“How good can he be?” Ian shrugged. Though he looked laid back and relaxed, there was a world of tension vibrating in that big body of his and his pale eyes were frosted ice in his face. “The nutter went and kept trying to see what was going down even after he likely knew his man was dead. Should have called it a loss and let it go, but he had to see, now didn’t he? So he’s either stupid or obsessed. Probably both. But if he was really good, he’d know to cut his losses and run. He didn’t.”
“Why did he set up cameras?” Neve asked. “I mean … what’s the deal with the house? What’s the deal with all of us? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Sure it does.” Gideon’s eyes held hers. “We just have to find the connecting thread.”
* * *
“You didn’t tell them what he said about him being cousins with somebody.” Leaning against his truck, Gideon studied Moira’s downcast face.
He had to go into the office for a while. Saturdays might technically be his day off, but he had a report on the dead guy back in Louisiana and the sheriff’s department had been kind enough to send a preliminary on the sweep the techs had done, too.
Moira’s pale-green eyes met his. “No. I want more concrete answers first.”
Shoving off the truck, he moved around until he could cage her up between him and the vehicle’s grill. “Don’t go playing Nancy Drew. Your brother finally seemed to get it and I think Ian pretty much connected the dots. I know Neve did. Until I find out more about what’s going on—and stop this fucker—you keep your pretty ass out of trouble.”
“I wasn’t planning on whipping out a magnifying glass and argyle socks.” She pursed her lips. “I think she wore argyle socks. I never much paid attention to those books.”
Gideon skimmed a thumb under the hem of her shirt and stroked it across her skin. “You can wear whatever you want—or don’t want. But keep out of this, Moira.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed up onto her toes. “I saw enough last night to convince me that investigating isn’t my forte, pal.”
“Good.” He cupped her head and rubbed his lips against hers, slowly, lazily deepening the kiss until their breath fused and it seemed their very hearts were beating in time. “Moira…”
She hummed a little in her throat and curled her arms around him, straining to be closer although the only thing that separated them was their clothing.
Gideon caught her wrists. “I need to go. I’ve got things to follow up on.”
“Okay.” She studied his mouth for a moment and then looked back up at him. “You coming back here tonight?”
“Do you want me to?”
For an answer, she tugged his mouth back to hers for one last, hard kiss.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell ya, Marshall.”
Tired after yet another two-hour drive to Louisiana, Gideon walked along with Zeke and one of his dogs as they circled the perimeter of the Bittner house.
In a few weeks, the McKays would be transferring the property over to Zeke.
It had only been a few short days since Kevin Towers had been killed inside those walls. It had been a concoction of Rohypnol and GHB, laced with heavy amounts of digitalis, enough to take down an elephant.
Their presence hadn’t made much of a difference.
The medical examiner, a stern-faced, middle-aged man with an already naked scalp, had told Gideon it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d been talking to Towers in an apartment two blocks away from the hospital.
He had been dead from the moment he took that first drink.
They had a murder on their hands and Gideon wanted to know why. It wasn’t in his jurisdiction, but it was about his woman. It was about his family—and that’s what Brannon and Neve were. No matter what happened, the McKay family was the only one he really had and he was going to figure this out even if it killed him.
His phone buzzed and he tugged it off his belt, glanced at it. It was a message from Wycoff, the DEA agent he’d shared a bed with once upon a time. Grimacing, he shoved the phone back into place. It was Sunday, for fuck’s sake.
“I don’t know how you put up with that damn thing,” Zeke said companionably.
He no longer seemed so pissed off at Gideon. He’d never been one to hold a grudge and once he’d come to realize there was something weird going on with the house, he’d loosened up around the McKays, too. It had taken Gideon all but threatening to knock his head off before he’d been willing to talk to Moira, but once he’d done that, he’d taken what he’d called a walk … to think things through.
He’d seen something in Moira that he recognized, Gideon figured. The kind of person who just didn’t bullshit.
“In my job, it’s sort of a necessity,” Gideon replied. They paused at the tree line, looking up at the old Bittner house. The police tape was still up, a grim reminder as to what had happened. “How much of the history do you know about the place?”
“About as much as anybody.” Zeke paused. “Well, maybe a bit more. Abe Bittner liked to talk, you know. He might have lived another twenty years if he hadn’t liked the drink so much. Guess maybe what I should say is that it’s a miracle he lived as long as he did. Went through a fifth of whiskey about as fast some people go through a bottle of pop, you know that?”
Gideon knew when a person was talking just to talk and he nodded.
“He was a good man, though. Couldn’t stand a wife beater, an animal abuser or a cheat. That adds up to a decent man in my book. He tried to raise his kids right, and that boy of his…” Zeke turned his head and spit into the dirt. “Shit.”
“Seems like that boy of his is a piece of work.”
“You ain’t lying. Already run through that money. Don’t be surprised if he tries to come sniffing around the McKays for more once he finds out about this.”
Gideon turned his head, frowning at Zeke. “How you figure that?”
“He buys into all that shit, that’s all I’m saying. Abe never did. But his boy, Clint? He was like his grandpa. Now that man? I remember him. Even though I was just a boy when he died, I remember him. Stingiest, greediest piece of shit you ever did see. He thought everybody owed him everything but damn if he was willing to pay up what he owed.” The dog at Zeke’s side nosed him, and Zeke nodded at him. “Go on. Take care of your business, Solo.”
“How’s Chewy doing?”
Zeke shook his head. “Not good. Her hips are getting to her. I don’t think I can put her through another winter after this one. I think it will break Solo’s heart, but I’m going to have put her down before another year goes through.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
Zeke just nodded. There wasn’t much left to say. He watched as the dog sniffed around through the woods before finding a tree and taking care of business. Solo—short for Han Solo—and his girl Chewy had been two of his first dogs and they were still his favorites. He loved them more than he probably loved anybody, save for his wife. “Anyway, about old Bittner. He always talked about changing his name. That’s what she’d done, see.” Zeke squinted.
Gideon recognized the look. It was the look of somebody trying to recall details, and he knew the etiquette. He was, after all, somebody who’d grown up in a small, southern town. There was no straight answer. There were just roundabouts and side trips.
But fuck if he didn’t want to shout Get to it already!
“It was probably two or three generations back. See, the first one was a bastard and nobody likes that word. Even now, leastways in towns like around here. He’d promised he’d marry her. Marry her and take her back to England with him and when he didn’t … it almost broke her.”
“Who?” Gideon growled out.
Zeke looked over at him. “This piece of land used to belong to the Whitehalls. That’s what the story was. Of course, she wasn’t really a Whitehall, but that wasn’t figured out until years later. She was dead by then. The house went to her daughter…”
> Gideon listened, torn between astonishment and dread as Zeke relayed the history of the house. “Anyways, by that time nobody could have taken that land away from old Bittner. Not for anything. He always saw himself as a Whitehall and grew up on tales about how his granddaddy was the real hero of the McKay legend. It was all a cover-up, see. Ol’ George knew what McKay was really like and the men he’d convinced to help bring him to justice ended up so scared for their lives after they’d punished the son of a bitch, they sent George back off to England so the Steeles—you know about Steele, right?”
Gideon grimaced. “Hell, I’m from Treasure, Zeke. I grew up hearing all of this stuff. And for the record, Whitehall was no damn hero. If anybody was scared of anything, they were scared that Jonathan Steele was going to hunt them all down and skin the hair off their balls, then just break their necks.”
“This is kinda far away from Treasure, son.” Zeke shrugged, unperturbed. “And you gotta admit, it’s weird the way that family, hell, half the town still memorializes the old man all this time.”
“It’s called having pride in your roots.” Gideon wasn’t going to get distracted by any of this, though. “So Bittner … the one you were friends with, he was what.…” Gideon barely recognized the growl that was his own voice.
Zeke lifted a brow. “See, that’s why I didn’t think there was much to it, them wanting this land. Ol’ George had fucked them all over, the whole damn family doing what he done.”
“That was a long time ago!” Gideon half-shouted.
“Yeah. But look at what Moira’s doing. That museum … seems to me they all still hold Paddy McKay pretty near and dear.”
“They wouldn’t—”
“Shit.” Zeke clicked for Solo, and as the dog came running at him he looked over at Gideon. “I know that. I figured that out fast enough. Still, if they weren’t after the place with it once being Whitehall’s … what?”
Where is it?
Moira’s recap of her attack leapt to life in the back of Gideon’s head. Somebody whispering to her as he pressed a knife to her throat. Where is it?
Somebody thought there was a treasure.
We’re the legacy, Gideon.
“I got to go, Zeke. You want me to run you back home?”
“Everything okay?” Zeke’s thick brows arched over his eyes. “You look like a ghost just bit you on the ass, Marshall.”
With a hard, grim smile, Gideon said, “One might have just kicked me there. I’m good, Zeke. You need that ride or not?”
“Hell no.” The older man cut him a sideways grin. “I been running these woods half my life. Longer. I can probably get home before you even reach the road.”
Gideon held out a hand. Zeke gave him a quick shake and they split ways. Before Zeke had even lost himself in the woods, Gideon had forgotten about him.
Where is it?
Gideon had an even bigger question.
What was it … and who.
* * *
Gideon waited until he was far enough back into civilization that he knew he’d keep his connection for more than a few minutes. He’d made enough trips out to visit Zeke over the years that he knew how quickly the calls could drop.
Gideon had met Zeke when they had been serving together in in the army. Zeke had been on his way out and Gideon on his way in, two southern boys stuck in that armpit, miserable desert. They’d struck an easy friendship, Zeke looking out for Gideon until he found his feet and then Gideon reading to Zeke in the days after the man took the injury that had ended his career.
Years later, Gideon would sustain a similar injury.
They had a solid bond, the two of them.
Too fucking bad Gideon hadn’t ever talked to him about the property he’d once mentioned wanting to buy. He just might have figured out the connection a lot sooner.
Whitehall.
Shoving all of that out of his head, he settled down and turned on the Bluetooth to initiate a call to the department.
As soon as his assistant Darby came on the line, she said, “Chief, you’ve had three calls from that DEA woman. And Clive is hanging out here being a pain in my behind.”
She said it like bee-hind, and the way she raised her voice at the end made Gideon think Clive was probably right under her nose. “Tell that idiot if he needs to talk to a cop, he can talk to any damn cop. Otherwise, he’s loitering and he can either leave or get arrested. Now, listen, I need…”
He stopped talking when he realized Darby was parroting his words back to Clive. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he checked the time. It was going to take way too long to get back to Treasure. He needed to get to the library. He had to go through records that might not even be digitized yet.
Son of a bitch.
“Okay, Chief. About this DEA lady—”
“Darby, I ain’t got time—”
“Is Marshall already talking to her?” Clive demanded, his voice so loud Gideon heard it clear through the Bluetooth.
“Clive, I am busy,” Darby said.
Gideon just barely resisted the urge to drive his fist into the steering wheel. “Darby!” he shouted.
He said it with enough force that even Clive must have heard it.
Silence fell, followed by a timid, “Yes, Chief?”
“Put me on speaker.”
A second later, he heard the odd echo that let him know she’d followed his order. “Which of my officers is there right now?”
“I’m here, Chief,” he heard Griffin say.
“Parker, get that idiot Clive and arrest him for loitering. He was told to discuss whatever matter with an officer and he refused. Put him in a cell.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Clive bellowed.
“Darby, take the phone off speaker.” As the flurry of activity and shouts rose in the background, Gideon took a deep breath. He briefly considered pulling over and getting out of the car so he could kick a tire or hit a tree, something, anything to relieve the anger that was burning like a fire in his gut.
But he had to get back to Treasure.
Darby’s voice was soft, hesitant as she came on the line. “Clive’s taken care of, Chief. What did you need?”
“I need you to start tracking down some information for me. Do you have plans for the night?”
“Plans, sir?”
Rolling his eyes, he said it again, “Yes, Darby, plans. As in … are you doing anything?”
“No, sir. Other than dinner and watching TV.”
“Order in. Get something from the pub and have them put it on my account, order me some fish and chips. I’m an hour out. Just have it ready when I get there. You always want some overtime, so if you’re up for it, I need you.”
“Well, I could use the Christmas money,” she said slowly. “What’s going on, Chief?”
“Getting to that part.” He explained what he wanted her to start researching, and when he finished, Darby was quiet. He could hear her pen scratching on the notebook she used.
When it stopped, he waited for her to ask if there was anything else, but instead, she cleared her throat and then, voice still tentative, she said, “Sir, are you … it’s just … what’s this all about?”
He didn’t have the patience—or the temper—to get into that just then.
“Just start looking, Darby. I’ve got other calls I need to make. I’ll explain what I can when I can. Keep quiet on this, you hear me?”
He disconnected the middle of her murmured, “Of course.”
Without letting himself brood over the decision, he punched in Moira’s number.
* * *
“She’s rather lovely, Moira.” Charles knelt in front of Frost.
The dog deigned to allow him to pet her after Moira had given her the okay.
“So she’s trained?”
“Yes.” Distracted, Moira continued to search through the files she’d had sent from the main offices. In comparison to her office in Birmingham, the one in the museum was small and the bo
xes took up almost half the northern wall. The western wall was made entirely of glass, allowing her to look out over the river, but today, she’d pulled the curtains. She needed to focus.
Not that she was having much luck with that with Charles here.
They’d already gone over the schedule of events for the opening.
Two weeks away.
Just two weeks.
“What sort of training does she have?” Charles asked.
She glanced up to see him still stroking the dog. Frost had her eyes half-closed.
“Security, protection of her owner. That sort of thing. The guy who raised her sells a lot of his dogs to former military, so he also teaches them to recognize triggers for PTSD attacks.”
“Hmm.” After a final stroke of the shepherd’s head, he rose and settled in the chair across from hers. Frost padded around and settled in what she had already decided was her space—right next to Moira’s chair, on her left-hand side. “I imagine you feel safer having her with you at night.”
“Yeah.” She smiled a little, and the smile grew as she thought of the other reason she’d been feeling safer. Gideon had spent the last two nights with her and, after they’d exhausted themselves, he’d fallen asleep behind her, with his arm wrapped securely around her waist.
Charles sniffed across from her, and she glanced up to see that his eyes were red.
“Well, this is annoying,” he murmured, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Ever the gentleman, Charles.
“What’s wrong?”
He grimaced, glancing around for the dog. “I used to have a dog when I was young. Mum had to give him away. Turned out I was allergic. I always hoped I’d outgrow it. Doesn’t look like I will. No worries, though. I’ll just go pop an antihistamine and I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” His nose was looking pretty red there.
He sniffed again as he rose but instead of heading out, he paused by her desk. “What is it you’re doing here? You’ve got enough paperwork to make you blind, darling.”
“Tell me about it.” She sighed and gestured toward the boxes. “One of my employees was embezzling money. There’s this house—” She stopped and glanced up at him. “You don’t want to listen to this, not when Frost is making you all…” Waving a hand at him, she finished lamely with, “You know.”
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 20