Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  The situation was becoming more surreal by the minute.

  “What’s going on here?” Her words came out in a hollow whisper.

  “There are a lot of questions floating around this room, none of which I can answer. But I can promise you this. Over the next couple of days, I’m going to do some digging on your friend Matt. It’s possible he’s the key to all of this.”

  “That makes no sense. He does pro bono work for the church, and he never misses a Sunday service. Our pastor holds him in high regard, and my mother thought the world of him.”

  “How long has he lived in St. Louis?”

  “I think he moved here three years ago from somewhere on the East Coast. I know he also lived in London for a while too.”

  “What did he do there?”

  “He mentioned investment banking once. I assume his job took him there.”

  “And now he’s a small-time accountant in St. Louis. A curious career downshift. Any idea what prompted it?”

  “No. He never said.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out about that—and a lot of other things.” He finished his coffee, rose, and began stacking their dishes in the dishwasher.

  “I can do that.”

  “It will only take a minute. Then I’ll drive you over to the urgent care center.”

  “No need. My neighbor saw me on the porch earlier while he was working in his garden, and after he heard my story he offered to take me. I thought I’d save you a trip. I don’t want to become a nuisance.”

  “Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that.” He paused to lock gazes with her for a moment, then resumed stacking. “What are your plans for the day?”

  “I was going to clean my classroom, but I already called the principal and told him I won’t be down until next week. For the next two days I’m going to hang around here and be lazy.”

  “Sounds like a smart move.”

  “Will you let me know if you unearth anything helpful?”

  “Yes. In fact . . .” He finished slotting their plates and turned to her. “I was hoping you might have dinner with me tomorrow night. Something casual. Do you like Mexican?”

  Warmth bubbled up in her heart, chasing away a tiny bit of the chill that had taken up residence there over the past forty-five minutes. “Love it.”

  “How does Hacienda sound?”

  “Perfect. They have a great patio.”

  “I know. Let’s try for six thirty. Barring an emergency, that will give me a chance to go home and change into jeans. If some big case breaks and I get delayed, I’ll call you.”

  “I’m flexible. Whenever you come will be fine.”

  “Walk me to the door?” He held out his hand.

  She stood and linked her fingers with his as they strolled to the foyer.

  At the door, he leaned down and brushed his lips over her forehead again. “Take a nap this afternoon—and arm the security system while you’re sleeping.”

  “You don’t think that guy is going to come after me again, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. My gut says no. If seriously hurting you was the goal, he’d have pulled the knife the instant you came around the car. Based on what you told the city cop, he only did that after you fought back. I’m thinking the attack might have been a scare tactic.”

  “Who would want to scare me? And why?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping to discover.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, his expression speculative. “Did you tell Parker what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He seemed shocked . . . and a tad angry. I might not have wanted to date him, but he’s a nice man, with a kind heart. He may be a little different since his accident, but . . .”

  “Wait.” Colin straightened up. “Define different.”

  “I’m not certain I can. He comes across as kind of . . . tense. On edge. And his eyes . . . I don’t know.” She lifted a shoulder as she struggled to capture her impressions. “They feel different somehow. But he did have a head injury, and that can affect personality. My instincts might be off.”

  “I doubt it. And never discount instincts. They’ve saved my hide on more than one occasion. Let me see what I can find, and I’ll fill you in tomorrow night. Lock up after me.”

  “Believe me, locking up is my top priority.”

  “Keep it that way.” He squeezed her fingers, then slipped out.

  She bolted the door behind him, yawning while she watched through the window until he pulled away. She needed another cup of coffee.

  Skirting the CSU bag, she suppressed a shiver. She might not want to believe Matt was capable of doing anything to undermine—or hurt—her, but the baffling behavior she’d witnessed less than an hour ago suggested there was a furtive side to the man.

  What was going on with him?

  Who was Matt Parker, really?

  Had he played a role in the mugging . . . and in her mother’s death?

  Once in the kitchen, she pulled out her laptop and booted it up. Colin could find information on Matt she didn’t have access to, but the internet was a great tool. Who knew what she might discover?

  And between the two of them, perhaps they’d turn up a few answers to the list of troubling questions about an accountant whose mild manner was beginning to look like a dangerously deceptive façade.

  He’d paid for a mugging, not a knife attack.

  If he could get his hands on the jerk who’d slashed Trish, he’d kill him.

  Craig shoved aside the sliding door at the back of Matt’s house and stomped out onto the deck. He couldn’t care less about Trish’s injuries . . . but a knife assault got a lot more police attention than a mugging.

  And now that detective was hanging around her.

  Hovering cops were never a good thing.

  And Colin Flynn was as sharp as they came, based on the research he’d done on the man.

  He slammed his beer onto the patio table next to the turkey sandwich he’d made for lunch and glared into the backyard. Three squirrels played a game of tag through the uncut grass. A cardinal swooped down to the empty bird feeder and left disappointed. Two deer picked their way through the shadows of the woods that abutted the lawn, skirting the tall weeds that separated grass from forest.

  His lips curled in distaste.

  What could have attracted Matt to this solitary game preserve, where the only lights at night were provided by the moon and stars and the closest decent restaurant was twenty miles away?

  But he wouldn’t be here forever—and it was better than the dives he’d called home in the weeks preceding his grand entrance on that stormy night.

  He dropped into the chair and released the tab on the beer can, the pent-up carbon dioxide hissing in the quiet air.

  It was also a safe retreat. A secluded place where he could hang out without fear of being discovered. The perfect cover for a man in his position.

  Unless that detective got nosy, thanks to the botched mugging that had been intended to distract Trish, not attract undue police attention.

  He swigged the beer, waved a hungry fly away from his sandwich, and inhaled a lungful of the pollen-laced air. He was probably getting worked up for no reason. There was nothing to connect him to that mugging. If they happened to catch the junkie—an unlikely prospect in that part of town—the guy didn’t know who he was, and he’d been careful not to leave any prints on the money or photo he’d tucked into the envelope. So what if the detective hung around Trish? There was no evidence to implicate him or Matt in her attack . . . or in anything else.

  The latter was the one piece of positive news to come out of Matt’s visit to Trish’s house this morning. None of her mother’s medicine had been in the CSU bag. The cops must have followed standard protocol and destroyed it.

  It wouldn’t have mattered much in any case, though. Even if a few of the vitamin capsules that had been emptied and refilled with powdered digoxin
were still around, who’d think to look inside them? And the only prints on the bottles would be Trish’s. Caution had been the key word in this operation. That’s why there was always a pair of latex gloves tucked into his pocket—and Matt’s.

  He picked up his sandwich and took a healthy bite, feeling better by the minute. There was no need to worry. All the bases had been covered. The mugging might have taken a different turn than he’d expected, but it had accomplished its main goal of distracting Trish—hopefully enough to convince her to let Matt worry about the foundation.

  If it didn’t . . . there were other persuasions in his bag of tricks.

  Leaning back in his chair, he lifted his face to the sun and let his tension seep out. Why not enjoy this perfect day? He was past the hardest part. The pieces were falling into place. His goal was in sight. All he had to do was bide his time and keep his eye on the prize.

  The road ahead should be smooth and straight.

  13

  “How’s your friend Trish doing?”

  Colin was focused so intently on his computer screen that it took a second for Mac’s question to register.

  He glanced over as the other man dropped into his chair at the adjacent desk. “Last I heard, she was okay.”

  “When might that have been?” Lips twitching, Mac linked his hands behind his head.

  He would ask that.

  “We had a brief conversation at lunchtime.”

  “In other words, you have a recent update.”

  “Yeah. You have an issue with that?”

  “Nope. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t pursuing her. She strikes me as a class act. Hot too.”

  “I wonder how Lisa would feel about that comment?”

  “Hey—I’m married, not blind.” He straightened up and rolled closer to his desk. “What’re you working on? Your nose was glued to the screen when I came in.”

  Colin tapped a finger against his keyboard. Why not get his colleague’s take on the latest developments? Mac’s instincts were strong, and he could use some additional brainpower on this puzzle.

  “Are you going to be here for a few minutes, or is this a quick in and out?”

  “I’m here for the duration . . . unless Sarge assigns me to a breaking case. But at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, I’m hoping that doesn’t happen. Lisa and I have plans for the evening. Why?”

  “Trish shared an odd experience with me yesterday. I’ve been doing some digging and I wouldn’t mind a fresh perspective on the situation.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  Colin recapped the behavior Trish had witnessed yesterday in the foyer, ending with her theory about the alleged lapses. By the time he finished, Mac was frowning.

  “That’s raising some red flags.”

  “No kidding . . . especially in light of the photo found in the schoolyard, which implies the mugging was a setup. Given all that’s happened, I decided to dig into Matt Parker’s background.”

  “Find anything suspicious?”

  “Not yet. According to his LinkedIn page, he has an MBA from Wharton and worked in international finance for . . .” He consulted his notes and read off the name of the firm. “That’s a prominent banking syndicate. He started out in New York, was based in London for two years, finished up in Atlanta.”

  “Why did he leave a plum job like that?”

  “Unknown. Based on the progressively more complex job descriptions on LinkedIn, he was on an upward career path. But five years ago, he quit. He next surfaces here, three years ago.”

  “What was he doing during the two years in between?”

  Colin lifted his shoulders. “No idea. It’s a black hole.”

  “You look anywhere besides LinkedIn?”

  “I did a basic background check. He appears to be clean. No criminal record or financial red flags popped up in a preliminary search, and his past addresses follow his career moves. I did discover he was in Boston—his hometown—during the black-hole years.”

  “Any news from the city detective on the mugging?”

  “Nothing positive. I talked to him earlier this afternoon. They’re still putting out feelers, but the guy appears to have vanished.”

  Mac rolled a pen between his fingers. “So we have a death that was ruled an accident—but may have been homicide. A mugging that seemed random—but may have been a targeted attack. An accountant with excellent credentials and the image of a respectable, law-abiding citizen—but who may have a darker side. A stressed-out woman who appears to have made some mistakes—but who may be the victim of a setup. Am I missing anything?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes—with no proof any of them are legit.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.”

  “There’s a little problem of motive too.”

  “Yeah.” Laid out like that, the theory that Parker might somehow be involved in an evil plot sounded highly speculative—at best. “But Sarge is on board with further investigation.”

  “You must have done some fast talking.”

  “It worked.”

  “You going to chat with Parker again?” Mac pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

  “I might—depending on what I find after I do some more digging.”

  “If you need any help, let me know. This is intriguing.”

  “I might take you up on that if the case heats up. Have fun tonight with Lisa.”

  “Always.” He grinned and put the phone to his ear.

  As Colin went back to googling, Mac’s comment lingered in his mind. The case was intriguing . . . but it was more than that.

  It was also unnerving.

  Because if his and Trish’s instincts were right, the odd occurrences over the past five weeks were somehow related—and Matt Parker could be the link.

  But whoever was behind them, one thing was clear.

  He or she had a motive powerful enough to trigger murder.

  Oh. My. Word.

  As Trish peeked through the peephole at six thirty sharp, her heart skipped a beat.

  Colin Flynn would turn any woman’s head in his work attire of dress slacks, dress shirt, tie, and jacket . . . but in tonight’s casual jeans and a rolled-to-the-elbows shirt, he was one handsome hunk of masculinity.

  He leaned over to reach for the doorbell again, and she jerked away from the peephole.

  Good grief. She’d been gawking at him like a love-struck adolescent.

  Doing her best to rein in her galloping pulse, she pulled the door open and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Hi back.” His lips curved up too, and a tingle ran through her as he gave her casual, shoulder-baring sundress a swift but appreciative scan. “You look very nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s the arm?”

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore. And as you can see, I downsized the bulky dressing.” She lifted her arm to display the narrow strip of gauze she’d taped over the stitch line. “Would you like to come in?”

  “If you’re ready, why don’t we head for the restaurant? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  “Me too.” Which was a welcome change. Since her mom’s death, her appetite had vanished—until Colin had restored it with his omelet . . . and his presence in her life. “Let me set the alarm and I’ll join you on the porch.”

  Less than a minute later, she slipped out, locking the door behind her.

  He took her arm as they walked down the stepping-stones to his Mazda. The courteous gesture felt good—as did the easy conversation that flowed between them during the drive to the restaurant. He didn’t bring up his promised research, and neither did she. There would be time for that later. For now, she wanted to pretend this was a simple date unencumbered by death and knife attacks and malice.

  Colin seemed to be similarly inclined. During dinner under the muted outdoor lights, he kept their exchange focused on pleasant topics, telling stories that made her laugh and asking her opinion about movies
and books and sports.

  Only after he reached over to wipe some stray salsa off the corner of her mouth with his napkin, then ordered dessert, did he introduce more serious subjects.

  “I’ve been doing some digging on your friendly accountant.”

  “So have I.” At his raised eyebrow, she shrugged. “Since I didn’t have anything important on my agenda for the past two days, I thought I’d see what I could unearth. I don’t have access to all your resources, but the internet can be a gold mine if you persevere.”

  “Does that mean you came across some useful stuff?”

  “Curious might be a better word—but I’d rather hear what you found first.”

  She listened in silence until he finished filling her in on where he’d searched and what he’d discovered.

  “Well, at least he isn’t a criminal.”

  “I didn’t say that. The National Crime Information Center database culls from local, state, and federal files . . . but it’s not a perfect system. For example, misdemeanors often aren’t in there. They have to be sent from the county to the state and from the state to the FBI, and breakdowns can happen. However, I think it’s safe to conclude he’s not a felon. What did you find?”

  “My search wasn’t as official as yours. I tapped LinkedIn too, and googled a lot of the information that was on there. I found news releases about his promotions, some blurbs in alumnae magazines, an article about his volunteer work in Atlanta with Big Brothers . . . all positive stuff that verified the information on LinkedIn and my own impressions of him. There wasn’t one negative.”

  “I thought you said you found something curious.”

  “Yes.” She waited while the waitress set an order of sizzling hot apple pie à la mode in front of each of them and moved off. “Knowing Boston was his hometown, I tried googling his name in connection with that city. I stumbled onto this.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper out of her purse and handed it to him. “It’s a death notice for a man named Lawrence Adams, from three years ago. Look a few lines down.”

  He gave it a quick read as she dipped a spoon into her melting ice cream, homing in on the part that had caught her eye. “‘Faithful husband of the late Margaret, loving father of Matt Parker, cherished friend to many.’”