They all took seats in the back room, the feminine and friendly version of Father D’s mini man cave. This room expected visitors. There was plenty of comfortable seating. No leather in sight. The only familiar style was in the heavy, dark wool rug on the same hardwood floors. But it was plush underfoot so Dane forgave its medieval flavor.
He sat last and chose a seat on the couch next to Marian, partly to test the relationship between her and Father D and partly for a convenient review of the names in the logbook.
Shana said, “Look for a Russian name.” He nodded. He wasn’t surprised. He knew Shana would get something useful out of Sister Anne. He skimmed the pages and when he came to a Russian name, knowing it would be fake, he pointed to it and noted the date and time. It looked about right. Three days before the baby was left there. Whoever tried to kidnap Paulette had to be the blackmailer. The fiancée’s name was odd. Lara Bennett. Dane tucked it away.
“Do you remember this gentleman? From five days ago—visited on a Sunday at about three in the afternoon?” he asked Marian.
“Sure. I don’t get many Russian immigrant visitors. He and his fiancée were looking to get married and wanted to know, if they were married in the church, could they have their reception in the house.”
“What did he look like?”
She described the man. Dane looked at Shana and Sister Anne. Shana nodded.
“Was it the same guy?” he asked Sister Anne.
She was reluctant. “Could be. It’s hard to say based on Marian’s description.” Dane had to filter out the chances that was a dig on Marian’s descriptive powers to decide whether Sister Anne was truly reluctant to accuse someone or whether she was really unsure.
“It’s the same guy. The tattoo.” Shana said.
“Can you describe the tattoo in more detail?” Dane asked Marian.
“Sure.” She did.
Shana nodded. Sister Anne sat rigid. Dane thought, women.
“Tell me about the woman he was with.”
“She was a dark-haired beauty. Quiet. Looked Latina. Which was funny with a name like Lara Bennett so I figured the name was fake for whatever reason. Not terribly unusual.”
Dane agreed that the name had to be fake, at least the last name. Hopefully not the first.
“Did she say anything?”
Marian squinted her eyes, then tapped her chin with a forefinger decked out in a ruby red nail and a gold filigree ring embedded with a matching ruby. She was no one’s idea of a poor widow needing a job and a place to live. How the hell did the inhabitants of this house entice her to stay? But that was a stupid thought. Dane knew the answer. There had to be something between her and Father D, even if they were both in denial.
“No. Not a word, now that you mention it.” She paused, then added, “And he was holding her arm unnecessarily tight in my opinion—like he thought she might run away. I noticed because it was distracting and I was a little concerned.”
“What did you tell them about having the reception in the rectory?” Shana wanted to know.
“I said no, of course. We’ve never done anything like that. The man insisted that I ask the pastor or whoever was in charge, but Father D—Donahue wasn’t in, so I couldn’t. He has a regular meeting with the parish council on Sunday afternoons, which is partly why I keep the reception room open to handle parishioners and anything else that comes up.”
“So what did he say?”
“He asked me to show him around in the meantime.”
“Did you?” Dane asked. He flashed a look at Shana. They’d both raised their brow a fraction. This was their guy. Too bad they didn’t have a police artist on retainer to get a drawing done. He had some software back at his beach shack, but he doubted Father D would let his precious Marian out for a field trip. Or if he was smart, he wouldn’t let her go anywhere with Dane.
“Can I ask what this has to do with the shooting? Do you think the guy cased the joint because he planned to come back and attack Sister Anne?” Marian said.
Dane wondered if the small note of incredulousness was a purposeful dig or a subconscious thing she wasn’t aware of. Of course Sister Anne was immediately aware of it and stiffened—not because of the implied threat to her safety, either. But that was neither here nor there.
Marian had mentioned not one thing about the baby. Dane wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t know about the baby or whether she was being loyal to Father D and presuming Dane and Shana knew nothing. There were more hidden agendas than anterooms around this place.
“Yes, that’s a possibility,” Dane answered. He noticed Shana watching him. She kept quiet. He had to admit she knew when to let him lead—at least professionally. She was good at silence when they were playing partner. She was a damned good partner. Damn it.
“I showed them around—just a little. Just a few rooms on the first floor,” Marian confessed, not looking at Sister Anne or any of the rest of them. Only apologizing to Father Donahue.
“It’s okay, Marian. You were doing your job. It’s not your fault,” Father Donahue told her. He spoke with kindness and deference and sounded a lot like when he had spoken to Sister Anne the same way. Dane noticed Sister Anne looking toward a corner of the room as if there were something interesting there she hadn’t noticed before. There wasn’t.
“What questions did he ask you?” Dane knew the man had asked questions. Probably about who lived there and where their rooms were, what kind of living quarters they had.
“He asked about who lived here and where we lived, who worked here and when—excessive really, now that I think about it.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But we aren’t hiding anything.”
“So you told him,” Sister Anne said. Marian ignored her.
She said to Dane, “It seemed innocuous at the time—the way he asked. Part of the conversation.” Marian had a slight whining note to her voice now. Her attractiveness disappeared. Sister Anne was paying attention again. Shana moved restlessly and checked her watch.
“We’ll need that list from you, Father,” Dane said. He didn’t need a sledgehammer. They’d gotten more than enough. They’d probably need to come back later. One way or another.
“Yes, of course. I’ll get it. You can wait in the reception area,” he said.
The man didn’t trust him with his two favorite girls. Go figure. He ought to let the guy know he was safe. Of course Sister Anne was off limits. And Marian, as it turned out, was not his type. Too talkative. Not enough substance.
Shana held his arm as they walked out the front door and Dane figured the smile she wore was real. They’d come away with a passel of leads.
“We have lots of homework,” he said. “Where do you want to start first?”
“The club.”
“I knew you were going to say that. Too early in the day. We want to go as patrons. Later.”
“We could call in the names—have Governor Douglas run the aliases. Give him the description of the man and the tattoo.”
“Sure.” He dialed his phone and called the names in by the time they got back to their car. “You see anyone?” he asked as he opened her door, standing close.
“All I see is you.” She said it in the kind of voice that made his heart jump—a couple of other body parts jumped too. He stood for a beat. She was daring him to kiss her. She said it was for show—in case someone was watching. But—he knew better.
He leaned in the fraction of space, took a deep inhale of her scent and touched his lips to hers. The sizzle went through him like a lightning strike and he went ramrod stiff inside of two seconds. He bunched her hair in one hand and leaned the other on the car beside her. Then he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue inside her mouth and wishing it were all of him plunging inside her. He felt her tremble. Shit, he felt himself tremble. The arm braced against the car would give out if he didn’t back off.
He loosened his grip on her hair first then pressed himself away, letting his lips linger over hers for a last taste. F
or a taste that would have to last him who knew how long. He took a deep breath and separated himself from her, staring into her eyes where he read a mirror image of his own jumble of feelings. Maybe hers were more troubled. Maybe he was hiding his trouble better.
“That ought to convince them.”
“I hope they were watching,” she said in a throaty, aroused voice. “Hate to waste all that trade craft for nothing.” She had that wry half-sad smile and he could see her breasts heaving up and down like she’d just stopped running after miles. He felt his heartbeat, still rapid, slowing. He reached up and twirled a strand of her hair around his fingers.
“Never a waste, girlie. I live for the practice.”
He turned and walked around the car like a wounded man. He was a wounded man, but the limp was temporary.
“David Young will call us back with the results of the alias search and the tattoo ID.” He started the car but before he could get them out of park, his cell rang.
“That was quick,” Shana said.
Dane looked at the number and shook his head. “Not David Young.”
Then he answered the call.
“What is it, Father?”
Shana raised her brows high in an exaggeration of surprise and half smiled.
Dane leaned toward her with the phone so she could listen in. It didn’t take much. Father D had one of those loud phone voices that could probably be heard by the guy across the street if the car window was open.
“I wanted to let you know—in case it was significant—I couldn’t say anything inside.”
“Didn’t want to tip Marian off?”
“I recognized the woman visitor’s name. The first name.”
“From where?”
Father named the club.
“Good to know. That’s where we’re going tonight. We’ll ask for her. See what happens.” Dane paused before signing off. He sensed the priest had more to say.
“I… saw her more than once. It has to be her. I was … particularly taken with her—we were taken with each other. But I realized it was crazy—wrong to keep seeing her and I came to my senses, you might say. I stopped seeing her. I never went back to the club or the neighborhood where we’d met. I never saw her again after that.”
“Okay. You know I’m not a confessional.”
The priest laughed. That raised him up a level in Dane’s eyes, but he was still below gutter level so it wasn’t saying much. At least he laughed at his own horrible folly. Not that that would make a shit bit of difference to Paulette.
He signed off the call and looked at Shana. Her green eyes looked back at him.
He said, “Your eyes are prettier than hers. Just for the record.”
To Shana’s credit, she didn’t bother asking whose eyes he was talking about. He knew she knew he was comparing her green eyes to Marian’s green eyes. She squinted at him and smacked him on the thigh.
“You’re incorrigible. But at least you’re not a priest.”
He laughed. “There is that.”
“Well what are you waiting for?” she said. “Let’s go check into a hotel.”
His heart gave a lurch before she laughed at him. Then he slapped her on the thigh. And lingered just a beat. Before letting go.
He drove to their hotel in silence. They pulled up to the curb alongside the red-carpeted sidewalk of the Parker House Hotel on School Street in Boston. Dane enjoyed the old-world charm and he hadn’t yet figured out why. Maybe he identified with the revolutionary history of Boston and maybe this hotel reminded him of the history—although it wasn’t that old. But it was in the neighborhood with the Granary Cemetery and Paul Revere’s grave.
Shana was lost in her own thoughts and their silence was far from comfortable. But also far from the most uncomfortable of their silences. She jumped from the car and hefted her bag from the back without waiting and without a word. Dane took a deep breath in a futile attempt to stop his nerves and muscles from tightening to a painful twist. He was confident he could keep himself from snapping. He was a pro. Barely.
In their room—because Dane could always count on Shana’s frugality to win out over her need for space and separation from him—well, almost always—he made the call. As soon as he said “Hello, Sassy,” Shana snatched the phone from his hand—in a deft move he couldn’t help admiring.
“Sassy—how is Paulette? Is she all right? No problems?”
Sassy must have answered her in the affirmative because Shana’s face lit up in that way that tightened his nerve endings in an entirely different way. He rose from his resting spot on the only bed in the room and stood at Shana’s shoulder to listen in. She bristled for a moment and then relented.
“Has Cap been by?”
“Yes—he’s been here twice already. I feel very protected. And Paulette is a cutie. I hope you don’t mind if I bake a few pies?”
“No—that’s good. Pies are good.”
“Nothing unusual at all, Sassy? No strange men lurking about?” Dane asked over Shana’s shoulder.
“Hi Dane. Not that I could tell, but we haven’t been out too much—keeping a low profile like you said.”
“Good girl.”
“Okay. We’ll call again later to check in. Bye,” Shana said. She was about to sign off when Sassy blurted a final comment that turned Dane’s casual interest into full alertness.
“Oh wait—there was a strange phone call—the man had a funny accent.”
Chapter 8
He felt Shana go rigid and tighten her grip on the phone. He said, “Did it sound like a Russian accent—maybe like this?” Dane mimicked a Russian accent.
“Yes. That was it. Someone you know?” Sassy asked.
“No. Someone we want to avoid. I’m going to call Cap as soon as I hang up and have him come by. What did the man say to you?”
“Nothing. He just asked if Jane was here and then said, ‘Sorry, wrong number,’ when I told him no.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Is there a problem?” Sassy’s voice had a shaky timbre to it now. She was no fool. Dane had no intention of trying to fool her.
“Yes. We’re looking for the Russian in question. We think he’s here in Boston. But it’s not a good sign that he called the beach shack.”
“Do you think he knows Paulette is here?”
“Hard to say. We’ll be back tomorrow as soon as we can get there. In the meantime, we’ll have Cap stay with you.”
He hung up. Shana asked the question he was asking himself.
“How do you think he found out about us?”
“I can think of a few ways. None that bode well.”
“Seriously? Do you think they having listening technology and they’re using it on a priest to find a baby?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? The future Russian groom from last week could have planted something somewhere along the tour—in a phone, most likely.”
“Either that or they followed Father Stupid Donahue to the island and they’re there now watching the house and we’re here—”
“Don’t panic yet. They wouldn’t have waited this long to make their move if they were on the island.”
Dane called Cap while Shana paced the small room. After they did as much background checking as they could on the club and the neighborhood, they changed into ratty T-shirts and applied some fake tattoos. Dane did not mention to Shana that her T-shirt was at least one size too small, possibly two. Same with her jeans. His T-shirt was baggy enough to cover a Glock stuck inside the back waist of his loose jeans.
“Where are you going to put a weapon in that get-up?” he asked.
She lifted a small handbag and waved it in front of him.
“That’s barely big enough to carry a Saturday night special.”
“That’s all I need. I have you for backup, don’t I?”
You have me for whatever you want. Always.
He had to be insane. It was the effects of a no-good, rotten, baby case haunting him. He flashed her
a smile, knowing it would be lackluster, and not caring if she called him on it. She didn’t.
“We can’t wait for David to call.” He dialed David’s number, knowing it would be futile. He knew very well the man would have called if he had anything.
“Hey, Sherlock—we’re about to take off. Anything useful come up on the name and description?”
“We’re running it by the various departments including ICE, the FBI, ATF and Interpol. Internally we don’t have anything. Either the guy is well hidden and therefore very important or he’s under the radar because he’s minor or new. How heavy was the accent?”
“Not terrible. He’s probably not new. Keep us posted.”
Dane signed off and he and Shana left the hotel. They took a taxi to the edge of the neighborhood several blocks from the destination and looked for a place to eat. Dane knew they’d be less suspicious if they approached from somewhere else and were around the neighborhood for a while. The bad guys would have watchers on strangers and Dane wanted to check out as harmless. David had given him the name of an undercover op who worked the area and who they could say they were visiting if asked.
Predictably, Shana ate hardly a bite but he filled himself. He had an iron stomach that required feeding to keep his adrenaline up.
“We’re on,” he said, rising from the scarred wooden chair in the dark, half-empty dive. “You ready?”
She nodded and stood. He watched her face harden to granite and not lose an ounce of the beauty in the process. She’d have made a great queen or goddess or warrior princess in the ancient times. Now, she was formidable and her sensual aura was like a spider’s web. He needed to be careful.
He and Shana would ask for the woman by her first name, Lara, and hope it was enough. It was certain the last name she used in the church registry was made up. Bennett. Her description didn’t fit a Bennett. You’d think she would have used a more appropriate alias.
Beachcomber Baby (Beachcomber Investigations Book 3) Page 7
