21

He was going stir crazy.

Craig aimed the remote at the TV and surfed through the channels, watching the images parade across the screen in Matt’s living room. Man, afternoon programming sucked.

Mashing the off button, he checked his watch. Four ten—and the long, endless evening stretched ahead.

Now what?

Barhopping was out—for a while, anyway. The cops might be watching him . . . and he wasn’t about to risk getting burned by another predatory woman.

He could work on books and payroll for Matt’s clients—except there was nothing more to do. He’d whizzed through all the pending tasks for this week hours ago . . . and it was only Wednesday. If he had to do this mindless work much longer, his brain would turn to mush. Why Matt hadn’t died of boredom was beyond him.

The grass needed attention—but manual labor? Not happening. One of these days he’d have to hire somebody to cut the front lawn before it became a full-fledged hayfield.

Yawning, he rose and wandered to the kitchen for a beer. Maybe Matt ought to give Trish a call. She might have claimed she wasn’t interested in romance, but that could have been grief speaking. After all, the two of them had seemed cozy at that lunch they’d shared a couple of months ago. Her every smile and gesture had suggested she was receptive to further overtures. Perhaps Matt would have better results if he cranked up the charm.

Beer in hand, he pulled the tab as he mulled over that idea. A solicitous phone call today. Another one later in the week that included a suggestion for coffee. Nothing too aggressive or threatening. Just one concerned friend touching base with another.

Even if she dug in her heels and refused to consider romance, it wouldn’t hurt to build some rapport. A closer relationship might make the notion of appointing Matt a trustee—and giving him more power over foundation funds—more palatable.

Armed with that plan, he helped himself to a few pretzels from the bag on the counter and strolled back to the recliner in the living room as he chomped. There was no need to mention business during the chat. It would be best to confine the conversation to questions about her summer class, an inquiry about her arm, a funny story that would make her laugh. In other words, lay the groundwork for . . .

He froze as a flash of light bounced off the wall in the hall—like a reflection off a shiny object.

A car, perhaps?

The last pretzel crumbled in his fingers.

It had to be those detectives again. No one else came to Matt’s house other than kids from the pizza place and an occasional courier dropping off client paperwork. During all his weeks of surveillance, those were the only vehicles that had ventured through the woods to the house.

And no one had ordered a pizza or called about a delivery today.

He brushed off his fingers and took another swig of beer to wash down the pretzels. What new questions could the cops have? They’d tossed plenty at him when they’d shown up unannounced again on Monday afternoon. All related to ancient history, running the gamut from foster care to Larry’s business.

But they’d left unsatisfied. He’d seen the frustration in Flynn’s face as the man had slapped his notebook shut, in the glance he’d exchanged with the McGregor guy. Although the two of them had tag-teamed their interrogation, he’d sidestepped every hardball they’d thrown.

He snorted and took a pull from the beer. They weren’t dealing with an amateur here. No way was he giving them one speck of new information. They were on their own if they wanted to keep digging.

As well they might.

It was possible they’d even find out about the identical twin situation—or already had and were keeping that close to the vest for now.

No matter. Whatever suspicions that fact might generate, they wouldn’t be able to prove anything.

He remained where he was as a faint crunch of gravel overlaid the hum of the air conditioner. He could ignore them today if he chose. The car was tucked away in the closed garage, there was nothing else to indicate anyone was home—and another round of bob and weave was not on this afternoon’s agenda.

However . . . if the door went unanswered, he wouldn’t know why they were continuing to snoop around. Sticking your head in the sand was an avoidance tactic, not a strategy. Better to know the reason for their visit—and use that information to plan next steps.

Besides, Craig Elliott was their man . . . and there was no trace of him to be found. If Matt continued to cooperate with them, they’d eventually leave him alone.

He rose and crossed to the door, tucking himself into the shadows as he peeked out the sidelight.

Huh.

Instead of Colin Flynn’s black Taurus, a silver Cadillac was sitting in the driveway.

Definitely not a law-enforcement-issue car.

Who could it be? In all his weeks of surveillance and hacking, no luxury-car driver had surfaced.

Staying out of sight, he wedged himself against the wall and watched the vehicle.

Sixty seconds ticked by.

He frowned. Why wasn’t anyone emerging from behind the tinted windows? Had the driver taken a wrong turn and realized his or her mistake? Perhaps the car would back up, reverse direction, and . . .

The driver’s door opened.

A large, muscular stranger unfolded his tall frame from behind the wheel and gave the area a thorough, practiced sweep . . . much like the detective had done.

A niggle of unease slithered along Craig’s spine.

This was not a casual visit—and the furtive quality in the man’s actions didn’t bode well.

Decision made.

He was not answering the door.

In fact, he was going to retrieve his Beretta and keep it close at hand until his uninvited visitor left.

As he started to turn away from the window, muscleman moved to the back door and pulled it open.

After a brief pause, the passenger emerged. A man in his fifties, with wings of silver in his light brown hair and an all-too-familiar face.

The air whooshed out of his lungs.

Oleg Petrov was here?!

The floor tilted, and Craig splayed the fingers of one hand against the wall to steady himself as a riptide of panic swept over him.

No!

This was impossible!

Dmitri couldn’t have found him!

Yet his eyes weren’t lying.

But . . . but how could this be? He’d been careful. Months had passed since his escape from Miami. The break had been swift, clean, and successful. He’d left no clues for them to follow.

Unfortunately, the reality unfolding dozens of yards away said otherwise.

Sucking air into his stalled lungs, he recalibrated his strategy.

He couldn’t ignore the bell. If Oleg had come all the way from Miami at Dmitri’s direction, he wasn’t going to leave without nosing around. The locks wouldn’t stop him. He and his goon would get in.

So he had to let them in.

And maybe . . . just maybe . . . this wasn’t the end of the world.

His brain began clicking again.

If someone in Dmitri’s organization had discovered Craig Elliott’s real identity, it wouldn’t have been difficult to discover he had an identical twin—one who was easy to track down. He’d found Matt himself in less than five minutes on the net.

Oleg might be here to see if Matt knew anything about his brother’s whereabouts.

Or he might harbor darker suspicions.

But so what?

Only one brother remained, and as far as the world was concerned, that brother was Matt. There was nothing to prove otherwise.

Unless . . .

His heart stumbled.

Did Dmitri’s people have his fingerprints, by chance? He’d never been asked to provide them, and it wasn’t standard practice in the organization to collect prints—but he was an outsider. Might they have obtained his without his knowledge?

If so, he was in deep trouble.

Because if they got his prints now, his cover would be blown.

They’d know he wasn’t Matt, but Michael.

Oleg started toward the front door, the bruiser falling in behind.

Sweat broke out on Michael’s upper lip, and he dashed it away with the back of his hand.

Chill, Parker. You cannot show any outward sign of fear. If they had your prints on file, they’d have dusted this house when you weren’t here to verify your identity and taken you out already. They wouldn’t be coming up your front walk like normal visitors. Oleg is here to fish. So play dumb, tell him a slightly amended version of the story you gave the cops—and hope he buys it.

The two men stepped onto the porch, and Michael eased back into the shadows, forcing himself to take long, slow breaths.

He could pull this off. He’d been impersonating Matt for weeks, fooling everyone—including people who knew the man. He could surely dupe Oleg, who’d never met his brother.

The doorbell rang.

Hands clenched, legs stiff, he jerked forward and twisted the knob.

“Good afternoon.” Oleg gave him a smooth smile that held no warmth, his eyes sharp and probing. “Mr. Parker, I am Oleg Petrov. There is some business I would like to discuss. May I have a few words with you?”

He didn’t bother to introduce the man hovering at his shoulder.

Typical.

Bodyguards were invisible to the likes of Oleg and Dmitri. No more than soulless robots valued only for the service they performed.

“I have a full roster of accounting clients already, Mr. Petrov. And most prospective customers make initial contact by email or phone.” His tone was perfect. Cordial, but curious.

“I do not have that kind of business to discuss. I am here to talk about Craig Elliott.”

So they knew Elliott had been here. There was more to this visit than picking Matt’s brain about his twin brother.

That meant Dmitri had called in favors from the organization’s contacts in law enforcement.

He needed to play this just right.

Gripping the knob tighter, he pulled the door wide and backed up. “Come in.”

Oleg entered, followed by his shadow, who remained in the doorway between the foyer and the living room. The Russian claimed the same chair Flynn had occupied.

Michael moved to the sofa, angled toward the man so he could keep both visitors in view . . . and waited. He’d let Oleg take the lead. Offering more than was asked for—or necessary—would be a tactical error.

The older man crossed his legs and adjusted the crease in his pinstripe suit. “Let us be honest, yes? You and I both know your brother and Elliott are the same man.”

At least they still believed—or were pretending to believe—he was Matt.

Since it was unlikely this conversation would get back to the police, he could modify the story he’d told to law enforcement.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair and gave Oleg a look he hoped came across as pained and conflicted. “Yes.”

“You have kept in touch—despite what happened in Boston?”

They’d done their homework. Dmitri knew . . . or had surmised . . . what had taken place five years ago.

He leaned back in his chair, buying himself a few seconds to think.

Remember, you’re Matt. The police haven’t mentioned the Mafia connection, and Matt would have no clue about it. He’d be surprised by this man’s knowledge—and wary.

“You know about that?” He injected a healthy note of caution into his voice.

“We know many things. You have kept in touch all these years?”

“No. After the fiasco in Boston, I told Michael I never wanted to see him again.”

“Embezzlement in a family business is never pretty.”

“No.”

“Stealing money from a person who trusted you should, of course, be punished.”

At the man’s less-than-subtle implication, fear coiled in his stomach.

“I couldn’t turn him in. He’s my brother.”

“Ah yes. Loyalty. An admirable trait. And blood ties are strong. Is he here?”

“No. He stayed only a few nights.”

“Why did you take him in?”

“He said he wanted to make amends for Boston.” Michael shrugged. “I’ve become active in my church, and over the past three years I’ve heard a number of sermons on forgiveness. When he called, it seemed as if God was giving me an opportunity to turn the other cheek.” The glib words sounded smooth and sincere even to his ears.

Amazing.

“A most virtuous sentiment.” A speculative gleam flickered in Oleg’s ice blue irises. “You have told this story to the police?”

“They know Elliott was here. They don’t know he’s my brother.”

“And if they find out?”

“I’m hoping they don’t. But if they do, I’ll have to backtrack.”

“You would put yourself at risk for a man who caused you such trouble?”

“He is my brother—and I’m trying to let go of the past.”

Oleg linked his fingers. “You know he is a person of interest, as they call it, in connection with a missing woman?”

“Yes.”

“That is a serious charge.”

“I realize that—but they’ve got the wrong man. He might have made some mistakes, but he’s never physically hurt anyone.”

“Perhaps he has changed.”

“I don’t think so.” Michael stole a look at the muscled statue keeping silent vigil. The man’s expression was impassive, but he was no doubt listening to every word. “You mentioned you had unfinished business with him?”

“Yes. Do you know where he is or how to reach him?”

“No. He didn’t offer contact information, and I didn’t ask for any. Forgiveness is one thing—but we’re never going to be friends.”

“Too bad. We will have to continue our search. But we will find him.” Oleg’s steely gaze bored into his.

Michael met it, trying not to flinch.

This was not a man who tossed out idle threats.

While he’d had no personal dealings with Dmitri’s minion, he’d heard the stories. How, in his younger days, Oleg had been adept at killing with his bare hands . . . and had done so on several occasions.

He was older now, and perhaps no longer capable of such legendary feats—but the intimidating bodyguard he’d brought along could do his bidding if necessary.

Would do it if Oleg gave the word.

Michael suppressed a shudder.

When the silence lengthened, Oleg rose. “I’ve intruded enough for one day.”

The caveat wasn’t lost on Michael.

Their meeting might be over . . . but their business wasn’t.

Either he hadn’t been 100 percent convincing, or Oleg was under strict instructions not to return to Miami until he got what Dmitri wanted.

Namely, Russian Mafia justice.

The man walked toward the door, his bodyguard a few paces behind.

Michael followed, tamping down his panic. “It’s been five years since my last contact with Michael—and when he left, I didn’t get the impression I’d hear from him again anytime soon.”

“That may be true.” Oleg stopped at the door while the other man went outside and did another scan of the area. “But one can hope. As a matter of fact, I have a feeling he is nearby . . . and my instincts do not often fail me.” He glanced at the guard, who gave a slight nod. “Have a nice day, Mr. Parker.”

With that, he strolled down the walk to the Cadillac, his shadow close behind, and disappeared behind the tinted windows.

Michael closed the door, watching through the sidelight as the car executed a wide turn and rolled down the drive, followed by a cloud of dust.

Only after the luxury vehicle disappeared around a bend in the woods-rimmed lane and the air cleared did Michael twist the lock on the door and back away from the window.

This was a disaster.

And hard as the truth was to swallow, it was of his own making.

Messing with organized crime had been stupid.

He lurched toward the recliner and sank down. Stealing from Larry, siphoning funds from Trish’s trust . . . those were low-risk operations compared to pilfering Mafia money. Smart as he’d been, carefully as he’d hidden his theft, he’d gotten caught—and Dmitri wasn’t going to let him walk away, as Larry had, if he figured out his real identity.

But how could he?

How could anyone?

He’d covered his tracks. His fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere. Neither were Matt’s. His Boy Scout brother had probably never even gotten a parking ticket. And there weren’t any of his prints here. Not after the thorough scouring he’d given this place—and the car—once he’d moved in. Nor would his clients have any, in light of his brother’s penchant for paperless communication. Without comparison prints, no one could dispute his story that he was Matt.

Still . . . there could be issues if anyone started poking around on his land.

Fingers trembling, he brushed some stray pretzel salt off the arm of the chair. The graves were deep in the woods and well disguised, but if anyone did stumble across them, the situation could get messy.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

But if it did, he’d better be prepared with a credible explanation for the two dead bodies on his property.

He also needed to accelerate work on the escape plan he hadn’t expected to need for months—or even a year or two, if he drained the foundation funds more slowly while he hid out. Now he needed to be able to slip away fast . . . and undetected . . . if things got too hot.

On the plus side, his new ID was ready and waiting, far better than the crude one he’d cobbled together after he fled Florida. What else had he had to work on in his abundant free time over the past few weeks?

But he didn’t yet have the funds to pay for the lifestyle he’d set his sights on. Thanks to his upscale preferences in Boston and Miami, less than a hundred grand remained in his offshore account.

Trish’s foundation, however, had plenty of money to boost that balance.

He rose and began to pace, scrubbing at the few stray grains of salt that refused to relinquish their grip on his fingers.

Maybe he ought to accelerate the timetable on the funds transfer. Do it all at once. The system he’d set up while in Boston continued to work flawlessly. Trish’s “donation” check to Providence House Ministries had gone through without a hitch, traveling first to Providence, which had parsed it out in smaller amounts to his shell-company charities. From there he’d channeled the funds to his offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands.

It was a brilliant scheme, easy to manage online . . . and almost untraceable if you were savvy with VPNs and remailers. Sure, if law enforcement dug deep enough, they might be able to link the transactions back to him—but in the past they’d never had a reason to do that. Larry hadn’t pressed charges . . . and neither would Dmitri.

The local detectives, on the other hand, were a wild card. That Flynn guy and his colleague came across as the determined type.

But it took time to come up with the grounds necessary to get search warrants if they wanted to nose around his property. Longer than it would take for him to transfer the money and disappear.

The last grains of salt finally released their hold on his fingers . . . but they left a sticky residue behind.

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Michael headed toward the kitchen to rinse his hands, weighing his options.

It had seemed safer in the beginning to hide under cover of Matt’s identity until the Miami situation cooled. Dmitri wouldn’t have tracked him forever.

Now that they’d traced Craig here, however . . . and now that he was on the cops’ radar too . . . it might be smart to alter his plans.

He twisted on the tap and let the cool water wash away the dregs of the salt as that notion took root.

Accelerating his plans was sounding more and more appealing. It wasn’t as if he was loving the country life Matt had chosen. Having an excuse to ditch this low-key accountant gig sooner than planned wasn’t such a bad thing.

The challenge was getting the money faster than anticipated.

He dried his hands and slapped the towel onto the counter. This would be so much simpler if Trish’s parents hadn’t specified only check donations in the foundation’s bylaws. As it stood, the financial institution holding the funds wouldn’t release money without that signed piece of paper.

Forging Trish’s signature would be simple—but she kept the checkbook. You couldn’t forge—or wash—checks you didn’t have.

Unfortunately, even if he convinced her to amend the bylaws, the paperwork and implementation took time he might not have.

He needed to pay her another visit—and go prepared to suggest several donations that would appeal to her. Once he had a few signed checks in hand to wash, a well-funded escape would be a piece of cake.

If she didn’t cooperate . . . well, there were other, more risky ways to get to those checks.

But for both their sakes, he hoped she gave him what he needed without any resistance.