by Ellen Butler
Diamonds & Deception
A Karina Cardinal Mystery (Book 3)
By Ellen Butler
Power to the Pen
Diamonds & Deception Copyright © 2019 by Ellen Butler.
All Rights Reserved.
Power to the Pen
PO Box 1474
Woodbridge, VA 22195
Digital ISBN 13: 978-0-9984193-7-4
Categories: Fiction, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Characters/Female Protagonists, Police Procedurals
Cover Art by: SelfPubBookCovers.com/RLSather
Warning: All Rights Reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of the copyrighted work is illegal and forbidden without the written permission of the author and publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the authors imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One | One Week Earlier
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
“Mike? Mike, hello? Oh, geez, it’s your damn voicemail.” My voice shook. “Look, I know you’re in the middle of important FBI training, and I promised I wouldn’t call you like this, but . . . I could really use your help. It’s bad, and I’m scared. Please, call me.” I whispered the last and prayed.
Chapter One
One Week Earlier
I slammed the door to my two-bedroom condo and stomped the floor bolt into place. The alarm system beeped at me, and I savagely tapped out my code on the panel, chipping my nail polish in the process. Stalking through my little foyer, I shed my jacket, handbag, and heels, leaving them haphazardly in the hallway on the way to my living room. I debated flopping down onto my comfy suede couch, then decided I had too much pent-up anger to sit still and instead took a few laps around the kitchen island, dragging my fingers along the cool granite countertop as I went. When that didn’t help, I pulled my wavy chestnut mane into a ponytail and got out the cleaning supplies. Scrubbing the bathroom floor by hand would surely work out my fit of irritation—no, irritation was too mild a word for my feelings. Angry? Mad? Pissed off? Yes, that was a much better term for my mood—pissed off, a crude but encompassing expression for my current emotions.
My phone rang three times before I picked up. My sister’s number displayed across the top. “Hey, Jilly.”
“What’s up? Did I interrupt something? You don’t sound happy.”
“Mike and I had a fight.”
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
It all spilled out. Coherently, for the most part, I think.
THE HUMMING IN MY EARS drowned out the clank of dishes and drone of noisy conversation, and I withdrew my hand from Mike’s, staring at him in disbelief. “Could you repeat that, please?” I asked.
“Would it help if I said I was trying to protect you?”
I looked unseeingly around the restaurant to avoid focusing on Mike while I processed the nuclear revelation he had just dropped in my lap. Old Ebbitt Grill, a Washington, D.C., institution, was filled to overflowing with city power players, normal for a Friday night. A woman at the bar, dressed in a beautiful turquoise dress perfect for the late spring warmth, stood out from the conservative black and gray suits that surrounded her. Three men vied for her attention. I returned my attention to the dark-haired man across from me, a man I’d been friends with since college, and who recently had evolved into my boyfriend and lover. He’d loosened the striped tie at his neck and removed his jacket. His handsome features were drawn into a concerned frown, and the hand I’d abandoned now fidgeted with the salad fork.
“Let me get this straight. You secretly accessed my phone and computer information to . . . clear me of Harper’s murder?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and nodded.
“When? Did you and your FBI buddies break into my home? While I was at work?”
Mike’s coffee-brown eyes darted away. “I did it when you went to the bathroom.”
“When I . . . went to the bathroom? What the . . . ?” My mouth dropped. I swept a lock of hair aside and pressed a pair of fingers to my temple. “Cripes, how long was I in there?”
He didn’t answer.
“Here we go.” Our waiter had arrived. He placed a glass of pinot grigio in front of me and a tall glass of frothy beer in front of Mike. “Have you decided?”
“Could you give us a few minutes?” Mike asked.
Neither one of us glanced at the guy. He must have felt the tension twanging tight as a bowstring between us, and I’m sure my face displayed my displeasure, because he retreated without another word.
“How many FBI agents culled through my private information?”
“Just one.”
I pursed my mouth. “Which one?”
Mike worked for FBI cybercrimes, and a few months ago, I’d had the displeasure of meeting some of his colleagues. Actually, I’m sure his colleagues were amiable folks, but being on the receiving end of an FBI investigation as a possible suspect didn’t exactly make for a genial introduction to the crew.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. Which one?” I demanded, slamming my fist on the table. “Do I know him?”
Mike’s jaw flexed once. Twice.
My eyes narrowed.
“Amir,” he said in capitulation.
“Amir? Amir. You mean the computer geek? Dark Persian looks? The one from my dining room table? That Amir?”
Mike gave a sharp nod. “We go back a long way.”
I gave an eyeroll. “So, you’re telling me he already knew who I was when he came. He’d already invaded my privacy?”
“K.C., it wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t you ‘K.C.’ me.” I shook my finger at him like one would a naughty child. “After all that crap with Patrick and the tracking app. You knew. You must have known how I’d feel about such an invasion.”
“Yes.”
“Yes? You knew? And yet you did it anyway?” Blindly, I snatched up my wine glass and gulped enough to empty half of it before banging the glass back down with a distinct clank. Luckily, the stem didn’t snap. “Did you seriously think I’d been involved in Harper’s death?”
“No,” Mike answered flatly.
His coolness wound me up even more. “Then why the hell did you do it?”
“I told you—to clear your name.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me if I’d had anything to do with it?”
“I did.” He stared down, readjusting his napkin. “You would, of course, say no even if you had been guilty.”
“You thought I might be guilty?”
“No. But you were with him when he died. I knew the FBI was already digging into yo
ur background. You knew you were a ‘person of interest.’”
Breathing deep to regain my composure, I counted backward from ten. “So, you did it on your supervisor’s orders?”
He paused. “No, I did it on my own.”
I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists, but my response came out in measured tones. “You know how you obtained it was illegal as hell. If you’d uncovered something, it never would have been admissible in court.”
“I know.” His gaze darted away from mine.
Maybe that’s why he did it that way. I couldn’t read his expression, or rather, lack thereof: he’d been too well trained. “Why didn’t you just ask me for the information?”
“Would you have given it to me if I had?”
“Sure.”
He arched a thick brow in disbelief.
I chewed my lip and huffed, “No. I would have told you to get a warrant and talk to my lawyer.”
He sat back as though vindicated, a move that shot my simmering blood temperature up to a blistering third-degree burn.
I opened my mouth to blast him, then, catching sight of the waiter heading our way, snapped it shut. My glare sent the server scuttling in the opposite direction, and once again I scanned the restaurant. A thought washed over me. “Why now?”
“What?”
“Why now? Why tell me at all? Harper’s case is closed. I invited you into my bedroom a while ago. Why didn’t you tell me then? Why . . . now?”
We’d been happily floating in that cloud of bliss, that time period in a relationship where everything was rainbows and unicorns. We held hands when we walked together, even if it was the short distance from the car to the door. We told each other everything and missed out on sleep to talk for hours on the phone. A simple touch from him made me tingle. Our timing finally worked out, and feelings, both emotional and sexual, that we’d repressed or ignored in college were allowed free reign. The best part was, since we were already good friends, there was a comfort level that would usually take other couples weeks or months to achieve.
“It’s been weighing on my mind.”
I barely listened to him as I stared at the beauty in the turquoise dress. One of the suits seemed to have gained the brunette’s attention. He put his hand on her back and guided her to an open bar stool. “And now it’s weighing on mine,” I murmured.
“I didn’t catch that.” Mike leaned forward.
When I spoke again, it came out low and even. “You know, it hasn’t escaped my attention that you dropped this explosive piece of information in a public place.” I sipped the last bit of my white wine, then folded my arms across my chest. “You even brought me to a restaurant where I might know someone and could be recognized.” As a matter of fact, I’d been greeted by another lobbyist and a congressman’s staff member when I arrived. “Basically, you did it here” —I tapped the table— “so I wouldn’t lose my shit.”
He didn’t deny it, and I gleaned a crack in his composure as regret flashed across his features. “I’m sorry, K.C.”
I’ll admit when I got worked up, some of my Irish ancestry came out. It usually involved increased voice volume, and, on occasion, volatile hand-waving. Mike and I had had disagreements in the past, but this would be our first fight as a couple. My fists clenched and unclenched as I ruminated on his apology. “I’m not going to lie, I’m hurt. I’m angry.”
Mike regarded me, face stricken.
“You know, it’s true—what they say—ignorance is bliss.”
“What do we do now?”
“I’m going to . . . go.” I gathered my purse.
Mike laid a hand on my arm. “K.C., don’t. Not like this. Talk to me. Don’t leave like this.”
My eyes flared. “Right now, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I’ve never known you to run away from a fight,” he threw at me, withdrawing his hand.
My mouth scrunched up as I held back the invective I longed to throw at him. “Michael Finnegan, let me be clear, I am not running away. I am . . . I’m making a tactical retreat.” He opened his mouth, but I held up a finger to forestall him. “Because I’m afraid, right now, I’m going to say something so terrible that I can’t take it back.”
His challenging look disappeared, and the mask returned. “Okay.” He sipped his beer. “When do you think you’ll be ready to talk?”
My mouth flattened. “I don’t know.”
“You are aware I’m leaving on Sunday to finish the training I missed during the Harper case.”
“If you’re asking if I will be ready to talk by Sunday—I can’t answer. I’m not sure I will be.”
“I see.” There was definite pain behind that gaze, and it did nothing to calm my temper.
I am the wronged party here, I told myself, irate. To Mike, I said, “I think we need a break.”
He cleared his throat. “What kind of break?”
“The kind where I take the week to simmer down. When do you get back into town?”
“Saturday morning.”
“Fine. I’ll contact you.” I scooted to the edge of the booth seat.
“K.C.?”
“Yes?”
“Uh, be careful. Try not to get into any trouble,” he implored.
I tilted my head and raised my brows questioningly.
“Every time I go out of town, you seem to get involved in one . . . scrape or another. Just—try to stay out of trouble. I don’t think I can handle another one of those calls.”
Even if that were true, his comment did nothing to improve my mood. “Don’t worry. If I do get into a ‘scrape,’ I’ll be sure to call someone else.” I pulled the handbag strap over my shoulder and stalked my way through the tables.
“K.C.! That’s not what I meant,” he exclaimed to my retreating back.
“AND, THAT’S IT,” I said to my sister, who’d listened to the entire story in silence.
“Wow. That’s a lot.”
“I can’t believe he had the gall to tell me not to get into any scrapes while he was gone,” I grumbled. “Like those things were my fault. Like I went looking for trouble.”
“Well . . .”
“Don’t you dare.” Did she just giggle?
“So how long are you going to let him stew?”
“I beg your pardon?” I dropped the scrub brush into the bucket with a small splash and sat back on my heels. I’d scoured the floor as I poured out my story. The tiles sparkled, and if I continued in the same fervor, I’d probably end up scrubbing out the grout.
“You know, how long are you going to let him stew before you make up?”
“Who’s to say I’ll forgive him?”
“First of all, you’re terrible at holding grudges. You’ll be rethinking your temper tantrum by tomorrow morning.”
“It’s not a temper tantrum.” I chewed my lip in frustration because she was spot on.
She continued, “Second, this is Mike.”
“So?”
“Well, in the inimitable words of Phoebe Buffay, ‘he’s your lobster,’” she said with a dramatic flair.
My face scrunched in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? What do crustaceans have to do with it?”
“You know, from Friends. I’ve been binge-watching it on Netflix. Ross and Rachel. That’s you and Mike. You guys are made for each other.”
I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t a television show, Jilly. I’m really pissed.” It felt good to say the words out loud.
She tsked. “He was trying to protect you. As far as I can tell, he’s always trying to protect you. No—before you interrupt, I want you to just think about some of the crazy scrapes you’ve been in. It sounds like Mike stuck his neck out for you on more than one occasion. You can’t compare him to Patrick.”
True.
“Give him a break. The Harper case put him between a rock and a hard place. Did he make a bad decision? Maybe. Come on, like you haven’t made any bad decisions in your life?”
I blew o
ut a breath. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. But I’m still mad.”
“You have a right to be. However, to get back to my original question—how long are you going to be mad? How long are you going to punish him by leaving him in limbo?”
She’s right. I sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll call him after he gets back from his trip.”
“You’re going to leave him hanging for a week?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yup.”
Jillian’s skeptical snort came across the lines. “Ri-ight. You’ll be calling him by Monday.”
My sister was probably correct, but I was too stubborn to admit it. “Doubtful.”
“Suit yourself. You know the longer you wait, the more you’ll tear yourself up inside. You’re not just torturing him, you’ll be torturing yourself.”
This was the second time in recent history Jillian had given me solid relationship advice. It grated on me knowing what she said was true. “Oh, yeah, when did you become the relationship whisperer?” I retorted.
“When I started dating Tony. Everything came into focus for me, Grasshopper,” she said.
My sister began seeing Tony Romero, an Alexandria paramedic, about five months ago. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly for them. He reminded me of a Latino Jake Gyllenhaal and, if things continued on their current track, it was simply a matter of time before they announced their engagement.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Kung Fu Master. Let’s move on. You called me. What’s up?”
“Oh, right. Actually, this is good, something to take your mind off your current mood. My girlfriend from work, Sadira, has tickets for a fashion show at Tyson’s Galleria tomorrow.”
“What kind of fashion show?”
“It’s a fundraiser for Ronald McDonald House. A bunch of the stores are participating, including Coach and Lilly Pulitzer.”
The moment she said the word ‘fundraiser,’ I zoned out. My life revolved around fundraisers, primarily for politicians. The D.C. area was a Mecca for raising money—legislators, nonprofits, charities, school activities—you name it, someone always had a hand out. Don’t get me wrong, I had no doubt the Ronald McDonald House did good work, and I should probably do my civic duty and go, but I just couldn’t muster the strength to attend one more fundraiser this week.