Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  “Like what?” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts and curled her fingers until her nails dug into her palms. “The bank will only accept paper checks, and I have the checkbook. He can’t force me to sign a check.”

  “Could he go around you and authorize electronic transfer of funds? Fill out the paperwork in your name?”

  “Not without triggering a phone call to me. My parents were paranoid about that kind of stuff after someone stole Dad’s identity a few years ago. They spent months unraveling the mess. After that, they put all kinds of security measures in place on every account they had, including the foundation. On top of that, donations over a certain dollar amount will prompt a phone call.”

  “Did Matt know about that?”

  “Yes. In fact, it was his suggestion. But I doubt he’d share that kind of information with his brother.”

  “All of that will work to our advantage.” Colin dug out his keys. “I almost hope he tries to tap into the money. That would give us grounds for a search warrant . . . which could lead to the discovery of a lot of other incriminating evidence.”

  “Don’t you think he’s being extra careful now that he knows he’s on your radar?”

  “Yes. But there could be evidence lying around—or buried—at his place that he doesn’t want found and may try to dispose of elsewhere. Once the Phoenix team is in place, though, they’ll spot that kind of activity.”

  “Then the faster I get them there, the better. I’ll call as soon as you leave.”

  “My cue to exit.”

  He stepped outside, and she followed him to the edge of the porch. “I’ll give you a ring after I talk with Cal Burke.”

  “Thanks.” He took her hand and gripped her fingers. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” She squeezed back and inclined her head slightly toward Stan, who was weeding the flower bed that rimmed his front walk and watching the proceedings across the street. “We have an audience—and I think he was hoping for more than a handshake. In case you haven’t picked it up, he’s a closet matchmaker.”

  “I’d love to oblige him.” He moved in close, blocking the older man’s view of Trish, and dipped his head until his lips were inches from hers. “But up close and personal will have to suffice for today.”

  She got lost for a moment in the warmth of brown irises flecked with gold. “Okay.” The word came out in an adolescent squeak.

  For one tiny, hopeful second, she thought he was going to forget about the parameters he’d set and make the illusion he’d created for Stan a reality.

  But then he backed up . . . released her hand . . . and walked away.

  She grabbed the porch rail to steady herself. Hard to imagine what a real kiss would be like if just being that close to the man turned her knees to putty.

  As he approached his car, Colin gave the older man a thumbs-up and called out to him. “The ice cream was great.”

  Stan acknowledged his comment with a jaunty salute.

  And once Colin backed out and drove away, Stan smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

  She responded with a flutter of fingers and escaped into the house.

  Locking the door behind her, she gave her lungs a few seconds to regain their rhythm, then returned to the screened porch. She had a class to prepare for—and a phone call to place to Cal Burke at Phoenix Inc.

  Her breath hitched again . . . for a far less pleasant reason.

  This wasn’t the time to indulge in romantic fancies about Colin Flynn. Not with all the unanswered questions lurking in the shadows and the situation coming to a head. Her top priority had to be helping the police get the evidence they needed to nail the perpetrator.

  Because as long as this was unresolved . . . as long as there was a probable murderer on the loose . . . she could be in danger. That risk might be remote, as Colin had suggested, but it was real.

  And until the guilty party or parties were out of circulation, she’d do exactly what he’d suggested.

  Take every precaution she could and watch her back.

  21

  He was going stir crazy.

  Craig aimed the remote at the TV and surfed through the channels, watching the images parade across the screen in Matt’s living room. Man, afternoon programming sucked.

  Mashing the off button, he checked his watch. Four ten—and the long, endless evening stretched ahead.

  Now what?

  Barhopping was out—for a while, anyway. The cops might be watching him . . . and he wasn’t about to risk getting burned by another predatory woman.

  He could work on books and payroll for Matt’s clients—except there was nothing more to do. He’d whizzed through all the pending tasks for this week hours ago . . . and it was only Wednesday. If he had to do this mindless work much longer, his brain would turn to mush. Why Matt hadn’t died of boredom was beyond him.

  The grass needed attention—but manual labor? Not happening. One of these days he’d have to hire somebody to cut the front lawn before it became a full-fledged hayfield.

  Yawning, he rose and wandered to the kitchen for a beer. Maybe Matt ought to give Trish a call. She might have claimed she wasn’t interested in romance, but that could have been grief speaking. After all, the two of them had seemed cozy at that lunch they’d shared a couple of months ago. Her every smile and gesture had suggested she was receptive to further overtures. Perhaps Matt would have better results if he cranked up the charm.

  Beer in hand, he pulled the tab as he mulled over that idea. A solicitous phone call today. Another one later in the week that included a suggestion for coffee. Nothing too aggressive or threatening. Just one concerned friend touching base with another.

  Even if she dug in her heels and refused to consider romance, it wouldn’t hurt to build some rapport. A closer relationship might make the notion of appointing Matt a trustee—and giving him more power over foundation funds—more palatable.

  Armed with that plan, he helped himself to a few pretzels from the bag on the counter and strolled back to the recliner in the living room as he chomped. There was no need to mention business during the chat. It would be best to confine the conversation to questions about her summer class, an inquiry about her arm, a funny story that would make her laugh. In other words, lay the groundwork for . . .

  He froze as a flash of light bounced off the wall in the hall—like a reflection off a shiny object.

  A car, perhaps?

  The last pretzel crumbled in his fingers.

  It had to be those detectives again. No one else came to Matt’s house other than kids from the pizza place and an occasional courier dropping off client paperwork. During all his weeks of surveillance, those were the only vehicles that had ventured through the woods to the house.

  And no one had ordered a pizza or called about a delivery today.

  He brushed off his fingers and took another swig of beer to wash down the pretzels. What new questions could the cops have? They’d tossed plenty at him when they’d shown up unannounced again on Monday afternoon. All related to ancient history, running the gamut from foster care to Larry’s business.

  But they’d left unsatisfied. He’d seen the frustration in Flynn’s face as the man had slapped his notebook shut, in the glance he’d exchanged with the McGregor guy. Although the two of them had tag-teamed their interrogation, he’d sidestepped every hardball they’d thrown.

  He snorted and took a pull from the beer. They weren’t dealing with an amateur here. No way was he giving them one speck of new information. They were on their own if they wanted to keep digging.

  As well they might.

  It was possible they’d even find out about the identical twin situation—or already had and were keeping that close to the vest for now.

  No matter. Whatever suspicions that fact might generate, they wouldn’t be able to prove anything.

  He remained where he was as a faint crunch of gravel overlaid the hum of the air conditioner. He could ignore them today if he c
hose. The car was tucked away in the closed garage, there was nothing else to indicate anyone was home—and another round of bob and weave was not on this afternoon’s agenda.

  However . . . if the door went unanswered, he wouldn’t know why they were continuing to snoop around. Sticking your head in the sand was an avoidance tactic, not a strategy. Better to know the reason for their visit—and use that information to plan next steps.

  Besides, Craig Elliott was their man . . . and there was no trace of him to be found. If Matt continued to cooperate with them, they’d eventually leave him alone.

  He rose and crossed to the door, tucking himself into the shadows as he peeked out the sidelight.

  Huh.

  Instead of Colin Flynn’s black Taurus, a silver Cadillac was sitting in the driveway.

  Definitely not a law-enforcement-issue car.

  Who could it be? In all his weeks of surveillance and hacking, no luxury-car driver had surfaced.

  Staying out of sight, he wedged himself against the wall and watched the vehicle.

  Sixty seconds ticked by.

  He frowned. Why wasn’t anyone emerging from behind the tinted windows? Had the driver taken a wrong turn and realized his or her mistake? Perhaps the car would back up, reverse direction, and . . .

  The driver’s door opened.

  A large, muscular stranger unfolded his tall frame from behind the wheel and gave the area a thorough, practiced sweep . . . much like the detective had done.

  A niggle of unease slithered along Craig’s spine.

  This was not a casual visit—and the furtive quality in the man’s actions didn’t bode well.

  Decision made.

  He was not answering the door.

  In fact, he was going to retrieve his Beretta and keep it close at hand until his uninvited visitor left.

  As he started to turn away from the window, muscleman moved to the back door and pulled it open.

  After a brief pause, the passenger emerged. A man in his fifties, with wings of silver in his light brown hair and an all-too-familiar face.

  The air whooshed out of his lungs.

  Oleg Petrov was here?!

  The floor tilted, and Craig splayed the fingers of one hand against the wall to steady himself as a riptide of panic swept over him.

  No!

  This was impossible!

  Dmitri couldn’t have found him!

  Yet his eyes weren’t lying.

  But . . . but how could this be? He’d been careful. Months had passed since his escape from Miami. The break had been swift, clean, and successful. He’d left no clues for them to follow.

  Unfortunately, the reality unfolding dozens of yards away said otherwise.

  Sucking air into his stalled lungs, he recalibrated his strategy.

  He couldn’t ignore the bell. If Oleg had come all the way from Miami at Dmitri’s direction, he wasn’t going to leave without nosing around. The locks wouldn’t stop him. He and his goon would get in.

  So he had to let them in.

  And maybe . . . just maybe . . . this wasn’t the end of the world.

  His brain began clicking again.

  If someone in Dmitri’s organization had discovered Craig Elliott’s real identity, it wouldn’t have been difficult to discover he had an identical twin—one who was easy to track down. He’d found Matt himself in less than five minutes on the net.

  Oleg might be here to see if Matt knew anything about his brother’s whereabouts.

  Or he might harbor darker suspicions.

  But so what?

  Only one brother remained, and as far as the world was concerned, that brother was Matt. There was nothing to prove otherwise.

  Unless . . .

  His heart stumbled.

  Did Dmitri’s people have his fingerprints, by chance? He’d never been asked to provide them, and it wasn’t standard practice in the organization to collect prints—but he was an outsider. Might they have obtained his without his knowledge?

  If so, he was in deep trouble.

  Because if they got his prints now, his cover would be blown.

  They’d know he wasn’t Matt, but Michael.

  Oleg started toward the front door, the bruiser falling in behind.

  Sweat broke out on Michael’s upper lip, and he dashed it away with the back of his hand.

  Chill, Parker. You cannot show any outward sign of fear. If they had your prints on file, they’d have dusted this house when you weren’t here to verify your identity and taken you out already. They wouldn’t be coming up your front walk like normal visitors. Oleg is here to fish. So play dumb, tell him a slightly amended version of the story you gave the cops—and hope he buys it.

  The two men stepped onto the porch, and Michael eased back into the shadows, forcing himself to take long, slow breaths.

  He could pull this off. He’d been impersonating Matt for weeks, fooling everyone—including people who knew the man. He could surely dupe Oleg, who’d never met his brother.

  The doorbell rang.

  Hands clenched, legs stiff, he jerked forward and twisted the knob.

  “Good afternoon.” Oleg gave him a smooth smile that held no warmth, his eyes sharp and probing. “Mr. Parker, I am Oleg Petrov. There is some business I would like to discuss. May I have a few words with you?”

  He didn’t bother to introduce the man hovering at his shoulder.

  Typical.

  Bodyguards were invisible to the likes of Oleg and Dmitri. No more than soulless robots valued only for the service they performed.

  “I have a full roster of accounting clients already, Mr. Petrov. And most prospective customers make initial contact by email or phone.” His tone was perfect. Cordial, but curious.

  “I do not have that kind of business to discuss. I am here to talk about Craig Elliott.”

  So they knew Elliott had been here. There was more to this visit than picking Matt’s brain about his twin brother.

  That meant Dmitri had called in favors from the organization’s contacts in law enforcement.

  He needed to play this just right.

  Gripping the knob tighter, he pulled the door wide and backed up. “Come in.”

  Oleg entered, followed by his shadow, who remained in the doorway between the foyer and the living room. The Russian claimed the same chair Flynn had occupied.

  Michael moved to the sofa, angled toward the man so he could keep both visitors in view . . . and waited. He’d let Oleg take the lead. Offering more than was asked for—or necessary—would be a tactical error.

  The older man crossed his legs and adjusted the crease in his pinstripe suit. “Let us be honest, yes? You and I both know your brother and Elliott are the same man.”

  At least they still believed—or were pretending to believe—he was Matt.

  Since it was unlikely this conversation would get back to the police, he could modify the story he’d told to law enforcement.

  Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair and gave Oleg a look he hoped came across as pained and conflicted. “Yes.”

  “You have kept in touch—despite what happened in Boston?”

  They’d done their homework. Dmitri knew . . . or had surmised . . . what had taken place five years ago.

  He leaned back in his chair, buying himself a few seconds to think.

  Remember, you’re Matt. The police haven’t mentioned the Mafia connection, and Matt would have no clue about it. He’d be surprised by this man’s knowledge—and wary.

  “You know about that?” He injected a healthy note of caution into his voice.

  “We know many things. You have kept in touch all these years?”

  “No. After the fiasco in Boston, I told Michael I never wanted to see him again.”

  “Embezzlement in a family business is never pretty.”

  “No.”

  “Stealing money from a person who trusted you should, of course, be punished.”

  At the
man’s less-than-subtle implication, fear coiled in his stomach.

  “I couldn’t turn him in. He’s my brother.”

  “Ah yes. Loyalty. An admirable trait. And blood ties are strong. Is he here?”

  “No. He stayed only a few nights.”

  “Why did you take him in?”

  “He said he wanted to make amends for Boston.” Michael shrugged. “I’ve become active in my church, and over the past three years I’ve heard a number of sermons on forgiveness. When he called, it seemed as if God was giving me an opportunity to turn the other cheek.” The glib words sounded smooth and sincere even to his ears.

  Amazing.

  “A most virtuous sentiment.” A speculative gleam flickered in Oleg’s ice blue irises. “You have told this story to the police?”

  “They know Elliott was here. They don’t know he’s my brother.”

  “And if they find out?”

  “I’m hoping they don’t. But if they do, I’ll have to backtrack.”

  “You would put yourself at risk for a man who caused you such trouble?”

  “He is my brother—and I’m trying to let go of the past.”

  Oleg linked his fingers. “You know he is a person of interest, as they call it, in connection with a missing woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is a serious charge.”

  “I realize that—but they’ve got the wrong man. He might have made some mistakes, but he’s never physically hurt anyone.”

  “Perhaps he has changed.”

  “I don’t think so.” Michael stole a look at the muscled statue keeping silent vigil. The man’s expression was impassive, but he was no doubt listening to every word. “You mentioned you had unfinished business with him?”

  “Yes. Do you know where he is or how to reach him?”

  “No. He didn’t offer contact information, and I didn’t ask for any. Forgiveness is one thing—but we’re never going to be friends.”

  “Too bad. We will have to continue our search. But we will find him.” Oleg’s steely gaze bored into his.

  Michael met it, trying not to flinch.

  This was not a man who tossed out idle threats.