by Irene Hannon
While he’d had no personal dealings with Dmitri’s minion, he’d heard the stories. How, in his younger days, Oleg had been adept at killing with his bare hands . . . and had done so on several occasions.
He was older now, and perhaps no longer capable of such legendary feats—but the intimidating bodyguard he’d brought along could do his bidding if necessary.
Would do it if Oleg gave the word.
Michael suppressed a shudder.
When the silence lengthened, Oleg rose. “I’ve intruded enough for one day.”
The caveat wasn’t lost on Michael.
Their meeting might be over . . . but their business wasn’t.
Either he hadn’t been 100 percent convincing, or Oleg was under strict instructions not to return to Miami until he got what Dmitri wanted.
Namely, Russian Mafia justice.
The man walked toward the door, his bodyguard a few paces behind.
Michael followed, tamping down his panic. “It’s been five years since my last contact with Michael—and when he left, I didn’t get the impression I’d hear from him again anytime soon.”
“That may be true.” Oleg stopped at the door while the other man went outside and did another scan of the area. “But one can hope. As a matter of fact, I have a feeling he is nearby . . . and my instincts do not often fail me.” He glanced at the guard, who gave a slight nod. “Have a nice day, Mr. Parker.”
With that, he strolled down the walk to the Cadillac, his shadow close behind, and disappeared behind the tinted windows.
Michael closed the door, watching through the sidelight as the car executed a wide turn and rolled down the drive, followed by a cloud of dust.
Only after the luxury vehicle disappeared around a bend in the woods-rimmed lane and the air cleared did Michael twist the lock on the door and back away from the window.
This was a disaster.
And hard as the truth was to swallow, it was of his own making.
Messing with organized crime had been stupid.
He lurched toward the recliner and sank down. Stealing from Larry, siphoning funds from Trish’s trust . . . those were low-risk operations compared to pilfering Mafia money. Smart as he’d been, carefully as he’d hidden his theft, he’d gotten caught—and Dmitri wasn’t going to let him walk away, as Larry had, if he figured out his real identity.
But how could he?
How could anyone?
He’d covered his tracks. His fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere. Neither were Matt’s. His Boy Scout brother had probably never even gotten a parking ticket. And there weren’t any of his prints here. Not after the thorough scouring he’d given this place—and the car—once he’d moved in. Nor would his clients have any, in light of his brother’s penchant for paperless communication. Without comparison prints, no one could dispute his story that he was Matt.
Still . . . there could be issues if anyone started poking around on his land.
Fingers trembling, he brushed some stray pretzel salt off the arm of the chair. The graves were deep in the woods and well disguised, but if anyone did stumble across them, the situation could get messy.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
But if it did, he’d better be prepared with a credible explanation for the two dead bodies on his property.
He also needed to accelerate work on the escape plan he hadn’t expected to need for months—or even a year or two, if he drained the foundation funds more slowly while he hid out. Now he needed to be able to slip away fast . . . and undetected . . . if things got too hot.
On the plus side, his new ID was ready and waiting, far better than the crude one he’d cobbled together after he fled Florida. What else had he had to work on in his abundant free time over the past few weeks?
But he didn’t yet have the funds to pay for the lifestyle he’d set his sights on. Thanks to his upscale preferences in Boston and Miami, less than a hundred grand remained in his offshore account.
Trish’s foundation, however, had plenty of money to boost that balance.
He rose and began to pace, scrubbing at the few stray grains of salt that refused to relinquish their grip on his fingers.
Maybe he ought to accelerate the timetable on the funds transfer. Do it all at once. The system he’d set up while in Boston continued to work flawlessly. Trish’s “donation” check to Providence House Ministries had gone through without a hitch, traveling first to Providence, which had parsed it out in smaller amounts to his shell-company charities. From there he’d channeled the funds to his offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands.
It was a brilliant scheme, easy to manage online . . . and almost untraceable if you were savvy with VPNs and remailers. Sure, if law enforcement dug deep enough, they might be able to link the transactions back to him—but in the past they’d never had a reason to do that. Larry hadn’t pressed charges . . . and neither would Dmitri.
The local detectives, on the other hand, were a wild card. That Flynn guy and his colleague came across as the determined type.
But it took time to come up with the grounds necessary to get search warrants if they wanted to nose around his property. Longer than it would take for him to transfer the money and disappear.
The last grains of salt finally released their hold on his fingers . . . but they left a sticky residue behind.
Huffing out an annoyed breath, Michael headed toward the kitchen to rinse his hands, weighing his options.
It had seemed safer in the beginning to hide under cover of Matt’s identity until the Miami situation cooled. Dmitri wouldn’t have tracked him forever.
Now that they’d traced Craig here, however . . . and now that he was on the cops’ radar too . . . it might be smart to alter his plans.
He twisted on the tap and let the cool water wash away the dregs of the salt as that notion took root.
Accelerating his plans was sounding more and more appealing. It wasn’t as if he was loving the country life Matt had chosen. Having an excuse to ditch this low-key accountant gig sooner than planned wasn’t such a bad thing.
The challenge was getting the money faster than anticipated.
He dried his hands and slapped the towel onto the counter. This would be so much simpler if Trish’s parents hadn’t specified only check donations in the foundation’s bylaws. As it stood, the financial institution holding the funds wouldn’t release money without that signed piece of paper.
Forging Trish’s signature would be simple—but she kept the checkbook. You couldn’t forge—or wash—checks you didn’t have.
Unfortunately, even if he convinced her to amend the bylaws, the paperwork and implementation took time he might not have.
He needed to pay her another visit—and go prepared to suggest several donations that would appeal to her. Once he had a few signed checks in hand to wash, a well-funded escape would be a piece of cake.
If she didn’t cooperate . . . well, there were other, more risky ways to get to those checks.
But for both their sakes, he hoped she gave him what he needed without any resistance.
22
“Quit hovering. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.” Hank shot a don’t-mess-with-me glare over his shoulder.
Colin withdrew his head from the ransacked bedroom, where the cranky CSU tech was dusting for prints. “I’ll be in the kitchen talking to the homeowner.”
“A better use of your time.”
Sheesh. The man had attitude with a capital A.
But his forensic skills were top-notch.
As Colin retreated down the hall of the high-end home where the owner had walked in on a burglary in progress, his cell began to vibrate.
He pulled it off his belt, scanned the screen . . . and ducked into a nearby bathroom. Trish could leave a message while he dealt with this crime scene—but he’d rather talk to her in person.
A smile tugged at his lips as he put the phone to his ear. Since he’d shared ice cream with h
er yesterday and talked to her hours later after she’d connected with Phoenix, you’d think the need to hear her voice again wouldn’t be all that urgent.
Wrong.
Which was proof he had it bad.
And he didn’t mind in the least.
“Hi.” Still smiling, he propped a shoulder against the doorframe.
“Hi back. Do you have a minute?”
Not really. But he’d take one . . . or two . . . for her.
“Yes, but not much more. What’s up?”
“I had a call from Cal Burke. There’s been some activity at Matt’s house.”
He straightened up. “Tell me about it.”
“Cal says he had two visitors about an hour ago.” She passed on the details about the duo in the Cadillac.
“Did they get any photos?”
“Yes. Cal made it a point to tell me they weren’t trespassing, though. He said one of their guys was watching from adjacent public land.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. They run a by-the-book kind of operation—for the most part.” He knew of only a single instance when Phoenix had deviated from that rule, and if they hadn’t, the woman one of Cal’s partners later married would have died.
“He wanted to know whether they should try to identify the two guys or email me the photos to pass on to you. I got the impression they thought the visitors might be affiliated with the Mafia.”
Cal and his guys wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion without sound reasons. They must have observed some behavior that had tipped them off.
The Florida mob had moved in faster than he’d expected.
“Go with the email. If these guys are Mafia, the contacts I made in Miami may recognize them. We should be able to get an ID through official channels quicker than Phoenix can—and save you a few bucks in the process.”
“A resolution is more important to me than the money.”
“Let us take a crack at it first. If we don’t nail it within a few hours, you can turn it back over to Phoenix.”
“Okay. Cal also said the Cadillac is a rental car. Do you want the license?”
“Yeah.” He fished out his pen and notebook and jotted down the number. “If this is a Mafia rental, I suspect we’ll find a John Smith name on the paperwork. But it’s worth checking.”
“Cal implied that too. I’ll call him back and let him know you’re going to handle the ID on the . . .” A beat of silence passed. “Huh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got a call coming in from Matt’s number.”
Colin’s pulse picked up.
The Mafia visits him, and soon after he calls Trish.
The timing had to be significant.
“Let it roll.” He didn’t want her anywhere close to whatever was going to go down between Matt and the Mafia and County. “You can play his message after we hang up.”
“Do you think this call is related to his visitors?”
“Yeah.” Better to be totally aboveboard with his suspicions so she’d remain on high alert. “I’m thinking the guys in the Cadillac spooked him and he’s getting ready to make some kind of move.”
“Like what?”
He wished he knew.
“His message may give us a clue.” The officer who’d responded to the burglary appeared in the hall and beckoned to him. “Look . . . I need to go. Listen to the message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“Will do.”
The line went dead.
“Sorry to interrupt.” The officer rested one hand on his holster. “I think the homeowner is about to have a meltdown.”
No surprise there. Having a gun pulled on you and being tied up by two armed robbers could do that to a person.
“Have the paramedics left?”
“On their way out. They didn’t find any substantive injuries, and the victim refused to go to the hospital for further evaluation.”
“Okay.” He slid his phone back on his belt and psyched himself up for what could be a difficult conversation. Too bad her husband was out of town. His presence might help calm her. He’d have to do his best to settle her down on his own and get some answers.
Fifteen tense minutes later, however, he’d accomplished neither. The woman was no less freaked out, and despite careful, specific questions designed to elicit details, the best description she could provide was twentysomething, dark hair, and tall.
Like that would help a lot.
Maybe Hank would have better luck with fingerprints, shoe impressions, or trace evidence that could yield a DNA sample.
After thanking the woman, he retreated down the hall. The CSU tech was still at work, so he stepped out onto the patio to call Trish back.
She answered on the first ring. “You’re at a crime scene, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I’ve got a few minutes. What did Parker want?”
“He invited me out for coffee.”
“Social or business?”
“He didn’t mention the foundation. I got the feeling it was social.”
Not likely, with everything that was going on.
“There’s more on his agenda than small talk.”
“Such as?”
He paused as a cigarette butt wedged between two bricks caught his eye. Intact, despite last night’s rain—meaning it was recent. If the owners didn’t smoke, he’d alert Hank to this . . . even though the man would probably get huffy and tell him he would have found it on his own. Which was no doubt true.
“Colin?”
He refocused. “Good question. One we need to answer. Let me discuss approaches with my boss and a colleague. We’ll also try to ID the two visitors. Until I get back to you, let your phone roll if he calls again. Do you have any commitments that require you to leave the house over the next couple of days?”
“Other than a grocery run, no.”
“Stay put. If you need food, call me and I’ll deliver.”
“I could lie and say the cupboard is bare to give me an excuse to see you . . . but the truth is the freezer’s full.”
“Then stay there until we sort this out and come up with a plan. I’ll call you later today or early tomorrow. If you hear from the Phoenix guys again, let me know.”
“I will. And the photos Cal sent should be in your inbox.”
“Thanks. I’ll get right on them. Talk to you soon.”
The instant the line went dead, he opened his email. The one with the photos was near the top.
Cal and his crew had provided several images of each of the guys—full face, profile, close up, whole body. They were strangers to him—but his contacts at the Miami PD or FBI office might recognize them.
And if they did . . . if the Mafia was on Parker’s doorstep . . . they needed to wrap this up fast.
Before anyone else got hurt.
Phone pressed to his ear, Dmitri swirled his daily shot of Stolichnaya Gold in a crystal tumbler, rocked forward on his toes in front of the picture window, and watched a cruise ship glide toward the horizon forty-two floors below as Oleg finished his report.
“Excellent work. Now that you have given me the facts of your visit to St. Louis, tell me your impressions.” He sipped the vodka.
“He was nervous—but he did not make any mistakes. All of his responses and reactions would be appropriate for Matthew Parker.”
“Acting is a useful skill. Very convincing when well done.” He held up the glass of clear liquid to the light. While it wasn’t the most expensive vodka on the market, it was the best. Only fools paid disgraceful amounts of money for artsy bottles. What mattered was the contents. “But you have keen insights. That is why I sent you. What is your opinion about his identity?”
“It is difficult to know for certain . . . and much is at stake.”
“We will get more proof before we act—but if you think there is little likelihood this man is Michael Parker, we will not waste our time there. Give me your odds.”
The man’s response was
slow and measured. “I believe there is at least an 80 percent chance this is the man we knew as Elliott.”
Dmitri tossed back the rest of his vodka, tracking a yacht as its bow cut through the water, churning foam in its wake. If Oleg said 80 percent, that meant the odds were closer to 90 percent. His trusted aid tended to err on the side of caution when offering probabilities.
“Then we will need to concentrate our efforts in this location. Pick those who you think will provide the skills you need and arrange for them to join you by tomorrow.” He returned to his desk, sat, and set the empty tumbler aside. “Now let us talk about how we will proceed.”
“Oleg Petrov has quite a résumé.” Sarge closed the file Colin had handed him and leaned back in his desk chair. “Who’s the other guy?”
“My contact in the Miami PD didn’t recognize him. Neither did the special agent I talked with down there from the FBI’s Russian squad unit. He said he’s probably a lower-level player. The Feds have their hands full watching the big guns.”
“I bet they do.” Sarge took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Russian Mafia in our backyard. Just what I needed to make my week complete.”
“I don’t think they’re here to stay.”
“Let’s hope not.” He leaned forward again and looked from Colin to Mac. “I’m assuming you gentlemen want to propose a plan of action now that your cases have merged.”
Colin exchanged a glance with his colleague. “Yes.”
“I’m listening.”
“At this point, short of a confession, we can’t prove the man presenting himself as Matthew Parker is lying about his identity. The best we might be able to do is pin a murder rap . . . or two . . . on Parker—whichever brother he is.”
Sarge arched an eyebrow, and Mac jumped in. “The easiest and least risky way for Parker to get rid of bodies is to bury them on his own property, away from prying eyes. We want to search his house and grounds.”
“Do you have grounds for a warrant?”
“Not yet.”
“But evidence of embezzlement would give us what we need.” Colin jumped to the heart of their proposal, since Sarge was up to speed on their suspicions about the foundation. “Parker called Trish Bailey yesterday and asked her out for coffee. Coming so close on the heels of the Mafia visit, the invitation would suggest he’s getting nervous and wants access to the funds in her parents’ foundation faster than he’d planned. We think he wants to be ready to run if the situation gets any hotter.”