by Dana Marton
“I’ll check into it,” he said, and pulled out his PDA, the best invention since ink and paper.
“You will?” She looked at him with so much gratitude it made him feel like a grade-A bastard.
Because his involvement in the case of William Bronter was only in small part to do with her needing answers. Mostly, he wanted to make sure Bronter had worked alone and if he hadn’t, he wanted to make sure whoever else had been behind it all wouldn’t interfere with the women’s work.
The mission.
He had to keep his focus on that, had to keep her focus on it, hers and the others.
“Other than the folder, have you got anything else so far?”
She nodded, embarrassed, and went to the kitchen cabinets, pulled a large manila envelope from the top and placed it in front of him.
“You’ve been busy,” he remarked.
“Sorry. I know I should have—”
He cut her off. “I would have done the same.” He dropped the stack of printouts in front of him. “Why don’t you go lie down. Looks like I’ve got plenty of work right here for me. Might as well spend the night.”
SHE STARED at the dark shadows on the ceiling, listening to the passing cars on the street below and the sounds of paper being shuffled in the kitchen.
William had come to kill her.
William was dead.
She didn’t know which thought seemed the most unlikely. Then there was the string of “why’s” swirling, playing ring-around-the-rosy in her head.
She had cared for William, had laughed at his wobbly jokes, had made love to him. They had turned out to be a good short-term match. He was a clerk at a major accounting firm. They had finance in common. She hadn’t considered anything permanent, not with anyone since Miguel. She was scared of long term, scared of saying the words “till death do us part.”
Yet, death did come, just the same.
William had been her second serious relationship. Not as serious as Miguel, though. They’d been married at nineteen and she lost him to a drive-by shooting the year after. She’d been in love blindly and fully with all the innocent enthusiasm only young age could produce.
After Miguel’s death she’d run away to college, an all-girls school, as eighteenth-century widows locked themselves up in convents. She had wanted to be lost in work, to be away from everything that reminded her of him. She hadn’t gone on one date the whole four years, then met a quiet, nonthreatening grad student when she was going for her MBA and they got together from time to time to work on assignments and ease each other’s solitudes, give comfort of companionship and body. Love had never entered into the picture for either.
When she graduated, she’d gone home and took the small family business in hand and grew it with the same ferocious concentration she’d put into her grades. The intense hard work produced results. They bought a competing construction business, increased their equipment inventory, landed bigger and better paying jobs. Before she knew it, Pellegrino’s had a reputation for being one of the best in the state.
Then, when the business no longer took a hundred percent of her time, William came waltzing in—all charm, amusing and gallant, knew just what to say, just what to do—and she let herself fall a little, holding back, always holding back enough so her heart couldn’t ever be as badly broken as it had been after Miguel.
She never loved William, because she’d made up her mind from the very beginning that she wouldn’t. Just as she’d decided that she would never get involved with a man who was a cop or a car racer or a pilot or whatever other dangerous occupations there were out there. She was not going to lose another man. If a relationship she was in ended, it would be because she ended it when she was good and ready.
Miguel had been a taxi driver. Picking up the wrong guy, at the wrong corner, at the wrong time.
Miguel had been dead for fourteen years and she wasn’t sure she was over him yet. She let her pillow soak up the lone tear.
Miguel, the exact opposite of the FBI agent now sitting in her kitchen, guarding her sleep.
Brant Law was all battle-hardened experience with plenty of skepticism, where Miguel had been full of youthful innocence and optimism. For Miguel, everything had been about the family. She had a feeling that for Brant Law, everything was about the job. Miguel had given his heart trustingly, freely and with passion. She wondered if any woman had managed to touch Brant Law’s heart yet.
What a fool she was lying here in the dark comparing the two. They had nothing to do with each other.
She had nothing to do with the man in her kitchen beyond the job at hand.
“HOW IS THE SHOOTING affecting our business?” Tsernyakov scrolled through his e-mail as he talked on the phone to his Grand Cayman connection.
“My people are lying low. The police think it was probably something drug related, so they’re rounding up the usual suspects. Because of all the publicity with the governor being so close, there are searches going on all over George Town.”
“Meaning it could cost us money.”
“In the short term, yes.” The man sounded grim.
“Any idea what the shooting was really about?”
“Nobody seems to know. Word on the street is that maybe they were outsiders.”
“I’m expecting our people on the police force to keep the heat off our interests on the island.” It was a message he knew the man would deliver.
“They’re nervous. The governor is demanding results.”
Which meant that all bets were off. He had a half-dozen cops on his payroll on the island. They smoothed the way for the businesses he conducted through his varied channels. But when something like this hit and the police department was forced to defend itself from queries from above, it was every man for himself. The first priority of the weasels who took his money would be to cover their own asses.
And the cops were focusing on drugs. Damn. One of his ships was coming to port within the week.
“If they don’t have the shooters within the next three days, we’re going to have to handle it. I want the witch hunt over as soon as possible. Do we have anyone who hasn’t been performing?”
“A couple of runners might be skimming off the top. I was going to take care of it this week.”
“You take them and add whichever dirty cop forgets who’s the boss.”
“I’ll set up a nice scene.”
Yes, he would. The man was good at what he did. Tsernyakov switched to another e-mail account while he mulled that over. His man on the island would make it look like some fallout between a crooked cop and his drug-running buddies. The police commissioner would eat that up. He could report that the danger was over. The extra police activity would be called off. The governor would be pleased; the tourists who were responsible for seventy percent of the islands GDP could go back to relaxing and spending more money. He wanted everybody to be happy, for the status quo to be restored. He needed that for his business to run smoothly.
“I’m sending you something,” he said as he opened an e-mail that contained four attachments. “The background checks on the Savall, Ltd. women are in.”
“Are they good?”
Tsernyakov scanned the body of the message and grinned. “They told you they met in college?”
“Yes.”
“The college of hard knocks. All four spent time in Brighton Federal Correctional Institute, Maryland.” The more he found out about the enigmatic beauties, the more he liked them. From all accounts so far, they were beautiful, smart and dirty as hell. A nearly irresistible combination.
“What did they sit for?”
“Computer crimes, grand theft auto, embezzlement and manslaughter.” He was smiling as he read the list that to anyone else might have sounded like a bad rap sheet, but to him was a damn fine résumé.
He forwarded the message, along with the attachments. “Let me know if you decide to do business with them.” He wanted to know if they were as good as he thought they might be.
He liked the embezzlement part in particular, the fact that the money had never been recovered. Smart. And instead of hiding with it and making a measly living, drawing a few hundred bucks a week so as to not garner attention, the woman leaves the country and sets up a business, makes a damn career for herself, recruits a team from among her prison buddies who are not afraid of a little dirty work. Attitude and imagination, not to mention sheer guts.
Maybe when he was done with Alexandra…
“If the island cops can’t wrap the shooting within the next three days and you take care of it, make sure nothing connects back to you.” And through you, to me. “Use someone new.” A hired gun was never too hard to find.
“Will do. I have some business up north I was going to look in on anyway. If something must be done, I’ll make sure I won’t even be on the island.”
“That would be best,” Tsernyakov said. Being circumspect was a quality he deeply appreciated in any man.
This would be the worst possible time for anyone in his organization to mess up. He had too much on the line. His deal with The School Board was nearing completion.
ANITA LOOKED OVER the financial data Carly had gained on Cavanaugh so far. The figures definitely didn’t add up. He had multiple sources of income so convoluted it had her head hurting. He was crooked. All the way. But beyond that, they needed to know if he truly was connected to Tsernyakov and, if he was, they had to find a way to use that connection to get closer to their main target.
She played with the business card Cavanaugh had given to Sam at the Beach Beauty Pageant. Sam had talked up Savall, Ltd. to the man. Anita had waited two whole days, not wanting to seem too eager. It was time to make the call. She pressed the numbers in quick succession.
“Mr. Cavanaugh’s office. This is Linda. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Linda. My name is Anita Caballo. Could you please put me through to Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office.”
“Could you tell me when would be a good time to call back?”
“He left the island before I got in this morning and he hasn’t checked in yet. I’m sure he’ll be back in a day or two,” Linda said.
“FLEW OUT ON HIS PRIVATE JET this morning. The flight plan he filed with the airport specified Miami, Florida, as his destination.” Carly read the information off the printout in her hand.
“Thanks.” Brant leaned against the wall next to the small vending machine in the kitchenette. He’d been on his way over to the office on other business when Anita had called with the news. To Carly’s credit, she had the information within five minutes of his arrival. “Let’s assume that he’s off on legitimate business and is coming back.” As opposed to the possibility that they had done something to spook him.
“According to the secretary, it was an unexpected trip,” Gina said. “Maybe he had an emergency.”
“Family?” Sam asked, then blew her nose.
Gina shook her head. “The distant family he has live in France. Air France has straight flights from George Town. Why detour through Miami?”
“So he’s having a business emergency,” Carly said. “Found anything so far?” she asked Anita.
“No unusual activity in his accounts for the last few days. There’s a lot of activity, but that’s normal for him as far as I can tell.” She looked strained and no wonder—she’d been through hell in the last couple of days.
“Okay, so whatever information we have on him so far, the number one priority for everyone is to go through it until we all know it by heart, see if we can find some connections.” He pushed away from the wall, looked at Anita then at the others. “I’d like to add another item on our agenda.”
“Nick found Xiau Lin?” Carly asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ve been looking into William Bronter. I don’t like it.”
Sam blew her nose again. “Sorry, hate this cold.”
“You’re not ready to close the case,” Gina said with no trace of surprise in her voice.
“No.” There were too many loose ends left. He would have to know why and how William Bronter had done what he’d done and where the money was before he could move on. Until then, there was still a chance that the case could be trouble again, interfering with their main mission. Brant was the kind of man who crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s.
“If anyone has spare time and wants to help with this, I would appreciate it.” Gina could check the law-enforcement databases on Anita’s family, Carly could get other data such as finances, Sam might help making some anonymous phone calls to check around.
“I’m on it. Actually, I looked around a little already,” Gina said in her brisk unapologetic manner. “No prior record on anyone except Roberto Caballo. DUI when he was eighteen.”
“He went through a wild phase,” Anita said as she handed over the cup of hot tea she’d been making for Sam.
“Okay, so I was going to tell you this today,” Carly looked at her and bit her lip. “I’ve been doing a little checking, too. It’s probably nothing you don’t know—”
She hesitated until Anita said, “Go ahead.”
“I looked into the four people in positions at your family company to know how much money there was, where it was and how to get to it.”
“Roberto, Christopher and Maria and Nigel,” Anita said.
“And William, since we know for sure he was somehow involved.”
“And you think he might have been working with somebody from my family?”
“Could be. He wasn’t in the business. He didn’t know your comings and goings enough to set you up. You two hadn’t kept in touch.”
“No.” Anita closed her eyes for a second then opened them again. “So the logical accomplice would be Nigel. They were brothers.”
Brant watched her. If there was an accomplice, she didn’t want it to be her sister or one of her brothers. He understood.
“Nigel is having an affair. It’s not the first.” Carly started with the brother-in-law, her face reflecting just how sorry she was for having to be the bearer of bad news.
“He can’t,” Anita said, but her voice was anything but sure. Then she whispered, “Oh, Maria. This is going to break her heart.”
“But the good news is—” Carly tried to force a bright expression onto her face, but didn’t quite succeed “—Christopher is perfectly fine. As far as I can tell. No sign of trouble there.” Her smile faltered.
“More bad news coming?” Anita asked.
Carly took a deep breath then blew it out. “Roberto was having marital problems around the time that the money disappeared. His wife had filed for divorce, then changed her mind a month later. They are still at some kind of an impasse as far as I can tell.”
Anita nodded. “I knew they were going through a rough patch. But I can’t see Carmen being bought. And I can’t see Roberto giving her money to come back. He’s proud to a fault.” She looked at Carly. “What else?”
“Um, back to Maria—”
“Maria doesn’t have secrets from me. From anyone. She could never keep one for more than a couple of hours. She talks a mile a minute.”
“She might not know this one,” Carly said as she drew a deep breath. “She was adopted.”
The stunned look on Anita’s face told Brant she hadn’t known. Did her brothers? Did Maria? Were Maria’s loyalties to the family perhaps divided?
“Any big money moving around for anyone around the time of the embezzlement?” he asked Carly.
“Nothing unusual. Nobody was in debt.”
“Dig deeper,” he said. Carly nodded. “And while we are waiting for a lead on this business, we will check out Cavanaugh’s turf from a little closer.”
Sam sniffled. She was coming down with a cold.
“You should go home and take care of yourself,” Anita told her.
“I can do it,” she protested as she drew herself straight and tried to look tough. “Superspy girls don’t run fr
om no puny cold.”
And because she sounded like going was important to her, Brant nodded. “Fine. You go with Carly and Gina to the guy’s turtle farm and watch for suspicious activity. Strictly observation, for now. Do not enter, do not interfere. Take as many pictures as you can—people, license plates, the layout of the farm, entries, any security you can see, whatever.” She should be able to handle that even with diminished capacity.
“You’re not coming?” Carly asked.
He shook his head. “Anita and I are going to stake out the Cavanaugh mansion.”
Uploaded by Coral
Chapter Six
When they got to Cavanaugh’s mansion, Brant slowed the car enough for a quick peek through the wrought-iron gate. He could see no activity beyond. The estate was surrounded by a six-foot tall stone fence on the street side and the property backed onto the water. Philippe Cavanaugh had his own private beach, with his own marina.
The Cayman Islands were a popular touchdown point for both drugs and illegal immigrants heading for the U.S. from South America. Did Cavanaugh traffic in either? His police record was pristine. He’d never been charged with anything.
Which meant he was as sly as a fox, because according to Carly, who’d culled his financial records, and Anita, who’d analyzed them, he had considerably more money coming in than his legal businesses produced.
Brant drove by Cavanaugh’s mansion and the next, pulling over at the corner of the street. “How about a walk?”
Anita unsnapped her seat belt. “Sounds like a good idea.”
He went around and opened the door for her, held out his hand to help her from the car. Every movement she made was graceful as always. Her legs—He tried not to look at her legs. He’d never met another woman who could inspire respect and, well, other thoughts, in a man at the same time.
He had asked her to dress for a date and she had. Her sleeveless dress was made of some thin, silky material, tight on the top and flaring out from the waist to fall just above her knees, hugging her curves, flirty and feminine. Her high-heeled sandals—He drew his gaze up again and reminded himself that the date was pretend. It didn’t come with the privileges of checking her out.
