The Undercover Affair

by Cathryn Parry

  “Officer Fairfax, your primary mission is to maintain your cover. Do not break it for any reason. I repeat, for any reason. Not even the local authorities have been made aware of your presence, or of the existence of our task force. If you are so much as stopped for a traffic ticket, you will give them your cover name. If necessary, you will allow yourself to be arrested and even locked up.”

  She gaped at him.

  But Simon was nodding. “Been there, done that,” he muttered.

  She glanced at Pete. He was shrugging.

  “This isn’t a game, Officer Fairfax.” Commander Harris gazed sternly at her. “You’re to keep your eyes and ears open. You will remain at the MacLaines’ home, and your backup officer will maintain contact with you by phone. Additionally, you two will conduct a short daily meeting at a nearby rendezvous point.”

  Pete leaned over and murmured to her. “There’s a convenience store nearby, just a walk out the back slider and down the beach. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “But what police work will I conduct?” she asked Commander Harris. She’d already gathered the names of the local contractors. She couldn’t imagine what else he needed her to do, just sitting idly at the congressman’s home all day, watching and waiting for a break-in that might never come.

  “Your daily investigative duties will be up to your backup officer,” Commander Harris said. “Rest assured, your undercover presence is extremely valuable, and we have more than enough work to keep you occupied, if you will listen for one moment.” He sent her another censorious look, so she pinched her lips together and waited.

  Commander Harris nodded to Wesley. The computer technician pressed a button for the next slide. A picture that looked like a driver’s license photo flashed on the screen—a female who looked to be Lyndsay’s age. She had shoulder-length, dark red hair, and a direct, fiery gaze. “This is Kitty MacLaine.”

  Interested, Lyndsay straightened her spine. She hadn’t seen a photo of the congressman’s wife before. Information about the congressman’s private life was woefully scant on the internet. She knew; she’d searched for it.

  Kitty looked quite a bit younger than the congressman, but Lyndsay knew better than to make a comment.

  “Kitty is not aware of the task force. She’s not aware, Lyndsay, that you are an undercover police officer. But she is aware of you as Lyn Francis.”

  “Oh,” Lyndsay murmured.

  “On Monday morning at nine, your assignment is to meet with Kitty MacLaine in her home and review your design plans with her.”

  “What?!” Lyndsay nearly exploded. Her design plans? She hadn’t expected that any of her computer renderings would be seriously considered by anyone. She swallowed, a vain attempt at tamping down her panic. “But I’m not a professional designer, sir. Surely, she will see through that.”

  “You have to trust us,” Commander Harris said, his tone sharp. “As you know, you’ve been given an internet cover as a designer working under Karen Talbott, owner of the DesignSea company. What you didn’t know was that Ms. Talbott’s seacoast home was the first one burgled, and she’s been eager to assist us. She’s also a friend to the congressman, and it was his influence that got her onboard with us.”

  “So...I’m to meet with Ms. Talbott first?”

  “I recommend it, yes,” he said calmly. “Although Ms. Talbott is pleased with your ideas and feels you have talent.”

  Someone snickered—Simon, it sounded like. Lyndsay knew her face was red, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him. She focused on Commander Harris. “I don’t know anything substantial about Kitty, or her desires and needs,” she protested.

  Commander Harris looked blankly at her. As did Pete.

  “For example, is she the congressman’s first wife? How long have they been married? I understand they don’t have children, but—”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “Certainly. I know from—” from Andy Hannaman, but it wasn’t relevant to mention his name “—from a longtime local that the congressman’s beach home has been owned by him for almost twenty years, but that during the past five years or so, he was rarely there. Then suddenly this past autumn, after he retired, he started visiting more often.”

  “And?”

  “And, An—the local,” she corrected herself, “said that he was with a wife he’d never seen before.”

  The commander sighed.

  “Also, does he have any children by any former relationships? I wasn’t able to tell from his internet profiles, but I assume not.”

  “No, the congressman has no children,” said Commander Harris wearily.

  “I know you assume this is all peripheral to the task force,” she said to the room at large, “but I really should be clear with these details.”

  “Karen Talbott,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, “will fill you in with what you need to know from the design standpoint.”

  “And then I’m to review the design plan with Kitty MacLaine on Monday? What exactly are her expectations?”

  From the short silence, Lyndsay wondered if Commander Harris had fully thought this out. She waited.

  The room was quiet. Everyone was staring at her, it seemed, waiting for her to say something.

  Finally, Pete leaned forward. Maybe he felt responsible for giving her a good recommendation. “I’m sure that Kitty is expecting her interior to be redesigned,” he said gently.

  “But that is not police work.”

  “We have approved contractors we’ll send to assist you. And you’ll get a budget, courtesy of the congressman, to implement the design.”

  It dawned on her that they assumed that the one year of design school she’d had under her belt, years before she’d joined the force, was enough to fulfill this crazy cover story. She shook her head, exasperated.

  “We’ve invested in you,” Commander Harris chided her. “The task force needs you to continue the cover for two more weeks.”

  She resisted the urge to throw up her hands in defeat.

  But was it defeat, really? She would be doing investigative police work, as well. That was the most important thing. There was always the hope that she could catch the criminals in the act and make a collar. The potential upsides were too good to pass up.

  Besides, she really couldn’t refuse them now.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll call Karen Talbott this afternoon and set up a meeting.”

  “Just keep your cover,” Commander Harris repeated. “Whatever you do, it is imperative that you not compromise your cover.”

  * * *

  JOHN UNLOCKED THE front door of his family’s restaurant, then flipped the window sign to Open. Outside, the sun was rising, although clouds were gathering on the horizon. Across the street, he saw the vacant public parking lot and behind that, sand dunes. In the far distance, across the blue-gray sea, were fishing vessels and the season’s early lobster boats, chugging out to check the baited traps.

  He drew a hand through his hair. Another summer coming. Every morning was the same. The years and seasons were all starting to run together. He felt like he was spinning his wheels here, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  From the corner of his eye, he heard his brother cough softly. Patrick slouched on a bar stool, electronic device in hand, absorbed as he played a video game. The soft glow of the screen in the early morning gloom lit up his pimply face and scraggly hair.

  John could never get too mad at Patrick. His brother was young. He’d been at home when all the bad stuff in their family had gone down.

  “You want to help me start the coffee?” John asked. “Andy’s crew will be coming soon.”

  Patrick pretended that he didn’t hear him. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending, because he was wearing earbuds. He reached down to s
cratch his lower leg, which made his pants ride up. The ankle bracelet, placed there by the county court system, showed clearly.

  John stalked over and pulled his brother’s jeans back into place. “People will be coming in,” he said tersely, once his brother had removed his earbud to glare at John. “You need to help us in the kitchen.”

  Without a word, Patrick sullenly got up from his chair. The game went into his back pocket. Patrick shambled into the kitchen. When he was gone, John leaned over, head in hands. Sometimes he had no idea what to do with his brother beyond getting him through his next court date without incident. June 5. Just get through to June 5. The goal was to get Patrick released from court-ordered house arrest without prison time. Since he’d been through a rehab session successfully, the lawyer had told them that Patrick’s release was a strong likelihood, as long as John could help Patrick keep to the conditions set forth by the court.

  If John wasn’t successful...

  His mother poked her head from the kitchen. “I’m thinking of making clam chowder today.”

  “Sounds good, Mom,” he said wearily. “I’ll write it up as a lunch special.”

  She nodded and disappeared. She seemed okay this morning, and that was good.

  When John had first returned home, she’d been upset about his dad and his brother—understandably—and he’d had to calm her on nearly a daily basis, it seemed. Only lately did she seem like herself again. She was humming an upbeat tune in the kitchen, and he was glad for it.

  The rumble of a truck engine sounded outside. A quick glance told him that Andy’s crew had arrived for breakfast—his mother’s special muffins and their morning coffee fill-up. His mom made everything from scratch; even the coffee was from freshly ground beans. Andy was a longtime customer, and he knew their routines. He knew about what had happened to John’s brother Justin, of course, and John’s dad, but John wasn’t sure how much Andy knew about Patrick’s recent legal problems. From what John could tell, Andy wasn’t aware of the arrest and conviction, and John’s promise to the court to watch his brother. John hoped Andy didn’t know, anyway.

  Feeling wary—always wary—he met Andy at the door. Wordlessly, still sleepy, Andy handed over the large insulated coffee carafe, followed by the empty plastic cooler that John filled with lemonade for them each working morning.

  “Gonna be a nice day, even with those clouds,” Andy remarked.

  “Yeah. Summer’s coming.” But no sooner had John let the words out, then a familiar black Audi pulled off the coast road and into their little lot. The hot blonde driving made her habitual, tight, three-point turn, then backed her two-seater into an equally tight space between Andy’s van and the restaurant’s front door.

  John closed his eyes briefly and groaned silently.

  “Look who’s back,” Andy said cheerfully. “The congressman must’ve liked Lyn’s designs.” He winked at John. “Go. Talk to her. Give her a chance.”

  While Andy headed inside the restaurant, whistling loudly, John folded his arms, kept silent, and watched. Andy was wrong about her, he felt it. Something was definitely off—something suspicious—and if she was an investigator of some sort, then that was trouble his family didn’t need.

  He stepped outside the restaurant and approached her car. Planted his feet.

  Lyn Francis—or whatever her name was—had hopped out of the Audi.

  John caught a quick glimpse of the sleek leather interior before she shut the door. The shelf where the back seat would have been was stuffed with fabric samples and paint-chip wheels. Could be part of a cover story. He felt his nails dig into his palms. When she finished locking the door and turned, noticing him standing there, she smiled. But her gaze lingered on his face, and her smile died.

  Yeah, he was irritated—mainly that he needed to even do this in the first place, that his brother’s criminal behavior had put him in this position. He was aware that his mood likely showed all over his face. He’d been told he had a look, a scowl that he used on enemies as if shooting at them in a firefight, and yes, he was pretty sure he was giving her that exact look now.

  She swallowed, as if surprised that he was angry with her. But he gave her credit; she didn’t wilt under his scrutiny. Instead, she lifted up her rib cage, stiffening her back as she stared him down.

  His gaze dropped. A bump showed at her waist, beneath her shirt. A gun. She was carrying a concealed sidearm—he was positive of that.

  “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?” Lyn gave him a saucy smile, oblivious to his thoughts.

  He didn’t trust her. After what Patrick had put him through, John didn’t trust anybody on their word, not without his own verification.

  He planted his feet wider and kept his gaze directly on her eyes. Pretty, soft blue eyes. But even pretty girls with soft blue eyes could be deceitful.

  “You’re a cop,” John said roughly. “Aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN THE SPLIT second when Lyndsay had first seen John standing before her with the sun behind him, outlining his erect stance and muscular arms, something within her had lifted. It may have been crazy of her, but she’d been genuinely interested in seeing him again.

  What a mistake that was. Because now her systems were screaming in alarm. She was doing everything she could to face him as an actress would. A very good actress.

  “You’re a cop,” he repeated.

  Her vision swam, and the earth seemed to move beneath her feet, even hearing the accusation for the second time. But she managed to school her face into something resembling disbelief.

  Talk him out of it! her mind screamed at her. Deflect him!

  Keeping as steady as she could, she leaned against the hood of her car, splaying her palms flat on the metal, still warm from her drive.

  It wouldn’t be hard to act flabbergasted over what he’d just said, because honestly, he’d thrown her off balance from the moment he’d peered into her car window that day in the parking lot.

  “Why would you possibly think I’m a cop?” she asked, trying to sound incredulous.

  And while he scowled at her, she gazed into his gray-blue eyes. The pupils were enlarged, making his eyes seem dark and hard.

  She crossed her arms, shivering. She’d worn a thin sweater under her short woolen pea coat, but it wasn’t warming her.

  “You’re not denying it.” He crossed his arms, too.

  “Because you’re joking, right?”

  “I never joke. You’re a cop.”

  “I’m not a cop,” she spit, suddenly angry. She wasn’t going to let anyone stop her from doing her job. It felt good to be angry about that. “How can you say something so weird to me? You haven’t spoken to me before, not once, not even a ‘hello’ greeting, and I’ve been coming to your restaurant for almost a week now.”

  He exhaled, and his breath made a small puff in the cool air. Briefly he glanced away. But then he was back, glaring at her again. “I’ve been watching you.”

  “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

  “Because I have situational-awareness training. I was in the military. And you appear to have that training, too.”

  “I haven’t had military training,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “Cop training, then.” He cocked his head. “It shows.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She met his gaze.

  “It means that as much as you act friendly and chatty to everyone here, you’re always aware. You’re always looking around.” He pointed at her. “Last Thursday you couldn’t even talk on the phone without constantly looking around the parking lot.”

  “So? Isn’t that painting it with a broad brush?” She jumped on his mistake. “Is everyone who is aware while they’re speaking on the phone—which, by the way, is a good thing—a cop?”
>
  He snorted, not backing off. “I’ve watched you for days. Every time you’re here, you sit in the corner in the same seat, exactly the same seat that I would sit in,” he pointed out, completely changing the subject. “You sit in the power seat. The seat where you can come out with guns blazing if you have to.”

  “Guns blazing?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” he said quietly.

  She knew her mouth was hanging open. She’d already known he’d been in the Marines, but who was this guy?

  Ironically, every ounce of her law enforcement training was telling her to keep the upper hand in the situation. She needed to be in charge.

  But now, all she could seem to do was gape and stare at him, as if she was outside her own body looking in. Her hot, shocked body.

  “But the real clue is the sidearm at your waist.” He nodded toward it. “You’re wearing a concealed holster, aren’t you? There’s an imprint of a small handgun. Right here.”

  He reached to point at the outline of her Glock, and this time her training did kick in. Deftly, she reached out and blocked him before he could touch her pistol.

  Her hand clasped his, inches from her weapon.

  They both stared at each other, breathing hard. Her adrenaline was pumping. He was a danger. To her, to her mission.

  She didn’t let go of his hand.

  He blinked at her, at the surprise he must have felt, because he stared in confusion.

  Stop this, she told herself. Let him go.

  She dropped his hand, knowing she’d just outed herself by her actions. The fact that she’d grabbed his hand aggressively, as a police officer would, rather than just swatting his hand away, didn’t look good.

  He opened and closed his fingers, shaking them. “Okay,” he said finally, speaking quietly again, “forget the handgun. I’m open-minded about that, and it’s best not mentioned anyway. But you can’t deny to me that you’ve had military-type training.”

  No, she could not. Particularly after the way she’d just crushed his fingers.

  She needed to tell him something. Something logical and true, while still concealing the whole story.