Fatal Encounter (A Counterstrike Novel Book 1)

by Jannine Gallant

  “I guess we can wait for some intel on those IDs and then make a decision.”

  He eyed her steadily. “In the meantime, I’ll try to pick O’Leary’s brain. Or maybe I can get Sheriff Frank to spill his guts while I’m down at the station. He doesn’t like me much, but he’s pissed about the new guy taking charge. Hopefully, I can catch him at a weak moment.”

  “You can try. And if you do get any tips about potential suspects, Wolf can dig deeper into their backgrounds.”

  “I don’t like the idea of your buddy checking out my relatives. Seems damn intrusive.”

  “I wouldn’t ask him to—unless there’s a solid lead. We can reevaluate if anything suspicious pops up.”

  Eli jammed his hands in his pockets and scowled. “My characters do this kind of shit all the time. It’s not so fun in real life. I need to make them more conflicted in the future.”

  “If you take an ‘end justifies the means’ outlook, it’s easier,” she said in a matter of fact tone.

  “I guess.” He slid off the stool. “I need to get some editing done before my appointment with O’Leary. I’ve been totally slacking, and I have deadlines looming. I hope you don’t mind, but—”

  “Of course not. I don’t need a babysitter. Go write.”

  He took a step forward and bent to drop a kiss on her lips. “If you change your mind about the bedroom, just yell. For that, I’ll miss my deadline.”

  She couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips. “Not happening. Not right now, anyway. I need to think about a few things first.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It isn’t. I like how we are together, but my life is a mess. I need to look past the current situation before I make any decisions.”

  He hesitated before backing away. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m starting to care a lot about you, Jaimee. Keep that in mind while you’re pondering what comes next.”

  “I will.”

  After he left the room, she slumped against the counter, then straightened abruptly and muttered an obscenity when a sharp pain jabbed her side. At her feet, Watson sat up and whined.

  “I’m okay, boy.”

  Reaching down, she stroked the dog’s head before trying to find a comfortable position. Her ribs hurt like hell. Maybe because she hadn’t taken any pain pills recently. She didn’t like the way they fogged her brain. Not that her clear head had produced any spectacular insights. After popping three ibuprofen, she picked up the history scattered across the counter and started reading, hoping something would catch her eye.

  Robert Brown’s place of birth was listed as Malone, New York. Jaimee was pretty sure that was up near the Canadian border. He’d gotten a BA in English from NYU and then stayed in the state for work. She wondered if any of it was actually true.

  When her phone rang, she snatched it up and glanced at the display. Luna. Anticipation sped up her pulse as she answered. “Tell me you found something.”

  The other woman laughed. “Patch mentioned you were very direct. Actually, I did learn a thing or two. A couple of Robert Browns graduated from NYU the year specified in the history, but neither of them was from Malone. Your Robert Brown doesn’t appear to have attended. Also, I did a quick search through social security records, and there’s no income listed for this number. However, the card was definitely issued to a Robert C. Brown back in the late seventies.”

  “Maybe the real Robert Brown died when he was young, and the contract killer—or whoever he has producing IDs for him—stole the boy’s identity.”

  “Likely, you’re correct. Unfortunately, I can’t dig deeper right now. We’re leaving for Columbia immediately, but I’ll find out more as soon as we get back. It should be a quick in and out mission.”

  Jaimee’s gut tightened, and she took a couple of deep breaths, letting them out slowly. “Thanks for your help, Luna. I appreciate it. Good luck and stay safe. All of you.”

  “Will do. Bye, Scarlet.”

  No good would come from thinking about the men and women she’d considered family heading into what was sure to be a dangerous situation, so she forced herself to focus on what she’d learned instead. Maybe it wouldn’t help her identify the assassin, but her only leads were the aliases he was using. With grim satisfaction, she wondered if he’d already tried to pick up his package and found it had been delivered to someone else. She was dead certain he wouldn’t call attention to himself by kicking up a fuss at the post office or asking questions. The last thing he’d want was for the police to get involved in a mail theft claim.

  Easing off the stool, she stepped over Watson’s recumbent body to fetch her computer. After sitting down at the dining room table, she powered it up. Twenty minutes of searching produced a reference to a memorial service held for Robert Brown in the Malone newspaper from August of 1987.

  “So, he did die,” she muttered. As she scanned through the paper’s archives, a headline from the same month caught her eye: Tragic Drowning Leaves Local Boy and Two Others Dead.

  Jaimee drew in her breath as she pulled up a blurry photocopy of the article. Ten-year-old Malone native, Bobby Brown, along with Scott Fisher from Plattsburgh, New York and Mark Johnson from Burlington, Vermont died tragically when their boat overturned on Lake Champlain where all three boys were attending summer camp.

  She looked up from the screen and frowned. Mark Johnson was the name on the envelope. Had the killer used the third boy, Scott Fisher’s, identity as well?

  The rest of the story consisted of a tale of five pre-teen boys who’d taken a boat out in the dead of night in an attempt to row to a nearby island. The boat had overturned, and only two of the group had made it back to shore. The survivors were Dalton Monroe from St. Albans, Vermont and Gilles Legrand, a resident of Montreal, Canada.

  Jaimee sat staring into space until the laptop screen in front of her went black. Since the killer obviously knew about the incident, was he in some way connected to the boys? The Closer was probably in his early forties, which would make him around the same age.

  “You okay?”

  “Huh?” Jaimee jerked around and wished she hadn’t. Pressing a hand to her side, she faced Eli.

  “You looked like a statue sitting there, not moving.”

  “I was thinking. I learned a few interesting facts about the aliases while you were holed up in your office.”

  “Oh?” He crossed the room, pausing to scratch Watson’s ears when the dog stood up and shook.

  Jaimee touched her computer screen. After it sprang to life, she checked the time. A quarter past twelve. “Don’t you need to go to your appointment?”

  “It’s not until one-thirty. I planned to grab something to eat first. You can give me a recap of all that intense cogitation while I make sandwiches.”

  She grinned. “Don’t joke about my mental processes. I have a theory.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Let’s hear it.”

  She read him the newspaper article, then rose from her chair and came over to lean against the counter while he assembled their lunch. “What if Maureen’s killer was one of the kids at the camp when the accident happened? He’d be about the right age, and it would explain how he knew those boys had died. Seems damn heartless to exploit such a tragedy, but this guy obviously doesn’t have a conscience.”

  “He’s total scum.” Eli set a plate with turkey, provolone, and an impressive assortment of trimmings on a sourdough roll in front of her.

  “Definitely.” She pulled out a pepperoncino and ate it, enjoying the burst of spicy flavor. “One of the boys who survived the accident was from Montreal.”

  He swallowed before answering. “Is being Canadian relevant?”

  “French Canadian. The contract killer has a faint accent. His English is flawless, but there’s still a trace of something foreign in his speech. If he grew up speaking French . . .”

  Eli’s expression brightened. “Maybe a coincidence, but we can at least check it out.”

  “I
don’t know if I can do much more from my computer. Pulling up the newspaper story was quite a challenge. When Luna gets back—”

  “Where’s the computer genius?”

  Jaimee fiddled with a slice of pickle that fell out onto her plate. “She’s not in Boston right now. Hopefully they’ll be home in a day or two.”

  “Oh.” He set down his sandwich. “I suppose you aren’t at liberty to talk about where she and your other buddies went.”

  Her stomach tightened at the look in his eyes. Resignation. Disappointment. Maybe a hint of betrayal.

  “Luna didn’t give me any specifics, Eli.”

  “How does it feel to be on the outside looking in?”

  “Honestly, I’d rather not know.”

  He picked up his sandwich again, took a bite, and chewed furiously. Finally, he swallowed. “Whatever. I won’t pry. Okay, maybe I’ll pry a little. Tell me this, at least. Is what’s happening out of that brownstone legal?”

  The knots in her stomach grew larger. “What we . . . they do is sanctioned. Sort of. Good comes from it, but sometimes the cost is damn high.” Her appetite gone, she gave up on the sandwich and pushed it aside.

  He didn’t say anything more, just ate his lunch in silence. When he was finished, he set his plate in the sink. “Are you going to eat that?”

  “Maybe later.” She carried her plate to the refrigerator and put it on a shelf before shutting the door and turning to face him. “I’m not very hungry. Probably because I haven’t had any exercise. Maybe I’ll take Watson for a walk while you’re gone and get some fresh air.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, as long as you don’t get lost in the woods.”

  “My sense of direction is excellent.”

  “Great. I won’t worry, then.” Stepping closer, he cupped her chin in his hand. “I’m sorry I got all pissy. I know whatever your old employer does isn’t your secret to tell, but my author brain likes to solve mysteries. And I’d also like to know a little more about what makes you tick since you don’t seem to be big on sharing.”

  “You’ve no reason to apologize. Of course, you’re curious. Anyone would be.” When he pulled her closer, she leaned against his chest. “I’ve guarded my emotional wellbeing for so long, it’s hard to let someone past the walls I’ve built. I’ll try harder because I care about you, and you deserve more than I’m giving.”

  “We all have baggage, Jaimee.” He spoke in a soft voice. “It’s how we handle the past that determines what we make of our future.”

  “I know. I also know I suck at letting go and moving on. I was making progress before Coffee died. Since then, I’ve practically had to start over.”

  His eyes darkened. “Did you love him?”

  “As a friend, yes. As a man . . .” She swallowed. “Maybe I would have. I didn’t get a chance to find out.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Really and truly sorry. But it sounds like he knew what he was risking. My guess is you all did.”

  She nodded.

  “Then I’m sure he would want you to live your life with no regrets.”

  She stood on her toes to kiss him. “Thank you, Eli. Your perspective is spot on. Being angry at the circumstances certainly hasn’t been productive. I’m sure survivor’s guilt also plays a part. At least that’s what my therapist seems to think. There are a lot of unhealthy emotions roiling around inside me, but I’m doing my best to let them go.”

  “I can be patient. Or try, anyway.” He smiled. “We’ll both work on our issues.”

  “I’m game. But right now, you’re going to be late if you don’t get out of here.” She took a step back.

  “You’re right. I’ll see you later this afternoon.” He walked halfway across the kitchen and stopped. “Be careful if you go out. You might not get lost in the woods, but if that asshole somehow connects us and comes looking for you—”

  “I’ll be on guard.” She followed him to the door. “Is your grandpa’s shotgun still in the car trunk?”

  “Yes. I’ll take it out and leave it for you. I’ll feel better knowing you can defend yourself.”

  “You and me both.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sheriff’s office smelled of stale coffee and cheap perfume. The source of the perfume stood at the front counter wearing a too tight dress. Every now and then the woman, who couldn’t be much older than twenty, gave Eli a furtive glance. He wasn’t sure if she was a perp or a victim but suspected the latter since she’d entered the station without a police escort.

  When the interior door to the left of the counter opened, Eli rose to his feet. A short man, probably in his mid-forties, wearing a baggy suit and sporting a two-day growth of beard approached him with his hand outstretched.

  “You’re Eli Croft. I recognize you from the picture on your book jackets. I’m Detective O’Leary.”

  Eli took his hand in a firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Detective. Have you learned anything more about my grandmother’s murderer?”

  “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll have a chat about that.” He gestured for Eli to precede him. “Right this way.”

  Eli entered a large room partitioned off with gray dividers. A woman with streaked blond hair wearing a navy-blue jacket looked up from her computer screen and took his measure before returning her attention to the monitor. Three other stations sat empty.

  O’Leary motioned him toward a folding chair in front of a battered wooden desk in the corner. A single, fat folder lay on its surface. After Eli sat, the detective dropped onto a black vinyl swivel chair to face him. “Since my team arrived, the sheriff’s office is a little crowded, but we’re making due.”

  “My hope is you’re also making progress.”

  “That’s everyone’s goal. The sooner we make an arrest, the happier we’ll all be.”

  The detective’s attention strayed beyond Eli as an inner office door creaked opened. Turning in his seat, Eli nodded at Sheriff Bagley when he strolled out.

  “Eli, good to see you.” He removed his hat and scratched the back of his neck. “Do you know when the service for Mrs. Croft will be held? I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “Sunday. Some of my relatives are anxious to get home afterward.”

  “Understandable.” The sheriff moseyed over to the coffee maker and filled a mug with lethal-looking brew. He puttered around, taking a sip before adding a packet of sugar. Finally, he approached to lean against the wall. “I thought I’d sit in on this interview.”

  O’Leary’s lips flattened. “Suit yourself, Sheriff.” The detective studied Eli. “Maybe you can clear up a few details for me. I hear you did quite well in your grandfather’s will. Your Uncle Stephen mentioned his stepmother was the only one on the board of Croft Enterprises who holds more shares. He seemed to believe you’ll be the majority shareholder now that Mrs. Croft is gone.”

  “Sounds about right. Grandpa specified the way the shares would be divided after his wife passed. She was free to leave her properties to whomever she wanted, but not the company shares.”

  “Croft Enterprises is worth upwards of twenty million dollars, is that correct?”

  Eli shrugged. “Ask the corporate accountant, if you haven’t already. I’m not exactly hands-on when it comes to the family furniture business.”

  “Most people wouldn’t be so blasé about that kind of cash.”

  Eli narrowed his eyes. “Not to brag about my success as an author, but my net worth is substantial. I didn’t kill my honorary grandmother for a larger share of the company, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Just trying to understand the broader financial picture. What about the rest of your relatives? They don’t appear to be as well off as you are.”

  “By now, I imagine you’re far better acquainted with their finances than I am.” Eli sat back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “We aren’t close. I don’t spend a lot of time with my aunts, or uncle, or cousins.”

  “Will your moth
er fly out from California for the memorial?” Bagley asked.

  Turning, Eli stared at the sheriff. “She texted me earlier that she bought a last-minute ticket and will be here tomorrow. She and Maureen actually got along well. Unlike—” He bit off the comment, sorry he’d opened his mouth.

  O’Leary leaned forward. “Who didn’t get along with Mrs. Croft?”

  Eli waved a hand. “Look, I’m not here to throw anyone under the bus. I don’t think most of the family cared much for her. Except me. I rather enjoyed her acerbic tongue, and I’ll miss our verbal sparring matches. But it’s no secret she wasn’t the easiest woman to be around.”

  “True,” the sheriff spoke up. “We had our fair share of clashes over regulations for various charity functions. Let’s just say Mrs. Croft knew her own mind.”

  “Interesting.” The detective tapped his pen on the desk. “Both Katherine Croft and Vanna Shreve painted a picture of a tight-knit family, with Maureen as a beloved matriarch.”

  Eli grinned. “Were either of them able to say it with a straight face?”

  O’Leary smiled back. “That brand of humor is why I enjoy your books. Doesn’t mean I won’t be keeping an eye on you.”

  “And everyone else in the family, I assume? You think one of us had something to do with Maureen’s death?”

  He twirled the pen between his fingers. “Generally speaking, most murders are committed by someone close to the victim. I don’t see this as a random act of violence by a passing thief.”

  Bagley shifted and scowled. “And I don’t see Ms. Vanna or Ms. Katherine shooting an elderly woman in cold blood, no matter what your statistics say.”

  “But you can picture me doing it?” Eli asked, raising a brow.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, boy. I’m just saying—”

  “I don’t assume any one of you actually pulled the trigger,” O’Leary interrupted. “Almost everyone in the family has an alibi for the time of Mrs. Croft’s death. Eli, I believe you were in a meeting with your agent. But there’s more than one way to get a job done.”