Building Ties (Military Romantic Suspense) (SEAL Team Heartbreakers Book 4)

by Teresa Reasor

  “And they still don’t know what caused the cement forms to give way. Besides, you told me all that last night.” He whipped out into traffic and followed the stream of cars. They traveled several blocks in silence.

  “The story I turned in this morning reported only the facts. How am I covering Nicholas Brittain’s ass by reporting the truth?”

  She was relentless when she got something into her head. “All right. You reported the truth. But you’re also trying to spike Jonathan Frye’s guns by targeting the stories you release.”

  “All I did was decide not to draw blood and smear a company to gain more readership,” Tess said, her voice settling into a stubborn quietness.

  “What did you gain by pulling that stunt at the church?” Brett asked as he watched a car that wove through traffic behind them.

  She was silent for a moment. “I was angry. At him. At myself. At everything that happened last night. If he’s behind it, he deserves to rot in jail.”

  “And if he is responsible for Mary Stubben’s death, you’ve just made him think you know more than you do. You could have just painted a target on your back.”

  “If he’s responsible for the break-in at my apartment, he already knows everything I know.” Instead of talking to the window beside her as she’d been doing, she turned to face him. “And if he had nothing to do with anything, then who blew up my car, destroyed my dress, and stole my computer?

  She was on a roll. “And why do you think I haven’t written my article yet? I’m waiting until I have more information, or some kind of corroboration. I’m not going to put my reputation on the line for anything other than the truth.” Her phone rang and she bent to dig it out of her bag.

  While she spoke on the phone Brett tracked the dark blue car trailing them. Had Buckler sent an unmarked vehicle to follow them? Naw, the car was too nice for that. The driver wasn’t trying to crowd them or make any aggressive moves.

  Brett turned onto Morena Avenue and the car turned behind him. His mind worked through different defensive scenarios. If they were out to do harm, they’d had more than enough time to make their move.

  “That was the warden’s secretary at the corrections facility. My request has been okayed for Thursday.”

  Reluctant to voice a warning, he debated for a moment before saying, “Look in your rear view mirror at the dark blue car behind us. Does it look like the car you saw yesterday?”

  Tess looked into the mirror then twisted in her seat to look behind them. “No, it’s too new a model and too shiny. The car I saw was an older one, still nice, but you could tell it had some mileage on it.”

  “Okay.” He continued onto Linda Vista and swung into the strip mall parking lot in front of Starbucks where Buckler would meet them, giving the car behind them little warning.

  The dark blue car cruised by without stopping.

  Tess relaxed noticeably. “False alarm, I guess.”

  Brett nodded, the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxing. “I guess so.”

  They exited the car and spotted Buckler and Hart sitting outside the shop beneath one of the umbrellas, nursing their coffee. Brett motioned toward them. “Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee.”

  *

  The detectives rose to their feet as Tess joined them. She motioned them back down.

  “I was surprised to see you and Brett at the funeral,” Buckler said.

  “I feel responsible somehow for what happened to Mary. I felt compelled to pay my respects.”

  “And metaphorically poke Frye in the eye?” he asked.

  “Wish I could have blackened it,” Tess said doubling her fist. “He couldn’t stay off the phone long enough to pay his respects.”

  “I saw him. But texting during a funeral isn’t a crime, just bad manners. Thus far we have nothing to tie him to Mary’s death. Only to someone in the city Planning Commission.”

  “Have you figured out who leaked the bids to him?”

  “We’re trying to keep the investigation as low-key as possible.”

  “I understand, Detective. I won’t write anything until you give me the go-ahead.”

  “Good.”

  Brett came out onto the patio carrying two cups of coffee in a holder and a bag. He set the bag in the center of the table with a stack of napkins and popped first Tess’s coffee free of the holder, then his own. “There’s muffins in the bag if anyone’s hungry.”

  Tess reached in, grabbed a muffin, then passed the bag on.

  Detective Hart ran a hand over his face. “We’ve approached the head of the commission, and he’s given us authorization to search emails to see who might have done it.” He accepted the bag and dug out a muffin.

  “I’m sorry you were dragged out until all hours last night,” Tess said. She broke the muffin into bite-sized pieces on a napkin.

  “It’s part of the job.” He turned to Brett. “Some of the guys on the MAST team worked the other incident. You were smart not to enter the apartment, and to treat it as if it might be wired.”

  Brett nodded. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “It was stupid to take the laptop,” Tess said. “All they’ll get from it are stories I’ve written for earlier editions and the research I’ve compiled for the stories I’m working on now. And I have everything backed up on the server at work and to an online storage.”

  “Assuming it was Frye and associates, they’ll have all the information Mary gave you.”

  “Which is what I gave you, Detective. There’s only the bare facts.” And some she’d compiled herself since. Just her suspicions. Those wouldn’t matter much unless there was information floating out there to back them up. There was a part of her that hoped her speculations scared the shit out of Frye.

  Detective Buckler leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “They can always make your life miserable by using any personal information on it to screw with you.”

  “Not going to happen. I don’t save passwords or personal info on it. I have it set up to delete my history immediately. The only thing that’s on the computer is research. If Henry Sullivan wants to find out about me, he has the means to get my personal information in other ways. He did a pretty thorough job of reaping what he could about Brittain and Hamilton.”

  “Mary has to have found more dirt on them to elicit this kind of response,” Hart said, more thinking out loud than asking a question.

  “If it’s Frye,” Buckler countered. “Are there any other stories you’re working, or have worked in the past, that have angered someone? Have you gotten any hate mail in the past few months?”

  “I just finished a human trafficking story. Some of the girls gave interviews, named names, that kind of thing. But sex crimes and the FBI are working that together and they have the same information. It’s the only other controversial story I’ve worked in the last few weeks. And I haven’t gotten hate mail. Some weird letters from time to time, but most of my mail is from readers who want to tell me they enjoyed the stories or family members who wanted to thank me for writing about their loved ones. I think the paper keeps a file on the weird ones, if you want to ask to see them.”

  “And the stories you’re working on now?”

  “I just did a piece on the Brittain Development Corporation. A positive piece to encourage them not to drop their bid for the Ellison project.”

  Buckler leaned back in his chair and exchanged a glance with Hart. “We both read it. After having your car blown up, I’d think you’d want to lay low and stay away from controversy.”

  “It isn’t my job to lay low, Detective. It’s my job to step right into the middle of things.”

  Brett’s hand clasped hers. “Tell them about the car, Tess.”

  Buckler and Hart perked up. “What car?” they said together.

  Tess smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. “It’s a dark blue sedan. I don’t know what make or model. It has an orange, rectangular sticker on the right rear bumper, faded
and indistinct, like it’s been there a long time. It was parked in the lot outside the paper when the security guard and I came out to get into the car the day of the explosion. A tall man in a suit got into it and drove away just before I hit the button on my key fob. I thought I saw the same car outside a restaurant Brett and I went to yesterday.” Was it only yesterday? It seemed like at least a month had passed since then. “You have the security tapes from the newspaper parking lot. You’re bound to see the car.”

  “We don’t have them, the FBI does.” Hart grimaced. “We can request them, but it may take a while to get a copy.”

  “I thought there was supposed to be interdepartmental cooperation on this,” Brett said. “Or are the feebs and Homeland shutting everyone else out?”

  Hart and Buckler shared another glance. Hart leaned forward and he gaze went from Tess to Brett then back again. “Why is Homeland sitting on this one?”

  Tess laid a hand on Brett’s thigh.

  He wiped his mouth and took a sip of coffee. “A little over a year ago, a terrorist named Tabarek Moussa came into the United States and went after some military personnel he believed killed his brother. My CO and I were his targets.”

  “Shit!” Buckler breathed.

  Hart took a deep breath. “So they really think this is terrorist’s taking another swipe at you?”

  “They’re ruling it out. I don’t believe that’s what it is. Tabarek and his network are history. If they weren’t killed, they’re being housed at Guantanamo.” Brett laced his fingers together. “This isn’t related to terrorists. If it were, we’d be dealing with a whole fucking building, a bus, a plane. Not a car. Not unless it was a target high-up politically. If you can get access to the forensic information about the bomb, you’re going to find it’s domestic.”

  As their silence stretched, Tess said, “I’ll go online and look at makes and models and try to figure out which it was. It’s an older model, not old old, but probably between five and ten years.”

  Hart seemed to recover. “The guy that got into the car, can you describe him?”

  She’d had time to think about this. “He was Caucasian. Olive-skinned. Light brown hair with gray threaded through. Tall, really big, but with a little pooch starting around the middle. He wore a gray suit and black shoes, no hat. I only saw him from the back and side and never got a look at his face. He was quick to get in the car and drive away.”

  Everything in their demeanor had changed. They were going to go through the motions now and had jumped on the terrorist bandwagon.

  Brett reached for her hand and his eyes met hers.

  “Have you found the car or driver responsible for Mary’s accident?” Tess asked.

  “We’ve found the car. It was a stolen Hummer, thoroughly burned,” Buckler said.

  Tess nodded. “I suppose the forensic evidence went up in smoke.”

  “We’re still hopeful they might find something.”

  When she stood, the detectives did as well.

  Tears pressed behind her eyelids and she looked away. We’re on our own now. “I have another appointment. You’ll keep me posted when you can?”

  “When we can.” Buckler said.

  Brett gathered the trash and tossed it in a receptacle, his movements jerky with seething frustration. Somehow watching him expend that emotion helped Tess find her composure.

  “Where were you when the car bomb went off, Ensign Weaver?” Hart asked as Brett brushed by him.

  “I was finishing up a tour downrange, dealing with assholes a lot worse than any you’ve seen on the streets of San Diego. If you want any more information you’ll have to talk to my platoon commander, Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey, on the Coronado base.”

  “We may have to do that.”

  “Knock yourselves out.”

  “Stay away from Frye, Ms. Kelly. We don’t want our investigation compromised,” Hart said.

  “I’ll stay away from him as long as he keeps his distance from me, Detective.”

  They had only taken a step or two when something occurred to her and she turned back. “Why would terrorists paint bullet holes on my wedding dress, Detectives? Though it smacks of terrorism, it feels more homegrown than Middle Eastern. You might want to think about that.”

  *

  Brett looped an arm around her waist and they walked away. All he could say was, “It’s going to be okay, Tess.”

  Her attention focused on a man walking across the parking lot.

  “What is it? Is that someone you recognize?”

  “I can’t see his face, but, yeah, I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

  Brett’s steps slowed and he rested his hand on his Sig as he studied the car parked next to theirs. It looked like the car following them earlier.

  A door swung open and Miguel Delgado stepped out.

  “Relax, soldier boy. I’m here to thank your girl, not cause any trouble.”

  “You have her number.”

  Miguel’s gaze turned flat and dark. He reminded Brett of the South American snakes they’d run into on occasion. He and his teammates had dispatched them quickly. Better they were dead than to have to worry about where they might show up the rest of the day. Every time he faced Miguel he got the same quiet feeling he did before taking a kill shot.

  “Easy, ese. Some things require a face-to-face,” Miguel said.

  Brett studied him for a long moment. “Tell your driver to stay in the car with his hands on the steering wheel and not to make any sudden moves.” Miguel bent and spoke to the man behind the wheel.

  “Move out from behind the door and lean back against the driver’s side window.”

  Miguel sauntered over to the other side of the car and leaned back against it.

  Brett scanned the parking lot and, seeing no movement, urged Tess forward, out of the way of a car going by. “Stay close to me and as far away from him as possible,” he murmured in her ear.

  She nodded. Brett turned his attention to Miguel.

  Tess seemed more at ease with the man than he. “What is it, Mr. Delgado?”

  “I heard you are still having problems, chica.”

  Brett’s shoulder muscles tightened. What the hell? How had he learned about the break-in? Since nothing was found, the police had decided to issue a brief story about a bomb threat being called in at the apartment complex.

  “You could say that.”

  “I may be able to help you.”

  Tess’s gaze met Brett’s, then swung back to Miguel. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Your man is stretched thin. And I have many friends from our neighborhood I could reach out to help you find a solution.”

  “Your—associates?” Tess asked.

  Miguel’s smile was wolfish. “I will tell my men what you called them. They will be amused. But no, not my men. Two of the neighborhood men need work. One has been a security guard for many years. He has retired now, but is having trouble making ends meet. The other man worked as a bouncer at a local bar until the bar closed. They could keep watch over your car while you go about your business, keep an eye out for anyone who might follow you.”

  “And report back to you?”

  “No, chica. Report to you. These men have no association with my people. But they owe me a favor. Just as I owe you one now. It is a way for us all to clear the slate.”

  “Why would you owe me a favor?” Tess asked.

  “The lawyer you recommended. He is doing well for Daniel.”

  “Good.”

  “I pay my debts.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‡

  Thursday started with an early-morning call from Captain Jackson. Brett was the least superstitious guy on his new team, but he had a bad feeling about the meeting. He’d moved on from his old team nearly eighteen months ago. Why was he being called to his old CO’s office?

  After arranging for Hawk to pick her up, Brett dropped Tess at the Metropolitan Correctional Center and turned the car towar
d Coronado. He passed through the base gates, and his stomach tightened as he neared his CO’s office building.

  The last time Brett had been there was for a personal one-on-one with Jackson. He’d felt uncomfortable facing the guy who’d endured three days of brutal beatings and more because of him. The terrorists who’d taken over Jackson’s house and imprisoned his family had delighted in pounding on him while torturing his wife with threats. All because Brett, their real target, had been out of town with Tess in Washington. Could that be what the meeting was about? Had Jackson discovered something about the bombing that linked it to terrorists?

  Jackson’s aide hadn’t given him even a hint as to the purpose of the meeting.

  He parked in front of the one story brick building. It was blocky and utilitarian, and the only landscaping consisted of a few shrubs and sidewalks edged with military precision. He stepped out of the car and gave his cammies, the uniform of the day, a quick inspection. They were the least faded of the much used and abused uniforms he’d worn for the last year during training and deployment. Though their color had weathered, they were clean and pressed, and his insignia in place.

  He glanced at his watch and strode down the sidewalk to the main entrance. He opened the door, then stood back as three men hustled out of the building, pausing to snap to attention before him and offer salutes. He returned the salutation, then entered and continued through the lobby and down a long hallway.

  Seaman Crouch had been replaced, and Brett had a moment to wonder where he had moved on to before the apple-cheeked aide sitting outside Jackson’s office rose to his feet in greeting. The guy had a round baby face that made him look about fourteen. The tag on his uniform read Seaman Chad Vincent. “Captain Jackson said you were to go right in, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He breezed by the aide’s desk and knocked on the door. At the Captain’s brief command of “Enter,” he pushed it open.

  Jackson stood at the double window behind his desk as Brett crossed the threshold, nudged the door closed, and saluted.

  “At ease, Cutter.” Jackson came around his desk and studied him for a brief moment, then offered his hand. “Welcome home.”