The Third Secret

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  She’d been resting his defense on a lie he’d told her. On a matchbook that had come from a beach island via Colorado—not from his living room floor.

  “I called the references you gave me. I had to leave messages but they called back. And vouched for you.”

  Rick wasn’t surprised. But it was nice to know that the precautions they’d taken, measures they’d put in place, were still functioning.

  It meant the U.S. government wasn’t involved in whatever was going on.

  Or…maybe they were. Maybe they were lulling him into a false sense of security. Had Rick and his team been sacrificed to protect the government they’d served?

  They’d always known it could happen.

  “Right now Christa’s got to be scrambling for a motive,” Erin continued. “She’s creative. And smart. She can put two and six together and get four every time. I can, too. But I have to know everything there is to know. Everything she might learn.”

  “You know it all.” She knew more than Christa Hart was ever going to find. Because most of Rick’s life didn’t exist.

  “Then we have to find out what Charles Cook was up to. As it stands, if Christa hasn’t got anything else, I’ll probably be able to talk her down to a reasonable plea. I should be able to lay enough doubt to convince her not to go to trial unless she has more. But if you didn’t kill Cook, I don’t want a plea bargain. I want you free.”

  If Rick didn’t know better, he’d say that Erin Morgan meant what she said. That she wanted him free. That his freedom meant something to her. Personally.

  Pressure mounted between his legs. He shifted. Forced himself to think of his months in a prison cell in Arizona.

  And when that didn’t work, he took a mental journey through different jobs he’d done.

  He couldn’t afford a distraction. Not now. Not with her.

  “Think about Cook. About every innocuous conversation the two of you had. Did he ever mention anything that could be perceived as valuable to you? Anything he might have repeated to someone else that could make you seem like a threat?”

  Rick Thomas? No. He shook his head.

  Now, Tom Watkins—definitely. If Cook had been involved in something going on within Homeland Security, as Sarge’s missing emails might suggest, and if Cook had had any idea that Rick was Tom, then yes, Cook should have felt threatened. But Cook was dead.

  And Cook couldn’t have known. He just wasn’t that savvy. Or that good an agent.

  Over his years in the field, Rick had developed almost a sixth sense when it came to his cover, to knowing if anyone was doubting him. He’d extricated himself just in time on more than one occasion. Bottom line, if Cook suspected anything, Rick would’ve been aware of it.

  “He bought a gun for a reason,” Rick said now. “We need to know why. Maybe your guy’s source has some idea.”

  Erin wrote that down. “I’ll ask.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve seen his bank records?”

  “I’m waiting for Christa to send certified copies, but she’s already told me there’s nothing there.”

  Her face was earnest, her brows creased over features that were lovelier than anything Rick had seen in a long time. The short hair accentuated the intense expression in her eyes.

  Rick needed her to go. He had to stay focused. To make phone calls. To find someone who knew something. About missing emails. A hit on him. Or an upcoming job.

  Was it drugs? Terrorists? Or simply revenge for past sins? Not that there was anything simple about revenge. Drugs, terrorism—those were predictable. Revenge, which was driven more by emotion than greed, was not.

  The woman closed her notebook with fingers that were slender, feminine, tipped with manicured nails.

  It’d been years since he’d noticed a woman’s hands and he had more than passing thoughts about how those hands would feel on his skin….

  “I’ll be back,” he said abruptly, heading to the men’s room.

  In the end, getting a DNA sample had been almost easy. While Rick was in the bathroom, George returned with another round of beer and offered to clear away the remains of their dinner as he delivered the bill. She’d had some beer left in her cup, Rick had had some in his, and she’d combined the two, giving George her empty cup to take away with the rest of their dishes. Then she paid cash for dinner.

  She’d gulped down enough beer from one of the new glass to let her pour the old stuff in and then, turning her back to the room, she’d wrapped Rick’s cup in her napkin and had it safely in her purse before he returned.

  When Rick came back a minute later the table had been cleared, and Erin sat with her coat on her lap. “I’ve got to get back,” she said, pushing both new cups of beer in front of him. “I paid for dinner.”

  “Bill me.”

  “If we win.” She grinned. And he thought about her going out into the dark alone. Driving along the deserted highway alone. Arriving at an empty house on the lake with walls of windows and sound cover that would allow someone to creep through her house without alerting her…

  “Why are you alone?” He hadn’t meant to ask.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re young, beautiful. Successful. Living in a small town. I’m sure I’m stereotyping, but you being alone doesn’t make sense to me.”

  She didn’t say anything and he didn’t blame her. The question had been out of line. Completely inappropriate. He wished he hadn’t asked.

  “I assumed you’d heard.” Her chuckle lacked humor and she didn’t meet his eyes. “Living in a town like Temple, you get used to everyone knowing everything about you.” She looked up at him. “I forget sometimes that not everyone does.”

  He wasn’t going to ask what he was supposed to know. He didn’t make the same mistake twice.

  “I was engaged to be married,” she said, and the way her eyes softened struck Rick. Not emotionally. But he noticed. How odd to be so loved was his thought.

  In his world, he didn’t see much of the gentler side of life. The only real family he’d spent any time with had been on sitcoms. Especially when he couldn’t sleep at night and needed the irritating laugh tracks to bore him to sleep.

  “We met in college. Dated on and off while I was in law school and then more seriously afterward. But I was in Grand Rapids and he was here. Until he asked me to marry him. That’s when I moved to Temple. Because Noah’s family was here.”

  “What about your family?”

  “What family? It was only me and my dad, and he passed away when I was twenty.”

  They had something in common.

  “What happened between you and your fiancé?”

  “Noah’s family owns the local hardware store. He worked for his dad, but he also volunteered with the Temple fire department, which mostly meant rescuing cats from trees.”

  The whole department, including the chief, was on volunteer status. Rick had known that from the first day he’d read about Temple, Michigan, while sitting at a computer in the jail library—if you could call a corner of the TV room a library—planning a future he wasn’t sure he’d ever see.

  “Then one night there was a huge fire. One of the big, three-story houses in town. Had to do with an electrical system that hadn’t been updated to code. Anyway, a little boy had been trapped upstairs on the third floor. In spite of orders to the contrary, Noah couldn’t just let the little boy go down with the house. He went in.”

  And died with the child. Noah Fitzgerald. Rick had read about it. And wondered if he would’ve done the same.

  “That was almost five years ago,” he said now. And at her look of surprise, he added, “I heard about the fire. I didn’t know you were engaged to the firefighter who perished.”

  She nodded. And stood. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I’ll check on Charles Cook’s sex life, the yacht and the gun dealer.” She buttoned her coat. “You be careful driving home. We don’t need a DUI added to our battles.”

  Rick al
most saluted her. He’d had just enough beer. But he didn’t want to be rude.

  He liked how she’d said “we.”

  Erin had two missed calls on her cell phone. One from Caylee and one from Ron Fitzgerald. They’d both left messages. She didn’t return either.

  Instead, she called a forensic technician friend of hers. He lived in Ludington, had graduated from a local college. He was the oldest sibling of the little guy Noah had tried to save in the fire that had killed him.

  “Chip? I need a favor….”

  Half an hour later, Erin had dropped off the beer cup she’d shoved in her purse while Rick Thomas used the restroom, and was on her way home. It would take some time, but eventually she’d know if Rick Thomas was holding out on her.

  The man had secrets. He’d as much as admitted it tonight, but he hadn’t had to. She knew. Her instincts were screaming loud and clear.

  But they were telling her he was innocent, too.

  “Eddie? Yeah, man, it’s Tom. Tom Watkins.” Cell phone at his ear, Rick slouched in the booth, back in the corner, feet up with ankles crossed on the bench.

  “I thought you was in jail, man.” He’d met Eddie through Brady, while helping his teammate run a two-man job. They’d been playing one drug cartel against another. Eddie’s boss at the time had gone down.

  No one had ever known that Brady or Rick had been instrumental in making it happen.

  “Nope. Been out for a while.”

  Eddie was a drug man. Maria had been jailed for drug trafficking. It didn’t matter to Rick that Maria had been on a southeastern island and Eddie was in Arizona.

  Businessmen were businessmen. And successful ones like Eddie knew their trade.

  “I’m looking for work,” Rick said. “I need cash. Big cash.”

  “What kinda time you got?” Eddie asked.

  “A lifetime of it.”

  “I might be able to find something,” the other man said. “Where can I reach you?”

  “Nowhere, man. I’ll call you. Two days from now?”

  “Can’t make no promises.”

  But Eddie would put the word out.

  He owed Rick. Or rather, Tom. During the bust, Eddie had almost been killed. They’d needed Eddie alive to get incriminating evidence about his boss on tape. They hadn’t been after the young man; Eddie wasn’t a threat to national security. If Eddie had died, six months of undercover work would’ve been blown. Tom had saved the man’s life—jumping in front of a bullet and getting them both to safety.

  If anyone in the drug world had a hit out on Tom, Eddie could get the facts. Sooner or later.

  “I got it, man. We’ll be talking.”

  Rick hung up. Dialed again.

  “Sophie, sweetie, Tom Watkins. How you doin’, baby?” He tried to bring the black-haired beauty’s features to mind. And saw, instead, short amber hair tickling a long slim neck. And dark brown eyes that had a vocabulary all their own.

  “Tom? You in town?”

  “Not yet, baby, but I might be.” Sophie Segura was a Costa Rican beauty. “You got time for me?”

  “Mmm.” Her voice would have been delicious. If he hadn’t already tasted everything Sophie had to offer. Still, she’d been accommodating. And…pleasant. “For you, lover, I’ll make time.”

  “What about that old man of yours?” Hernandez Segura. An ammunitions specialist who’d walked after Rick had spent six months infiltrating his organization. Rick had always suspected the man had contacts. Government contacts. Sarge’s team wasn’t given the clean jobs. Still, he’d managed to shut down Segura’s illegal gunrunning business. At least for a while. And to get out without blowing his cover.

  “He’s…busy.”

  “How busy?”

  “Very.” The bastard was running guns again. Rick had known it would only be a matter of time.

  No matter how hard they fought, how many lives were sacrificed, how many scum they either killed or put away, there’d always be someone to run the guns.

  And the drugs.

  Someone to clear the way. Because of the money. In the end, it was always about the money.

  Rick swallowed. Put as much pleasantness in his voice as he could.

  “You think you can get me some work?”

  “You’ll…visit me?”

  “You can count on that, sweetheart….” He spoke from deep in his throat.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Can I call you again tomorrow?”

  “You better. And, Tom?” Her voice grew husky. Clothes rustled and he didn’t have to wonder what she was doing to herself.

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “I’m in the pool house all by myself. All I have on is a sleeveless dress and panties. The night air is cool. Nice. Just like when you were here with me. I need you here now, Tom.” Her breathing grew louder.

  He watched George pour a beer. “I’m right there, sweet thing.”

  “Help me, Tom. Please.” She moaned. “Oh, Tom, I need you.”

  His glance around the bar was desultory. And then, in a firm tone, he said, “Pull down your panties and spread your legs…”

  Luckily Sophie was easy. A couple of minutes, a few more commands, and he could end the call.

  The conversation with Sophie left him cold. And bored. And trying not to think about Erin.

  18

  Erin waited until Caylee would have left for school and Ron would be opening Fitzgerald Hardware before she pulled into the short drive beside the Main Street mansion where Noah grew up.

  The first time he’d brought her there she’d felt so nervous she’d been too nauseous to eat the Sunday dinner she’d come to share with the family of eleven. The closest thing she’d had to a family dinner growing up was boxed macaroni and cheese eaten off trays in the living room in front of the television set. That was when her father was present.

  Mostly, from the time she’d been about seven, she’d fended for herself. And eaten her meals alone.

  By the time she was seventeen, she’d lived alone in her father’s house.

  Remembering that twenty-six-year-old who’d accompanied her fiancé home to make the announcement of their impending marriage, Erin wondered if she’d really come as far in life as she’d thought.

  Judging by the state of her stomach, she didn’t think so.

  She’d hoped Patricia would notice her car and come to the door. No such luck. Standing at the back door, she lifted her hand to knock, something she hadn’t done since that first Sunday meeting. Erin let her hand drop. She pushed open the door to the kitchen instead, calling out.

  “Mom?”

  No answer.

  The kitchen was clean—no sign of breakfast dishes. But there was still warm coffee in the pot. Erin poured herself a cup.

  “Mom?” she called again, moving through the dining room to peer into the living room and on to the family room. Patricia liked to catch a morning news show.

  Unless she was sewing. Patricia Fitzgerald, a renowned quilt-maker, created magic with the machine her husband had bought her twenty years before.

  “Mom?”

  When she didn’t find the older woman in any of her usual spots, Erin checked the garage for Patricia’s van. The maroon vehicle was there. Ron’s truck was gone, which of course made sense.

  Back in the house, she made her way through the rest of it. Maybe Noah’s mom was changing sheets. Or doing laundry. Erin called, to no response, as she went up a flight of stairs. And then another. Until she’d reached the converted master suite on the third floor.

  “Mom?”

  “Erin?” The voice came from behind the bedroom door. Erin knocked, then entered the room.

  Patricia sat in one of two black wrought-iron chairs at a round table set by the bay window. She had a cup of coffee in front of her and a crossword puzzle in her hand. Classical music was playing. A pair of jeweled gold-rimmed glasses sat on the end of Patricia’s nose.

  “Hey, am I interrupting?”

&nbs
p; “Of course not, dear. Come in.” Patricia smiled. “I just love it back here when the sun’s shining,” she said, glancing out at the bare trees down below her window. They surrounded a small but exquisitely kept rose garden. “You’ve found me out.” The woman smiled again. “I’ve been stealing half an hour up here for years once everyone leaves, before I start my day.”

  “I can go….”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t hear of it. You’ve got coffee. Have a seat.”

  Erin sat. And hoped she could sip her coffee and actually keep it down.

  “I’d much rather share my peace with you than a crossword puzzle,” Patricia said. “We never have time alone, just the two of us.”

  Something Erin regretted.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Patricia’s smile was filled with understanding. With a perceptiveness Erin had envied many times throughout the five years she’d known this family. “I figured as much,” Noah’s mom said in that soft way of hers.

  “First, I want to know what you learned at the doctor’s office yesterday.”

  Patricia flinched slightly. But she didn’t look away. “Ron told you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he tell any of the others?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The woman nodded. “We’d decided to find out the details and then tell them together. Which we’re going to start doing, a couple at a time, tonight.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not as bad as it could be.”

  Relief flowed like a river. And then slowed. “But?”

  “I have something called primary biliary cirrhosis. It’s incurable.”

  Oh, God, no.

  “I don’t understand. I’ve hardly ever seen you drink.”

  “An occasional glass of wine on special occasions,” Patricia said. “This isn’t alcohol-related. Or hepatitis-related, either. It’s a degeneration of liver tissue. Kind of like scarring. But it’s not hopeless.”

  Was Patricia’s sense of peace due to shock? To resignation? To emotionally moving on to another place? Or was it because she was telling the truth—it wasn’t hopeless?