by DiAnn Mills
“Me too.” He picked up a towel she’d dropped and slipped it into the washing machine. “I heard a dozen homes are under contract by the investment company. Not sure about the rental properties.”
Her stomach rolled with the news. “Instant gratification and cash talks.”
“True. Have you heard new numbers on those sick?” he said.
“The contagion factor is growing. How about you? Any symptoms?”
“No. I’m healthy.”
A relief. “Do me a favor and stay that way.”
He saluted her and she smiled. “Miss Stacy, I’ll get the water boiling for pasta before I change my mind and whip up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Raspberry chipotle jelly,” she said.
“Seriously?”
“And a glass of milk. Should take five minutes.”
“You’re on. We need our brains in gear for whatever comes tomorrow, and I’m talking about church. You’re the best one to talk to Him. The God thing will have to wait until I can concentrate.”
“But you need God now. We both do.”
“I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. I’ve been reading the Bible and checking facts with archaeological finds and ancient writings. Antiquities prove much about the historical nature of the Bible, but I’m not there yet.”
“What weighs the heaviest on your mind?” She forced the aching in her body aside. This could be the moment Whitt chose to step forward in faith.
“Faith. When it all comes down to the God thing, the person chooses out of trust. That’s where I’m stumped. I want to see, touch, and feel a sovereign God.”
“We all do, Whitt.” The woman inside her who wanted to be his mother longed to draw him close, tell him to enjoy his youth and not be burdened with life until grown. To trust God, even when he doubted. “You are so incredibly gifted with wisdom, but reliance on God requires faith.”
“I’d trade any wisdom and my IQ for a new beginning.”
“God can provide that. Honestly. I doubted God for so many years after my sister died. He doesn’t make our lives easier, but He does promise to be with us.”
“I’ll consider the discussion after a judge’s signature.”
“You can have a relationship with Him regardless of a judge’s signature.”
He shook his head. She considered talking more about what faith required. Frankly they were both too exhausted for a heart-to-heart about anything more than dinner and ten hours of sleep.
An hour later, after repeatedly checking the locks on the doors and windows like she’d become obsessive-compulsive, Stacy closed the blinds in her bedroom and crawled beneath the sheets. Her mind bounced from the nightmare of riding into the clearing and finding a dead man, the vile Lynx Connor taking advantage of a lie about their waterborne disease, the strangeness of Howe and Connor as business partners, and the reality of someone gaining entrance into her clinic and monitoring her actions. The part of her she couldn’t deny nudged her to rid the demons chasing her and Whitt. But her performance-oriented personality couldn’t make this go away. . . . Not since living in Louisiana and her sister’s death had she sensed such despair.
She longed for relief and answers.
Finally her body gave in to a deep sleep.
Alex munched on pizza while his thoughts of the day pushed around his brain. Stacy could have been killed today when Ginger tossed her. Life had no guarantees, and that reality pressed him to focus on God and the eternal perspective of his own life. He looked at his cell phone, deliberating a call, which meant swallowing his pride. Tossing aside his misgivings, he pressed in Eva Rayken’s number.
“I knew it was you,” Eva said. “Felt it in my heart.”
“I’ve eaten most of the cookies and not thanked you for them.”
“You have now. Are you being careful?”
He pictured her in jeans and a T-shirt, wearing more jewelry than most women owned. “Yes, ma’am. I do have something to say.” He didn’t give her time to respond or he’d lose his nerve. “For a lot of years, you and Dexter have encouraged me to get back with God. I regret I left Him behind in Louisiana.”
“Oh, Alex, that’s a lot for you to admit.”
“Don’t I know it. Stubborn Cajun meets more stubborn God. Meant to tell Dexter the other morning. Anyway, I’m into Scripture.”
She sniffed. “Wonderful. You know we love you like our own son.”
“The sentiment works both ways. Talk to you soon.”
Long after most people were asleep, Alex brewed a fresh pot of coffee and studied his legal pad filled with notes and circles. He’d phoned the office and filed an update about his and Ric’s case, including the false letter from someone posing as the health department and the resulting problems which linked Howe, Connor, and Stacy—but nothing to the quadcopter.
He focused on the bureau’s web of information. Five years ago, Connor was arrested and served two years for land fraud. Looked like he was at it again. But why the risk for property that was seemingly worthless? The dilemma was burning brain cells.
Rubbing the weariness from his eyes, he examined the autopsy report one more time. Close range. Howe probably knew the man to let him get close enough to kill him. This wasn’t a random act of violence. Could Connor be the shooter? The man’s residence was in California . . . Howe’s in Houston. He requested a security camera check from the tech agents in LA for a video linking Connor and Howe.
Alex glanced at the time: 11:45. Would Bekah Howe still be up? She responded on the third ring. “Mrs. Howe, this is Special Agent Alex LeBlanc. I apologize for the late hour.”
“That’s okay.” She sounded groggy.
He mentally kicked himself for his spontaneity instead of logic. “I’ve disturbed your sleep. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Have you found Todd’s killer?”
“No, but Lynx Connor has been brought into the LA FBI office for questioning. My partner and I’d like to stop by in the morning around ten. We won’t take up much of your time.”
“Can you make it nine? I planned to take my sons to breakfast and on to the zoo.”
“We’ll be there. Thank you.” After disconnecting the call, he texted Ric with a suggested breakfast place and the appointment with Bekah. Ric responded immediately.
Will be there. I know u claim 4 hours sleep is enough, but 1 day it’ll catch up.
I’m about less sleep and solving crime. :)
U r wired on caffeine.
Right. C u in a.m.
Going to bed crossed Alex’s mind, but thanks to the coffee jolt, he had energy to spare. He grabbed his laptop and eased into his recliner. What were the circumstances surrounding Connor’s previous land fraud? And where did Howe fit? Was he innocent, like his wife wanted to believe? Or had he gotten in over his head in an act of terrorism?
STACY WOKE FEELING RESTED and ready for the day. Falling asleep at seven o’clock with the sun still high in the sky replenished the deficit in her sleep bank—a Whitt saying.
Sunday . . . the Lord’s Day. She looked forward to worshiping and forgetting about her own woes for a while—immersing her heart in the most important factor of her life instead of herself and the ever-growing grocery list of problems.
As on every morning, she smelled the enticing aroma of coffee beans drawing her from bed and to the kitchen. She wrapped her robe securely around her waist and opened the bedroom door. Sweet Whitt was frying bacon. Breathing in, she also smelled cheese grits. He could outcook her any day of the week.
“I think I’m in heaven,” she said on her way to the kitchen.
Whitt glanced up from the counter. “Morning.” He rolled up waxed paper covered in flour and tossed it into the trash. A pan of biscuits sat ready to bake. “Coffee’s ready,” he said.
“I followed my nose.” She peered at the biscuits. “Is there cheese in those?”
“Yep. You know me. I love cheese in everything.” His bed head gave him the softened features of a boy.
>
“You must have slept well.”
“Amazing. Which is why I’m into breakfast. Mushroom and spinach omelets suit you?” He pointed toward the stove. “Tried a new recipe, sort of a Tex-Mex hollandaise sauce. Tossed in a jalapeño and cilantro.”
“Are you writing these things down? I mean, Whitt, you could write a cookbook.”
“Thought about it. Even thought about gearing it for kids and having an enhanced e-version with links to YouTube showing how to prepare the dishes in terms they’d understand.”
She laughed, and it felt wonderful. “In your spare time between earning your bazillion doctorates, you can work as a chef.”
“Maybe. I have until I’m fourteen to decide. Maybe longer. Then again, I could have more than one career.”
She ruffled his hair. “And you’ll be successful at all of them.”
After pouring them coffee and lacing his with chocolate, she walked to the living room and opened the drapes. Early morning sunlight streamed in like a promise for a better today and tomorrow. Xena followed her, nuzzling against her legs.
“I’ll get the newspaper while my coffee cools,” she said.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I won’t be long.”
“The last time you went barefoot to retrieve the Sunday paper, you stepped on a broken beer bottle tossed the night before.”
She raised a brow with a teasing grin. “Must I?”
“Breakfast is on the line.”
She slipped into flip-flops by the door. “You drive a hard bargain, but my tummy’s growling.”
“Can I have the sports page first? Astros won another game last night.”
“The sports page will be all yours.”
Warm, humid air met her. This was home. A lonely oak in her front yard branched out to shade pink-and-white impatiens. In August, the Broussard family reunion in Louisiana would kick off a day of fabulous food and fun. She planned to take Whitt if all went well at the hearing.
Stacy walked down the driveway and picked up the thick Houston Chronicle. By habit, she observed Whitt’s home across the street. The McMann house had a lock on the door, and the grass needed to be mowed. Usually Whitt tended to it without any prompting, but not when his parents hadn’t paid the rent. As she walked back to the house, she pulled the sports section out from the paper, ready to hand it off to Whitt, when an envelope with her name on it caught her attention.
Odd. She’d paid for the newspaper until December 31. After that she’d renew it for online access. As she tore into the envelope, four photos of Whitt tumbled out onto the driveway. She bent to pick them up, her insides churning, much too common a physical reaction these days. The first one was him riding his bike to school, the second of him leaving school—dressed in different clothes. The third photo captured him at the carnival, and the fourth was him outside their front door. That photo had a message written across the bottom in red marker: Sell or regret it.
She stared at the photos, holding her breath and sensing her world crumbling around her. The words in red letters paralyzed her thinking.
Bloodred.
Threatening red.
The color of the red on Todd Howe’s blue shirt.
Think. Be brave, Stacy. This is the work of a bully. Stand up to these cowards. Don’t cower.
“What’s wrong?” Whitt said from the doorway.
The thought of sheltering him, keeping him naive crossed her mind, but he didn’t have the mind of a child. “A visitor left me an envelope in our newspaper. It has four photos of you.” She would not resort to tears.
He frowned and approached her, wearing the much-older Whitt expression on his young face. “Come inside. I want to grab a pair of gloves and take a look at them.”
“Hadn’t thought about fingerprints.” With a cleansing breath, she followed him into their home.
Whitt opened the pantry and retrieved a pair of non-latex gloves, the same ones used at the clinic. He slipped them on and studied each photo as though looking for who’d snapped them. Finally he viewed the last one. “Jerk.”
“I was thinking of a less civilized description.”
He slipped the photos inside the envelope and returned it. “We need to talk about what to do next.”
He wouldn’t see her break down when she was the mother figure.
“Breakfast is just a few browned biscuits away. We’ll eat and discuss a solid plan. Neither of us can ignore the threats any longer, or we’ll become FBI statistics.”
His choice of adult words demonstrated his stress. She tried to smile for his sake. “I’m going to fight back.”
“I expect no less, Miss Stacy, but we have to be intelligent.”
“I know.”
If the person who’d done this was watching, he’d be thrilled with her near-panic response.
Whitt handed her a mug of coffee, and she sat at the counter. “Thanks.”
“I’d like to take a look at them again.”
“Is it necessary?”
“I might remember seeing something unusual.”
Whitt was right, so she handed him the envelope. He spread the photos on the counter and peered into each one with no expression on his face. “This person is a professional. I know when these were taken, and I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary.” He lifted his gray eyes to meet hers. “I learned a long time ago to be in touch with my surroundings. Bullies can jump from behind bushes.”
“And you have a solution?”
“Take a deep breath. That’s what I do when I’m tossed rotten eggs. I consider options in my head, but you might want to write them down. Imagine you’ll want to pray.”
“Do you find that a weakness?” She caught his attention.
“This God the perfect Father thing still has me conflicted. Nothing’s changed there.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out paper and pen. “This will help—I promise. Would you do one thing for me?”
“Of course.”
“Contact Alex. Tell him you agree to a protection detail from HPD or the FBI. You’ve been threatened again, and it’s time to respond logically. I know the pics are of me, but it’s only a cheap way to get you to cower. By refusing to unload your home, you’ll be facing worse retaliation. He can advise you on whom to contact and how to word what’s happened. He can probably arrange the protection.”
The truth made her head throb. Whoever wanted her home had resorted to cheap shots. Her precious boy realized this too—he simply didn’t want to appear selfish and make demands of her.
Moistening her lips, she formed her thoughts. “After church, I’ll call Alex and agree to whatever he suggests. In the meantime if anyone mentions me selling, I’ll tell them I’m giving it serious consideration. I’m not sure about following through with the proposed meeting in the morning with the fraudster. That’s a question for Alex.”
“Thanks. I can relax now.”
She smiled and pushed caring into the gesture. “Whitt, this is bigger than anything we’ve ever faced. It’s wrong of me to burden you with this crisis when you should be enjoying life as a twelve-year-old.”
“I promise you, I’ll do my best to act like a kid—later.”
The buzzer on the oven signaled the biscuits were done. Breakfast. A normal event. But she was scared of the next minute and the next.
SUNDAY, ALEX AND RIC MET at The Egg & I for breakfast at 7:30 before driving to Bekah Howe’s home. After ordering more eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes than they’d ever eat, Ric eyed him with a chuckle.
“What time did you crawl into bed?” he said.
“Three thirty.” Alex rubbed his bristled chin. “My mind wouldn’t shut down.”
“Connor talking yet?” Ric said.
“No. IAH security cams show him arriving in Houston the day before Howe was killed. Nothing more since he lawyered up. Claims he doesn’t own a 9mm, but he wears a matching shoe size. Plea bargaining under consideration. Says he has information that could get him killed.
”
Ric frowned. “Don’t tell me we’re buying a plea out?”
“Time will tell.” Alex paused while the server unloaded their plates of food. “Thanks.” He waited until she’d disappeared before continuing. “Another thought, and you received the report early this morning too. Howe’s business calls checked out as well as his personnel backgrounds. Neither do his financials raise a red flag.”
“No one has a foolproof plan. Could be something is lurking beneath the layers of a spreadsheet. Is the investigation there ongoing?”
“Absolutely. We have to dig deeper.”
“Bro, something brought them together. The one thing we can’t control is a criminal’s behavior.” Ric downed a large orange juice. “But we can think like them. What do you suppose Howe and Connor were really up to?”
“I feel like we’re spinning cycles with the current dogged approach to this investigation.” Alex could hear the frustration in his words. “I have definite matters to check into today, plus wherever your mastermind takes you. If nothing more surfaces about Howe, I’m changing my strategy and focusing on whatever’s out there about Connor. Take it for what it’s worth. In my opinion, he killed Howe, just as sure as I’m sitting here.”
Ric studied him. “Sleep would clear the cobwebs. If you’re right, he could have run from the scene.”
Alex toasted him with his coffee cup. “Maybe. Sure would like to find the gun.” He rested the cup beside his plate. “Have we checked to see if Howe used personal or business storage units?”
Ric picked up his phone. “A question for his wife. I’ll make a reminder so we don’t forget.” He held up a finger. “I’m sending a request to check if Howe traveled through LAX. If Connor made trips here, possibly Howe reciprocated.”
“Good call. Where did Howe store restaurant supplies? Don’t think he’d be stupid enough to hide drones with illegal payloads there, but if he had the only key and wasn’t anticipating getting caught or killed . . . Nothing in the law says a man can’t own drones. The shell company.”
“What?”
Alex shook his head. “Thinking out loud. We’ve uncovered Connor’s involvement in a shell company, and the same company could hold stashed money from Howe. The other thing plaguing me is how a flu epidemic slipped into the plan.”