“That’s what I said.”
“Verret consults with law enforcement to stop illegal fishing.”
Alden looked at her. “And Smythe is on that task force. And he and Verret and Garza are all on that nonprofit together.”
“Maybe Verret isn’t giving information to the task force,” she said. “Maybe it’s the other way around.”
“He’s getting information on illegal fishing? No — information on law enforcement,” Alden said, catching her line of thought. “So he can avoid the fishing police?”
“He or his cronies. Maybe they’re all involved. Somebody catches the fish — they run a private fleet out of Mexico or wherever. Garza picks up the illegally caught fish from the boats and delivers them to Consummate Catch to supplement Verret’s regular haul.”
“Hence the refrigerated trucks,” Alden said.
“Verret ‘launders’ the fish, like dirty drug money. Sells them through his legit operation. Makes a huge profit.”
“I read up on illegal fishing in my research,” Alden said, feeling a twinge of excitement. “It adds up to billions of dollars’ worth of fish each year. A lot of the boats are from Mexico. These guys have no scruples. Their methods kill thousands of fish and turtles that should never be caught — they use illegal long lines, gill nets. It’s really destructive.”
“So much for ‘green’ fishing techniques,” Roz said. “They could be using anything. Verret’s guides know all the good fishing spots. He told me so. Even if the guides aren’t involved, Verret could pass that information on to his fishing fleet, the legal one and the illegal one. Suppose his own bad guys were somehow involved in Boyd Bellamy’s death?”
Alden heard a twig snap behind them, stood and turned.
“Just suppose they were,” said the man in black, pointing a gun at them as he emerged from the trees. “Something terrible might happen to someone who wanted to know.”
Alden knew that rough voice. It was the same man who’d tried to kidnap Roz.
The gun was equipped with a silencer. Not just a scare tactic, then, he thought.
“You can’t do anything to us,” Alden said with false optimism, wondering where the bodyguard was. And then he remembered: He’d asked for security only when Roz was alone. Because he had the crazy idea he could protect her himself.
Roz stood next to him and reached for his hand. He squeezed it, wondering if this would be his last chance.
≈≈≈
Roz had felt the thrill of figuring out their mystery, only to be slammed with a surreal rush of fear a moment later.
“You can’t do anything to us,” Alden had told the gunman, and she’d grabbed Alden’s hand out of instinct.
“It’ll be just another drug killing.” The man’s thin, pale face and dark eyes grew animated. “Or maybe a car accident. Or drowning? A lovers’ swim gone awry, after a nice strangulation? I haven’t decided yet.”
“We’re pretty harmless,” Roz said, trying not to let his tone get to her. “Why would you want to kill us?”
“You’ve already stuck your nose way too far into something that’s none of your business.”
“I’m a journalist,” she said, pondering what it would take to distract the man and run away. “Everything is my business. And this is the public’s business.”
“Not this. If you’d just written about the fuel leak, everybody would’ve been happy.”
“It was a fuel leak?” Alden asked.
“Of course it wasn’t, but it wasn’t really our fault that the boat’s anchor got tangled up in one of our nets in just the wrong spot.”
“And pulled up an unexploded bomb!” Roz said, unable to contain her glee.
“You’re a morbid little bitch, aren’t you?” the gunman said. “We came to the same conclusion, since we didn’t blow it up. It wasn’t their lucky day.”
“The bombs made it the perfect fishing spot. Anything on the bottom attracts fish,” Alden said, almost to himself. Then to the man in black: “We don’t have to write anything. You can let us go.”
The man shook his head and nodded at Roz. “She’ll never agree to that. I can tell just from her face.”
Roz tried to make her face a mask, but the asshole was right. She’d come too far on this story to back down.
Alden took a slight step forward and released her hand. “Let her go.”
“This is a package deal, lover boy,” the man said. “But we’re not going to do it here. I need you to come out from behind those rocks and step this way.”
“I’d rather stay here,” Alden said.
“I’m not above shooting you here. I’m equipped for it.” He waved the gun at them. “If you want to be shot here, fine. But I’ll make another stop. You know where, don’t you, Ms. Melander?”
Roz felt a chill. “You wouldn’t.”
“I know where your mother lives. I know a lot about you, since our guys found your boat.”
“What were they doing out there?” Roz asked, dying of curiosity. Perhaps literally.
“Getting the gill net, or what was left of it.”
Alden took another step forward. “How did you know we were here?”
“My boss noticed you at the restaurant this morning after the chef yelled at you.”
Alden looked at Roz and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”
She almost laughed. And almost cried.
“Enough delays,” the gunman said in his guttural voice. “Are you coming with me, or do I have to do this here? Wouldn’t you rather have one last walk with your sweetie?”
Roz wanted to kick the guy for his mocking tone, but all she could think was, no, this wasn’t her last walk with Alden. It couldn’t be.
She moved first, but Alden was already two steps ahead of her. Before she could advance, he reached back and slammed her to the ground, even as he jumped forward at the gunman.
Thrown to the sand, with the rocks between her and the gunman, Roz heard the shot.
And screamed.
She scrambled to her feet. Alden was lying face-down in front of her, his white shirt spattered with blood.
“No!” she cried, leaping to his side. He couldn’t be gone. Not like this.
Alden groaned and rolled over, spitting sand. “I’m fine.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “The blood!”
“It’s not mine.” Both of them looked up. The gunman was lying on the beach, clutching his thigh, trying to stanch the blood flowing from an apparent gunshot wound. His gun was several feet away. And beyond him, a neatly dressed man emerged from the woods with his own gun.
“Sorry about the scare, ma’am,” said the guy in the polo shirt, who was built like a Mack Truck. “I was trying not to endanger you. Though you didn’t help,” he said to Alden, who clambered to his feet.
“I hit the dirt once I realized you were there,” Alden said.
After he’d made sure I was safe, Roz thought. “And who are you?” she asked their rescuer.
“I’m from McBain Security. Mr. Knox here asked us to keep an eye out for you when you were on your own, so I’m afraid I wasn’t as close as I should have been, since you weren’t. On your own, that is.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Alden said, grabbing her hand again.
“I had an alert from one of the staff that there might be trouble,” the bodyguard said.
“Supermaid,” Alden whispered into Roz’s ear.
“You had someone watching me?” she asked.
Alden had a worried look. “Just to make sure you were OK.”
She was kind of pissed, but he’d saved her. Almost sacrificed his life for her. Again.
Roz touched his face, looked into his troubled gray eyes and decided not to imagine what might have happened to him. She didn’t think she could handle the idea of a world without Alden. Not yet.
“Will one of you bastards call an ambulance?” the gunman grumbled from the ground.
The bodyguard was already dialing his phone.
&
nbsp; “And the police,” Roz said.
“Jimbo,” Alden said with a frown, and she laughed.
“We’ll get rid of him as quickly as we can,” she said. “We have a story to write.”
≈≈≈
Roz knocked as she entered her mother’s house. “Mom?”
“In here,” came Megan Melander’s voice from the living room. Roz could hear the aide clattering in the kitchen and could smell something cooking. Good. She worried about her mom eating enough.
But her mother looked fine today. She got up to hug Roz, and she had a smile on her face. Megan’s air of health gave her daughter hope that maybe the disease had slowed, that they would have more good years. Or maybe it was just a good day. She would take whatever blessings she could get.
The coffee table was covered with legal papers. Roz knew what they were.
“So you made a decision?” Roz asked.
“It’s the only one I can make, honey. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know,” Roz said, sitting next to her on the couch. “I just don’t know what comes next.”
“None of us do.”
That was the truth. It had been two weeks since she and Alden had broken the story about the explosion and the illegal fishing operation in a double-bylined article that appeared in both papers. They’d built up to it with a few days of online bulletins, independently written, while together they gathered all the information they needed for the big story.
Verret’s refusal to comment hadn’t mattered so much after he was charged with attempted murder-for-hire. Subsequent raids on his and Garza’s operations resulted in more charges related to the fishing cartel; it seems the men had known each other since the days when Verret got caught with Garza’s drugs on board his boat. Their cohort on the task force had vanished and also was under suspicion, and the Coast Guard was widening the investigation. Forensics had confirmed that Boyd Bellamy’s charter had indeed encountered an unexploded bomb, leading to more concerns about the safety of boats and beachgoers and a lot of attention for both newspapers.
And then Mom got the offer to sell the Gazette.
It would hurt to lose the community chronicle their family had built. They weren’t sure yet who the buyers were, as they were acting through a special corporation set up for the sale, but Roz hoped the newspaper would endure.
“I don’t know if I want to stay, even if the Gazette keeps printing. I could go back to the investigative team in Baltimore,” Roz said. Truth was, she’d already sent out feelers and was assured she’d be welcome.
“You know I’ll miss you,” Megan said.
The sorrow in her mother’s voice cut Roz to the quick. “I’ll visit often, I promise. It’s just that in the city — I felt like I could really make a difference there,” she argued, to herself as much as to Megan. “I had a chance to be someone.”
“You’re already someone extraordinary. And don’t you think you’ve made a difference here? Look at the stories you’ve written in the past few weeks. Besides, isn’t our legacy worth something?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Roz said, wondering if she’d offended her mother. “What you and Dad did for Mimosa Key, it was really important.”
“The first draft of history,” her mom said, quoting her dad.
“You’re right. I just don’t know if it’s that way anymore.” Because now there was the Times, and there was the pain of having to face Alden Knox every day. True to her word, she’d pushed him away when the story had published. She wanted him. Of course she wanted him. But did she trust him?
For some reason, she’d thought — maybe even fantasized — that he might pursue her after the big story ran, despite their differences. It was unreasonable of her, she knew, to expect a declaration of love after she’d blown him off, but it would take something that dramatic for her to entertain the idea of a relationship, to convince her that he had her best interests at heart.
And there had been nothing. No calls. No texts. Not even run-ins at the coffee shop.
But this cooling-off period wouldn’t last forever. Eventually she’d have to see him, and it wouldn’t be cool at all. The encounter would be a fevered, agonizing confrontation, even if they didn’t say a word. Because Roz had fallen for him, and she couldn’t bear the pain of not having him, of having been foiled by her own lousy judgment and, maybe worse, of knowing he didn’t want her.
Roz wanted to take care of her mom, but she also wanted to move on. And staying in Mimosa Key was not going to be the best way to do that.
Especially if it meant being haunted by Alden Knox.
≈≈≈
“Any phone calls?” Alden asked John when he got into his office.
“Check your damn voice mail,” his editor growled. John was tilted back in his chair, reading a fresh copy of the Gazette. “And you’re late.”
“I mean to the main line, for me.”
“If you’re expecting a call, wouldn’t it come to your personal line?” John asked, shooting Alden a significant look. “Especially a personal call?”
“Never mind,” Alden said. John was way too perceptive sometimes. “I have an appointment. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
He walked outside, got in his car and drove to the intersection nearest the main harbor, where the little ice cream shop with the red and white awning was just opening. It was 11 a.m.
Alden sat at one of the round metal tables outside and waited. He didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t think about his next story. He just waited.
At 11:20, he looked at his watch, stood and sighed. He eyed the causeway and the marina and the sparkling water and thought about that morning when they’d each come to the docks to try to get the facts on a little story about an exploding boat. He might have written: That’s where our story started. And then, he thought: Here is where it ends.
He had his keys out and was about to get into his BMW when he felt another car pull up next to him. He almost didn’t hear it, because the damn hybrid made so little noise.
Alden tried not to get his hopes up as he turned to see Roz step out. She had a Gazette in her hand.
He walked around the front of her car so he could see all of her. Damn, she was pretty — radiant, even. Her chestnut hair was twisted up in a messy bun, her pale green blouse brought out the glint of green in her hazel eyes, and her jeans hugged her tantalizing curves. Casual became her. She was herself. Just the way he liked her.
Roz looked him over. “I understand we have a debt to settle.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t see the ad. Or you wouldn’t come.”
“But it was such a tempting offer.” She held up the newspaper and read: “ ‘R: I.O.U. forgiven. I’ll buy you a cone instead. 11 @ Ms. Icey’s. AK.’ ”
“I wanted to be sure you didn’t think it was from your buddy Jimbo.”
She laughed. “I already paid my debt to Jimbo.”
“You did?” A spike of jealousy made Alden wince.
“I sent a couple of pints of Ben & Jerry’s down to the office for him and Deputy Cinder.”
“Good thinking. Maybe it’ll soften her up for next time.”
“I doubt it.” Roz paused. “Though I don’t think I’ll have to worry about a next time.” She looked unnervingly serious.
“Come over to the table,” Alden said. “Let me get you something.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, Roz.”
After a moment, she walked to the table. “Butter pecan?”
“Be right back,” he said, heading into the shop.
“Here’s your scoop,” Alden said when he returned, hearing the irony in the word as he handed her a butter pecan cone and sat opposite her with his bowl of mint chocolate chip. They ate in the safety of silence for a minute before he spoke again.
“What did you mean about no next time?” he asked.
“We’re selling the Gazette. Mom’s taken care of. There’s — no reason for me to stick around.”
/> Was he mistaken, or did she have a question in her eyes, her voice as she said so?
“I know about the Gazette,” he said softly.
“Ha,” Roz said, taking a big lick of her cone. “Scooped me again.”
“My publisher is buying it.”
She stopped licking and stared at him, a stunned look on her face. “So he’s going to shut it down?” She sounded heartbroken.
Alden ate a spoonful of his ice cream to fortify himself. “He and I had a long talk about the Gazette. About its history here. About its fantastic editor. About how well we work together.”
She was shaking her head.
He plunged on. “He doesn’t want to close it. He wants to combine the staffs and rename it the Times-Gazette. But only if the editor stays on, so it has that imprimatur of the Melander family.”
“But — the Gazette covers news,” Roz said.
“So would the Times-Gazette.”
“I’m going back to Baltimore. I have a career.” This time her protest seemed less vehement, and Alden warmed to his cause.
“Being managing editor of the Times-Gazette would be a career, too, if on a smaller scale,” he said. “And you might want to ask yourself if you’re out to make a difference, or if you’re out to make your career. I know something about that, and I think you can make the biggest difference here. For Mimosa Key.” Alden took a breath. “For me.”
Her ice cream dripped onto her hand as she gaped at him. “Damn,” she said, looking down. In an instant, he set down his bowl, slipped into the chair next to hers, grasped her hand and licked off the sweet drop.
“Alden?” she whispered.
“Say yes. Say you’ll stay.”
“What will you do?”
“What I’ve always done. I’ll cover society news. I’m good at it, and that’s what the publisher wants. But I want to do real news, too — with you. You’ve given me a taste for it again, and my publisher is starting to see the benefits and the power of the free press. That’s all thanks to you.”
Roz’s cone was dripping again. Alden took what was left and pushed it into his bowl on the table, then took both of her hands, gently licked off the drips of ice cream and kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers. He looked into her eyes, willing her to agree. To see.
Desire on Deadline Page 17