Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  “Has your caretaker been with your family for a long time?”

  At that moment all the normal sounds of the night—frogs croaking, crickets chirping—hushed into complete stillness. Every pore in my body tingled.

  “James has been with Spartina for twenty-six years.” I pushed the stables doors wide enough to slip through, ran my hand over the wall, and located the switch. We shielded our eyes against the blaze of light. “His granddaughter’s getting married somewhere up north. I think he said Maine.” There were twelve stalls, six on each side, each one spotless. The normal fresh smell of alfalfa hay had been replaced with a heavy oppressive odor of Pine-Sol.

  “You don’t have a housekeeper?” Nathan stopped and turned a full circle. “Spartina is a big place to handle on your own.” He peered inside the first open stall.

  I continued down the middle walkway. “Not if we live on the first floor and close the top two. Then I’ll only need a weekly cleaning crew.

  Nathan increased his pace and caught up. He poked his head into the tack room. Scanned the empty walls. “If you wanted a smaller place, why’d you move here?”

  How could I put my longing to give Owen the happy and peaceful life I’d known as a child into words? “Memories. My best childhood memories are here.”

  He looked around the barn and nodded his understanding. “Do you have a security camera in this building?”

  “No.” We reached the last stall and backtracked to the open door.

  “I’d appreciate a tour of your SITU.”

  I searched for a possible acronym. Blanked. “SITU?”

  “Situation room.” Realization he’d stumped me crossed his face. “Your security monitoring station.”

  I pointed in the direction of the main house. “Equipment’s in a closet off the kitchen.”

  “Can I see it?”

  It was late, and I needed to get on the road. “I’d rather do it tomorrow. I’ll be back from Charleston by mid afternoon.”

  “I’d appreciate seeing it before you leave.” He ran a hand through his cropped hair. “My men are in a new environment.” He stood three feet away, but his silky smooth voice seemed whispering close. A pleasing, familiar sound somehow connected to my childhood. An impossibility since Nathan couldn’t be a day over thirty-five.

  Cedar’s suggestion not to trust Nathan’s motives hovered like a cloud over my head. I wanted to say no, insist he wait until my return. But standing in the empty barn an invisible magnetism got in the way.

  He cleared his throat and waited for my reply. “We chase bad guys.” He seemed to think my delayed reaction was due to skepticism.

  But skeptical wasn’t what I was feeling. I mumbled my agreement and started for the house faster than safety allowed in the dark. I took care to stay in the lead, used the reprieve to remind myself that no matter how attractive and strangely familiar Nathan seemed, no matter how long it had been since a man had shared my life, the marshal was off limits. Completely. Absolutely. Off limits.

  I punched the code into the alarm control panel, escorted him through the kitchen and into an area the size of a walk-in closet. A wall of black-and-white screens showcased the view from fifteen perimeter cameras.

  Nathan slipped past me. His body heat set-off flutters low in my belly. Nathan didn’t seem to notice. Focusing on each monitor, he tapped the last screen with his fingernail. “Your system’s outdated by fifteen years, maybe more.”

  I stepped into the hall and headed for the kitchen. “A new system isn’t high on my priority list.”

  “Newer monitors have split screens with remote monitoring capabilities.” He followed me down the hall. “Are the bottom two screens positioned to pick up river traffic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to have access to the SITU.” The radio on his hip crackled with a muffled voice.

  I shook my head. “There’s no outside access to the monitors.”

  His raised a brow and lowered his chin. Reminded me of Roslyn when she’d caught me telling a fib. “This room was originally a standalone structure and still has the ability to be shut off from the main house,” he said. Walking to the door leading into the main residence, he examined the threshold, then the casing. Pointed to the security sensor. “Shouldn’t be a problem to bypass.

  Now it was my turn to raise a brow. His familiarity with my home’s floor plan struck me as more than a little disconcerting. A renovation project years ago had incorporated the standalone kitchen with the main house and my eccentric great-grandmother opted to leave the outside door in place. The fact that Nathan knew this historical tidbit gave me pause. I weighed my options. “I’ll override the kitchen door and give your team access to the monitors, and that will also give you access to the larger kitchen.”

  He waved away my offer. “We’ll take our meals at the guest house.”

  I scooted past him and unlatched the bolt that kept the outside door snug against the wall. “The garage apartment only has a two-burner stove and a small refrigerator. I’ll be in and out for the next couple of days; it’s no bother if your team uses the kitchen.” If his men were camped out on my estate, an open area where they were free to come and go would afford me the opportunity to chat freely, ask questions, and get updates on the case.

  Nathan pointed his thumb toward the river. “Mind if we take a look at the dock?”

  I started to refuse, then reminded myself of his promise that the sooner he closed his case, the sooner my life would slip back to normal. I motioned toward the French doors. “After you.”

  He radioed to someone that we were exiting the house, I assumed to prevent the chance of us getting shot during our stroll to the river.

  I fast-walked through the rose garden, past the pond, and headed straight for the dock. He kept up with ease. “So how’s this work?” I asked. “Your guys hang around the house and watch the island?”

  “About sums it up.”

  “With binoculars?”

  I was a step in front, but I heard his snicker. “Something like that.”

  “How many on your team?”

  “Counting Erica and me, twelve. Four are monitoring other areas.”

  “I don’t see anyone hanging around.”

  “They wouldn’t be very good at their job if you could find them.” He nodded in the direction of a live oak tree. “One’s behind that tree.”

  “You spotted him?”

  He slanted his eyes in my direction and grinned. “I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I hadn’t.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Omar Sharif.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Omar Sharif.” My voice mirrored my disbelief. As pleased with myself as if I’d just solved the last clue in Sunday’s crossword puzzle. “I thought you looked familiar. At first, I wondered if we’d previously met. But that’s not it. You remind me of Omar Sharif.”

  He rested an elbow on the railing, his smile full and wide. “Dr. Zhivago?” His mouth twitched. He shook his head.

  I searched his face, compared the resemblance. “It’s your eyes. Same body type. I think he might have been Egyptian. Are your ancestors Middle Eastern?”

  His easy demeanor faded. He straightened. “Yes.”

  Once I spotted the resemblance I couldn’t stop seeing it, hanging in the corner of my mind like a hologram sliding in, then out. We leaned against the dock’s railing, and listened to the welcome surprise of a pair of dolphins blowing softly as they passed. I sighed. “I’ve missed the river nights.” It was the first time I’d seen him out of full marshal mode. His face was softer, his eyes darker and almost dangerous. The kind of dangerous that told a woman she wouldn’t have a chance against his charms. I ignored the fluttering bird in my chest. If I bought that ticket, there’d be no chance at a refund.

  He planted both elbows and placed his back against the rail. “When we find Calvin, I’d like your help.”

  My imaginary interlude ended with a thud. “What kind of help?”
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br />   “Convince him to assist us.”

  A rush of heat swept my body. I pushed off the banister. “I need to get going.”

  I turned to walk up the ramp. He latched onto my arm. “Protecting Calvin doesn’t bode well for you.” His voice was now a long way from silky.

  I yanked my arm free and left him standing on the ramp.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nathan’s warning unnerved me, and I couldn’t get the image of Calvin wearing orange cotton scrubs and plastic shower shoes out of my head. If Cal was part of this drug ring and I could convince him to cooperate, it might mean keeping him out of prison. But first, I needed a clearer understanding of Granddad’s relationship with Juan Cabral. How did Calvin get involved in the first place? Did Granddad and his fishing buddy meet stateside? Did Granddad take Calvin along on one of his fishing trips?

  Mom thought my grandfather had visited Juan, but his passport didn’t agree. According to Mom, there should have been several Central or South American stamps on his passport. If I didn’t check again, it’d bug me the rest of the night.

  I decided to wait and leave for Charleston the following morning, then went into my grandfather’s office. I thumbed through his passports, but there were no Central or South America stamps, just like I remembered. I spent a few minutes plundering his file drawers looking for fishing resorts and found several European destinations and two in Australia. Something clicked, and I backtracked to a file labeled, Tacos, R.

  An anagram?

  Anagrams were a favorite pastime of Granddad’s. I’d spent too many lazy Sunday afternoons working out his word puzzles to let this one stump me. He’d called it code breaking, like spies during the cold war—exciting stuff for a ten-year-old.

  The Tacos, R. file was a four-part folder, complete with a map of a remote village on the water and directions to a building. An envelope stapled to the back flap held expired passports for Cecil Lucifer Cummings.

  Based on exit and entry stamps, Mr. Cummings had taken a two-week trip to Costa Rica the summer I turned twelve. He’d also stopped over for a brief one-day visit to Uruguay. He’d been a busy fellow since that time, with multiple trips to Central and South America. Cecil Lucifer Cummings was an unfamiliar name, but the photo was someone I knew well. It was a picture of my dead grandfather.

  ****

  I juggled my large to-go cup of coffee, drove twenty minutes of back roads, and merged with the northbound traffic. I-95 at five in the morning was the Daytona 500 for semis. Charleston was two hours away.

  An unfamiliar ping sounded from my purse. I shuffled through my stash of new phones and said hello to Ben.

  “Looking at the big picture, what’s your foremost concern?” he asked.

  “You’ve already hit a dead-end?” When Ben reached an impasse, his method was to return to his source and toss around theories until something clicked. Then he disappeared down an investigating rabbit hole to hunt. I’d played his “what-if” game dozens of times while investigating new investment opportunities for my customers at Morgan Stanley.

  “My first priority is to find Calvin and keep him out of jail.”

  “How much do you know about your grandfather’s business?”

  His bumpy segue caught me off guard. I took a moment to recalibrate my thoughts. “Based on tax returns and audited financials, commercial leases are the sum of his business.”

  “Dig deep. Look beneath the obvious, and tell me what your gut says?”

  He was on to something. “What’ve you found?”

  He sighed. “Nothing I can piece together yet.”

  I was accustomed to Ben’s annoying habit of doling out his findings like morsels of chocolate, allowing his audience time to savor his extraordinary detective prowess.

  “Seventy-year-old companies have skeletons,” he said.

  I glanced at my purse resting in the passenger seat of my Hummer. I suspected Granddad’s hidden bag of bones was the passports in the side pocket. “Okay, I’ve got another name for you.” I felt the linchpin. The no-turning-back tipping point that couldn’t be smoothed over, tucked under, or hidden away once the name left my lips. I inhaled a deep breath. “Cecil Lucifer Cummings.”

  “Cecil Lucifer Cummings,” Ben repeated each syllable as if carefully making a note.

  A dull pain settled inside my chest.

  “Okay, I’ll see what pops. My assistant sent three preliminary reports to the email address I gave you this morning.”

  Instructions to access Ben’s off-the-grid account were on a slip of paper inside my wallet. I’d always believed Ben worked alone, tooling around town in his bright yellow Corvette. I took a sip of my coffee and pondered the idea he had a staff.

  “You know how to spot a tail?” he asked.

  I spewed liquid over the steering wheel. “What?”

  “Your estate’s crawling with Feds. Good chance they have a warrant that includes your landlines and cell phone, maybe even satellite coverage.”

  A warrant seemed pretty remote, one that included satellite surveillance definitely far-fetched. “Warrants require a judge. What reason could the marshal give to get a warrant on me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that you’re the land baron who owns an island occupied by a drug ring?”

  Sarcasm was Ben’s strongest rhetorical device. I glanced at the sea of headlights in my rearview mirror and rested my hand above a newly acquired stutter-beat in my chest. “I’m checking out two warehouse properties this morning and have a lunch meeting with an appraiser. Fine with me if the Feds want to tag along.”

  “All the burners with you?”

  “Burners?”

  He grumbled a slew of words. The only two I caught were Sherlock and Barney Fife. “Throwaway phones.”

  “We’re talking on one. The other two are in my bag.”

  “How many have you used?”

  “Two. The one we’re talking on, and I sent you three texts with one of the others.” It didn’t seem the time to chastise him for not answering.

  “Where were you when you sent the texts?” he asked.

  “Wal-Mart parking lot and Spartina.”

  “Did you remove the battery after the Spartina usage?”

  “No. I waited for you to respond.”

  His exasperated sigh crackled over the connection. “You can’t use that phone again.”

  “Why?”

  “Feds have that phone tapped.”

  Already weary of his suspicious nature, I clarified. “You’re the only one who knows the number.”

  “Not if they have satellite.”

  I stewed on that for a minute. “How would they know I used the burner and not one of my neighbors?”

  “If they have you under surveillance, they’d assume it was you using a burner.”

  I flashed on the fake passport, the dive boat, Calvin’s reaction to Juan Cabral’s name. “I’ll get rid of it.”

  “Keep it. Unless you need to disappear, better to appear stupid. Let’s recap,” he said. “Burners are for emergency calls. Not for chitchat. If I don’t return your call, there’s a reason. We’re not in high school, don’t keep calling.” His voice reeked condescension. “A compromised phone on your person means the Feds know your location. Same goes with your personal cell.”

  Any irritation from Ben’s patronizing dissipated like ice water drenching a burning candle. “I’ll remove all the batteries.” I had nothing to hide, but the thought that someone might keep track of my movements seemed creepy.

  “Removing batteries is a giveaway if they’re monitoring your cells. You reach the point you need to lose a tail and you’re on foot, duck into a crowded store. Stash the phone under some merchandise and head out the back. If you’re in a vehicle, speed up and stay out of sight long enough to toss the cell. Ideally, in the back of a pick-up heading in the opposite direction. Using a burner makes you suspicious. You get rid of a burner and suspicion ups by ten. Make sure it’s worth the effort.”

&
nbsp; I refrained from reminding Ben he was the reason I had throwaways in the first place. “I’ll be more careful.”

  “Give them something to listen to. Use your personal cell for any call that doesn’t matter.”

  Maybe I should label my phones to keep them straight. Use. Don’t Use.

  “I tracked your cousin’s car to a diner,” Ben said. “A cook taking a smoke break saw Calvin jump into an SUV. The cook recognized the SUV driver and fifty bucks gave up the name—goes by Snively.”

  “Bubba Snively. He’s on the friend list I gave you.”

  “Yeah. Tracked him down. According to a talkative neighbor, Snively arrived home a little before eight with a man matching Cal’s description. Other than a pizza delivery at four twenty-eight no one’s entered or left the unit. I’ll keep you posted.” A click and dead air were my only clues Ben hung up.

  I was still stewing on Cal’s bait-and-switch act when my cell chirped with a new text message from the Charleston appraiser.

  —Emergency came up. Need to reschedule our lunch meeting.—

  “Great.” Looked like an early day in the office after all. I took the next exit and turned south for Savannah. My phone beeped, and I answered Cedar’s call.

  “Your Mom and Owen are settled at your uncle’s.”

  “I really appreciate you driving them down.”

  “No problem. I need a few minutes with you today.”

  A shudder of dread ran up my spine. An attorney asking for a meeting was rarely good news. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing we should discuss over the phone.”

  “Did one of the Atlanta buyers back out?” Three of our Atlanta properties were under contract. With the squirrelly warehouse appraisals, I couldn’t afford more problems.

  “My concern isn’t real estate.” Cedar’s unwillingness to discuss business over the phone merged with Ben’s warning that my phone was tapped. My dread thickened and spread like a morning fog. I quit pumping for details and agreed to a late afternoon meeting.