Tempting the Devil

by Potter, Patricia;

  She openly studied him. He obviously hadn’t shaved this morning. He had the dark hair and complexion that made five o’clock shadow more obvious than on men with a lighter complexion. She could well see him as a bandido in a film. He had a moody intensity and dark sensuality that radiated bad boy. Yet she’d discovered he was no bad boy at all, but a reluctant hero who was quietly present when needed.

  Dani. His wife. Robin longed to know more about her, how he still felt about her. There had been something earlier between Carl and Ben that was subtly antagonistic. Something about Dani. Dani Taylor. Something that had left a deep scar on him.

  She had thrown away what small part of himself that he had given her, and she sensed that he was not a man to offer it again. Her loss. God, what a fool she’d been.

  He parked at a meter in front of a row of buildings on Bay Street and guided her into a small storefront library. It was little more than a hole in the wall, but it had computers and a welcoming woman at the desk. He’d known exactly where to come. He’d obviously been here before.

  Computers were available thanks to the fact it was summer, and few students were working. They each took a station side by side.

  “I’ll go after ownership records of the marina,” he said. “Someone else checked them three years ago, and it might have been sold since then. In any event, I want to know the history of ownership. You check newspapers for advertisements of any charters of the Phantom. Or any mention of the boat.”

  She used the library password to sign on to the Net and started searching for Phantom/boat. Over twenty-seven thousand entries. She immediately gave up on that and went to the Brunswick newspaper. She searched for Phantom there. Nothing.

  She looked at sport fishing. Again nothing.

  She glanced over at Ben, wondered whether he was using his FBI access. Property sales were public records, but were they available to the general public on the computer?

  Loneliness filled her as she watched that intensity that had caught her the first day she’d seen him. He was hunched over, his eyes intent on the screen in front of him. She should have that same intensity. Instead, she was far too aware of him, angry at her vulnerability with him. She hungered for his touch, for that rare half smile that so attracted her.

  He was obviously unaware.

  She turned back to her computer. The people she’d talked to at the last marina had said the captain of the boat was named Stefan and he had an accent. The last name was something like Fisher.

  Nothing under Stefan Fisher. She tried Fischer.

  A hit. Thousands of hits. Stefan Fischer was evidently a very popular name. She started to narrow it. Brunswick. Captain. Nothing.

  Ben had stopped. He glanced over at her screen. His eyes asked the question.

  “The captain of the Phantom, according to the boaters I talked to. But the last name might be spelled wrong.”

  “Time to go. We’ve already been here too long since I signed in, but I can access information you can’t.” He hesitated, then entered “Stefan Fischer.”

  Ten minutes later, he exclaimed, “Bingo.”

  “What is it?”

  “If it’s your Fischer, he has an arrest record. Drug possession. Charges were dropped. No conviction.”

  “When? Where?”

  He cracked a slow smile. “Atlanta. Eight years ago.”

  “Can you find out why?”

  A librarian interrupted them then. “We’re closing.”

  She turned off her computer, and Ben did as well. Then they left the library.

  The street was nearly empty, and the sun was dipping in the west. Both of them studied the cars around them. Several other people were exiting a nearby parking lot and getting into cars, but nothing looked suspicious.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “No. Where do we go now?” She realized with those words that she had given up the last resistance to him. He was a partner now, a cool, objective partner.

  “I want to make some phone calls,” he said. “Then we’ll find someplace to stay. You need some sleep.”

  She needed much more than that. Much, much more, but he’d turned unapproachable.

  She had to settle now for his help.

  Ben thought about using Robin’s temporary phone but they’d used it too much now. Someone might have been able to track the number down. Choice now was another temporary phone, or a pay phone.

  He decided on a pay phone. They wouldn’t be in Savannah much longer.

  He called Mahoney’s cell phone. Hung up. Then rang again. No one answered.

  Ben went back to the car. Mahoney would know what to do. Go down to the coffee shop they frequented. It was a code they’d worked out as they drove to the airport yesterday. Was it just yesterday?

  He stood outside the car, waiting as the minutes ticked away. Robin was inside. He didn’t want to get back inside with her.

  Hell he didn’t.

  It had been all he could do to keep his hands off her these past few hours. No, all day. Ever since he saw the perp holding a gun on her, and the way she’d dived into the bad guy to deflect his shot. Otherwise, Ben might well be in a body bag.

  He’d purposely kept her at a distance, though he’d wanted to pull her into his arms after they’d sped away. He knew she was receptive. It had been in her eyes. Gratitude. Regret. Confusion.

  He didn’t want gratitude, or regret. He was damned tired of regret and gratitude. He wasn’t going down that street again. Dani hadn’t trusted him, either, until it was too late. Without trust, love was worthless.

  Not that he loved Robin Stuart. He lusted over her. She intrigued him. She challenged him. And God knew it had been a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms. She’d responded to him with all the passion she brought to everything she did. All the fire he’d once had and lost.

  But he’d learned in the past few days that law and press didn’t mix. Would never mix. And he was damned if he was going to go through the same agony he did years ago.

  So far, just getting away from killers had kept him occupied. So had the need to find answers. The fact that he hadn’t finished the job three years ago grated on him. The fact that three police officers, and maybe more, had died because of that failure was lead in his gut.

  He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes. He only hoped that Mahoney had been at the office, that he could get to the coffee shop. The door of the car opened and Robin stood, stretched. Her eyes were red-rimmed, probably from exhaustion, but the light was in them. Light of battle? Or something else?

  He went back to the pay phone and called the pay phone at the coffee shop. Mahoney answered immediately. “Where are you? The U.S. attorney is going nuts.”

  “What about Holland?”

  “He wants to be able to give Ames some answers.”

  “Anything happening with the case?”

  “Nada. Zero. Zip.”

  “Did Ames ever say why he wanted to see me?”

  “He thinks you might know something about Robin Stuart’s disappearance. He swears that if you helped her he will have your badge.”

  “He doesn’t have any authority to do that.”

  “Well, he has Holland antsy.” He paused. “Find anything?”

  “Maybe. Can you check back on a case involving a Stefan Fischer? He was arrested for drug possession eight years ago in Atlanta. No conviction. I want to know what happened. Why it was dropped. Who the attorneys were.”

  “Will do.”

  “As quietly as possible.”

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “He’s captain of the boat that took out the sheriff’s deputies off the coast of Georgia.”

  Silence. “You’re not suggesting there might be some connection with the drug case down there?”

  “I think there’s a chance that Hydra might have moved to Atlanta, though some drugs may still come in through Brunswick. What better cover than a boat frequented by law enforcement?”

  M
ahoney swore. “I remember how we protested that the investigation was being concluded too rapidly.”

  “Yeah. See if you can get that information.”

  “What do I tell Holland?”

  “That I’m on vacation and must have lost my cell phone.”

  “And if someone finds out I’ve been looking into this Fischer?”

  “You’re going back over old drug cases.”

  “You’re going to get me fired.”

  “I hope to hell I get someone fired. And indicted.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m narrowing the possibilities.”

  “How’s Ms. Stuart?”

  “The less you know, the better.”

  “Yeah, I know. How do I reach you if I find anything?”

  “I’ll find you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mahoney grumped.

  Ben hung up. He hated to involve Mahoney, but his partner was in a better position than he to check on an old case. If he could find the case, he could go to the cops who handled it.

  He went back to the car.

  Robin was still outside, leaning against the car. He wondered how her leg was doing. She had the brace in the car but wasn’t wearing it.

  They both got into the car.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

  “The U.S. attorney is after my scalp. He believes I helped you escape.”

  “I’m not under arrest.”

  “No. You have every right to be here. Which makes me wonder …”

  “Joseph Ames?” Her eyes widened. “You don’t think he can be involved.”

  “I don’t think anything at the moment.”

  “He has a great reputation as a prosecutor.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said unenthusiastically.

  He started the car, then glanced at her. He saw the wheels turning inside. The U.S. attorney. The one person who would have the authority to gather information, to continue investigations. To stop them.

  The one person no one would suspect.

  He dismissed the notion. All he had was the fact that he was angry about Ben’s disappearance during an important case.

  He turned on the ignition. He really wanted a different car, and now with Carl’s credit card he could get one. If anyone was on their trail, he meant to shake them off.

  He wasn’t ready to take Robin back to Atlanta. Not until he knew one way or another whether Ames was involved. The likelihood of being believed was dim, and most certainly he would be taken off the case at best, killed at worse, with suspension and a career loss very real possibilities.

  And Robin … even worse.

  He knew one thing. They had to leave Savannah.

  He found a map in the glove compartment. He wanted to revisit the marina. He wanted to break in and find what records they had. A few moments on their computer. The pure idiocy of that thought showed his desperation.

  Robin looked at him intently, then said, “I didn’t tell you everything. There’s a beach house.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  Ben turned off the ignition and stared at her. “What beach house?”

  “My source said that in addition to the boat there was a beach house that was used by the deputies.”

  “What else didn’t you tell me?” he said, a hard edge in his voice.

  He probably thought she was withholding information again. For once she was innocent. All her attention had been focused on the boat and who owned it after the attack on her.

  “That’s all,” she said. “A beach house. But not a family retreat. More for a men’s night out. I truly forgot about it.”

  “Where?”

  “Fernandina Beach in Florida. Not far from Brunswick.”

  He swore under his breath. “You know we lost time. They’re probably cleaning that up as well.”

  “It was stupid. I was concentrating on the boat. And San—my source didn’t have an address. A private van always took them to both locations.”

  She saw something flicker in his eyes at her slip, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I wondered at the time why not Jekyll,” she said. “Could be because the island is state owned, and homeowners lease property from the state. I suspect they have rather stringent requirements. A foreign corporation wouldn’t qualify. The other nearby islands are pretty much year-round residences. Fernandina is the next closest beach. Still on the Intracoastal Waterway.”

  “Some separation probably isn’t a bad thing for them,” Ben said, picking up the thread. “Different states. Different records. If someone picked up on the boat, they might not automatically pick up on the property.”

  “A building on land will be harder to hide,” she said. “There will be bills. Someone to contact in case of an emergency. Taxes.”

  He took his gaze from the road and glanced at her for the briefest second. “I understand why you’re a good reporter.”

  “I don’t think you consider that much of a compliment.”

  “If you’re asking whether my opinion of your profession has changed, it hasn’t,” he said. “Mostly vultures who don’t care who they hurt as long as they get a headline.”

  “And you lump me in that cauldron of unprincipled opportunists?” She tried to ignore the contempt in his voice, the wound it carved deeply inside her.

  “I think you are principled,” he conceded. “If … impulsive.”

  “But still an opportunist?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She wasn’t sure which adjective she most objected to. Opportunist or impulsive. The latter, she thought, was his euphemism for foolish.

  “Why do you dislike the press so much?” It was a question she’d wanted to ask before. She knew a lot of cops didn’t trust the press, but she’d never felt such outright hostility before meeting Ben.

  “You don’t want to go there,” he warned.

  “I do.”

  “A reporter destroyed someone I cared about,” he said in a flat expressionless voice. “Not for the public good. Just a headline. Another got one of my witnesses killed because the agent in charge trusted him.”

  Both the words and the tone chilled her. After their wild escape this morning, he’d touched her briefly, and they’d worked together this afternoon in quiet companionship. She thought they’d reached a truce of sorts, even if he kept her at arm’s length.

  Or so she’d thought.

  The connection she’d felt earlier was still there. She saw it in his eyes, and the way he’d reached out to her earlier. Reluctantly, perhaps, but the sparks were still there. The electricity. Even tenderness when he lowered his guard.

  But she was back to the place when they’d first met, when she’d felt his blatant distrust of the press. Now she knew part of the reason—but not the whole of it—and she had no answer unless she knew more details.

  Judging by the shuttered look of his face, she wasn’t going to learn more.

  He started the car again, headed south and stopped at a Mexican restaurant.

  It was nearly ten, and day had turned into night.

  Robin wasn’t really hungry. She’d had a late lunch, and her stomach churned. She wasn’t usually subject to nerves, and she seldom lost her appetite.

  But she was a bundle of the first, and the latter was definitely gone.

  After they were seated, she played with some chips after ordering. “Something’s worrying you.”

  “I’ve been thinking more about Joseph Ames.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to see me the day I left. I left before having a chance to meet with him. And, too, because he changed his mind about asking for an immediate contempt of court order against you. Because they were afraid you would talk? Your caller said someone would know exactly what went on in that room. That would include only the judge, Ames, and the grand jurors. I was just in there for twenty minutes.”

  She still had a difficult time believing Joseph Ames could be involved.

  Sh
e studied his expression. She was learning to read him. “You don’t really believe it?”

  “There’s so much scrutiny before you get that kind of appointment. That’s a mark against it, but after the past week, I don’t know what I believe. I do know that it’s unusual for Ames to become so intimately involved in an investigation at this stage. And he stuck out his neck a mile on the subpoena. He wants to run for higher office. Jailing reporters is not a popular thing to do …”

  She thought about the implications of what he was saying. A U.S. attorney. What a story—if it were true. A lot of ifs were involved. Then a knot settled in the center of her stomach. If true, how much further did it go? “That investigation you told me about in Brunswick,” she asked. “Who closed it down?”

  “Joseph Ames,” Ben said flatly. “He said the trail had gone cold. No sense wasting more resources. I argued, but was then reassigned to a white-collar case.”

  A chill ran through her. “So maybe the protection my source referred to wasn’t the FBI after all. It was someone in a better position to control events,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  Tell him about the source.

  She couldn’t. Her training had been so strong, and Jack Ross’s experience so searing, that reneging on her promise would be like tearing part of her soul out.

  How could she make him understand that?

  “Tell me more about the beach house,” he said.

  “I don’t know much about it. My source mentioned it. He was there two years ago. Once. He was far more impressed by the boat.”

  “Do you have the address? Mahoney can check it out.”

  “He didn’t have the address. A van took them down, just as it did for the boat trips. Just once, though. But he described it and gave me directions.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “There have to be records of ownership,” she said hopefully.

  “Unless like the murder site in Meredith County, it goes back to a corporation in the Seychelles Islands.”

  She started. She hadn’t known that. Bob Greene hadn’t been able to trace the Somerville Group back that far. He’d only found a corporation and an attorney he couldn’t reach.

  “It’s one of the most protective offshore banking venues there is,” Ben continued. “Someone can incorporate there with all local Seychelles stand-ins. All you need is a registered office and a Seychelles’ resident to sign as subscriber for incorporation. Only one shareholder and one director are required for incorporation but nominee service is offered to maintain the owners’ privacy. Every path in this maze leads to the Seychelles Islands. I think your boat and beach house probably do as well. The difference on a house is that someone has to pay taxes, utility bills, and more importantly have someone available in case of an emergency. There might be some clues there.”