by Debra Webb
Ted kept an eye on Mia as the man on the other line silently contemplated the news. This stranger was trouble. Ted couldn’t ever recall Mr. Lopez calling three times in twenty-four hours about a situation involving Mia. He watched out for that girl as if she were his own daughter. Of course, she was his goddaughter. She called him her uncle but he wasn’t really. He’d made a promise to his best friend on his deathbed that he would see that she was protected and cared for the rest of her life.
In Ted’s opinion, Lopez went a little overboard. Even a straight-up guy like Ted couldn’t get close to Mia. Old man Lopez guarded her like she was some kind of saint that no mere mortal was allowed to go near, much less touch.
“Keep an eye on him,” Lopez ordered, dragging Ted back to the here and now. “I’m out of the country and I won’t be able to get there for a few days. I want to know every move he makes.”
Ted gave Reece a long, thorough look, something else he’d already done several times. “Who is this guy?” Ted asked quietly. The hum of conversation was plenty loud enough to cover his voice but he wasn’t taking any chances. One of these days, if Ted had his way, Mia would belong to him. In small towns like Blossom a guy had to stake his claim early on. Most men his age moved to Nashville or Murfreesboro for better jobs. Not many stayed in this one-horse town where fabrication and industry were frowned upon. Green and all-natural were the only buzzwords these folks understood.
“An old enemy of Mia’s father. He must be watched closely.”
“Is this dude dangerous?” Apprehension nudged Ted. He’d never carried a pistol. He owned a shotgun but it hung on the rack inside his truck. Other than the time he’d had to run off that coyote, the rack was where the shotgun stayed.
“Suffice it to say, he’s potential trouble.”
“All right.” Teddy tossed back a swig of his iced tea. “I’ll keep an eye on him.” He could use the extra bucks. Lopez always paid well. Not to mention he liked that the old man trusted him. Besides, spending time watching Mia was no hardship, and Ted had a feeling that keeping up with Reece’s comings and goings would probably include seeing a lot of Mia.
“Do not underestimate Reece,” Lopez warned. “He is not your average Joe.”
Enough already. “Got it. I’ll use extra caution.”
“Contact me if anything changes.” With that, Lopez severed the connection.
Ted tucked the phone into his pocket and dug into his supper. The gravy on his chicken-fried steak had turned cold but he wasn’t wasting good money or good food. It ticked him off that Lopez had harped on just how special Reece was. Lopez should know by now that Ted knew how to handle himself. This wasn’t the first time he’d taken care of unwanted attention on Mia’s behalf.
He could handle this. Easy as the cherry pie he was going to have for dessert.
Lincoln Reece had better watch himself.
Chapter Six
Chicago, 6:30 p.m.
Slade Keaton relaxed at his usual table at the coffee shop. Maggie, the owner, had learned long ago to reserve this table for him. It was the perfect spot. For months he had been coming here around three-thirty or so each weekday afternoon so that he could watch the comings and goings across the street.
The Colby Agency. Practically a landmark in Chicago and one of the most renowned private investigations agencies in the country. Owned and operated by Victoria Colby-Camp and her son Jim, the agency’s top-notch staff worked more like a family than a group of colleagues. One magazine had recently named the agency a model by which all others should conduct business.
Slade studied the fourth-floor windows, most of which were dark now. Only a handful of employees remained at this hour. Victoria and Jim, of course. Simon Ruhl and Ian Michaels, the agency’s seconds-in-command. And the infamous Lucas Camp, Victoria’s husband.
Anger simmered deep inside Slade. Would the proud and esteemed Victoria Colby have married the man had she known what Slade knew? Lucas had blinded her with stories of his heroic deeds, like saving the life of her first husband when he was a prisoner of war, Jim’s father. She thought she knew Lucas. His lifetime as a career spook with the CIA assured that the better part of his history was top secret. But Slade knew many of his deepest, darkest secrets. And Victoria actually knew things that would help put together the final pieces. She had no idea how damaging those fragments were.
Lucas Camp was going to fall. Slade intended to see to it, if it was his last act before dying. He had prepared well. For years he had searched and pieced together information by whatever means necessary. Slowly but surely he had assembled his case just like a good attorney. Once he’d accomplished that step, he had positioned himself strategically. He’d purchased the Equalizer firm from Jim Colby, hired a staff and waited for an opportunity.
That opportunity had presented itself a short time ago, when one of Lucas’s old enemies—and he had many—had made an attempt at vengeance using Victoria. Because Slade had contacts in the murky world of intelligence he had gotten tipped off to the threat ahead of Camp. Slade watched Victoria and her son so closely that he had been in the perfect position to step in. He was now a friend of the family, though one of whom they remained wary.
A rare smile lifted the corners of Slade’s mouth. Months of watching and waiting had finally paid off.
The next step in Slade’s plan was the final and easiest of all. Systematically take Lucas Camp’s perfect life apart.
“Would you like more coffee, sir?”
Slade looked up at the woman who had spoken. Maggie. Sweet, beautiful Maggie. She smiled, the expression full of promise for later. This was her coffee shop. He had needed visual access to the Colby Agency, and this coffee shop had provided it. Getting cozy with the owner had been the simplest way to hold the position. The fact that the people at the Colby Agency thought so highly of her was an unexpected perk.
“Definitely.” Slade waited until she had filled his cup. “We have a very special invitation for the Fourth. You should mark your calendar.”
Her eyes lit with anticipation. “Does it have anything to do with passports?”
“Afraid not.”
Her expression fell. Maggie had been dreaming of taking a trip to Ireland and tracking down her ancestors. It still surprised him that she could believe he was the man with whom she could plan a future. Oh, well. Collateral damage was inevitable.
Maggie propped her smile back into place. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“We’ve been invited to the Colby Agency’s Fourth of July celebration.”
Disappointment flared briefly in her eyes. “That’s very nice of Victoria and Lucas to include us.”
“It is.” It was the pivotal step Slade had been waiting for.
An employee called out to Maggie and she excused herself. Slade turned back to the view across the street. He had no place he needed to be tonight. His source had already reported in. Slade would pass along the details of the report as soon as Reece checked in. He knew how anxious Reece was for an update, but Slade needed to give him this information personally. No text message or email. This could prove too dangerous for Reece, under the circumstances.
Reece wasn’t going to like what Slade had learned. Whatever Lincoln Reece had thought he’d known, he had been wrong.
Reece had a monumental decision to make. Let the past go or attempt to unravel the mystery and perhaps die trying.
Then again, Slade had made that same decision two years ago.
And he wasn’t dead yet.
Chapter Seven
Blossom, 8:01 p.m.
“You don’t have to walk me home.”
“If I don’t, how will I know where you live?” Linc inhaled a chestful of fresh, country air—mostly to buy time to come up with a reasonable excuse for needing to know where she lived. There was no reason for her to know that he already had her address, date of birth and her social. “Just in case you try to run out on the job.”
“I see.” Mia’s lips quirked int
o that smile that had haunted him for seven years. “I suppose you have a point. Not that I’ve ever run out on a job.”
She walked slowly toward the cross-street to the right. He followed. Her home was no more than three blocks away. Up one and over a block or so more.
He liked watching the glow from the streetlamps dance on her dark hair. She’d let it down tonight. Looking at the long, silky tresses made his fingers itch to tangle in them. The image of her dragging that lush mane over his bare skin lit a fire along that same path. He clenched his teeth.
“Why haven’t you married again?”
The question came so far out of left field that he almost stumbled. His bum leg had been bugging the heck out of him. “I guess I never found closure.” The truth seemed the best avenue to take.
She checked the quiet streets before taking a right at the intersection of Maple and Cedar, then she glanced up at him. “It’s hard. Especially if the loss is sudden.”
He didn’t mind her questions, they gave him a legitimate reason to ask more of his own. “Sudden. Yes.” She’d always been so full of life, so seemingly unstoppable, losing her that way had been the last thing he’d expected. He’d expected they would grow old together, like Mort and his wife.
“Car crash?”
Linc was surprised that she had so many questions. She’d seemed reluctant to ask the hard ones earlier. Not that he minded. “They say she died in an explosion.”
Pausing, she frowned at him. “They say?”
“Yeah.” The hair on the back of Linc’s neck stood on end. He resisted the impulse to look behind them. Someone was watching. He could feel it as surely as he felt the faint breeze whispering across his bare arms. “Her body was never found.” He shrugged. “I guess I can’t accept that she’s dead without a body.”
“That’s terrible.” She stopped and stared up at him. “When did this happen?”
He wished she hadn’t stopped midway between streetlamps. The ability to see the expression in her eyes would have been helpful. He took another deep breath, using the few seconds to look around. A shadow disappeared behind a truck parked at the curb, maybe half a block back. Yes, they were definitely being followed. “Seven years ago.”
“I guess there’s no expiration date on hope.” She started forward again. “Or grief, for that matter.” She said the last with a lingering sideways look at him.
Pain seared through him—a pain that had nothing to do with his beat-up right leg. “I turned all that off a long time ago.”
“You’re not running away?” This time her gaze collided with his beneath a streetlamp and he didn’t miss the worry there.
He laughed, a little more drily than he’d meant to. “I don’t run, Miss Grant.” Right. He’d been running for five years. But she didn’t need to know that.
“Why here?” She stopped again, this time at the sidewalk that led to her door. “You have distant relatives in the area?”
“No relatives. I was just passing through and this seemed as good a place as any to buy a second home.”
“One far away from city life?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Very far away.” Right now, right here, Linc wanted to kiss her. To taste her, just to see if she tasted the same. But that would be a major strategic error.
She nodded and led the way to her door. Flowers lined the narrow walk. Two steps climbed to the stoop. She stopped there and turned to him, an unspoken warning that this was as far as he would be going tonight.
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” She held out her hand. “Ready to work.”
Linc closed his right hand around hers. It was small, soft and warm. His soul reacted instantly, sending a new surge of pain straight to his heart.
“I look forward to getting started.” His voice cracked a little. He released her, lowering his hand to his side. The abrupt disconnect locked his jaw in simmering frustration.
Turning his back and walking away was hard as hell. He wanted to shake her. To demand answers. To make her see. But he couldn’t be sure yet.
He couldn’t be sure of anything, particularly his sanity.
“Good night,” she called out.
He didn’t look back, just waved as he strode away. Looking back would have shattered his already crumbling resolve.
An entire block had disappeared behind him before he pulled himself together enough to raise an internal alert for the shadow that had been tailing them. The tail had either backed off or had decided he’d seen all he needed to see.
His cell vibrated, so he snagged it from his pocket. “Reece.”
“Word is that Grant’s uncle, Vincent Lopez, is a major South American businessman who took over the family farm in Blossom to honor his long-deceased ancestors after his brother died. He owns a large property, family mansion included, just outside the town limits.”
Slade Keaton. Linc had been waiting for his call. This news was not really news. This was exactly what he’d been expecting and he damned sure didn’t believe in coincidences. Marcos had been born in Mexico City, but he’d later become an American citizen. This so-called uncle just happened to be Latino, too? No way. “You get a visual of this guy?”
“I’m working on it,” Keaton assured him. “The thing is, if this Lopez is Marcos, and Grant is…your wife, how did they survive without assistance? This didn’t happen without big-time connections on both sides.”
Did he think Linc didn’t get that part? He bit back the antagonism. “What about the hospital where she was treated?”
“I can tell you right now,” Keaton guaranteed, “it wasn’t in this country unless it was a private facility way off the radar. I’ll find it. Don’t sweat that one. I won’t stop nudging contacts until I do.”
“I need a visual on Lopez,” Linc reminded his boss. “The sooner, the better.”
Only after Linc ended the call did he realize he hadn’t even thanked Keaton. He should have. This wasn’t business. This was personal.
The possibility that someone inside LAPD had passed information to Marcos or somehow assisted him twisted deep in Linc’s gut. He opened his cell and entered a number he hadn’t reached out to in five years, yet still knew by heart.
“Hello.”
It was a woman’s voice, high-pitched but shaky. Mort’s wife. For a moment Linc worried it was too late to call, but L.A. was two hours behind central Tennessee. “Iris, this is Linc. Is Mort handy?”
There was an extended silence, then a rustling sound. “Hello, this is Megan. Who’s this?”
Mort’s daughter. “Megan, this is Lincoln Reece. Mort and I used to be partners.” Megan had been a wild teenager back then; she might not remember Linc.
“Mr. Reece, I remember. Just a moment.”
He heard a verbal exchange, too muffled to make out, then another round of silence. Finally, Megan continued, “I’m sorry, but I needed to go to another room. I don’t want to talk about this in front of Mother.”
Linc’s instincts roared a warning. “What’s going on?”
“My father…”
Linc’s insides went deathly still.
“He and Mother returned home on Saturday afternoon. That night, after Mother had gone to bed, he went out to the garage and…shot himself.”
Shock quaked through Linc. A band of tangled emotions tightened around his chest. “I don’t understand. I just spoke to him on Friday night. I thought he and Iris were on a road trip.” This made no sense at all. Had they driven all night to reach L.A. after the stop in Chicago? Why the hell would Mort do that? He had finally retired.
“We don’t know what happened.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “He didn’t leave a note.”
“He didn’t mention anything to anyone?” Mort was a man who could keep a secret for as long as necessary. That was true. Thirty years in undercover work ensured that deeply ingrained trait.
“It’s…just unbelievable. We’re all in shock. Mother said that after their trip to Tennessee he was extremely
quiet. She couldn’t get him to talk about whatever was bothering him.”
“He mentioned that your mother had always wanted to visit Nashville.” Linc hadn’t picked up on any troubling vibes…other than Mort’s insistence that Lori was alive and living here in Blossom.
“That’s strange. He was the one who insisted on the trip to Tennessee,” Megan said. “The only part of Nashville they saw was the airport. Mother said he rented a car and they drove straight to some little town. They stayed overnight, flew to Chicago, then home. Something in that little town upset him, but he wouldn’t talk about it at all.”
Wait. That was wrong. “The trip to Blossom, Tennessee was Mort’s idea?” She’d just said as much but Linc had to be sure. “Iris didn’t suggest the trip as part of a cross-country getaway?”
“Mother had never heard of the place. With her arthritis getting worse, traveling was too difficult but she didn’t want him to make this trip alone. She had no idea that the reason he insisted on stopping in Chicago was to see you until they were home. He just told her he had something he had to do. After he…his death we couldn’t call you. We didn’t have the number.”
A cold, ruthless knot planted itself deep in Linc’s throat. He tried to clear it away and failed miserably. “I…I don’t know what to say. Mort seemed the same old Mort when we talked.” This was crazy. “Is there anything I can do?” It wasn’t much of an offer, but it was the best he could do.
“Thank you, Mr. Reece, but there’s nothing anyone can do now. He’s gone and I doubt we’ll ever know why he chose to leave us this way.”
Struggling to hold it together, Linc promised to keep in touch and ended the call.
He stood there in the dark for a long while. Moving was out of the question. Mort was dead. He had killed himself. After discovering the woman here in Blossom, Mia Grant. After giving that news to Linc.
No, wait. Something was way off. How had Mort known to come to Blossom? If coming here wasn’t his wife’s idea, he had to have had a reason for picking this small, out-of-the-way town.