at the coffee shop. “Talk to you later. I gotta go.”

  I closed the book around my phone and slipped it into my purse. I grabbed another phone Marissa had given me. Pressing in Eli’s number, I counted three rings before he picked up. “Checking in. I imagine you’re missing me.”

  “How’s the park?”

  “I’m near the gazebo reading, and it’s relaxing. Is Marissa up?”

  “She had an errand.”

  “Care to join me?”

  “Are you hitting on me? Marissa might not approve.”

  The thought gagged me. “Who says she needs to know? In case you haven’t noticed, she’s tired of me.”

  “Imagine that.”

  70

  DENTON

  Panic squeezed my mind. Why had Shelby ended the call? Fear of losing her pushed me into working every detail to arrest Marissa. For the next few hours, I analyzed info that appeared to have her fingerprints. I’d sent the FIG several requests centered on Feng Liu and John Rudder. Linking either of them with Marissa furthered the investigation. She only thought she’d outwitted the FBI, and somewhere along the line, she’d slipped. A persistent sting in my spirit told me her actions with Shelby were deliberate . . . and led to a murderous end.

  If Shelby were listening to my apprehension, she’d tell me, “God’s got this.”

  A car pulled into my driveway, irritating me when I had work to do. I groaned—Edie and Amy-Jo in their Sunday clothes, an indication I was their afternoon mission project. Amy-Jo carried a bag, most likely yesterday’s café sandwiches. Maybe if I’d gone to church this morning instead of diving into the worst-case scenario with Shelby, I might be more optimistic. Their steps on the porch counted down a dread.

  “Open the door, Denton,” Amy-Jo said. “Can’t hide from your friends forever.”

  I flung open the door. “What brings you lovely ladies out this afternoon?”

  Amy-Jo pointed a hot-pink nail into my chest. “Where have you been?”

  “Working.”

  “Mucking out stalls?”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “Actually, I did. Have either of you heard from Shelby?”

  Amy-Jo touched my cheek with the same hot-pink nail that had been ready to claw out my heart. “We were hoping you’d located her.”

  “Take a look around.” I stepped aside for them to enter. “Nothing but an empty space.”

  “Sounds like a bad rendition of a Phil Collins song.”

  Amy-Jo and her eighties music. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Edie glared at me. “I feel badly for you, but, Denton McClure, you have no excuse not to shower. My twelve-year-old smells better after baseball practice. Have you been sleeping in your horse’s stall?”

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “Trust me. We won’t be long.” Amy-Jo set the bag on the kitchen table. “You’re pale too. The food’s still hot.”

  I thanked her, and we sat.

  “See here,” Amy-Jo began, “if you’re working from home, Shelby has made contact, and you’re helping her stop some crime.”

  “Now—”

  “Don’t placate me. If she’d simply run off, you’d be furious. If she was in danger, you’d be a wreck, which you are. Bet your laptop is hotter than a firecracker. And we learned one more tidbit of news—Clay Pearce and Aria have disappeared.”

  Facing the consequences of skipping church wasn’t worth these two tormenting me. “Since you have this all put together, why are you here?”

  “Seeing you helps me analyze your answers.” Amy-Jo stared at me. “Is Shelby with her dad and niece?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “In protective custody? Or—?”

  “Is she alive?” Edie said.

  “I think so.”

  Edie stood. Must be her signal to leave. “When this is over, I want to learn what’s going on.”

  “Me too.” I forced a chuckle but neither of them joined me.

  Amy-Jo joined Edie at the door, and I did the proper host thing. “Thanks for stopping by and bringing food.”

  “Get a
shower, Denton,” Edie said. “Put your clothes in the washer and turn it on hot with extra soap.”

  I smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Amy-Jo pulled a newspaper from her never-ending tote. “Have you seen Saturday’s paper? I understand you can’t reveal what you know, but this could get her killed.”

  After they left, I opened the local newspaper. Front-page news . . .

  FBI announces nationwide search for Shelby Pearce for breaking parole. Pearce was recently released from prison after serving fifteen years for murdering her brother-in-law. Authorities say Pearce is suspected of running a drug cartel from inside prison and may have left the country. Missing family members indicate she may have committed additional murders. FBI Special Agent Denton McClure, who is reported to have been living in the area, is under investigation. Sources say McClure and Pearce met at the murder trial and continued a relationship during her prison years.

  I tossed the paper aside and scrolled through notices on my phone. One missed call from Mike and another from my boss. I’d silenced my cell after talking to Shelby so I could work uninterrupted. The article had been picked up Sunday by nationwide sources with more dirt tossed at Shelby and growing accusations against me and the FBI’s credibility.

  A great way to discredit Shelby’s testimony.

  My conversation with Mike was short. Houston needed us in the office tomorrow morning at ten thirty.

  71

  SHELBY

  Sunday night, shortly after darkness covered the city, Marissa told me to change into faded jeans, a plain T-shirt, and the brown chin-length wig. She emerged from her bedroom in slit jeans, eye makeup that rivaled Amy-Jo’s, and black hair.

  “We have an errand.” She echoed Eli’s description of her destination earlier today. “Leave everything here. We’re going to a party.” She slipped a gun into the rear waist of her jeans. “It’s a 9mm, little sis.”

  “How many will be at this party?”

  “Enough to have a good time.” She handed me a cell phone. “I’m giving you a number to call. A man will answer. Tell him your real name and you want to meet with him tonight. The conversation is urgent.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s hosting the party.”

  “I’m not sleeping with this guy,” I said.

  Marissa laughed. “If I intended for you to earn a little cash, you’d be dressed for it.” She shoved the phone into my face. “Make the call. His name is Lance.”

  I pressed in the numbers, and a man answered. “Hey, this is Shelby Pearce.”

  “We need to talk tonight.”

  “I prefer a private meetup. You have a report?”

  “An urgent one.”

  “Okay. Near the gazebo on the south side of the park where you sat this morning. Say, an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.” I gave Marissa her phone and repeated the man’s words. “Eli followed me today and observed this guy watching me. I noted a man tailing me too.”

  “Exactly. I want to know what he’s up to. But your job is to confirm it—easy. You go alone, and I’ll be watching. Got to keep my sister safe.”

  Who walked into a trap? The guy named Lance or me?

  Shortly afterward, I retraced my steps, minus the coffee shop. Soft lights bathed the perimeter of the park, but darkness clothed the bench from earlier today. I sat and waited, not sure if I wanted Lance to show up.

  A tall, shadowed form appeared. When he joined me, I recognized him from earlier in the day.

  “Tell me, Shelby. Who told you about me?”

  “I have my ways. You followed me this morning, and I want to know why and who you are.”

  “There’s a BOLO out on you. I’m FBI.”

  Clarity hit me. “Get out of here,” I whispered. “You’ve walked into a trap.”

  He jerked and blood spurted from his chest before I heard a faint sound. I grabbed his shoulders and helped him stagger backward to the ground. Another bullet whizzed past my head.

  My end had come.

  “I’m sorry.” I pressed my hand over his chest, liquid life oozing through my fingers. A lack of pulse repeated my fear of his death. Where was my final bullet?

  “Sis, you did good.” Marissa’s voice brought anger and terror to the surface. She stood about ten feet from the bench.

  I’d vowed to bring my sister and her operation to justice, but I drew the line at murder. “Really? Was this necessary?”

  “Do you have blood on your party shirt?”

  I shivered in the warm night and walked her way. Grief shoved me into a fury difficult to hide. Marissa had killed before. Many times. I followed her into a darker portion of the park.

  “Clean off your face and hands.” She tossed me a package of wipes from a plastic bag. “Hurry. I have a clean T-shirt.”

  I obeyed, swallowing the urge to vomit. She handed me a T-shirt from the same bag. I shoved my emotions into removing the bloody shirt and wiggling into the clean one. She held out the plastic bag, and I jammed both inside.

  “Why shoot at me?” I whispered through clenched teeth.

  “To show you who’s the boss. He followed you today, and you neglected to tell me.”

  “What clued you in to his identity?”

  “After you left this morning, Eli and I followed. We saw him tailing you and put together a plan. Eli asked him if he’d take our pic because selfies were always horrible. I protested, stating I didn’t want anyone touching our phones. Eli played the irritated boyfriend and asked the man if he’d use his phone to take the pic and text Eli with it. He agreed. Once done and we had his phone info, I requested him to delete the pic from his phone. He signed his own death warrant.”

  “Thank you. He’d have arrested me and ruined everything.” I despised myself for the insensitive words, the lack of compassion for a dead man.

  “Mistakes are a countdown to a bullet. Understand?”

  “Yes. Nothing stands in your way.”

  She pulled the gun from her back waistband. “I need you to take this.”

  I shook my head. “The last time I took a gun from you, I served fifteen years.”

  “So you do learn from your mistakes.” She replaced her weapon. “No fingerprints. Having you with me in the business gives me a sense of family. Don’t spoil it.” She pointed to a park light, and we ventured closer. After having me turn around twice, she declared me free of blood. “Eli will clean up the mess back there and dispose of the matter.”

  Dispose? “Where?”

  “I have no idea. He’ll tell me later. Are you buckling on me, little sister?”

  “Just curious. I saw the news earlier. The FBI is looking for me and McClure is facing an investigation in alleged charges of planning my escape. I imagine you arranged the article.”

  “All things work for good for those who plan ahead. The FBI’s inquiry buys us time to finish up a deal before we leave.”

  “Leave where?”

  “Haven’t decided yet . . . Hong Kong, St. Petersburg, or Cyprus.”

  “I always wanted to travel,” I said.

  “No problem with a money flow. Hey, Sis. I’m in the mood for ice cream, chocolate cherry cheesecake. We’ll have a double-decker on the way to the penthouse, a way of celebrating that you passed the test.”

  I tossed and turned, an image of the dead man’s blood covering every inch of me. I showered twice, rubbed my skin raw, but the nightmare repeated. My sister had grown up in a home where our parents demonstrated decency and morals. They helped others and encouraged us to emulate them. Marissa played the good girl, leader, cheerleader, straight-A student in high school and college. Had her tendency for narcissism and manipulation always been a part of her, or had she acquired the traits while growing up? In weighing her behavior tendencies, I accepted Marissa was driven by a lust for money, and eliminating others meant nothing to her. Business as usual. Her attitude grieved me. People were tossed aside like trash.

  The moment I started to drift, I relived
the scene again. . . . Shadows pulled in around me, and I knelt over the man’s body. Blood flowed from his chest, through my fingers, and dripped down my arms. His name was Lance . . .

  72

  DENTON

  I’d never met Special Agent Lance Mason, the man who’d been found murdered on Miami’s north side, but we had a connection through Shelby. I parked my rental car in the secured parking area of Houston’s FBI headquarters at 9:30 a.m. and read the latest news before Mike arrived, which should be any time since he was always early.

  The FBI said Lance had been briefed about Shelby insisting she work as an informant and using an alias. No reason why he ventured out alone in a rogue attempt to close in on the case that got him killed. Lance’s wife reported he’d left their home at 9:30 p.m., but he didn’t share where he was going or when he’d be back.

  Shelby had sent me a text last night and typed her attempt to infiltrate Marissa’s operation resulted in the death of an FBI agent by the name of Lance.

  Marissa shot him in the chest, then wanted ice cream. Eli disposed of the body.

  Concern for the woman I loved wrestled with how to move forward in my job. Shelby had witnessed her sister commit two murders, and evidence stacked that Marissa had ordered the deaths of others. She’d have no reservations about killing Shelby or anyone who got in her way. But the FBI didn’t have enough evidence to make a case against Marissa and pull Shelby away from danger.

  Mike pulled into an empty parking spot beside me. He stepped out and leaned against his car. I believed we were on the same page with this case—Marissa and her operation needed to come down and soon. Frustration added lines to his face, and I identified with the same emotion. The possibility rose of those in charge dismissing all we’d uncovered. I wanted Shelby out of the death trap, but I knew she’d never agree to leave until Marissa wore cuffs.

  I exited my truck and greeted Mike. “Are you questioning why Lance Mason didn’t have backup before he met with Shelby?”

  “No clue unless he had doubts she’d show.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I talked to his partner. He wasn’t aware of the meetup, said Mason tended to balk at protocol.”