24

Michael flipped on his blinker as he approached the gravel driveway that led to Matt’s house, yanking off the tie he’d loosened as soon as he’d left church. What a waste that boring hour and a half had been—as usual.

But until he had the money from Trish’s foundation, he couldn’t raise any red flags. To the eyes of the world, he was Matt—and he needed to keep up the pretense for now.

Even if not everyone was buying his story 100 percent.

He scanned the empty road behind him for the tail that had never been far behind since Oleg and his goon had visited.

Why wasn’t the Kia there today?

Was Dmitri’s lieutenant finally convinced he was Matt?

As he rolled up the drive, tires crunching on the loose rock, he rotated the kinks out of his shoulders. Getting the Russian Mafia off his back would be a huge relief—but even if they were gone, he was bowing out of here tomorrow. The instant he confirmed the checks he’d overnighted yesterday were deposited at Providence House Ministries, he’d funnel the funds to the secondary pseudo charity accounts, and from there transfer them offshore with a few keystrokes. Then, new ID in hand, he’d disappear to Mexico until he could make some discreet travel arrangements to the new home he’d establish in the Cayman Islands or Panama.

All he had to do was hang in for another eighteen hours and—

He jammed the brake to the floor, uttering a profanity as the car skidded on the loose gravel.

Oleg’s Cadillac was parked near the detached garage, along with a Suburban and the Kia.

His stomach knotted.

No one from the Mafia had been following him because they were all here.

Why?

And how many thugs were waiting on his doorstep?

He sat unmoving for a full minute, fingers gripping the wheel, every instinct in his body screaming Run!

But he couldn’t do that.

The papers he needed for his new identity were stashed in the house. His computer was inside too. Not that there was much chance Dmitri’s people would be able to get into his hack-proof, encrypted documents . . . but why take the risk?

Plus, running away would undermine all the groundwork he’d laid to convince them he was Matt.

Only guilty people ran.

He sucked in a lungful of air as the left side of his brain began to hum. He needed to do what his brother would do in this situation—act outraged by the continued invasion of his privacy . . . and hope Oleg bought the act rather than resort to the kinds of interrogation techniques he was rumored to use.

Psyching himself up for the encounter and tamping down his fear as best he could, he continued toward the house.

Rather than pull into the garage, he stopped beside the Cadillac, set the brake, and slid out of the car.

The engine on the luxury car was idling, but the dark windows hid the occupants.

Was it possible Dmitri himself might have come to call?

No.

Dealing directly with a potential traitor would be beneath him. That dirty work was delegated to underlings.

It was Oleg.

Seconds later, his conclusion was confirmed. The familiar bodyguard slid out from behind the wheel, stood, and grasped the handle on the back door. After a quick sweep of the surroundings, he swung it open.

Oleg stepped out. Today the man was dressed in more casual—but no less expensive—attire. Dolce & Gabbana jeans, Gucci loafers, Armani shirt. Some of the brands he himself had favored in his more flush days.

Why had Oleg ditched his customary suit and tie?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. I trust your trip to church was edifying?”

So someone had been watching him after all.

Matt, however, would be taken aback to discover he’d been tailed.

“How do you know where I was?”

“We have eyes everywhere.”

Michael lifted his chin and pretended to bristle. “Why are you harassing me? And who are all these people?” He swept a hand over the other two empty vehicles.

“They are . . . associates.”

“Where are they?”

“Exploring your property. They like the outdoors, and you have a very secluded place here.”

Oleg’s men were traipsing around Matt’s land?

That was bad news.

The graves were well disguised, but he’d expected Mother Nature to apply the finishing touches of camouflage long before anyone might think to search for them. It was possible there were markers, if someone was searching for them.

“This is trespassing.”

“Yes, it is. Perhaps you would like to call the police?”

Checkmate.

And Oleg knew it, based on his smug expression.

But he needed to keep up the indignant charade.

“If you leave, I won’t have to resort to that and create problems for you.”

“I do not think it is our problems that concern you.”

Had they already found something—or was the man bluffing? Was Oleg hoping he’d crack and save them the effort of further searching?

Not going to happen.

He straightened up, maintaining his irate demeanor. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to vacate my property.”

Without waiting for the man to respond, he spun on his heel and stalked to the door.

Once inside, however, his angry façade evaporated and he slumped against the wall.

Oleg wasn’t going to leave.

The idle threat he’d issued to the Russian had been no more than an exit line, and the man no doubt knew that.

He didn’t want the police invading his property any more than he wanted Oleg’s goons poking around.

But maybe, if he was lucky, the Russians scouring his property wouldn’t find anything.

Yet as Michael pushed off from the wall and raked shaky fingers through his hair, he doubted that was how this was going to play out.

Luck wasn’t in his corner these days.

All he could do was be prepared with a credible story if Oleg knocked on his door with news of a grisly discovery.

Painting scenery was not his forte.

Nor was it how he wanted to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon better suited to a brisk run or a long swim or a game of one-on-one basketball.

Sighing, Colin dipped his brush back into the can of gray paint. He shouldn’t have let Rick guilt him into volunteering yesterday at breakfast.

But with Kristin’s show three weeks away, half the scenery crew on vacation, and nothing urgent on his Sunday afternoon schedule, how could he say no?

He aimed a disgusted look at his so-called buddy, who was instructing another new recruit on the fine points of adding texture to a tree trunk.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Rick glanced toward him, said a few more words to the hapless volunteer who seemed as lost as Colin felt, and walked across the church hall to join him. “How’s it going?”

“How do you think it’s going?” Colin gave the simulated stones he was painting on the castle wall a disgusted perusal. “This is not my shtick.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” Rick withdrew a few paces to examine the expanse. “But from the audience, it’ll read as stone. Sort of. If they use their imagination.”

“Why don’t you let me work on that plain wall instead?” He waved toward a guy who was slapping a coat of yellow paint on a large flat.

“He’s less talented than you are at this kind of stuff.”

“Not possible.”

“Very possible. Remember that weeping willow on the backdrop last year?”

“You mean the weird-shaped tree that would have been better suited to a horror movie? Yeah.”

“He painted it.”

“Oh.”

“Stick with the stone wall, okay?”

“I’m not making any promises. You may have to have someone touch it . . .” His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Trish. “I need to take this.”

“Go for it. You’re not on the clock here.” Rick moved on to assess the progress of another piece of scenery.

“Hi.” Colin set his brush down and angled away from the assembled group. “What’s up?”

“I heard from Phoenix. Cal says Parker has visitors again. Three carloads full.”

Colin frowned. Not the kind of news he wanted to hear.

“Can he see what’s going on?”

“No. He did call in reinforcements, and they’re moving in as close as they can get on public land. But there are quite a few people there, and they’ve spread out over Matt’s place, which is heavily wooded.”

Doing the same thing he and Mac wanted to do, he suspected.

Combing the property for bodies.

Not only was the Russian Mafia on a parallel track with County, they were one step ahead—because they didn’t have to wait for a warrant.

Best case, tomorrow afternoon was the earliest he’d get legal access to the land.

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Let me know if Cal calls back with anything else.”

“I will.”

After confirming over his shoulder that no one was close, he lowered his voice. “Listen . . . assuming this case wraps up in the next few days, I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me next Saturday.”

“Yes.”

At her instant assent, one side of his mouth quirked up. “I like a decisive woman.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He grinned. Getting to know Trish Bailey was going to be a lot of fun.

“Why don’t I come by for you at six? And dress up. We’re going to launch this new chapter together in style.” Some banging started up behind him, and he cupped his hand around the phone. “Sorry about that.”

“You sound like you’re in a construction zone.”

“Close. I got roped into helping with the sets for Kristin’s show.”

“If Kristin and I hit it off tomorrow, maybe I’ll pitch in too.”

“She’ll be your friend forever if you do. In the meantime, I’ll be counting the days until Saturday.” The banging got louder. “That’s my cue to hang up. Keep me in the loop with Phoenix.”

“Will do. Have fun with the sets.”

“Right.” Still smiling, he pocketed the phone and pivoted back toward the room.

Rick was standing six feet away.

“Why are you anxious for Saturday to get here?”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Nope. I came over to help with the castle”—he waved a paintbrush at the flat—“and found you’d abandoned your post. That was Trish, wasn’t it?”

“Let’s paint.” Colin brushed past him.

“Now you want to paint.” Rick trailed behind him. “Must mean that was her. You finally set up a date?”

“You know I don’t mix work and play.”

“The work will end one of these days.” He dipped his brush into a can of paint. “If I know you . . . and I do . . . you made a date for Saturday. Where are you taking her?”

Colin kept painting.

“First dates are important.” Rick stroked some paint on the backdrop, continuing as if he hadn’t noticed his friend’s lack of response. “Dinner is always appropriate—but pick an upscale place. Not over the top, but impressive. Quiet is also a must. You want to be able to talk to each other without raising your voices.”

“Since when have you become an expert on how to woo a woman?” Colin slapped on a streak of dark gray to simulate a weathered stone. Or so the theory went.

“Hey. I’ve been to my share of chick flicks. And when do I get to meet her? Kristin said the two of them are having dinner Monday. Do I have to ask her out for a meal myself to get an introduction?”

Colin gave him a narrow-eyed glower. No way did he want Rick anywhere near Trish until he had at least a first date under his belt. His buddy had the looks to turn a woman’s head—and he was too available.

“I’ll invite her to one of our Saturday breakfasts soon.”

“You mean after you’ve staked your claim.”

“This isn’t the gold rush.”

“A good woman is worth her weight in gold.” Rick dipped his brush in a can of paint. “But women can also mess with a man’s head.”

“She’s not messing with my head. She’s messing with my heart. But whatever happens between us, you and Kristin will always be family.”

“Glad to hear it.” Rick kept painting. “I’ll email you a few restaurant suggestions for that date you made.”

“Thanks.” Might as well ditch the evasion tactics. His friends already knew Trish had gotten under his skin, that he was determined to get to know her better.

And if all went as he expected, come Saturday night he’d make that official.

The fifteen-minute warning he’d given Oleg had expired an hour ago.

Yet the man was still here—along with his minions.

Michael eased the front blinds a scant half inch further from the window and inspected the front yard. No sign of anyone from the other vehicles. Oleg was ensconced in the air-conditioned comfort of the Cadillac while his bodyguard stood watch by the door, arms folded, feet planted wide.

He let the blinds drop and moved to the sliding glass doors in the kitchen that offered a panoramic view of the backyard and surrounding woods.

Again, no sign of anyone.

But Oleg’s men were out there, combing through the woods. And if they were thorough . . . if they poked into every corner and examined every area that showed any sign of disturbance . . . they were going to . . .

A sharp rap sounded on the front door, and Michael’s pulse lost its rhythm.

Stay calm. The story you cobbled together over the past hour is ready. You can pull this off.

He forced his stiff legs to carry him toward the summons, trying not to hyperventilate as he grasped the knob and twisted it.

Oleg stood on the other side.

“I told you to leave.” The knob was slippery beneath his sweaty palm.

“And I told you to call the police. But you did not do that. Now I understand why. One of my men has made an interesting find. Shall we take a walk to see it . . . or is that necessary?”

Michael’s gut clenched.

Was the man bluffing? Hoping the mere suggestion of a discovery would elicit a confession?

Or had they actually found a body?

No way to know.

Keep playing dumb, Parker.

“What are you talking about?”

Oleg gave him the kind of chiding look usually reserved for small, misbehaving children. “Must this game continue?”

Yes . . . it must. He had to make certain they weren’t trying to fake him out—even if walking into a dense, isolated woodland with Russian Mafia members all around wasn’t how he’d expected to spend this Sunday afternoon.

Instead of responding, he exited the house, locked the door behind him, and waited.

“So . . . you insist on this hike?”

Again, he remained silent.

“Very well.” Oleg brushed an imaginary speck off his slacks. “Clothes are replaceable—and worth the sacrifice for a just cause.” He signaled to his bodyguard, who fell in behind them as Oleg led the way around the house.

At the edge of the woods, across the overgrown backyard, another burly man with aloof eyes waited.

No words were exchanged once they reached him. The man simply swiveled around and guided them into the underbrush.

Toward Matt’s shallow grave.

When they arrived in the small clearing, two other men were waiting, both of them holding shovels.

The roiling in Michael’s stomach intensified.

Oleg examined the spot their guide indicated. For anyone looking for signs of disturbance, it was clear the ground had been excavated in the not-too-distant past.

“Excellent work.” The Russian honcho bestowed the accolade on the assembled men with an all-encompassing glance, then turned to him. “Others continue to search the rest of the property. Perhaps this is not the only noteworthy piece of ground we will find.”

Michael remained silent.

“As you can see, these men are prepared to dig. However, it is a warm day, and I believe we both know what they will find. Shall we save them the exertion?”

There was no doubt in his mind Oleg would follow through and have his people unearth the remains. Better to admit defeat—on this front.

“Yes—but I have an explanation.”

“I am sure it is fascinating. Please proceed.”

“I’d prefer not to have an audience.”

“Ah. A confidential tale.” He motioned the bodyguard forward. “You will agree to let him search you, yes? Security is always a concern in this troubled world of ours.”

“I don’t mind.”

After giving him a thorough frisking, the muscleman backed off.

“You will wait at the edge of the woods. All of you.” Oleg waved off the men gathered around him.

They melted into the shadows of the trees rimming the clearing, close enough to act as sentries but far away enough to allow for a private conversation.

“Whenever you are ready.” Oleg’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. Searing. Probing.

A bead of sweat popped out on Michael’s forehead. It was warm for June . . . but not that warm. Oleg wasn’t sweating.

He needed to control his responses—and his behavior. He could give this man no grounds on which to doubt his story.

“Do you mind if we move under a tree?” He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, hoping Oleg would attribute the sweat to the sun.

“Wherever you wish.”

Michael crossed to a shady patch. It was cooler here. That should help him get the sweating under control.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the story he’d spent the past hour finessing.

“If you dig in that spot”—he indicated the disturbed ground—“you’ll find the body of my brother, Michael Parker.” He closed his eyes and called up a grimace, as if it pained him to say the words. “It was an accident.”

A few beats ticked by.

“You are telling me you killed your brother?”

“Yes—but I didn’t intend to. One night while he was here, he borrowed my car, went to a bar, and brought a woman back with him. I was working in the yard and didn’t realize she was in the house until I came in at dusk. The two of them were having a fight, and the next thing I knew, the woman grabbed a knife out of the block on the counter and lunged at Michael. They struggled . . . and she ended up on the floor. Dead.”

“That is very tragic.” Oleg’s expression didn’t change.

“I wanted to call the police, but Michael said she didn’t have any family and would never be missed. He wanted to bury her on the property. I said no. We argued about it. I went for the phone, he picked up the knife . . . and I could see in his eyes he intended to kill me.”

“I assume you won that fight.”

“Yes . . . with a few scars as souvenirs.” He touched the line on his forehead. “I buried the bodies on the property and told people I’d been in a car accident. I knew no one would miss Michael, since I assumed he was on the run from some kind of mess, and I believed him about the woman. He always did gravitate toward loners.”

“Why did you not call the police and explain all this?”

“I’ve built a new life here, far from the troubles in Boston, and I didn’t want it tainted with a sensational story like this. In hindsight, it wasn’t the best choice. Going back now, though, would be difficult.”

“Yet the police have visited you anyway.”

“They know Michael’s been here—but they have no reason to doubt me . . . just as you don’t. You can check my background. I’ve never done anything illegal. I’m a churchgoing, law-abiding citizen.”

“Yes. We are familiar with Matthew’s history.”

Matthew’s history.

Not your history.

Oleg either wasn’t buying his story, or he wasn’t certain about it and was trying to provoke him into a revelation.

But that wouldn’t happen.

He was done talking.

As the silence stretched between them, a squirrel scuttled over a branch in the oak tree above them. A dog barked in the distance. The faint drone of a passing plane echoed high overhead.

Michael held his ground, his gaze never wavering under Oleg’s assessing stare.

At last the man spoke. “You tell an intriguing story.”

“It’s the truth.”

“So you say. But we shall see.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the small clearing, motioning for the others to accompany him.

The sound of them crashing through the underbrush faded as they disappeared into the trees. Only after it ceased did Michael follow.

Based on his retreat, there had been sufficient doubt in Oleg’s mind to stop him from carrying out the justice Dmitri wanted. If he had been convinced the man living in Matt’s house was his target, the execution would have taken place today. In the woods.

Instead, Michael Parker was walking out alive.

That was a small victory.

But it might be short-lived.

Oleg would speak with his boss, get further instructions. It was possible Dmitri would tell him to proceed with the Mafia’s version of justice despite any doubt that remained about identities. The big man in Miami wouldn’t lose any sleep over a potential mistake, especially if he thought the odds of a correct call were in his favor.

However . . . there wasn’t likely to be any more action today—and by tomorrow morning, the money from the foundation would be in his shell charities, ready to transfer to his offshore account.

As long as there weren’t any glitches.

There shouldn’t be—but in case a problem arose, he needed to stick here until he had the money in hand.

Then he could take off and be free of Dmitri and his ilk.

And this time, he would be free. This escape would be clean—as the one to St. Louis should have been. Would have been if Natalie hadn’t put him on the cops’ radar. How Dmitri had picked up on that was a mystery . . . but there would be no slipups on this go-round. He would talk to no one until he was safely out of the country, his old identity left behind.

The Russians might be sticking close, but eluding them once he was ready to disappear would be a cinch. Vanish into the mall crowd at the Galleria, alter his clothing and appearance in the men’s room, leave by a different exit as a different person. Hike a mile to the Sheraton, take a cab to the airport, pick up a rental car under his new name, and flee. He had sufficient cash on hand to fund his escape, and a new credit card was waiting for its first transaction.

The instant he got confirmation the funds had transferred, he was ready to roll.

He emerged from the woods and circled around the house.

All the vehicles were gone.

Excellent.

And in less than eighteen hours, if all went smoothly, Michael Parker would vanish off the face of the earth.

This time forever.