Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series)

by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  “Holy mother!” said Larry. He tossed his shotgun to the ground and took off running.

  I kept my boot rammed in Jed’s back while I unclipped my radio from my belt. “Suspect is on foot, heading north-northwest from my location.”

  “Yeah,” was all I heard. I looked up to see Roy at the edge of the clearing. Larry was backing away from him. He tripped and fell on his ass. “Got him,” Roy yelled with a wave.

  I leaned over and whispered to Jed. “Tell me who you’re selling these bears to.”

  “Screw you,” he growled and spat.

  I rolled him over, sat him up, and just as he drew in a breath, I smacked him on the back. He coughed and hacked.

  “How’s that chew taste?” I asked.

  “Bitch, I ain’t telling you nothin.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Something tells me he’s on his way. We’ll just wait here for him.” Jed closed his eyes and put his head down.

  Roy had Larry handcuffed and leaning against a tree. He stomped toward me.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped. “I told you to wait.”

  “I had to catch them in the act.”

  Roy closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his left hand. He looked over at the bear, then down at Jed who was moaning, his right arm twisted at the wrong angle. “What am I gonna do with you?”

  I clenched my teeth together. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Well…most of the time. Roy shook his head and walked away.

  I went to Honey Bear, knelt beside her, and stroked her head between her ears. You’ll be all right. Just sleep for now. It will all be over soon.

  Roy had gotten about four paces before he turned around. “While you’ve been out here galavanting around, the CO’s been trying to get you on the phone. I didn’t want to use the radio.”

  “What’s he want?”

  “Dunno. Said to call right away.”

  “As in right now?” Our CO, head of the Midwest region, was headquartered in Minnesota, an hour behind. “He’s up early.” I had to walk about two hundred yards to get a signal. Three missed calls. Crap. I punched the call back button. “This is Special Agent McVie, I—”

  “Hold the line,” I was told. Then seconds later, “McVie?”

  “Yes sir, what’s—”

  “Pack a bag and get to the Detroit airport by six p.m. You’re booked on a flight to Georgia.”

  “Georgia?” The federal law enforcement training center, FLETC, is in Georgia. “I just had my FLETC training. Wait, did you say six p.m.? But, sir, Detroit’s an eight hour drive from here.”

  “Yeah, you better get moving. Leave your badge and firearm with Roy.”

  “My badge, sir?” Why would he ask me to leave my badge? “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Temporarily reassigned.”

  “Reassigned?” I’d been a field agent for only four months. I was still doing field training. This was unheard of. This couldn’t be good. “Where?”

  “Uh—” There was a long pause. “Actually, I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” What the hell is going on?

  “I was told to tell you to wear civilian clothes.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He huffed. “It’s above my pay grade. Alls I know is you’ve been specifically requested. That means they ain’t askin.”

  This wasn’t making any sense. I glanced back toward Roy and the Lawson boys. “I can’t leave now. I just busted a couple poachers taking a live bear. We’ve got to stake out—”

  “Roy can handle that.”

  “Yeah, but Roy—”

  “Poppy.” He sighed. “Just get your ass on the damn plane.”

  CHAPTER 2

  As I exited the jetway in Atlanta, I ran smack into an airport employee holding a paper plate with McVie scribbled across the back. Nice. I followed the young man but started to get the feeling I was getting punked, like I was being walked onto the set of a seventies horror movie—the long, confusing corridors, the lone flickering fluorescent bulb, all the closed, unmarked doors.

  He finally came to a halt in front of what looked like a broom closet. Porn movie then? He gestured for me to go on in. “Thanks?” I managed.

  I gripped the door knob and flung open the door. “Hi, I’m Poppy McVie.”

  A balding man in a crumpled white shirt and a tired striped tie looked up from his desk and frowned. His left hand lay atop a briefcase that looked like it had been issued during the Vietnam War. It was crammed full of manila folders. Definitely from headquarters.

  “Poppy!”

  I turned. It was Mr. Strix, my favorite instructor from FLETC. What was he doing here? He bowled me over with a bear hug. This was new. “I’m so glad you were available,” he said. He gestured toward the stuffed shirt. “This is Stan Martin, head of Special Operations.”

  I snapped to attention and glanced back to Mr. Strix, my eyebrows raised in a did-you-just-say-what-I-think-you-said question. The head of Special Ops? Mr. Strix gave me a quick wink.

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I said. Holy crap, Special Ops! Special Ops! Okay, calm. Stay calm. I pasted a professional smile on my face—not too wide, no teeth.

  Mr. Martin was staring at me with that look. The oh-my-god-she’s-just-a-girl look. He frowned. I frowned. The thing is, I’m five foot two and all of one hundred and four pounds. I have unruly red hair and freckles and in high school, kids called me Pippity-Poppity-Poo, as in Pippi Longstocking, the precocious Swedish children’s book character who has no manners and—this is my favorite part—can lift her horse with one hand. Not exactly the moniker of which a teenage girl dreams.

  In college, I wore fake glasses for a semester, the kind with clear lenses, thinking they’d make me appear older, more sophisticated. Damn things gave me headaches.

  Now, at age twenty-four, on looks alone, I could probably pass for Pippi’s older sister. I’ve learned to accept people’s reactions to me. Well, mostly. Okay, sometimes. When I’m in the mood. Like when I’m meeting the head of the organization of which I’ve dreamed of working since—well, forever.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” said Mr. Strix, his hand on my back, gently guiding me toward a chair. I dropped my duffle next to the door and sat down. He perched on the side of the desk and adjusted his thick round glasses. “We don’t have a lot of time, so why don’t we get right to it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I smiled and turned to Mr. Martin. “So I’m being promoted to Special Ops?”

  Mr. Martin harrumphed. Actually harrumphed. Oops. Apparently that wasn’t the thing to ask. He crossed his arms and shook his head. I looked to Mr. Strix for help. He cleared his throat and put on a smile. “Temporarily reassigned. An Ops team is in need of a, well they need some help, an agent with your—” He sat up straighter. “Unique skills and talents.”

  “Okay,” I said. What else could I say? No one knew what I was capable of better than Mr. Strix.

  Mr. Martin closed the briefcase. “Jim, I’m not sure she’s—”

  Strix held up his hand. “Now Stan, you asked for my recommendation. Poppy is as bright as a whip. She was top of her class.” He beamed with pride. “I have every confidence in her—”

  “I got the resumé,” Mr. Martin said. “But for Special Ops, an agent needs—”

  “Balls,” I said.

  Their heads snapped in my direction.

  “That’s your concern, right?” I sat up straighter and looked him in the eye. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

  Mr. Martin regarded me with skeptical eyes for a long moment. His lips puckered and unpuckered. Twice. Finally, he sighed and said, “We’re nine months into a long-term investigation.” From the briefcase he plucked a folder, flipped it open, and handed me a photo. “Our target: George Hillman. An ex-pat living in Costa Rica. He sells legal species for the pet trade, frogs, snakes, whatever. We know he’s the contact for the sale of some exotics, CITES class I and II s
pecies, but the offer to sell always comes anonymously, so we can’t pin it on him. More importantly, we think he’s the connection to the kingpin of shark fin exports. Shark fins are big business and the Costa Rican government has asked for our help.”

  I knew a bit about shark finning. In a few short years, fishermen had decimated ninety percent of the shark population off the coast of Costa Rica. The black market price for shark fins soared up to $700 a kilogram. Shark meat, which is legal to harvest, has remained inexpensive and, therefore, not worth carrying for the fishermen. To maximize the space in their holds, they’d begun hacking off a shark’s fins while they had it on the hook, then tossing the still-breathing creature back into the sea, unable to swim. It’s heinous.

  “This George is the target for shark finning? You said he deals in exotics for the pet trade.”

  Mr. Martin shrugged. “We know he’s connected. But he’s slippery. We don’t know much else.”

  “What do you know?”

  His eyebrows narrowed. Lips puckered.

  Oops. “I mean, what else can you tell me?”

  Mr. Strix shifted his position on the desk. His head pivoted around so he could see me through the narrow vision of his glasses. “Poppy, you must understand, the guys on the ground are undercover. It can be risky to make contact with headquarters and when they do, they don’t always have time to tell us much.”

  “So what are their assignments then?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Strix. “They—”

  “This is an elite team. The best of the best. I don’t give these men assignments,” said Mr. Martin with impatience. “I give them objectives and they work independently.” He closed the folder and frowned. “You’ll be briefed when you get there by the SAC, Joe Nash.”

  Joe Nash! Joe Nash was a legend. A super legend. He practically wrote the book on Special Operations. In as indifferent a voice as I could muster, I said, “I heard he has his years in for retirement.”

  “He does, but he says he won’t file until he nails this guy.”

  I nodded. I could relate.

  “He’s posing as a rich collector. We have another man on the ground, Special Agent Dalton.” I hadn’t heard of him. “He’s a buyer. Then there’s a third agent on the case, Special Agent Tom García. We’ve had no contact from him in weeks.” He looked concerned.

  “What was his objective?” I asked. They were throwing a lot at me at once, probably to see if I could keep it straight.

  Mr. Martin said, “He was working the poaching side, trying to identify the buncher.” He paused. “A buncher is—”

  “I know. The middle-man. He buys from the poachers, tends the inventory, then sells to the smuggling kingpin.”

  Mr. Martin gave me a respectful nod. He handed me a post card. “His last correspondence.” The image was of a palapa bar on the beach called The Toucan. On the back García had scribbled a message: Having a great time. Have my sights set on a beautiful butterfly. Paco.

  “What’s that mean?”

  Mr. Martin shrugged. “Dunno. Butterflies are a big black market species. When you talk to Nash, give him the info. Maybe it makes sense to him.”

  I tried to read the postmarked date. “When did you get this?”

  “Two weeks ago. Nothing since. It could be he’s too deep to make contact.”

  Mr. Strix shifted to the edge of the desk. “It’s a dangerous operation, Poppy. When you work Special Ops, you’re on your own.”

  I sat back. I could handle that. In fact, I preferred it. “Is this typical protocol? To bring in another agent right in the middle of an investigation?”

  The two men looked at each other, tight-lipped. Mr. Martin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Undercover work isn’t like you’ve read in your textbooks, young lady.”

  Young lady? I could feel my teeth involuntarily clenching together.

  Strix drew in a breath. “Poppy, listen. This op is vital. We’ve had very short notice to find someone, the right someone, to send in.” He leaned forward and adjusted his glasses. “I believe that someone is you.”

  “So how do I fit in?”

  Mr. Strix grinned as if he were about to hand me a winning lottery ticket. “You’re going to choose your own pet monkey.”

  I looked to Mr. Martin, then back to him. “I’ve always wanted a monkey?” The Barenaked Ladies tune started playing in my head.

  Mr. Martin picked up a pencil and tapped it on the folder. The beat didn’t match the rhythm of the tune in my head and it was aggravating. “You’ll be partnered with Special Agent Dalton. His cover is the owner of a chain of pet stores in Texas.” He handed me a business card with the info. “He spends about ten days in Costa Rica once a month. He’s built a rapport with George and recently hinted at wanting to buy class II species. Specifically,” he cocked his head to the side, “he mentioned how his wife wants her own pet monkey.”

  He paused, waiting for my reaction. The fluorescent tube above, as if on cue, flickered and hummed. As he had said, Special Ops is an elite group. Those guys were seasoned agents. The legendary Joe Nash was in his late sixties. Thinning hair, arthritis. Dalton must have been about the same. Probably has dentures.

  “So I’m the trophy wife,” I said. The things I do for animals. I held out my hand for the folder. “How long do I have to study my cover?”

  Mr. Martin put out his hands, palms up. “That’s it.”

  I looked to Mr. Strix. “What do you mean, that’s it? How do I make contact? Where do I go?”

  He reached into a sack that had been tucked beside the desk and produced a wide-brimmed straw hat and a god-awful handbag—gold lamé with a giant buckle studded with sparkling bling. It was large enough to carry a poodle. “Seriously?” I asked.

  He examined the handbag, innocently perplexed by my reaction. “It’s my wife’s,” he said, as if that made it unquestioningly perfect.

  I zipped my lip.

  Mr. Martin looked at his watch. “Your flight’s in one hour. You connect through Dallas where you’ll switch to first class.” He eyed my duffle. “Make sure you pick up a new carry-on bag that’s appropriate to your cover.”

  Mr. Strix took my hand and slipped a diamond the size of Montana onto my finger. I shook my head. “Whoa.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ll be running with the big spenders. Besides,”—he gave me a wink—“Brittany’s worth it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Brittany?”

  Mr. Martin harrumphed again. “This from a girl named Poppy.”

  My eyebrows stretched upward so far my eyeballs hurt. In a soothing voice, which from anyone else would seem condescending, Mr. Strix said, “Dalton had to pick something. He didn’t know at the time we’d be sending someone in.”

  I tried to smile, wondering if the next trick he’d pull from the bag was a voucher for a boob job.

  “Dalton will be at the airport in San José to pick you up. He’ll be wearing tan slacks and a light blue polo shirt. Make sure you wear this hat.” He plopped it on my head.

  I flipped through the folder again. “Where’s a picture of Special Agent Dalton?”

  The two men looked at each other, blank faced.

  This was starting to feel like some kind of back room, cold war, clandestine mission. Flick the lighter twice, knock once. It was going to be fun. I wanted to rattle off a I’m your Natasha in my best Russian accent. Instead, I said, “It’s all right.”

  Mr. Martin leaned forward on the desk. “Listen, I know this situation isn’t ideal. But Jim assures me you’re up for it.” He set his jaw. “You need to understand the serious nature of the op you’re walking into. One mistake could mean your life or the life of a fellow agent. Got it?”

  I took off the hat. (It was going to be a full-on job to get my mop to fit in that thing.) “I got it.”

  “I mean it, Agent McVie.” He paused for a beat. Then huffed and shook his head. He glared at Mr. Strix. “I hope I don’t regret this.” He turned his gla
re on me. “Rule number one of undercover work: always keep your cover. The thing is, undercover work is like improv. Don’t take anything personally. You’ve gotta roll with it. You two are newlyweds, so smooch it up. You never know who might be watching.”

  “I understand, sir.” I had the urge to ask if I should pick up some Viagra on the way, but I was already pushing my luck and Mr. Martin didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor.

  “Rule number two: tell as few lies as possible. Makes it easier to keep things straight. If you liked Barbies when you were seven, then Brittany liked Barbies when she was seven. The key is to be yourself, to act natural. Got it?”

  I nodded. “Barbies. Got it.”

  “Three: if something doesn’t feel right, don’t proceed. Walk away. Be patient. You don’t want to push a relationship. Better to take another day than to blow it. And four: if you suspect you’ve been made, get the hell out of there. Notify your SAC right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you get the chance to meet George, be cautious. He’s likely going to test you. He’ll scrutinize everything you say and do.”

  “George. Test me. Got it.”

  He stared for a long moment as though it were his last chance to change his mind.

  “Is that all, sir?”

  He heaved a sigh. “Good luck.”

  Mr. Strix rose to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”

  I slung the rich-bitch bag over my shoulder and gave Mr. Stan Martin a nod.

  After two right turns and three to the left, Mr. Strix handed me a cell phone. “A Michigan number is programmed under Mom. It will transfer to me. Call if you need anything.”

  “Michigan?” I asked, but as the word came out of my mouth I realized. “No Texas accent. I grew up in Michigan. Got it.” I stopped and turned to him. “Thanks,” I said.