Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  “If you go to the FBI, they’re going to cut us out of the loop to protect any classified information that might surface.” His colleague planted his palms on the desk and leaned into his face. “We’ll lose control of these cases. Is that what you want?”

  “No—but that won’t necessarily happen.”

  “Yes, it will. We’ll be marginalized. I know how those guys work.” He straightened up. “They’re turf freaks.”

  “And we’re not?”

  Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. I concede your point. But the fact remains, if you pull the FBI into this, we’re hosed.”

  No, they weren’t.

  Luke shifted in his seat as he debated how to play this. Sarge and the higher-ups at County knew his background, but there’d been no opportunity to bring it up to his colleagues without sounding like he was full of himself. Nor had there been a reason to broach the subject. Who’d have guessed there’d be any use in his new job for such a credential?

  Now that there was, he’d have to come clean with Cole.

  “You’re right . . . in general, the Feds would cut us out. But back in Richmond, I was on the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force. My top-secret clearance is valid for another four and a half years. They’ll talk to me—and share what they find.”

  Cole arched an eyebrow and gave him an appraising sweep. “Impressive.”

  “The Bureau needed a body, and I was available.” He shrugged. “It’s no big deal—except it will be helpful in this case. I assume you have some other shots of this guy?”

  “Yeah. You know Hank. Mr. Thorough.”

  “More angles will help. If the guy’s not identifiable by any of the usual markers, he might be in a terrorist photo and name database.”

  “Assuming he is a terrorist. Just because he looks Middle Eastern doesn’t mean he had any link to Syria or those candles.”

  “True—but it can’t hurt to ask. If nothing else, I think you’ve got the guy who killed Elaine Peterson.”

  “I’m with you there.” He strolled over to the door. “So will you let me know if your intuition about this pans out? Or at least share as much as you can with someone who doesn’t have top-secret clearance?”

  “Yeah. And listen . . . no need to spread that around, okay? There’s not much chance I’ll ever have to use it again in this job.”

  “If that’s what you want.” He tipped his head. “You must have been involved in some heavy-duty investigations in Virginia.”

  “Not as many as you might think. Most of my work there was standard detective fare.”

  “Right.” Cole gave him a skeptical look and twisted his wrist. “I’m done for the week. Kelly and I have plans tonight. Unless you want to keep your FBI friend late on a Friday, you might want to call it a day too. See you next week.”

  As Cole disappeared out the door, Luke leaned back in his chair. It was after five—and much as he’d like to connect with Nick Bradley today, the man had a wife and at least one kid waiting at home for him, near as he could recall based on the scuttlebutt he’d picked up from mutual colleagues.

  This could wait until Monday—even if he didn’t want it to.

  In the meantime . . . a long, empty weekend stretched ahead. Unlike Cole, who probably had a date night—or two—planned with his wife, his social calendar was empty.

  He could stop in at Becca’s and play with the boys, though. That was always fun.

  Except odds were high she’d bring up his nonexistent social life again, and that wasn’t a subject he wanted to discuss with her.

  Yet.

  That left just one item on his weekend agenda—and it didn’t come anywhere close to being fun.

  Apologies never were.

  But he owed his dad a big one. Hearing about Kristin’s parents—and the less-than-ideal family situations of her friends—and listening to her and Becca’s take on love this week had been eye-opening.

  Luke shut down his computer . . . sighed . . . and stood. Snubbing his father for seeking companionship and love had been wrong—especially when he was on the verge of doing the same thing.

  Funny how fast your perspective could change.

  Thanks to Kristin.

  Becca might have been hammering away at him for months, but it had taken the lovely shop owner to move his sister’s message from the realm of theory to reality. To help him understand what had motivated his dad.

  And to help him grasp the truth—that while he’d never stop loving Jenny, his heart might have room for someone new.

  He flipped off the light, exited . . . and tried to psyche himself up for the difficult conversation with his father.

  Because it was never easy to eat crow.

  Tightening her grip on her umbrella, Kristin raced through the pouring rain from her car to the Treehouse Gang’s favorite breakfast spot.

  Mercy.

  Someone ought to be building an ark.

  She pushed through the door, shook off her umbrella, and shoved her damp hair off her forehead.

  Thank goodness she wasn’t meeting a date in this bedraggled state.

  Like . . . Luke, for example.

  As if there would ever be any danger of that.

  But a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  “Your friends are already here, Kristin.” Carmen breezed by with a laden tray. “I’m surprised to see you all on Sunday instead of Saturday.”

  “This worked better for us this week. We’ll be back to our routine for the next get-together.”

  After depositing her umbrella in the stand near the door, she wound through the restaurant, toward their usual table in the far corner. Colin’s choice. He claimed all law enforcement types liked to keep their back to the wall in a spot that gave them a clear line of sight while in public places.

  Luke was probably the same way.

  Oh, for pity’s sake, Kristin! Put the man out of your mind!

  If only.

  Rick spotted her and waved.

  “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” She slid into the empty chair. “The traffic was awful. Thanks for changing days this week. Without backup at the shop, Saturday was impossible.”

  “No problem. Let’s order.” Rick searched the room for Carmen.

  “A little hungry, are we?”

  “Always. I had to order that to tide me over until you arrived.” He motioned toward a half-eaten bagel.

  “I thought Trish might join us.” Kristin brushed some drops of water off her sweater, eying Colin.

  “Nope. She says marriage isn’t an excuse to neglect my friends, and she doesn’t want to barge in.”

  “Here’s to Trish—even though she’s always welcome.” Rick hefted his glass of water and changed the subject. “So Colin says the detective who stopped by the night I was at your place came again this week.”

  She stifled a groan.

  He sure hadn’t wasted any time sharing that piece of news.

  “Uh-huh.” Kristin pretended to read the menu she’d memorized long ago.

  “Why?”

  “Case update.”

  “Did he stay for dinner?” Colin leaned forward.

  “Why would you ask that?” Despite her yeoman effort to control the warmth creeping across her cheeks, the blush refused to be suppressed.

  “You were right. He stayed.” Rick snickered and nudged Colin.

  “Aren’t we going to order?” Kristin waved at Carmen. The woman must have picked up her “save me” vibes, because she bustled over.

  Thank you, Lord, for the female sisterhood.

  Carmen jotted down their selections, and the instant she departed, Kristin introduced a new subject.

  “So tell us about Hawaii. Is it as beautiful as it seems to be in pictures?”

  “Yep—but I’d rather hear about your cozy dinner.”

  Drat.

  Her buds were having none of her diversion tactics.

  “I bet Luke was impressed. You make terrific spaghetti.” Colin watched her with that
detective look of his, as if he was trying to see into her brain.

  Not happening.

  But short of lying, neither could she deny she’d invited the man to stay.

  Maybe if she admitted the truth, they could move on.

  “Okay. Since you two seem excessively interested in my spaghetti dinner, I’ll give you the scoop, such as it is. Luke is the lead detective on my case. He went out of his way to provide an update. Since I’d just made a whole batch of sauce and it was dinnertime, I invited him to stay. He accepted. End of story.”

  “Or the beginning.” Rick broke off a piece of the bagel and popped it into his mouth.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You wouldn’t ask a repair guy who happened to be there at dinnertime to stay, would you?”

  She smoothed a crease from her napkin. “That’s different.”

  “How?” Colin rested his elbows on the table and linked his fingers, still watching her.

  “What is this, the third degree? You’re not on duty today, you know.”

  “Touchy, touchy.” Rick finished off the bagel.

  “Telling, telling,” Colin corrected. “But in case you happen to be interested, everything I’ve heard about the new man in your life is positive.”

  “He’s not the new man in my life.”

  “Whatever you say. Although you are on a first-name basis. In any case, for what it’s worth, Detective Carter is one of the good guys.”

  “How do you know? He told me you two haven’t worked much together.”

  “I ran some background on him after I found him on your doorstep Tuesday.”

  “What!” Her jaw dropped.

  “Hey . . . I didn’t dig deep. No more than basic intel.”

  “You checked out a guy I’m interested in?” She continued to gape at him.

  “Ah-ha! Now the truth comes out.” Rick grinned.

  Shoot.

  She’d walked straight into that one.

  Ignoring Rick, she focused on Colin. “What possessed you to do that?”

  “Rick and I wouldn’t want you to date someone who isn’t trustworthy.”

  “We’re not dating.”

  “Yet.”

  She huffed out a breath. Much as she loved these two, they could be annoying. And overbearing. And nosy.

  “I’m through with this discussion.” She leaned down to extract a folder from her tote bag, taking longer than necessary, hoping her face would cool a few degrees.

  It didn’t.

  When she straightened up, they were both smirking at her.

  Hmph.

  They might be grinning now, but she was about to get the last laugh.

  “I wanted to talk to you about this year’s children’s show.” She opened the folder . . . and they both cringed.

  The exact reaction she’d expected.

  And after all the grief they’d given her about Luke, she was going to rope them in now for a significant behind-the-scenes commitment.

  “What are you doing this summer?” Colin gave her a wary look.

  “Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Oh joy.” He rolled his eyes.

  “The sets will be colorful.” Rick cast a hopeful glance toward the door to the kitchen, but their order was nowhere in sight.

  “That’s the spirit. Can I count on you to lead the scenery team again?”

  “I guess.”

  “Such overwhelming enthusiasm.” She made a face at him, then transferred her attention to Colin. “Lights and sound for you?”

  “Don’t I get a year off for good behavior?”

  “I’ll consider that . . . after I see some good behavior.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sign me up. Trish says she’ll help too.”

  “Excellent. The first meeting is in three weeks. I’ll text you the date and time. In the meantime, here’s some general information.” She gave each of them a set of stapled pages.

  “Hey—I think our food is coming.” Rick cleared the spot in front of him as Carmen headed their direction with a heaping tray.

  Kristin slid the empty folder back inside her tote while the waitress served their food, and the conversation moved on to other topics.

  Thank you, Lord!

  As usual, the next hour was filled with the laughter and camaraderie she always looked forward to at these breakfasts.

  Yet as their meal wound down and they went their separate ways, she didn’t feel as upbeat and carefree as usual.

  For a reason she had no difficulty identifying.

  The whole time she’d been enjoying herself with Rick and Colin, she’d kept thinking that while breakfast with her buds always gave her day a boost, a perfect day would also have included dinner with a certain handsome detective.

  Who was not named Colin.

  But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Based on Friday’s phone conversation, she might not hear from him for weeks.

  A possibility that did nothing to brighten up the gray, gloomy day—or take away the chill from the cold rain that smacked her in the face as she left the restaurant.

  After a dash to her car, she flipped on her wipers and pulled out of the parking lot. If she stepped on the gas, she could make it to the late service at church.

  Not a bad idea.

  And while she spent an hour or two in the house of God, she could also pray that when she and Luke did reconnect, the interest Colin and Rick had tricked her into admitting wouldn’t turn out to be one-sided.

  10

  “That’s an interesting theory.” Nick Bradley rested his forearms on the FBI interview room table and linked his fingers, his impassive expression offering no clue about his reaction to the story Luke had told him.

  A poker face came in handy in this line of work, and Nick was a master at it.

  Luke folded his own hands on the polished surface. After their phone conversation earlier, the Bureau would have double-checked his credentials and clearances before Nick called him back to schedule this late-Monday-morning meeting. In their place, he’d have done the same—especially after he’d used the T-word.

  Any mention of terrorists would set off alarm bells with the FBI.

  But Nick could be in the same skeptical camp as Sarge and Cole, now that he’d heard the full story.

  Best to get his take straight up.

  “You won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me you think I’m off base. My boss and the colleague who’s handling the Peterson homicide both consider my theory a stretch, at best.”

  “I’ve heard stranger stories in this job.” Nick opened the file folder Luke had brought and examined the photos of the Middle Eastern man again. “One of them involved my wife—before she was my wife—and a Raggedy Ann doll. She was sitting where you are the day she told it to me.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” Curious that Nick would share such a tidbit. Back in their Richmond days, he’d played his personal cards close to the vest.

  But life—and love—could change people.

  “I’ll have to tell you about it sometime. In terms of your theory—I think it’s worth investigating. We’ll see if our facial recognition software can pick up a match in the terrorism databases. That would lend credence to your hypothesis . . . but it won’t help us figure out what’s hidden in the candles. We’ll have to wait until the next shipment arrives to get that answer.”

  The same conclusion he’d come to.

  It was going to be a long few weeks.

  “I’ve asked the shop owner to alert us as soon as she has them in hand.”

  “How confident are you she’s an innocent party in this whole scheme?”

  “Very. Her alibi was solid. I also ran a background check.” Standard protocol in a situation like this.

  Nick flashed him a grin. “So did we, after your call. I assumed you dotted all the i’s and crossed the t’s, but given the high stakes, it doesn’t hurt to double up on a few d
etails.” He closed the folder. “Instruct her to keep this whole situation under wraps—including the arrival of the candles. We’ll need a window to evaluate them and put together a strategy if we do find anything inside.”

  “I’m confident she’ll be discreet, but I’ll reemphasize that.”

  Nick had handed him a perfect—and legitimate—reason to see Kristin again.

  The agent rose. “I’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve run these images through our software. Thanks for bringing along a flash drive.”

  “If you need any more information in the meantime, let me know.” Luke stood too.

  “Your report was thorough—as was the backup.” He tapped the file folder. “It’s been a while since our paths crossed in Virginia. How are you liking St. Louis?”

  “It’s fine. I was ready for a change of scene.”

  “I can understand that. I’m sorry about your wife.”

  The man was as thorough about intel now as he’d been during their association in Virginia, when the joint task force had helped foil a terrorist plot involving a diplomat’s daughter.

  “Thanks.” His phone began to vibrate, and he shook Nick’s hand as he pulled out the cell. “Incoming call. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” He pushed through the door of the interview room into the lobby, scanning the screen on his phone.

  Becca.

  Hmm.

  She didn’t usually call during a workday.

  He pressed talk and put the phone to his ear, exiting the building in downtown St. Louis. Yesterday’s rain had cleared, and the sun was peeking through the clouds, coaxing the winter-weary vegetation back to life.

  Good.

  He was tired of cold and gray.

  “Hi, Sis. What’s up?”

  “You tell me. Dad just called. He said you rang him last night and left a message, and you haven’t returned his two follow-up voicemails. He’s worried something’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I didn’t think so . . . but if a call from you is so out-of-pattern he panicked, I thought I better ring you myself. Why didn’t you get back to him?”

  “I’ve had a busy morning—and I wasn’t in a position to talk.”

  True . . . but he’d also been procrastinating. That was why he’d put off the difficult call to the last possible minute last night, finally placing it only because he’d promised Becca a week ago he would.