by Matt Lincoln
“It’s my pleasure, always a pleasure indeed.” Green beckoned me to the safe where he kept all of the car keys. “Any day I can help our venerable law enforcement agents is a day I am proud to be a red-blooded American.” He pulled out a key attached to a Ferrari keychain. “I assume you know how to use a finely tuned clutch.”
“My nineteen-seventy Mustang Mach 1 has a touchy clutch, and she rolls out really nice. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
“That’s a nice car. Glad to know you appreciate your cars.” He took me out to the lot. “The classics are always good to keep around. They remind you how far automotive engineering has come in the past few decades. Well, since the beginning, really. Can you imagine if old Henry Ford could’ve seen all of this fine machinery?” Green spread his arms to take in the collection of handcrafted aluminum and carbon fiber. “What can I say? It’d make the man weep for joy.”
“It is impressive,” I admitted. It wasn’t something I often thought about because where I lived, I was surrounded by expensive cars on a daily basis. That said, I had an appointment to keep. “Which car are we looking at?”
There were three 488s, two of which were Spiders. Both had their tops and windows down. Green led me to the yellow car. “It’s a twenty-seventeen with almost five thousand miles.” He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have more than two thousand. A few more won’t hurt, as long as you take care of her.”
“I will.” I held out my hand for the key. His natural smile turned strained. “Thanks, this will help us out. A lot.”
“I know what you people do for a living,” Jerry told me. “Seriously, be careful. No bullet holes or blood. I treat these cars as if they were my children, and my children won’t sell if they are destroyed.”
“We’re not planning to have any gunfights today,” I answered. “You saw that Davis is driving his own car. Believe me, he wouldn’t put that baby in danger if he could help it.”
Green took a deep breath and nodded. “True, true.” He handed me the key. “Here, be good and have her home by dusk if at all possible.”
“I’ll do my best to make curfew.” I chuckled.
“You know, I almost went into law enforcement,” he told me as I got into the car. “It was all I thought about as I grew up. My father, my uncle, and some of my cousins joined the force back on the mainland.”
I shut the door and turned the key. “It’s a noble profession.”
“Indeed. Well, I also loved cars, as you can imagine. So when I came out here for spring break my senior year, and I saw the cars out here, from the rolling death traps to the nicest, I knew this was where I had to be. I moved here after graduation and worked my way up through car sales. I told myself I’d handle the best of the best.” He stepped away from the Ferrari with a beatific smile. “I am where I am meant to be.” He let out a happy sigh.
“That’s wonderful,” I said, and I meant it. “I have to go before I’m late.” Or later than I was supposed to be. “Thank you again, Jerry.”
I revved the engine a little to drown out his chatter and then eased the Ferrari into gear. It’d been a long while since I’d had the pleasure, and I intended to enjoy it for as little time as I had for it that day. Even though I didn’t look back to check, I had the feeling that Green watched as this particular child of his disappeared down the road.
The downside of the day’s mission was that I only had eight miles to drive the Ferrari. Granted, the drive over included one of the most spectacular views of the ocean in the nation. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot to complain about. Were it not for the circumstances, a guy could almost forget he had commitments to keep.
Herman Jones’s office was on the first floor of a newer three-story building that consisted of accounting and legal practices. Jones & Co. had their main entrance to the outside rather than through the building’s lobby, so we parked at the end of the building rather than at the main entrance. I made sure not to park immediately next to the Corvette. After all, our cover identities made clear we weren’t exactly friends.
I went in and was greeted by a jittery assistant who waited by the reception desk. The bored-looking young woman behind the desk waved me over to the assistant.
“Mr. Dalton?” the assistant asked. His voice squeaked at the end of my cover name. At my nod, he gestured for me to follow. “Mr. Jones is waiting in his office. He was about to leave for lunch, and then you would’ve had to reschedule for next week.”
The look in the young man’s eyes suggested that was a route I did not want to take. This didn’t sound like the laid-back salesman that Meisha and Stark had interviewed. Not that I was surprised. Few people showed the same faces to law enforcement that they showed to the people they met with every day. I looked forward to learning if Jones really didn’t know that his business was being used to launder money.
“It’s a good thing I didn’t get caught in traffic,” I told the assistant as I clapped him on the back. “Things work out the way they’re meant.”
“Y-yes, sir.” He stopped at a frosted-glass door with Herman Jones’s name detailed in gold leaf and then opened said door. “Mr. Jones, Mr. Dalton is here.”
“Send him in,” Jones barked. This was the voice from the recording, only gruffer. “I have a schedule to keep.”
I winked at the hapless assistant on my way in. My role was that of the reckless playboy, and that was how my character got into trouble.
“Traffic’s a bitch,” I complained as I sat in an overstuffed armchair that faced Jones’s desk.
“Leave earlier next time,” he said in a clipped tone. “Mr. Letts was kind enough to arrive on time. Shall we begin?”
Davis smirked from the other armchair. For his role, he wore a tan designer suit, possibly Armani. An off-white pocket square with a thin burgundy border poked out enough to show a row of little, widely spaced honeybees. I’d have to ask about that later.
“Sounds like a plan.” I kept my voice light. “How do you wanna do this, Timmy?”
Davis scoffed. “Timothy. Call me Timothy.” He turned to Jones. “Do you see what I have to deal with?”
“Mmm.” Jones pushed his glasses up with his middle finger. “Your message indicated that you wish to sell a family heirloom to Mr. Dalton. Have you had it evaluated by an appraiser?”
“No.” Davis leaned back and crossed his legs. “It was just delivered from my relatives in Santa Barbara. My aunt passed away and left a few things in her will. This was one of them.”
“Very well,” Jones murmured. He pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and set it before us. “Mind you that his name is to be kept in strictest confidence. He doesn’t do appraisals for just anyone. He requires clients to sign NDAs before he will see them.”
“I do not have a problem with that,” Davis said in a level tone. “Dalton?”
I shrugged and scratched at the side of my nose. “Why wouldn’t a hot-shot appraiser want some good word of mouth? I thought that’s how these things worked.”
“Alec,” Davis snapped. “If you did, then you don’t pay enough attention.”
“Mr. Dalton, if you wish to proceed, sign this sheet. Otherwise, quit wasting my time.”
I frowned as if my fun was ruined and signed the paper. The dynamic allowed for some talkback, but Davis’s Letts was in charge. Dalton owed for sex services and hadn’t paid. Now he was doing so and with interest.
“I still don’t get why you wouldn’t let me pay you in installments,” I grumbled. “I forgot about—”
“Gentlemen, I neither know nor care about the specifics of your sale,” Jones interrupted. “If you have to be contentious, do it on your own time or in the company of the appraiser. I deal with the details of the sale itself.”
I signed the sheet in a huff. Jones tucked it into a different drawer and then brought out two business cards. He handed one to each of us. The only thing printed was a phone number. I looked at it and then stuck it in my front pocket. Davis slid his into an alligato
r wallet.
“Do not lose these cards. You will not get another chance to contact the appraiser. Mr. Letts, you may call at precisely four fifty-three this afternoon. Mr. Dalton, you may call at five-twelve. You will receive your instructions at that time.”
“Understood,” Davis said as he got to his feet. He reached over to shake Jones’s hand, and the man obliged him. “Alec, I’ll see you later.” He left with staccato steps down the tile hall.
I rolled my eyes and heaved out of the chair with as little grace as I could manage without falling over. Nouveau riche attitude dripped from my very pores, and on the inside, I got a kick out of using it to annoy the piss out of Jones. I may or may not have hoped to annoy Davis as well.
“Thanks, Mr. Jones,” I said with a grin. “You’re helping a bunch. It’s my own fault I let it—”
“Enough, Dalton!” Jones slapped his palms on his desk. “Don’t you get how this works? I don’t do details so that when the feds come asking questions, which they do more than you think, I don’t have answers for them. If you can’t follow the rules, there will be serious consequences. Do you understand me?”
I blinked and nodded. “Yeah, sorry, man.” I rubbed the back of my head and acted chastened. “I’m new to this. I won’t screw it up, I promise.”
“See that you don’t.” Jones opened a drawer and took out a set of keys. He slammed the drawer shut and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse yourself, I have an appointment I absolutely must keep.”
“Okay. I’m going.”
I made my exit quick and rough, as though I was embarrassed but holding strong. A rich playboy who’d gotten himself into trouble with the wrong people was learning his place. Jones left a few paces behind me.
As I got into the yellow Ferrari, I saw that Davis’s Corvette was already gone. Jones, however, was on his phone. He stood next to a red Maserati while he spoke. I started the Ferrari and waited an entire fourteen seconds for the top to pull back into its hatch. Jones regarded me over the rim of his glasses as I backed out, so when I shifted from reverse to forward, I committed the ultimate sin and ground the gears. He flinched and shook his head as I got it together and charged out of the parking lot.
“Sorry, baby,” I told the Ferrari.
I wasn’t in the habit of talking to cars, but damn, I felt bad. Yeah, I felt bad but not as bad as Holm would feel if we didn’t find his sister.
CHAPTER 18
Davis and I met at the hotel. Meisha and Holm joined us, but the others had gone into the office. They wouldn’t be alone. Meisha updated us as we messaged the appraiser’s two phone numbers to Warner.
“There’s a SEAL platoon between assignments at Pearl Harbor right now. Their commanding officer assigned two of his men per shift until the threat is over,” Meisha informed us. “Or until they ship out next week, whichever comes first.”
“Better than being idle, but if I were them, I would’ve preferred liberty.” I flicked a piece of lint off of the hotel bed. “I’m glad they’re here, though.”
“It is what it is.” Meisha’s mischievous grin reached her eyes. “Besides, two of their legends just might pop in at the office while they’re here.”
I chuckled. “The Pacific teams might not know us so well.”
“Everyone knows us,” Holm said in a droll tone. “Whatever we need to do to keep them happy, I’m all for it.”
Davis shook his head. “Typical. You SEALs always think you’re more legendary than you are.”
“I’d just as soon be anonymous,” I told him. Then, I frowned. “Anonymous like our antiques appraiser. Jones sure has that worked out. Plausible deniability. He won’t even say our unsub’s name aloud. That’s a lot of work to make a few nice commissions.”
“Do we have anything on those numbers yet?” Davis asked.
We all hoped to have some sort of picture of the guy before engaging with him. If we could get a location and warrant before requiring a meet, so much the better. All we needed was the appraiser’s goddamn name.
“TJ hasn’t called yet,” Meisha said with a grimace. “If the numbers had been easy to trace, there wouldn’t have been any point in having two different ones for buyers and sellers to use.”
I sat up as a realization broke. “Call TJ, now. Stop the trace, if it’s not too late.”
“Why?” she asked in surprise.
“Traces are why our guy has separate numbers.”
Meisha’s brows rose as comprehension set in. She called Warner while I went deeper into my explanation. “They might have a way to detect traces or searches. If one number gets run, that might be a problem. If both are run, he’ll see it’s a sting.”
Holm sat on his bed and laid back to stare at the ceiling. The stormy look on his face showed me the pain he nursed.
“TJ’s halted the search,” Meisha reported. “He thinks he got to it before anyone could’ve detected him.” She sighed. “He can still work through the searches, but it’ll take longer now that he’s looking for traps. However, if it works for the first one, we may not need to do the second, and that might get us that time back.”
I wondered how he’d know if he set off an alert, but that’s why he was the techie, and I was the muscle. My alma mater was the U.S. Navy School of Hard Knocks, not MIT. I was perfectly fine with that. For me, it was better to know how to take care of myself than create code to make or break someone’s day. At least TJ’s skills were used to make my days.
“We have until just before and after five o’clock this evening,” Davis reminded us. He nodded toward me. “Keeping our heads low for now is the best thing.”
It was tempting to go back to the office with Meisha, but more of the unsub’s goons could be watching and get pictures of our faces. Was I acting paranoid? Hell yes. That’s what kept me alive. Davis was on the same page. We needed to find ways to keep busy that wouldn’t get us sold out unless we didn’t mind twiddling our thumbs all afternoon.
“I’m going to go pay my respects at the Harbor,” I told them. “I’m not worried about getting eyeballed there. Robbie, come with me. It’s been too long.”
“I need to stay close to the office,” Holm protested. “If anything comes in about Ronnie, I am not going to miss it.”
Meisha stood and walked over to where he still lay on the bed. It was rare that she got to loom over the tall guy, and she took full advantage of that.
“You are going with Ethan,” she ordered.
“But…”
“Butts are for shitting,” she countered with an edge to her voice. “You’re on Oahu. The least you could do is pay your brothers some respect.”
He sat up. The frown remained, but the slight snarl was gone.
“You’ll get to ride in the Ferrari,” I coaxed. “I know how you feel about Ferraris.”
His face softened. “Maybe. Aren’t you worried about being seen in it?”
“Nah. There are a bunch of these on the island.” I shrugged. “Besides, Alec Dalton is allowed to have friends.”
“I’m going home to take care of some things,” Davis said. “I’ll meet you back here at four.” He removed his pocket square, neatly folded it, and then put it in his back pants pocket before he took off his blazer. “By the way, I saw the Mango Fest in the bag of goodies you brought from the mainland. I tried that brand last time I was off the island. Good stuff. It’d do well in a bar. I’m going to see if my guy Floyd can get his hands on it.”
“Best of Barbados’s rum,” I told him. “We got to see their distillery. It’s a nice place.”
Davis was out the door before I realized exactly what that meant.
“Hey, you shared,” I accused Meisha. “That bag was for you.”
“He works his ass off.” She crossed her arms. “You didn’t think I was going to drink all of that liquor myself, did you?”
Holm perked up. “We heard your mom moved out with you. How could we not bring tribute?” He cocked his head. “Wait a minute, why haven’t we seen her ye
t?”
“She’s in Miami. She didn’t follow me to California because it was an easy flight away. This is something else entirely, so she’s back in Florida staging the house for sale.”
“I miss her bringing cookies and brownies into the office,” I said with more than a little nostalgia.
“I don’t,” Meisha laughed, “but she’ll be up to the same thing when she gets back.”
Meisha’s mom was the best. She was a widow and only had one kid, so Meisha’s friends and coworkers often got “mommed” by Mrs. Griezmann. Mrs. G always decorated parts of the office for holidays, as well. Who was going to say “no” to her?
“Okay, then,” I said with a chuckle. “We’ll be back by four.”
CHAPTER 19
After Meisha left, I changed into a light-blue seersucker shirt with nice jeans, a Navy hat, and aviator glasses. It was more casual but respectful. Holm dressed similarly.
He walked out of the bathroom carrying his shirt, and I saw his scars from the underwater fight that almost killed him a couple of months earlier. Angry red, but healing, one scar ran from his sternum, wound down his side, and then over to his left hip. Small dots along either side showed where the doctors stapled the wound closed after many hours of surgery. He’d been extremely lucky not to have any damage that couldn’t be repaired. For him, the hardest part of his recovery was being smothered by the restrictions required for him to heal.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Holm asked as he put on his shirt. “I swear I can hear their screams when I’m there.”
I put my elbows on my knees and sighed. “The Arizona guys, they’re still down there, you know? As long as they’re buried at sea in that spot, it’s up to us to keep their memories alive.”
He nodded. “I get it. You know I’m with you. It’s just that I keep thinking that the next burial in my life will be Ronnie.”
I grabbed the Ferrari key and pocketed it. “Look, if you’re not feeling it today, stay with the car while I go in. We can go again later, with Ronnie.”
