6
Yusef Bishara set the brake on his car, surveyed the municipal park, and kneaded the knot in his stomach.
He couldn’t keep doing this. The stress was killing him.
But what choice did he have? He was in too deep now . . . and if he balked, he had no doubt Amir would carry out his threat.
His own life he would sacrifice in a heartbeat to rid himself of this terrible burden. But not the life of . . .
Yusef tensed as a man sauntered into his field of vision, supersized disposable cup in hand, newspaper tucked under his arm. The twentysomething guy turned toward him. Facing the windshield, he lit a cigarette, blew a puff of smoke, then strolled down the jogging path that wound through the park.
His contact was here.
Yusef took a steadying breath. He wasn’t cut out for subterfuge—especially since he was certain it aided and abetted those who were committing atrocities.
But he had no other option.
He waited for five minutes in his car, as instructed. Then, dodging the runners, bicyclists, and walkers who already populated the park at this early hour on Saturday, he walked toward the third bench along the path, where the man was now sitting.
He shoved his trembling fingers into the pockets of his jeans. In his casual attire, he could be one of the lucky people who were here for a relaxing morning of recreation.
If only.
As he approached the bench, the dark-haired man adjusted his sunglasses and laid the folded newspaper beside him. He pulled out his cell, put it to his ear, and walked a few feet away, leaving the coffee cup behind.
Yusef sat on the other side of the bench.
The man continued to talk on the phone, gradually increasing the distance between them, keeping an eye on the activity in the park.
He looked back once, when he was halfway to the parking lot and there was a momentary lull in activity near the bench.
Yusef’s cue.
He reached for the newspaper and moved the cup beside him.
The man pivoted away, cell to ear, and continued toward the asphalt lot.
After the path turned, Yusef lost sight of him.
Ten minutes later, per his instructions, Yusef tucked the bulky newspaper under his arm and picked up the heavy cup that contained cargo much more precious than soda or coffee.
He walked back to his car, put the newspaper on the seat beside him, and gently settled the cup into the holder.
The courier was nowhere to be seen.
As usual.
These rendezvous were always the same. A parade of different faces, hidden behind dark glasses. A busy park. No conversation.
And what came next would be the same too. After two years, he was clear on his role.
Only the seller’s name and PO box number changed.
He started the engine and pulled out of the park.
Officially, he might be off work today.
But what he did on weekdays was a piece of cake compared to the task on his plate for this weekend.
The bell over the shop door jingled, and Kristin glanced up from the display she was arranging.
“Can I tempt you with some coffee?” Ryan stuck his head in the door and hefted a cup from Kaldi’s.
“Sure. That’s a step up from my house brew—and a little more caffeine can’t hurt.” She smiled and crossed the store to join him.
“Any customers yet?” He entered and handed her the cup.
“No. The first hour on Saturday is always quiet. Too quiet, today. I’m glad you stopped by.” She took a sip of the coffee. He’d added some sugar, as usual, but the touch of sweetness couldn’t mask the bitter flavor that lingered on her tongue from Monday’s tragedy.
“I’m glad the place is back to normal.” He gave it a quick skim. “And I like where you put the display case and cash register.”
“I couldn’t leave them where they were. I spend too much time behind that counter.”
“Understandable. Speaking of that . . . any updates from the police?”
“No. I haven’t talked to the case detective for two days—and I initiated the call on Thursday.”
His eyebrows rose. “How come?”
“I saw on the news that one of my customers was killed that morning—and she was in the shop on Monday.”
His forehead puckered. “You think the killings are related?”
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is two people who had a connection with my shop were murdered within seventy-two hours of each other. I’m more than a little spooked by the whole thing.”
“Did the customer live around here?”
“Not far. Sunset Hills.”
“Maybe it’s coincidence.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t . . .”
The bell over the door jangled again, and two women entered.
“I’ll get out of your hair and let you attend to your customers.” Ryan touched her arm. “If you need anything, don’t be shy about asking.”
“I won’t. Thank you for being such a considerate neighbor.”
She took another sip of her coffee as he circled the women and left the shop, then set the cup on the counter and summoned up a smile.
Today was going to be hard—but she’d get through it. And every day to come would be a little easier.
Still . . . until the police figured out the who and why behind the two tragic deaths, it was going to be difficult to shake the feeling that some sinister plot was in the works—and that she was somehow smack in the middle of it.
Especially after Luke Carter’s warning to be careful.
“It’s about time you showed your face around here.”
Before Luke could respond to his sister’s wry greeting, the twins barreled through the front door and launched themselves at his legs with squeals of delight.
Chuckling, he bent down and hoisted the three-year-olds, one under each arm. “Where are Mike and Mark? I was hoping to see my nephews on this visit.” He strolled into the foyer, maintaining an innocent expression as he inspected the living room to the right.
“We’re here, Unc Luke.” Mike began to squirm.
“I think I hear someone.” Luke pretended to listen.
“Look under your arm.” Mark giggled again.
Luke dipped his chin and faked surprise. “What in the world? Did you put them there while I wasn’t paying attention, Sis?”
“I’m not lifting anything these days.” Becca patted her growing girth.
“Well, I can’t imagine how these two motion machines got under there.” Luke set them on their feet.
“You picked us up.” Mark grinned at him.
“I did?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And here I thought it was magic.” He tousled the youngster’s hair and winked.
“Wanna play?” Mike gave a hopeful tug on his other hand.
“Later. I’m going to feed your uncle a decent breakfast.” Becca stepped forward.
“I already . . .”
She held up a hand. “You can eat junk all week, but if you come to visit here on Saturday morning, you get a real breakfast. End of discussion. Boys, go watch cartoons while your uncle eats. You can wrestle with him after breakfast.”
“Okay.” Mark commandeered Mike’s arm and pulled him toward the family room.
“Well-behaved little guys.” Luke followed his sister to the kitchen.
“Ha. Try living with them 24/7 and you’ll sing a different tune.”
“Where’s Neal?” He slid onto a stool at the kitchen island.
“He had a release this weekend. And during our dating days, he claimed IT was a nine-to-five job.” She snorted.
“Most career jobs these days aren’t for clock-punchers.” He helped himself to some grapes from a bowl of fruit.
“Neal doesn’t keep your hours, though. Pancakes and bacon sound good?”
“You don’t have to feed me, Becca.”
“I like to cook.” She pulled a bowl from the fridge. “And the batter’s already made. I was hoping you’d show.”
“I said I’d be here.”
“Yeah . . . but you bailed on our last two get-togethers.”
“Case related. How’s the little princess doing?” He gestured toward her tummy.
“Ultrasound was fine. She’s an active one, I can tell you that. I have a feeling she’ll have no difficulty holding her own with two older brothers.” Becca laid some strips of bacon on a grooved microwaveable plate. “You never did give me a report on that wedding you attended last weekend.”
The comment was casual.
Her fake nonchalance wasn’t.
His sister was totally transparent.
“The food was amazing.” Discussing his feelings about the wedding . . . or the woman he’d met there . . . wasn’t on his agenda this morning.
Becca spooned some batter onto the griddle. Based on the faint dents creasing her brow, she was trying to come up with a different angle of attack.
He waited her out.
“So . . . did you stay long?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I?”
“You know why.”
“Becca . . .” He injected a faint warning note into his voice.
Huffing, she finished with the batter and faced him. “Look, I care about you, okay? I hate that you have no love or laughter in your life.”
“The twins supply plenty of both.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
Yeah, he did.
Apparently she wasn’t going to let this go unless he gave her a tad more to chew on.
“The truth is, I didn’t know anyone at the wedding except work colleagues—and they’re all married.”
“You could have introduced yourself to a few people. Made an effort.” She aimed the spatula at him accusingly. “I bet you found a dark corner and hid out there.”
Too close to the truth.
“I met some new people.”
“Yeah?” She lifted the edge of one pancake with the spatula, then gave him her full attention. “Who?”
“A very likeable man. Neighbor of the bride. He watched her grow up.”
“An older guy?”
“Yep.”
“Anyone else?”
“He introduced me to the woman who was sharing his table.”
She folded her arms. “I’m talking about younger people.”
He plucked another grape from the bowl and popped it into his mouth. “It was an adult event. No kids present.”
“You’re being purposely obtuse.” She tipped her head and studied him. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”
“You want to hear more about the food? The crab cakes were—”
“How old was the woman the man introduced you to?”
He stifled a groan.
Leave it to Becca to cut through the clutter and ferret out the one nugget he didn’t want to discuss.
The wrong person in this family had become a detective.
“Why are you so . . .” He sniffed. “The pancakes are burning.”
She whirled around, snatched up the spatula, and flipped the slightly charred flapjacks.
“Have you talked to Dad lately?” That wasn’t his favorite topic, either—but it was safer than discussing the wedding . . . if she latched on to it.
“Yesterday.” She pulled some eating utensils from a drawer and set them in front of him. “He asked about you.”
“I’ll give him a call soon.”
“How long has it been since you two talked?”
“I don’t keep a log of our conversations.”
“That means too long. Dad evaded the question too.”
“I’m busy with the new job. And now that he’s remarried, it’s not like he’s sitting around waiting for my calls. I’m sure Lauren keeps him entertained.”
She pulled the bacon out of the microwave and put it on a plate. “You’re still mad about him remarrying, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“It’s the truth. I was never mad. More like . . . surprised—and confused. He and Mom were married for thirty-six years. I thought they were in love. But eighteen months after she dies, he gets married again?”
“He’s only sixty, Luke. God willing, he has decades left—and he didn’t want to spend them alone. Loving someone else doesn’t take anything away from the relationship he and Mom shared. Her place is secure in his heart. We all have an infinite capacity to love. To find room for someone new.”
All of a sudden, he had a feeling she wasn’t talking about their dad anymore.
He took a banana he didn’t want out of the fruit bowl and slowly peeled it while Becca dished up the rest of his breakfast. She’d been broaching the subject of his moratorium on dating with increasing frequency, and he was no more inclined to talk about it today than he’d been in the past.
What was there to discuss?
Eight years ago, he’d promised to love and honor Jenny all the days of his life—the same vow his father had taken on his wedding day. As far as he was concerned, that promise precluded another trip to the altar.
Yet his dad had reentered the dating game at warp speed and taken that same vow with a new woman.
He’d never understood that.
But . . . was it possible Becca’s opinion had some merit?
Could you keep your first vows and also find someone new?
Could he love and honor Jenny all the days of his life even if he fell in love again?
Maybe.
Funny how he was more receptive to that notion now than he’d been in previous conversations with his sister.
Or was it?
Perhaps crossing paths with a woman who sold fair trade goods had laid the groundwork for it.
“Want to tell me about her?” Becca climbed onto the stool next to him.
He yanked himself back to the conversation. “What are you talking about?”
“The woman at the wedding, whose age you seem reluctant to share.”
Man, Becca could stick to a subject like gum to a shoe.
“She didn’t tell me how old she is, and I didn’t think it was polite to ask.” But the answer had been in the standard background check he’d run on her after the murder. Kristin was thirty-four.
“An educated guess would suffice. You’re a detective. You deal with descriptions every day.”
She wasn’t letting him off the hook.
“Fine. Thirtysomething.”
“Married?”
“We didn’t discuss it.”
“Was she wearing a ring?”
“No.” To pretend he hadn’t scoped out her hand would be stupid. Becca knew guys noticed details like that. He’d been the one to clue her in to the ring-check routine years ago.
“Pretty?”
“Yeah.” He stuffed a huge bite of pancake into his mouth.
“You should call her.”
He ignored that while he chewed the cooked dough until it became mush.
Becca waited in silence.
He forced himself to swallow the soggy wad, took a swig of coffee, and stabbed another bite.
“Hey.” She seized his hand as he tried to lift the fork. “Not so fast, bro. We’re having a discussion here.”
“I’m trying to eat before my food gets cold.”
“You need to ramp up your social life. It’s been three years. You know Jenny wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life moping around.”
“I’m not moping.”
“You could have fooled me. What’s wrong with going out on a few casual dates?”
He pulled his arm free and stuck the pancake in his mouth.
“You”—she leaned into his face—“are impossible.”
“’Toons are over, Mommy!” Mike raced into the kitchen, Mark on his heels. “You wanna go outside and play, Unc Luke?”
“Next on my schedule. Give me another minute to eat this wonderful breakfast your mom cooked for me.” He crunched into a strip of bacon.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Becca slid off the stool and circled back around the island. “Do me one favor. Call Dad.”
“I’ll touch base with him next week.”
“And find a nice woman to date.”
“That’s two favors.”
“The second one is more for you than me. Track down that woman who caught your eye at the wedding.”
How in creation had Becca picked up on his interest in Kristin?
“Aren’t you jumping to conclusions? I’ve hardly said a word about her.”
“I noticed—and that’s significant.”
“How so?”
“If you hadn’t cared about her one way or the other, you wouldn’t mind talking about her.”
He regarded his sister over the rim of his mug. “That must be some kind of convoluted female logic.”
“Are you planning to deny my deduction, Mr. I-Never-Tell-A-Lie Detective?”
“Come on, Unc Luke.” Mark pulled on his arm.
“My subjects await.” He swiped a napkin across his lips and stood.
“I knew it. You did like this woman.” Becca gave him a smug look.
“If you must know—yes. She was charming. She was also very chummy with the best man. I think they’re involved.”
“Oh.” Becca’s face fell . . . but brightened a moment later. “Well, at least you noticed her. That means there’s hope for you . . . even if she isn’t the one.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he let the twins lead him out to the backyard, where he indulged in little-boy fun for the next hour.
But all the while, he was having big-boy thoughts about Kristin Dane—and pondering two questions.
How involved was she with Colin’s best man . . . and her friendly business neighbor two doors down?
And should he step out of his self-imposed isolation and put his investigative skills to work to find out?
Darrak was a living, breathing cluster bomb.
But not for much longer.
Amir exhaled. Part luck, part strategy, part divine intervention—whatever the reason the tip had fallen into his lap, he was grateful.
And he’d done his homework.
He replayed the news story about Elaine Peterson’s death. Did the same with the Susan Collier coverage. As far as he could tell, there was no proof Darrak had played a role in either of the murders. If the police had any suspicions, they were keeping them close to their vest. And if they had any grounds to arrest the man, he’d be in jail. At this stage, it didn’t appear they had any suspects.
However . . . if anyone dug into his background, circumstantial evidence would point toward him as the culprit.
And if the police somehow managed to identify Darrak as a suspect and brought him in for questioning, the man might crack. He didn’t know a lot—but he knew enough to cause problems.
Amir rose from his computer and stormed across the room.
That wasn’t a risk he could take.
Loose cannons had to be neutralized.
Why the man had killed the two women, Amir could only speculate. But logic suggested the Peterson woman might have bought the merchandise before Darrak arrived to retrieve it. He could have killed the clerk to get the purchase information and tracked down Peterson.
Bad choices all around.
And bad choices had to be punished.
After retrieving the burner phone that was about to become history, he tapped in a number.
As soon as the man who answered verified Amir’s identity, the discussion moved to business. Within ten minutes, the plans were complete.
Amir pressed the end button, then punched in Darrak’s number.
Unlike his futile attempts to contact the man last Tuesday and Wednesday, this one succeeded after two rings.
“Yes?”
The man’s wary greeting was further proof he was up to his neck in the two murders. Why else would he be nervous about this call?
As he had on Thursday morning, Amir got straight to business. “The package you dropped off has been retrieved and delivered. Your part in this operation is finished. Let me give you instructions on where to collect your reimbursement.” He recited the notes he’d jotted during his first call. “Any questions?”
“No. I was honored to be of service to the cause.” The man sounded relieved their association was winding down.
No more relieved than he was.
And he’d be even happier in thirty-six hours, when far more than their association came to an end.