26
Now that was peculiar.
As thunder rumbled in the distance, Stan Hawkins snipped off a Double Delight rose from the bush near his front porch and watched the white service van roll around to the back of Trish’s house.
The blossom’s sweet scent wafted up to his nose, and he inhaled. The missus was right. This one smelled like heaven.
But whatever was going on across the street didn’t.
First of all, nobody around here had a satellite, as far as he knew.
Second, service vehicles usually parked on the street or by the walk that led from the driveway to the front door. They didn’t go around back.
Third, why had the truck sat there for a few minutes before it disappeared to the rear? And who had moved it, anyway? The guy who’d gone to the front door had never come back out.
No sir.
This didn’t smell good.
And that little lady didn’t deserve one more speck of trouble.
He repositioned the flower in his hand to avoid the prickly thorns as he considered the matter. Back in the day, he’d have hustled over there, knocked on the door, and scoped out the situation himself.
That, however, was a long time ago.
Sad to say, he wasn’t a strong, strapping weightlifter anymore. If things got rough, he’d be no match for the big guy inside Trish’s house. That bruiser would squash him like a pesky mosquito.
This was a job for a younger man.
And he knew just the man—that fine young detective Trish had taken a fancy to. The one with the Irish name. Colin . . . Colin . . . Flynn. Yes, that was it.
Why not give the County police a call and ask them to patch him through to the detective? And if they wouldn’t do that, he could tell his story to whoever answered the phone and ask them to send a patrol car by.
Another ornery thorn stabbed him, and a drop of blood beaded on his fingertip. Some kind of warning, perhaps? A reminder that sticking his nose into other people’s business could be as thorny as the rose in his hand?
Possible.
Hadn’t the missus accused him only yesterday of becoming an old busybody?
But there was a difference between being nosy and being concerned—and he’d rather live with egg on his face than let fear of embarrassment stop him from assisting a neighbor who might need help.
Holding the rose gingerly to avoid any more damage, he turned around and marched into his house.
“I don’t get this.” Colin leaned forward and gave Parker’s doorbell a third jab. “If his car’s in the garage, why isn’t he answering the door?”
“He has to be here. The Phoenix guys didn’t say he’d left when you called to alert them we were on the way and tell them Trish had authorized you to cancel surveillance.” A bark sounded, and Mac glanced toward the volunteers with their cadaver dogs, waiting in the driveway with two police officers. “He could be in the woods out back.”
“Possible. Why don’t you get the dogs started while I walk the perimeter of the house?”
“You got it.”
As Mac headed toward the dogs and their handlers, Colin began checking windows and doors. They’d break in if they had to . . . but he’d prefer easier access—and despite daily stories in the news about robberies, it was amazing how many people were lax about home security.
It didn’t take him long to discover that the sliding door in the back was open.
Too bad other parts of the case hadn’t been this simple to crack.
As he slid the door open, Mac ascended the deck stairs two at a time and joined him. “Dogs are dispatched.”
“Let’s see what we can find inside.” Colin snapped on a pair of latex gloves and entered the kitchen. A quick sweep didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary—but he homed in on the plugged-in laptop sitting on the table. “I bet that will yield some incriminating evidence once our people get past whatever encryption he’s rigged.”
“Yeah.” Mac pulled on some gloves too. “I’ve got the officers walking the woods to see if they can locate Parker while the dogs nose around. In the meantime, let’s see what else we can find that might be useful. Why don’t you go right and I’ll go left.” He indicated the hall off the kitchen.
“Works for me.” As Colin moved forward, Mac pulled his phone off his belt.
“Hang on a sec. It’s one of the handlers.” His colleague put the device to his ear. “McGregor . . . Okay . . . got it. We’re on our way.” He slid the phone back into its holster. “Our bodies-buried-on-the-property theory just got legs. One of the dogs already has a hit.”
“Seriously?” He’d expected the search to take hours.
“Yep. One of the officers spotted some disturbed ground, and the dog instantly alerted. The area around it has also been trampled—by multiple types of footwear, based on a few prints they found.”
“I have a feeling the Mafia found the spot first.”
“That doesn’t bode well for Parker.”
“Not if they decided he’s Michael.”
“Why don’t you touch base with the officers scouting around for him, find out if they’ve seen any evidence he might be out there? I’m going to give Cal at Phoenix a call. I’m getting some unsettling vibes.”
“Me too.”
While Mac went out to the deck to call both officers, Colin punched in the number for his former County colleague.
Cal answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”
“We haven’t located Parker yet. Officers are searching the woods, but so far nothing. You certain he’s on site?”
“He drove in yesterday after church and hasn’t left since.”
“Any other activity?”
“One visitor today in a satellite-service van. I ran the plates. The vehicle was legit.”
“What time?”
A rustle came over the line. “According to the surveillance log, it pulled in at 12:52 and pulled out at 1:10.”
“Give me what you have on the vehicle in case we need it.” Colin pulled out a notebook and jotted down the information as the other man spoke. “Got it. We’ll keep looking around the property. Thanks.”
As he ended the call, Mac returned. “I talked to both officers. They’re covering ground fast and haven’t seen any sign of Parker. He’s also not responding to shout-outs. What did your guy at Phoenix say?”
Colin filled him in. “If we don’t find Parker somewhere on the property, I want to track down that van.”
“Agreed. I also called the ME’s office. They’re sending someone out to excavate.”
“Let’s get some additional backup out here now that we’re pretty certain we have at least one body. We also need more eyes in the woods. It’s possible Parker got scared and took off, but without the money in hand, I don’t think he . . .” His phone began to vibrate and he pulled it out again. Frowned. Dispatch never called him directly.
He pressed the talk button. “Flynn.”
“Detective Flynn, I have a caller on hold who insists on speaking with you. A Stan Hawkins. He says it’s urgent. Do you want me to put him through or send him to your voicemail?”
If Trish’s neighbor had made the effort to track him down, there had to be a good reason.
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Sir, Detective Flynn is on the line.” The dispatcher exited the call.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hawkins?” Colin fisted his free hand on his hip.
“Well . . . I don’t mean to bother you, young man, but it seems to me there might be a problem over at Trish Bailey’s house.”
Colin’s pulse picked up. “Tell me.”
He listened as the man passed on his observations.
As soon as he mentioned the utility van, Colin’s gut twisted.
Hard as he’d tried to keep Trish out of this, it appeared she was smack dab in the middle of whatever was going down between Parker and the Mafia.
“Okay. We’re on it. Stay in the house and let us handle this.”
“I intend to. That’s why I called you. My days of diving into the fray are long gone.”
Colin punched the end button.
“What’s going on?”
Before he could answer Mac’s question, his phone began to vibrate again.
Kristin.
Dread congealed in the pit of his stomach as he put the phone to his ear. “Trish didn’t show for dinner, did she?”
“Hi to you too. And no, she didn’t. I tried to call her, but there was no answer. I knew this case of hers was heating up, and since I didn’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about her being AWOL, I wanted to let you know. What’s going on?”
“We don’t know yet—but we’re getting ready to find out.”
“Good luck . . . and Godspeed.”
“Thanks.”
And as he ended the call, he had a feeling he’d need both God and speed to bring this case to an end without anyone else getting hurt.
“Your five minutes are up. What is your decision?”
As the Russian’s words echoed in the room, Trish’s heart stuttered.
This was it.
Despite Parker’s attempt to do some fast talking, the Russian had silenced him each time with the same admonition.
“This is not open to discussion. You have five minutes. Be ready with your answer.”
And now the moment of truth had come.
“You’re asking me to play God! I can’t do that.”
“Then I will—and both of you will die.”
There was the sound of movement—of weight shifting . . . or rising from a chair.
Trish tensed.
“No! Wait! How do I even know that’s her, with the hood covering her face?”
If Parker’s stall tactic was obvious to her, it had to be transparent to the Russians.
“Speak to him.” The Russian gave the order, and a gun poked her between the shoulder blades.
“You know it’s me . . . Matt . . . or Michael . . . or whoever you are.”
“Ah. The lady herself is not convinced you are who you say you are. You have ten seconds to give me your decision.”
Cold metal pressed against her temple.
Trish stopped breathing.
“Get that gun away from me!” A touch of hysteria hiked up the pitch of Parker’s voice. Apparently he was feeling the pressure of a gun barrel too. “Okay. Fine. It doesn’t make sense for both of us to die.”
“You are choosing her?” The Russian again.
“Yes.”
“Very well. Take her in the next room. I want no blood on my clothing.” The Russian’s tone was nonchalant. As if he was discussing the weather.
Bile rose in Trish’s throat as she was pulled to her feet and propelled away from the scum that had invaded her home.
She stumbled down the hall, legs wobbling as the guy held her arm with a viselike grip and pulled her along beside him.
As suffocating panic locked her lungs, she tried to jerk free—but his grip was like iron.
When the man stopped and pushed her to her knees on the floor, she knew she had no more than a few heartbeats to live.
God, please hold me close!
She braced . . . but all at once the drawstring was loosened and the bag was pulled off.
It took her a moment to orient herself in the sudden brightness. She was in the study that had become her bedroom after she’d returned home two years ago. A practical choice, allowing her to be close at night in case her mother needed anything. A small haven of privacy in the home where she had spent her childhood feeling loved and secure and safe.
Now it was the place where she was going to die.
The man masquerading as a satellite company employee leaned down, a strip of cloth in his hand.
Was he going to strangle her instead of using the gun?
But no. He whipped the strip around her head, forced it between her teeth, and secured it in the back.
He wanted her mute.
There would be no chance to plead for her life.
Or scream.
Tears pricked her eyes as she gazed up at him, but his black irises were as cold and merciless as a frigid winter night.
He shoved her back to sit on her heels . . . pulled the bag down over her head . . . tugged the drawstring tight . . . and barked out a loud word in Russian.
Muffled voices spoke. There was the sound of bodies shifting around.
“Say your good-byes, Parker.” Spoken by the Russian who had pronounced her death sentence. “Unless you are having second thoughts?”
“No. It’s . . . there’s no other way. I’m sorry, Trish.”
The Russian issued a command in his native language. There were more shuffling sounds, as if people were changing position. Hard metal pressed against her temple, the cold seeping through the fabric and into her skin.
It was over.
She squeezed her eyelids shut.
Held her breath.
And prepared to meet God.
They’d killed Trish.
Despite the silencer, Michael flinched when the shot ripped through the air behind him as he retraced his steps down the hall to the kitchen.
This was a nightmare.
Oleg and his men cared nothing for innocent life. Retribution and vengeance were their priority. The Mafia’s odd brand of honor and justice demanded that someone pay for traitorous acts, and it didn’t matter who got hurt along the way.
But at least it hadn’t been him.
And now that Dmitri had his pound of flesh, there was a chance he could still walk away in one piece. Claim the money that had to be in the accounts by now and disappear.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he’d survive this.
“We are finished here.” As they entered the kitchen, Oleg’s words boosted his hopes.
The man’s bodyguard retreated to the back door, stepped out to look around, and gave a silent nod.
Oleg slipped outside and disappeared.
Trish’s executioner came back in, gun drawn. “Get back in the van. One word, I pull the trigger.”
His hopes of deliverance dimmed.
This wasn’t over yet, after all.
He could balk at the order—but three against one didn’t offer favorable odds . . . especially when all three were armed. Oleg might not have displayed a weapon, but he had one.
And the Russian lieutenant would be even less hesitant about using it than the guy who’d put the bullet in Trish’s brain.
Michael did as the man instructed.
Once back inside the stuffy van, he retook his place against the wall, knees drawn up. The real driver was still there, emitting muffled groans through the gag.
“Shut up.” The bodyguard kicked him.
He fell silent.
“I thought you said you were going to let me go?” Michael directed the question to Oleg.
The man ignored him as he scrolled through messages on his cell.
No sense asking again. His captor would answer when—or if—he chose.
Two silent minutes later, the front door opened. The guy who’d killed Trish slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled down the driveway.
No one spoke again as they left the high-end subdivision behind and zoomed onto the highway entrance ramp.
Heading away from the city.
And as the miles rolled by, Michael had a sinking feeling that whatever Oleg’s plans were for this day, the climax hadn’t yet played out.