16

What an odd start to her Friday.

Frowning, Trish watched Matt drive away from the meeting he’d requested. She couldn’t fault the logic of his suggestion to change charitable foundation donations from physical checks to electronic funds transfers. Her mom might have preferred the old-fashioned method of making donations, even after the stroke had impaired the fine motor skills in her hand and left her signature almost illegible, but it made sense to move the process into the modern world.

Yet for reasons she couldn’t explain, it didn’t feel right.

And Matt had not been happy with her decision to maintain the status quo. His inflection and expression had remained agreeable, but anger had lurked in the depths of his eyes. It had flared again when she’d demurred after he’d pushed her to make him a trustee on at least an interim basis.

Was he displeased because she was hindering his efforts to do what he thought best for the trust . . . or was there a darker reason for his irritation?

Her phone trilled in the kitchen, and she jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

Goodness. She was way too jittery.

Squaring her shoulders, she closed the door, locked it, and marched toward the back of the house. She needed to get her nerves under control. So what if Matt was acting a bit out of character? His odd behavior and subtle personality changes could be related to his concussion and have nothing to do with her—despite the suspicions that were beginning to swirl around him.

And if those suspicions did have any basis in reality?

Colin would nail him.

The very man whose name had popped up on the screen of her cell.

She snatched up the phone from the counter and put it to her ear. “Good morning. I was just thinking about you.”

“Pleasant thoughts, I hope.”

“Very.”

“Best news I’ve had this morning. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“At eight thirty?”

“School’s out. I was afraid you might be sleeping in.”

“No. My body clock wakes me every morning at six thirty. I’ve already had a meeting today. Matt stopped by.”

“Why?” His tone sharpened.

“To discuss a few things about the foundation—and push me again to appoint him as a trustee. I know it’s a legal requirement, and I know he’s qualified, but with all that’s been going on, I’m not comfortable putting him into that slot.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“I was more diplomatic in my phrasing. But he wasn’t happy about it—or the fact that I balked at his suggestion to get rid of physical checks and make contributions electronically.”

“Why would he care about that one way or the other?”

“I guess he’s trying to be diligent about doing his job. He said electronic contributions are protocol for foundations. They’re cleaner and easier to track.”

“You don’t agree?”

“It’s not that.” She began to pace. “But I’m still getting unsettling vibes. When I mentioned I’d reviewed the material he left on his last visit and told him I found it in the CSU bag instead of on the chair in the foyer, he went into that you’re-under-too-much-stress-and-it’s-taking-a-toll routine again.” A shiver rippled through her. “I don’t want to believe he’s involved in anything underhanded, but . . .”

“But it feels like you’re being set up.”

“Yeah. For the life of me, though, I can’t figure out why. Matt’s always been aboveboard and reliable. Why would he want to undermine my mental capacities?”

“If we knew that, I have a feeling a lot of pieces would fall into place. That’s why I called—to assure you I’m working on getting answers to our questions. Other cases have required my attention, but I’ll have a chance today to continue digging. I do have one question for you. Has Parker ever mentioned someone by the name of Craig Elliott?”

“Not that I recall. Why?”

“Elliott’s name came up in another case and I wondered if there might be a connection. It’s a long shot, but I’m going to see where the trail leads. What’s on your agenda today?”

“I’m finally going down to school to clean out my classroom. The summer program starts in ten days.”

Several beats ticked by. “Can you wait until tomorrow? I could loan you an extra pair of hands to speed up the job—and I take orders well.”

Warmth bubbled up in her heart. “I hate to infringe on your Saturday.”

“It’s not an infringement. Given the mugging and safety concerns, it’s a legitimate opportunity to see you that doesn’t qualify as a date. Think of me as your protection detail.”

“When you put it that way . . . does nine o’clock work, or is Saturday your day to sleep in?”

“Sleeping in is a luxury I rarely have. Nine is fine. How’s the arm?”

“It’s not too pretty, but it doesn’t hurt—and as far as I can tell, it appears to be healing well. I’m getting the stitches out this afternoon.”

“In that case, plan on me doing any heavy lifting tomorrow. You need to give that another week or two of healing before you put any strain on it.”

“Is that the voice of experience speaking?”

“I’ve had my share of stitches.”

“Job related?”

“Some.”

Silence.

He didn’t want to talk about his own injuries.

Fine with her. Violence might be part of his job, but if he’d been shot or stabbed in the line of duty, she wasn’t up to hearing about the ongoing risks of his career just yet.

“Well, I’ll be glad to get rid of mine. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.”

Once they said their good-byes, Trish picked up her cooling coffee and wandered out to the terrace. Weeds were beginning to invade the rose garden, withering blooms should be deadheaded, bushes needed to be fed. The past two summers, she’d handled those chores while her mom supervised from the terrace. They’d both cherished those calm interludes in a world turned upside down by death and tragedy.

Her throat tightened, and the colorful blossoms blurred as a fresh wave of grief swept over her. The welcome numbness that had insulated her for the first couple of weeks after her mother died was wearing off, the reality of this fresh loss setting in. The tears she’d been holding inside welled and spilled out while a vibrant red cardinal chirped nearby . . . a dog barked next door . . . the sweet aroma of the roses wafted past her on a gentle breeze. Life around her went on, the same as always.

Yet hers had changed forever.

Sinking onto the low stone wall at the edge of the terrace, she closed her eyes and let the consoling reminder from Ecclesiastes scroll through her mind.

To everything there is a season.

She wrapped her free hand around the rough stone, clinging fast to that promise. This might be her time to mourn and to weep, but one day soon her long season of grief would end, as every season did. Then, with God’s help, she would again laugh . . . and love.

In the meantime, she would be grateful that during this dark, turbulent period, the Almighty had sent her a man like Colin Flynn to help her weather the storm.

Craig slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel as he barreled down the highway. Matt’s visit with Trish today had been a total bust. Despite all the distractions he’d orchestrated, despite all the doubts Matt had planted in her mind about stress-induced forgetfulness, despite her grief over her mother’s death, she wasn’t letting go of the foundation’s reins.

Meaning it wasn’t yet safe to dip into the funds that were calling his name.

He spat out a word that singed the air. Yeah, he had enough in reserve to manage for a while. But his high-end standard of living in Miami had seriously eaten into his offshore account balance, and the money he’d skimmed from Dmitri’s empire was long gone, spent on incidental luxuries. Matt had a small nest egg, and his clients paid him a modest, steady income . . . but that wasn’t sufficient to fund the lifestyle he’d set his sights on once he’d gotten wind of the sweet deal the man had with the Coulter charitable foundation.

Funny how his priorities had changed over the past few months. He’d come here with a single goal: to save his life. To escape Dmitri by vanishing off the face of the earth.

Who could have known his surveillance and research would lead to an unexpected bonus—access to millions of dollars?

It had been too tempting to ignore.

So once his inspired escape plan had been implemented . . . once he was certain he’d eluded the long arm of Dmitri’s organization . . . his focus had shifted to getting his hands on the Coulter Foundation money.

Except Trish wasn’t cooperating.

Grinding his teeth, he tightened his grip on the wheel. He could get at the money without Matt running the foundation, but it would be simpler if she put that responsibility into her accountant’s hands and contented herself with reviewing doctored updates.

If he was patient, it was possible she’d reach that point on her own. Or, better yet, she’d agree to terminate the foundation and he could accomplish his goal in one fell swoop. Not his original plan, but one that grew more appealing every day.

Either way, the ultimate blame—should the embezzlement be discovered—would fall on Matt, while he once again disappeared . . . just as he’d done in Boston, leaving Larry holding the bag.

Craig smirked. He was very proficient at setting up other people to take the rap for his misdeeds.

His fingers loosened on the wheel, and some of his tension ebbed. All he had to do was give this time. Enduring a more modest lifestyle for a while was a small sacrifice for the payoff that would come eventually.

In the interim, he should be glad he was alive—and grateful for the tip-off from the insider he’d bribed to let him know if Dmitri began to get suspicious. With that one warning phone call, the man had earned all the money he’d been paid to alert him if he needed to get out fast.

Without that heads-up, he’d be dead instead of sitting on a potential gold mine that would set him up for life.

Smiling, he flipped on his signal and moved into the exit lane. Things had worked out fine.

He was home free.

“You in the building?”

At Mac’s abrupt greeting, Colin grinned and adjusted the cell against his ear as he jogged across the street. “Hello to you too.”

“I have news related to the Coulter case.”

Colin’s smile evaporated. “I just left the courthouse. I can be there in five minutes.”

“I grabbed the conference room. Meet me there.”

The line went dead.

After a quick detour for two Americanos at Starbucks, he arrived on the threshold of the conference room six minutes later and held one out to Mac.

“Thanks.” The other man took a sip. “After a night on the bar circuit for the missing person case, I needed this.”

“What have you got?” Colin dropped into the adjacent chair.

“Once the search warrant came through yesterday, we dived into Natalie James’s apartment. She did have a computer. One of our forensic guys reviewed her recent emails and gave me a list of senders, receivers, and names mentioned in the body of messages. Guess who popped up?”

His adrenaline spiked, boosting his heart rate. “Parker.”

“Yep. His name was in a reply to a message she sent to a less-than-stellar PI asking him to run a license plate. Given what Maxine said about the Matt that Natalie mentioned, I think we can assume our quiet, clean-as-a-whistle accountant has another side he tries to keep hidden.”

“A darker side, if he had anything to do with Natalie’s disappearance.” Colin’s fingers tightened on the coffee.

“Very dark.”

“This also fits with what I found out about Craig Elliott. Or maybe I should say, what I didn’t find out. I was going to track you down this afternoon to bring you up to speed. I was able to get a definite ID based on the recent credit card purchase here. Elliott’s last address is in Miami—but deep as I dug, I couldn’t find any record of him prior to five years ago. And he disappeared again in February.”

“In other words, Craig Elliott is a fake ID.”

“That’s my assumption. He’s not in the NCIC database, but I did talk with a Miami PD detective. Elliott was on their radar for a while for a possible insurance fraud scam, but they never got him on that. However, my contact put me in touch with the FBI’s organized crime squad down there. Apparently Elliott was also in their sights in conjunction with an ongoing investigation into Russian Mafia activity.”

Mac’s eyebrows rose. “Big-time stuff.”

“Uh-huh. Word on the street, according to my FBI source, is that Elliott was skimming money from the organization before he disappeared. The FBI thought Dmitri Kozlov, the head of the Miami organization, might have had him taken out.”

“Instead, he shows up here—at his friend Matt’s house. The plot thickens.”

“And gets dangerous. We’re not dealing with an amateur here. This guy’s impressive. Eluding the Mafia is no small feat.”

“But there’s a high probability Natalie’s shoe purchase blew his cover.”

“Agreed.” Organized crime had no qualms about illegally accessing private financial information. “But we have an advantage. They have no idea where he is in St. Louis. We do.”

Mac gathered up the papers in front of him. “My afternoon agenda suddenly got more interesting.”

“So did mine. We need to interview Parker and Elliott.”

“You want to show up unannounced or give them a heads-up?”

“The element of surprise could work to our advantage. As far as we know, Parker has no idea we’re digging into his background—and Elliott won’t be expecting us, either.”

“I’m with you. Give me ten minutes to return a few calls.”

“I need to do the same.” Colin pushed back his chair. “I’ll meet you in the office.”

He exited into the hall, grappling with the twist this case had taken. Mild-mannered accountant leading a secret life of women and booze, with a possible connection to murder and mugging and a friend on the lam from the Russian Mafia in Miami.

Bizarre didn’t come close to capturing the situation.

As for how it would play out—Colin had no clue. But he did know one thing.

The link between the Natalie James and Eileen Coulter cases wasn’t just unnerving; it was treacherous. One person had already died. Another was missing. And Trish, for whatever reason, was in the middle of everything.

Jaw hardening, he picked up his pace. They needed to get to the bottom of this. Pronto.

Before anyone else disappeared—or died.

Working on Matt’s books for his other clients was b-o-r-i-n-g.

Craig yawned and moved the cursor to the accounts receivable column. Creative accounting was much more fun. Like the kind he’d done in Boston . . . and Miami . . . and would soon be doing here. That was a challenge.

And much more profitable.

But this mundane stuff covered expenses. If he was going to live in Matt’s house, he had to do his part to ensure the bills got paid.

He leaned over to retrieve a file. Froze at the faint crunch of gravel and the barking of a dog in the distance.

Someone was coming up the driveway.

It wasn’t the pizza guy. He hadn’t decided on his Friday night dinner yet. Nor was it an invited guest. He wasn’t entertaining at the moment. And it wasn’t Natalie. She wouldn’t come calling again.

So who could it be?

Leaving his laptop on the deck, he pushed through the sliding door, strode toward the front of the house, and peered through the sidelight glass.

A black Taurus was slowly approaching up the drive.

He squinted, but the tinted glass and glare from the afternoon sun hid the identity of the driver and anyone else inside.

Whoever it was, though, wasn’t welcome. In his world, unexpected visitors were never a good sign.

He edged to the side of the window as the car slowed. Stopped. A stranger in a jacket and tie got out of the passenger side. Gave the house and grounds a quick, professional sweep.

A red alert began to beep in his brain at the man’s practiced perusal.

This was not a casual visit.

The driver-side door opened—and his pulse skyrocketed.

Detective Colin Flynn had sought him out, with a colleague in tow.

The two men exchanged a few words and started toward the door.

Lungs locking, he fell back and tried to catch his breath. Why were the police nosing around? He hadn’t made any mistakes. They couldn’t be on to him.

Could they?

A tremor of fear rippled through him, and he steadied himself with a hand against the wall.

Don’t panic! Stay calm. They don’t know a thing. This might be part of a routine follow-up to Eileen Coulter’s death. Trish is the prime suspect there. You made sure of that. Maybe they’re just closing a loop.

Through the pounding in his ears, he heard footsteps on the porch.

What to do?

Think!

He couldn’t flee. That would be stupid. Nor could he ignore them. Matt’s car was clearly visible through the open door of the garage. They’d know someone was home.

Let Matt handle it.

Yes. The perfect solution. He was squeaky clean. Even after Trish’s mother died, Flynn had asked him only a few perfunctory questions.

The doorbell rang—and he raced toward the bedroom at the back of the house. There was no time to prep. Matt would have to wing it, splash some water in his hair, claim he’d been in the shower. But he’d been convincing so far, pulling off every task without a hitch. There was no reason he couldn’t handle a visit by the police.

And once they left, once the purpose of their visit was clear, Craig would decide on next steps for both him and Matt.