Double Down (Raven McShane Mysteries Book 4)

by Stephanie Caffrey

  I hit the jackpot on the Favorites Bar, which had an icon for a Yahoo! Mail link that proved to be Laura’s. My first impression was that Laura was not a sophisticated user of email since most of the stuff in her main folder was spam rather than communications from actual people. The obsessive-compulsive in me was tempted to organize her email so that it wouldn’t be so cumbersome and disorganized, but obviously, I didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

  Scanning through the dozens of emails she received every day was taking more time than I wanted. I was hoping to find some kind of smoking gun that explained why she had essentially faked her own disappearance and then tried to lure me to some kind of ambush. Was she working with Owen? With Dan? Nothing made sense.

  After about five minutes, I gave up. Snooping around someone’s house gave me a creepy feeling which was compounded by the fact that I was reading her emails as well, and I wanted to move on to see if I could find anything from Dan’s side. There were no other email buttons on the browser, however, and none of the other email sites like Gmail and Outlook seemed to recognize the computer. I looked around in the desk to see if there was a master password sheet or anything, but it was all but empty. It seemed like my little breaking and entering trip had been a complete waste.

  But there was one more shot, I realized. I closed Internet Explorer and opened up Firefox, whose icon I recognized from my own computer. It was a whole different browser which meant a whole different set of favorites and buttons. Sure enough, the Gmail site was bookmarked, and it sent me directly to Dan’s inbox, no questions asked. Unlike Laura’s, his was well organized by category—personal, social, promotions, and spam. There wasn’t a lot in his personal directory, which made me wonder if he was an email deleter. Most people tended to keep emails forever since they didn’t take up much space and because space was essentially free. I scanned the few dozen emails in his inbox and shook my head. The most interesting thing was a message from a member of the blackjack group. He had a dental emergency and wouldn’t be showing up for practice that night. That was nearly two weeks ago.

  I slumped back in the chair. Part of me knew going in that it was a shot in the dark, that there wasn’t much chance I’d be able to find anything explaining their odd behavior, no smoking gun email or document. Even so, it bugged me that what had begun as a simple investigation about money had pitted my client and his wife against me with no obvious reason.

  The clock was ticking, but I decided to check Dan’s favorites list. Sure enough, he had a link to Southwest Trust Bank, and just as I’d hoped, the browser had saved his log-in and password information. With a couple of clicks, I was able to pull up every bank statement for the last eighteen months.

  The first thing that jumped out at me was the total: $49,283.55. Who, I wondered, had forty-nine thousand bucks in a checking account? Since a checking account was drawing interest at a rate of about one one-hundredth of a percent, keeping money in there was about the equivalent of stuffing the money under your mattress. Carlos would not have approved. And then there were the direct deposits. It looked like there were two regular entries. Laura’s employer deposited a few thousand bucks every two weeks, but a second deposit of five thousand even appeared every month. The payor’s name was gibberish, however. The entries only read Direct Deposit ID cfm994802490. I checked a few other statements, and all had the identical entry on them.

  I pressed the Print Screen key and waited, crossing my fingers that the printer was hooked up. A few seconds later, a printer hidden underneath stacks of papers whirred to life, surprised that it was being called back into action. And then it began beeping at me, an angry whine alerting me that something was wrong and that in no event should I expect a printed page to emerge from its tray in the near future.

  I got down on my hands and knees, trying not to move too many things around, and found the problem. It was out of paper. I found a sheaf of paper underneath some more insurance papers and shoved a few into the feeder. Remarkably, it began firing up, and ten seconds later, I was holding a copy of their bank statement in my hands. I folded it up and placed it in my pocket, and then I got the hell out of there.

  I replaced the kitchen windows to their normal positions, locked them, and then left through the kitchen door, remembering to lock it from the inside before I left. Just before I closed the door, I paused, gripped by a sense of something wrong, something I’d forgotten. I ran through a mental checklist, and then it hit me. I’d left the bank website open in Dan’s browser. He probably wouldn’t notice, but it wasn’t good practice to leave such obvious tracks.

  I made my way back to the office and turned on the monitor. Sure enough, the website had already logged me out after three minutes of activity. “For security reasons,” it explained, which drew a chuckle from me. The bank’s ugly logo remained in the center of the screen. I made a mental note to talk to Alex, the CEO, about getting that changed. I closed out of the browser, turned off the monitor, and returned the chair to its original place under the desk.

  And that’s when I heard the sirens.

  Take a deep breath, I told myself. There are sirens in Las Vegas at all hours of the day. But I couldn’t shake a suspicion that the sirens had something to do with me. This was a residential neighborhood, several blocks from any busy streets. Somebody must have seen me crawling into the kitchen window.

  I ran to the front door and peered out through its narrow window. I couldn’t see anything, but the sirens were definitely getting closer. It was time to get out of there, even if it meant leaving through the front door. I had rather casually committed a felony by breaking in to Dan’s house, and it didn’t matter that I was a private investigator. The law made no exceptions.

  I was halfway out the front door when I saw the black Lexus pull up at an alarming speed. As it approached my car, the driver slammed on the brakes and pulled over, quite deftly I thought, like a man who’d had training well beyond high school Driver Ed. He was now less than twenty-five feet behind my car, meaning that I was trapped. Had the police let the guy out already? Or had they captured the wrong guy? My head was spinning, distracting me from the more important matter of what the hell I should be doing in response.

  Obviously, I couldn’t go out to my car now that the Lexus had cozied up to it, so I jumped back inside the house and closed the door as quickly as I could without attracting attention. The driver had probably been too busy parking his car to notice me stepping out of the door which was partially shielded by a porch. I watched through the door’s narrow window.

  The driver sat in his car for a few seconds, the darkened windows showing only a dim profile. All I could tell was that the driver was a large person, probably a man, who seemed to be talking on a cell phone. When the figure’s hand lowered from his face, he opened his door and stepped out of the car, scanning the street and Dan’s front yard before walking up to my car. He was about fifty with a gray buzz cut and aviator sunglasses, olive skin, a ramrod-straight back, and a John Wayne swagger. Ex-military, I figured.

  The sirens were getting louder, but they didn’t seem to bother him as he inspected my car. He was bending over now, peering through the front window, and then he leaned against it and whipped out his phone again to make a call. Why was he so interested in my car?

  I tried to make sense of it. Clearly, it was not the same man the police had arrested at Alex’s house, the same man who I had assumed to have shot Carlos. The guy they had arrested seemed more of a turd, and he’d denied shooting anyone despite the fact that he’d been caught trespassing on Alex’s property. By contrast, the guy leaning on my car was a serious man, a guy I could easily imagine committing acts of violence. And enjoying it.

  The sirens got distinctly louder, their blare no longer a vague whine but a brisk, sharp affront to the ears. And then I heard the distinct rumble of a large diesel engine as it shifted gears and gained speed. It was a fire truck, followed closely by an ambulance. They headed straight past the house, and then the truck
driver stomped loudly on the brakes in front of a pink-hued stucco ranch three doors down the street.

  I cringed. By now I had been hoping the police would arrive, and maybe I could concoct some story to get myself out of it. Anything was better than facing the guy outside. And why was he leaning on my car? It was almost as if he wanted me to see him. He knew I would be inside, and the blaring sirens would have lured anyone to the front windows to see what was going on. And that’s when I got a deep, sinking feeling, a split-second realization that I had been duped.

  It happened faster than I expected, every last gasp of air leaving my body at once, as though I had been squeezed from behind by an angry bear. I almost blacked out, but I was conscious enough to feel a couple of ribs being broken and then falling, almost lifeless, to the floor. My eyes were shut, and I was losing consciousness fast, and the last thing I heard was the unmistakable sound of duct tape being pulled and ripped off a roll.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I don’t know if it was two minutes or twelve, but it wasn’t long before I came to. My brain was in a fog, and as I regained consciousness, I realized I was in a small, dark room—maybe a closet—and the weirdest thing I noticed was that I was forced to breathe through my nose. And then I felt the duct tape on my wrists, pinned uncomfortably behind my back, and I soon realized it was taped across my mouth, too. In fact, it seemed to be strapped all the way around my head, which was pressed awkwardly into a pile of laundry or towels. A fiery spot on the back of my head throbbed painfully. Instinctively, I reached up to touch it, forgetting that my hands were bound behind me.

  I heard muffled voices outside, two men, which meant there were at least two men out there. What did they want with me? My brain was in a haze, distracted by pain and panic, but I knew it had to be Owen’s doing. We’d assumed that the guy the police found on Alex’s lawn was the same guy who’d been following us in the black Lexus, but obviously that had been wishful thinking. I should have taken the reverend’s money, I thought ruefully. Why did I have to follow through with it? I didn’t even like being called a “victim.” I just wanted to get the guy off the street for a while so he couldn’t keep doing what he was doing. Being bound and gagged, and probably killed, would be my reward.

  Ten minutes went by, or was it twenty? There was an occasional gurgle of human speech outside the door, but I couldn’t make anything out. It seemed like they were waiting for something. True to form, my mind was treating me to a slideshow of gruesome death images. Hanging, drugging, bludgeoning, getting shot at close range by a fifty-caliber assault rifle, getting thrown into a pool of hungry sharks, you name it. The images kept flashing through my mind. It got so bad that I began wishing for a mafia-style plug behind the ear. That would be quick and simple.

  Eventually, I heard what sounded like a mini commotion outside the door. I couldn’t see a thing, but I assumed I was in one of the bedroom closets because I was surrounded by clothes and soft linens. I sensed there were now a couple of extra people in the room outside the closet door, and I strained to listen.

  That’s when the door opened, the light from the room hurting my eyes. I squinted up to see the profile of the guy from the Lexus. He reached down and grabbed me under my arm, heaving me up with incredible strength. Pressed against him for a moment, I felt the unmistakable bulge of hard metal under his shirt. When my eyes finally adjusted to the light, I caught a glimpse of his face. He wasn’t wearing a hateful, murderous expression, but one more suggestive of businesslike resignation, as though he wanted to get this over with and get paid. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but it was almost scarier that way.

  Squinting into the brightness, I looked around and saw a complete stranger, a wiry but athletic man of about thirty-five who was fixing me with a pitiful stare. Bald and with olive skin and dark eyes, he looked like an Israeli commando. He must have been the one who coldcocked me from behind. I nodded at him, sarcastically, as though we were old friends getting reacquainted.

  And then I noticed them standing in the hallway, Dan and Laura. So, they were in on this too. Both were standing awkwardly next to the door, shifting their weight around. Neither of them would make eye contact with me. Dan had originally hired me to trace where some money had gone, and now he’d turned on me. He must really have treasured his pastor if he was going to protect him like this. It was something I couldn’t relate to. If my priest had drugged a woman and tried to assault her, I would find a new church, and I definitely wouldn’t try to silence the woman who made the allegations. It was crazy.

  But here we were. No one said anything, which naturally, I took as a bad sign. Executioners don’t engage in a lot of chitchat before they slip the noose on, I figured. Finally, it got awkward, and the man from the Lexus loosened his grip on my arm and turned to face me.

  “You’ve caused a lot of trouble,” he said matter-of-factly. And then he carefully removed the tape from across my mouth. It hurt less than I’d expected.

  “I didn’t cause any trouble,” I said, unable to stifle the protest.

  The man just shook his head.

  It was at that moment when I realized there was something off about the whole thing, something above and beyond the fact that I was standing in a stranger’s house with duct tape holding my arms behind me. It was the gun. The wiry guy across the room had a gun, but it wasn’t pointed at me. He was aiming at Dan and Laura. That’s why they weren’t looking up, I realized. It had nothing to do with the fact that they’d betrayed me. They were about to be killed themselves.

  “Can somebody explain what’s going on?” I asked, exasperated. If I was going to get killed, I didn’t want to stand around awkwardly staring at a bunch of strangers first.

  The two guys with guns looked at each other.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” the guy next to me said vaguely. “It will be more complicated, but the result will be the same.”

  The result, I mused. You mean my blood-spattered corpse? I wanted to kick him in the groin, but he had just cocked his gun menacingly, so I thought better of it.

  The wiry guy was inspecting the room, keeping one eye on Dan and Laura. “It would be better in the kitchen,” he said to his associate, who nodded and grunted.

  “Let’s go,” he said, giving me a gentle shove.

  Both of them followed behind the three of us. I felt no love for Dan and Laura, of course, but apparently we were in the same boat. I wondered what they had done to wind up at the wrong end of a nine millimeter.

  “Turn left, into the kitchen,” one of them grunted behind us.

  Oddly, I was calmer at that grim moment than I typically was while flying in an airplane or visiting the dentist. Dan and Laura were both ashen faced, their postures slumped in resignation. They’d been defeated, but I still wondered why, and how.

  “You, there,” the Lexus guy said, pointing with his gun. He was directing me towards the kitchen table.

  “You two, stand closer, over there,” he said, speaking to Dan and Laura. His voice retained its businesslike tone, devoid of emotion.

  It was time to stall for time. “Can’t you at least tell us what’s going on?”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “You’re the one breaking into their house, and you want me to explain what’s going on to you?”

  I sighed. At least he was talking, even if he was getting a little upset. I understood it, now. He wanted to remain clinically detached, to treat us like animals or robots rather than people with voices and concerns. That would make it feel too much like murder, I supposed. I decided to double down.

  “Why do we have to stand in certain places?” I asked. “If you’re just going to kill us—”

  He interrupted me. “We’re not going to kill you, Raven,” he said, using my name for the first time. “They are.” He waved his gun in the general direction of Dan and Laura, who were holding hands in front of the sink. Directing us to stand in certain spots made sense, now. They were orchestrating a murder. A tri
ple murder.

  The other man scanned the room a final time and then reached a gloved left hand into a holster hidden behind his back. He produced another handgun that looked to be the same model as the one he was carrying in his right hand. Then, very solemnly, he handed the gun to Dan. A sinking feeling finally settled in my core. They had thought this through. If they pulled it off, it would appear to the police that the three of us had been in a deadly shootout, with no connection to Owen or the church. They would probably make it look like a domestic affair, which would be a snap since one of us was a stripper. The story would almost write itself. Married woman becomes jealous when her husband starts spending time with a stripper. Shots fired. All dead. End of story. “Three Slain in Love Triangle Shootout,” the headline would read. Owen would get rid of a pesky witness without leaving any fingerprints. But still, why did Dan and Laura have to die too?

  “Now do it,” the guy said. “Just like we talked about.”

  The guy from the Lexus was standing in the doorway, alternating his aim between Dan and Laura and me. They knew they were taking a risk by giving Dan a gun, and I sensed that they were on high alert. Of course, I had no idea what they had planned in advance, but Dan was either going to shoot me or Laura, and then whoever was still alive would be ordered to shoot Dan. We’d all get gunshot residue all over our bodies, of course, which was the whole point. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to orchestrate, but I could grasp the plan’s brilliance.

  Not surprisingly, Dan trained his quivering hand towards me. He wasn’t my favorite person in the world, but he wasn’t a killer, and I could see how grueling this was for him. My heart was racing, eyes darting in every direction seeking a solution, but I was trapped. They’d trained their guns on Dan and me, which I knew would produce similar enough bullet wounds, and I was pinned up against the kitchen table.