The Undercover Affair

by Cathryn Parry

  “Will you tell anyone?”

  He stared at her for a moment. Then he glanced down the empty aisle. Turning back, he asked, “Do you want to take a drive with me?”

  “No, it would risk my cover. I’ve come too far to do that.” She glanced at him. “Are you going to tell Commander Harris?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve been in your shoes, if that helps.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You have?” She never would have expected that of seasoned, steady Pete.

  He nodded grimly. “All I can say is, be careful there.”

  “From a personal perspective or a professional perspective?”

  He snorted. “Both.”

  “You’re speaking from experience?”

  “I am,” he conceded.

  “Would you mind telling me if you were able to make it work? Both ways, I mean?” She held her breath. She wanted so much to believe in the dream that she could both solve the case no matter where it led her, and that she could continue to see John, that he would forgive her for her mixed loyalties and her undercover deceit, no matter what happened with the case in the end.

  Pete glanced quickly around before speaking, careful that no one could overhear them. “All I can say,” he said in a low tone, “is that I was once an undercover drug dealer. Now I’m married to the sister of a perp I put in jail. But it’s a very long road, and I’m an outlier. In the vast majority of cases, mixing a personal life with undercover work never works.”

  “So...it is possible to recover from this?” she asked with hope.

  He shook his head. “You’ve got to remember that from his point of view, you’ve been lying to him romantically and you’re hurting his family in the process. It’s among the most personal wounds you can ever inflict upon anyone.”

  Pete was right. It was going to break his heart if he ever found out.

  “Lyn,” Pete said gently, “you have to believe this is important work we do, or you can never look yourself in a mirror afterwards. We help people. You have to trust in that.”

  She wanted to. But that remained to be seen.

  She checked the time on her phone, then swallowed. “Thank you for talking honestly with me, Pete. I need to get going if I’m going to meet my delivery at the MacLaine cottage.”

  “Take a moment to run me through your day ahead so I know how to best cover you. Keep in mind that I’ll be your backup, but I won’t be on-site with you tonight.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “First, I’m meeting with the last furniture delivery van at ten o’clock. Then I’ll take a couple of hours to finish up the cottage. Next, I stop by the Seaside to let John know I’ll be up the coast tonight, working on billing or some such with my design employer. Then, over to interview the alarm company, and finally, back to the MacLaine home just after dark.”

  “You have your service weapon with you?”

  “I do.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I could pull you out of here with one phone call and put Simon in your place.”

  “Please don’t. If I leave now, that will look suspicious, and it could endanger future operations. Let me handle the situation as best I can.”

  Pete wiped his hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll support you as long as possible. Tonight, we’ll do it this way. Two rings, we meet. Three rings, you pick up your phone. And if you need me to come in and assist with an arrest, just say, ‘Not now.’ That’s it, ‘Not now.’”

  “Okay.”

  “Lyn, I’m not sure about this.”

  “You were undercover before. You know that when you’re undercover, sometimes you need leeway. Please trust me enough to give me that leeway.”

  * * *

  LYNDSAY HURRIED TO the MacLaine cottage in time to meet the delivery guys bringing in the new living room furniture. She spent an hour or so putting out all the accessories and staging it to look sophisticated and appealing. There. The house was good enough to show Kitty. There were other extras Lyndsay would have liked to do, including adding fresh flowers and new lighting, but there wasn’t time for that. She had police work to do.

  Rushing upstairs, she took a quick shower and changed into jeans, running shoes and a turtleneck. The rest of her clothes and personal items she gathered together and removed so that there was no trace of her anywhere. Then she locked the doors and turned on the alarm. Pocketing her keys, she flipped up the hood on her nylon jacket. Outside, rain softly pelted the sidewalk, turning the dry asphalt into a polka-dot canvas of wet raindrops.

  She jogged the quarter mile to John’s house, but he wasn’t in the kitchen to greet her. Peeking through the window before she knocked, just to make sure, she saw no one inside.

  His jacket was missing from the hook beside the door. Only sleepy Toby gazed up at her from his spot on the chair, atop one of John’s T-shirts.

  For a minute, she almost lost her nerve. But she swallowed and said a silent goodbye to the cat she was glad John had with him.

  She would need to talk with John at the Seaside. She jogged back to the MacLaines’ driveway and hopped into her car, then headed for the restaurant. It was well past the lunch rush. Her fingers curling into a fist, she rapped on Margie’s residence window.

  When Margie saw her, she broke into a smile. “John is in the business office,” she said, poking her head out of the doorway. “Come in out of the rain.”

  “Thank you.”

  Margie led her down the covered walkway and into the large industrial kitchen. Tucked into a far corner was a closed door. Margie rapped on it. “Lyndsay is here to see you.”

  The door opened, and Lyndsay saw him sitting at a desk. Papers surrounded him, and a laptop sat open, displaying a spreadsheet.

  “Hey.” He greeted her with a yawn, then leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He grinned wickedly at her.

  How could she not smile back at him? He was handsome and fun, and for the moment at least, he was hers. She spent a guilty second taking in the laptop that might very likely be confiscated later, and she fought the urge to shout to him, “Back up all your work to the cloud! Trust me!” The police who eventually searched the office would even take the memory sticks and CDs.

  “Lyndsay?” He waved his hand in front of her eyes.

  “I guess I’m a zombie today, too.”

  “Yeah. Our mini-vacation was good while it lasted. I’m thinking we need another one tonight.”

  She swallowed, removing some papers from the spare chair and sitting to face him. John reached over and swung the door closed again.

  “Privacy,” he explained. “These walls have ears.”

  She expelled a long breath. “I just came to tell you that I got called to go to the office tonight. I received the last delivery of furniture, so my boss wants to send out the billing. Which means...” She gestured to his laptop. “I need to do paperwork, too.” She made a face indicating her distaste for that part of her job, which was real. There was nothing she disliked more than writing up reports. “My boss wants to have a late dinner afterward. I figure I’ll just stay there in my apartment rather than drive back here in the rain.”

  John nodded, fingers steepled together. Before he could ask her where her apartment was—she wasn’t prepared to tell him that—she tore off a blank slip of paper from a notepad on his desk.

  “Would you mind giving me your mobile number, John?” She laughed softly. “It’s sort of embarrassing that we haven’t exchanged numbers yet.”

  He grinned at her. “I was spoiled, being able to look out my bedroom window and see your car in the drive. I liked that.”

  “Me, too. But I’m afraid I might be reassigned tonight after all,” she said carefully. “I think that’s partly why Kar
en wants to take me out to dinner—to talk about my next assignment.”

  His grin faded. “Yeah. We knew this day was coming.”

  But he took the pen from her and scribbled down his number. She stuck that in her pocket. When this was all over, however it turned out, she longed to call him and explain herself.

  Then he handed her his phone for her to program her contact information.

  She hesitated for just a split second. She couldn’t give him her task force number—if he phoned, it would show up in investigative and possibly court records.

  She gave him her real, personal mobile number. She owed him that. If she had to disappear without explanation tomorrow, then he would be sick with worry if he didn’t know that she was okay. That was the kind of man he was. Her hand shook as she typed in her number.

  Handing the phone to him, it was hard to meet his knowing eyes, but she did. Her lip was quivering, though, giving her away, so she made the motions of fanning herself. “Whew. If I’m not careful, I’m going to cry again.”

  “Don’t.” He stood, enveloping her in a gentle bear hug. She wished she could stay with him for longer.

  “Well.” She stepped back. “I’m going to be late if I don’t get going. I’ve got to dig out my laptop and start on a spreadsheet, too.”

  “Drive safely,” he said softly.

  As she left him, alone in that small room in his family’s restaurant, she wondered if this was the last time she would ever see him again as Lyn Francis, interior designer.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Lyndsay pulled into the parking lot of her real-life apartment complex. Squat redbrick buildings. Fenced-off trash containers. Lined parking spaces dotted with oil spills.

  Contrasted to the lovely ocean view, fresh air and presence of John Reilly that Wallis Point afforded her, she honestly wasn’t thrilled to be home.

  She realized she didn’t want to go back to it at all.

  When she unlocked her door, her apartment smelled stale and unused. It also seemed small and closed compared to the MacLaine cottage. A lot of interior touches needed changing, which was surprising to her, because she’d never paid much notice to her own decor before.

  Closing her eyes to the shabby surroundings, she dropped off her bags, then opened her bedroom dresser drawer and grabbed her identification—wallet and badge. She also took her personal phone, which she’d left on the bedside table, still plugged in and fully charged.

  That was the main reason she’d come—to program John’s number into her phone and to keep it close beside her, tonight and in the coming days. She wouldn’t let go of the shred of hope that a miracle would happen and John would someday be able to forgive her.

  Then she locked up her home, hustled to the car, and roared off to meet with the manager at the MacLaines’ home security-alarm company.

  The aptly named Mr. Key received her cordially. He acknowledged her law enforcement credentials as part of the team investigating several burglaries. She recited the names and addresses of the three homes she knew of that had had watercolor paintings stolen from them. “I’d like to verify again that all three homes are customers of yours, please.”

  She waited while Mr. Key checked his files. He finally returned from a back office. “Yes. Would you like to know about the others?”

  “That’s not necessary. I would like to review the files. In all three cases, has it been verified that the correct security code was input to the homes?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Are there employees who would have access to those codes?”

  Mr. Key gave her a wary look. “We’ve all been interviewed. The company was investigated thoroughly.”

  Of course, her team would have done their jobs. She understood that.

  “I’m just double-checking,” she assured him. “One last question. Could the computer files with the passwords have been hacked?”

  “They’re encrypted,” he said with clipped syllables.

  But the files existed. They were online. Anything online could be hacked.

  She smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Key. I appreciate your time.”

  As she left the premises, rather than feeling pleased with her efforts, she felt sad. Yes, she desperately wanted to solve this case, but she’d had more than enough of the undercover life. In the future, she wanted to be honest and have honest relationships.

  When this was over, she owed it to John to tell him the whole truth about herself, once and for all.

  She had a lot to tell him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LYNDSAY STOOD IN the entry to the MacLaine cottage, trying to keep her mind clear. She’d parked her car farther down the beach so that the MacLaine driveway would be empty and the house appear unoccupied. She wasn’t sure what time the perp—or, heaven forbid, perps—intended to strike, but if they did indeed strike, she was ready. Her pockets were filled with the essentials—small flashlight, flexible plastic handcuffs, badge, ammunition.

  She armed herself. Once again, she took out her Glock, loaded it and holstered it at her waist. She wore a hip-length tunic that covered it loosely, but she was fully prepared to draw and use her weapon if needed. She was so familiar with the heft and shape of her firearm that she could operate it blind if she had to.

  She planned to sit upstairs at the guest-room window overlooking the street. If the burglars did arrive, then she expected them to enter by the front door. The rear sliding doors were unlikely—to enter, a burglar would have to break heavy glass, and so far, their past methods didn’t support that action. And just to be safe, she also checked and rechecked the locks on every window.

  The front door was locked both electronically with the commercial burglar-alarm system, and mechanically. But the lock could be picked, the alarm code hacked. Whatever happened, she was prepared.

  She went into the kitchen and found the last of the premade chicken salads she’d bought and stacked in the refrigerator. She brought it upstairs to her sentry position and ate quickly, barely tasting her meal because of the adrenaline coursing through her. But she needed to stay awake and alert, possibly all night, and so she needed fuel for her stamina. Finishing off a bottle of iced tea, she shifted her weight to find a more comfortable position.

  The doorbell rang.

  She froze. One hand on the windowsill, her heart pounded. Could this be the perpetrators? It was a common tactic for gangs to ring the doorbell before they attempted to break into a home.

  She decided to remain quiet and wait.

  “Lyndsay, I know you’re in there!”

  John’s voice—it was John!

  Jumbled, panicked thoughts ran through her head. What is he doing here? How does he know I’m home? She ran downstairs and gazed through the side window first, just to use caution. John’s back was to her. He’d put on well-worn jeans and a beat-up leather jacket.

  What was her story? Think of a cover story for why you’re here and not at a meeting with your boss, she chided herself.

  Opening the door, she made an exaggerated yawn, as if she’d been sleeping. “Sorry, I fell asleep.” That explained why the lights were off. “My meeting was canceled at the last minute. I meant to call you, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

  “Your phone must have been turned off. I left a message.”

  “Sorry.” She patted her pocket, blinking, as if still waking up. “I guess last night’s lack of sleep has finally caught up with me,” she said sheepishly.

  He nodded. There was a small outdoor light which turned on automatically at the same time every night, so she could clearly see his expression. He looked tired, too. And grim.

  She had to get him off the stoop in case anyone was watching them. At least he hadn’t arrived in his truck—the driveway was thankfully empty.

&nbs
p; She smiled at him and opened the door wider. “Come in. I’ll see if I can scrounge up something to eat if you’re hungry.” Maybe in the kitchen she could think of an excuse to get him to leave.

  “All right.” He followed her inside, and she closed the door behind him, then locked it and reset the alarm.

  “I don’t want anything to eat,” he said. “I just need to check on you.”

  Her heart pounded. Something was going on. She gave him her best innocent grin, to let him know she was okay with it. Where to go?

  Not upstairs. She had to keep him away from her lair. Thinking fast, she led him to the living room in back.

  No, that didn’t work, either. They would be seen from the beach. She didn’t want to spook the bad guys if they were watching the house.

  She needed a place with no windows so she could turn on the light.

  Upstairs. In the new part of the house.

  Taking his hand, she headed for the stairs again.

  He gave her a look of concern. His whole being was concerned. Or was she misinterpreting his stiffness?

  An excuse popped into her head, a reason she could give to get him to leave. She stopped at the top of the stairs. “You know, John, I have an early morning tomorrow. The MacLaines are calling me, and—”

  “Lyn, can I just ask you something?”

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  He leaned against the railing, crossing his arms. She could see his dim outline from the porch light that shone in the window. With his leather jacket, he appeared like a tough guy. Not somebody to mess with.

  “Why did you park your car down the street?” he asked. “Moon saw you walking back. He was going to offer you a ride, but he said you looked serious, and he figured something was up. When he told me, I came over to investigate, and here I find you in a dark house, wearing your pistol in a holster at your waist.” He pointed. “I could see the outline clearly, by the way.”

  She’d been busted.

  “Well, I strapped on my gun before I answered the door because it’s nerve-racking being home alone. And Moon should have stopped and offered me a ride,” she finished lamely.