“All right.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his ankles. “The explosive was RDX, a volatile and tricky plastique only a professional could use.”
“And that takes the hook off me?”
“To Pratt’s regret, yes, it lets you off the hook.” He grinned. “A sensor under a mat was hooked to a timer, set for probably two or three minutes. It started the countdown as soon as someone stepped aboard.”
“You triggered it.”
“And your arrival saved me.” He uncrossed his ankles and reached for her.
“Oh, no,” she retorted, backing away. “You will distract me. Tell me everything first. Who planted the bomb?”
“CID may be on the trail there, too. Early yesterday morning, a man gained access to the Rêve by showing the boatyard owner a fake CID badge. From the description, it sounds like a known hit man.”
“Someone hired a killer? Who? My anonymous caller?” Her dark eyes troubled, she wrung her hands, then refolded the napkins. “Then he tried to harm me? Bizarre.”
He might as well tell her about Raoul and his men. The local cops had already let it slip to the press. “It may have been someone different. After the first guy left, Greavey says three dark men who sounded Hispanic asked about him. He didn’t admit them to the boat shed.”
“It makes no sense. Hispanics?” When she shook her head as she glanced out the window at the darkened backyard, he knew what she must be thinking.
“I know,” he said. “It’s exasperating to have that couple inches of snow obliterate any tracks.”
“That’s not it. Three men. It could have been two or three last night.” Corkscrew in her hand, she slid a bottle of Côtes du Rhone from beneath the cupboard.
“What do you mean?” He took the bottle from her and opened it.
“If one person held Alley to keep her quiet, a second had to turn off the porch light.”
Claire carried the pie, cloth place mats and napkins with holly designs, wine goblets and white china on a large tray. He followed with the salad and wine.
“Maybe a third to push over the woodpile on you.” That had been the collective conclusion of the CID and DEA agents that morning.
Cruz confided that the DEA didn’t place credence in Pratt’s theories about the Widow Spider. An attack on her by her dead husband’s crooked pals added to the confusion but tended to exonerate her for drug dealing as well as murder.
For some unknown reason, the DEA wanted him to continue his undercover investigation. Quinn had told Cruz to pass along the message to the Group Supervisor that if he didn’t get some straight answers soon, he’d walk away.
“But why? Who are they?” Her hands trembling visibly, Claire arranged the place settings on the low coffee table. The flatware was lined up at precise distances from the dishes, an obvious sign of her distress.
Fear widened her eyes. Michael set down his lesser burdens and drew Claire into his arms.
“So much of it seems to have something to do with Paul. What could it be?” she asked.
Damn, he wished he could level with her, wipe away all the subterfuge and stop lying to her about who he was and why he was there. When DEA red tape coughed up his resignation, he would. How she would react, he didn’t want to contemplate.
Some Christmas. The only gifts beneath the tree were for the animals. Distracting them both from their problems, their short idyll in bed that morning had been the only gift for the two humans in the house.
“I wish I had some answers for you,” he said morosely. “You have every right to be frightened. This attack on you has raised the stakes. They could return any time for another shot. We have to catch these guys and find the truth. And soon.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s enjoy our Christmas dinner now. My damn stomach is going to hold my mouth for ransom if it doesn’t get some of that pie soon.”
Claire seated herself on the floor and dished out the succulent meal. “In mémé’s—my grandmother’s—family, this dish was usually made with oysters, a great delicacy, instead of pork or beef.” A charming wrinkle of her nose indicated her opinion of oysters. “When I was little, all the family went to midnight mass and then came home for a late supper called a réveillon. We waited for Père Noël— Santa Claus to you—to come fill our stockings. In France, I think he fills wooden shoes.”
“A mingling of customs and cultures.” Michael scooped up a mouthful of the pie. “Mmm, this is as good as—” with an inner twinge, he stopped himself from comparing it to his mom’s cooking “—anything I’ve ever tasted.”
The scents of balsam, fine red wine and meat pie swirled around them, blending with Christmas carols from the stereo.
She told him more family customs. He told her about the blending of Irish and Italian traditions at his home on holidays.
She talked about attending college and beginning to do translations. He described his days on the Boston police force and his move to the Drug Enforcement Agency.
She told her great-uncles’ tall tales about logging and farming in the St. John Valley. He told tall tales of growing up with his rowdy brothers on South Boston’s mean streets.
Later, replete with wine and dessert, they stretched out beside the festive tree. Claire leaned against the sofa with Michael’s head in her lap, angled to protect his bandaged wound. He’d persuaded her to delay cleaning up after their meal. For once, she had a good reason to put it off.
Alley snored before the wood stove, and the kitten romped with a feather toy on Michael’s chest.
Though their time together was only temporary, Claire knew she would always remember this day and keep it in her heart. Would always keep him in her heart.
The only safe way to keep him.
Watching him play with Spook tugged at her emotions. This big, square, rock-hard warrior with such strong hands tickled and teased the tiny kitten with a gentleness that brought a smile to her lips.
“Are you sure you don’t want to telephone your family?” she said. “It’s not too late.”
“No.”
“Christmas isn’t the time to hold on to anger. Maybe—”
“No, dammit!”
Setting the kitten aside, Michael levered around and up to a sitting position, facing her. Then, more calmly, he said, “No. We’re not estranged. I can’t face them yet. I…”
The play of emotions on his face made his torment clear. From anguish, doubt, torment, grief, to exhaustion. She knew the moment he decided to tell her what had happened.
“I didn’t exactly level with you about my family,” he began, his jaw working. “When I joined the police force and again when I moved to the DEA, I wanted to clean up the streets, to eradicate the drugs that ruined so many lives. And I thought I was making a difference until…”
“Until what, Michael?”
“I had a sister. Amy. She was seventeen.”
Amy. His sister. Both relief and dread furled in her stomach. “What happened?” She took his big hand in both of hers and waited, heart battering her ribs with apprehension.
“She was a surprise baby for my parents, and a joy to us all.” He ran his free hand over his shaggy hair. “How can I describe her? A sprite, an elf, full of mischief and laughter. And daring. She bounced all over Boston alone, no matter how many times Dad warned her.
“About eight months ago, she was attacked on the street near my apartment. Killed by muggers, kids her age who wanted money for damn drugs. It tore my family apart.”
“Tragic. I’m so sorry, Michael.” She wanted to hold him, but could see from the tension in his shoulders, his fisted hands, that he needed to be left alone. “You seem to blame yourself. Why?”
“It was my fault. Amy had mentioned earlier that she might drop by that evening. But hell, I forgot and went to target practice. I was one of the agency’s best shots. If I’d stayed, I’d have seen her home safely. Instead, those damn sewer rats broke her, battered her and left her bleeding to death in an alley. If I’d gotten my ha
nds on them, I…” He passed a trembling hand across his eyes.
She reached out to him then, but he rose and crossed to the stove. Giving him time to master his emotions, she waited. His sister had ignored warnings about being on the streets alone. She’d said only she might drop by. He was torturing himself needlessly. “Michael, you—”
“There’s more, Claire.” He dropped into his usual chair as if his feet would no longer carry him. His expression was bleak, his complexion gray. “The next day I screwed up again. The DEA had been hiding a witness in a big case. A woman and her five-year-old daughter. Kathy. When the watch changed, one of the gang, a brute named Tunk, snatched the kid and drove away before anyone could do a thing.”
“They would kill her if her mother testified?”
“Yes. We followed Tunk, cornered his car in a park. Kathy was in the front seat beside him, his nine millimeter pointed at her head.”
Claire went to him, kneeling between his legs. She wrapped her arms around his big torso and pressed her cheek to his chest. His whole body was rigid, rock-hard with rage and misery.
“I can still see the ugly bastard,” he continued in a strained voice. “While the hostage negotiator kept Tunk busy, my boss had me get a bead on him with my laser scope so I could take him out if he gave me an opening.”
“The day after your sister’s murder? What shape were you in to even be there?”
“Doesn’t matter. It was my duty as an agent.”
“Go on. Let it all out, Michael. Tell me.”
“That bastard Tunk screamed some obscenity at us and lowered his gun a fraction. My shot just missed him.”
“Non!” She drew back, her gaze riveted on his ashen face. “Your shot, did it…?”
“Hit her? No. But as soon as Tunk knew what had happened, he killed her. Shot that beautiful little girl in the head at point blank range. You don’t want to know what a hollow-point bullet does to a small skull. I nailed him, but too late for Kathy.”
She shuddered at the image. “That’s why you don’t carry a gun.”
He nodded, his gray eyes as savage as a winter storm. “It’s why I can’t protect anyone. Protect you. You can’t depend on me in the clinch.”
“But Michael, neither one of those deaths was your fault. Anyone can miss a shot, even you. And you were probably in no shape to attempt it. You can’t hold yourself responsible for what other people do.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Claire. You weren’t there. I only told you so you’ll understand why I’ll try to solve this puzzle, but you can’t count on me to safeguard you.”
“We’ve both been threatened. Or have you forgotten?”
“How could I? Just don’t try to rearrange my damn psyche like you do the napkins or the candlesticks. Find some other poor bastard to rescue.” He shot from the chair, strode to the hall and snatched up his coat. “I need air.”
That said, he slammed out the door.
“Merde, c’est un travail de cochon! Alley, I’ve made a mess of things.” Anguish writhed in her chest. Tears slid from her eyes and splashed on the whimpering dog.
He’d opened his heart a crack, and she’d trampled on his feelings. Now he’d slammed the door shut again—literally. She was a fool to want what she couldn’t have. Better if she didn’t grow too accustomed to intimate sharing with him.
Better if her heart broke now without smashing his later.
The curse of her beauty was to lose those she loved, one way or another.
“Small wonder he uses the harbormaster’s shack as his office. No supplier could ever find his way through this rabbit warren of streets.” Grimacing, Michael steered the Cherokee down the pothole-pocked lane. “What exactly did Russ Santerre say when he phoned last night?”
“I already told you, Quinn. Only that he had something else to tell me…us, and that he’d see us today.” Claire stared straight ahead, her protective thorns reinstalled.
After his emotional outburst last night, they were back to employer and employee. He was Quinn and not Michael to her. He didn’t blame her. She’d tried to comfort him, and he’d rebuffed her. After their spectacular intimacy earlier yesterday, that had to hurt.
It sure was hurting him.
Last night he’d walked around town for a half hour before he’d realized that his absence put her in jeopardy. But the house had been safely locked, and her bedroom door closed tight.
He’d wanted to go to her, to explain and apologize. Hell, that and to climb in bed with her, to taste her luscious breasts and sheath himself in her until she called his name. He was so engorged at the need for her, he thought he’d split open. Instead he’d thrashed through the night in his own lonely bed.
Given the circumstances, reconstructing barriers seemed wise. His failures twisted too painfully fresh in his gut.
Even if what she’d said made sense.
“That’s the house, the small gray-shingled one,” she said, pointing.
He slowed in front of the house in question, a one-story bungalow that once might have been charming, but now had mildewed and missing cedar shingles, a sagging roof line, and plywood patches on the front door. Michael pulled into the rutted dirt drive and parked behind Santerre’s fish truck.
“Doesn’t look like Paul helped his old man out much,” Michael remarked as he opened Claire’s door. The fish business should be lucrative enough for some home repairs.
“Russ wouldn’t accept help from Paul and certainly not from me. I think he likes the sympathy it invites.” Maneuvering as if to avoid touching him, she slid from the vehicle. “Stubborn old man.”
Wily old man. Maybe nearly as wily as his son. Michael trailed after her to the side door, where Russ Santerre awaited them with his big revelation.
“Come in ’fore the heat all escapes,” he said. “I don’t got all day, you know.” In threadbare corduroy mules, he shuffled ahead of them into the kitchen, where a teakettle whistled on a wood cookstove.
Without offering them refreshment, the old man set the boiling kettle aside, then motioned them to take seats around a worn pine table.
In emotional turmoil, Claire unbuttoned her coat and left it loose around her. She held herself erect and apart from the men. “What do you have to tell us, Russ?”
Her former father-in-law’s gaze shifted from the scarred tabletop to Michael’s face. Though he’d talked to her on the telephone last night, today he rejected her as usual.
“Did you think of something new?” Michael asked.
“Ayuh. Somethin’ new.” He pulled his pipe from his shirt pocket and proceeded to fill it and light it before continuing. “’Bout th’ explosion over to Greavey’s. I seen in the paper about the suspects bein’ some South American types. That true?”
Michael nodded. “One of them talked to Greavey.”
“Cops sayin’ anything about them and other illegal goin’s on? Did they seem like rich guys?” His glance lit on Michael only fleetingly.
Michael’s expression remained noncommittal. “I wouldn’t know.”
“There’s somethin’ ’bout Paul I didn’t tell you.” Russ averted his gaze to stare at the cooling kettle. “Paul and the seafood business. My boy wasn’t always on the up an’ up as I’d have liked him to be. Always had an eye out for the main chance, did Paul.”
At Claire’s shocked intake of breath, Michael squeezed her hand as if in warning. “What was he into, Mr. Santerre?”
The old man chewed on his pipe stem. “I ain’t exactly certain, you understand. I didn’t want to tell them cops because they might think I were involved. But I don’t think Paul bought that big boat with fish profits.”
“Mon Dieu, Russ, what did Paul do?” Claire demanded. She leaned forward, her mouth tense, one hand flattening on her stomach.
“You drove him to it. He wouldn’t o’ done it ’cept for you and that fancy house,” the older man spat at her. “He never come out an’ told me, but I knew. Drugs. He was smugglin’ drug
s.”
Chapter 9
Claire’s mind reeled from Russ’s startling assertion. “Non, I don’t believe it. Paul involved in drug smuggling? Jamais! Never!” Even as the denial left her mouth, she accepted the veracity of his father’s statement.
Michael had placed the suspicion in her mind with his questions, and upon reconsidering, she’d recalled too many inconsistencies, too many evasions when she’d discussed business with Paul.
She felt tainted living off his money. She had to find some way…
“You said he didn’t tell you.” Michael said. “What makes you think so? Did Paul use the boat to bring drugs in?”
The old man hung his head sadly. Claire’s heart ached for him. Losing his son hurt terribly, but to discover that Paul’s overwhelming success had been due to deception and theft had extinguished his pride in his son’s accomplishments.
Russ said, “Just put two and two together, and it come out five. ’Bout the time he bought the Rêve, he weren’t makin’ enough dough for a down payment let alone monthly payments. All them islands out there. More miles o’ coastline than mackerel in the bay. Easy to sneak anything in. During Prohibition, boats used to smuggle rum.”
“And the South Americans? Where do they fit into this scenario?” Michael asked.
Russ shuffled his feet. “I dunno. That’s for you to puzzle out. Them foreigners might be part o’ the gang. Beats me why they’d come here five years after Paul’s death.”
“This is just speculation, you understand. Suppose someone else picked up the ball and is running drugs again into this area of the coast.”
“Makes sense. Hope they catch ’em.”
Claire expected Michael to respond, to explain further his amazing assertion, but he simply wagged his head in commiseration.
Russ set his pipe in a saucer and slanted her a glance piercing enough to slice her in two. “I think Paul were afraid he’d lose her if he didn’t make it big fast. And that were even before the weddin’.”
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