Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Nicki Greenwood
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Heavy Netting
by
Nicki Greenwood
The Lobster Cove Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Heavy Netting
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Nicki Greenwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-589-0
The Lobster Cove Series
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Nicki Greenwood
“[THE SERPENT IN THE STONE is] tightly written…tense and fascinating…hot.”
~Danica St. Como, author
~*~
FLASHPOINT
2nd Place, 2006 Golden Pen Contest
~*~
THE SERPENT IN THE STONE
3rd Place, 2006 Barclay Sterling Contest
Dedication
For my grandmother, Vincentina
Chapter One
Lobster Cove. What kind of a sadistic prank of fate was this?
Dead on his feet, Branson Cudahy pushed open the door to Maggie’s Diner. The place teemed with a chattering breakfast crowd, and the smells of coffee and bacon curled around him with homey invitation. He trudged to the single empty booth by a front window, then plopped down before he meant it when his bum knee gave out.
He opened his mouth to mutter a curse, but a little boy in the next booth had turned around to stare at him with wide blue eyes. Bran stifled the cuss word and rubbed his knee instead.
All things considered, he ought to thank it for the forced transfer of profession.
Some days.
He removed his battered ball cap, then set it on the table and slid his other hand through his hair, three or four weeks past a decent cut. Lobster Cove probably had a barber shop somewhere, if he looked. Always assuming he cared. His knee throbbed, and his head had begun to join in on the percussion session. Sitting in the car for two days kind of did that.
He dialed his parents first. When his mother answered, he took a deep breath. “I’m here, Mom.”
He heard her hail his father, who picked up another extension. “Glad to hear it,” Aaron Cudahy said with a note of humor. “Now, come home.”
Bran started to chuckle, but stopped when his headache sharpened. “Soon.”
“You always say that,” his mother protested. “When are you going to stop getting yourself in trouble and come work on the farm?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said, his usual response, and he forced the same note of humor past his headache. His whole family ran some aspect of Cudahy Farm, a sprawling horse breeding and training facility…himself excepted. He’d taken to the exception with more zeal than his parents. They worried, even through their pride in him. After fending off more teasing requests to hurry home, he hung up with them.
“I’ll bet you could use some coffee,” said a cheery female voice.
He nodded, still rubbing his head.
“Any ideas on what you’d like to eat yet?”
“Something that doesn’t stare back, and isn’t fish.”
Pause. “Anything in particular?”
“Just the basics.”
Another pause. “All right, then.” This time, her voice had cooled a little, but it was no less cordial. Footsteps began to fade away.
“I mean it, no fish!” he called…a bit louder and pissier than he’d intended. Knee and car trip and impending headache must have been conspiring to turn him into a super-jerk. Everyone else in the diner was now looking sidelong at him in that Who-let-him-in sort of way. Bran cleared his throat. “Ma’am,” he amended.
The waitress turned back around, and Bran swallowed his tongue and whatever else he’d been about to say.
A few sunny blonde curlicues had escaped from the pinned-up mass at the back of her head. Her eyes were huge and blue, made even bluer by the pale-green polo shirt tucked in above her waist apron and short skirt. How could a woman with that much curve have that small a waist? Bran let his gaze roam over her mouthwatering figure and long legs in complete stupefaction before thinking to check for a name tag. He half expected to see Tinker Bell printed there, but the tag simply said Jenna.
She bobbed her head and smiled, all sweet but no friendly. “Sure.” Spinning away toward the kitchen, she left him sitting there hanging out in the wind with his attitude.
Nice job ingratiating yourself with the locals, he thought. He snatched his cell phone back up, then punched in the numbers for his longtime friend at the Lexington Police Department. “Rudy, how’s it going?”
“Cuddy.” Rudy’s voice was all business. A call from Bran to the police department usually meant a hot trail. Bran hoped like hell it would hold true this time. “Got something for me?” Rudy prodded.
“Chasing shadows,” he answered, studying a wall border of framed photos up by the ceiling. Past patrons of the diner, from the looks of it.
Rudy hadn’t answered. Bran could almost hear him thinking, and when Rudy was silent like that, it often meant a forthcoming outline of what he thought Bran should do next…whether or not Bran needed the advice.
Bran sent a glance toward the kitchen. Maybe he’d come up with a few pointers on how to smooth things over when you’d been an ass.
“Chasing shadows where?” Rudy wondered.
Bran exhaled with resigned anticipation. “Lobster Cove, Maine.”
Rudy’s guffaw blasted into Bran’s ear. He jerked the phone twelve inches away, but could still hear it, clear as clear. Even the kid in the next booth shot Bran a curious look before his parents shooed him back to his meal.
“Yeah, it’s a real hoot,” Bran said.
Rudy managed to stop chortling long enough to dog Bran with his original issue. “Which shadow is it?”
“Obsidian. You know the drill.”
“Aw, man, you gotta give that case a rest. It’s killing you,” Rudy said, sympathetic now.
“No,” Bran shot back. “I got this.”
“Come on, buddy. It’s a waste of your time, a waste of my time….”
“I’ve got a hunch. This E-mail came under my nose. Could be a copycat, could be nothing…but if I get my hands on him, I’m gonna finish it.”
“You can’t keep running over that lost cause, Bran. Even the force back-burnered it. There’s other cases—better cases—aren’t there?”
Bran curled his lip. Two-point-six million dollars was far from a lost cause. His temper sparked, but everything directed itself at him, rather than his friend. “I ain’t doing much running at all thes
e days, ol’ pal.”
Rudy paused, and Bran could hear more sympathy in the silence. That chafed worse than the silent taunt of his elusive prey.
“I’m over it,” Bran lied. He flicked at his ball cap on the table, then bullied a little brightness into his tone. “Cracking computer crimes isn’t likely to get me shot at like in the old days, Ru.”
Rudy hesitated again. “All right. Call me if you need something?”
Bran tapped the hat against the cream-colored Formica tabletop. “Yeah, I’ll let you know how it pans out.”
He said goodbye, then hung up before Rudy could give him more unnecessary advice on his career change, knee problems, or both. Bran fidgeted and looked out the front window. Lobster Cove was a touristy sort of town, less mobbed in the summer than Bar Harbor, but just as picturesque for people who liked that sort of thing. A pretty little piece of real estate.
And enough places nearby to hide a criminal.
Bran thought back to the E-mail that had come into his box the week before. A smattering of transactions had flitted through Lobster Cove’s bank and money transfer outlets, just under reportable triggers. Then the money disappeared again. About a week later, the patterns repeated, matching those he’d first encountered three-plus years ago in Kentucky. He’d never even have known about the current batch of missing cash if he hadn’t made friends with banks all along the eastern seaboard. The bank manager here in Lobster Cove knew one in Virginia, who knew one in Lexington, who’d been looking out for this sort of thing.
The sort of thing that had been siphoning away over two mil from unsuspecting people’s bank accounts. The guy had dubbed himself “Obsidian” in several taunting notes, each left behind at the scene of his crimes with a piece of that volcanic rock. Popular media had picked up on the name, glorifying a string of crimes that had terrorized banks and left Bran’s friends in law enforcement gnashing their teeth.
A real colorful kind of guy.
It had started in Lexington. The first instance was an unusual blip on bank radar. The next one, a cause for mild concern. After three more, the bank panicked and the law got involved. By the time Bran’s cop friend Rudy called him, Obsidian had branched out into fraudulent money transfers and stolen credit cards. Bran spent almost four years chasing Obsidian up and down the East Coast.
And then, silence.
Rudy had been on the case for a couple of years himself before involving Bran, and never got a sniff of the perp. He’d developed a sour taste in his mouth about the whole thing, and a recurring ulcer even at his young age. The case remained a much-gnawed but flavorless bone. When the trail went cold, and stayed cold for five months, Rudy all but gave up.
No so for Bran. He liked puzzles. The harder the puzzle, the better he liked it. Like a stubborn Thoroughbred with the bit between his teeth, or so Rudy said.
Rudy liked betting on the ponies better than he liked puzzles.
Bran never betted when there was a sure thing to be had. He waited. Took other cases to pass the time and pay the bills. Waited some more.
And then, bam. The same pattern popped up here in Lobster Cove, as if the crook was saying hello again.
Bran watched a pair of kids jogging along the sidewalk in pursuit of a loose soccer ball. Yards behind, a woman called to them. Life went on outside the diner as if it were any other day, in any other town.
Bran knew different. He’d seen the messes cyber criminals made with other people’s money. His sister had almost lost her house to one of them. Look out, Lobster Cove.
****
“Is he cute? I bet he’s cute,” said Sally Pelletier, clipping an order from her pad to the strip above the kitchen window. “Maggie, I have an order of eggs benedict and a side of tomatoes,” she called.
Jenna Sanborn gave her fellow waitress a frown. “Oh, sure. Do you know, he didn’t even so much as look at me when I went to take his order? What’s wrong with people these days? Can’t they just look a person in the eye anymore?”
Sally shook her head, and the light-brown curls of her ponytail bounced with the motion. “Hon, you are a true throwback. It’s a wonder you don’t move farther out and live in a cabin with a pet raccoon.”
“I’m proud to be old-fashioned,” Jenna said.
“Old-fashioned is putting it lightly,” Sally teased, “but I might rescue you yet.” She leaned back to look over Jenna’s shoulder. “Southern, you said?”
“Sounded it, around the barking at me about his order.”
Sally waggled her perfectly arched brows. Grinning wickedly, she added, “Well, maybe I don’t care about the barking…as long as he’s got the bite to back it up.”
Jenna groaned. “When are you going to get a man who can keep up with you?”
“Honey, they haven’t invented one of those yet.”
“Order up,” called Maggie from her turn at the kitchen grill.
Giggling, Jenna gathered up the plates onto her tray. “I’ll call you tonight about the Lobster Crawl.” She left Sally, then carried the plates and three glasses of orange juice to Table Five.
The family seated there made room for the plates. They asked about the best hiking trails in nearby Acadia, and then thanked her profusely for the advice. See? Jenna protested in her head. Manners.
When Table Two’s order came up, she carried it out to him with a cup of coffee. Primly, she set the plate and cup before him, then added his silverware, and creamer for the coffee.
He examined the plate as if checking it for poison.
“Eggs, bacon, toast. No fish anywhere. They even used separate pans,” she promised, unable to resist sassing him.
He cracked a little, rueful-looking smile that brought out just the hint of a single dimple in his cheek under the five o’ clock shadow…then he finally met her gaze.
Big, chocolate, puppy-dog eyes and short, loose waves of brown hair that curled up at the ends as if he’d had that baseball cap on for a while. Her heart flipped in her chest, the same way it did when she saw a patch of crocus coming up through the last snows in spring. The sheer novelty of her reaction made her forget herself and stand there in shock for a minute.
“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry about the temper tantrum.”
“Bit of a drive to get here?” she guessed, pointing to the Eastern Kentucky University logo on his fray-edged cap.
“Yes, ma’am. In fact, if you can point me in the direction of the Lobster Cove Police Department, I’d be grateful.”
Well, his manners certainly improve on acquaintance, she thought. Not to mention, his looks. She shifted her feet. “Right. Uh…right across the park, actually. You can see the building from here. It’s inside the courthouse.” Tilting her head, she added, “Unusual destination for a tourist.”
He scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “Not a tourist.”
“Oh.” The way his gaze stayed on her made her feel wrapped in chocolate. I so need to go home and bake. “Family here, then?”
“Nope.”
They stayed that way for a few seconds, him with his fork in midair, and her staring at him like a little kid at the—Ugh—candy shop.
He flashed that dimple again. “Business”—he glanced at her name tag—“Jenna.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Okay. Welcome to Lobster Cove,” she managed. Cake. Cookies. A big, huge glass of chocolate milk.
He thanked her, and as soon as she’d rattled off her “If you need anything else” spiel, she scooted back to the kitchen.
“How’d it go with Tall, Dark, and Southern?” Sally asked, carrying a tray of empty cups.
“I suddenly seem to have lost my ability to hold a decent conversation,” she muttered.
Glancing back toward his table, Sally said, “Honey, you don’t need words with that.” She set her tray down for the dishwasher, then rapped Jenna’s backside with her order pad. “Get out more, and take a chance. You might not find holding a conversation so hard. How long is he here?”
Self-conscious now,
Jenna shrugged. “Says he’s here on business.”
“Mmm, business might mean a bit of a stay.” With a wink, Sally added, “You should try extending it.”
Her cheeks burned, and when she declined to comment, Sally started chuckling. Jenna nabbed a fistful of silverware from the caddy of clean utensils, then went to set places for new customers walking in.
While she worked, she couldn’t help glancing toward Table Two. She told herself it was a professional concern—after all, he might need a refill on his coffee—but that was just so much smokescreen. Jenna didn’t make a habit of daydreaming on the job. The last time she’d been this distracted, her rent was overdue, and she’d been wondering how to make ends meet even on nightly peanut butter sandwiches and leftovers from the diner. That problem, she’d solved, at least for now.
Table Two looked like a bigger challenge.
Her heart gave a residual flip. She loved chocolate.
Jenna was ready when he finished his meal. All too eagerly, she returned to his table to see if he wanted his check. “How was everything?”
“A distinct lack of fish…so thank you,” he said, putting his hat back on.
She grinned. “Well, thanks for visiting the diner. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
He studied her a few seconds longer than necessary. That dimple resurfaced. “Some of it.” He slid a couple of bills across the table and then stood. His expression morphed into a full-blown grin that turned her heart-flip into what must have been an audible boom. “Keep the change, Tink.”
Only after he’d left did she come out of her fog and remember to look at the bills.
He’d left her forty bucks.
She gaped and looked toward the sidewalk outside, thinking to catch him and protest his generosity, but he was already gone.
She looked back at the bills. Tink?
Chapter Two
Bran wanted a bed, but there was no rest for the weary, and less so, for people who chased bad guys for a living. He strolled down the sidewalk toward the police department. Maine boasted a very brief summer, compared to his hometown of Lexington, Kentucky. Cooler, too. He’d had to pack a couple of long-sleeved shirts. Temperatures hovered a good six or eight degrees below Lexington, and the breeze off the ocean warned him of nighttime chills.
Heavy Netting Page 1
