Dedication
To Susan E. Crosby.
May you always find your Pansy Pot.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
About the Author
By Robin Burcell
Copyright
About the Publisher
Acknowledgments
For Their Expertise and Guidance
I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people who helped me with details, advice, research, and support. If any errors are made, the fault is mine, and I ask you only to remember that it’s fiction.
To Susan E. Crosby, who always has such good advice. I can’t thank you enough.
To the wonderful women in my book club, for being my beta readers and offering great insight: Cindy Brink, Sharon Flemmer, Wendy Grupe, Liz Hittle, Wendy Johnson, Penny Lawley, and Michele Silva.
To FBI Special Agent George Fong (ret.), for taking the time to answer all things FBI.
To Colin Campbell, West Yorkshire police officer (ret.), for help with police procedure and traveling in London.
To Sergeant Dale Miller, Lodi Police Department (ret.), for assisting with information on bombs and explosives.
To Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author, for vetting some of my British phrases.
To Twist Phelan, attorney, writer, and friend, for answering questions pertaining to law.
To DP “Doug” Lyle, MD, for taking time from his writing to answer medical questions when my various characters found themselves injured in the line of duty.
To my mother, Francesca, who reminded me of the wonderful places we’d visited in London and helped with a few key scenes there.
To my agent, Jane Chelius, always my champion.
And, of course, to everyone at HarperCollins who put in their time to make this book wonderful, and especially to my editor, Lyssa Keusch, who brings out the best in me.
For a Worthy Cause
To Thomas. A. Sanchez, “Thom” to those who know him well, for his generous donation to the Lodi Library. I hope you enjoy your cameo role.
1
FBI Special Agent Tony Carillo tossed his keys on the table in the entryway of his condo, dropped his coat over the back of the sofa, then walked into the kitchen. It had been one of those days, the sort where whatever could go wrong, did go wrong, starting with the arrest of the bank robbery suspect who decided to run at the last minute—right into an oncoming SUV.
Carillo opened the fridge, anticipating the leftover Christmas turkey dinner that his neighbor Mrs. Williams sent over, which reminded him that he needed to put a new bulb in her porch light. She was too old to be climbing up that stepladder, he thought, when he heard a rustling noise coming from the spare bedroom he used as his office. He quietly closed the refrigerator door, drew his gun, then stepped into the hallway, careful to avoid the one spot in the hardwood floor that creaked as he made his way to the back of the house. He paused just outside the office door to listen.
There it was again. The sound of rustling papers.
Finger against the trigger guard, he swung into the room.
His wife looked up, saw the gun, her eyes going wide as she dropped a book. “Tony . . .”
Hell if his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. He quickly lowered his weapon, holstered it. “What are you doing here, Sheila?”
“I—I was just looking for something to read.”
He glanced at the papers on his desk, saw the envelope addressed to his former partner, Sydney Fitzpatrick, still sealed, thank God. Sheila wasn’t exactly known for keeping out of things that didn’t belong to her, and he casually straightened the papers, making sure the envelope was covered. “I mean what are you doing here? In my house.”
“It’s our house.”
Not the conversation he wanted to have right now. “Until your lawyer finishes sucking me dry. You need anything else to help him accomplish that? Blood type? DNA sample?”
“This isn’t easy for me, Tony.” She tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear, her hand still shaking, probably from seeing him pull a gun on her. “I’d like to speed things along, especially now that I’m getting married.”
“Word to the wise, Sheila,” Carillo said, walking out of the room, trying to keep his temper in check as she followed him out. “Wait for the divorce to be final before you tie the knot. Less problems that way.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“What are you really doing here?” He entered the kitchen, then looked back at her.
She turned away, unable to meet his gaze. “I need a place to stay until Trip gets out of jail.” Jefferson Colby III—or Trip, as Sheila called him—was her current boyfriend. A real piece of work, this one, Carillo thought, arrested for allegedly embezzling money from his employer, a charity no less.
Carillo opened the fridge, eyed the six-pack of Sierra Nevada on the shelf, figuring it wasn’t nearly enough. He grabbed a bottle, closed the door, then faced her. “No.”
“Aren’t you going to offer me a beer?”
“No, because you’re leaving.”
“I can’t. There are people after Trip. They might come after me.”
“So Trip is guilty of stealing money from his employer?”
“No. Of course not. But you don’t understand.”
“You’re right. So fill me in.”
“The charity he works for. He thinks it might be a front for some criminal thing.”
“A criminal thing? Really, Sheila? Something beyond the fact Trip was skimming money from it?”
“It’s like I’m talking to a brick wall! Why do I even bother? They set him up.”
“Of course they did.”
“At least talk to his friend in Washington, D.C., Dorian Rose.”
“What is that? The name of a ship?”
“His friend who got him the job.”
Carillo took a long drink, wondering where she was going with this.
“I’m
serious.”
“Dorian Rose. Washington, D.C. Anything else?”
Sheila narrowed her gaze, took a frustrated breath and said, “Dorian Rose works for a sister charity in Washington. One of his and Trip’s friends was killed in a car accident after he found some discrepancy in the books and reported it. I mean, it was a real accident, so they don’t know, but before he died, he told Dorian to have Trip call his brother-in-law in London and have him see if the same thing was going on there.”
“What thing?”
“I have no idea. Whatever it was, Trip thinks it’s going on here. And now Trip’s brother-in-law won’t call him back, and then Trip was arrested and I think I’m being followed.”
Carillo stared at her a full second as what she was saying sunk in. “And you, of course, decided to keep all this from me because . . . ?”
“Trip told me I couldn’t tell anyone. He said it was too dangerous.”
“What the hell do I look like? A Boy Scout? That’s my job, Sheila. And it helps when people tell us exactly what is going on so we don’t goddamned get ourselves killed.”
“You’re yelling at me.”
“Yes, I’m yelling at you! What the hell were you thinking?”
“That maybe Trip would tell you?”
“Jesus,” he said. “He’s in friggin’ jail, so I think the likelihood of him mentioning it to me is about nil. Which is not to say I believe you.”
“Does that mean I can stay?”
He took a deep breath, then looked at his wife, wondering how it was he’d stayed married to her as long as he had. He’d loved her once. Hell, he still loved her, even though she’d slept her way through half of his friends over the years and, after the most recent round of counseling failed, he knew when it was time to let go. Past time. “You can sleep on the couch.”
She rushed forward and hugged him. “Thank you, Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, holding his beer away to keep it from spilling, and wishing he’d had the foresight to bring home a case of the stuff. “Write down everything you know about this charity, this Dorian Rose guy, how we can get ahold of him, and anything else you can think of.”
Sheila took a pad of paper from the drawer, then started writing, and he tried to ignore the occasional tear running down her cheek, since each one made him want to drive out to the jail and strangle Trip until he confessed to exactly whatever the hell was going on. One thing was certain. He knew when Sheila was keeping secrets, and he was sure she hadn’t yet told him everything—a fact confirmed the following morning when he discovered that not only was Sheila gone, but so was his ATM card.
2
Sydney Fitzpatrick tossed the newspaper on the coffee table, disgusted at the California State Legislature’s latest efforts to balance the budget—the early release of prisoners into the parole system, because the jails were too full. Apparently someone forgot to mention to the lawmakers that they’d already laid off hundreds of parole agents earlier in the year due to lack of money. Never-ending circle, she thought, as her eleven-year-old half sister Angie rolled a tennis ball across the floor near the Christmas tree, hoping to teach her shepherd-mix puppy to fetch. But try as she might, Sydney couldn’t stop thinking about the news article. The same thing was happening on the federal level, too, even at the FBI where she worked. They’d frozen all hiring, and she’d heard rumors that they were canceling the next recruit class for new agents.
“Watch, Syd,” Angie said.
“I’m watching.”
Sarge scrambled after the ball, stopped when his tail hit an ornament, turned, eyed the shiny orb swinging from the lowest branch, then jumped up, trying to nip it. Angie dove forward, catching the pup, shaking her finger at him. “No, Sarge. No!”
“Angela!” her mother said, walking into the room just in time to see her precious collection of decorations threatened by the dog’s antics. “Be careful. Those are older than you are.”
“Everything’s older than I am, Mom. Maybe you should be more specific.”
“Is playing with your dog outside specific enough?” she asked, constantly challenged by her youngest daughter, a change-of-life baby who was far too intelligent for her age. “Do not play near that tree again, or the dog goes out,” she said on her way up the stairs.
Any retort her sister had planned died at the sound of a sharp rap at the front door, and Angie jumped to answer it, Sarge bounding after her. She threw open the door before Sydney could remind her to check out the peephole. All Sydney could see was a dark suit as her sister hugged the man, saying, “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Hey, squirt.”
The voice belonged to Tony Carillo, her former partner before she’d transferred from San Francisco to the FBI Academy at Quantico to teach forensic art. Angie opened the door wider and dragged him in by his hand. “Look who came by to see me.”
“I was in the neighborhood. Bank robbery in Marin yesterday. A couple houses I want to check on a tip we received.”
Sydney glanced out the window. His blue Crown Victoria was parked in the drive, the front seat empty. “You’re by yourself?”
“I was thinking maybe you’d like to go with me.”
“Hard as it is to believe, I did not fly all the way out from the East Coast so I could work a bank robbery with you.”
“I’ll go if she won’t!” Angie said.
Carillo grinned at Angie’s enthusiasm. Her dream was to be a cop, and he loved to encourage it. “Let’s talk your sister into coming first, eh, Angie. We wouldn’t want those skills of hers diminishing now that she’s sitting behind a desk in a classroom all day.”
“If anything,” Sydney replied, “my skills have been sharpened these last few months. Besides, it’s Christmas.”
“Last I checked, it was the twenty-seventh.”
“And I’m off until New Year’s.”
Angie’s mouth dropped open as she looked at Sydney. “You can’t let him go alone! What if something happens?”
“Yeah,” Carillo said. “You don’t want something to happen to me.”
“I am doing nothing today and enjoying every second—”
Her mother came down the stairs carrying a basket of dirty clothes. “Hi, Tony. Are you staying for lunch?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hughes. Working a case. But thanks.”
She hefted the basket on her hip, then pinned her gaze on Sydney. “How about running Angela down to her ballet lesson, then basketball practice? It’ll give you two some good quality time together and I can get some laundry done.”
Vegetating between ballet and basketball? Definitely not on her list of how to spend the rare day off. “Geez, Mom,” Sydney said, standing. “I’d love to, but they’re running shorthanded at work, and Tony needs my help.”
“Bank robbery,” Angie said solemnly. “FBI stuff.”
Her mother gave a sigh, then continued on through the hall into the laundry room just off the kitchen. If she’d had her way, Sydney would be teaching kindergarten at some secluded private school where nothing bad ever happened.
Carillo turned a triumphant smile Sydney’s way. “Get your gun, Fitzpatrick. We’ve got a bad guy to catch.”
“This is for you,” Carillo said once they were in his car. He handed Sydney a thick envelope.
“Gee, and here I was hoping for coffee and a doughnut. What is it?”
“The BICTT numbers. Figured it was safer to give it to you in person, what with Sheila snooping around.”
Sydney fingered the envelope. The acronym stood for Bank of International Commerce Trade and Trust but was better known in their world as the Bank of International Crooks, Terrorists, and Thieves. Even the CIA had used the bank, which had caused a major government scandal a couple decades ago, before it was shut down. Sydney had stumbled across several players in the BICTT cover-up while investigating her father’s murder and found the original set of numbers, which the government confiscated. Carillo, being a firm believer in governmental conspiracies, mad
e a photocopy of the numbers, feeling that somewhere, sometime, they might come in handy. Now all they had to do was figure out what they meant. “Any idea what I’m supposed to do with these?” she asked.
“Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t flash them around. And for God’s sake, don’t start running them on any computers. Doc figures if you do, you might as well hold up a sign asking the CIA to come knocking on your door,” he said, referring to his current partner, Michael “Doc” Schermer.
“Lovely.” She tucked the envelope beneath the seat. “So why’d you really want me to come with you?” she asked as they drove south on the freeway toward San Francisco. “You caught that bank robber yesterday. I read about it in the paper.”
“Doc’s out of town,” he said. “Wasn’t anyone else I could ask. It’s about Sheila.”
Carillo and Sheila were in the midst of a contentious divorce battle over the “custody” of Carillo’s modest condo. It was, as far as she knew, the big holdup in why they hadn’t finalized the divorce.
“What’d she do this time?”
He glanced in his rearview mirror, then changed lanes. “You remember that boyfriend she had back when we were working your father’s murder?”
“The guy with the mansion?”
“Not him. The other one. The guy from England.”
“Must have missed that update.”
“Yeah, you might’ve been in Mexico dodging a few bullets at the time.” He signaled for a right turn, glanced over his shoulder to check for traffic, then gave her a pointed look before turning his attention to the road. “She’s talking marriage with this one.”
“Bigger checkbook?”
“Bigger something,” he said. “And as much as I’d like to move on, get Sheila out of my hair, the guy bugs me.”
“He’s not you?”
“Aren’t you the funny one. He’s being investigated by the locals for skimming money from the charity he works for, and Sheila’s insisting I look into it and clear his name.”
“Only a minor conflict of interest, eh?”
“I called the detective investigating it. Clear-cut case. Not a lot I can do, even if I was so inclined—which I’m not.”
“So she’s involved with a dirtbag. That can’t be the only reason.”
“She took off last night. Said she was scared, wanted to spend the night at my place because she thinks someone’s trying to kill Trip.”
The Black List Page 1