Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 16, 10:15 p.m.
Grant Masterson stood in the enormous walk-in closet of his brother’s Cincinnati apartment, mouth agape once again. He’d never seen so many suits outside of a clothing store. And they were expensive suits. He recognized a few of the designers, and those were ones he’d overheard on the television when Cora was watching some fancy awards show.
And shoes. My God. How many shoes could one man wear? He blinked, doing another dazed three-sixty. And then his gaze fell on a mirror.
That was slightly ajar. Because it was a door.
He’d pulled on the latex gloves he’d found in Wes’s Cleveland safe before he’d touched anything in this building—even the elevator button. He’d been in luck, because the doorman’s post was empty, a sign saying he’d be back in five minutes, so there had been no one to ask him questions about Wes that he couldn’t answer.
Wes’s Cincinnati apartment was astonishing. A wall of windows allowed a view of the river that Grant expected was a main factor in the price.
But the contents of this closet alone had to be worth more than fifty grand. Grant thought of the brick of heroin that he’d carefully replaced in the safe, and wondered how many other bricks there had been.
A quick Google search had revealed that the street price for the single brick was close to six hundred grand. When he’d added up all the receipts he’d found and added the five hundred grand still in the safe . . . Wes had to have started out with at least three of the bricks. That was nearly two million dollars’ worth of heroin.
It had left him dizzy and nauseated.
His cop brother had sold heroin. Those drugs were on the streets of Cleveland, being shot into the arms of addicts of all ages. And why?
For this apartment. These suits. Those shoes. And whatever was hidden behind the mirror.
He opened the mirror enough to peer in and frowned. There were more clothes hanging on a rack. He activated the flashlight on his cell phone and walked into the hidden room, about the size of a normal person’s closet.
His frown deepened. Uniforms. He grabbed the sleeve of one and pulled it out enough to see that it was a repairman’s coveralls. A Velcro patch on the left breast pocket was empty, but a strip of Velcro attached to the hanger held at least a dozen name tags, each with the name of a different local business—the cable company, power company, gas company, phone company, plumbers, electricians, and a pest control firm. Next to the coveralls were a priest’s cassock and doctor’s scrubs.
Grant backed out of the closet, drawing a deep breath as he positioned the mirror as he’d found it. Wes had done undercover work during his years in the vice department. Those uniforms might be for that.
Or Wes had been using them to buy and sell the drugs he’d hidden in his home safe.
His safe, which had the simplest of all combinations, one that Wes knew Grant would immediately try.
Had Wes wanted his brother to find his stash? To find all that cash? If so, then why?
“Undercover,” Grant whispered. “Please let it be that.”
Drawing another breath, he detected the smell of cigarette smoke. Wes didn’t smoke.
Wes doesn’t sell drugs, either. Except that he does.
Grant turned to the suits, sniffing them, then stopping when he got to one that had a stronger scent of smoke than the others. Figuring that this would be the suit his brother had worn most recently, he hesitantly put his gloved hand in the pocket. Finding it empty, he checked the other and pulled out a matchbook and a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes.
I guess he does smoke. And then Grant saw the matchbook cover.
Oh. The background was black, both the lettering and the logo white. The lettering used an Old West font. LOTR. Below the letters was a simple drawing of an old-fashioned paddleboat on a winding river.
He held his phone to his mouth. “Siri, search Ohio River paddleboats and L-O-T-R.” He waited impatiently for the results screen, then gave a single nod. “Not Lord of the Rings,” he murmured to himself. “Lady of the River.”
It was a riverboat casino, just over the state line in Indiana.
Of course it was. He added gambling to Wes’s growing list of sins. Then he thought of the detective’s obituary. Murder? Had his brother gone that far?
Where was Wesley? Grant knew where he had to start. Most of the casinos on the Indiana portion of the Ohio River were permanently docked, but the Lady of the River was not. According to their website, this was one of their selling points. The boat went out onto the river three times a week—Monday and Wednesday afternoons for business parties, and Friday evenings, where it was first come, first served until the boat sailed at seven p.m. It remained docked during the rest of the week.
It offered a full range of games and slots, elegant bars, live entertainment, and a handful of well-appointed hotel rooms, which carried an ungodly price tag.
“Lady of the River, here I come.” He started to drop the matchbook back into the suit coat pocket, but paused, turning it over instead. Nothing was printed on the back, which surprised him. Usually a business would add an address, a phone number, or at least a website somewhere. Not sure what he was expecting, he flipped the front of the matchbook up.
Bingo. A very small playing card—the Joker—was printed in gold, which made it pop from the black background. Below the card was the word Walden and what appeared to be a date, 03/08, also printed in gold. March eighth was two Fridays ago.
But what was Walden? “Hey, Siri, search for Walden.”
The first items in the results referred to Walden College, but the next was a Wikipedia link to a book by Henry David Thoreau. The bio for Thoreau answered the question.
Henry David Thoreau’s best friend was Ralph Waldo Emerson.
“Blake Emerson,” he muttered. The name on the rental agreement for this apartment. It could be a coincidence, but Grant didn’t think it was.
Pocketing the matchbook, he headed into the bedroom. He’d searched the living room for a safe, but found none.
He glanced around, noticing a throw rug that didn’t exactly match the decor. He was a little impressed with himself, he had to admit. I suppose all those HGTV shows that Cora watches are coming in handy.
He nudged at the rug with his toe, satisfied when he revealed the corner of an in-floor safe. It, too, opened with their sister’s birth date. The dread that had become his constant companion intensified as he lifted the safe’s door.
Reaching inside, he pulled out two wallets. One held Wes’s detective shield and police ID card. The other held his driver’s license and credit cards. He hid them because he’s undercover, he thought hopefully. Please let him be undercover. He opened the wallet with the detective shield and studied the photo of his older brother. They were three years apart, but looked enough alike that many people mistook them for twins, especially from a distance.
He hesitated, then put the shield in his own pocket. “In case he’s in trouble,” he muttered to himself. If Wes was in trouble, he might need someone to vouch for him.
Reaching into the safe again, he pulled out a gun he recognized as Wes’s service weapon. He checked the chamber and the magazine. It was unloaded, so he set it aside. His breath caught in his throat, because the next gun he pulled out was not one he recognized. It had no serial number, the plate having been filed off.
Shoulders bowing with dread, he checked the chamber. One bullet, ready to go. He studied it until he figured out the release mechanism to empty the magazine.
It was a nine-bullet clip, but he counted only five bullets. Plus the one in the chamber . . . Three were missing.
Once again he thought of the dead detective and swallowed audibly.
Hands shaking, he replaced the clip and released the slide, covering the chamber. Setting the weapon aside, he reached into the safe once again and pulled out a cell phone.
A single tap to the screen had his eyes filling with tears. It was Wes’s phone. No question. The wallpaper was a photo of . . .
Grant blinked, sending the tears down his cheeks. “Baby girl,” he whispered hoarsely. It was their sister in her cap and gown and Wes in his dress uniform, arms around each other, smiling. A huge sign behind them read CONGRATULATIONS, GRADUATES!
Grant remembered the day. He’d taken the photo. They’d been so damn happy.
And then she was gone.
Please don’t be gone, Wes. I can’t lose you, too.
Grant swiped upward, certain he’d need a password. But he didn’t. He frowned, wondering why Wes would be so careless. He started to touch the apps on the screen, then hesitated. What if this was a trap and the phone was set to auto-wipe itself if anyone tried to look at its contents?
He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told himself. Now he was getting paranoid.
He checked the screen, but he’d waited too long and it had gone dark. He swiped up again, but the angle was now different and the words Face ID popped up on the screen.
Grant had a similar phone, so he held it to his face. But it wouldn’t wor—
“Well, shit.” Apparently, facial recognition wasn’t completely precise in its discrimination, because Grant could open his brother’s phone.
Encouraged, he touched Wes’s calendar and swiped back day after day until a single entry popped onto the screen. LOTR Poker. The date was two Fridays before, at nine p.m. The same date he’d found on the matchbook.
Relief soothed him. At least he had a lead. He found another calendar entry on Wes’s phone, on March first, the Friday before the matchbook date. LOTR. Richard.
Grant continued to swipe, but found nothing more than a few shopping lists.
He checked the contacts for a Richard but found nothing. There were only Wes’s known friends, family, and coworkers. Other than the wallpaper photo, the only photos on the phone were of Grant’s kids.
Grant returned everything to the floor safe, hesitating when he handled the loaded gun. Should he take it? Would he need it?
Maybe, but he decided it was safer to put it back. If he were caught with an unregistered gun, he’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble.
He walked back to the living room and took another look at the amazing view. “I hope whatever you’re doing is worth it, Wes.”
Then he found the riverboat on Google Maps and plotted a route.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 16, 10:45 p.m.
Michael sat back in his chair with a sigh. His plate was scraped clean, his stomach truly full for the first time in weeks. He glanced up to see Dr. Dani smiling.
“It was good?” she asked.
“Really good,” Joshua said enthusiastically, shoving another bite into his mouth. He’d padded down the stairs midway through dinner, rubbing his eyes sleepily and claiming the smells had woken him up. He pointed to the creamy noodles in his bowl. “This is my favorite.”
“It’s really good,” Michael echoed. He liked macaroni and cheese out of the blue box—it was better than the crap they served at the school cafeteria—but Dr. Dani’s was the best he’d ever had. He wondered if she’d show him how to make it, so that he could make it for Joshua when they left this house.
It was only temporary foster care, after all.
She tilted her head, studying him with those weird, mismatched eyes that seemed to see a lot more than he wanted to show. “How long since you’ve eaten a good meal, Michael?”
Joshua’s spoon froze midway to his mouth, his smile fading as he waited for his brother to answer. Michael tried to laugh it off. “Well, I usually make dinner, but I wouldn’t call it good.”
Joshua’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t eat when he cooks at home. Only I do.”
Coach Diesel turned in his chair so that he could see both Joshua and Michael. “Why, Joshua?”
“Because there isn’t enough.” Joshua gave him what Michael thought of as his “old-man” look. It hurt that Joshua knew that look. He’s just a kid. He shouldn’t have to worry about stuff like that.
Michael sighed. “I eat at school.”
Diesel frowned. “Your mother doesn’t buy you food?”
Michael lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “She doesn’t eat much.”
“Because she’s high?” Dr. Dani asked, compassion in her eyes.
Michael’s gaze darted to Joshua. He would give anything to keep this conversation from his little brother. But Joshua knew the truth about their mother’s drug use. They’d both seen her high. Damn it all.
“Yes,” Michael acknowledged. “Brewer never ate at home. He went out a lot. Business meetings, he said. There wasn’t a lot in the pantry. So . . .” He trailed off, looking at his hands, shame heating his face. He hated that they pitied him.
After a few seconds, he looked up through his lashes to see Dr. Dani and Coach Diesel silently communicating across the table with their eyes. Both of them cut to look at Michael when they realized he was watching them.
Coach Diesel looked serious. “How long has it been since you went to school?”
Michael glanced at Joshua. “A week.” Since Brewer was killed and that big bald man came into Joshua’s room. He guessed he’d be able to go back, now that Joshua had Coach and Dr. Dani to watch over him.
Coach’s lips pressed in a tight line. “So . . . no real meals all last week?”
Joshua’s eyes grew big. “Michael!”
Michael was about to look away again when Dr. Dani turned to him with a smile. “Well, you’ll eat well from now on. Send me a text with your favorite meals. I’m going to the grocery store tomorrow.”
Joshua tugged her sleeve. “And me? My favorites, too?”
“Of course.” She ruffled Joshua’s curls. “I already know you like mac-a-chee. And I’m betting you’ll like what I have for you next.” She waggled her brows. “Chocolate brownies.”
Joshua bounced in his chair. “Can I help make them?”
“Of course,” she said. “Michael, do you want to help?”
Michael shook his head. “I just like to lick the bowl.”
“Same,” Coach said, his expression relaxing again. “So . . . are you going to school on Monday?”
Michael looked at Dr. Dani. “Am I?”
She bit at her lip. “I don’t want you to fall further behind, but I also don’t want to risk reporters bothering you.”
Or the big bald man, Michael thought, grateful they hadn’t mentioned him in front of Joshua. “I can stay out a little longer. I won’t be any trouble. I promise.”
Dr. Dani’s eyes were kind. “I know you won’t. I have to go into the clinic on Monday for at least a few hours, but maybe Coach Diesel can stay here? Just in case anyone pesters you.”
“I sure will.” Coach shot him a challenging look. “Did I hear Dr. Dani mention Xbox?”
Michael grinned in spite of himself. “You did. She’s got Cuphead.”
Dr. Dani tilted her head. “That’s the cute one with cartoon cups? It looks fun.”
Michael wanted to laugh, but held it back. When he’d logged on, he’d found that she’d been playing the game last and was up to the final level, “Inkwell Hell.” She was good. But she didn’t want Coach to know.
Coach was smiling at her the way guys did when they were going to tell girls how things worked. “I’ll show you how to play.”
“I’d like that,” she said, her mismatched eyes twinkling. “Now, let’s clean up the dinner dishes so we can make brownies, because Joshua needs a bath and it’s way past both your bedtimes. Luckily we can sleep in tomorrow. Normally we eat at six thirty and bedtime would be eight for Joshua and nine thirty for you, Michael, but this whole day has been a little peculiar.”
You can say that again, Michael thought.
Joshua snuggled into her side. “I saw the Spider-Man pj’s. Can I wear them?”
She kissed the top of his head. “You may have them.”
Joshua hugged her neck, his smile bright and free of worry. “Thank you!”
Michael closed his eyes and wished they could stay here forever.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 16, 11:50 p.m.
Slouching in the driver’s seat, Cade watched the taillights of the cruiser pause at George Garrett’s house before continuing down the street.
Cade checked the time. The police drive-bys were spaced approximately an hour apart. The two closest had been forty-five minutes apart, so he had at least that much time before the next cruiser came by.
Finding the right George Garrett hadn’t been terribly difficult. There had been several listed in the white pages, but only one had a vanity plate containing the letters DRFISH. Dr. Garrett was a pediatrician, lived alone, and had no dog, his Lab having died of old age during the holidays.
Facebook was such an asset. Garrett’s page confirmed that he spent all his free time in the boat currently parked in his driveway, and that he’d planned to fish the Ohio this morning. He was supposed to have been joined by a friend, but the man had begged off at the last minute, citing a spring cold.
Lucky bastard, the friend. He’d missed out on the gore and . . . what was to come.
Cade didn’t think Dr. Garrett would come to the door if he knocked. It was too late for legitimate visitors. But the doctor was still awake. Cade could see his shadow passing back and forth behind the thin shade covering what was probably a bedroom window. The man was pacing.
He couldn’t blame him. Not an easy sight to unsee, a disembodied head being pulled from the water. And if the good doctor was unfortunate enough to see my face as well? He might have. Cade had been dumping the bodies of the two men he’d killed after last night’s poker game after dawn. The fishermen had usually started out by then.
Cade would find out soon enough. He patted the pockets of his jacket, making doubly sure he had his gun in one pocket and his lockpick set in the other. Starting his SUV, he drove around the block and parked on the street behind Garrett’s house, just in case he needed a quick getaway. The fences were four-footers, and he could jump those with no problem.
Pulling a ski mask over his face, he got out of his SUV and, keeping to the dark side of Garrett’s house, headed to the back door. Even if the man had the place alarmed, Cade would have at least thirty seconds to make the shot and get out. He’d done it far faster in the past.
The dead bolt was tricky, but the lock on the door handle was no problem. Glancing at his watch, he noted the time and pushed the door open. Sure enough, there was a red light on an alarm panel just inside the door, so he needed to hurry.
Heading straight for the room where Garrett was pacing, he opened the door—and blinked at the barrel of the gun in Garrett’s shaking hand. That was unexpected.
“You don’t have a license for that,” Cade said. He’d checked.
Garrett’s laugh held a note of hysteria. “Really?” He showed his cell phone’s screen, where a call to 911 was active, then pointed at the wall behind Cade. “I was afraid you’d come. I have an alarm panel in here. I saw it flash red. The cops are on their way.”
Fuck. Then I suppose I have nothing to lose. Betting that the doctor couldn’t make a shot with his hand shaking like that, Cade pulled out his own gun and shot him in the head in a fluid motion that left Garrett only enough time to gape in shock. He fired again, aiming at the fallen doctor’s head to be sure it was a kill shot, then turned and ran like hell. He exited the way he’d entered just as the alarm began to shriek.
He’d jumped the fences and gotten his SUV down the street, about to turn at the stop sign, when the cops sped past, headed toward Garrett’s house. Cade carefully turned the opposite direction, making sure he broke no laws.
Shit. That had been close. Too close.
But worth it. I was afraid you’d come. Garrett had seen him. So now I’ve tied off all the loose ends. All he needed to do was get home without attracting any attention. And sleep. God, he needed to sleep.
It might be time to pull up roots and move to another location. He didn’t even have to get a new ID. It was a natural thing, right? His boss would be found dead sooner or later—of natural causes, thank you very much. Who knew what would become of the casino? Of course employees would search for other opportunities.
That was what he’d do. He’d get some sleep and then he’d figure out where to start over.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 1:00 a.m.
Diesel looked up from his laptop when Dani came down the stairs and flopped onto the other end of the sofa. She’d changed into a pair of soft sweats that hugged every one of her curves. With an effort, he lifted his gaze from her curves to her face. And smiled. He was here, in her house. He’d kissed her and she’d kissed him back. He couldn’t wait to see if she’d kiss him back again. “You okay?”
She blew a hank of white hair off her face. “I had to mop the floor and change my clothes after I gave Joshua a bath. He’s quite enthusiastic. I was soaked.”
Diesel was happy his laptop covered him sufficiently, because most of the blood in his brain had rushed south at the thought of her wet. And changing her clothes. He cleared his throat. “It was the sugar from all those brownies.”
She laughed softly. “Probably. But he was so happy, I couldn’t say no. And Michael is so . . . content when Joshua is happy.”
“They’re both asleep?”
“Joshua is. Michael asked that he be allowed to leave his light on to read. But I think he just doesn’t like the dark. I showed him that his lamp has a night-light setting. He was grateful.” Her eyes, so strikingly different, filled with tears. “I hate that these kids are so damn grateful. I hate that Michael hadn’t had food in a week because he was caring for Joshua.”
“But we can respect that, right?” Diesel asked softly, because he did. “Michael did the best he could.”
She sighed. “Of course. I know you’re right.” She shifted so that her legs stretched out in the space between them. “Is this okay? My feet are killing me.”
Her feet were mere inches from his thigh and his hand moved of its own volition, cupping one foot and tugging her closer until he could reach both feet. She made a startled sound that turned into a quiet moan as he began rubbing her soles.
“That feels too good,” she murmured, her eyes sliding closed.
I can make you feel even better, he wanted to say, but held the words back. Not yet. “How long were you on shift before we got there today?”
“I got there at seven, clinic opened at eight. Busy morning. Mmm.” She shivered when his thumb dug deep into her heel. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
Diesel closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, knowing he’d hear those words in his dreams tonight, but in a different context. “You have to go in tomorrow?” he asked, his voice going gruff.
“I’m scheduled for a few hours, but I’m going to call in a few favors. Hopefully I can get coverage through the first part of the week.”
“I can stay with the boys,” he countered, feeling a little defensive.
Her eyes, one blue, one brown, opened and locked on his. “I know you can. I trust you to do so. But I want to be here, too, just for the first few days. They all break my heart, all the kids who come through here as fosters, but these two . . .”
“Yeah,” Diesel agreed. “They need you.”
“They need you, too. Both as a male role model and for the investigation that I interrupted.” Gently, she tapped her toe against his laptop. “What did you find while I was becoming a mermaid up there?”
He shifted again, even more grateful that his laptop covered him so well. “I found the parent shell corporation.”
She beamed at him. “I knew you would.” Sliding back to sit up straighter, she pulled her feet from his grasp. “Tell me.”
Feeling brave, he patted the cushion closest to him. “Come and see.”
She studied him for a long moment, then scooted over until their hips almost touched. “Show me, then.”
He filled his head with her scent, then focused on his screen, which displayed the end of his search. “I had to dig.” Which was a gross understatement. “Whoever put this setup together did not want to be found out. I still don’t know who or where the true owner is. There are too many layers and proxies.” He glanced over at her, to find her staring at his screen. “You know what a proxy is?”
“I do. They’re servers that connect other servers, usually to keep the users’ identity hidden. My brother Greg was doing a little extracurricular work on his computer a few years back. Managed to hack into the school’s e-mail system.”
Diesel knew about this. He also knew that Greg was a much better hacker than he’d been a few years ago. Because Diesel had taught the kid himself, at Greg’s request. Greg had heard about Diesel’s hacking from his older brother, Deacon, and had approached Diesel independently. It was why Diesel had learned sign language. Not that Dani needed to know that right now. He had the feeling that she wouldn’t be too happy to know her brother had such mad skills.
Diesel knew that Greg had managed to hack into his school’s e-mail system and sent a message, supposedly from the school nurse, that a student in their classes was HIV positive. The kid in question was not, but that kid had been the one to expose Dani’s status. By spreading the word that the other boy was also positive, Greg had hoped to discredit any information the boy spread about his sister.
Greg had come to Diesel, asking for his help in figuring out how the kid had learned Dani’s secret to begin with. It hadn’t taken much effort to get into the kid’s e-mail, where they found he’d been in the ER one day for a sports injury and had seen Dani taking her pills. Recognizing her because of the identical white streaks she and Greg shared, the kid had become curious enough to take a photo of the pill bottle in her hand, and a short Google session later, he’d figured out her status. He’d e-mailed a friend to discuss blackmailing her, but word had spread before they could do so, and Dani’s career at County’s ER had been ruined.
Unfortunately, that kid was now dead. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he’d crossed paths with a killer. Which meant both Diesel and Greg had been forced to swallow their rage at the discovery and move on.
But the memory still made Diesel want to hit something.
“Greg was trying to protect me,” Dani continued. “Got him a five-day suspension. Deacon’s relationship with the principal was the only thing that kept Greg from getting expelled. I made him promise that he wouldn’t hack anymore.”
“I bet Deacon was a Goody Two-shoes in school,” Diesel said, trying to change the subject, because he hadn’t known Greg had made that promise. Although I would have still helped him. Because Diesel had also needed to know who’d ruined Dani’s career. He’d have to get Greg to come clean with his sister, or he himself would have to at some point. Diesel couldn’t lie to Dani, not about something so important as this, even if she never changed her mind about wanting him.
Dani laughed at his assumption about Deacon’s good behavior. “Not so much. That’s why he had a good relationship with the principal.”
Diesel was genuinely surprised. “He was in her office a lot?”
“Oh yeah. Adam even more. But Deacon was charming, even then. Made things easier for me when I started high school, because I was a Goody Two-shoes.”
“But not anymore,” Diesel said slyly. “All that recording of Major League Baseball without permission . . . You badass, you.”
She grinned at him, startling him into a smile of his own. “Tell me about the shells and proxies.”
Right. He tore his eyes away from her grinning face. “Lots of proxies.”
“You said that already.”
She was laughing at him, but he couldn’t be offended. It was a knowing laugh, like she was aware of what she did to him—and liked it. It was a nice change. And a good start toward her wanting to want him.
“So I did. Anyway, I found this operation at the core.” He turned his laptop.
She leaned in to see, then leaned in farther, squinting. “What am I looking at? It’s just . . . boxes with arrows connecting to more boxes with arrows.”
“That was the problem. There are over eighty businesses interconnected with LJM Industries, the company that bought the Brewers’ house. Some of them are connected to two, some three, and some even four other businesses, which are, in turn, connected to other businesses.”
She glanced up at him. “It’s like a snarled ball of string.”
Diesel nodded. “That someone snarled on purpose, which is why it took me so long to figure it out. And now that I’ve untangled it, I still don’t understand it. It’s like a maze, but all the threads lead to this one company.” He highlighted a separated thread connecting LJM Industries to a single entity.
“Raguel Management Services?” she asked. “What does it do?”
“Nothing, from what I can see. It’s the name that’s interesting. Have you heard of Raguel?”
She looked up at him. “Should I?”
“Not unless you’ve studied religion.”
She looked surprised. “You have, I take it?”
“I’ve dabbled.” He’d more than dabbled, minoring in religious studies in college. “According to the book of Enoch, Raguel was an archangel. A watcher.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Then she frowned. “Book of what?”
“Enoch. In the Bible he gets one line—Enoch walked with God and then he ‘was not,’ because he was taken straight to heaven. But there’s a whole book of Enoch—two of them, actually—that aren’t considered canon. What you really need to know is that Raguel was tasked with delivering justice and vengeance.”
Her wide eyes flicked up to his. “Oh. Wow. That is an interesting name, then.” She leaned in closer, studying the various business entities on his laptop screen, all of which somehow also linked to LJM Industries. After about a minute of silence, she murmured, “I wonder who LJM is. Or maybe was?”
“Who?” That LJM was a person’s initials wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, as many small businesses were named with their owners’ initials, or those of a founding group. But he didn’t want them to run with their first assumption. “Why do you think LJM is a person? It could represent a group, like ‘P&G’ stands for the last names of its founders. Or it could stand for something totally different than a person.”
“That could be true, except for the business names here.” Still leaning over him, she pointed to the list he’d compiled as he’d untangled the mess, then turned her head.
His breath caught in his chest because her mouth was only inches from his. She froze for a few pounding heartbeats, then ran her tongue over her lower lip. It wasn’t a display; she wasn’t being coy. That made the little movement that much harder to resist.
But resist he did. She was starting to trust him. He’d be content with that. For now. Hopefully she’d do more than just cuddle next to him in the very near future.
“What businesses, Dani?” he asked gruffly and her nostrils flared before she jerked her gorgeously mismatched gaze back to his laptop.
“Well,” she started, but had to clear her throat when her voice cracked, which cheered him immensely. “Well. A few of these business names are also ways to describe a girl—or at least her hobbies. When I look at this list, I see a scrapbook of snapshots showing a girl’s life.” She pointed to the list. “You’ve got ‘Skating Princess’ and ‘LG Varsity Dancing Divas’ right here.”
He shrugged. “‘Skating Princess’ doesn’t have to be a person. It could be a company that makes clothes for skaters. Same with the ‘Dancing Divas’ business.”
“True, but midway down the list is ‘BittyBaby Mama.’ That’s what first made me think that LJM is—or was—an actual girl.”
“What the hell is a Bitty Baby?” Diesel asked warily.
She smirked, amused. “A doll. Have you heard of American Girl dolls?”
“No. Should I?” he asked, parroting her words from earlier.
Her lips twitched. “Not unless you’ve either been a little girl or bought presents for one.”
“I can truthfully say no to both.”
She smiled at him. “They’re dolls based on historical characters, aimed at the eight-and-up crowd. They introduced Bitty Babies later. They were targeted to younger girls, maybe three to five years old. They were also less expensive.” Her expression became wistful. “My mom bought me a Bitty Baby when I was nine.”
Tenderness warmed his chest. “So you were a Bitty Baby Mama, too?”
“I was. I’d wanted the Felicity doll, because she was a ‘big girl.’ I’d even asked Santa for her, on the off chance he was really real. I was so excited when I unwrapped the box, but almost cried when I opened it and saw a Bitty Baby instead of Felicity. Then Mom told me that she’d been saving for a year for Felicity, but only saved enough for the Bitty.” She glanced up at him. “I remember making myself look excited because she’d been so happy giving it to me but then so sad when I was disappointed. She was happy again, and that’s my best Christmas memory.”
Diesel found himself smiling down at her. “That’s a nice memory.”
“It really is. See, my mom worked hard to feed us because my father was a drunk. I didn’t realize until I was older what a sacrifice she’d made, spending over fifty dollars on a single doll. When I finally understood, I was glad I’d hidden my disappointment.”
“You were only nine,” Diesel murmured. He remembered being nine. Remembered how hard his mother had worked to feed him, which was why he’d never told her about . . . He swallowed back the flinch that had become instinctive whenever he thought about the man who’d hurt him like Brewer had hurt Michael. He’d only been six when it started, but even then he’d known that telling his mother would hurt her, so he’d kept his mouth shut. He now knew that he should have told her anyway, that he’d been manipulated into silence. His mother would have protected him, whatever it took.
“True. But I knew it wasn’t right to hurt her feelings.” Dani’s mouth quirked up. “Turns out that my mom knew I was pretending. She told me later that she’d been pretending to be happy, too, after seeing my disappointment. That was the first Christmas we had at Bruce’s house, after Mom married him. Bruce made a good living and we could afford things we couldn’t before, living with Jim and Tammy. Four years after the Bitty Baby, she was finally able to give me the Felicity doll.” Her smile softened. “I cried, then she cried.” She chuckled. “Poor Bruce and Deacon had no idea what was going on.”
Diesel found that he had to clear his throat. How he wished his mother had known he’d only been pretending to be happy. “Do you still have the dolls?”
“Oh, yeah. I was tempted to sell them on eBay when I was a poor med school student, but I could never bring myself to do it. Felicity was my memory of happy times with Bruce and Mom. And selling Bitty Baby would almost have been like selling a real child. I’d been that baby’s mama.” She tapped his laptop screen. “Just like LJM was.”
Diesel highlighted “BittyBaby Mama” and focused on the list of companies, shoving his roiling emotions down deep. None of this was about him. It was about learning as much as he could about Michael’s dead stepfather and the bald man who’d killed him. Right now, LJM and the transfer of ownership of Brewer’s house was their best lead.
Now that he knew what to look for, he saw more company names that fit Dani’s theory. “Here’s ‘JonasBro Fan’ and ‘Bieber Girl.’” He grimaced. “Can’t say I’m a fan of LJM’s taste in music.”
Dani laughed softly. “So you agree that LJM is probably a person?”
He nodded absently, still staring at the long list. Her theory was based purely on supposition, not much more than a guess. Still, as guesses went, it was a good one. He could float with it for a little while. “Almost all of the other business names could represent elements in a girl’s life as she grows up, so yes. I’ll leave my mind open to other possibilities, but for now let’s assume that LJM is a person and all these company names describe her in some way. We’ll run with it for a little while. If we don’t get anywhere, we’ll start back at the beginning.”
“Okay.” Then she frowned. “But why would they name all these companies after LJM, whoever she is? You said that the shell companies were hard to untangle, which suggests that they have something to hide. But if they’ve named all these companies after a person, that’s not very stealthy.”
“No, it’s not.” He shifted to study her confused expression, wanting to understand her thought process. He had the feeling that her brain was as beautiful as the outside of her. “So why do it?”
“I’m guessing that they’re either clever or stupid. Assuming that they’re clever, they’ve decided to hide in plain sight.” She glanced at him. “Right?”
“Makes sense. Somehow LJM links to Brewer, because they bought his house. But if LJM is a person and not actually a company, then that narrows our search for a connection.”
Her pleased smile was quick, then gone as she returned her attention to his laptop. “‘BittyBaby Mama’ and ‘Skating Princess’ have me thinking of little girls, but ‘varsity’ in ‘LG Varsity Dancing Divas’ indicates she was in high school. Or maybe both? Maybe LJM grew up?”
“With you so far. What does the ‘LG’ stand for?” Scanning the list, he thought he knew, but he wanted to see if she’d come to the same conclusion.
Dani ran her finger down the list, stopping at the name he’d noticed. “Here’s a company called ‘LaGrange Lacrosse Laurels.’ So maybe the ‘LG’ in ‘LG Varsity Dancing Divas’ means LaGrange. High school girls also play lacrosse, so it doesn’t contradict ‘varsity.’ Maybe LJM was a lacrosse player at LaGrange High School? Is LaGrange a place?”
Adrenaline had Diesel’s skin tingling as he opened a new browser tab and did the search. “It is, up in Lorain County, near Cleveland.”
“Makes sense.” She snapped her fingers and pointed again. “This business is called ‘Geneva OTL Getaway.’ Geneva-on-the-Lake is a resort town near Cleveland.”
“I’ve been there. It’s nice. And I agree with everything you’ve said so far. But why did you say that LJM is or was?”
Dani shrugged. “Because you said that all the companies link from LJM to Raguel the vengeance dude.”
His lips twitched. “The vengeance dude. Absolutely.” He winced when she poked him in the side. “Ow. That hurt.”
She scoffed. “No, it didn’t. It hurt me worse. You’re like poking a brick wall. I think I broke my finger.”
He lifted the finger to his lips and kissed it. “There. Better.”
She huffed, flustered, a blush making her cheeks rosy. “It’s fine, thank you. Focus, Diesel.” She pointed the finger that he’d kissed at his laptop. “You’ve got this entity here, LJM, that bought the Brewers’ house, but no money actually changes hands.”
“That I’ve been able to find.”
She waved his words away. “Either way, a week later Brewer gets killed by a mysterious bald guy who just breezed back by to check on a kid that Brewer had sedated and had been trying to remove from the house. Which isn’t threatening at all.” Sarcasm poured off her.
She was intoxicating like this, her mismatched eyes alive and sparkling. He had to force himself to listen to what she was saying.
“I’m thinking it’s safe to say that Brewer is—was—a bad man,” she said dryly. “He tried to do something to Joshua. Thankfully Michael saved Joshua from whatever that was. He raped Michael. He took photos of both of the boys and neglected them while their addict mother didn’t feed them enough food and threw bowls at their heads. Maybe Brewer also hurt this LJM person, and the Raguel vengeance dude”—she glared up at him, daring him to laugh—“was out to ruin Brewer.”
Hearing the word raped effectively eliminated any desire he might have had to even smile. “That makes sense.”
She sighed, sounding frustrated. “But why all the companies? What purpose do they serve? If LJM is about revenge, why not connect it straight to Raguel? Why tangle it up with all these shell companies?”
“Because whoever bought Brewer’s house does have something to hide. It took me forever to unwind all these companies.”
She rolled her eyes. “It took you a few hours.”
“For a task like this, a few hours seems like forever.”
“Well, the company names have significance. Someone took a lot of time setting them up and then tangling them together. Once we figure out what they have to hide, the companies should make more sense.”
We. She’d said we, making his heart flutter hopefully. “Like I said, your theory makes sense. Very smart.” He stole a quick glance at her, wishing he had the words to tell her just how much she impressed him. “But I already knew you were smart.”
Her brows lifted pointedly. “Thanks?”
Shit. Apparently those weren’t the right words. Flustered, he squared his shoulders. “You know, you’ve got the whole doctor thing going on.” When her brows lifted even higher, he looked around the room exaggeratedly. “Do you have a ladder? I seem to be in desperate need of one.”
Her lips twitched. “To climb out of the hole you keep digging deeper?”
He nodded, wincing. “You are smart. It’s just one of the things I like about you.” He blew out a breath. “It was a compliment. Just a poorly delivered one.”
She chuckled. “Then I’ll say thank you.” Backing away so that she no longer leaned over his arm, she regarded him thoughtfully. “So this whole hacker thing. Where did you learn it?”
He nearly sighed with relief at her topic change. She was asking him questions about himself now. Which hopefully meant that she wanted to know him better. That was a good sign. “Taught myself, mostly. They didn’t teach hacking in the comp-sci program at Carnegie Mellon,” he added with a smirk.
“I guess not. So . . . Carnegie Mellon. That’s in Pittsburgh, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Steelers fan, through and through. Sorry about that.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” she said. “When did you graduate?”
“Seven years ago, after I got a medical discharge from the army.”
“You served with Marcus,” she said quietly.
He wasn’t surprised that she knew that. Their circle of friends was pretty tight and nearly as tangled as the entities he’d just unwound. Her sister-in-law, Faith, was Marcus’s cousin, so it made sense that Dani and Marcus had crossed paths. “Yes. In Iraq.”
“That’s what Marcus said. He also said you saved his life.”
“He would have done the same for me.”
“I know he would have. But he also said you saved the lives of four other people and got hurt in the process. You spent a long time in the hospital, recovering. Which was why you used to have PTSD triggered by white coats.”
Not exactly true. His fear of white coats had started years before he’d been old enough to escape to the army. “The key words are ‘used to have,’” he said evasively. “I don’t anymore.” He’d overcome it. For her.
She held his gaze for a long moment. “I’m glad.” Then her eyes abruptly widened and she nearly dove at his computer screen. “White coats,” she said, scanning the list of entities strung out in an untangled line.
He leaned in to see where she was looking. “What about white coats?”
“That was the name of one of the businesses. APG White Coat Distribution.”
“Okay?” He frowned. “And?”
“I went to medical school at UC.”
“I knew that. Undergrad at Xavier, med school at the University of Cincinnati, residency in St. Louis.” She flinched visibly when he mentioned St. Louis, and he felt immediate regret when her eyes shuttered. What had happened to her there?
But then he knew. It was the same look she’d had when mentioning Adrian, her dead lover. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
She swallowed hard. “It’s okay. It’s just that St. Louis is where I met Adrian.”
Knew it. He wanted to growl, but instead simply nodded. “I figured that.”
“You would.” She forced a smile. “You’re smart, with that comp-sci thing.”
This time he pointed at the screen because he couldn’t bear to see the pain tightening her face. “White coats and UC Med School?”
She nodded hard once. “Right. Look at this business—APG White Coat Distribution. I think LJM went to med school at UC. There’s a ceremony all entering med students participate in—the White Coat Ceremony where they get—”
“Their white coats,” Diesel finished. “So it’s a distribution.”
“Yes.” She was nodding emphatically again and he was relieved to see the spark return to her eyes. “Exactly. The ‘APG’ stands for the Arnold P. Gold Foundation, which sponsors the ceremony.”
“And why UC?” But Diesel saw the entry she was pointing at and answered his own question. “Bearcat Medical Services.” The mascot for the university was a bearcat. “Okay. Got it.”
“LJM may have gone to UC undergrad, too,” she said. “Scioto Associates. Scioto Hall’s a dorm, and med students don’t generally live in the dorms.” A triumphant smile tipped her lips. “We may be able to get her name.”
He’d already figured on searching—or hacking, if he needed to—the med school’s rosters to find students with the initials LJM, but he wanted to know how Dani would approach it. “How?”
“We know when she was an undergraduate, because Scioto Hall was closed for years. It got renovated and didn’t reopen until . . .” Her brows furrowed. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but I can look it up.”
Diesel quickly typed out the search. “Reopened in 2016. Renovation started in 2014, but it hadn’t been used for a residence hall since 2008.”
“All right. If she got her white coat, then she’d at least finished her first year of med school. Let’s start with last year’s ceremony. She would have had to have graduated from undergrad in 2017. Still in time to live in Scioto, but just barely, because the 2016–17 term was the first time that students lived there in a decade.”
Diesel liked the odds better now. “We have a one-year window of her possible attendance at UC’s medical school.”
Dani frowned. “Unless she was an undergrad student in 2008, when Scioto Hall last housed students.”
“Unlikely. All of these businesses were established within the last year. A few within the last nine months.”
“I wonder why they added more companies later. They’re not real companies, are they?”
Diesel shook his head. “No. They might hold money for a little while, until it can be transferred to one of the other companies, which is what was happening here. Money moved all around these businesses, feeding LJM Industries. Other than that, they’re empty. Shells.”
She made a face. “Makes sense, given that they’re shell companies, right? Which ones are the most recent?”
Diesel highlighted a few lines in his spreadsheet. “‘Laurels Lilies, Rosemary & Poppies,’ ‘Seahaven 42N x 82W,’ and ‘Brothers Grim Consulting.’ No, wait. That’s Seaheaven 42N x 82W, not Seahaven.”
Dani sighed. “She died. LJM died.”
Again, he agreed but wanted to hear her thoughts. “How? Why?”
“If you mean how and why did she die, I don’t know. If you mean why do I think she died, then ‘heaven’ and ‘lilies’ were enough for me. Poppies are for remembrance, and in some cultures represent death or eternal sleep.” She took out her phone and did a Google search. “Rosemary is also for remembrance. And, y’know, there’s Raguel, the vengeance dude.”
He smiled at her. “The vengeance dude clinched it.”
She smiled back, then sobered. “What is ‘42N x 82W’?”
“Coordinates.” Diesel looked it up on the map. “In Lake Erie, a few miles offshore.”
She looked over his shoulder. “Near Cleveland. That’s her heaven, in the lake. I bet they dumped her ashes there. And ‘Brothers Grim Consulting’? Could this be her family, looking for revenge?”
He returned to the window with the list of companies. “It’s certainly possible. Like I said, we can run with the theory for a while.”
She frowned at his screen. “It’s . . . all here, for anyone to figure out.”
“Anyone who can untangle the business entities and who knows about white coat ceremonies and Scioto Hall,” Diesel countered.
“True. But why would they do this? I could make a few phone calls tomorrow and get her name. Why would the vengeance dude be so careless?”
“Maybe he isn’t being careless. Maybe he—or they—wanted someone to know. Maybe they wanted someone to be afraid—if whoever they’re aiming for took the time to figure it out. I’m betting the ‘Brothers Grim’ didn’t believe anyone would. They’re operating under the radar. Way under.”
“It still doesn’t make sense. Why go to all the trouble of tangling the companies if they wanted someone to figure it out? Why name them the way they did in the first place? Why give away the clues?”
“Good questions. I don’t know. It’s still possible that LJM isn’t a person at all.”
She speared him with an intense look. “Do you believe that?”
“No,” he admitted. “I think LJM is a person and someone’s out to avenge her. But it’s not simple. None of this is simple.”
Dani rubbed at her temples. “I still don’t see how this connects to Brewer. Except that he was murdered shortly after LJM bought his house. That could be a coincidence.”
He tilted his head. “Do you believe that?”
The slight eye-roll was the only indication that she’d recognized that he’d once again used her exact words. “Deacon always says that there are no coincidences.”
“That’s been my experience as well. Also, I can’t find any record of money changing hands for the house, which was what raised my initial suspicions,” Diesel reminded her. “LJM is cash rich. Why park money in the company if they had no intention of spending it?”
“Cash rich? How much money are we talking about?”
“A million, give or take.”
Her eyes widened. “A million dollars? How do you even know that?”
“I shouldn’t, actually. Ohio small businesses don’t have to file annual reports, so there’s no formal record of LJM’s net worth.” He minimized the list of companies and opened another document. “I found this on Brewer’s computer. It’s a copy of LJM’s bank statement, dated March first. There’s no letterhead and no signature on the attached note, which is handwritten and dated Saturday, March second. The name of the bank and all account and routing info were redacted. Both the note and the statement were scanned and saved to Brewer’s hard drive.”
“‘Dear Mr. Brewer,’” Dani read softly. “‘As you can see, all is in order. You will transfer the title to your house as agreed and then we will forward the payment.’” She looked up at him, eyes narrowing. “This bank statement clearly says LJM. So the company and Brewer are connected somehow. You could have led with that, you know,” she added grumpily.
“I’m sorry.” He truly was. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. We got wrapped up in the business names and I got distracted.” By more than the business names. It was becoming harder to focus every moment she sat beside him, her scent filling his head.
“It’s okay.” She bit her lip, distracting him even more. He stared at her mouth, wanting to be the one doing the biting.
Easy. Back off. Give her time, however much she needs. She was talking again and he needed to listen. He jerked his gaze back to her eyes. “What?”
She shot him a knowing look, her cheeks flushing prettily. “I said, LJM clearly planned to send the money once they got the deed. But after Brewer transferred the deed, he went missing and they couldn’t find him to pay him. Maybe they were waiting for him to show up and accept payment for his house. Brewer’s only been dead for a week or so.”
“Killed by a mysterious big bald guy,” Diesel reminded her.
She frowned. “So are we saying that the mysterious big bald guy who killed Brewer is actually Raguel? He’s the avenging angel? That sounds like an even bigger leap than I made by assuming LJM was a person.”
“It is a leap, but it’s a possibility we should consider. The bald guy could have nothing to do with LJM. Brewer was a piece of work. It makes sense that he had enemies. It could be completely unrelated. All we know is that LJM got his house.”
Her frown deepened. “But why does LJM want the Brewer house? And won’t they have to ID themselves if they want to take possession of it?”
“Not necessarily. They could use a third party to close the deal and throw Brewer’s wife and the boys out.”
“If they were still in the house,” Dani said fiercely. “Which they are not and, if I have anything to say about it, never will be again.”
Diesel stared at her for a long, long moment, his heart beating double time. What might his life have been like if he’d had a Dani Novak in his corner when he’d been a terrified little boy?
“Thank you,” he whispered, his throat gone rough. “Thank you for protecting these kids and all the others who come through your home.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes becoming bright with tears. “You, too,” she whispered back. “You are protecting these kids. You brought Michael and Joshua to me. You’ve protected children every time the Ledger runs a story on a pedophile who’s been caught or exposed. You don’t think I know who’s responsible for those investigations? Who’s hacked into computer systems to get evidence or to find these bastards’ other crimes that put them in jail and away from innocents? I’m not stupid, nor unaware.” Her hand slid over his forearm in almost a caress before gripping him tight. “You do this. You protect the children, too. So thank you.”
Diesel closed his laptop, his own eyes stinging. “I . . .” He cleared his throat and started again. “I can’t look at this screen anymore tonight. I need to sleep.”
Immediately releasing him, she moved to stand, but he gently grabbed her hand. “I’ll do a walk-around first. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re secure.”
“All right. I’ll get you a blanket and a pillow. Can you sleep on this sofa? Deacon has before, but you’re . . .” She trailed off, eyeing him up and down in a way that could only be called appreciative. In a way that heated his blood yet again. “You’re taller than he is.”
That hadn’t been what she’d been about to say, but he didn’t challenge her. “I’ll be fine. I’ve slept on a lot worse.”
“But I don’t want you to be uncomfortable here,” she murmured. “I don’t have any spare beds now, or I’d—”
He pressed a fast, soft kiss to her mouth because he thought he’d explode if he didn’t. “I’ll be fine. I promise.” Then he stood, careful to keep his laptop positioned over his groin, because his cock wanted to be in her bed. With her.
In her. He shuddered, barely able to bite back a groan when she looked up at him, her eyes gone dark with desire. She wants me. Thank God.
But he didn’t make a move. Not yet. Not like this. Not with two kids upstairs who might come down at any moment. Not until she completely trusts me. Not until she tells me that she wants me. Out loud.
Patience, he told himself. He’d been patient for eighteen months. He could last a little while longer.
He took a step back, putting necessary distance between them, feeling a spear of satisfaction when her face fell in obvious disappointment. “Get Hawkeye,” he said. “I’ll walk him while I do my perimeter check.”