Quinn nodded, apparently satisfied, since he moved on. “Be a pain to deal with traffic, both air and ground, if you had to use that airport all the time.”
“Rethinking that jet?” Hayley teased.
“Maybe you just need another helicopter,” Amy suggested. “One you could land anywhere.”
Quinn grinned at her. “I like the way you think.”
Hayley had struck gold here, no doubt, Amy thought. Kind of made up for her brother. Who hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten in the car. Not that she wanted him to. She much preferred he stay quiet. She didn’t want to get drawn into another long conversation with him.
Because you enjoyed that one too much?
Way too much, she thought in answer to the little voice that had popped into her head. And it had shocked her. It should have annoyed her that someone she was so angry at had been so perceptive. She didn’t want him to be perceptive, to understand, to see her point, any of that.
“They’re the ones who need help seeing, then...”
And she especially didn’t want him saying things like that, in that low, rough voice that had sent a shiver down her spine and made her tingle in places that had been safely asleep for a very long time now.
“Turn right in one hundred feet,” the GPS prompted.
Good thing, she thought, or she probably would have driven right past the street they needed.
There was no excuse for this silliness. She shouldn’t be wasting any time wondering where he’d been, or what he’d been doing. Hayley had said he hadn’t been in the military, and he’d always sworn he could never be a cop. And it didn’t matter, anyway. Unless he was telling the truth about having only found out two days ago. But that seemed impossible. Ridiculous even.
So why would he make it up? He wasn’t stupid; far from it, so if he was going to make up an excuse, why wouldn’t it be something more believable? Then again, hadn’t she seen people in her work whose real-life, genuine reasons sounded just as implausible? Becca had told her about one of those, a gang leader accused of a gory murder, who had a convoluted, complicated but in this case genuine alibi.
“He’s probably committed murder,” Becca had said wryly, “but he didn’t commit this one.”
Which was why she worked for Mr. Rockwell, even though she liked Becca better personally, Amy thought. She didn’t think she could deal with those kinds of people, let alone help defend them. So she stayed safely away from the criminal defense side of the business as much as she could.
“Destination ahead one hundred feet on the right.”
Amy slowed, looking around. The entire block looked like it had once been residential and now was converted to a business zone. There were old oak trees lining the street, casting a pleasant shade. She wondered idly if the infamous Charlie had a tree thing, and if every Foxworth location was surrounded by them.
“I think that’s it,” Hayley said, “the one with the Spanish tile roof. It looks like the picture Charlie sent.”
Amy nodded and slowed as she spotted the building up ahead on the right. It was a bright white adobe-look building with arched windows on either side of a heavy wood front door, and a driveway to one side that went past the building.
“Take the drive to the back,” Quinn said, and she made the turn.
The front building was the size of an average large house on the block. Midway along the side there was a sturdy gate across the driveway. It looked new, and she wondered if it had been added to give Foxworth an extra measure of security; she hadn’t forgotten what Hayley had said, that by the very nature of their work powerful people sometimes got angry with them.
To the back, where the driveway curved toward the garage, was what apparently was a guesthouse, in the same style as the one up front. She stopped the car in front of the garage that sat to one side, next to a tiled courtyard with a fountain, dry at the moment. There was a grassy area shaded by a second large tree alongside it, between the two buildings. That, she guessed, would be a nice haven from the heat in summer.
Quinn’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out and looked at the screen.
“Ty,” he said. He answered, then said, “Putting you live for everybody.”
Then he set the phone on the dash so they could all see the screen.
“Hi, all.” The young tech’s voice was cheerful. “You’re not driving, right?”
“Just arrived,” Quinn said. “What have you got?”
“Something I should have seen before,” Ty admitted. “But I kind of went past it. Then the numbers came together in my head.”
“What numbers?”
“Different ones, but what tripped was the total is almost the same. There were a string of smaller cash deposits in Rockwell’s account that total the same amount as the money he used to open that offshore business account in the first place, within a couple hundred dollars. And again all under ten thousand dollars.”
Quinn frowned. “So he sets up this business and the attendant account with his own money, it immediately starts shelling out money to another business and then he starts collecting deposits in cash, and all under the reporting limit, from another source totaling the same amount?”
“Kind of circular, huh?” Ty said.
“Like a washing machine,” Quinn muttered.
And Amy suddenly got what he meant.
Washing machine. Laundering.
A chill swept her as she realized what she might have gotten herself into.
Maybe she hadn’t been imagining being watched. And followed.
Maybe she hadn’t only found out her boss was crooked. Maybe she’d gotten herself into a whole lot of trouble.
Chapter 16
“She could be in real danger.”
Quinn looked up from a canvas bag he was unpacking as Walker strode into their room after a brief knock that had been a signal, not a request; he wasn’t taking no for an answer just now. Walker could see the bag was full of not clothing or toiletries but gadgets. The kind of things that might or might not be needed, but would be nearly impossible to find in a hurry. Especially, he guessed, since this office wasn’t even up and running yet. So Quinn had come prepared.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
Walker heard his sister make a small sound at the quick and simple agreement. She had to have realized this when they’d found out what Amy had likely stumbled onto.
“You were right,” Quinn said, surprising him. “Any time there’s lots of money and the potential that something illicit’s involved, it’s best to tread carefully.”
“You heard what she said in there,” he said, gesturing back toward the room where Amy had explained. “She was being followed.”
“She thought she was, yes.”
“Enough to scrape her car on a light pole trying to get away. I don’t want Amy left alone.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow once more. “I would ask why you think you have any say in this at all, except that I happen to agree.”
Walker let out a breath of relief at that. He glanced at his sister, saw her watching him with an odd sort of speculative gleam in her eyes.
“We’ll discuss it,” Quinn said, and then picked up another, smaller bag, turned and walked into the bathroom that joined this bedroom and the one on the other side.
Hayley stood silently for a moment, still looking at him. When she spoke, it was a non sequitur, but welcome.
“I don’t know how good your reason is, but I do believe you can’t tell me what it is.”
He drew back slightly. He hadn’t expected that. “Why?”
“For all your sins, Walker Cole, you’ve never lied to me. And besides, as Amy said, if you were going to lie, wouldn’t you come up with something better?”
He blinked. Had to swallow before he could speak.
“Amy...said that?”
She nodded. “And she’s right. I know that, in my head. Just give my heart some time to come around.”
Walker let out a long, harsh breath. “All the time you need, Hayley.”
* * *
“Do those birds really come back, or is it all tourist hype?”
Walker was looking at the framed print on the wall, showing the fiesta celebrating one of the local traditions, the day the swallows came back to the nearly two-hundred-fifty-year-old mission just a couple of miles south of where they now were.
“Oh, they come back,” Amy said. “They just don’t consult a human calendar to do it.”
“You mean they don’t all show up on the appointed day?” Hayley asked, her tone so exaggeratedly aghast Walker couldn’t help smiling.
“Birdbrains,” he said.
“At least they...”
Amy stopped, an expression of disgust flashing across her face. He sensed that it was aimed inwardly. Because she’d promised to set it aside? Because he was certain she’d been about to say, “At least they come back.”
And there was nothing he could say to that. So instead, he got up from the table where they’d eaten delicious carnitas from a local place Amy had recommended that was named after those same proverbial swallows. He began to gather up the debris from the meal. And not for the first time caught Quinn studying him, as if he were some creature in an experiment who had done something unexpected.
Walker stifled the spurt of longing for the days before he’d thought like this, the days when he’d been able to take people at face value, heedless of what was behind the facade, or more important, not looking for it and expecting evil. He wondered if there would ever be enough time back in this world to make him get over that now-automatic reaction.
Walker held Quinn’s gaze. “She needs somebody to watch her back.”
Quinn arched an eyebrow at him. “A bodyguard?”
“I don’t need...” Amy’s protest faded away, as if what she’d really happened across was getting through to her.
“I don’t disagree,” Quinn said mildly.
“It can’t be you,” Walker pointed out. “You said you’ve met her boss. He’d know why you were there.”
“He might not remember me.”
Walker laughed. “Even I know that’s ridiculous. You’re not the kind of guy anybody with a brain or instinct for survival forgets.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Hayley said, making them all, even Amy, smile.
“I’m considering the options,” Quinn said.
“Consider them all,” Walker said pointedly.
Quinn returned his steady gaze. “I will.”
Message received, Walker read, and nodded.
Needing to move, he carted the trash to the can just outside the back door.
“This is quite a setup,” he said when he came back, calmer, “for an office that isn’t even open yet.”
He’d been amazed, walking into the larger building and seeing already in place an arrangement similar to what they had up north—a couple of private offices, computers, monitors and bigger screens, a meeting table. Also there was the gathering place, this time in front of corner fireplace that looked as if it were as old as the mission they’d been talking about, although the building was of recent vintage. A good replica overall, he thought.
Homey. Welcoming. Not that he was welcome, of course.
Walker drew in a deep breath, for a moment facing the hopelessness of it.
If there’s no hope, why are you even here?
He knew why. Knew he was—foolishly, no doubt—drawing that hope from those moments with Hayley this morning, sitting on that bench overlooking the water. And those moments just now, in the next room. In those moments the anger, the hurt, had been put aside, and she had looked at him as she had before, with concern.
If she could do that now, even for a moment, surely there was hope?
And Amy, had she really said that? While it didn’t mean anything except that she thought he’d tell a better lie if he was going to, it was something, wasn’t it?
God, you’re an idiot. Don’t you remember optimism is a fool’s game?
He had to get out of here, needed to get away at least for a minute, from the pressure, the strain of the feeling that the entire rest of his life was hanging in the balance. That it was the truth only made the feeling worse.
“I’m going to get some air,” Amy said in the instant before he turned to head for the door.
Damn.
“Shall I take Cutter with me?” The dog, who was sprawled on the tile floor as if savoring its coolness, lifted his head at the sound of his name. “I’ll just stay here in the yard.”
“He’d like to explore the outside, I’m sure,” Hayley said.
Amy turned to the dog. “Will you come with me, sweet boy?”
He was on his feet in an instant and came to her eagerly.
Lucky dog.
He swore silently at himself, at the suddenly idiotic turn his brain had taken. This was Amy, little nerdy Amy. Except she wasn’t, not anymore. And she’d chosen her place in this, and that was loyally beside her dearest friend. As it should be.
He just wished it wasn’t against him. And in that moment he was more tempted than he’d yet been to come out with it, to say to hell with it and pour the truth out. What could it possibly matter? It wasn’t like his sister or Amy would give anything away, and Quinn sure as hell wouldn’t. He was cut from the same cloth as Cabrero—the only difference appeared to be in their approach to the problems of the world today.
He was closer to the door, so he walked over and opened it. “I was headed out myself,” he said, giving Amy a sideways look. “But don’t let that stop you.”
She shrugged as she started out, Cutter close beside her. “It’s a free country,” she said as she passed him.
Free country.
And that easily, that unknowingly, Amy Clark gave him back his resolve. Because that was why he had to keep his mouth shut. Because there were those who wanted to change that.
He’d just never expected to play a part in seeing that that stayed the truth.
Chapter 17
Amy’s heart leaped as she heard voices outside Mr. Rockwell’s office. She’d been going through the protected files again, looking for anything else that would prove or disprove her suspicions. She quickly signed off and put the system to sleep. She grabbed the file folder that was her cover for being in here, put it squarely on the desk and was in the middle of writing a note when her boss came in.
She straightened up. Looked at the man she had, sadly, always respected. Marcus Rockwell was a tall, straight-spined man with dark hair graying at the temples. He was handsome, but imposing enough in both stature and demeanor that she’d also always felt more than a bit intimidated. He wasn’t a warm, jovial kind of boss; he was all business. She hadn’t minded that at all. But she’d always thought it was honest business, and she hated the idea that he was crooked.
She buried her thoughts, afraid they might show in her face. He might not be the most social of bosses, but he was far, far from a fool, and he hadn’t gotten where he was by not being able to read people.
“Oh, good, you’re back,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded normal. “Now I can just tell you.”
She wadded up the piece of paper and tossed it into his wastebasket. If he was suspicious and looked, he’d see only a legitimate message that she would now tell him in person.
“Here’s the transcript of my interview of Mr. Jackson’s employer. I should have the background research on the case done in time for you to go over it before your meeting with him in the morning.”
Her boss smiled at her and nodded. “Good. What’s your sense of him?�
�
That was another thing she liked about him. He asked for her opinion, and gave every evidence he took it seriously. In this case she definitely had one; she didn’t like their client much.
“He seemed to me to be a good guy.” But then, I thought you were, too. She quashed the thought for fear it would show. “Through no fault of his own his company just got into financial trouble, like so many others these days.”
“So you think he just had to make a choice.”
“Yes. And Mr. Jackson was the employee with the least time on, and a history of problems.”
“So you think he was justified?”
“Not my decision,” she said. Thankfully.
“But if it were?”
This was interesting, she thought. He usually didn’t push for quite this much from her in the way of her opinion.
“If I had to choose between Mr. Jackson and the woman he kept, who’d been with him from the beginning and had a stellar record, I would have done the same.”
“As,” Mr. Rockwell said with a nod, “would I.” He picked up the file. “I’ll go over this, but I’ll be discussing with Mr. Jackson the questionable wisdom of proceeding. And that if he insists, he will need to find other representation. Thank you, Amy.”
As she walked back to her desk she found herself doubting it all. How could he be involved in what they suspected? Could she really have been so completely wrong about him?
And there had been no sign of any suspicion, not a trace of change in his attitude toward her. Could he conceal it, if he suspected she’d found those files, had looked at them? Was he that good of an actor? All attorneys who did courtroom work were, to some extent, but Marcus Rockwell had long ago eschewed the dramatics of the big criminal cases. He never took them these days.
But he had made his name there. He’d become famous after three consecutive high-profile cases. She’d never asked, and she was sure he wouldn’t tell her if she did, but she had the distinct sense that he’d walked away after that last trial because he was certain he’d just successfully defended a man who was in fact guilty of a rather heinous crime.
Operation Homecoming Page 11
