Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Jerusha Jones

  I chuckled. “It would help if you called ahead. Twenty-four hours’ notice would be nice. She could stock up.”

  “No can do.”

  Matt returned to his car and executed a narrow seven-point turn to get it turned around. The lights were burning brightly in Mayfield’s kitchen when we parked in a loose semi-circle near Clarice’s station wagon. It was certainly the coziest part of the old mansion, and we spent the vast majority of our time at home near the stove and fridge. That probably said something about our priorities.

  Clarice gave both Matt and me what amounts to the evil-eye, but she escorted Emmie to an early bath while I settled at the kitchen table for a heart-to-heart with my very own special agent.

  I’d disposed of Loretta in the nick of time, literally. About the only thing I could count on Matt for was showing up at the most inconvenient junctures. He had a sixth sense about it. Oh, except for the time he brought the SWAT team into Tarq’s living room when a mobster had a gun pointed at my chest. That particular interruption I was grateful for.

  So I figured I’d better be polite. “More coffee?”

  Matt laughed and ran a hand through his short dark blond hair. “I’m going to float away as it is.”

  “Suit yourself.” I shrugged and dropped into a chair across from him.

  “We were wondering why you suddenly seemed to be a homebody,” Matt said. “Clarice too.” He leaned on his elbows and fixed me with a stern gaze. “Turns out you’re not. What are you up to?”

  Ahh, so the magnetic GPS trackers that Matt had stuck on Clarice’s Subaru when he thought I wasn’t looking had fallen down on the job, and the FBI wanted to know why. I’d tucked them into a crook in the downspout of the patio overhang just outside the kitchen door, but I wasn’t going to divulge their whereabouts just yet.

  “I don’t relish the idea of being a blue blip on somebody’s screen,” I said.

  “Red, actually. It’s for your own protection. Look, Nora, we’re hearing rumblings. Skip’s former clients are getting restless. There’s a very good chance one or more of them will come after you again.”

  “How do you know?” I had the same expectation, but I wanted to hear his reasons.

  “We’ve put intermittent surveillance on the remaining Numeros.” Matt waggled his fingers in the air like quotation marks at the term. “A few of them, who normally go nowhere near each other, have initiated what appears to be diplomatic relations. They’re coordinating, and their common denominator is your husband.”

  So the FBI had taken my list of Skip’s money laundering clients to whom he still owed money seriously. This was the first I’d heard about it.

  “You could have told me sooner,” I replied through gritted teeth.

  Matt ignored my irritation. “Have you heard from Skip since the Polaroid?”

  I shook my head.

  He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper which he unfolded. It was a print of the Polaroid image of my husband standing in somebody’s drought-stricken backyard, blown up to a grainy 8” by 10”. The original picture had been wedged in the bottom of a gift basket of Texas grapefruit that had been sent to me just before Christmas — another one of Skip’s mysterious, cryptic messages.

  “The lab enhanced this and confirmed that it was taken in Luling, Texas which is a small, rural town about an hour from San Antonio.” Matt pointed to a blurry blob that hovered over the top of the weather-beaten fence behind Skip. “It’s a water tower, painted like a watermelon, part of an annual festival held there.” He spun the picture around so I could get a better look.

  It was still a blurry blob. I’d have to take his word for it. “Something that identifiable — they’re not professionals,” I murmured.

  “Or Skip — or his captors — especially want you to know where he is.” Matt pitched his eyebrows at me as though I’d have an answer for that.

  I winced and shook my head again. “Nothing. Neither Clarice nor I—” I almost added Loretta but thought better of it at the last moment, “can think of any connection between Skip and south Texas. Or with the whole state for that matter. Other than the fact that it shares a border with Mexico. Somehow he must have crossed the border without his passport.”

  Skip’s passport was under my mattress. I’d brought it back from our honeymoon in Cozumel, along with all our other luggage. Skip had only had the clothes he was wearing when he was kidnapped — no phone, no asthma inhaler, no ID. Then he’d been spotted on a San Antonio pawnshop video surveillance tape a couple weeks ago. Of course, the FBI was curious about this development and, to be honest, so was I.

  “Based on the angle of the photo, we found the house where it was taken. It’s in foreclosure, basically abandoned. The town’s so small that there aren’t many squatters. Everybody should know everybody else’s business, but no one could or would tell us about any recent activity at the house.”

  “Maybe they were there only long enough to take the picture.”

  “They were inside the house. A rear door lock had been forced, and the place was too clean.”

  “You mean they wiped their prints?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Then his kidnappers are in the system.” I leaned forward eagerly. “They know you have their fingerprints on file, so they were careful to remove them. Do you have Skip’s prints on file too?”

  Matt studied the tabletop, scrubbing his thumbnail across a dried streak of tomato sauce Clarice had missed. Maybe she needed new glasses.

  “You do.” I slumped back in my chair with a huff. “But he’s never been arrested.”

  “He’s been under investigation for a while. We found an obliging waiter at that little bistro around the corner from the foundation office. He let us have a water glass for a few minutes before sending it to the dishwasher.”

  “You were lurking on the doorstep of my office.” I thrust my shoulders forward again, trying to conceal the strain in my voice. “Before we were married.”

  “A standing date. Every Thursday. You were a good-looking, fashionable couple.” Matt nodded, at least having the grace to look sheepish on behalf of the agents from the San Francisco FBI organized crime task force. He wouldn’t have done the glad-handing and print-lifting himself. He’d just read the brief. Made me wonder exactly how much of my personal life was floating around regional FBI offices in memo form. Probably pictures too.

  I didn’t have words for him, at least not civil words. I crossed my arms over my chest and slid until my shoulders were pressed against the chair’s ladder-back slats. Part of me wished that one of those agents had stood up at my wedding and said, “Yes, I do have objections,” before the or-forever-hold-your-peace part. Actually, that old tradition hadn’t been included in our ceremony, but the agents had knowledge then that would have spared me a lot of heartache, not to mention physical danger.

  “About the construction,” Matt said, his voice deeper, thoughtful.

  “What?” I blinked at the change in subject, still steaming internally.

  “The increase in traffic. It’s making us nervous. Do you know how easy it would be for a hitman to gain access to you while wearing a hard hat and driving a utility truck? And if the extra spectators made him cautious, he could just hide in the woods until dark. I don’t have to point out to you that the odds of our finding one guy lurking somewhere on your property on short notice are next to nil.”

  “And yet you enjoy camping outside bistros in large cities.” I glared at him.

  Matt heaved a sigh. “Just tell me what’s going on back there—” He pointed in the general direction of about a thousand acres of forest and the mechanics’ garage.

  “We’re expanding the boys’ camp. Out of abject necessity. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Did you vet the contractors, run background checks?” Matt asked.

  “Walt’s doing the hiring.” I was sorry to have missed the excitement. It sounded like there’d been a stream of people in and out of
the Mayfield property today. But I couldn’t admit my ignorance without prompting questions about what I had been busy with all day.

  “There’s an old guy, long beard, limps. Seems to be a volunteer of some sort. What’s the deal with him?” Matt’s hazel eyes narrowed to match mine.

  I started in surprise, then coughed in an attempt to cover my expression. With Dwayne’s moonshine still demolished, he was probably in the clear, but how on earth had the FBI noticed him? They were paying way more attention than I’d assumed. They had to have observation outposts other places on the property than just at the gated entrance at the county road to have seen him.

  “Caretaking staff. He helps Walt,” I mumbled.

  “Name?” Matt demanded.

  I couldn’t think of a good reason not to be truthful. “Dwayne Cotton.”

  Matt made a note in a little booklet that he’d pulled from his pocket. “I assume you have a W-9 for him?”

  “You’re shilling for the IRS now?” I rolled my eyes. “We feed him. A lot. He’s sort of a hardship case.”

  Matt smirked. “This isn’t a poor farm anymore, Nora.”

  I let that idea sink in for a minute. Actually, with all the recent changes it did seem to be heading that direction. Maybe Mayfield wanted to return to her roots. I shrugged at Matt.

  He let out a long, slow breath as though he was releasing pressure from a rising tide of objections. I clamped my lips together because it’d be hard for him to argue with someone who didn’t talk back.

  Matt switched tactics. “We think Skip might try to call you, make contact. You’re carrying your phone with you at all times?”

  “As you are well aware,” I replied. Except when I didn’t want the FBI to know where I was. Then I left that particular phone at home so it could happily triangulate with cell towers from my bedroom while I roamed the countryside.

  Matt really was doing a remarkable job of keeping his exasperation in check. I knew I was annoying to the FBI and only just barely cooperative in the grand scheme of things. But I had the advantage of not being held to federal laws in my investigative techniques, and we both knew that was a tremendous asset in this very dirty fight.

  As if he could read my thoughts, Matt replied, “Just be careful.”

  He saw himself out.

  “Huh,” Clarice grunted at my elbow while I was peeking through the tiny gap in the window curtains.

  Matt had gone directly to his beefy sedan, and the big engine churned down the driveway, leaving a trail of exhaust fog that seemed to crystallize immediately in the scant moonlight. No ruse and surreptitious placement of GPS trackers on our vehicles this time. At least I didn’t think so, although I also suspected he was a man of many hidden talents.

  I didn’t even flinch. “You hear all that?”

  “The pertinent parts.”

  “And?”

  “It’s time for you to kick the skunk nest again. Better to confront these bozos on your terms, not theirs.” Clarice shuffled to the table, scowled at the tomato sauce streak that had so intrigued Matt, and obliterated it with the fierce swipe of a damp sponge.

  I sighed. “Why don’t you ever tell me what I want to hear?”

  “You pay me for the truth, girl.”

  I snorted. I hadn’t paid Clarice her executive assistant salary for a couple months now. I owed her late fees and accrued interest on top of a combat conditions bonus. I also owed her my sanity.

  Clarice was resplendent in her voluminous purple robe and matching fuzzy slippers. How she knew to pack such comforts at my first distress call to her from the plane while returning from my honeymoon, I’ll never know. She also was a woman of many hidden talents.

  And command presence. “Bed,” she barked, arm extended, finger pointed in the correct direction lest I be confused by her meaning.

  I gave her a snappy salute and obeyed.

  I called Loretta while I brushed my teeth. “How are you?” I slurred around a mouthful of foam.

  “Sixty-seven days sober and counting,” she chirped.

  I spit minty freshness into the sink. “And you’re still alive,” I added helpfully. Pointing out the obvious is my specialty. But I was relieved she sounded so upbeat.

  “That too. Although I have serious doubts about my beauty sleep. Tarq snores like a foghorn.”

  “Rough day.”

  Loretta mmhmmed in agreement.

  “If you need anything, call me on the number I gave you, okay? I know I said that before, but my FBI agent was here tonight. It was a close shave. So don’t pop over for a visit. I’ll come to you. Everything will be better if you remain one of my little secrets.”

  Loretta giggled. “Don’t worry, darling. I have plenty to keep me very busy here for a very long time.”

  I cradled the phone in my hand after I clicked it off, watching the last bubbles swirl down the sink drain. At least one person was cheerful about her prospects. I wondered how long it had been since Loretta had slept in a real house, other than her brief stay at Mayfield. As far as I knew, she’d rented a series of cheap hotel rooms and even cheaper apartments when she lived in Alameda Point, before Skip had tucked her away in the rehab facility.

  I listened to my own four walls, and the pipes inside them, clank and groan as the whole mansion shifted in a constant state of adjustment to the dropping external temperature as I fell asleep.

  oOo

  I awoke in a clinging, creeping panic to a pitch black space — that terrifying hollowness when you know your eyes are open, but you can’t see a thing. My rapid breaths rattled in my ears.

  But at least I was breathing. I took stock.

  After several frantic moments of checking on the continued presence and integrity of all my limbs and finding the light switch, I realized my fright wasn’t a response to a physical threat. It was my brain’s way of reminding me of something.

  CHAPTER 10

  I fished through the pile of discarded clothes to find the flash drive from the safe deposit box. How could I have forgotten to check it?

  Squinting blearily, I sank onto the mattress and plugged the flash drive into my laptop. The file manager opened, showing a few text files and one audio file. I clicked on the first one.

  And what I read turned my world upside down — again.

  I had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and read the whole thing a second time. My husband was brilliant — scarily brilliant. Boldly, hair-raisingly, intimidatingly brilliant.

  I had not signed up for this. I liked sedate, cozy, simple. Boring even sounded good at this point. I’d wanted a lifetime companion. Somebody to sleep in with on Saturday mornings, to travel with, to share my favorite books with. None of the activities I’d imagined ever included risking my life with him.

  But Skip had spectacular ambitions. I could at least give him credit for that. It was a small consolation that he had not intended for me to stumble into this mess, let alone be treading neck-deep in it. But he had prepared for the possibility.

  I read the other supplemental text files quickly, then clicked on the audio file.

  The warmth in Skip’s voice flooded through my soul. “Baby, if you’re hearing this, we’re married, and I’m not with you. And I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I’ve been planning this in some form or other for most of my life, and I always thought I’d execute my plan alone. But then you came along, and you’re perfect. Perfect for me. And I’m selfish. I thought maybe I could have both — I’m still hoping. But if you’ve found this, then we both know it didn’t work. Baby, please forgive me.”

  I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my knees, tears streaming down my face and into my gaping mouth.

  Skip’s voice continued on, giving me instructions for if he was dead and a second set of instructions for if he was alive.

  This was why he’d been sending me subtle messages using unconventional methods — to prove he was still alive. And now I knew for sure there wouldn’t be a ransom call.

  The wording of
Matt’s comment last evening — that the FBI thought Skip might contact me directly — suddenly struck me as meaningful. They weren’t expecting a ransom call from a third party anymore either. Why? What did they know that I didn’t?

  Some of Skip’s instructions were irrelevant now. Somehow, I was supposed to have met Selma and gotten this flash drive much earlier.

  There was no way a scheme like Skip’s could include a foolproof set of contingency plans. It’d only work if everyone — him, me, his criminal cronies, and all law enforcement personnel — behaved completely rationally. Far too much to hope for. And it certainly hadn’t proved true in the weeks since his disappearance.

  The files gave me more clarity, but they sure didn’t answer the “What’s next?” question to my satisfaction. But they did reveal some of Skip’s motives, where his line between right and wrong was drawn. That distinction wasn’t as smudged as I’d been beginning to suspect. Okay — as I had downright assumed. I really needed to talk to Loretta.

  I dried my face on the sheet and stared at the laptop screen. There was one other person who might be able to help me, even though it was the middle of the night.

  I dug out a cell phone and dialed. It was a little much to expect Josh Freeney to answer, so I left a short message on his voicemail. He’d been fired from the FBI for consorting with the enemy — his old buddy from college who also happened to be my husband. Of all the people I knew, Josh would be most likely to have an objective view of this new information and perhaps some helpful suggestions.

  A floorboard creaked outside my door, and I froze. Had I been speaking too loudly? Echoes bounced in unexpected directions in the old mansion.

  If I’d awakened Clarice from her deep slumber across the hall, she would have barged in to inform me of the time and added a lecture on the consensus of health professionals regarding the optimal sleep duration for adults.

  I took a chance and murmured, “It’s okay, Emmie. You can come in.”

  The knob turned, squeaking softly, and a pair of worried golden-brown eyes in a pale face peeked around the edge. “There’s a fire,” she whispered.