by Cassie Miles
Remembering those dark days left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d just about given up. Life was a joke, not worth living. He went on an all-out binge, drugs and alcohol. Thanks to his undercover work, he was familiar with the filthy underbelly of the city, and he went there. He found rock bottom while seeking poisonous thrills that could wipe away his sorrow and regret and the senseless guilt that he was still alive while his friend was not. His judgment was off. He took stupid risks, landing in the hospital more than once. His path was leading straight to hell.
She reached across the console and touched his arm. “If I had known...”
“There was nothing you—or anybody else—could do. I didn’t ask for help, didn’t want anybody holding my hand.”
“How did you get better?”
“I came back to Colorado and got on a physical schedule of weight lifting and running ten miles a day. I visited places where Matt and I used to go.” He paused. “This sounds cheesy, but I found peace. I quit mourning Matt’s death and celebrated his life.”
“Not cheesy at all,” she said.
“Weak?”
“That’s the last word I’d use to describe you.”
“Anyway, I did a lot of wilderness camping. One morning, I crawled out of my tent, stared up into a clear blue sky and decided I wanted a future.”
“TST Security?”
“I quit the FBI, contacted my two buds and set up the business. I’d like to think that Matt would approve. We don’t take cases that we don’t like. And there are times like now when we can actually do some good.”
“Is that how you think of my investigation into Wynter Corp?” She brightened. “As something that could make a difference?”
“I guess I do feel that way.”
He hadn’t realized until this moment that he wanted Frankie Wynter to pay the price for murder. Plus, they might take down members of a powerful crime family, and that felt good.
Exiting the interstate, they were close enough to downtown Denver for him to point out changes in the city where she’d lived for so many years. Giant cranes loomed over new skyscrapers—tall office buildings and hotels to accommodate the tourists. New apartment buildings and condos had popped up on street corners, filling in spaces that seemed too small. Denver was thriving.
Sean applauded the growth. More people meant more business and more opportunity. But he missed the odd, eclectic neighborhoods that were being swallowed by gentrification. Like most Denver natives, he was stubbornly protective of his city.
He parked the rental car in a small six-car lot behind a three-story brick mansion near downtown. “We’re here.”
“Your office is in a renovated mansion.” She beamed. “I can’t believe you chose such a unique place.”
“It’s not unusual. This entire block is mansions that have been redone for businesses. We have the right half of the first floor. On the left side, there are three little offices—a life coach, a web designer and a woman who reads horoscopes. We all share the kitchen and the conference rooms upstairs.”
“About the horoscope lady, what kind of conference meetings does she have?”
“Séances.”
He opened the back door for her and held it while she entered an enclosed porch that was attached to the very modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a double-door refrigerator. It smelled like somebody had just microwaved a bag of popcorn.
“I love it,” Emily said. “When you worked for the FBI, you never would have gone for a place like this.”
“I’ve changed.”
They went down the hallway to the spacious foyer with a grand staircase of carved oak and high ceilings. To the right, he stopped beside a door with an opaque glass window decorated with old-fashioned lettering for TST Security and their four-leaf clover logo. Using a keypad, Sean plugged in a code to open the door. Before he followed Emily inside, he touched the red leaf that represented Matt, as he always did.
Dylan greeted his former sister-in-law with enthusiasm, throwing his long arms around her for a big hug. He and Sean were the same height, but Dylan seemed taller because he was skinny. During his early years, Dylan was the epitome of a ninety-eight-pound weakling with oversize glasses and a permanent slouch. Sean had taken his little brother under his wing and got him working out. Under his baggy jeans and plaid flannel shirt, Dylan was ripped now.
They had two desks in the huge front office, but that wasn’t where Dylan wanted to sit. He dragged her over to a brown leather sofa. On the coffee table in front of the sofa were snacks: popcorn, crackers and bottles of water.
She reached up to tuck a hank of brownish-blond hair behind his ear. “Almost as long as mine. I like the ponytail.”
“I remember your super-long hair,” he said.
“It was always such a mess.”
“Not to me. It was beautiful. But I like this new look.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Sean said, “but whenever you’re done comparing stylists, there are some very bad men after Emily, and we need to take them out of the picture.”
“Impatient,” Dylan said as he pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose. He turned to Emily. “There’s no need to be nervous in the TST office. It’s one of the most secure spots in Denver. We’ve got bulletproof glass in the windows, sensors, surveillance cameras all around and sound-disabling technology so nobody can electronically eavesdrop.”
“That’s very reassuring.” She opened a bottle of water and took a sip. “Can you make my computer un-hackable?”
“I can make it real hard to get in.” Dylan pushed his glasses up again. “I’ve got an update.”
“Another call from Agent Levine?” Sean guessed as he sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Emily.
“Levine isn’t comment-worthy.” Dylan plunked himself into a high-back swivel chair on wheels and paddled from a desk to the sofa. “I’m not insulting you, but the feds aren’t real efficient.”
“No offense taken,” Sean said.
“This call was a few hours ago, a man’s voice. He claimed to be an old friend from San Francisco. He identified himself as Jack Baxter. Sound familiar?”
“Not a bit,” Sean responded. “Emily, do you know the name?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sitting on the big leather sofa with her hands in her lap and her ankles crossed, she looked nervous and somewhat overwhelmed. Dylan could be a lot to take; he tended to bounce around like an overeager puppy.
Also, Sean reminded himself, she was aware of the threat, the potential for danger. He directed his brother. “We need to focus here. What did Baxter want?”
“Supposedly, he was just thinking of you, his old pal. It seemed too coincidental for you to be contacted by a supposed friend on the same day Levine called.” He shot a look at Emily. “He kept asking about you. Suspicious, right?”
Sean remained focused. “Did you track the call?”
“He claimed to be in San Francisco, and his cell phone had the 414 area code. But I triangulated the microwave signal.” Dylan paused for effect. “He was calling from DIA.”
Emily shot to her feet. “He’s here? At the Denver airport?”
Dylan winced. “It gets worse. I ran a reverse lookup on the cell phone. It belongs to John Morelli.”
“I know him,” she said. “He works for Wynter.”
“Bingo,” Dylan said. “I’ve been doing a bit of preliminary hacking on Wynter. And Morelli is vice president in charge of communication.”
“That’s right,” Emily said. “I interviewed him for my first article on Wynter Corp. He’s the only person I spoke to in person.”
“Which might be why he was sent to Denver to find you,” Sean said. “When you met with him, did you use the Timmons alias?”
She shook her head. �
��Timmons is only for travel and the one credit card. I use another alias for my articles and interviews.”
“How did Wynter make the connection between us?”
Dylan rolled toward him on the swivel chair. “Remember how I said the feds were idiots? Well, I think Wynter had their phones tapped. When Levine called here, looking for you, I told him you weren’t involved with Emily. But the contact must have sent up a red flag to Wynter.”
His deduction made sense. “I want you to dig deeper into Wynter Corp. Check into their bank accounts and expenses.”
“Forensic accounting.” Dylan nodded. “Will do.”
“How much can you find out?” Emily asked. “That information belongs to Wynter Corp. It’s protected.”
“I’ve got skills,” Dylan said, “and I can hack practically anything. Unlike the feds, I don’t have to worry about obtaining the evidence through illegal means because I don’t plan to use the data in court. This is purely a fact-finding mission.”
She accepted him at his word. “Concentrate on the import-export business. Check inventories against shipping manifests—look for warehouse information.”
“I took a peek earlier,” Dylan said. “They also handle real estate, restaurants and small businesses.”
“For now I’m looking for evidence of smuggling and human trafficking.” She bounced to her feet. “I have information that will give you a starting point.”
“Cool,” Dylan said. “If you give me the flash drive you’ve got hidden in your necklace, I’ll get started.”
“How did you know?” She touched her black-and-silver pendant. “Is it obvious?”
“Only to me,” he said as he held out his flat palm.
Although Sean didn’t speak up and steal his brother’s thunder, he had also figured out where she was hiding her flash drive. Simple logic. All day long, she’d been touching her pendant, guarding it. What would she want to protect? Her most precious possession was her work; therefore, he guessed she had her documents on a flash drive. And she’d hidden it in chunky jewelry that wasn’t her usual style.
Dylan rolled his chair to a computer station with four display screens and three keyboards. Emily followed behind him, eager to learn the magic techniques that allowed Sean’s brother to dance across the World Wide Web like a spider with a ponytail and horn-rimmed glasses.
Long ago Sean had given up trying to understand how Dylan did what he did. The technical aspects of security and investigative work had never interested Sean. He learned more from observing, questioning the people involved and creating a profile of the criminals and the victims. When he’d gone undercover for the FBI, he had to rely on instinct to separate the good guys from the bad. And his gut was good. He was seldom wrong.
He left the sofa and sauntered across the large, open room with high ceilings to the window. It bothered him that John Morelli was in Denver. Dylan’s theory of how Wynter got his name had the ring of truth. Tapping the FBI phones was depressingly obvious.
His brother and Emily stared at the screens as though answers would materialize before their eyes. Sean hardly remembered a time when computers weren’t a part of life, but he’d never fallen in love with the technology and he hated the way people stumbled around staring at their cell phones. His brother called him a Luddite, and maybe he was. Or maybe he’d made the decision, when they were kids, that computers would be Dylan’s thing. Whatever the case, it appeared that Dylan and Emily would be occupied for a while.
Sean announced, “I’m going out to pick up some dinner. Is Chinese okay?”
Barely looking away from the screens, they both murmured agreement.
“Any special requests?”
The response was another mumble.
He went to a file cabinet near the door, unlocked it and took out a Glock 17. He had to pack both of his handguns on the plane and take out the bullets. For the moment, it was quicker to grab the semiautomatic pistol and insert a fresh magazine into the grip. He was almost out the door when Emily ran up behind him and grasped his arm.
“You shouldn’t go out there,” she said. “Mr. Morelli could be waiting in ambush.”
“Mr.?”
“That’s what I called him in the interview. He’s older, in his forties.”
“If he was sneaking around, close enough to show up on Dylan’s surveillance, we’d be hearing a buzzer alarm.”
She kissed his cheek. “Be careful.”
It had been a long time since anybody was worried about his safety. He kind of liked being fussed over.
At the back door, he paused to peer into the trees that bordered the parking lot. There were garages and Dumpsters in the alley behind their office, lots of hiding places if Morelli had staked out the office.
He went down the stairs and got into the rental car to pick up food from Happy Food Chinese restaurant. Then, he backed out into the alley. In less than a mile, he noticed a black sedan following him. Wynter’s men had found him. And he’d made it easy. Damn it, I should have ordered delivery.
Chapter Eight
Emily watched the numbers unfurling across two screens while Dylan used a third screen to enter the forbidden area of the dark web where you could buy or sell anything. Pornographers, killers, perverts and all types of scum hung out on those mysterious, ugly sites.
She looked away. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like that?”
“If you want to get the dirt, you can’t keep your hands clean.”
Even though her investigation was for a worthy cause, she didn’t like spying. Hacking broke one of the ethical rules of journalism that said you needed at least two sources for every statement before you could call it a fact. And they had to be credible sources. Some bloggers just fabricated their stories from lies and rumors. She wasn’t like that. Not irresponsible. The thought jolted her. Wow, have I changed! When she was married to Sean, he’d complained about her lack of responsibility. Now she was saying the same about other people.
She strolled across the room to a window and looked out at the fading glow of sunset reflected on the marble lions outside the renovated mansion across the street. “We shouldn’t have let Sean go without backup.”
“He can take care of himself,” Dylan said. “He took a gun.”
And that worried her, too. If he wasn’t expecting trouble, why did he make sure he was armed? “We should go after him.”
“Call him.” Dylan gestured to the old-fashioned-looking phone on the other desk. “Press the button for extension two. That rings through to his cell phone.”
“Are you extension number one?”
“No way.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “That number is, and always will be, Mom.”
“Sean told me that your parents are still in Denver.”
“And my mother would lo-o-o-ve to see you and Sean get back together. Her dream is grandbabies.”
“I heard you’re dating someone.”
“Her name is Jayne. It’s a serious relationship.” His eyes lit up. “But we aren’t talking about babies.”
From the sneaky smile on his face, she could tell that the topic of marriage had come up. Little brother Dylan had found a woman who would put up with his computers. She was happy for him.
As she tapped the extension on the office phone, she hoped that she was worrying about nothing. Sean would pick up and tell her he was fine.
From the other side of the desk, she heard his ringtone. Then she saw his cell phone next to the computer screen. He hadn’t taken the phone with him.
“Dylan, we have to go.” She hung up the phone. “We have to help Sean.”
He lifted his hands off the keys and looked up at her. “Is there something about this Morelli person that I don’t know about? Is he particularly dangerous?”
He
r impression of the man she’d interviewed was that he was a standard midlevel management guy. He’d worn a nice suit without a necktie. His shoes were polished loafers. His best feature was his thick black hair, which was slicked back with a heavy dose of styling gel. When he spoke he did a lot of hemming and hawing, and she had the sense that he wasn’t telling her much more than she could learn from reading about Wynter Corp on the internet.
“Not dangerous,” she said. “He was the contrary. Quiet, secretive. Morelli is the kind of guy who fades into the woodwork.”
“I’m guessing my brother can handle him.”
“I hate to say this.” But she remembered those horrible moments on the boat when Patrone was killed. “What if Morelli’s not alone?”
That possibility lit a fire under Dylan’s tail. He was up and out of his computer chair in a few seconds. He motioned for her to follow, and she ran after him. They raced out the front door and onto the wide veranda to an SUV parked at the curb.
* * *
SEAN WOULD HAVE known right away that he was being followed if it hadn’t been the middle of rush hour with the downtown streets clogged and lane changing nearly impossible. He first caught sight of a black sedan when he was only three blocks away from the office. After he doubled back twice, he was dead certain that the innocent-looking compact sedan, probably a rental from the airport, was on his tail.
Weaving through the other cars on Colfax Avenue, his pursuer had to stay close or risk losing Sean in the stop-and-go traffic. A couple of times, the sedan was directly behind Sean’s car. At a stoplight, he studied the rearview mirror, trying to figure out if Morelli was by himself or with a partner.
He appeared to be alone.
Emily had described him as being in his forties. That was the only information Sean had. He should have asked for more details, but he didn’t want to alarm her. Leaving the office without a plan had been an unnecessary risk. He knew that. So why had he done it? Was he feeling left out while Dylan did his thing with the computers? Jealous of his little brother?
Envy might account for 5 percent of his decision, but mostly he’d wanted time alone to refresh his mind. Ever since he saw Emily, he’d been tense. And when they kissed...
