by Irene Hannon
No words were exchanged once they reached him. The man simply swiveled around and guided them into the underbrush.
Toward Matt’s shallow grave.
When they arrived in the small clearing, two other men were waiting, both of them holding shovels.
The roiling in Michael’s stomach intensified.
Oleg examined the spot their guide indicated. For anyone looking for signs of disturbance, it was clear the ground had been excavated in the not-too-distant past.
“Excellent work.” The Russian honcho bestowed the accolade on the assembled men with an all-encompassing glance, then turned to him. “Others continue to search the rest of the property. Perhaps this is not the only noteworthy piece of ground we will find.”
Michael remained silent.
“As you can see, these men are prepared to dig. However, it is a warm day, and I believe we both know what they will find. Shall we save them the exertion?”
There was no doubt in his mind Oleg would follow through and have his people unearth the remains. Better to admit defeat—on this front.
“Yes—but I have an explanation.”
“I am sure it is fascinating. Please proceed.”
“I’d prefer not to have an audience.”
“Ah. A confidential tale.” He motioned the bodyguard forward. “You will agree to let him search you, yes? Security is always a concern in this troubled world of ours.”
“I don’t mind.”
After giving him a thorough frisking, the muscleman backed off.
“You will wait at the edge of the woods. All of you.” Oleg waved off the men gathered around him.
They melted into the shadows of the trees rimming the clearing, close enough to act as sentries but far away enough to allow for a private conversation.
“Whenever you are ready.” Oleg’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. Searing. Probing.
A bead of sweat popped out on Michael’s forehead. It was warm for June . . . but not that warm. Oleg wasn’t sweating.
He needed to control his responses—and his behavior. He could give this man no grounds on which to doubt his story.
“Do you mind if we move under a tree?” He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, hoping Oleg would attribute the sweat to the sun.
“Wherever you wish.”
Michael crossed to a shady patch. It was cooler here. That should help him get the sweating under control.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the story he’d spent the past hour finessing.
“If you dig in that spot”—he indicated the disturbed ground—“you’ll find the body of my brother, Michael Parker.” He closed his eyes and called up a grimace, as if it pained him to say the words. “It was an accident.”
A few beats ticked by.
“You are telling me you killed your brother?”
“Yes—but I didn’t intend to. One night while he was here, he borrowed my car, went to a bar, and brought a woman back with him. I was working in the yard and didn’t realize she was in the house until I came in at dusk. The two of them were having a fight, and the next thing I knew, the woman grabbed a knife out of the block on the counter and lunged at Michael. They struggled . . . and she ended up on the floor. Dead.”
“That is very tragic.” Oleg’s expression didn’t change.
“I wanted to call the police, but Michael said she didn’t have any family and would never be missed. He wanted to bury her on the property. I said no. We argued about it. I went for the phone, he picked up the knife . . . and I could see in his eyes he intended to kill me.”
“I assume you won that fight.”
“Yes . . . with a few scars as souvenirs.” He touched the line on his forehead. “I buried the bodies on the property and told people I’d been in a car accident. I knew no one would miss Michael, since I assumed he was on the run from some kind of mess, and I believed him about the woman. He always did gravitate toward loners.”
“Why did you not call the police and explain all this?”
“I’ve built a new life here, far from the troubles in Boston, and I didn’t want it tainted with a sensational story like this. In hindsight, it wasn’t the best choice. Going back now, though, would be difficult.”
“Yet the police have visited you anyway.”
“They know Michael’s been here—but they have no reason to doubt me . . . just as you don’t. You can check my background. I’ve never done anything illegal. I’m a churchgoing, law-abiding citizen.”
“Yes. We are familiar with Matthew’s history.”
Matthew’s history.
Not your history.
Oleg either wasn’t buying his story, or he wasn’t certain about it and was trying to provoke him into a revelation.
But that wouldn’t happen.
He was done talking.
As the silence stretched between them, a squirrel scuttled over a branch in the oak tree above them. A dog barked in the distance. The faint drone of a passing plane echoed high overhead.
Michael held his ground, his gaze never wavering under Oleg’s assessing stare.
At last the man spoke. “You tell an intriguing story.”
“It’s the truth.”
“So you say. But we shall see.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the small clearing, motioning for the others to accompany him.
The sound of them crashing through the underbrush faded as they disappeared into the trees. Only after it ceased did Michael follow.
Based on his retreat, there had been sufficient doubt in Oleg’s mind to stop him from carrying out the justice Dmitri wanted. If he had been convinced the man living in Matt’s house was his target, the execution would have taken place today. In the woods.
Instead, Michael Parker was walking out alive.
That was a small victory.
But it might be short-lived.
Oleg would speak with his boss, get further instructions. It was possible Dmitri would tell him to proceed with the Mafia’s version of justice despite any doubt that remained about identities. The big man in Miami wouldn’t lose any sleep over a potential mistake, especially if he thought the odds of a correct call were in his favor.
However . . . there wasn’t likely to be any more action today—and by tomorrow morning, the money from the foundation would be in his shell charities, ready to transfer to his offshore account.
As long as there weren’t any glitches.
There shouldn’t be—but in case a problem arose, he needed to stick here until he had the money in hand.
Then he could take off and be free of Dmitri and his ilk.
And this time, he would be free. This escape would be clean—as the one to St. Louis should have been. Would have been if Natalie hadn’t put him on the cops’ radar. How Dmitri had picked up on that was a mystery . . . but there would be no slipups on this go-round. He would talk to no one until he was safely out of the country, his old identity left behind.
The Russians might be sticking close, but eluding them once he was ready to disappear would be a cinch. Vanish into the mall crowd at the Galleria, alter his clothing and appearance in the men’s room, leave by a different exit as a different person. Hike a mile to the Sheraton, take a cab to the airport, pick up a rental car under his new name, and flee. He had sufficient cash on hand to fund his escape, and a new credit card was waiting for its first transaction.
The instant he got confirmation the funds had transferred, he was ready to roll.
He emerged from the woods and circled around the house.
All the vehicles were gone.
Excellent.
And in less than eighteen hours, if all went smoothly, Michael Parker would vanish off the face of the earth.
This time forever.
25
“Yes!” Colin pressed the end button, vaulted to his feet, and pumped his fist in the air. “We’ve got him.”
“I take it you were talking to the bank that handles
the foundation money?” Mac stopped beside his desk and held out a cup of coffee.
“Bingo. Grounds for a warrant is great news on a Monday morning.” Colin took the venti dose of caffeine he no longer needed. “I’ll alert Sarge.”
“I’ll call my contacts with the cadaver dogs and put them on standby. What’s your best estimate on timing?” The other detective took a sip of his java and sat on the corner of his desk.
“Depends on how hard Sarge pushes the warrant. But Phoenix has Parker in their sights, so he’s not going anywhere without us knowing about it. I’m thinking mid to late afternoon.”
“I’ll pencil it in. You planning to let Trish know this is going down?”
“I’ll leave a message. Her summer art class started today, and she told me she keeps her phone on mute while she’s teaching.” He nodded toward the window. In the distance, gray clouds were banking on the horizon. “Let’s hope this rain holds off until tomorrow.”
“Mud won’t stop the dogs.”
“Makes for messy searching outside, though.” He took another gulp of coffee and moved toward the door. “As soon as I have the warrant in hand—or a go from Sarge—I’ll let you know.”
“My afternoon is yours. I’ll be glad to get this one off my plate.”
“You and me both.”
“You set up that date yet with Trish?”
Sheesh. Everyone must have romance on the mind these days.
“Yes.” He kept walking.
“That’s what I figured.”
Mac’s chuckle followed him out the door . . . but he was past trying to hide his interest in the lovely art teacher.
In fact, if this wrapped up today, he might even take her out for ice cream long before their official Saturday date.
The meeting was running long—and the incoming call from Oleg gave him the perfect excuse to cut out for a few minutes.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Dmitri rose and lifted the phone. “An urgent matter requires my attention. Please continue. I will rejoin you as soon as I can.”
Without waiting for a reply, he put the phone to his ear, issued a curt “hold,” and crossed the plush carpet at the private club that was part of his empire. A profitable venture, thanks to the B-girls in his employ, who could pick out a susceptible male customer from five hundred yards.
He smiled. A skimpy dress, some heavy-duty flirting—and the next morning the guy would wake up to find the girl gone and a five-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne on his credit card. It was the perfect con. If the mark went to the police, it would be a major embarrassment for him—and if any of them complained about the charge, the threat of violence always shut them up and put the matter to rest.
A simple scam with a tidy wrap-up.
Clean finishes were always best.
A rule he intended to apply to the Parker matter today.
“I am now free to talk. The arrangements we discussed after your discovery yesterday are in motion?”
“Yes. The matter will be finished by tonight. We will return tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Do you foresee any complications?”
“No. We have canvassed the location. It is quiet, with little activity. But we have an emergency exit strategy in place, should it be needed. It is a shame about the girl, though.”
Dmitri shook his head. Oleg had always had a soft spot for the innocent. His one flaw.
“It is necessary. I want additional assurance we are punishing the correct brother. Based on our dealings with the man we knew as Elliott and the research you provided on Matthew Parker, I believe our test will prove which brother is still living. On the slight chance it is Matthew, you know what to do. If it is Michael—I want an admission of guilt. And I want him begging for mercy. You will document everything. That will add credence to the story we will circulate of our relentless—and successful—pursuit, despite his clever deception.”
“I understand.”
“You will have no trouble getting away?”
“No. It is arranged.”
“You are not being watched?”
“I have seen no indication of it.”
“Good. You will report back tonight, and I will see you here tomorrow. A small token of my appreciation will be waiting for you.”
“I am grateful for your kindness.”
“Skill—and loyalty—should be rewarded. I will talk with you soon.” Dmitri ended the call, a satisfied smile lifting the corners of his lips.
At last this unpleasant episode was coming to an end.
And once punishment was meted out, word would spread that no one . . . no one . . . escaped Dmitri Kozlov’s wrath. He would see to that.
There would be no more traitors in his organization.
The money wasn’t there.
Frowning, Michael clicked through the Providence House Ministries account again.
Zip.
The washed checks hadn’t yet been cashed.
He slammed a fist against the table.
This made no sense.
The test check he’d overnighted soon after he’d slipped into the role of Matt—the one Trish had legitimately written to Providence House—had cleared by ten o’clock central the next morning in New York.
That hadn’t happened today.
He’d been monitoring the accounts since eight thirty, and it was now after noon.
This delay was out of pattern.
And it didn’t feel right.
He rose from the laptop at the kitchen table and began to pace. He was ready to go; his new ID and important papers were in the computer bag in the bedroom, along with a change of clothes, glasses, baseball cap, hair gel, and other items that would alter his appearance. All he needed to do was confirm the money was in the account and transfer it offshore via the sham charities supported by Providence House.
But he couldn’t leave until it showed up and he moved the funds . . . just in case there was a glitch.
Meaning he had to stay in Matt’s skin for now—no matter how dangerous that role-play was becoming.
Tension thrumming through his nerve endings, he veered back toward the computer to click through the account again . . . but came to an abrupt halt at the sound of crunching gravel from outside.
A car was coming up the driveway.
The cops—or the Mafia?
Neither visitor was on his wish list . . . but at this point he’d take the detectives over Oleg and his crew.
At least they wouldn’t kill him.
He darted into the living room and cracked the blinds.
A panel van with his internet provider’s logo on the side swung around on the gravel pad near the garage and stopped by the walk that led to the front door, facing toward the road.
Huh.
As far as he could tell, his satellite connection was working fine.
So why was a repair guy here?
A dark-haired man emerged from the driver’s side, clipboard in hand, a small box tucked under his arm, and circled around the van toward the front door of the house.
He looked legit.
But it couldn’t hurt to stash the computer bag and slip the new ID documents back into their hiding place under the laundry hamper.
By the time he’d secreted the items, the doorbell was ringing.
Ignoring the summons was an option—but if there was an issue that could affect his internet access, it might mess with his plans. He needed to keep monitoring the account.
Better talk to the guy.
He crossed to the door and pulled it open. “Yes?”
“Sorry to arrive without notice, but I was in the area and decided to see if I could catch you at home. You were on our call list for tomorrow. There’s been a recall on your modem. I have a new one with me I can install.” He indicated the box.
“I haven’t had any trouble.”
“Well, your model has some major bugs. We’ve had a lot of complaints about interrupted service.”
Great.
&nb
sp; With his luck, the thing would pick today to die.
“Fine.” He reached for the box. “I can hook it up myself.”
The man shifted it away. “I’m sorry, sir. This is leased equipment and has to be installed by an authorized technician. It won’t take long.”
He hesitated. If he told the guy to come back another day and his internet gave out, he’d have to go searching for Wi-Fi. That could delay his escape.
Not in his plans.
Pulling the door wide, he stepped back. “Make it fast.”
The man entered.
“The modem’s in the back.” He motioned for the guy to follow him and led the way to the rear of the house. At the door to Matt’s office, he turned. “How long do you—”
His breath jammed in his windpipe.
A pistol was pointing at the middle of his chest.
This wasn’t about modems.
This was about murder.
Even though the man had no trace of a Russian accent, wore a uniform shirt, and was driving what appeared to be a legitimate satellite service van, he was one of Oleg’s men.
And they were done biding their time.
But why had they resorted to this elaborate ruse if they were planning to take him out? Why not haul him out to his own woods and put a bullet in his brain?
“What’s going on?” His words came out tight. Strained.
“We’re going to take a trip.”
“Where?”
“You will walk out the back door, circle the house, and enter the van from the rear. Move.”
With a gun aimed at his heart, what choice did he have except to comply?
Exiting the house, he saw the logic behind the location of the van. On the off chance someone might be watching the house through the trees from the main road, the vehicle was positioned to block their view as he walked toward it.
At the back of the van, the thug with the gun spoke. “Knock twice on the door.”
He did as instructed.
It swung open.
As the gun pressed against his back, urging him in, he inventoried the passengers.
Oleg.
The bodyguard.
The guy with the indifferent eyes who’d led them to Matt’s grave.
And the real driver of the van—bound with duct tape, blindfolded, and gagged, dumped among the boxes of satellite parts. Blood was seeping out of a large bump on his head . . . and he wasn’t moving.