With her phone still pressed to her ear, Lyndsay gave him the sweet, friendly “Lyn Francis” smile that her undercover alter ego had been using all week while she passed as an interior designer for Mrs. Kitty MacLaine and her congressman husband.
Unlike the contractors in the small community that she’d been monitoring, this man didn’t smile back at her. And something in his wary eyes made her pause.
His frown deepened as he moved past her vehicle.
Chewing her lip, she watched him, following his progress down the restaurant’s small, gravel parking lot to a commercial van labeled Seacoast Beer Distributors idling in the far spot. The bartender stood outside the passenger door, hand on his hip, as he rapped on the window, then initiated what appeared to be a not-so-friendly conversation with a younger man, also on his mobile phone.
She blew out a breath. Of course—the bartender was preoccupied with the state of his establishment’s beer lines.
“Lyn, are you there?” her partner’s gravelly voice asked over the phone.
“I’m here,” she said, relaxing into her seat again.
“What’s going on?”
“A local passed by the car. He’s gone now.”
“Be careful. The most important thing is to keep your cover.”
“Don’t I know it.” Pete, her partner during the past week, was a grizzled old-timer with years of experience under his belt, and though she was an experienced state police officer as well, this was her first time undercover. Pete seemed protective of her for it, and she didn’t mind. She got to do the interesting work, gathering and relaying the information to him, while he sat on the other side of her phone calls.
She craved the work. She needed the work.
“Okay,” she said, “moving on, the two guys who go with the white box truck are the McAuliffe brothers, James and Brian. James goes by Jimmie. Both are about five-ten. Midtwenties. Live locally. The truck has no identifying company name or logo, and I’m given to understand that they’re freelancers who work for themselves by word of mouth.”
“Got it.” Pete’s voice was a murmur, as if he was concentrating because he was typing the information.
“That’s all for today. I hope this is helping the burglary investigation,” she said wistfully, keeping her eye on the bartender, his back still to her. She was leaving this afternoon. She was going to miss the assignment, as well as her lunches at the Seaside with the contractor teams.
“Yeah, it’s helping. So far we’ve been ruling people out as suspects. We’ll find out more about the investigation tomorrow.”
“Right.” Tomorrow was the day the burglary task force was meeting at headquarters, up in Concord. She hoped to be part of phase two, because to be part of the team that brought down the ring of thieves preying on wealthy homes along the seacoast was what she most wanted.
The bartender glanced her way, and it wasn’t a friendly look. He was suspicious of her still. And that could jeopardize things...
On a whim, she said, “Pete, could you please look up and tell me who lives at 118 Seaside Drive?” That was the home—connected to the Seaside Bar and Grill by a covered walkway—the bartender had come from.
“Affirmative. There’s a Margaret Reilly, age sixty. And a Patrick Reilly, age nineteen.”
Definitely not the bartender. He looked to be in his thirties. She thought she’d heard one of the contractors calling him John, but she wasn’t positive.
“Lyn?”
“Please check if Margaret Reilly owns the Seaside,” she said. There was a Margie who worked in the kitchen. Until now Lyndsay hadn’t connected that Margie might live right next door.
“Hold on, let me check...affirmative, as well. What’s going on?”
She wondered if John could be Margie’s son. He would be the right age. “Pete, could you check if there’s an address for a John Reilly in Wallis Point? Age thirty-something.” It was just a whim, but she wanted to cover her bases.
“One minute.” There was a short pause. “Affirmative again—22 Cove Road.”
That was about two miles away, closer to the cul-de-sac where she worked. Lyndsay had memorized the Wallis Point street maps prior to arriving at her assignment.
She didn’t know what, if anything, this information told her. Bartender John, possibly John Reilly, was still standing by the beer truck, and every few minutes he stared toward her. She needed to find out if he was, in fact, John Reilly, Margie’s son.
“Lyn, is there something I should know?”
“Yes. Please add Margaret and Patrick Reilly to the list for background checks. It seems everyone in the area stops by this place at one time or another. Hold off on John Reilly for now, though.” She would verify John’s real name in a few minutes, but Pete could get started. “I know we initially didn’t have the owners of the Seaside Bar and Grill on our surveillance list, but I think it’s prudent to check them out.”
“Will do.”
She stretched her shoulders. “Okay, then. I’ve passed you information on everyone who has visited or is affiliated with the congressman’s neighborhood during the past four days. Is there anything else you need from me before I wrap it up here and head back north tonight?”
“Yeah, we need one more thing. No, make that two.”
“Great.” She could multitask. And she liked assignments. “What do you have?”
“I need you to get into the Goldrick house this afternoon.” That was the vacation home on the lot directly beside the MacLaines’. “You’re specifically looking for any artwork on the walls. Paintings that look as if they might be worth something. We’re not seeing anything on the insurance company reports, but we want to make sure.”
Her heart sped up. Finally, police work that was more directly connected to the burglaries that Pete and other members of the task force were investigating. “No problem. Does this mean I’ll be continuing with phase two of the task force?”
“One step at a time, Lyn.”
“I was invited up to Concord for the meeting tomorrow,” she said cheerfully.
Pete laughed. “Because I recommended you. You’re doing great work so far.”
He hadn’t said what her future was to be, one way or the other. That was up to Commander Harris, she supposed.
She wasn’t going to give them any reason not to let her continue.
“I’ll head inside to lunch, and then get to it,” she said. “What was the second objective? You said I have two.”
“The second objective is the same as always. Keep your cover, Lyn.”
“Why are you telling me this again?”
“Because I want to stress to you that keeping your cover is your first, last and major objective, always. Never forget it.”
“Right,” she said cheerfully again. “I’m an interior decorator currently contracted by DesignSea. This week, I’m working on a proposal for Congressman MacLaine and his wife.”
“You’re so subtle,” Pete said dryly.
She laughed because his sarcasm was unfounded. She was subtle. She felt like a duck in water doing this kind of work, and that was a great feeling.
Except where he was concerned. She darted a glance toward John, the bartender, as she hung up with Pete. Staring at her, yet again. She was giving herself a third agenda item for this lunch break, and that was to find out his full name and his particulars so Pete could run his background check.
Exiting from the car, she grabbed her purse, which carried her concealed Glock, then headed inside the Seaside Bar and Grill. The air smelled fresh and briny, and the wind blew through the opening of her jacket, making her shiver. She opened the door to the eatery, smelling something delicious, like freshly baked bread.
She checked her watch: 11:46. The kitchen was open but still a bit early for Andy Hannaman’s crew,
the group who were working on the Goldrick home. They didn’t habitually leave the oceanfront cul-de-sac until noon, then it was a six-minute drive to their lunch spot.
Taking a seat in the back corner, Lyndsay strategically chose her favorite position where she had a view of the parking lot and road, plus a view to the entrance as well as the kitchen entry, with the long wooden bar beside it.
She waited. John would be inside soon, as well as Andy. Both her objectives could be achieved together. She could chat with the crews and organically, without suspicion, gain an invitation to look at the Goldrick renovation, as well as unobtrusively ask for John-the-bartender’s particulars.
In the meantime, Millie, the waitress who stood only as high as Lyndsay’s shoulders, came and took her sandwich order.
“I’d like the BLT, please.” Another strategic decision, designed to initiate a conversation with Andy. Millie nodded at her, then scuttled off. The little waitress didn’t speak much—she just did her job.
For the moment, Lyndsay was alone with her thoughts. Nothing to do but sit at the scarred table and gaze over the parking lot and street to the dunes beyond, with a sliver of dark blue ocean in the distance. The beach at Wallis Point reminded her of summer vacation from her youth. Also of romantic vacations from her marriage, but she didn’t like to think those thoughts.
Millie brought her a glass of iced tea, which she set beside Lyndsay’s department-issued mobile phone on the table. “Thank you, Millie.”
She received a brief nod and a smile in reply. Followed by the retreat of quick paces from soft-soled sneakers.
Concentrate. Watch for Andy Hannaman’s crew.
She checked her perimeter. Cocked an ear for the sound of a vehicle pulling into the gravel lot.
Instead, the door opened, and John the bartender walked inside, followed by the young man from the beer truck. The young man wore a uniform shirt with a logo, and his body language indicated that he was reluctant to follow John. The two men headed behind the bar, and she observed as John explained in a low but authoritative murmur what he needed the young man to fix. Evidently, there was a problem with the beer line.
Distracted from her purpose, she gave them her full attention. John’s head was bent. He had a short haircut, like a lot of the police officers she worked with. But it wasn’t just his looks that drew her notice. There was something to the way he moved. The subtle cock of his hip, the deliberate, staccato punch of his fingers tapping against his forearm as he concentrated. His mannerisms showed he was impatient. Alert. Coiled.
He turned, and for a split second, she caught him studying her, too. Smiling as if she was nothing more than a red-blooded woman checking out an interesting, red-blooded man, she gazed directly at him.
Her line of sight was broken by Millie, bringing out her bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. It smelled delicious, and Lyndsay’s stomach rumbled, craving food, so she nonchalantly turned her attention to that and dug in.
She wasn’t really drawn to John, she told herself. She’d been wary of romantic relationships with men ever since Jason had passed and she’d been widowed. Since then, she’d tried to live on, tried to press forward and be cheerful and find something meaningful to do.
Her solace had been to keep busy, with work, work-related training classes, sessions at the gun range. Anything not to be alone with her thoughts...
Then this opportunity had arisen—to work undercover, a chance at maybe later being promoted to a detective. Her dad had been so thrilled to hear about it. She’d thought maybe...maybe her life could be more fulfilled if this professional assignment worked out and she became a full-time detective. She would get to work on bigger cases, help more people than by being a police officer in a squad car. It would also be a job where she could actually wear street clothing and feel more like her long-ago, pre-widowhood self.
She glanced down to where her duty belt usually dug into her hips. Not today. Today she wore a dress she’d chosen because she liked it, with brown tights underneath and ankle boots, plus a short leather jacket that fit her undercover status.
She glanced at John.
Only to catch him staring at her again. Then, after that split second when they met gazes, he abruptly looked away. And he continued his conversation with the beer distributor guy.
John bent over, and for a moment she was treated to the sight of his clearly muscled torso that had been hidden by his oversize black T-shirt. He had...a nice body. She inhaled and crossed her legs beneath the wooden table. But it wasn’t the appropriate time or place to be thinking of such things, not by a long shot.
She forced herself to look away from the bar and toward the door. Through two sets of plate glass windows she saw the small parking lot where her sporty, black, undercover car was by itself. In early April, the place was still briskly cool, too early for the summer season, and thus, not crowded with traffic and beachgoers on vacation.
The sound of tires on gravel crackled, and Lyndsay refocused. Right on time, Andy Hannaman and his crew had arrived in their large white work van with Hannaman General Contractor stenciled in red paint inside a white oval-shaped logo.
In the front seat was Andy’s son, AJ, and in the back seat, AJ’s friend Chet Evans. A black pickup truck followed the van into the lot. Moon Buzzell, who was building a new tile shower under Andy’s direction at the mansion next door to where Lyndsay was undercover, had shown up.
As Andy exited his van, he saw her through the window and waved. Cheerfully—because she had genuinely come to like him—she waved back. Andy was older than her, closer to her father’s age than to her own, and she felt comfortable with him. It had helped even more that he’d taken her under his wing on their four-mansion cul-de-sac in the wealthy section of private beach. None of the residents were back yet; it seemed all of them had hired work out to local contractors in order to prepare for the upcoming summer season.
Andy strode inside, trailed by his son and two employees. Lyndsay wasn’t worried about them—she’d spent four days now as part of their little community.
To Lyndsay’s pleasure, the contractors and workers in the cul-de-sac had bought her cover story lock, stock and barrel. Indeed, she’d enjoyed these lunches and afternoon breaks with Andy’s crew so much, she’d even felt like an interior designer, which wasn’t so strange, considering that had been her original life’s plan when she’d first left home, at eighteen. The police force had come later.
“Hey, Lyn.” Andy greeted her with a smile.
Lyndsay nodded to Andy. “How’s it going?”
“Great. I saw you taking off early for lunch,” he remarked, sitting across from her at the table.
“Yeah, playing hooky,” she admitted sheepishly.
He laughed, the lines around his eyes squinting as he did so. He was in his late fifties, she judged. Andy reminded her so much of her father, with his graying temples and crinkled blue eyes.
He peered at her plate. “So you took my advice—I told you to try the BLT. What do you think?”
“You’re right, it’s really good.” It was easy to give him a genuine smile—she liked the sandwich. A movement caught her peripheral vision, and she chanced a glance at the bar. John was ducking into the door toward what was presumably the kitchen, and Millie was beside the register, taking a phone order.
Andy saw her glance away and turned around, noting what she’d been looking at. Then he turned back. He seemed like he was going to ask her something—possibly about John—so Lyndsay intercepted that thought. Not the right time.
“What are you going to have today?” she asked Andy. “Want me to read the menu for you?” He usually squinted as he strained to read the menu blackboard across the room. “There’s a pastrami on rye. Salads, but I know you don’t like salads, so—”
“Pastrami on rye.” Andy nudged his son. “Will you order for me
while I hit the can?”
Yes, the crew had grown ever more comfortable with her by the day, to the point where they were no longer worried by their language. Lyndsay hid a smile and focused on what was left of her sandwich. The bread and the vegetables were fresh, and the bacon had been cooked just right.
When she’d finished a bite, she turned to Moon Buzzell, nicknamed “Moon” because of his round face and somewhat spacey manner. Or so she’d been told by Andy. Moon had just returned from the soda case and was opening a bottle of blue sport drink.
“Hi, Lyn.” He gave her a goofy look. “You came out early today.”
“I did.” She deliberately kept her gaze from the bar and focused only on him.
Moon’s cheeks turned red. “Andy told me today is your last day.”
“It is. I’m hoping I can come back and implement my proposal, but we’ll have to wait and see if it gets accepted.”
The door opened. Lyndsay made sure to smile and wave at the crew of guys—and one gal—who streamed inside before heading over to the soda case. The Burke crew, she privately called them. She’d already recorded information for all of them. It was a close-knit microcosm of men and women who serviced the wealthy beach homes. But she’d gotten to know their habits.
John was back behind the bar. Today one of them asked him for a draft beer. Instead of a draft, John opened a bottle of local brew for the gregarious painter without comment.
Lyndsay took a sip of her iced tea and pretended to pay full attention to Moon Buzzell as he recounted to her his opinion of the hockey game the night before. At the same time, she observed the McAuliffes.
They’d arrived alone, in their white box truck with the New Hampshire license plates whose numbers she’d already phoned in to Pete. The two men put in a to-go order and stayed apart from the others. Both scrolled their phone messages quietly as they waited.
A Family for Christmas Page 27