by DiAnn Mills
“He and I have already made that pact.”
Alex chuckled to relieve the tension on the other end of the phone. “The pics are in your possession?”
“In my purse. Whitt figured you would want to analyze them.”
“That’s my boy.” Too late to retract his words, but no harm done.
“My phone is signaling an incoming call, but the number’s unfamiliar.”
“I suggest answering.”
She responded to the call. After clicking back to Alex, she reported that it was a telemarketer.
“Can I talk to Whitt?” he said.
“Why?”
“He’s an extra pair of eyes to keep both of you safe.”
“All right. Hold on a sec. Whitt, Alex wants to talk to you.”
A rustling met Alex’s ears. “Yes, sir.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious?”
“No, and I’m looking.”
“Good. Ask Stacy if you can hold on to her phone in case of an emergency.”
“I have my own phone. Already added your number.”
“Great. I’d like to talk to Stacy.” A momentary shuffle, and she returned to the line. “Don’t take any chances,” he said. “Call me as soon as you arrive at the office.”
LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Alex drove to the FBI office while munching on fries and chicken nuggets. He and Ric had left instructions for the search team to take however many days necessary to complete sorting through the Howes’ personal and business storage units. The job was tedious, but those agents who worked the division were incredible.
The lockbox sat on the passenger side of the Jeep. Ric had family obligations, and Alex had the remainder of the afternoon and late into the evening scheduled at the office. He regretted not recording the call made to Stacy yesterday. As with Connor’s message, voice recognition software could have provided a name. Two priorities fought for first place: securing Stacy and Whitt with a protective team and learning the contents of the lockbox. Since talking to her, he’d learned HPD would supply protection detail.
He steered his Jeep into the FBI’s parking section and grabbed the rest of his food and the lockbox. After downing his meal and depositing the metal box with an agent who’d use bolt cutters to open it, he hurried to the reception area, where Stacy and Whitt were reading from their cell phones. They stood and greeted him—she with a smile and Whitt with a measure of respect.
“Where’s Xena?” he said.
“We took her to the clinic rather than inconvenience you,” she said.
Those she’d angered would have no problem hurting a dog, but he’d not mention it. By this evening, he’d have the three of them under HPD’s capable care. “Police officers will be ensuring your and Whitt’s safety.”
She stiffened. “We’ve had a little change in plans.”
Irritation scoured at his nerves. His gut told him whatever she said wouldn’t meet with his approval. “Which is?”
She stared at him with a stormy, don’t-cross-me look. “We’d like our lives to be as normal as possible. If it fits within protection guidelines, we’d like to request someone to watch the house and clinic and ensure Whitt is safe going back and forth to school. But not inside my home.”
He digested what she was saying. So much better than he’d anticipated. “I see no problem with those conditions. But how about a vacation?”
“Now is not the right time.” She maintained eye contact. “I’m concerned my house or clinic would be torched since I refused to sell. Makes sense for someone to destroy my home and livelihood in my absence.”
He chose another angle. “Have you thought through your home enveloped in flames with you and Whitt trapped inside?”
A muscle twitched beneath her eye. “With assigned officers, the potential is unlikely.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ve told Whitt that if this doesn’t meet with your approval, I can hire private security.”
Alex blew out more irritation. How could one woman be so charming in one breath and exasperating in the next?
“Alex, I’m a fighter.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Leaving my home for a vacation means I risk losing what little I have.”
“Are you considering Whitt’s welfare?” He started to inquire about the judge’s reaction to her decision in light of the custody hearing, but with Whitt listening to every word, he changed his mind. Surely she’d thought through the repercussions of losing the court battle.
“What kind of role model would I be if I showed him how to take a coward’s stance?”
Alex slowly turned to Whitt. “Your thoughts on the matter?”
He arched his shoulders, amusing if the situation had been different. “We discussed this after we left the park. I’m not afraid. Spend an hour with my dad when he’s mean drunk, or some of my parents’ loser friends, and nothing will ever scare you.”
“Danger is not acceptable no matter the circumstances.” Alex lifted a brow. “There are other factors to consider.”
“You mean the meeting with the scammer in the morning?”
“That’s one of them.”
“I want to be part of the solution by contributing to a speedy arrest,” she said. “If successful, we’ll rest easier. Those at fault for the chaos will be behind bars.”
“What about the threat to Whitt?”
“He’s why I want trained professionals to watch us at all times.”
His phone alerted him to a text from the agent with the lockbox. He’d successfully broken it. Alex’s attention darted like a bad case of ADHD. “All right, Stacy.” He hoped she wasn’t being naive with her decision. Fear did crazy things to people.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “We’re going home.”
“You could wait here a little longer while I handle a matter. I could give you a personal escort and have another agent drive your truck.”
“No thank you.” She lifted her chin. “We’ve already taken up too much of your time. Will you text or call when the arrangements are made? Or if you have a number, I can do it myself.”
“I’ve started the ball rolling. Should have security lined up by the time you arrive home.”
“Perfect.” She gathered her purse. “I nearly forgot to give you the photos.”
Alex extended his hand. “I’ll run a few tests here and get back to you. The man who called you yesterday morning at the stables used a burner phone.”
“Smart, aren’t they?” He caught a brief sparkle in her eyes.
“Not as smart as the FBI. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I know, Alex. I just want to ride my horse or go fishing with Whitt.”
Within ten minutes, he was watching her and Whitt leave the building and take the steps down the small hill, through the gate, and on to visitor parking.
Shake it off, Alex. They’ll be fine.
Prioritize . . . He’d check on the contents of Howe’s lockbox. Deal with it, then on to Hooks Airport.
He met the agent in a work area where the padlock had been cut.
“Back to you, Alex,” he said. “But I’m curious. This belonged to Todd Howe?”
“Correct.” He walked to the table where the box sat for his scrutiny. After tugging on gloves, he opened the lid and removed a manila envelope. He pulled out a paper document—proof of an offshore account in Andorra and a deed to a condo there.
Had Todd Howe planned to leave Bekah?
ON SUNDAY EVENING, Stacy and Whitt met two plainclothes police officers who would be working the night shift in an unmarked car parked at the curb. Both men were in their forties, and their age gave her a measure of comfort. She and Whitt also learned the names of the two officers assigned to the day shift. Whitt googled each officer’s name and gave her a thumbs-up.
Trust came at a premium, and after the deception from those posing as health department officials and Lynx Connor posing as a rep for an investment company, she wanted a background completed on every
one she met.
“I hope this is only a twenty-four-hour or less gig,” she said. “I’m ready for an arrest.” She didn’t want to mention her role in setting up whoever was behind the water problem.
“We’ll be outside all night watching your home, Dr. Broussard,” one of the officers said and gave her his card. “This has my cell number.”
She took it and smiled. “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”
The officers headed to their car, and she dead bolted the door.
“I’ll cook tonight,” Whitt said.
Chef Whitt. He wanted to make her life easier, while she was determined to do the same for him. “Let’s do it together, but you choose the menu.”
“Chicken-corn chowder and seven-grain bread.”
She gave him a high five. “And we’ll eat while watching a movie. Not a crime show.”
“Are you sure? We could figure out who the bad guys are in our mess before the cops or the health department or the FBI makes another move.”
“Dreamer. I want animation so we can laugh.”
His smile faded. “This week will be tougher than the last.”
“Custody hearing on Wednesday and your Spanish play on Friday.” She pulled out the recipe book for the chowder.
God, help me through this week. I’m scared, really scared.
Late Sunday evening, Alex drove to David Wayne Hooks Memorial Airport, his mind rippling in far too many directions, reminding him of dropping a stone into water. Although he admired the ever-increasing circles, the same analogy in a crime ground at his waking and sleeping hours. As always, he sought to grab the next piece of evidence to end the ripple effect.
The day had been filled with new pieces of evidence that pushed him on past the exhaustion phase with adrenaline more powerful than a triple espresso. The FIG had been given the Andorra bank account and condo information. Bekah claimed to know nothing about either one. Now to wait until he and Ric had the particulars. An offshore account wasn’t illegal, but the funds pouring into it could have been obtained by fraudulent means.
At the airport, he took a few moments to scan the area, noting more hangars than when he’d been there a couple of years ago. New expansions made the airport desirable for private owners and companies, a plus for northwest Houston and the surrounding communities. He entered the office of Gill Aviation and introduced himself to Taylor Freeman, friendly and professional.
“Here’s my card,” Alex said. “If anyone contacts you about Rebekah Shaw’s plane, I want to be notified immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Ms. Freeman said. “Earlier you had questions about the aircraft.”
“I’d like to take a look at the flight plans going back as far as you have record.”
“There’s no requirement for pilots to file a plan unless they are flying under instrument flight rules during bad weather. In those cases, they want to be in constant contact with air traffic controllers. If good weather prevails, there’s no need to file.”
“If the pilot did file one, I assume you’d have the information.”
“Right. Pilots have the option of doing so either by phone or online. I can look it up by the pilot’s name, but the critical piece of information is the tail number of the plane.”
“I have that.” Alex jotted down the number Bekah had given him. “Do you check the pilot’s name for identification?”
“No. The purpose of the flight plan is not to keep tabs on a plane, which of course can be accomplished, but to give us some idea of where to start looking if a plane fails to show up at its destination. Our chances of rescue increase if we have an idea of the general route.” Shortly thereafter, Ms. Freeman peered up from her computer. “We have no flight plans with the tail number of the aircraft.”
“From what you’ve told me, am I correct to assume a pilot could fly from this airport without speaking to anyone?”
“It’s possible as long as the pilot’s landing at airports that have no control towers. Our country is full of private airports. But not here. A pilot cannot land without communication to a controller at our tower. But he doesn’t have to give his name.”
“Passengers are at the pilot’s discretion?”
“Yes.”
Todd Howe had his transportation plan intact if he was using the plane to meet with anyone secretly. The more suspicious activity uncovered about Howe, the greater Alex’s concern for Stacy and Whitt. “I’d like to view the security cameras.”
“We’ll need a subpoena for that.”
Alex had hoped she’d skip the formality, but apparently not. “I’d like to take a look at the aircraft. I have the keys.”
“That I can do.”
He followed her to the hangar where the Citation was stored. Everything appeared to be in order. What he’d suspected had been verified. Todd could come and go with anyone who wanted to climb onboard.
Now to see how much Lynx Connor revealed.
LA FBI sent Connor’s interview at 1:30 a.m. Central time. Agents confronted him with conclusive evidence, and he confessed to posing as a representative of the health department, falsifying the water hoax letters, and duping the residents of Stacy’s subdivision into selling their property.
Connor offered no motive for his crimes. He denied knowledge of Todd Howe’s murder and the theft of the military quadcopter.
“Why talk to us now?” an LA agent said.
“You offered a plea bargain, and I don’t want to spend more time in prison.”
“But you have more information, Mr. Connor. You’ve neglected telling us about Walter M. Brown Investments.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
Alex wanted to face Connor himself. He offered just enough to keep agents interested . . . but not enough for a plea bargain.
MONDAY MORNING Stacy startled at the sound of her alarm alerting her to a workday. Although she’d fallen asleep instantly after the Penguins of Madagascar movie, her body craved more. She rolled over, her mind tossing around the prospect of police officers making an arrest while she slept. What a wonderful answer to this nightmare . . . She and Whitt could shake off the past and ease back into a normal life.
Rolling back the blanket, she forced herself out of bed—and wished she could crawl back in. Her head pounded and her body ached like an old woman’s. Profuse sweating and chills made her wonder if she had a fever. Please, not the flu. She’d hoped to escape the virus raging through her community. Rarely did she catch anything. Her theory was she’d grown up with mosquitoes and every other disease-carrying insect, and her body staunchly fought the worst of illnesses. Besides, she didn’t have time to mess with being sick or going to the doctor. Burying her face in her hands, she rubbed her temples.
First on her list for the day: Whitt needed to see her healthy and happy. She made her way down the hall, following the aroma of coffee.
“Morning,” she said as cheerfully as her throbbing head would allow.
Whitt peered at her, then poured her coffee. “Miss Stacy, are you okay?”
She smiled her thanks and wrapped her fingers around the mug for warmth. “I’m fine. A little tired after our excitement.”
“More like an onslaught of weapons of mass destruction.” He grabbed a chocolate chip English muffin, split it, and popped it in the toaster. He searched her face again.
“What?”
“Your face is flushed. Not much of a healthy glow.”
She laughed. “No makeup and in my robe? Are those words for your almost-foster mother?” Concentrate. You can do this.
“The flu is spreading in our neighborhood.” He reached to touch her forehead, but she jerked back.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re sick. You even smell sick.”
“Thanks, doc. For your information, I haven’t taken a shower.” She wiggled her nose, but the attempt at humor only brought a scowl from him.
He sighed. “Look, in the last few days, I’ve learned about my dad threaten
ing you at the clinic, social services and your lawyer wanting to question me, the phony water department and investment company buying up property here, the sting operation this morning—a bunch of stuff. Add to that, two cops are watching your house. Actually, you probably left out more than I’ve observed because you didn’t think I could handle it.”
He was so right. “Your point?”
“You keep rubbing the back of your neck. If you haven’t contracted the flu, stress can make you sick. As I just stated, you have garbage stacked everywhere. Not sure how you handle it all.”
“I might have a slight headache.”
He reached into the cabinet beside the bottle of vanilla and box of salt for the Tylenol. Flipping the lid open, he dumped two into his hand and handed them to her. “This is selfish. But permanent custody of a kid means taking care of yourself. I’m supposed to stay after school. Can’t take a test until after one, so I packed a lunch.”
“Testing out of Spanish four, and just so you know, I’m in charge of making your sandwiches.”
“Right. You’re sick and you want to unload germs on yummy meat and cheese? But I can cancel the test and reschedule—”
“Not on your life. If I have a fever, then I’ll make a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon.”
“Promise?”
“Who’s the adult here?”
He raised a brow. “Don’t go there, Miss Stacy, or I’ll have to toss the IQ card.” On the other side of the vanilla lay the thermometer. He set it next to her coffee mug and stared at her. “You look awful.” He placed his plate and knife into the dishwasher. “I’ve already talked to the day team of officers, and one of them will follow me to school. They came prepared in separate cars. You’ll take the Tylenol and your temp?”
“Yes.” She pointed to his backpack. “Don’t forget your tools for the day. And thanks for helping out this morning. Tomorrow I make coffee and breakfast.”
“Your coffee’s strong enough to slice it with a knife, and you burn the bagels.”
Once he left, she swallowed the pain reliever and decided to wait a half hour before taking her temp. She took a shower and let the spray run cold—another way of ensuring her body heat registered 98.6. If only she didn’t feel so rotten. The muscle and joint aches were dragging her under.
