22

“Quit hovering. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.” Hank shot a don’t-mess-with-me glare over his shoulder.

Colin withdrew his head from the ransacked bedroom, where the cranky CSU tech was dusting for prints. “I’ll be in the kitchen talking to the homeowner.”

“A better use of your time.”

Sheesh. The man had attitude with a capital A.

But his forensic skills were top-notch.

As Colin retreated down the hall of the high-end home where the owner had walked in on a burglary in progress, his cell began to vibrate.

He pulled it off his belt, scanned the screen . . . and ducked into a nearby bathroom. Trish could leave a message while he dealt with this crime scene—but he’d rather talk to her in person.

A smile tugged at his lips as he put the phone to his ear. Since he’d shared ice cream with her yesterday and talked to her hours later after she’d connected with Phoenix, you’d think the need to hear her voice again wouldn’t be all that urgent.

Wrong.

Which was proof he had it bad.

And he didn’t mind in the least.

“Hi.” Still smiling, he propped a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Hi back. Do you have a minute?”

Not really. But he’d take one . . . or two . . . for her.

“Yes, but not much more. What’s up?”

“I had a call from Cal Burke. There’s been some activity at Matt’s house.”

He straightened up. “Tell me about it.”

“Cal says he had two visitors about an hour ago.” She passed on the details about the duo in the Cadillac.

“Did they get any photos?”

“Yes. Cal made it a point to tell me they weren’t trespassing, though. He said one of their guys was watching from adjacent public land.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. They run a by-the-book kind of operation—for the most part.” He knew of only a single instance when Phoenix had deviated from that rule, and if they hadn’t, the woman one of Cal’s partners later married would have died.

“He wanted to know whether they should try to identify the two guys or email me the photos to pass on to you. I got the impression they thought the visitors might be affiliated with the Mafia.”

Cal and his guys wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion without sound reasons. They must have observed some behavior that had tipped them off.

The Florida mob had moved in faster than he’d expected.

“Go with the email. If these guys are Mafia, the contacts I made in Miami may recognize them. We should be able to get an ID through official channels quicker than Phoenix can—and save you a few bucks in the process.”

“A resolution is more important to me than the money.”

“Let us take a crack at it first. If we don’t nail it within a few hours, you can turn it back over to Phoenix.”

“Okay. Cal also said the Cadillac is a rental car. Do you want the license?”

“Yeah.” He fished out his pen and notebook and jotted down the number. “If this is a Mafia rental, I suspect we’ll find a John Smith name on the paperwork. But it’s worth checking.”

“Cal implied that too. I’ll call him back and let him know you’re going to handle the ID on the . . .” A beat of silence passed. “Huh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got a call coming in from Matt’s number.”

Colin’s pulse picked up.

The Mafia visits him, and soon after he calls Trish.

The timing had to be significant.

“Let it roll.” He didn’t want her anywhere close to whatever was going to go down between Matt and the Mafia and County. “You can play his message after we hang up.”

“Do you think this call is related to his visitors?”

“Yeah.” Better to be totally aboveboard with his suspicions so she’d remain on high alert. “I’m thinking the guys in the Cadillac spooked him and he’s getting ready to make some kind of move.”

“Like what?”

He wished he knew.

“His message may give us a clue.” The officer who’d responded to the burglary appeared in the hall and beckoned to him. “Look . . . I need to go. Listen to the message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Will do.”

The line went dead.

“Sorry to interrupt.” The officer rested one hand on his holster. “I think the homeowner is about to have a meltdown.”

No surprise there. Having a gun pulled on you and being tied up by two armed robbers could do that to a person.

“Have the paramedics left?”

“On their way out. They didn’t find any substantive injuries, and the victim refused to go to the hospital for further evaluation.”

“Okay.” He slid his phone back on his belt and psyched himself up for what could be a difficult conversation. Too bad her husband was out of town. His presence might help calm her. He’d have to do his best to settle her down on his own and get some answers.

Fifteen tense minutes later, however, he’d accomplished neither. The woman was no less freaked out, and despite careful, specific questions designed to elicit details, the best description she could provide was twentysomething, dark hair, and tall.

Like that would help a lot.

Maybe Hank would have better luck with fingerprints, shoe impressions, or trace evidence that could yield a DNA sample.

After thanking the woman, he retreated down the hall. The CSU tech was still at work, so he stepped out onto the patio to call Trish back.

She answered on the first ring. “You’re at a crime scene, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’ve got a few minutes. What did Parker want?”

“He invited me out for coffee.”

“Social or business?”

“He didn’t mention the foundation. I got the feeling it was social.”

Not likely, with everything that was going on.

“There’s more on his agenda than small talk.”

“Such as?”

He paused as a cigarette butt wedged between two bricks caught his eye. Intact, despite last night’s rain—meaning it was recent. If the owners didn’t smoke, he’d alert Hank to this . . . even though the man would probably get huffy and tell him he would have found it on his own. Which was no doubt true.

“Colin?”

He refocused. “Good question. One we need to answer. Let me discuss approaches with my boss and a colleague. We’ll also try to ID the two visitors. Until I get back to you, let your phone roll if he calls again. Do you have any commitments that require you to leave the house over the next couple of days?”

“Other than a grocery run, no.”

“Stay put. If you need food, call me and I’ll deliver.”

“I could lie and say the cupboard is bare to give me an excuse to see you . . . but the truth is the freezer’s full.”

“Then stay there until we sort this out and come up with a plan. I’ll call you later today or early tomorrow. If you hear from the Phoenix guys again, let me know.”

“I will. And the photos Cal sent should be in your inbox.”

“Thanks. I’ll get right on them. Talk to you soon.”

The instant the line went dead, he opened his email. The one with the photos was near the top.

Cal and his crew had provided several images of each of the guys—full face, profile, close up, whole body. They were strangers to him—but his contacts at the Miami PD or FBI office might recognize them.

And if they did . . . if the Mafia was on Parker’s doorstep . . . they needed to wrap this up fast.

Before anyone else got hurt.

Phone pressed to his ear, Dmitri swirled his daily shot of Stolichnaya Gold in a crystal tumbler, rocked forward on his toes in front of the picture window, and watched a cruise ship glide toward the horizon forty-two floors below as Oleg finished his report.

“Excellent work. Now that you have given me the facts of your visit to St. Louis, tell me your impressions.” He sipped the vodka.

“He was nervous—but he did not make any mistakes. All of his responses and reactions would be appropriate for Matthew Parker.”

“Acting is a useful skill. Very convincing when well done.” He held up the glass of clear liquid to the light. While it wasn’t the most expensive vodka on the market, it was the best. Only fools paid disgraceful amounts of money for artsy bottles. What mattered was the contents. “But you have keen insights. That is why I sent you. What is your opinion about his identity?”

“It is difficult to know for certain . . . and much is at stake.”

“We will get more proof before we act—but if you think there is little likelihood this man is Michael Parker, we will not waste our time there. Give me your odds.”

The man’s response was slow and measured. “I believe there is at least an 80 percent chance this is the man we knew as Elliott.”

Dmitri tossed back the rest of his vodka, tracking a yacht as its bow cut through the water, churning foam in its wake. If Oleg said 80 percent, that meant the odds were closer to 90 percent. His trusted aid tended to err on the side of caution when offering probabilities.

“Then we will need to concentrate our efforts in this location. Pick those who you think will provide the skills you need and arrange for them to join you by tomorrow.” He returned to his desk, sat, and set the empty tumbler aside. “Now let us talk about how we will proceed.”

“Oleg Petrov has quite a résumé.” Sarge closed the file Colin had handed him and leaned back in his desk chair. “Who’s the other guy?”

“My contact in the Miami PD didn’t recognize him. Neither did the special agent I talked with down there from the FBI’s Russian squad unit. He said he’s probably a lower-level player. The Feds have their hands full watching the big guns.”

“I bet they do.” Sarge took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Russian Mafia in our backyard. Just what I needed to make my week complete.”

“I don’t think they’re here to stay.”

“Let’s hope not.” He leaned forward again and looked from Colin to Mac. “I’m assuming you gentlemen want to propose a plan of action now that your cases have merged.”

Colin exchanged a glance with his colleague. “Yes.”

“I’m listening.”

“At this point, short of a confession, we can’t prove the man presenting himself as Matthew Parker is lying about his identity. The best we might be able to do is pin a murder rap . . . or two . . . on Parker—whichever brother he is.”

Sarge arched an eyebrow, and Mac jumped in. “The easiest and least risky way for Parker to get rid of bodies is to bury them on his own property, away from prying eyes. We want to search his house and grounds.”

“Do you have grounds for a warrant?”

“Not yet.”

“But evidence of embezzlement would give us what we need.” Colin jumped to the heart of their proposal, since Sarge was up to speed on their suspicions about the foundation. “Parker called Trish Bailey yesterday and asked her out for coffee. Coming so close on the heels of the Mafia visit, the invitation would suggest he’s getting nervous and wants access to the funds in her parents’ foundation faster than he’d planned. We think he wants to be ready to run if the situation gets any hotter.”

“A reasonable assumption. How does that give you grounds for a warrant?”

“The foundation is set up to trigger an alert if a donation over a certain dollar limit comes through. To the best of our knowledge, Parker isn’t aware of that. We think it makes sense for Trish . . . Ms. Bailey . . . to keep the date with Parker. We expect he’ll bring up the foundation. But whether or not he does, she’ll take a few modest checks for reputable charities to their meeting and ask him to handle the donations for her.”

Sarge folded his arms. “You’re thinking he might wash the checks, write in sizeable amounts, and send them through the bogus charity he set up.”

“Yes—and once those checks arrive at the bank, they’ll be flagged. We’ll alert bank officers in advance that they could be coming and ask them to give us an immediate heads-up. Once we have that piece of evidence, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting a search warrant.”

“Is Ms. Bailey agreeable to your plan?”

“I haven’t asked her yet, pending your approval, but she’s as anxious to get to the bottom of this as we are. Her mother was one of Parker’s casualties.”

“I’m aware of that.” At Sarge’s dry comment, heat crept up Colin’s neck. “Why not have Ms. Bailey send him the checks? Why risk a meeting?”

“That would be my preference.” Colin rested his elbows on the chair and linked his fingers in his lap. The farther away she stayed from Parker, the happier he’d be. “But he’s already asked her out, and it may be helpful to hear what he has to say.”

“Any concerns about danger to her?”

“Not from Parker. We’ll be close by. And even if the Mafia is keeping tabs on him, Trish would be of little interest to them. She’s a client—and she thinks he’s Matt. She can’t help them make a positive ID.”

“Do you think she’ll be able to pull off this meeting without clueing in Parker that we’re on to him?”

“Yes.” Colin didn’t hesitate. Parker might have tried to undermine Trish’s mental steadiness, but she was a lot tougher than she looked. If she thought this would give them the answers they needed, he had every confidence she’d be able to disguise any nervousness . . . along with her disgust.

Sarge squinted at them as several silent seconds ticked by. “Fine. I’ll leave the details of their meeting to you two, but I’d suggest it take place in public, that she wear a wire, and that we have one or two of our undercover people on hand in the location. If Parker’s done everything you both think he did, I wouldn’t trust him for an inch.”

Exactly what he and Mac had discussed. There was no reason a coffee date should be risky, not with Trish prepared to give Parker access to the account via washed checks, but he intended to put as many safeguards in place as possible.

Just in case.

“We agree.” Mac closed his notebook. “We’ve already talked about a lot of that and are ready to move forward.”

“When do you want the meeting to take place?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Go for it. If Parker takes the bait and tries to get the money, you’ll have your search warrant.”

“Thanks.” Colin stood. “We’ll keep you updated.”

“Do that.”

Mac followed him out.

“Now that we have Sarge’s buy-in, we need to get this plan in gear.” Colin shifted aside in the hall to let another detective pass.

“I’m ahead of you. I’ve already put out some calls to line up a couple of cadaver dogs.”

“We don’t have the search warrant yet.”

“We will. Parker won’t be able to resist the bait, not with the Mafia lurking in the shadows.”

“I hope you’re right. You want to get some undercover people prepped?”

“Yeah. Where do you think the meeting should take place?”

“There’s a Starbucks near Trish’s house. It’s one of the bigger ones. Our people should be able to keep their distance and watch the proceedings without drawing attention.”

“The one at Lindbergh and Clayton?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve been there. It will work. You want to call Trish, make certain she’s on board?”

“She will be . . . but yes, that’s next on my agenda.” He exhaled. “I wish there was a way to keep her out of this entirely.”

“Once she gives him the checks, there’s no reason for them to have any more contact. I don’t see a whole lot of risk in terms of Parker.”

“I don’t, either—but there are a lot of moving parts to this. Just having the Russian Mafia in the picture escalates the danger.”

“They’re after Parker, not her. And as you told Sarge, she can’t help them with a positive ID. My biggest concern is getting to him before they do.”

“True.” He pulled out his phone. “Let me fill Trish in. Assuming she’s willing, she can make the date with Parker. I’m thinking midmorning. There’s less activity then, so our people will have unobstructed views. Once she confirms that with him, we can get everything set from our end.”

“Works for me. I’ll be at my desk. Let me know when we’re ready to roll. And take a deep breath. If those dents in your forehead get any deeper, they’ll give the Grand Canyon some competition.” With a grin and a slap on the shoulder, Mac strolled toward their office.

Colin slipped into a conference room down the hall, flipping the light switch as he entered the dark room. Mac was right; he was worrying too much. Given all the life-and-death situations the ex–Navy SEAL had seen, his danger meter had to be a lot more accurate than most people’s. If he didn’t think the meeting between Trish and Parker was risky, it probably wasn’t.

Yet as Colin keyed in her number, he couldn’t quite extinguish the flicker of fear licking at his nerve endings.