by Keaton, Elle
She nodded. “Yes, he did. He was very good about it.”
“I’m curious, how he was able to afford that on his salary as a deputy?”
Her mouth opened and shut and opened again. “I don’t know. I just know he paid me monthly, like he was supposed to.”
“What do you do?” Niall asked, changing the subject again.
“What do I do?”
“Yes, I’m just curious.”
“I freelance as a bookkeeper. Sometimes I help people with their taxes, but mostly bookkeeping here and there.”
“Do you make a lot doing that?”
She wobbled her head. “Not so much. Enough, I guess.”
“Did you know any of the people Duane worked with? Was there anyone you can think of who had a grudge? Maybe he owed money to someone? Because, I’ll be honest here, Duane’s finances do not add up.”
The longer Niall sat in that room and talked to Mrs. Cooper, the more nervous she became. Instead of merely clasping her hands together, now she was wringing them, and Niall didn’t think she realized she was doing it. She was scared about something and probably lying too, and it wouldn’t take much to get her to break open. She was teetering on the edge, and he’d only been in the house for ten minutes.
“I think,” Niall guessed, “you were closer to your ex-husband then you let on. Did you two get back together—unofficially, of course?”
“Who did you say you were with?”
“West Coast Forensics.”
“And you’re working with the Piedras sheriff?”
Niall did a half nod. “Consulting.” If he were a praying man, he’d pray right then not to be struck by lightning.
Mrs. Cooper stood up. “I think I’m done answering questions,” she said in a shaky voice. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
Niall stood too. “Don’t you want us to find out who murdered your husband?”
“Of course, but I don’t know anything about it.” Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. “Please leave.”
He walked to the front door, then turned back to face her. “Out of curiosity, when was the last time you communicated with Duane?”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t know. Maybe a few months ago? Now leave!”
Niall left. He got into his car and drove down the block and around the corner before pulling over again. Duane’s ex-wife was scared; she knew something she wasn’t telling anyone. Niall wondered if investigators had talked to her after Mat was injured. Probably. But one thing was for sure: a few months was less than the five months Duane Cooper had been on the lam.
21
Saturday—Mat
“Sir?”
“Yes?” Mat looked up from the notepad.
“Mrs. Tenny—”
“Jesus Christ, that woman is going to drive me around the bend. What now?”
“Sir.” Birdy’s voice had a tinge of displeasure. “She called to say there’s some suspicious people asking around for a girl.”
Mat sat up straight, immediately feeling guilty he’d bad-mouthed Mrs. Tenny. “What did she say?”
Birdy walked over to stand next to his desk. “She said it was a man and a woman, and they had a picture of a girl. She didn’t recognize the girl, but she found the couple quite suspicious, so she watched them walk back to their car, and they drove down to the ferry waiting lot and they’re still there.”
“Did you take a look?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Mat heaved himself out of his chair. “Let’s go say hello to these guys.” That they were the same people who’d been asking about Raisa at Chester’s, he had zero doubt. They must have misread the ferry schedule, because the next one wasn’t until after four.
Outside, he debated just walking the two blocks or taking his cruiser and decided he’d take the cruiser—it gave him more authority than walking up like a country sheriff. Which he was.
The second he spotted the big black SUV, he knew they were feds—or criminals, but more likely feds. And it pissed him off.
“What the hell are the motherfucking feds doing here? They didn’t even have the courtesy to check in with my office. I hate it when they ride roughshod over local authority.”
“They’re feds, sir. It’s kind of what they do.”
“Yes, but normally they let locals know when they’re around so we don’t get in their way and they don’t get in ours—which is what they’re doing right now!”
He turned abruptly into the waiting lot and parked next to the Expedition. Why did they always drive the same fucking cars? Slamming his car door behind him, he stalked to the driver’s side of the big car and pounded on the window.
The window rolled down, revealing a red-haired man in his early thirties. A woman sitting in the passenger seat leaned forward enough to see past her partner.
“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Mat demanded. “Don’t you have the courtesy to call anymore? I have citizens”—okay, one nosy citizen—“calling because you’re wandering around my island asking a lot of questions. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a small community, and it’s mine. I protect it, I take care of these people, and I want to know what you are doing here.”
“I told you so,” said the woman.
The man shook his head, reached into the center console, and pulled out a badge holder. Flipping it open, he held it through the open window so Mat could see it.
Nathaniel Richardson, FBI.
The woman held hers across the front of her partner. S. Gómez, also a special agent with the FBI.
“Do you guys want to explain yourselves?”
They glanced at each other; Gómez nodded. Richardson flipped open a file folder Mat hadn’t noticed tucked in the console and pulled out a four-by-six photograph. He handed it to Mat. It was a picture of Raisa, and fairly recent, judging by the length of her hair. “We’d really like to know where this girl is.”
“Why?” Mat demanded. “What has she done?”
“She’s a witness. The only one we’ve got. We’d like her to stay alive and testify against a real shithead.”
Mat still had the printout in his back pocket. Through his ire, instinct had him reaching for it and pulling it out. He unfolded it and handed it to Richardson.
“This guy?”
Gómez leaned over and snatched the paper from Richardson. “Franjo Petyr. Yes.”
The name was unfamiliar to Mat. “I don’t suppose Duane Cooper was on the feds’ radar?” he asked.
Richardson shrugged. “Not as far as I know. Gómez?”
“Not a name I’m familiar with. We can take a look later,” she said.
“Look,” Mat began. “I don’t want to talk here, and you can be assured that every eye in Hidden Harbor is trained on us right now. Come back to the station so we can talk in relative privacy?”
“Do you know where the girl, Raisa Melnik, is?”
“Come back with us, and we’ll talk.”
Residual anger still roiled beneath his skin, barely contained, as he drove the short distance with the Expedition behind him. It had been a damn long couple of days, and the arrival of the feds was going to make this day even longer.
“Sir?” Mat glanced at Birdy, who’d been remarkably quiet during the exchange with the feds, not even mentioning his language. “Something tells me this is all connected.”
“I would have to agree.”
Yes, things were starting to come together. He hoped it would be nice and tidy, but with the way things had been going, he suspected it would be an unholy shitshow.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff Dempsey. My apologies for not notifying your office my team was on the island. I’m Adam Klay.” He held his hand out for Mat to shake. “Head of the FBI's Skagit field office.”
“Only because he keeps turning down a promotion to West Coast lead,” Richardson offered.
Klay and another fed, Sammy Ferreira, had arrived at the station minutes after Mat and the other two officers. Ma
t suspected Gómez had been on the phone to them the minute he pulled up next to their SUV.
If the station had felt small to Mat previously, now it felt like a broom closet with all four federal agents crowded in along with him and Flynn. There were rarely ever more than two of them in the building at any given time.
“Make yourselves at home,” he said with barely any resentment, forcing a smile. “Would anyone like coffee?” It was almost five in the evening, but this day wasn’t nearly over and Mat needed caffeine.
They all nodded.
“Do you have a room we can use?” Klay asked. He was around Mat’s age, with short brown hair, a tight smile, and a build like a brick wall.
“I can give you a couple desks out here in the bullpen, or there’s an interview room—but it will be a tight fit.”
“We appreciate it; thanks for accommodating us,” said Klay, taking in the bullpen with sharp eyes.
Accommodating. Mat took a deep calming breath. He was still pissed and wanted a good explanation about why the feds were here, but he knew he likely wouldn’t get one. And he wished he’d had time to look up the name he’d learned, Franjo Petyr.
He pulled out the battered composite and dropped it on his desk. “I want to catch this guy. I have a suspicion he’s connected to more than one case here on Piedras.”
“The Petyr family has always had their fingers in a lot of pies,” Richardson said after staring at the piece of paper for a long moment. “We’ve had reason to believe he might be hiding out on the islands, but he’s been careful not to be seen. More recently we narrowed it down to Piedras—the girl being here is not a coincidence.”
Family. Wonderful. There was more than one of these fuckers.
Mat grabbed his bag from the back of his chair and pulled out the yellow pad he’d been making notes on.
Klay nodded toward the interview room. “Let’s take it in there.”
“Sure thing. Thanks for the recommendation on Soren Jorgensen, by the way.”
“Jorgensen is a good man. You hired him, then?”
Mat nodded, flipping on the light in the small room and moving to the side so the agents could file inside. Once they were all seated, he took a seat as well.
Mat was reluctantly impressed by the feds’ professionalism, as well as the team’s general openness. Adam Klay was 100 percent in charge, but he listened to what Mat had to say, and they shared what they could about Petyr. The team didn’t treat Mat and his department as lesser. In fact, they all went out of their way to compliment Mat and Birdy on what they had put together so far.
Mat had worked with the feds several times when he was in San Francisco, and it definitely didn’t always go like this.
It seemed that Raisa Melnik was a witness, a human trafficking survivor who’d slipped through the feds’ fingers last year. He wondered how she’d come to be working at Brooch Resort. Maybe Paul Prescott had been trying to cut corners with labor costs? Maybe she’d had legitimate-looking ID? They’d find out eventually.
“One of my deputies speaks a little Ukrainian, but not enough to fully interview Raisa. I put in an official request for a translator, but it might take longer than we want for the paperwork to go through. Is there anything you can do to expedite things?”
Richardson snorted, and his gaze darted to Klay, who tossed his fancy silver pen onto the desk with a clatter.
“What?” Mat glanced around the table at the amused faces of the other feds.
“Fucking Bolic,” Klay grunted. “I should have thought of him.”
“Is this a problem?” Mat asked.
“No.” Klay picked his cell phone up from where it lay on the table and punched in a number.
“Seth. Adam. Have Sacha call me. No, I’m out on a case. Right. Hopefully. Thanks.” This last was said a bit grudgingly. Mat had the impression it didn’t relate to who Klay was talking to so much as who he was talking about.
Seconds later, Klay’s cell phone buzzed, and he immediately answered, “Bolic. We have a situation over here on Piedras. If I tell you it involves Petyr, will you get your ass over here? Right. We’re at the sheriff’s office on Piedras. ASAP. Thanks.” He looked at Mat. “He’ll be here as soon as he can.”
Mat’s phone vibrated. Glancing at it, he saw it was Niall.
“I need to take this; I’ll be back in minute or two.”
“You’re what?” Mat thought maybe they had a bad connection. He’d heard Niall say he was in Anacortes, but last Mat knew, Niall was resting at home—like he was supposed to be.
“I’m in Anacortes,” Niall repeated. “I just talked to Duane Cooper’s ex-wife.”
“Niall.” Mat dug deep for patience he did not feel at the moment. Niall had fucking talked to Duane Cooper’s ex-wife? “Say again?” he asked, knowing he sounded incredulous.
“You heard me.”
Did he sound at all remorseful? Mat didn’t think so. “Jesus Christ, you are not—” He searched around for the right descriptor. “You’re not fucking Jim Rockford! You can’t just go around interfering in an active case.”
“I kind of am.”
“What? What are you even saying?”
“I kind of am Jim Rockford. I’m a licensed PI who, apparently, can’t keep his nose out of other people’s business. I drive a crappy car and have terrible luck with women. Do you want to hear what I have to tell you or not?”
“Really? At this point, no,” Mat ground out. “I’m pissed off. I didn’t think I had to specifically ask you to keep your nose out of sheriff’s office business. When I want your help, I’ll be sure to ask for it.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and Mat knew he’d gone too far. And shit, Niall was a good investigator. A great investigator, and he wouldn’t be calling Mat right now if he hadn’t found something.
“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Niall. The feds showed up today. They didn’t even have the balls to tell me they were on my turf. They want the girl we brought in this morning; she’s a witness in a human trafficking case.”
“Okay,” Niall responded, “but in case you missed the memo, Sheriff Mat Dempsey, I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I’ve never believed Duane Cooper acted alone. Therefore, whoever had him set the bomb is still alive and kicking, and”—he took a breath Mat could hear through their connection—“I can’t fucking lose you. And I’m not sorry for coming down here.”
Mat shut his eyes as he took in Niall’s words, because he felt the same. He knew if push came to shove, he would do whatever it took to keep Niall alive and in his life. “I know. Just… What did you find out… Rockford?”
Niall snorted. “I just left her place. I’m actually parked around the corner right now. She’s scared and hiding something for sure. I, uh, might have had Ryder look into her while I was on the ferry. She has money in various accounts, and something tells me the source was Duane’s business. She’s a part-time bookkeeper, Mat, in a relatively small town. She’s never worked full time. Where else would the money come from?”
“Well, Cooper was paying alimony. I heard him bitch about it enough times.”
“Was he paying her his entire salary? Because with what she has, he had to have been—and more. Yet he still had enough to buy boats, own his own house. The money trail is what we need to follow.”
Mat didn’t miss the “we,” but he chose to ignore it. “You say she’s scared?”
“Yeah, the blinds were all drawn in the house, and her body language read terrified.”
“Do you think she’s going to run?”
“I’ve had some time to think about this, so let me just lay out some possibilities. Do you have the time?”
“A few more minutes. I like making them wait.”
“Okay. Hear me out. We’re pretty sure Cooper was smuggling something. Could have been drugs, whatever. He probably had a partner; he had to have one, in my opinion. And likely he’d been doing it a while. Maybe at first it was small stuff. Fast forward: so
mebody finds out. Your dad is my first guess. And they killed him for it—but Cooper managed to cover it up, make it look like an accident, and he’s been flying under the radar ever since.”
Mat nodded, even though Niall couldn’t see him. The idea that something like this had been going on while he was sheriff really pissed him off.
“Then Jeffrey Reynolds comes along, and you and I both know he likes to find the dirt on people. I don’t know exactly what he and your brother were up to, but somehow he ferreted out Cooper’s secrets. Cooper panicked, but then Reynolds was arrested… and also the marina fire helped him out. I’ll bet you a bag of doughnuts that speedboat he had moored out there was for picking up drops.”
“Okay.” This made sense to Mat.
“But I’m digressing. He’s divorced, right? He can’t have all this extra cash lying around; he needs to seem legit. A man who’s hit some tough times and is struggling a bit. That’s where the whale-touristy shit comes in. But there’s no way he was making the kind of cash the ex-wife has from marine tours and low-grade smuggling. Along the way he got an offer he couldn’t refuse—likely from this guy Petyr—that had him picking up much riskier cargo.”
“Human trafficking.” Raisa.
“One possibility. Drugs too.”
Agent Klay stuck his head out the doorway of the interview room, raising a questioning eyebrow at Mat. He nodded back. “I’m gonna have to go, the feds are getting antsy.”
“Okay, really quick. Bonnie claims she’s a bookkeeper. What if she’s been keeping the books for Cooper all these years—she was a money front. Is, since she’s still alive. I don’t know why she’s still alive, but I have a feeling with Cooper dead, she’s in a hell of a lot of hot water.”
“Do you think the killer doesn’t know about her?”
“Maybe, maybe not. If so, he may not know her level of involvement. Or he killed Duane only to find out someone else had the evidence he was after.”
“And now he thinks she has what he wants,” Mat speculated. “And maybe even if he wants to get rid of her, that thing is still dangerous, so he can’t just kill her. He needs whatever it is so he can destroy it. Maybe that’s why Duane was killed?”