Perilous Trust

by Barbara Freethy

  "I don't know, but you're going to keep moving forward because you have to," he said simply. "You need to know the truth. These photos are another clue. Your father was being blackmailed. Someone was using you as leverage. We still have to figure out who that was and what they wanted him to do."

  "I wonder when he got the photos." Her gaze went back to the top picture. "I think I wore that top last week. Or maybe this was going on for a while. I'm sure I've worn that outfit to work a dozen times in the past year. I can't believe someone was following me, and I had no idea. It's creepy. What if he was looking through my windows at home? What if I left the curtains open one night? How could my father not tell me about any of this? How could he act like nothing was wrong? He wanted to barbecue ribs and watch the baseball game with me. That's the last thing he said to me before his crazy voicemails on Wednesday."

  He squeezed her fingers, seeing pain, anger and frustration in her eyes. He wished he could say that Alan had had a good reason for everything he'd done. He'd never been one to make false promises or offer reassurances that couldn't possibly come true, but right now he really wanted to do that—to do anything that would help ease the fear racing through her.

  "Look, you have to hang on to what you know is true. Your dad adored you. I'm sure that in his mind he was doing everything he could to make sure you were safe."

  "Not everything. He might have made me fake IDs, but he didn't talk to me, he didn't tell me his problems. He didn't trust me, Damon. That's what it comes down to."

  "More likely he didn't want to disappoint you or put you in more danger by giving you information someone might try to get out of you."

  "Keeping me in the dark only put me in more danger," she argued.

  He couldn't disagree. "We need to go through every item in this safe and see if there is anything else in this apartment of note. Hopefully, we'll find more clues." He pulled the box out of the safe and put it on the bench. He could see file folders and more loose papers as well as bank statements. They might have just struck gold. "I'm going to take the box to the kitchen table. You can start going through it while I send Bree and Wyatt a message in the forum as to what apartment we're in. I asked them to meet us at noon, and that's about twenty minutes from now."

  He carried the box into the other room and set it down on the table.

  "I just hope that…" Sophie gave him one last troubled look as her voice fell away.

  "Hope what?"

  "That your friends—especially Bree—is not a part of this. She does still work in the FBI."

  "But not in your father's department. She was never under his direction. Besides that, Bree wouldn't betray me; I'd bet my life on it."

  "You're betting mine, too."

  His lips tightened. "I know that, Sophie. But I think it's the best play." As she nodded and turned away, he really hoped he was right.

  * * *

  Sophie put the photos of herself in one pile on a chair. She turned them face down, so she wouldn't have to look at herself, wouldn't have to think about the fact that someone had been watching her go about her life. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

  Aside from the photographs, there were five file folders in the box, marked with names, only one of which she recognized—Venturi. Of the other four, one was labeled Scusa Restaurant Fire, the second was tagged Express Package Hijacking, the third read Maximillian Steelworks, and the fourth just had a name—Donald Carter.

  She had no idea what any of the cases were about, but she'd leave that to Damon to figure out.

  As she put the files aside for him, Damon was pulling board games out of the living room closet.

  "I don't think we have time to play a game," she said.

  "Your father replaced the games inside with electronic equipment." He brought one of the boxes over to the table and showed her the array of devices inside. "He has listening devices, micro-cameras, flash drives, even a cell phone reader," he added, picking up something that looked like a radar gun. "It can capture the phone number of a person using their mobile device a hundred yards away."

  "There really is no personal privacy anymore, is there?"

  "These devices help catch criminals; don't forget that." He picked up one of the two flash drives. "I'd like to know what's on this. We're going to need to get a computer at some point." He set the box on the ground. "What have you found so far?"

  "Case files that don't mean anything to me, but maybe will be significance to you." She turned back to the box she'd been going through. "There is a stack of bank statements for someone named Justin Lawrence. They show a couple of large deposits and a couple of large withdrawals. It looks like the bank is in Belize."

  His expression turned grim. "Your father has an offshore bank account."

  "Justin Lawrence does—not my father."

  "I think they're the same person, Sophie."

  "Really?"

  "What's the last statement you have?"

  She grabbed the one on top. "This is from May, probably last month's statement. There's a little over four hundred thousand dollars in the account." She blew out a breath, unable to believe her father had been hiding that kind of money in an offshore account. "I can't believe he had that much."

  "It might match the amount in the suitcase," Damon suggested.

  She hadn't thought about that, but he was probably right.

  Damon took the statement out of her hand. "We need to follow the money. Figure out where it came from and where it went when it was withdrawn, and, of course, determine who Justin Lawrence is."

  While Damon was looking at the bank statements, she looked through the rest of the items in the box. She found an envelope with her father's first name—Alan—scrawled across the front. There was no address, no return sender, and no stamp. The envelope had at one time been sealed and then ripped open. There was still a piece of paper inside.

  "What's that?" Damon asked, as she picked up the envelope.

  "I don't have a good feeling about this. It was sealed before being opened. There's no address; it looks personal."

  "Do you want me to read it?"

  "No. I have to do it. I just…have to do it." She pulled out the piece of white paper that had obviously come out of a printer. There were two types sentences: One last chance or someone dies. You know what to do.

  She stared at those words until they blurred and then handed the paper to Damon. She walked over to the window and looked out unseeingly at the street below. Her father had been blackmailed. He'd had to cross a line, and because of the photos she'd seen of herself, she had to believe that she'd been the bargaining chip, the person who was going to die if her father didn't do what they wanted.

  Damon came up behind her, putting his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest as he rested his chin lightly on her head. The chills running through her were instantly warmed by his presence. She felt safe and protected in his arms, and a part of her wanted to stay there forever, but she couldn't.

  Nothing was over. The case wasn't solved. She had a few more clues, but she still didn't know the whole story. There was a lot left to do if she was going to get the answers she needed. She had to know what had happened to her father, because he was never going to be able to explain it to her. If she was going to find some peace, some closure, some understanding, it would be through the clues he'd left behind. It was almost impossible to believe that these random things were all she had left of him.

  The finality of her dad's death hit her hard again—a sharp, breath-catching body blow. Because she hadn't seen his body, hadn't said good-bye, hadn't gone through the formality of a funeral or a service, his passing had felt surreal, as if maybe it wasn't even real. The bullets at the cabin, the gunmen at the storage unit, the voicemails should have convinced her of what was real and what was not, but for some reason, it was this apartment that had finally pushed her into painful reality.

  Her dad was dead. He was never coming back.

  He'd lived a doub
le life. He'd had aliases and safe houses and an offshore bank account. He'd been able to put together fake IDs for her. He'd had an exit plan, at least for her, if not for himself, too. And then there was the cash—blood money, she was sure. She just didn't know whose blood.

  "You okay?" Damon asked.

  "Not really," she said with a sigh. She pulled slightly away from him, turning in his embrace, so she was looking at him and not at the street. She saw compassion in his eyes as well as what looked like regret. He was probably dealing with the loss of some of his own illusions about her dad. Not that he'd admit to that. But she suspected her father's actions were going to feel like betrayal to Damon. Her dad was going to be one more person to disappoint him.

  "I'm sorry," she said suddenly.

  He raised an eyebrow. "What are you apologizing for?"

  "For whatever we're going to find out. It's not going to be good. It might hurt you, change the way you think about my dad."

  "Don't worry about me. I can take whatever is coming."

  "I wish I felt that strong. I'm trying to hold it together."

  "You're doing well."

  "I think someone was threatening my dad with my life."

  "Based on the photos and that note, it seems likely."

  "I understand that he didn't want to worry me, but why didn't he tell any of his friends? Surely, there was someone at the Bureau he could trust." She paused, realizing the one person her father had trusted was standing right in front of her. "Why didn't he tell you, Damon? I know he had the utmost respect for you. I didn't let him say much about you if I could help it, but I couldn't always stop the conversation when he started raving about how good you were. He was very proud of you."

  A shadow ran through his expression. "I have been wondering if the trouble he was in was behind his calling me to come to New York, if that's why he wanted me to work in his department, if that's why he didn't have Karen Leigh assign me to anything but instead told me he wanted to give me a special assignment."

  "It could have been," she said. "That makes a lot of sense."

  "Does it?" He let out a breath. "I don't know why he didn't confide in Peter, which certainly puts Peter under suspicion. And what about his old friend, Vincent? He told him about his financial problems. Vincent was FBI, he would have known how to help Alan? Why not tell him?"

  "We could probably ask the same questions about every single person who was friends with my and works at the FBI. Next on the list would be Karen. She worked extremely closely with him. What does she know?"

  He glanced toward the table. "Those files might be able to tell us something. We need to start reading, Sophie."

  Before they could move, three sharp raps came at the door.

  Her heart leapt into her throat.

  Damon pulled out his gun as he stalked to the door and looked through the peephole. She saw his shoulders relax as he said, "It's okay, it's Bree." Then he opened the door.

  A very pretty brunette of medium height entered the room. She wore white jeans and a loose-fitting soft blue sweater that brought out the blue in her eyes. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and dangling earrings hung from her ears. She had a bag over one shoulder, looking more like a woman out for some Saturday shopping than an FBI agent.

  "I am so glad to see you," Bree told Damon, giving him a hug.

  An odd wave of jealousy ran through Sophie, as she saw Damon give Bree a smile, the kind of smile that he gave her.

  "You must be Sophie. I'm Bree Adams," she said.

  Bree's words made her stand a little straighter as Bree came across the room to shake her hand. "It's nice to finally meet you."

  "You, too."

  "Thanks for coming to help us."

  "I hope I can help," Bree returned.

  "What about Wyatt?" Damon asked. "Have you heard from him?"

  "Not since last night. He came by my apartment for a few minutes, but he didn't think it was safe to stay. I don't know where he is now. I tried the phone I gave him, but he didn't answer."

  "Is he better?" Damon asked.

  "He is," Bree said with a nod. "The first night I met up with him I was really worried, but he's getting his head together, his bruises are fading, and he got at least a few hours of sleep at my place on Thursday night. He's very focused on finding out who tried to kill him. He's quite sure it's connected to Alan's death." She gave Sophie an apologetic smile. "I'm truly sorry about your father. I respected him a great deal. He encouraged me to work in New York. He helped me get the job I have now. I'm very grateful to him."

  Her dad had certainly made a positive impression on the agents he'd taught at the academy. It made her feel a little better to hear good things about him, to know that others had thought highly of him. It made her feel less oblivious and stupid for not seeing signs of his secret life.

  "So, where are we?" Bree asked. "Is this apartment significant in some way?"

  "This appears to be Alan's safe house," Damon said. "We found a safe in the bedroom. We're just starting to go through the box of information he had hidden away."

  "That's good news."

  "I hope it is," Damon said. "So far, we've found photos of Sophie. It looks like someone was tailing her for several days."

  "Using Sophie for leverage against Alan," Bree said.

  Sophie was impressed with the speed at which Bree had gotten to that conclusion.

  "Yes," Damon said. "We need to find out who wanted leverage."

  "How did you find this place?" Bree asked curiously.

  "Alan left Sophie a fake passport with this address on it. We weren't sure it meant something until we came here."

  "He left you a fake passport?" Bree queried, giving her a measuring look. "Is that why you ran to the lake?"

  "Actually, no. I ran to the cabin to get a key that my father had left for me. The key to the storage unit where the passports were located. You know what happened there."

  "Yes, but what I don't know is what's in the case," Bree said, her gaze drifting across the room to the silver suitcase that was resting on the floor by the couch. "I'm assuming it contains more than passports."

  "It doesn't matter," Damon cut in. "We need to focus on what's on this table."

  "All right," Bree said. "It's your show. You call the shots."

  At Bree's acquiescence, Sophie felt a wave of guilt. The woman was risking her job and maybe her life to help them. At this point, she needed all the information they had.

  "It's money," she said abruptly, drawing Bree's gaze back to hers. "A lot of money. I don't know where my father got it, but it probably wasn't legal."

  "I understand," Bree said, her expression showing little surprise. "Thanks for telling me."

  "It is possible he emptied an offshore bank account," Damon added. "We found statements under the name of Justin Lawrence, but we don't know who that is."

  "That's Alan," Bree said. "That's the name that was listed on the storage unit rental contract."

  "Well, that solves that," Damon said, gazing at her.

  "Another alias," she murmured, wondering how many more there were.

  Three more raps at the door sent her heart racing again. Damon and Bree both pulled out their guns.

  Damon moved toward the door, while Bree took a step closer to her, as if to protect her.

  "It's Wyatt," Damon said, opening the door once again.

  The man who entered the apartment wore faded jeans, a navy-blue T-shirt and a Yankees cap on his head. His brown hair was longer than Damon's and peeked out from under the baseball cap. He had a rough beard on his face, and tattoos ran down both muscular arms. He also had a gun in his hand, and his jumpy gaze moved from Damon to Bree to her.

  She felt more than a little unsettled by his stare. While all three of the people facing her were FBI agents, Wyatt felt the darkest, the one who made her the most nervous.

  "Okay, I think we can all put down our weapons," Bree suggested, returning her gun to the back of her white jeans.


  Now Sophie knew why she'd worn a loose, thin sweater on a day that was already heading into the eighties.

  Wyatt and Damon tucked their guns under their shirts as well.

  "Sophie Parker—Wyatt Tanner," Damon said, making the introductions.

  "Hi," she said tentatively, the hard, distrustful look in Wyatt's eyes not particularly welcoming.

  Wyatt gave her a nod, then turned to Damon. "Glad to see you're still alive."

  "Right back at you," Damon said. "You look better than the last time I saw you. Next time, don't take off."

  "I wasn't thinking straight that day," Wyatt admitted. "What's the plan?"

  "We're formulating one," Damon replied. "This apartment was rented by Alan. We found information in a safe in the bedroom. So far, we've determined that someone was following Sophie and using her to threaten Alan. We've also determined that Alan had access to an offshore bank account under an alias."

  "I knew he was double-dealing," Wyatt muttered.

  Unlike Bree and Damon, who seemed willing to give her father multiple chances to not be a bad guy, Wyatt seemed confident in his assessment. And that made her feel worse, because Wyatt had been the closest to her father this past year. Wyatt been the one undercover, the one working with the Venturi family, the one her father had been using to allegedly build a case against the crime family. But maybe he hadn't been doing that. Maybe he'd actually been working for the Venturis and against Wyatt. Maybe her father was the reason Wyatt had been almost killed.

  A wave of nausea ran through her. She really hated to think her father had been working for the mob, that he could be a criminal. It went against everything she'd always thought he believed in.

  Wyatt moved to the table. He picked up one of the file folders.

  "Do you know what those relate to?" she asked. "The labels didn't mean anything to me and Damon."

  "Donald Carter is a construction worker on a Venturi-run construction project in Jersey City. He was injured when a section of flooring collapsed. He's suing the Venturis, and his trial is starting in two weeks," Wyatt said. He put down that folder and picked up another one. "Maximillian Steelworks supplied the steel for that construction project, but they didn't use the steel they were supposed to use; they bought cheaper steel out of China and swapped it in. The steel was not just used in this one building but also on six others that have already been completed. A few weeks ago, I discovered that the Venturis had paid off a city inspector to look the other way so they could save on building costs, but those buildings could all be potentially dangerous. They could all collapse. I gave Alan this information three months ago."