"And that's after the pure stuff's cut." Mullaney paused. "Could be you got an operation out there."
His pulse quickened over the possibility. "Smaller batches leaving." Increasing the likelihood of success. Reduced risk for a seriously high risk product.
"Albany's sending the O'Brien kid."
"Finn's out here?"
"Since last year."
Finnegan O'Brien. He'd heard promising reports about his best friend's kid brother.
"What about the locals? It was like pullin' molars getting any information outta your captain."
"Jonas wants the case," Matt admitted. "But he can't handle it." Steve knew his department lacked the staff for a big case. But knowledge and acceptance were different animals.
"Marsh Point is a resort town." Home to a hundred memories. Endless summers spent biking the Point's backcountry roads. Fishing with his dad before he'd died too young. Nights around the campfire playing rummy for pennies with his mom and sister. "Jonas is loaning me an officer for tonight. After the attempt at the hospital, I don't want to risk another."
"Want me to see if they can pull Finnie tonight?"
In a perfect world— yeah. But they'd make do. "We should be safe. No one will see us leave."
"What else you need?"
"Any news on the blood sample yet?"
"I've got a rush on it with the lab," his friend acknowledged, his gruff voice like sandpaper. "The tech owes me a favor."
"How about a name check?" He remembered her determined expression. "Julie thinks she knows someone in drug enforcement— a Tori Stash." He spelled it. "That last name probably isn't exact but she muttered it to the cop who brought her in and she repeated it today."
Mullaney's pencil scratched in the background. "Finn'll contact you in the next couple hours. Once he's on scene tomorrow, call me with a sit-rep."
Matt checked his watch, wondering how much longer. "I need to catch up with my suspect."
"She's blond, isn't she?"
"Shut up." He hung up on his friend's knowing laughter.
***
"Can I get up?" Julie's head bobbed up between the seats.
Matt's gaze remained on the road. "Yeah. We're away from the hospital and we haven't been tagged."
"It's hard to see with these blacked out windows." She inched into the backseat.
His gaze shifted to the rearview mirror. "That scarf makes you look famous."
"Leftovers from the hospital lost and found."
"Once we're home, I'll rustle up dinner so you can get to bed early." Aside from her injuries, the struggle to regain her memory would likely exact a mental toll.
A grimace of pain crossed her features when she shifted in the backseat. "I don't understand why I'm so shaky. I've been resting for days."
"You suffered a serious head injury. That's not exactly a vacation-" Was he making excuses for her? Braking for a red light, he checked over his shoulder. Her bruises stood in stark relief to a face suddenly bleached of color. "You okay? You don't look so hot."
Lowering lost and found shades, she frowned. "Are you sure you're not in public relations?"
He lifted his gaze to the ceiling. "I meant— you look wiped out."
"Just a little dizzy." She managed a wan smile. "I should relax. Not take life so seriously."
Her smile indicated she was jerking his chain. That— he could handle. He'd jousted with the best. His mother and sister were professionals.
"Why don't you look around? We're entering a town called Three Bridges."
"Bridges?" A shiver tremored through her. "In my dream— I crossed a bridge."
Several minutes passed in silence. Each time he checked, Julie was scouring the passing scenery. If she were faking, it was a remarkably consistent performance. "Anything familiar?"
"No." Her shoulders hunched in disappointment. "But it's not unfamiliar, either."
Her voice thickened. He guesstimated she was T minus ten seconds away from crying. "I imagine this is frustrating-"
"Frustrating?" Her agonized gaze met his in the mirror. "What if it doesn't come back? What if right now is the best I ever get?" She swiped her eyes before turning her gaze to the window. "What if I am . . . alone? I mean— it's possible, right?"
"Possible," he agreed, "but not likely. Someone— is looking for you." Hell— a killer was certainly looking for her. But reminding her that would guarantee a full blown meltdown. "I'm sure your family is concerned." Even drug dealers had families. People they cared about. People who left them vulnerable. Angles Matt often exploited— making deals with one dirtbag to rat out another. Flip on your boss and we drop the charge against your brother . . .
"How can I defend myself if-" She released a shaky breath. "What if I am a drug dealer?"
"Why don't we take one problem at a time?" He wouldn't lie to her— and he couldn't like her too much. No matter how damned likable she turned out to be. Returning to the agency after a colossal screw-up, he didn't have the luxury of bending rules. "We'll be home in twenty minutes. Why don't you rest?"
Her expression a volatile combination of mutiny and desperation, she nodded. "Okay." Shifting in the backseat, she wrapped slender arms around her waist. "Okay," she repeated, as though convincing herself she had a choice. Eyes drooping, she curled into herself and sighed.
Matt kept his gaze firmly planted on the road. He needed to stay focused. Vigilant. Hyper aware. Because the woman in the backseat was dangerous. If it became necessary to remind himself every ten minutes, he would damn well do it.
Turning down the shore drive, his mind shifted back to work. Once Julie was settled, he had a long to-do list. He'd missed a call from Finn O'Brien. At least the SA was on board. He needed updates from Mullaney and the lab— hopefully with news about the owner of the blood they'd found under her nails. His pulse quickened over the possibilities. If it was someone tied to the Boston raid, it would be the biggest break they'd had in months.
Placing a quick call to Jonas, he lowered his voice. Despite strong intentions, Julie's peaceful expression kept drawing his gaze to the mirror. But it was her soft sigh that sent a new ripple of tension through his tightened body. Ten minutes earlier, she'd nodded off. For nine minutes, thirty seconds, Matt struggled to keep his mind on work. Tonight would likely prove to be endless.
Relieved when Jonas picked up, he shoved her from his head. "I was thinking about footage from town cameras. Any chance you've got someone who could work with Three Bridges PD to hunt down street footage?" He winced when Steve chuckled, knowing his request was a long shot. "Maybe she was caught on camera somewhere."
"Yeah— emphasis on 'somewhere'. I get where you're coming from, Matt. If I was fully staffed, I'd already be looking at film." His hesitation spoke volumes. "But we don't have that luxury."
To say Jonas was lukewarm about the idea would be an understatement. Small town departments barely covered the essentials. Never mind trying to get multi-jurisdictional cooperation on a case Jonas wasn't even running. And what department had someone sitting around who could devote hours to scanning camera footage? "I just thought-"
"It's a great idea," the older man interrupted. "If I had like . . . four more officers. But the taxpayers aren't interested in staffing this department the way it should be." He cleared his throat, annoyance evident. "Last time I talked to Stanley, he had the same beef with Three Rivers town council. Everyone wants gold medal service . . . with no increase to our budgets."
"Okay." Matt frowned. "I'll check with Mullaney at State. Maybe they can help."
"Just have 'em call me. I'm happy to assist."
He disconnected, staring at his phone. "Like you're helping now?" Screw it. Mullaney would get it done. He'd upend the damn haystack and emerge with the needle stuck in his bony finger. If Julie was on camera somewhere, Sean would find her.
Frustration simmering, he acknowledged Jonas' point. Resort towns were harder hit because the majority of the tax base were wealthy out-of-towners. Th
ey snagged up waterfront properties but didn't live there year-round. Didn't attend their schools. Didn't volunteer at the soup kitchen or donate to their churches. After Labor Day, summer people didn't care whether the town PD was stretched too thin.
Hell— his family was one of them. Though their lakefront home had been in the Barnes' family for forty years, his mom increasingly spent less time in Marsh Point. Madeline's life was in Boston. His elderly grandmother, too. If Matt hadn't been rehabbing his shoulder . . . he probably wouldn't have enjoyed more than a dozen weekends out there himself. His sister Alyssa, even less. Her high-powered job left her with rare time off.
Acknowledging the change left a fleeting sadness. Summers at the cottage had been a prominent fixture in his life— like the ebb and flow of the lake. The sounds and smells varying only with the seasons. It was a constant, faithful friend. Never wavering. Never changing. Now, it felt as though something treasured was slipping away— and he hadn't noticed.
"Are we there?"
Julie's drowsy voice scraped down his spine. From sadness to sexual awareness in three seconds. What was it about her that made him tighten like a restless fist? "Soon."
Logic overtook his worry. The world was overrun with exquisite, leggy blondes. Once this case was over, he could have his fill— of all the other ones.
Stretching, she blinked away sleepiness as they jostled down the rutted gravel drive. "Is this your road?"
"Home for the next few days." Matt smiled when she sat up straighter, head volleying back and forth to take in the scenery. After decades of seeing the lake rise into view, the feeling he experienced was one of coming home. A home he knew like no other— every trail, every cove, every forested acre of his family's land.
Excitement lighting her eyes, she dragged out her crutches. Drawing in a deep breath, she smiled. "It smells like December."
Of any comment he'd anticipated, hers was probably the most unusual. "What exactly does December smell like?"
She hobbled on uneven gravel, pausing for the mournful cry of a distant hawk. A moment later, his mate answered back. "You know— pine trees and clean air . . ." She sniffed again. "Fireplace smoke. Cinnamon."
"Cinnamon? That must be planted near the oregano."
A delicious pink leeched into too pale cheeks. "Okay . . . so that part was imagined, but it still smells like Christmas." She swung down the path to the clapboard cottage. At the sight of the lake, she gasped. "This is possibly the most beautiful place I've ever seen."
"Wait 'til you see the view from the deck," he promised. Swinging her bag of nurse-donated lost and found clothes to his good shoulder, he led her up the weathered porch steps. Though he'd entertained female guests over the years, this would be the first time he'd welcomed a potential suspect. Julie's visit would be memorable. "C'mon. It'll be dark soon."
***
"You're saying you failed?"
"I'm sayin' she's still in the hospital."
"In what condition?"
Matias winced. If this conversation went as poorly as expected, he should just keep driving. By the time the bastard sent goons out there, he'd be halfway to friggin' Canada.
"Life support," he lied. Telling Viper he'd failed again would only get him iced sooner. Making the sign of the cross, he set his cherry slush in the cup holder. The fast food parking lot bustled with traffic. "I heard one 'a them nurses say they were takin' her off life support."
"You're certain it was her?"
His pulse eased. "They still don't know it's Ju-"
"Enough."
Relax, you antsy bastard. "It's a burner, Chief. These can't be traced."
"Protocol, Matias."
Two years. He sighed. The gig with Viper had been sweet. But he didn't need a brick upside his head to know it was over.
"Stick around for the shipment Tuesday. And I want confirmation she's— gone."
What was he— stupid? Turning off his phone, Matias tossed it in a trashcan. Viper didn't take chances. The damn shipment had already been rerouted. With luck, he'd gain a two day head start on saving his ass.
Glancing around the parking lot, Matias popped the glovebox. One of several passports was secreted in a compartment directly behind it— along with thirty grand in cash. His getaway pack. There were two more like it stashed near the border. After a brief trip into the back country, he could start over somewhere new. Once Viper lost his scent or tired of looking for him.
In his line of work— Matias never knew when a shitbomb would explode in his face. He'd learned long ago he'd live longer if he was always ready to make tracks. The only chore left was to grab the remaining stash in the warehouse. The way he figured— eighteen percent of that load was his. And with him havin' to leave town all sudden-like, he'd need merchandise to get business ramped up again.
***
Behind the expansive desk, Viper picked up the secure phone. A familiar voice answered. "I think it's about time you start earning your keep." As expected, his contact began stammering. They were all the same, really. Weak. Pathetic. Viper contained a smirk. When they were finally expected to earn their exorbitant sums, they offered excuses.
"I didn't ask for a critique. If I'd wanted you earlier, I would've called." Viper let him ramble until impatience won out. "I need a task performed. Take care of it."
***
Chapter 3
Julie's first impression was the cottage was much larger than it appeared. The whitewashed porch opened to a spacious living room. An inviting stone fireplace occupied nearly an entire wall, a colorful hooked rug covering the plank floor before it. Earthy, harvest tones warmed the walls. If Agent Barnes had a large family, this was the place everyone gathered to celebrate. "This is beautiful."
"You expected a mounted catfish?" He set her bag on the polished floor.
"I like the ones that sing." She smiled. "Who decorated this place?"
"My mother," he admitted. "It's been in the family for decades. But lately, I seem to use it most."
"You haven't caught a fish worth bragging about?"
"To me, fishing is more about spending a day on the water and drinking beer."
"Do you even try?"
He shrugged. "Occasionally we get lucky." He walked into the open kitchen, separated from the living area by a granite-topped island. "Have a seat."
Drifting to the sofa, she resisted the urge to sink into the cushions and close her eyes. The coffee table was cluttered with a stack of books. A quick perusal of their titles was jarring. The Art and Science of Money Laundering; Tracing Off-Shore Funds.
Following her gaze, Barnes smiled. "Reference books. I try to stay on my game, even while on leave."
"What is your job exactly?"
He leveled a stare meant to intimidate. "I find drug dealers and put them out of business."
Moments of friendly conversation didn't last long with Agent Barnes. "I meant the specifics of your job."
"We're all trained in weaponry. Most of us perform takedowns. Some guys do nothing but UC work— undercover," he clarified. "Some are chemists."
She nodded. "And you?"
"I work undercover, but my specialty is forensic accounting." Setting their drinks on the coffee table, he sat across from her.
"What's that?"
"I consult on money laundering cases. I attempt to unravel the financial scheme behind the drug operation," he explained. "Where the money goes and who touches it along the way."
That explained his reading preferences. Her gaze drifted to the curling ends of his tousled hair. "You don't strike me as an accountant."
A genuine smile appeared. "I get that a lot."
"So, a degree in accounting and you decided to walk on the wild side?"
"MBA in Finance," he corrected, shifting his large frame against the pillows at his back. "These days, successful cartels are managed by MBAs."
"Like a real business?"
"Hell— like a Fortune 500. I've seen some pretty intricate laundering opera
tions," he admitted. "Even dope smugglers need to run a tight ship."
When his phone rang, he moved to the kitchen, likely assuming he was out of earshot. He spoke to an officer who was perched somewhere near the end of his driveway. When he returned, Agent Barnes didn't offer an explanation, reminding Julie of her status— somewhere between suspect and victim. Offering a cursory tour of the downstairs, he showed her the room she would inhabit the next few days.
"There are more bedrooms upstairs, but your ankle won't appreciate the climb. Your bathroom is across the hall." Setting her bag on the bed, he switched on a lamp as dusk shadowed the walls. After pulling the drapes closed, he turned. "While you're here I don't want any unnecessary chances."
"Meaning?"
"No venturing outside. Don't open the blinds. Stay away from the windows." He ticked off orders on his fingers. "And no phone calls."
A smile played on her lips. "Who would I call?"
"When you finally remember everything, your first reaction will be getting in touch with someone close." Eyes sober, he seemed unable to lose the serious expression for long. "Until we know what's going on, it's safer to go to ground."
"Ground?"
"It's— it means stay hidden."
Despite the protective boot, her ankle felt as though it had been caught in a vice. She shifted to her good leg.
"You need to elevate your foot," he suggested. "Maybe ice it while I start dinner."
His scrutiny burning along her nerves, Julie could almost imagine he had the ability to read her thoughts. "How did you-"
"I'm recovering from an injury, so I know what it's like."
"What happened to you?" She had trouble imagining him hurt. Barnes' attitude made him seem invincible.
"My shoulder. I'm . . . rehabbing from surgery," he explained, his eyes revealing a flicker of impatience. "That's why I'm available to assist Marsh Point PD."
"How were you hurt?"
"A takedown." Her questioning glance made him frown.
Certainty tremored through her. "You were shot?"
"A drug bust."
His clipped tone suggested she cease her questioning. But why would he volunteer to guard her? She studied him for a moment. Agent Barnes was gaining something from this. Something worth getting shot again. "Okay if I shower?"
Out of the Mist (Can't Help Falling Book 1) Page 3
