by Julia Harper
She heard a rustle in the bushes behind her, then the click of dog claws on the dock. Squeaky came to stand beside her. He bent his big head down low and sniffed at the water.
“Don’t even think about it,” she told the dog.
He looked at her innocently, pointed ears forward, and wagged his tail.
“Turner?” John was standing on the bank with a long, efficient-looking bolt cutter.
And it was efficient. Within seconds, he had the padlock off and the ice fishing shack door open. Inside was what looked like a tiny family room in a seventies ranch house. The floor was carpeted in indoor–outdoor brown Berber. There was a beige couch and matching armchair and even a bar with a microwave and battery-run refrigerator.
“Nice,” John commented.
Turner had to take his word for it. She’d never been in an ice fishing house before. John strode over to the bar and started searching behind it. Turner investigated the couch area. Beside it was a square, cut-out section of the carpet with a metal ring on one side. Presumably you could lift up the square and cut a hole in the ice underneath. Then all you had to do was sit back and fish from the couch. Turner snorted. Only Calvin would—
“Turner.” John’s voice was low and almost expressionless.
She hurried to his side. He had a laptop up on the counter, and she felt her heartbeat accelerate. He switched the computer on. She held her breath as the screen turned blue. Five minutes later, he’d accessed a file prosaically titled “Bank.” Rows and rows of figures came up, with dates attached going back ten years.
“That’s it,” Turner breathed.
She leaned over John’s shoulder, checking the numbers, correlating the data she’d figured out on her own. It was far more money than she’d estimated. A fortune. Calvin Hyman had stolen more than three million dollars in ten years from the First Wisconsin Bank of Winosha. Where the heck was it all? He must have it stashed somewhere. His house and car weren’t worth that much.
“Is it enough to get him?” she whispered.
“Oh, yeah,” John said with relish. “Looks like Hyman’s kindly documented all of his activities at the bank. This’ll put him away for a very long time. Good thing I took the time to include a computer on the warrant.”
Turner closed her eyes. After four years, she knew she should feel elation—even vindication—but the only emotion she could identify inside herself was . . . no emotion. She was numb.
John turned off the laptop and packed it up in a black case with handles. He turned to the door. “Let’s get this—”
From outside, Squeaky barked once. Then a rumbling sound started, low and menacing. Turner’s eyes widened. She had never heard Squeaky growl. Someone was outside the ice fishing house.
John froze. “Stay here,” he mouthed.
He handed the laptop case to her and took out a big black gun from underneath his jacket.
“John,” Turner whispered urgently, clutching the laptop. Oh, Lord. Had the hit man followed them? She didn’t want him going out there alone.
He frowned at her and gestured abruptly with one hand. The signal was clear: be quiet.
No—
He stood to the side, back to the wall, and cracked the door, peering around the edge. There was a silent hesitation, then he spoke one word. “Torelli.”
Torelli? But wasn’t that John’s partner? Thank goodness. Turner heaved a sigh of relief. Not a hit man. She hugged the laptop to her chest and stepped forward so she could see through the cracked door.
Outside, a slickly handsome man in a suit stood absolutely still, flicking his gaze between John and Squeaky. The dog was stiff-legged, tail and head unmoving as he growled in a low, constant undertone. The hair all along the base of Squeaky’s neck was ruffled. The man had a gun similar to John’s in his slightly raised left hand. His dark suit looked really out of place in the north woods of Wisconsin.
“I take it this is the kidnapped dog?” Torelli drawled. Turner had to hand it to him. He was taking being menaced by a 120-pound Great Dane with aplomb.
“What’re you doing here?” John asked. He didn’t sound that welcoming, considering the man was his partner.
“You mind calling the dog off?” Torelli’s voice was casual, but his face wasn’t. “And it would be nice if you put your gun away.”
John didn’t move. “Answer the question.”
Torelli’s face went blank. “I figured out who masterminded the bank robbery, Mac, so I came running to tell you. You are in charge of this investigation, after all.”
John muttered something obscene.
“John,” Turner murmured. Why was he being so obnoxious?
Torelli caught sight of her, peering around John’s shoulder. “Is that the librarian?”
John stiffened. “You’re not going to arrest her.”
Turner saw a look of surprise cross Torelli’s face—right before someone shot him in the back.
Chapter Forty-eight
S tay back,” John yelled to Turner even as he tried to figure out where the gunshot had come from.
The trees around them were still. Whoever had hit Torelli was well hidden. At the sound of the shot, Squeaky had taken off running, tail between his legs, and disappeared somewhere into the woods. The shot had knocked Torelli facedown on the ground. But as John watched, he levered himself to his elbows and made a valiant effort to crawl to the safety of the ice fishing house. Blood soaked the back of his jacket, a shiny wet spot on the dark blue fabric. Hard to tell how serious the wound was. The younger man was a stubborn bastard.
A stubborn bastard who had better live.
John swung his arm out from the shelter of the door and laid down a covering fire for Torelli. When his gunfire wasn’t returned, he said a prayer and took a chance. He ran out, expecting to be hit at any moment, and grabbed Torelli under the armpits.
Torelli swore.
John ignored him and kept dragging. Pulling on Torelli’s arms probably put stress on his back wound. Tough. He was a little painted duck in a shooting gallery out here. John hauled him bodily into the ice fishing house, dropped him on the floor, and kicked the door shut behind them.
Torelli was still swearing.
“You’re welcome,” John said, peering through the crack of the door. Where had the shooter gone?
“John, he’s hurt,” Turner murmured reproachfully. It figured she’d take Torelli’s side. She was trying to remove the bloody jacket.
“Thanks,” the younger agent grunted. John noticed that he’d stopped swearing even though maneuvering his arms through the jacket armholes had to hurt like hell. “Dante Torelli. You’re Turner Hastings.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t mastermind the bank robbery,” John said without looking away from the door.
“I know.”
That merited a glance. The back of Torelli’s shirt was soaked in blood.
“Here.” John stuck the Glock in the small of his back and took off his own T-shirt. He threw it to Turner along with his cell phone. “Call 911. Get us some backup and an ambulance.” He looked at the younger man. “What do you mean, you know?”
Turner tucked the phone under her chin and talked quietly as she folded the T-shirt.
“I questioned SpongeBob and Yoda this morning.” Torelli grunted as Turner pressed the T-shirt into his back.
The wound looked like it was high on the younger man’s right shoulder. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to have compromised the arm much—Torelli was at least using it. He didn’t know if Torelli would be able to help, but for the moment, he would take what he could get.
Meanwhile, Torelli kept talking, though his tone was strained. “The guy who set up the bank robbery contacted them by phone. He used voice-disguising software. Fish and Nald have no idea who it was.” He paused dramatically, the prick.
John glanced over. “You’re going to have to bind the T-shirt to his back. Here.” He took out a pocket knife and tossed it to Turner. “Cut his jacket into
strips.”
Torelli groaned. “That’s a Hugo Boss.”
“Serves you right for wearing it in the field,” John said. “What about SpongeBob and Yoda’s caller?”
“They couldn’t tell me much else. I don’t think they knew much else. I’ve seen dry toast with more brains than those two have between them—”
“The caller?”
“He wanted the robbery on Saturday.” Torelli hissed as Turner wound a strip of fabric around his chest.
“Better make sure it’s tight,” John told her.
Torelli grimaced.
Turner nodded. She’d dropped the cell—open on the ground—while she worked on Torelli’s bandage. But her pale face told it all. She looked terrified.
She glanced at John. “The ambulance may be awhile. They said there’s a big fire in Tomahawk.”
“Shit,” John said.
Torelli ignored the byplay and continued, “I thought there must be a reason for the date. I checked. There wasn’t any special delivery of money on that Saturday or the Friday before. In fact, quite a chunk of money was transferred from the bank that Friday. But on Monday there was an appointment to have the bank—”
“Audited,” Turner said.
Torelli glanced up at her. “Yeah. The only reason to do the robbery on Saturday was to delay the audit on Monday.”
“And the only person who would care about the audit on Monday is someone who’d been embezzling from the bank,” John said.
“Calvin.” Turner’s lips compressed.
“Yeah,” Torelli said.
John didn’t particularly like the way he stared admiringly at Turner. “So why’re you here if you know Turner didn’t plan the robbery?”
“Because Hyman is missing.”
“What?” John looked away from the door again. “What do you mean?”
Torelli shrugged, then grimaced. “He’s gone. As of this morning, according to his wife. And the Smith and Wesson he has registered is gone, too.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I tried calling you, but your cell was down.” He glanced at the phone lying on the floor. “You must’ve been driving between towers. Anyway, I contacted the office in Milwaukee, and they said you were on the way here. I figured there was a chance Hyman would show up here, too, and thought I should give you some backup. Guess I figured right about Hyman. Sorry the backup plan didn’t work as well.”
John shook his head, his gaze back outside. “You think it was Hyman who took a shot at you?”
“Who else could it be?”
“The same asshole that was shooting up Madison yesterday. Or maybe they’re both out there.”
“But I thought Calvin sent the hit man,” Turner said. “Why would he come himself?”
“Obviously, Hyman’s plans don’t work out too well. The fact is we have no idea who’s shooting.” Where was the guy? Maybe he’d left the area. A small grassy clearing in front of the ice fishing house led down to the lake. Behind, the small structure backed up to the woods. Too many places for a gunman to hide. And if they didn’t get Torelli out of here soon, he might very well go into shock or bleed to death.
“But—” Turner started.
John came to a decision. “Wait here. I’m going to take a look around.”
Torelli forgot himself and swore again, but John was already out the door. He made a running dive for the trees, the muscles in his back twitching with the expectation of a bullet.
Nothing happened.
He hunkered, Glock held ready, just inside the woods and listened. The tree branches rustled overhead in the breeze. Somewhere, a ways away, a woodpecker was knocking on a tree, reminding him of the last afternoon he’d been here—when the hit man had nearly killed Turner.
John inhaled silently and rose to a crouch. He moved through the trees flanking the ice fishing house, being very careful where he placed his feet. The ground was littered with dry leaves and sticks, just waiting to give him away. Dappled sunlight shone through the trees, beautiful and deadly. There was hardly any cover. He felt exposed. And then he saw it.
A flash of red fabric.
John froze, then slowly hunched at the side of a mature tree. Someone had just disappeared behind a bush up ahead. He slid forward toward the spot, always keeping a tree between himself and where he’d seen the glimpse of red. His mouth was dry, his pulse beating in his head. He carefully placed another foot. The quiet of the woods was broken.
RO! Rorororororo!
Shit. Squeaky must’ve found the guy. He hoped the gunman wouldn’t shoot the dog before he could get there. John started sprinting, no longer caring about the noise he made crashing through the forest. Squeaky’s barks covered the sound, anyway.
“Shut up! Goddamn it, shut up, Duke!”
Duke? John rounded a tree in time to see Calvin Hyman aim a handgun at Squeaky.
“Drop it!”
Hyman squealed and leaped. He almost made the mistake of leveling his gun at a federal agent. John could see the thought cross the other man’s mind.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” he growled.
Squeaky was still barking, stiff-legged and intent, his upper lip pulled back to reveal nasty-looking fangs. He must really not like his former owner. Hyman’s eyes widened, and he might’ve gulped. John couldn’t hear the sound over Squeaky, but he saw the movement of the other man’s throat. Hyman’s fist opened and the gun fell to the ground. John had Hyman facedown in the grass before the weapon could hit. He knelt beside him and pulled his arms back to cuff him, reciting the Miranda code, all the while aware that there might be another gunman in the woods. Squeaky stopped barking and came over to sniff the side of Hyman’s face.
“This is a mistake,” Hyman started babbling. “You don’t understand. This is my property. I have a perfect right to be on my own property—”
“Shut up.”
“My gun is registered and—”
“Just shut the fuck up.”
And Hyman did. Which was good, because John’s attention was on other matters.
He smelled smoke.
Chapter Forty-nine
I nside the ice fishing house, Turner glanced worriedly at the door while she tended to Dante. Where was John? Dante’s wound was still bleeding. The blood had soaked through the T-shirt bandage and started dripping down his sides, gluing his shirt to his skin. Her hands shook as she fumbled at his back. The blood brought back images of yesterday. Victoria’s wound; the dark-haired woman staring at her with wide, accusing eyes. The memories were too fresh.
She tried to keep her face calm. John’s partner might be an FBI special agent, but she didn’t want to alarm him. He was lying down now, his handsome face pale against the drying, rust-colored blood on the collar of his shirt. He was younger than John. That was very apparent when his eyes closed, dark eyelashes brushing against his cheek. She checked her watch again. It felt like hours, but John had left the ice fishing shack only a few minutes ago. She hadn’t heard any shots, but she still worried. He might be out there with a killer.
And then Squeaky started barking. Deep, purposeful barks, like the ones he’d given when he’d cornered Dante. Turner half rose.
“Stay here.” The man might have been weak, but he still had an air of command. Especially with his intense gaze trained on her. “Mac can take care of himself.”
She frowned, distracted. “Mac?”
“John MacKinnon. Everyone calls him Mac. Didn’t he tell you?”
She shook her head.
He smiled rather charmingly, his chocolate brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He really was a beautiful man. “No reason he should.”
She studied him. “Why don’t you like John?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Oh, come on. You two are barely civil.”
He looked sheepish. “We had a, uh, professional difference of opinion on the last case we worked together.”
“And?”
“That�
�s it.” He groaned theatrically. “Man, this bullet is killing me.”
She gave him a look. The pain was no doubt real, but he was obviously trying to change the subject. “Tell me.”
“God, you’re persistent,” he muttered. “Okay, we were on a case and I felt that Mac was behaving like a royal—” He shot her a look. “—jerk. He wasn’t keeping me informed, he was going out and doing his own thing, and he kept blowing me off. So I went to the SAC—Special Agent in Charge—and let him know what Mac was doing and that I thought he shouldn’t be heading the case.”
Turner sucked in her breath and stared at Dante incredulously. “You told on him?” Even she could see that would be a very stupid move with John. What had Dante been thinking?
“No.” He tried to lever himself up and grimaced instead. “No, see, I was just worried about the case—”
“Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow sympathetically. “So, did he slaughter you?”
He winced. “Close. Turned out he was good buddies with the ASAC, who went to the SAC for him—”
“Duh.”
“Yeah, so I don’t play politics well.” If Dante were a little boy, she’d say he was pouting. Turner bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “And he kept me off every case he’s worked since then. This is the first one he’s let me on.”
“Can you blame him?”
“No. But he really is a—” That quick glance at her again. “—jerk. Even if he just saved my life.”
Turner laughed. “You two—”
But Dante interrupted her. “Smoke.” His expression suddenly sobered as he looked past her. He tried to lever himself up on his elbows. “I smell smoke.”
Turner swung around to look behind her. White smoke was curling up from behind the tiny bar. As she watched, there was a pop, and flames leaped toward the ceiling.
The ice fishing house was on fire.
“Come on.” She wrapped her hands around Dante on the side that wasn’t wounded. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulled with all her strength, but he came only to a sitting position.
“No.” He must’ve inhaled sharply, because he started coughing, each rasp shaking his frame. He gasped, “It might be a trap.”