by Irene Hannon
“Then we’ll have to round up some evidence.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“I have a few ideas. But first, I think we should talk to Sarge and get him on board. Assuming Craig Elliott and Michael Parker are one and the same, our two cases have merged.”
Mac stood. “Let’s do it. Sarge has been around a lot longer than either of us. He might have some creative ideas.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
He strode toward the door, Mac on his heels. At the very least, once they were finished briefing Sarge, he intended to pay Parker another visit. Keeping the man off balance, reminding him he was on their radar, could only work to their advantage.
Lighting a fire under the white-collar crime investigator he’d touched base with this weekend was also high on his agenda. If the information Parker had provided to Trish on Providence House Ministries turned out to be bogus, that might give them the ammunition they needed to get a search warrant for the house and grounds.
If it didn’t . . . he’d find another way to put pressure on the suspicious accountant. Make him sweat. Rattle him enough that he started making mistakes.
And he needed to do it fast.
Before the Russian Mafia figured out where he was and dispensed their own brand of justice to his prime suspect.
And before the woman who was fast laying claim to his heart was exposed to any more danger.
20
Was that the doorbell?
Trish leaned her ear toward the French doors that led from the screened porch to the house.
Yes. The chime was faint, but someone had definitely come calling.
She wiped her hands on a rag and stood. It must be Stan, with the homemade ice cream he’d promised after hailing her while she collected her mail from the box on the street earlier.
Nice man.
Smiling, she hurried toward the door and pulled it open—only to find another nice man standing on her threshold in the early afternoon sun.
Better than nice, actually.
Colin gave her snug shorts, cropped T-shirt, and bare toes an appreciative sweep. “I like the outfit.”
She tugged at the hem of the worn shirt. “I’m not dressed for company.”
“You look fine to me. In fact, you’re sparkling. Here.” He grinned and touched her cheek, then her nose. “And here.”
“Oh.” She lifted a hand to her face, where the warmth from his finger lingered. “I’ve been in the screen porch prepping for my summer art class. I was dividing glitter into containers for each work table.”
“Sparkle suits you.” Amusement tickled his voice.
“Ha-ha.” Who cared if she was wearing her supplies? Colin was here . . . and after three days of no communication other than a cryptic text yesterday about Matt, this was a treat. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yes. I have some news I want to—”
“Afternoon, folks.” Stan huffed up the walk carrying a plastic container. “Welcome back, young man.” He beamed at Colin.
“Thanks.”
“As for you, young woman . . . you’re sparkling.”
Trish rubbed her nose again. “I was working with some glitter for my summer art program.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.” He winked and passed her the container. “Here’s your ice cream, as promised. I made strawberry today, with berries from my garden. You can’t get a fresher—or more natural—product than that. And it’s a lot cheaper than that froufrou organic stuff they sell in the grocery stores nowadays.”
“Thank you. I’ve been looking forward to this for the past two hours. Your ice cream is the best.”
“It is tasty.” After patting her arm, he directed his attention to Colin. “You’ll have to let me know if you agree, young man. I saw you through the kitchen window while I was dishing this up, so I added some for you too.”
“I appreciate that. Ice cream has always been my favorite dessert.”
“I knew it. I sized you up as an ice cream man the first time I saw you.” He slapped the tall detective on the back. “I won’t keep the two of you standing out here jabbering or you’ll be drinking your treat. Enjoy.” He lifted his hand and ambled back down the walk.
“Homemade ice cream. That’s an unexpected bonus.” Colin eyed the container. “And it will be a sweet way to wrap up our visit after you hear my less-than-sweet news.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Is your news related to the text you sent yesterday, about calling you if Matt contacted me?”
“Yes.”
She ushered him into the foyer. “Let me put this in the freezer while we talk.”
She led him to the kitchen, stowed the ice cream, and motioned toward the screen porch. “If you ditch the jacket and tie, it’s not too hot to sit outside. The porch is a comforting spot, with the flowers and birds and fountain. I’ve been spending most of my days out there since the incident in the parking lot.”
“Comforting sounds perfect.” Even as he spoke, he was shrugging out of his jacket and loosening his tie.
“Would you like a cold drink? Or if you haven’t eaten lunch yet, I have some chicken salad in the fridge.”
“Thanks. I hit a drive-through on the way over.” He tugged his tie free and hung it over the jacket he’d draped on the back of one of her dinette chairs. “Ready whenever you are.”
She crossed to the adjacent family room and opened one of the French doors. From here, the terrace off the living room was out of sight, and there was only a limited view of the rose garden, with its melancholy memories. The faint splash of water from the small fountain in the shade garden was soothing, and wind chimes were a gentle accompaniment to the song of the birds.
Colin gave an approving nod. “I see why you like this spot. It’s peaceful.”
“Very. Let me move some of this stuff out of the way.” She started to clear the table.
“Not necessary.” He stopped her with a touch on her arm. “I don’t need table space, and you’ve got everything organized for sorting.” He surveyed the containers of glitter, tiny shells, buttons, feathers, beads, yarn, small pieces of ribbon, colored paper, twigs, and sundry other items. He picked up a nail from a pile of assorted bolts, screws, and washers and hiked up an eyebrow.
She smiled. “It’s a mixed media class for fourth and fifth graders. We’ll be creating collages, greeting cards, sculptures—among other things—based on different themes.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever thought of a nail as art.”
“Most people don’t—but you can make amazing pieces with everyday items. Have you ever heard of Brother Mel Meyer?”
“No.”
“He had a gallery here in St. Louis and sold his work all over the world. I have a bowl he made out of stainless steel cutlery. It’s beautiful.”
“If you say so.” He set the nail down and took a seat across the table from her. “I do know this. If I’d had a teacher who let me work with this kind of stuff as a kid, I might have tried a little harder to develop whatever limited artistic talent I have.”
She sat too. “It’s not just about becoming an artist. Few people are born with that gift—but everyone can learn to appreciate art. That’s my goal with the students I teach.”
“Like I said . . . I wish I’d had a teacher like you.”
“It’s never too late to learn.”
“I’ll keep that in mind once we get past the present issues. Maybe we could arrange some private tutoring.”
“I’ll pencil you in.”
“Write it in ink.” After flashing her a smile, he grew more serious. “In the meantime . . . there have been some surprising new developments.”
“I think I’m past being surprised.”
“You may change your mind after you hear what we’ve discovered.”
Colin gave her a topline in the concise, thorough-but-no-frills style she’d come to associate with his on-duty persona.
Normally, she appreciated his cut-to-the-chase ma
nner. But her brain was struggling to keep up with the startling developments he was lobbing at her.
When he paused at last, she rubbed her temple. “Wow.”
“That was our reaction. And there’s more.”
“I’m still grappling with the fact that Matt has an identical twin who you suspect is also Elliott—and who could be impersonating Matt.”
“It makes sense though, if he’s trying to hide from the Mafia. Ready for the next piece of news?”
She gripped the arms of her chair. “No . . . but tell me anyway.”
“Our white-collar fraud group has done some research on Providence House Ministries. It appears to be bogus.”
Her stomach flipped. “You mean . . . it doesn’t exist?”
“It exists. On paper. It files all the appropriate government forms—and has for the past seven years.”
“Two years before the Boston situation came to light. Interesting timing.”
“And more than coincidence, I’m guessing.”
“But if the paperwork is in order, why do they think it’s bogus?”
“They haven’t gotten in too deep yet, but they did give a couple of the charities Providence House supports a quick review. Again, they appear legit on the surface—but my white-collar guy thinks the groups may be shell organizations. He suspects money is being transferred from them to an offshore account.”
“Wow again.”
“They’re continuing to dig, but it may take time to sort this out.”
“In light of the twins’ background, isn’t it ironic that Providence House was supposed to be funding organizations that benefit foster children?”
“Ironic . . . or sweet revenge, given Michael’s shuffle through the system. Maybe he figures if no one helped him as a kid, he’ll help himself as an adult.”
“Only a sick mind would think like that.”
“I’m not going to dispute that.”
She picked up a button and squeezed it between her fingers as she asked the obvious . . . and scary . . . question. “So if this is all some sort of elaborate setup to provide Michael with a safe refuge from the Mafia and to steal from the foundation, where is Matt?”
Even before he responded, his grim expression confirmed he shared her suspicions.
“We think he may have met the same fate as the missing woman, Natalie James.”
Meaning he thought they were both dead.
Murdered.
Like Mom?
She set the button down and fought back a swell of nausea. “You don’t think my mother’s death was an accident, do you?”
The quiet question hung between them for a few moments.
When Colin finally answered, his voice was gentle. “In view of what we’ve discovered about Michael Parker and the foundation, as well as what’s been happening with you the past few weeks . . . no. The only consolation, if there is any, is that it wasn’t your fault.”
“I wish that made me feel better.” The last word scratched past her tight throat.
He covered her hand with his. “We’ll get him, Trish. Whatever it takes.”
“How? From what you’ve said, none of your suspicions will be easy to prove.”
His forehead puckered. “Some documentable fingerprints for Matt would do the trick.”
“They could be tough to find. I think he preferred to work paperless. Everything he sent Mom was electronic, and I assume he followed the same procedure with other clients.”
“Too bad. But we’ll find a way to nail Parker. I’m not letting him win.”
“I appreciate your tenacity.”
“That’s how I’m wired.” He removed his hand and twisted his wrist to see his watch. “I need to get going.”
“Can you spare five more minutes for the ice cream?”
“I never pass up ice cream.”
“Good. I could use a taste of sweetness about now.” And since his lips weren’t available, Stan’s offering would have to suffice. “Give me three minutes.”
Colin stood when she reappeared at the French doors faster than she’d promised, pulled one open, and took the dish she held out.
“Let’s sit over there.” He motioned toward two wicker chairs away from her work area.
“So what happens next?” She dipped her spoon into the creamy confection and sank onto the cushioned seat.
“Since Parker is sticking to his story, we’ll continue to shake the bushes for leads—and hope we get answers before the Russian Mafia does.”
“Will you put him under surveillance?”
“That would be ideal.” Colin jabbed at a strawberry, frustration etched on his features. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the resources for that. The department’s stretched too thin dealing with breaking cases and following hot leads to be able to spare personnel for the kind of round-the-clock surveillance this sort of situation needs. I know that’s not what TV cop shows suggest, but it’s the reality.”
She drew swirls in her ice cream with the tip of her spoon, toying with an idea. “What do you think about private investigators?”
“We don’t use them.”
“I assumed you didn’t. What I meant was, what do you think about them in general? Are there any competent ones out there, and would they be helpful in a case like this?”
“Why?”
“I want this wrapped up as much as you do. Maybe more. Mom and Dad left me a generous inheritance. I can’t think of a better use for some of that money than putting the man likely responsible for multiple deaths—perhaps even my mugging—behind bars.”
He finished off his ice cream and set his bowl on the side table. “I can’t make an official recommendation. We’ve had our share of run-ins with less-than-professional PIs. In general we steer clear of them and approach with caution if they do happen to cross our path.”
“I understand. But there is someone you feel comfortable with, isn’t there?” She could see it in his speculative gaze.
“Off the record . . . yes. There’s a group called Phoenix Inc. that does excellent work. The PIs are all former law-enforcement operatives—County homicide detective, undercover ATF agent, and Secret Service agent.”
“A distinguished group.”
“Yeah. They’ve tackled—and solved—some tough cases. I’d feel comfortable with them doing the surveillance piece of this. However, they don’t come cheap.”
“A conversation to put out some feelers and get an estimate won’t cost much. Who should I contact?”
“Cal Burke. They’re all equal partners, but the company was his brainchild and he’s the unofficial leader. I know him from his years in the department, and he’s a sharp, meticulous guy.”
“I’ll give him a call this afternoon. Can I tell him you referred me?”
“Sure. He’ll handle that information discreetly.”
“Is there anything he should know that you haven’t told me?”
“No. All we need them to do is tail our subject and watch his place. We’ll want a log of Parker’s movements and a report of any activity at the house. But get a bid first. You may be shocked at the cost.”
“Like I said, it’s money well spent if it gets us the answers we need. How long do you think we might have to watch Parker?”
“Let’s not commit to more than a week. At that point, if there’s been no suspicious activity, we may have to regroup.”
“Do you think the Mafia’s going to show up?”
“Sooner or later. If we found out Elliott’s here—aka Michael Parker—they will too.”
“Unless they’ve stopped searching for him.”
“That’s not their typical modus operandi. Betrayal in an organization like that isn’t taken lightly.” He tapped the edge of her dish. “Better finish that. It’s too good to waste.”
“You need to go, don’t you?” She scooped up what was left of her melting ice cream.
“Yes.”
“I appreciate you stopping by with the latest update.”
<
br /> “I thought the new information was better passed on in person than over the phone.” He stood.
“Shall I give you an update after I talk with Cal Burke?”
“I’d appreciate that. And assuming you proceed, if they alert you to anything unusual they’ve seen or heard, call me night or day.” He took her bowl. “Walk me out?”
“Of course.” She rose and followed him to the kitchen. “By the way, Kristin called. I’m meeting her after my art class on Monday for dinner.”
One corner of his mouth hitched up. “Strategic timing.”
“How so?”
He deposited the empty bowls in the sink, slid his arms back into his jacket, and knotted his tie. “The gang’s every-other-Saturday breakfast is this week. If she met you before that, she knows I’d grill her over her eggs. This way, she can dodge my calls.” He continued to the foyer.
“Smart woman. I think I’m going to like her.”
“I do too.” He stopped by the door and grew more serious. “Until this is over, I’d like you to take extra precautions. Keep the doors locked while you’re here, arm the security system at night, try to avoid going out in the dark, and watch your back even in daylight. Also—I meant what I said in my text about Matt. Let me know if he tries to contact you . . . and don’t answer the door if he shows up here.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” Her attempt at a teasing tone fell flat. A guy like Colin didn’t give idle warnings. If he was concerned about her, there was reason to be.
“No. But I want you to be cautious. We’re way past a few setups to suggest you’re incompetent. If Parker’s done what we suspect, he won’t hesitate to get rid of anything—or anyone—who stands between him and the money he’s after. And if the Russian Mafia enters the picture, the situation could get dangerous fast. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire.”
Not the most comforting thought.
“You don’t really think there’s much chance of that happening, do you?”
“No—but it’s within the realm of remote possibilities. Parker’s plans have to be in disarray now that his liaison with Natalie James has come back to haunt him. If he panics, who knows what he might do? He wants the money in the foundation’s account, but until the past week there was no hurry to get it. If the Mafia appears, that could accelerate his plans—and force him to take some desperate actions.”