Harlequin Intrigue January 2021 - Box Set 1 of 2

by Julie Anne Lindsey, Lena Diaz

  “It doesn’t feel that way,” Axel said, completing his thought.

  “Yeah.” Max nodded. “As for the fast-food joint being across town and presumably unrelated to the real-estate office, we won’t know until we ask some more questions. Could be that this guy is the link between the two. Any number of things could’ve taken him to that place, or maybe he’s never been there and that bombing was a decoy to throw us off. That wouldn’t mean he didn’t have a problem with one of the employees who were targeted, or even a regular customer.”

  Axel took the next right, increasing his speed as local limits permitted and likely working out a dozen possible bomber-motivation scenarios in his mind.

  Max’s attention, however, was divided. “Allie shot me down this morning,” he complained. “Straight off. As if I was ridiculous to even suggest a bomber in her city could impact her. Apparently, it’s a big city, and she doesn’t know the guy, so she’s fine. Max Jr. is also fine.” He gritted his teeth against a building rant. The bomber hasn’t been identified. That was the problem. He could work in the kiosk beside hers, for all she knew.

  Max rubbed his forehead and bit his tongue. Axel didn’t need to sit through another rail-against-Allie. Though he would, Max knew, without question or complaint. Axel had listened to many similar tirades during and immediately after the divorce. Not before, because Max had never seen it coming. He was too engrossed in his work to acknowledge his home life was falling apart. And the consequence of that was divorce. He cringed internally at the awful little word. Max had thought divorce was some magical, powerful, permanent change to everything. The end of all things as he knew them. He was wrong.

  Max’s divorce from Allie had only changed a few things, and all for the worse. She and Max Jr. were no longer at home when he got there. He’d lost the companionship of his best friend, his lover and life partner. He’d lost the only woman he’d ever imagined in any of those roles and the sixteen-month-old son whose every breath he cherished. Now Max was on his own, and loathing the bachelorhood he’d once stupidly worried he might miss after marriage. But despite the things divorce had changed, everything else was exactly the same. The sun still rose and set. Max still filled the bulk of his waking hours with work, and he still loved Allie as fiercely as ever. He felt protective of her, thrilled by the sight of her and frustrated as hell by her earlier dismissal. Max wasn’t a jealous man, wasn’t overbearing or unreasonable. And bombs were his life’s work. So when he suggested she take Max Jr. and get out of town for a few days, he’d hoped she would listen.

  “Well, maybe we’ll get lucky,” Axel said. “O’Lear will be our man. He’ll confess everything at the sight of us. We’ll haul him in, and Allie, Max Jr. and the rest of this city will be safe before lunch.”

  Max snorted. “If only.” He stared through his window at the fittingly bleak, gray day. “I’m not usually that lucky.” A phantom limb pain pinched and ached in his missing calf, as if on cue. He’d learned years ago not to reach for it, not to try to soothe it. The pain wasn’t real. The limb wasn’t there. And he wasn’t sure if his subconscious was agreeing or disagreeing with his lack of luck by reminding him of the bombing that had nearly ended his life. He’d lost part of his leg in the blast, but he’d lived, and that made him luckier than too many others.

  Max’s thoughts cleared, and his vision pulled tight on his reflection in the glass. Not only had he survived, but he’d gone on to meet and fall in love with Allie. They’d married and had a son he adored. Had Max died, he wouldn’t be in Grand Rapids now, willing to do whatever it took to protect his family and to keep this bomber from taking a single additional life.

  The bomber, he realized, was the unlucky one.

  Axel slid the SUV against the curb in a low-income neighborhood a few minutes later. “Not the most impressive residence for a recent Realtor,” he said, drawing Max back to the moment.

  They stared at the bland yellow-brick building, across a sea of filthy snow and a poorly shoveled walkway. Everything about the property was in need of repair.

  Max expanded his scan of the area, moving from the stout three-story building, to neighboring homes and apartments, the street, parked and moving vehicles as well as the sporadic and partially frozen pedestrians hurrying in every direction. “I thought Realtors made a good living.”

  “Only if they make enough commissions. O’Lear must not have sold enough homes to afford a better place or keep his job. Which suggests he’s not a people person. You have to possess a certain set of skills to part people from their money. The fact that the agency let him go is a red flag. Most Realtors are like freelancers, not salaried, and as long as they bring in money for the agency, I’d think staff would overlook some rough-around-the-edges behavior.”

  Max stepped onto the sidewalk and bundled his coat tighter as Axel joined him. They strode quickly, purposefully, to the tenement. Axel rang the buzzer for O’Lear’s apartment. When no one answered, he pressed the button again. Then repeatedly, until a young woman in running shoes and earbuds, her hood up and eyes down, emerged from the locked door and began a jog down the broken sidewalk.

  Max’s arm snapped out, catching the door before it closed behind her.

  “See? Luck,” Axel said, stepping into the building’s narrow first-floor foyer.

  The space was cluttered. A bank of mailboxes lined one wall and a scattering of abandoned fast-food bags, a deflated playground ball and a pair of children’s sneakers littered the floor. It wasn’t much warmer inside than outside.

  Max and Axel climbed the stairs to the third floor, breathing stale, sour air. The scents of garbage, grease and something like marijuana burned through Max’s nose and down his throat. He could only imagine the stench during warmer months.

  Axel reached O’Lear’s door first and knocked. Chin up and shoulders back, the thirty-four-year-old looked like someone not to be trifled with, and it suited him. At six foot two, Axel was taller than the average criminal, fit to a fault and trained in hand-to-hand combat. His wool dress coat, shiny shoes and easy smile left some room for confusion in dumber bad guys. Their tendencies to underestimate him always resulted in Axel’s upper hand.

  Max could count the number of dress pants and shiny shoes in his closet on one hand, and he rarely wore either to work, never into the field. He was just as tall as Axel, broader and rarely underestimated. He scanned the hall as Axel knocked again, more loudly this time.

  Torn and stained carpeting ran underfoot, frayed along broken baseboards and cut off at doorjambs by dented metallic strips. Televisions blared from nearby apartments, accented by warbling voices, a muffled baby’s cry and a barking dog.

  Only silence filtered through O’Lear’s door.

  Max tried again, knocking louder and announcing “Delivery! Package for Mr. O’Lear.” Still nothing.

  Axel stepped back, lips drawn briefly to one side. “Nobody’s home. Try again in a few hours?”

  “Yep.” Max turned back to the stairs with a sigh. He knew their luck had a limit.

  The ride to the station passed quickly. There was less traffic and no underlying anticipation. No possibility that they were about to face off with a serial bomber on his turf.

  The station was busy, and the cops stared, curiosity plain in their collective gaze. Any officers who hadn’t been on duty when the TCD arrived were probably just hearing about the team from Traverse City who’d commandeered their conference room until further notice. Max was sure it must be strange for hosting officers. He nodded and greeted as many as possible. Since they were seen as interlopers, stealing a case the locals could’ve handled themselves wouldn’t bode well when the TCD needed assistance navigating local customs, laws or culture.

  A familiar woman’s voice spilled through the open conference-room doorway as Rihanna appeared. She smiled at the sight of Max and Axel. “You’re just in time. Opaline’s on a conference call, and I was
about to close the door.”

  The men ducked inside, neither willing to miss a single word of Opaline’s report.

  Her warm smile centered a large screen, thanks to a laptop connected to the precinct’s projector.

  Max smiled, despite himself, in return.

  Opaline’s head and shoulders were larger than life, the tips of her bleached-blond bangs flamed blue. A perfect match for her eye makeup and glittery top. Hot-pink lips glowed against her light skin. The woman knew how to turn heads, and words like low-key and nondescript were lost in her presence.

  Max had always appreciated Opaline’s silver-lining attitude, especially on days he could only see the storm. Divorced, like Max, Opaline knew what it meant to lose someone to the demands of the TCD. Unlike him, however, Opaline dated. Frequently and with great hope. Max didn’t see the point. Not when he knew there was only one woman for him, and he’d already wrecked things with her.

  The buzzing room quieted as Max and Axel took their seats. Rihanna dimmed the lights, and Opaline became impossibly brighter in the drab, somewhat cramped confines of the Grand Rapids PD conference room.

  The entire team was present. Good news for time and efficiency. Everyone would be able to respond and weigh in, then build off one another’s opinions, views and suggestions. Launching the investigation in the best possible way. Max nodded to himself. Maybe his luck wasn’t all bad. If O’Lear had been home, Max and Axel would’ve been tied up with him and possibly missed something paramount.

  “Hello.” Opaline waved on the screen. “I just wanted to touch base and see if you have anything new for me since this morning, and also to let you know what I’ve got going over here on my end. I’m currently running background checks on all employees for both businesses from the past year. I’m looking into employee records, school records, past jobs, local family and friends, favorite restaurants, hobbies, gyms or anything else I can use to make a connection between the two businesses. I don’t have anything yet, but something will turn up, if I have to trace every one of their lives back to preschool.”

  Max’s knee bobbed, unbidden, as adrenaline pooled, desperate for an outlet. Opaline didn’t have anything yet. His gaze darted around the room as she continued her update. He found some solace in the fact every team member wore the same expression, looking a lot like he felt. Frustrated. Anxious. Eager and determined to stop the bomber.

  “So you reached out to let us know you don’t know anything?” Selena, Opaline’s sister, asked, her tone unnecessarily harsh and thick with sarcasm.

  “I’m working on it,” Opaline said, her smile bright but tight. “I always check in frequently in situations like these because everything can change in an instant. You know that.”

  Max had no idea what the beef was between the Lopez siblings, but today wasn’t the day to sort it out. “Do you have lists of the victims’ local family and friends?” Max asked.

  Opaline took a beat to compose herself and return to the task at hand. Her fingers flew across her keyboard in the silence. “Absolutely. I’m emailing those to you now.”

  Phones buzzed and vibrated across the conference room.

  Max swiped his cell phone to life, quickly accessing the new information. “Let’s split up and interview as many of these people as possible. We’ll regroup afterward and see if any names come up on both sides of this. We’re looking for someone with a connection to one or more of the victims in each blast.”

  His teammates raised their phones, too, accessing the lists and talking rapidly among themselves.

  “Opaline,” Max continued. “I think the times of the blast were significant, as well. The bomber didn’t choose one time for both attacks, so I’m guessing the times had more to do with the locations or intended victims than the bomber’s schedule. Why two a.m. at the burger joint and seven eighteen a.m. at the real-estate office? Can we find out who was typically present at those specific times and possibly work from there to find a common denominator?”

  Carly tapped her pink nails against the table, thin brows furrowed. “Vengeance killings.”

  Max dipped his chin in agreement, as did the other agents seated at the table. “I think so. Someone with an ax to grind and multiple possible offenders.”

  Tension pulled Carly’s expression tight. “Unlimited offenders,” she corrected him. “A guy this unstable likely has a lot of perceived enemies, real or imagined, and unless he had a problem with all the people he hurt at Burger Mania, we can assume he doesn’t care if bystanders are hurt, or worse, in the process. If he goes after someone working at a large or busy venue, the collateral damage could be hundreds. We have to hope his next target isn’t employed by a concert hall or sports arena.”

  Or a mall, Max thought, his stomach dropping to the floor.

  Rihanna cleared her throat and peeled herself away from the door, where she’d taken up residence. As the team liaison, she often stayed on her feet during meetings. Continually on alert and prepared to deal with local law enforcement, press or the public as needed. Her diligence made it possible for the team to work with limited interruptions. “I thought you might say that.” She grinned at Carly as she slid a stack of papers onto the conference table. “I’ve set up meetings with real-estate office employees and the victims’ families.”

  Opaline beamed. “Excellent. You guys work on that. I’ll keep pushing my way through this. And we’ll chat again soon.” She reached for the screen, then vanished.

  The team passed Rihanna’s pages around, pairing up and hovering over the text.

  Selena muttered something under her breath, presumably about her sister, as she scanned the paper. Beside her, Aria locked her attention on Max. “Selena and I can talk with the real-estate office employees, if you want.”

  Max nodded, pulling his gaze back to Axel. “Why don’t we visit the victims’ family members?”

  Axel stood as Selena and Aria pushed away from the table. “Call between interviews,” he instructed. “Even if it’s just to say the conversation was a bust. As you know, communication is paramount in these early hours.”

  Max pulled up the rear as the group headed for the parking lot, eager to start making progress on the case.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Aria slid behind the wheel of her SUV and waited as Selena got comfortable in the passenger seat. Ramsey Realty was across town from the police station, and in a situation like this one, time wasn’t on the TCD’s side. Every moment the bomber went unchecked was another minute he had to plan—or worse, to execute—his next attack.

  Aria motored along the snow-lined streets, following GPS directions and hoping to make significant progress with the interviews.

  Selena looked over her shoulder every few minutes, into the empty back seat, then frowned again.

  “Missing Blanca?” Aria asked.

  Blanca, the white German shepherd and K-9 officer, was Selena’s partner, and the bond between the two was immeasurable. Being away from her for this case had left Selena visibly on edge, like a mother away from a newborn. Though Blanca was about as helpless as a baby honey badger. Aria knew the feeling, already missing her fiancé, Grayson, and their precious infant, Danny.

  “It’s weird without her,” Selena admitted, facing forward once more. “I keep forgetting she’s not there, and it feels like I’m missing an appendage.”

  Blanca was back in Traverse City, cashing in on some well-deserved time off. Much as Selena had hated to leave her, it hadn’t made sense to bring Blanca on this case. She wasn’t trained to locate bombs or identify accelerants, so she’d have spent all her time in the freezing cold vehicle, or in a pen at an unfamiliar station.

  Aria parked in the Ramsey Realty lot, outside the partially ruined single-story brick building. Yellow crime-scene tape circled the structure, and several signs warned the public to stay back. A corporate trailer had been set up a few yards from the buil
ding’s front door. A vinyl banner along the side proclaimed, Yes! We’re Open! And a Ramsey Realty sign had been attached to the handrail of a small retractable set of steps. “I guess this is the place.”

  Aria and Selena made their way across the freshly plowed lot, then let themselves into the trailer. The stale air was tinged with cinnamon, and muffled voices carried through a paper-thin interior wall.

  “Hello?” Aria called, moving toward the nearest empty desk. The nameplate said Susan Myer. Steam lifted from a mug near a stack of papers, and the computer was powered on. “Susan?”

  Quick footfalls tapped along the tile floor in their direction. “Coming!” a bright voice returned. “Sorry,” she said, rounding the corner toward her desk with a wide smile. “I didn’t hear you come in. The coffee maker is a little persnickety back there, and I did my best to help, though only time will tell.”

  She paused to assess the agents, and her smile fell. Susan had likely seen enough law officials in the past few days to know a pair when they appeared before her. She pulled in a deep breath. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re Special Agents Calletti and Lopez,” Aria explained. “We’d like to ask you some questions about the bombing.”

  Susan fell gracelessly into the seat at her desk. “Of course.” She lifted her mug with slightly trembling hands. She was too polished for the trailer. From her one-piece black jumpsuit and heels, to her high-end haircut and professionally manicured nails, everything about her clashed with the underwhelming surroundings. “What would you like to know?”

  Selena motioned toward the rumble of voices. “Who else is here?”

  “Bailey and Frank,” Susan answered. “They’re hoping for coffee.”

  Selena nodded, then headed silently in the direction from which Susan had come.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Aria said, her attention focused on the woman at her desk. “I know what it feels like to lose coworkers. We see our teammates more hours a day than our families.” Her heart ached at the thought. For Aria, this sort of loss was inevitable, if she stayed on the job long enough. Death was one of those things all first responders accepted long before taking the oath or earning the badge. But not Realtors. Not Susan or the Burger Mania workers. These folks had signed on to sell homes and provide cheap, fast food. They’d never imagined this day could come. And Aria couldn’t imagine that kind of blow.