The agent walked away. “Like you volunteered.”
“Hey, I was talking to you,” Mikhail yelled.
The agent ignored him. She trotted down the docking dock stairs and joined the dog handler beside an unmarked SUV.
Holly blinked. “What are you talking about?”
Mikhail whirled toward them. “This doesn’t involve you.”
“Keep you clear of what?” she demanded. “I was hired by the DEA to help with this investigation. Obviously, they skipped part of the story.”
Penick had admitted that Mikhail knew about the drugs in the truck parts, but there seemed to be more at play in that exchange.
“Those damn DEA agents are blackmailing me.” Mikhail’s words came out as a snarl. “They claimed they found drugs in one of my shipments. If I didn’t cooperate with them, they’d hold me responsible for what someone else did. Send me to jail for actions I had nothing to do with.”
He stomped away before Holly could figure out a polite way to ask, “If you’re so innocent, why do you have this second, unnecessary warehouse?” Or, “Why in the hell didn’t you tell George about the drugs and using Cascade’s product to smuggle them into the country?”
What if George did know? What if he was as involved as Mikhail appeared to be?
She stared at Mikhail’s back. He wasn’t her favorite person, but would she have really thought he could be caught up in a drug operation if she hadn’t just watched the DEA agents conduct their search?
Frank walked over to one of the remaining agents. Figuring no one was paying attention to her, Holly stepped farther into the warehouse. Most of the shelves and bays were empty, but the recently transferred Cascade Precision boxes sat on pallets near the front edge of the loading dock. From her position in the warehouse parking lot, she’d seen the drug dog sniff and dismiss the pallet.
But if they weren’t the drug-smuggling parts, why had they been moved from the main Quality Distributing warehouse?
She wandered past the empty shelves. More shipping containers stood next to repackaging materials at a cleared space deeper inside the building. Stacks of flattened boxes stood beside a makeshift table—a plywood slab on a set of sawhorses. Chewing her lower lip, she wondered about their possible use.
Strolling down the rows between the racks, she found stacks of various boxed car parts. Maybe the warehouse was simply for overflow, for the excess stock that wasn’t selling. The main Quality Distributing warehouse seemed to have plenty of capacity, though.
She turned her head, considering the repackaging material sitting on the makeshift table. If the just-moved parts weren’t holding drugs, maybe Mikhail was staging some of his inventory for transport elsewhere? Was there a car part store equivalent to Big Lots? Places that made bulk purchases at a deep discount when the manufacturer needed to unload inventory that wasn’t moving?
She continued her circuit of the space, then returned to the office space. She could see Mikhail inside, on the phone. Complaining to his attorney?
Why hadn’t he told George the DEA was on his case, she wondered again. If George was completely innocent in the drug scheme, what was his risk if Quality Distributing came crashing to the ground? Business insurance didn’t pay off if one of the principals committed a felony, which led to the company’s demise.
Did she have an obligation to tell George about the drugs? Or did her non-disclosure with the DEA stretch to that part of the operation? She’d already approached dangerous territory at their meeting when she’d suggested the possibility that his parts could be used as cover for smuggling.
Even if she’d kept it theoretical.
She wandered up the aisle in front of the packing table, again debating the more depressing consideration. Was George part of the drug distribution scheme?
Appearances really could be deceiving. During transaction diligences, she’d met too many apparently successful business people who hid all sorts of sins behind their polished exterior.
She turned and retraced her steps. Had George’s reaction been too much when she and Rick told him about the missing inventory? The hollowed out parts?
JC’s questions about George’s finances mocked her as she paced. What else did JC know that he hadn’t shared? Had he picked up more specific rumors about Cascade Precision?
Were the drugs specific to Mikhail? To the mess he claimed to have fallen into because one of his drivers hoped to make a quick buck as a drug mule?
Which one of those players was trying to throw Tate under the bus?
She tightened her hands into fists. Well, she’d fight for her cousin, even if no one else would. She didn’t give up on people she loved.
She returned to the stack of merchandise at the lip of the loading dock. Thick plastic covered the pallet but she recognized the Cascade Precision logo on the boxes it contained. If these parts didn’t interest the drug dog, why had Mikhail brought this pallet to this Island of Misfit Toys...er…Car Parts?
Moving closer, she tugged at the corner of the plastic. If she could pull a box free, could she sneak it out without being noticed?
The thick plastic didn’t budge.
Rather than risk getting caught red-handed, she stepped back. Her briefcase and tote were at her office. Even if she worked a box free, the part wouldn’t fit into her purse. And it wasn’t as if she could hide it in her cleavage.
She studied the pallet, then edged forward and poked at the plastic, trying to read the SKU off the boxes through the distortion of the covering.
“Get away from there before you get hurt.” The snarl was back in Mikhail’s voice.
She took a startled step back. “What—”
Frank stepped away from the DEA agent. “You ready to head back, Holly?”
“Be right there.” Her gaze flicked from Frank back to Mikhail. “What is your problem?”
“Apparently it’s you. Now get out of here.”
With deliberate slowness, she sauntered down the stairs and climbed into Frank’s Jeep.
“What did you do to Mikhail? He looked about ready to explode.” A grin tugged at Frank’s mouth.
“Glad you can laugh about a bust of a drug raid and a cranky-assed weasel.”
That earned her a full belly laugh.
She looked over her shoulder at the loading dock. “There’s something weird about George’s parts being at this warehouse. If they’re good parts, why are they here? And why not tell George he moved them?”
Frank started the Jeep and put it in gear. “We know they aren’t the drug parts. The dog’s too well-trained to miss that. I’d say ask Mikhail why they’re there, but given the magical spell you’ve got on him, why don’t you ask George? It’s his inventory.”
She chewed her lip, still wondering about George’s potential involvement. Surely, he wasn’t mixed up in drug running. “I don’t know how much good that would do. If I ask George, he’s going to turn around and call Mikhail. If there is something odd with those parts, how long do you think it would take Mikhail to move them again?”
“I don’t know...” Frank scratched the back of his neck.
Her cell phone chimed. Figuring Tracey was looking for her since she’d been gone longer than planned, she dove into her purse, fished out the phone and caught the call before it rolled to voicemail.
“You don’t listen too good.”
Her anonymous caller. Great. “This is getting tiresome.”
“Stop sticking you nose in where it don’t belong or you lose the nose and a bunch more.”
She opened her mouth to respond but the voice continued. “Just like your brother.”
Blood drained from her face. He must mean Tate.
Was this the person who’d put him in the hospital? Her hand tightened around her phone and the blood returned in a wave of heated anger. “Did you—”
He interrupted with a laugh—a weird croaking sound—and hung up.
“What?” Frank asked.
Still reeling, she turned
toward him. Concern warmed his eyes and sudden lines in his forehead asked more questions.
Shifting in her seat, she stared through the windshield. Despite the fear and fury tangoing down her spine, she kept her tone cool. “Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing from here.” Frank’s voice was calm. Conversational.
She batted down the emotions rocking her insides. Okay. Maybe the threat wasn’t nothing. Maybe she should take the calls—and the rabbit—seriously.
Frank’s continued scrutiny bore into her face—and her head.
There was no confidentiality issue or non-disclosure agreement connected to the calls. The only thing keeping her from talking was her pride. Considering the calls merely a nuisance, she’d thought she could handle them by herself.
Yeah. Ignoring them was such a great plan.
She swallowed against a dry mouth. Maybe ignoring them had been a really bad idea.
But why was she even considering telling Frank, when she hadn’t told JC?
Because Frank listened where JC didn’t.
And how screwed up was that?
“I’ve gotten a few calls...” she began.
“Threats?”
“Yeah.” She sighed and dropped the phone in her purse. “This one said to butt out or I’d end up like ‘my brother.’”
Frank returned his attention to the road. “You don’t have a brother.”
“I think he meant Tate. With the same last name, I guess he assumed we’re brother and sister.”
“So, it’s someone who knows enough to have your last names, but not that you’re cousins.”
She nodded.
He glanced at her again. “Have you reported the calls?”
“No.”
There was a long silence. “Why not?”
Her admission came reluctantly. “Because JC will go nuts.”
“Is that so bad? You are his girlfriend, and you’ve been threatened. I’d feel protective in his position.”
Great. Frank’s solution was to inform the one person she really didn’t want to tell. Once JC finished yelling, he’d want to set up an armed camp around her.
Assuming he didn’t hang up on her when she called.
JC’s words echoed in her mind. If we don’t have trust, what do we have?
Was she as guilty of not trusting him as he was of her?
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. But Holly, think about it. Whoever’s doing it, they’ve linked you with Tate. Look where he is. You need to take it seriously.”
“It’s just been phone calls.” And a rather grisly delivery at her office. She shivered, and changed the subject. “So. About the warehouse.”
Sighing, he shook his head. “What about it?”
She turned as far as the seatbelt allowed. “Can you get me back in there tonight?”
He shot her a suspicious glance. “Why?”
“The DEA agents were looking for drugs. They never asked why those guys were moving Cascade parts over there. I need to look at those parts.”
Frank stared straight ahead, his gaze periodically shifting from the road to his mirrors. “Why?”
“Is that all you can say?”
“At this point, yeah.”
“Just get me in, okay? Mikhail plans to move those pallets. Why else would he leave them on the edge of the loading dock? I just want to get one—well, a few—of the boxes for George. If the parts are okay, he can ask Mikhail why they’re at the second location. George’s people can count however many are there. If it explains the missing inventory, everybody goes home happy.”
“And if not?” Frank asked.
She studied his profile, looking for the chink in his armor. “We go to the cops. Or rather, George goes to the cops.”
“It’s illegal.”
“And your point is?”
“We’d be trespassing at best. Breaking and entering at worst, and we’d go to jail.”
She grimaced. “Isn’t there some kind of exception if we’re solving a crime?”
“Yeah. It’s called a search warrant.”
“I know how much a gut instinct rates in Law Enforcement Land. Unless we can prove a crime’s been committed, the cops won’t do a thing. They sure aren’t going to a judge with what we have so far.”
Frank kept his attention on the road for a long time. “Aren’t you dating a detective?”
Now it was her turn to consider whether to answer, or what to say. JC had made it abundantly clear he wouldn’t bend the rules for her.
“We might’ve broken up,” she muttered.
Frank didn’t say another word until they reached her office. After he stopped the Jeep, he finally turned and gave her an assessing up-and-down inspection. “You’ll have to change your clothes. You sure can’t sneak in wearing that outfit.”
Her suit would be too conspicuous and she couldn’t climb a fence, which she had the uneasy suspicion was going to be Frank’s way in. On the other hand, she didn’t want him following her home, although he probably already knew where she lived.
“Does that mean you’ll help?” She gave him her brightest smile.
“Meet me at the main Quality warehouse after work.”
This time of year, it would be dark by five. Perfect for a little unauthorized snooping.
Frank’s enthusiasm level was on par with going to the dentist, but Holly practically danced back into the office. She had a good feeling that she and Frank were going to find the evidence she needed to clear her cousin and resolve her client’s trouble, all in one fell swoop.
She loved it when a plan came together.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thieves in the Temple (Prince)
Holly breathed a sigh of relief when her headlights caught Frank in the Quality Distributing warehouse parking lot. She’d been more than a little worried he’d back out and wouldn’t show.
His Jeep was parked away from the loading dock stairs. He leaned against the fender with his back to the building, a baseball cap shading his features.
Guess his cowboy hat must be too distinctive.
For the first time, she considered security cameras. She remembered there were monitors in the warehouse office. Apparently, Frank had been far more aware of the cameras’ locations and the areas they covered.
Not surprising, between his law enforcement and security background.
She lowered the passenger window of the rental car and leaned across the seat. “Where should I park? Over here or far away from you?”
“Move down to the end of the row. I don’t want this looking like a hook-up if the cops question the cars being here after hours.”
She considered that as she drove fifty feet away and parked. The area was deserted, with only an occasional car on the road fronting this stretch of warehouses. If for some reason, the Pasco cops passed the flat as a pancake parking lot, the two vehicles would stand out regardless of where they were parked.
What Frank really meant was, he didn’t want the cars’ presence getting back to JC if the cops ran the econobox’s license plate. As far as she knew, JC had a flag on her driver’s license, but he didn’t have anything automatically linking her to the rental car.
A flip of a switch turned off the car’s interior dome light. She plucked a small backpack off the passenger seat and opened the driver’s door. Hah! No light flaring into the parking lot—she felt so James Bond-y. Pivoting, she stepped from the car and jumped when Frank materialized at her back bumper.
“Well, at least you didn’t scream.” His tone was as dry as the Franklin County landscape. He scanned her clothes and nodded approval. “You need a hat. A ball cap.”
She’d chosen black jeans and tennis shoes, a dark turtleneck and an oversized navy wool jacket she’d swiped out of Tate’s closet. Fighting a smile, she reached into the car and grabbed the black Washington State University baseball cap from the dashboard.
“Okay. Keep your head down,” Fran
k ordered.
She followed him to the Jeep, gaze fastened on the gravel surface. Would JC still recognize her if he ever saw the security footage?
Probably.
And after he blew a gasket, what would he do?
Nothing she wanted to think about now.
She climbed into the Jeep and fastened her seat belt.
Frank maneuvered it onto the county road. “I still can’t believe you talked me into this.”
“Deep down, you always wanted to tap dance on the edge of the law. It’s why you like those DEA agents.”
He shook his head. She saw the smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
Fifteen minutes later, he made another turn.
“Isn’t the warehouse that way?” She hooked a thumb in the other direction.
“We can’t exactly park out front.”
She could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes.
He made another turn, eased onto an unpaved road that paralleled Highway 12, then parked in a dirt lot filled with 18-wheelers.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked.
She lifted her backpack. “A flashlight. Some hand tools I thought...” She trailed off since he was again shaking his head.
“Too heavy. Too noisy. Stick the flashlight in your coat pocket and leave the rest in the rig.”
He rounded the Jeep and pulled a larger pack from the back.
“Oh, you have all the tools.”
“I’m better prepared. Let’s leave it at that.”
She dumped everything onto his back seat and winced at the noise when the tools clanged together.
Maybe he was right.
“I’m bringing the backpack,” she said. “Empty. I’ll need it to carry the parts.”
They crossed the parking lot, keeping to the shadows between the 18-wheelers, and approached the rear of the warehouse. The metal building stood at the edge of a collection of businesses. At this time of night, the nearby operations—other than a freight terminal way down the road—were dark and silent. Most had limited outdoor lighting—a security lamp at the door, but nothing in their parking lots.
Most warehouses in Pasco were found near the railroad, airport or car dealerships. Traffic, activity and surveillance cameras at those locations would pose too high a risk for whatever scam Mikhail appeared to be running. If he was pulling something illegal, it made sense that he’d chosen a place on the outskirts of town.
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