Lobster Cove was small enough to park his car in the town square and get everywhere within a relatively short walk. Kind of a nice change. He breathed in, catching a seaweedy, salty whiff of the water.
Smalltown, USA, right here. A shame that bad guys had to smear it up with crime.
He’d gotten in touch with the local police after reading the E-mail about suspicious deposits and withdrawals. They had a few ideas, but so did everybody when it happened in their own town. Bran had learned not to make assumptions before he’d gathered all the facts for himself.
And, that said… He pushed open the door of the police department then checked in with the secretary. “Branson Cudahy. I’m here to see Chief Johnson,” he told her.
She looked up, her smile all teeth and her eyes all sparkle. “Sure,” she said, more effusively than necessary. “Have a seat. I’ll page him for you.”
Bran lowered himself into a chair, wondering if he’d get up again. His knee had protested the entire drive up from Lexington, and it was now protesting any movement whatsoever. Should’ve brought that horse liniment in the cabinet back home.
He flipped through a magazine, politely pretending to be unaware of the secretary’s lingering glances. Even if he did have time for mixing pleasure with business, Maine wouldn’t be the place he’d choose to do it.
The magazine was—of course—related to New England cooking. Lobster. Clams. Shrimp. More lobster. He put it down then selected an old copy of Time. Less lobster, more pop culture. One of these days, he might actually watch enough television to know the faces on the covers of these things. Usually, he busted his ass enough at his all-hours job so that by the time he got home, he barely sucked down his dinner before dropping into bed.
And usually, he was too busy to care that his personal life was as dull as toast.
The secretary rescued him from further introspection on that score. “He’s ready for you,” she announced. “First door on the right.”
Bran hauled himself back onto his feet with a firm admonition to his knee to shut the hell up.
Chief Daryl Johnson greeted him with the same terse, get-to-the-point language common to all senior police officers. Bran returned the preliminaries then started right in on the Obsidian case.
Johnson already had a file on his desk, which Bran assumed contained the Obsidian records Rudy had sent up from home. “Was a little surprised to see you had this going on a while in Lexington,” the man commented. “I see he’s been roaming around the east about six years. You must have a lot of patience, Cudahy.”
Lowering himself into a chair before the desk, Bran said, “More or less.”
The chief stared him over. Shrewd, this guy. Not afraid to put someone under a spotlight and study every little detail. Finally, he smiled. “A long way from home for a southern boy.”
“I do what the job tells me to.”
Johnson’s brows twitched. “You got that right.” He flipped through a few evidence photos. “Well, I talked with your friend at the Lexington Police Department. Saw your résumé, too. Impressive. You don’t look like a computer guy.”
Chafing a little, Bran sat back in the chair. “Homicide. Blew my knee out when I was a rookie.”
Silence for a minute. The chief’s stare weighed a good ten pounds. Bran sat there and took it, even as he avoided moving his knee more than necessary.
No matter where you were a cop, and how long ago you were a cop, it was a lasting brotherhood. The chief mellowed. “You got lodgings yet?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Go to the Sea Crest Inn. They have a hot tub, and they’ll set you up good.” He slapped the file shut. “You get anything on this guy, keep me posted.”
“Sure.” Bran stood, reluctantly, then ambled out of the building, making sure he didn’t limp as he went.
The Sea Crest Inn was everything he expected out of a tourist town B&B—charming, neat, well-decorated, and packed with guests spilling over from Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park. Bran’s idea of a summer getaway was a tent and a backpack. The older woman who checked him in sized him up with scary accuracy and put him in her quietest room in the back of the building.
There, he proceeded to sift through his notes, but a certain blonde waitress kept fluttering to the surface of his thoughts. After reading the same paragraph on his laptop for the fifth time, he groaned and jammed the heels of his hands over his eyes.
He couldn’t blame his distraction on his knee or his still-throbbing head. Not with the way Jenna’s smile dissolved all thought of his aches and pains. “Honey, you gotta get out of my head,” he muttered, but the pleasant image lingered.
Bran cracked open a can of pop from the cooler he’d hauled upstairs and then took a sip. Ugh. Piss warm. He set the can back down. In his file, he retyped his notes about the money trail so far. The repetition helped him think.
Obsidian had gone to elaborate lengths over the years to hide his trail, even to the point of disappearing entirely for months. Eventually, Bran hoped he’d trip in his own tangled web.
His aching knee and two-day trip had been sapping his energy away all morning. There, sitting back against the bed’s plushy pillows, Bran fell asleep with the laptop on his chest.
And instead of dreaming about nabbing cyber criminals, he dreamed about a pretty waitress with a dazzling smile.
****
“Thanks, Bobbie. You’re the best,” Jenna said.
“Anytime.” Jenna’s best friend Bobbie Darling handed her a check for the week’s commission on Jenna’s hand-knitted sweaters and one-of-a-kind quilts. Sometimes the payout was only a little, but other times—like when tourist season swelled Lobster Cove’s population to epic proportions—it carried her bills all by itself. Bobbie’s bookstore, Cliff Notes, had a special room for crafts—Bobbie’s own idea, which Jenna had enthusiastically supported with ideas and inventory. So far, they had both met with success.
The seed of that idea had given Jenna the hope that she might make something of her hobby. Maine winters were certainly warmer with a pile of knitting on her lap, and it warmed her even more to share her handiwork with others. “See you soon.”
She left the bookstore with her usual twinge of wistfulness, compounded by the mournful cry of gulls out on the water. Bobbie had made a dazzling little enterprise out of her bookstore. There were adorable boutiques all around town, selling everything from giftware to antiques…but nothing to do with Jenna’s passion. If she wanted sewing notions or yarn—or things made with sewing notions or yarn—she had to drive to Bar Harbor. That wasn’t a bad thing. The bigger town had its own share of attractions…but Jenna daydreamed about working in her own shop, and then coming home to a cozy apartment with an old soul.
Right now, she had to content herself with impersonal living quarters, in a duplex rented from an often-grumpy landlord who was slow to fix the leaky water taps. No place for daydreams.
Her car, just as grumpy as her landlord, gave a sluggish grumble when she turned her key. She pumped the gas, and finally, the engine kicked over. Thinking of the extra funds in her wallet, she sighed. Pretty soon, she’d have to sink whatever nest egg she had left into the old beastie. That would mean putting off her dream a little longer…again.
Tuesdays were days off, full of to-dos. She visited her parents, who lived in a little Victorian outside of town. After that, she made the short trip to Bar Harbor, where she picked up some cloth for a wedding-ring quilt, then a gift for some friends, who would be getting married soon.
Another daydream that would have a long, long wait. She returned to Lobster Cove with a gloomy edge on her sunny mood.
Whenever possible, she walked instead of taking her cantankerous car. Lobster Cove was small enough to do that—one of the many things she loved about the town—and she could smell the sea air everywhere. Soaking it in, along with the sunshine, Jenna strolled down the sidewalk with a cart full of groceries from the mom-and-pop up the street. Distantly, she heard the hoo
t of a ship’s horn out in the harbor, and smiled, her good humor back in place. Her hometown was good for the soul.
“Afternoon.”
Jenna snapped to attention. Table Two sauntered down the walk in her direction, looking better than any man had a right to do in a crisp white polo shirt and faded denim cargo shorts. “Hello,” she said. “Actually, I’m glad I caught you. You overpaid at breakfast yesterday.”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“No mistake,” he said. “I compensated for being a difficult customer.”
She blushed and shook her head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t go around yelling at restaurant wait staff as a rule. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
She nibbled at her lower lip, mesmerized by that dimple in his cheek. “Well, then…apology accepted.”
He nodded. “Good.” Then, seeing her hand cart full of groceries, he said, “Hey, watch it. Your oranges are about to—”
He didn’t get to finish. Six oranges tumbled off the top of the stack out of their mesh bag and went rolling away in all directions. Jenna yelped and darted after the nearest two.
Table Two bolted for another three, then he raced after one that had bounced off the sidewalk into the street. “Look out!” she warned, seeing a car approaching.
He snatched the orange then whirled back to the sidewalk just as the car went by, beeping its horn. Jenna had jumped toward him intending to stop him from running into the street. She stood right behind him as he turned, and they smashed together. She yelped again and started to teeter backward, propelled by the collision with his big frame.
Table Two snatched her hand. She staggered back in the other direction and then bumped up against his broad, solid, warm chest.
He grinned down at her. “Hi.”
She laughed—partly nerves, because his hand was in hers and his other arm was at her waist, and the way it felt scattered her senses like a dynamite blast. He smelled wonderful, all cinnamon and cedar. Her cheeks sizzled. “Um…thanks. I…my…I’m…”
“The lady with the oranges,” he finished. His dimple deepened as he transformed his grip on her hand to a firm handshake.
“Yes. Orange…er, Jenna. Jenna Sanborn.”
“Branson Cudahy,” he drawled, and the laid-back southern accent set her insides whirling.
“Table Two.”
His brows arched.
Flustered, she took a hasty step back. “Where you sat. I didn’t know your name, so I called you Table Two.” With her face on fire, she blurted, “I’m sorry, that sounds so rude—”
He chuckled. “It’s okay. I’ve been calling you Tink.”
Jenna froze, dumbfounded. Been calling? As in, he’d been thinking of her?
He backed off a step, still holding her hand. “Y’know, Tinker Bell? Peter and Wendy?” When she didn’t answer, he let go and gave her the most adorable look of chagrin. “Books were our T.V. when I was a kid.”
“Oh. Oh!” She shook off her stupor then wrinkled her nose. “You think I look like Tinker Bell?”
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I think you’ve got spunk like Tinker Bell. You sure put up with me, yesterday.” His arm left her waist, and he presented the orange to her with a flourish.
She reached for it, unable to hide her delight. It had been ages since she’d even noticed a man’s attentions. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He held onto the orange as she put her hand on it. He glanced from it to her. “Bet you don’t eat out much, Tink. Where’s the grocery store?”
“Right down the street,” she said, pointing behind her, “but if you want more variety, you’ll need to go to Bar Harbor.”
He released the orange then pivoted to gaze down the street. He had a stare like a hawk, surveying everything, but clearly on the lookout for something particular as he swept the passersby. Jenna wondered what wheels were turning in his head. Then she wondered what “business” had brought him to town. “Did you find the police station all right?” Nosy, she scolded herself as soon as the words left her mouth.
He didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, thanks. Listen, since I’m new in town, I could use a few tips on where to go and what’s good to do. Can I grab you a coffee?”
Flustered again, she gestured at her grocery cart. “Milk. Ice cream. Frozen vegetables.”
“Not a stalker,” he said, “I promise.”
“I didn’t think that.”
“Yeah, you did. It’s okay.” He smiled. “Best coffee in town?”
“Sang Freud,” she said automatically. “Up the street on the left.” She grinned. “It’s hard to get lost here. There’s not much town.”
“All right, Jenna,” he said. “Tell you what. I’m gonna be there about four o’clock. If you want to meet me there and talk Lobster Cove, I’ll be all ears. If not, no pressure.”
She giggled. Giggled. Like a teenager going to her first concert with a cute boy. Mortified, and now convinced that her cheeks were as red as a stop sign, she backed away. “I’ll keep it in mind. See you later, Mister Cudahy.”
His grin sent a flutter through her midsection. “Bran.”
“Okay. Bran.” She waved goodbye, then hurried off down the street with her groceries and would-be-truant oranges.
As she walked, she sensed his gaze on her, and she beamed, flattered and flustered, and for once, feeling beautiful.
Chapter Three
Bran spent the early afternoon getting to know the town—the touristy areas, the less touristy ones, and the places where a smart person would keep a tight grip on his wallet. All towns had them, big or small or anything in between. Early in his career, Bran had learned that “small town” didn’t necessarily mean “small crime.”
The fact was, Lobster Cove boasted a scary number of places to orchestrate an identity theft. He’d been walking the town all morning, after a healthy dose of pain relievers and a night off his knee. People in little towns trusted each other too much.
If you were attached to the seaside life, Lobster Cove was ideal. Along the rocky eastern coast, long, lonely stretches remained where an enterprising person might snap pictures of wild seabirds, or check the rocky harbor shore for sea glass and shells. Boat charters, like the one in town, offered tours for seal watching or for observing those clown-nosed puffins, which, he’d been told, were heading back out to sea after their breeding season.
Those less inclined to wildlife and watercraft could check out all the shops, which he’d begun to do. People smiled. They chatted. They were your instant friends.
A perfect opportunity for a cyber criminal.
He’d told Jenna to meet him that afternoon, but he still wanted to get the lay of the land for himself. Aside from town, there were stretches of forest, too, starting from the west end of town and dotted all over Mount Desert Island. That wasn’t even bringing Acadia National Park into the equation, over 47,000 acres of places to hide.
Bran tuned his ear for anything out of the ordinary. Most of what he heard included the usual—Welcome to town, enjoy your stay, you should try the lobster dinner at Mariner’s Fish Fry. He politely kept his mouth shut for that.
With a little discreet prodding of the business owners, Bran learned every suspicious thing they’d seen in the last month. In a tourist town, new faces could hardly be considered atypical, so he narrowed the list by asking what behaviors people had seen that weren’t “routine” in their days. That netted him a list of everything from fender benders to spam E-mail.
Criminals weren’t always smart—some of them were just too hurried, too desperate, or too dumb to cover their tracks—but some blended in so well that a person might pass them on the street without sensing anything unusual. Those were the ones Bran worried about, and the longer he listened to the residents of this mostly-peaceful town, the more he found himself hoping for the one break in routine that would send him in the direction of the unsub.
But after almost four
years on the case, he doubted it. Most dumb criminals’ luck ran out long before that kind of benchmark. The smart ones learned how to slip the noose, and improved their “techniques” as they went along.
The smart ones worried him.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, he’d had an earful of everything. His knee had begun to gripe about footing it around town all afternoon, so he drove the short distance from the Sea Crest to Sang Freud.
The scent hit him first. Bran breathed in the mother’s-milk aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. It bore no resemblance to the cheap stuff he bought when working late nights back home. He sat at the bar and waited patiently while the man behind the counter served several patrons. Chatter and soft music filled the air, punctuated by the shooshing of a cappuccino machine.
Comfortable, he observed. Fashionable, without being too trendy. Most of the town was like that, in fact—a less-expensive, but still welcoming, alternative to the pricey life in Bar Harbor. If he’d been a New England sort of guy, he might enjoy it here.
He slipped his notebook out of his back pocket to study the notes he’d made so far. Nothing unusual stuck out, but he’d let it ferment and see if something bubbled to the top. None of the police force’s evidence ruled out a copycat—yet. He tabbed a page with Chief Johnson’s business card.
“You look like a black coffee kind of guy,” said the man behind the counter.
Bran raised a brow. “Psychic, are you?”
“People person,” the man responded. With a friendly smile, he set a cup before Bran, then poured out the rich-scented coffee that had teased Bran’s nose on entering the building. He glanced at the thick, paper-stuffed notebook, then back to Bran’s face. “In town long?”
“Not sure yet.” Bran reached a hand across the counter. “Branson Cudahy.”
The man wiped his hands on a towel then extended his own hand for a shake. “Carlos Young. You came to the right place, my friend.”
“Sure smells like it.” Bran took another deep whiff of the coffee scent hovering like a tease in the air. “Sang Freud. Very clever.”
Heavy Netting Page 2
