Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  “Well, I’ll be glad to get rid of mine. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.”

  Once they said their good-byes, Trish picked up her cooling coffee and wandered out to the terrace. Weeds were beginning to invade the rose garden, withering blooms should be deadheaded, bushes needed to be fed. The past two summers, she’d handled those chores while her mom supervised from the terrace. They’d both cherished those calm interludes in a world turned upside down by death and tragedy.

  Her throat tightened, and the colorful blossoms blurred as a fresh wave of grief swept over her. The welcome numbness that had insulated her for the first couple of weeks after her mother died was wearing off, the reality of this fresh loss setting in. The tears she’d been holding inside welled and spilled out while a vibrant red cardinal chirped nearby . . . a dog barked next door . . . the sweet aroma of the roses wafted past her on a gentle breeze. Life around her went on, the same as always.

  Yet hers had changed forever.

  Sinking onto the low stone wall at the edge of the terrace, she closed her eyes and let the consoling reminder from Ecclesiastes scroll through her mind.

  To everything there is a season.

  She wrapped her free hand around the rough stone, clinging fast to that promise. This might be her time to mourn and to weep, but one day soon her long season of grief would end, as every season did. Then, with God’s help, she would again laugh . . . and love.

  In the meantime, she would be grateful that during this dark, turbulent period, the Almighty had sent her a man like Colin Flynn to help her weather the storm.

  Craig slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel as he barreled down the highway. Matt’s visit with Trish today had been a total bust. Despite all the distractions he’d orchestrated, despite all the doubts Matt had planted in her mind about stress-induced forgetfulness, despite her grief over her mother’s death, she wasn’t letting go of the foundation’s reins.

  Meaning it wasn’t yet safe to dip into the funds that were calling his name.

  He spat out a word that singed the air. Yeah, he had enough in reserve to manage for a while. But his high-end standard of living in Miami had seriously eaten into his offshore account balance, and the money he’d skimmed from Dmitri’s empire was long gone, spent on incidental luxuries. Matt had a small nest egg, and his clients paid him a modest, steady income . . . but that wasn’t sufficient to fund the lifestyle he’d set his sights on once he’d gotten wind of the sweet deal the man had with the Coulter charitable foundation.

  Funny how his priorities had changed over the past few months. He’d come here with a single goal: to save his life. To escape Dmitri by vanishing off the face of the earth.

  Who could have known his surveillance and research would lead to an unexpected bonus—access to millions of dollars?

  It had been too tempting to ignore.

  So once his inspired escape plan had been implemented . . . once he was certain he’d eluded the long arm of Dmitri’s organization . . . his focus had shifted to getting his hands on the Coulter Foundation money.

  Except Trish wasn’t cooperating.

  Grinding his teeth, he tightened his grip on the wheel. He could get at the money without Matt running the foundation, but it would be simpler if she put that responsibility into her accountant’s hands and contented herself with reviewing doctored updates.

  If he was patient, it was possible she’d reach that point on her own. Or, better yet, she’d agree to terminate the foundation and he could accomplish his goal in one fell swoop. Not his original plan, but one that grew more appealing every day.

  Either way, the ultimate blame—should the embezzlement be discovered—would fall on Matt, while he once again disappeared . . . just as he’d done in Boston, leaving Larry holding the bag.

  Craig smirked. He was very proficient at setting up other people to take the rap for his misdeeds.

  His fingers loosened on the wheel, and some of his tension ebbed. All he had to do was give this time. Enduring a more modest lifestyle for a while was a small sacrifice for the payoff that would come eventually.

  In the interim, he should be glad he was alive—and grateful for the tip-off from the insider he’d bribed to let him know if Dmitri began to get suspicious. With that one warning phone call, the man had earned all the money he’d been paid to alert him if he needed to get out fast.

  Without that heads-up, he’d be dead instead of sitting on a potential gold mine that would set him up for life.

  Smiling, he flipped on his signal and moved into the exit lane. Things had worked out fine.

  He was home free.

  “You in the building?”

  At Mac’s abrupt greeting, Colin grinned and adjusted the cell against his ear as he jogged across the street. “Hello to you too.”

  “I have news related to the Coulter case.”

  Colin’s smile evaporated. “I just left the courthouse. I can be there in five minutes.”

  “I grabbed the conference room. Meet me there.”

  The line went dead.

  After a quick detour for two Americanos at Starbucks, he arrived on the threshold of the conference room six minutes later and held one out to Mac.

  “Thanks.” The other man took a sip. “After a night on the bar circuit for the missing person case, I needed this.”

  “What have you got?” Colin dropped into the adjacent chair.

  “Once the search warrant came through yesterday, we dived into Natalie James’s apartment. She did have a computer. One of our forensic guys reviewed her recent emails and gave me a list of senders, receivers, and names mentioned in the body of messages. Guess who popped up?”

  His adrenaline spiked, boosting his heart rate. “Parker.”

  “Yep. His name was in a reply to a message she sent to a less-than-stellar PI asking him to run a license plate. Given what Maxine said about the Matt that Natalie mentioned, I think we can assume our quiet, clean-as-a-whistle accountant has another side he tries to keep hidden.”

  “A darker side, if he had anything to do with Natalie’s disappearance.” Colin’s fingers tightened on the coffee.

  “Very dark.”

  “This also fits with what I found out about Craig Elliott. Or maybe I should say, what I didn’t find out. I was going to track you down this afternoon to bring you up to speed. I was able to get a definite ID based on the recent credit card purchase here. Elliott’s last address is in Miami—but deep as I dug, I couldn’t find any record of him prior to five years ago. And he disappeared again in February.”

  “In other words, Craig Elliott is a fake ID.”

  “That’s my assumption. He’s not in the NCIC database, but I did talk with a Miami PD detective. Elliott was on their radar for a while for a possible insurance fraud scam, but they never got him on that. However, my contact put me in touch with the FBI’s organized crime squad down there. Apparently Elliott was also in their sights in conjunction with an ongoing investigation into Russian Mafia activity.”

  Mac’s eyebrows rose. “Big-time stuff.”

  “Uh-huh. Word on the street, according to my FBI source, is that Elliott was skimming money from the organization before he disappeared. The FBI thought Dmitri Kozlov, the head of the Miami organization, might have had him taken out.”

  “Instead, he shows up here—at his friend Matt’s house. The plot thickens.”

  “And gets dangerous. We’re not dealing with an amateur here. This guy’s impressive. Eluding the Mafia is no small feat.”

  “But there’s a high probability Natalie’s shoe purchase blew his cover.”

  “Agreed.” Organized crime had no qualms about illegally accessing private financial information. “But we have an advantage. They have no idea where he is in St. Louis. We do.”

  Mac gathered up the papers in front of him. “My afternoon agenda suddenly got more interesting.”

  “So did mine. We need to interview Parker and Elliott.”

  “
You want to show up unannounced or give them a heads-up?”

  “The element of surprise could work to our advantage. As far as we know, Parker has no idea we’re digging into his background—and Elliott won’t be expecting us, either.”

  “I’m with you. Give me ten minutes to return a few calls.”

  “I need to do the same.” Colin pushed back his chair. “I’ll meet you in the office.”

  He exited into the hall, grappling with the twist this case had taken. Mild-mannered accountant leading a secret life of women and booze, with a possible connection to murder and mugging and a friend on the lam from the Russian Mafia in Miami.

  Bizarre didn’t come close to capturing the situation.

  As for how it would play out—Colin had no clue. But he did know one thing.

  The link between the Natalie James and Eileen Coulter cases wasn’t just unnerving; it was treacherous. One person had already died. Another was missing. And Trish, for whatever reason, was in the middle of everything.

  Jaw hardening, he picked up his pace. They needed to get to the bottom of this. Pronto.

  Before anyone else disappeared—or died.

  Working on Matt’s books for his other clients was b-o-r-i-n-g.

  Craig yawned and moved the cursor to the accounts receivable column. Creative accounting was much more fun. Like the kind he’d done in Boston . . . and Miami . . . and would soon be doing here. That was a challenge.

  And much more profitable.

  But this mundane stuff covered expenses. If he was going to live in Matt’s house, he had to do his part to ensure the bills got paid.

  He leaned over to retrieve a file. Froze at the faint crunch of gravel and the barking of a dog in the distance.

  Someone was coming up the driveway.

  It wasn’t the pizza guy. He hadn’t decided on his Friday night dinner yet. Nor was it an invited guest. He wasn’t entertaining at the moment. And it wasn’t Natalie. She wouldn’t come calling again.

  So who could it be?

  Leaving his laptop on the deck, he pushed through the sliding door, strode toward the front of the house, and peered through the sidelight glass.

  A black Taurus was slowly approaching up the drive.

  He squinted, but the tinted glass and glare from the afternoon sun hid the identity of the driver and anyone else inside.

  Whoever it was, though, wasn’t welcome. In his world, unexpected visitors were never a good sign.

  He edged to the side of the window as the car slowed. Stopped. A stranger in a jacket and tie got out of the passenger side. Gave the house and grounds a quick, professional sweep.

  A red alert began to beep in his brain at the man’s practiced perusal.

  This was not a casual visit.

  The driver-side door opened—and his pulse skyrocketed.

  Detective Colin Flynn had sought him out, with a colleague in tow.

  The two men exchanged a few words and started toward the door.

  Lungs locking, he fell back and tried to catch his breath. Why were the police nosing around? He hadn’t made any mistakes. They couldn’t be on to him.

  Could they?

  A tremor of fear rippled through him, and he steadied himself with a hand against the wall.

  Don’t panic! Stay calm. They don’t know a thing. This might be part of a routine follow-up to Eileen Coulter’s death. Trish is the prime suspect there. You made sure of that. Maybe they’re just closing a loop.

  Through the pounding in his ears, he heard footsteps on the porch.

  What to do?

  Think!

  He couldn’t flee. That would be stupid. Nor could he ignore them. Matt’s car was clearly visible through the open door of the garage. They’d know someone was home.

  Let Matt handle it.

  Yes. The perfect solution. He was squeaky clean. Even after Trish’s mother died, Flynn had asked him only a few perfunctory questions.

  The doorbell rang—and he raced toward the bedroom at the back of the house. There was no time to prep. Matt would have to wing it, splash some water in his hair, claim he’d been in the shower. But he’d been convincing so far, pulling off every task without a hitch. There was no reason he couldn’t handle a visit by the police.

  And once they left, once the purpose of their visit was clear, Craig would decide on next steps for both him and Matt.

  17

  “Ready?” Colin leaned toward the doorbell of Parker’s house.

  At Mac’s nod, he pressed the chime.

  A muffled peal sounded from within.

  Thirty silent seconds later, he tried again.

  No response.

  After exchanging a look with his colleague, he angled away from the door. “It’s possible he’s somewhere on the property. Trish says he has twenty or thirty acres and spends a lot of time maintaining the place.”

  “You wouldn’t know that to look at his lawn.”

  “I noticed.” Colin surveyed the overgrown front yard. “I expected the grounds to be as meticulous as the books I’m told he keeps. We could take a stroll around back and . . .”

  The lock rattled, and he swiveled around as Parker pulled the door open.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was in the shower.” He combed his fingers through his damp hair. “Detective Flynn . . . this is a surprise.”

  The first of many to come. It would be instructive to see how the accountant responded to their questions.

  Colin introduced Mac, who shook hands with the other man.

  “If you have a few minutes, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course.” He pulled the door wider and stepped back. “Come in.”

  Colin entered, giving the living room Matt led them to a quick sweep.

  The space fit the quiet, unassuming, conservative image Parker projected to the world. An upholstered recliner, positioned in front of a flat-screen TV. A nondescript couch, flanked by matching ceramic lamps. Side chair. A neutral beige carpet, mini blinds rather than drapes, off-white walls bare of ornamentation.

  He shifted his gaze to the mantel, where family photos were often displayed. There were none in this house. Only a pair of brass candlesticks and a small Celtic cross occupied the long expanse.

  “Make yourselves comfortable. Would you like a soft drink or some water?” Parker claimed the recliner.

  “No, thanks.” Colin took the side chair, while Mac sat at the far end of the sofa. The separation would allow each of them to observe the man without being in his direct line of sight while he answered questions from the other.

  “What brings you all the way out to my humble abode?”

  “A missing person case, for one thing.”

  As Mac spoke, Matt’s head swiveled his direction, a slight frown marring his forehead. “Missing person?”

  “Yes.” Mac pulled out his notebook. “A woman by the name of Natalie James.”

  For one fleeting moment, shock registered in Parker’s eyes. But it was gone so fast Colin would have missed it had he not been homed in on the man’s face.

  “Why are you talking to me about her?” Puzzlement scored his words, but a hint of wariness lurked underneath.

  “We found your name in her email.”

  Parker’s breath hitched, and his fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. “That’s bizarre. In what context?”

  “She had a PI run your plates.”

  The furrows on his brow deepened, and a muscle flexed in his cheek. “Why would some stranger do that?”

  “Was she a stranger?”

  “Yes.” Not one iota of hesitation. “I don’t know a Natalie James.”

  Mac flipped to another page in his notebook. “Then why don’t you tell us about someone you do know? Craig Elliott.”

  The shock wave that flattened his features was impossible to hide. “Is he involved in this missing person situation?”

  “We were hoping you could answer that question.”

  “I have
no idea.” He rose. Rubbed the fading scar on his temple. Paced to the end of the room—and back. “So much for being a good Samaritan.”

  “So you do know him?”

  “Yes. Well . . . I knew him before he was Craig Elliott. In college he was Jack Adler. We hung out together. Junior year, he disappeared with no explanation—there one day, gone the next. Everyone suspected foul play, but the police never found any evidence to support that theory. Ten days ago, out of the blue, he contacted me and said he needed a place to stay for a few days. Given his history, I should have expected trouble.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “No. He left on Tuesday.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No.”

  Mac flicked him a glance, and Colin picked up the questioning.

  “Where were you on Monday night?”

  Matt stopped pacing and swung toward him, hands fisted at his sides, stance wide-legged. “Why?”

  “That appears to be the night Natalie went missing.”

  “You think I had something to do with that?”

  “A friend of hers said Natalie told her she had a date on Monday night with a high-class man named Matt who lived in the country. She said they’d hooked up after meeting in a bar. Your name popped up in her email. That’s a powerful lead.”

  “This is absurd!” Matt’s complexion grew ruddy, and his posture stiffened. “I’m not in the habit of frequenting bars. Nor do I pick up women.”

  “The evidence would suggest otherwise. I’ll repeat my question. Where were you on Monday night?”

  “Working on the property until after dark. Alone.” He exhaled and retook his seat. “But Craig did borrow my car that night—and two or three other times. He said his own car had been stalling a lot and he didn’t want to drive it much until a mechanic gave it a going-over.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “This . . . what was her name? Natalie? She must have assumed he was me after she had the plates run. What a nightmare.”

  Colin exchanged a look with Mac. The story was plausible . . . and he might be willing to give Parker the benefit of the doubt . . . except for the man’s odd behavior at Trish’s house, plus some of the background information he’d discovered.