Blind Trust (9 page)

His mind replayed what else she'd just said. “Wait a second. Hank was here? As in Chief Brewster—Hank?”

“You didn't know? I thought that's why you called. To warn me.”

“No, I didn't know.” He closed the door to the room. “What did he want?”

“He was trying to get me in trouble for some letter to the newspaper I didn't write that exposed the mayor's supposed secret deals.”

“Why would he think you wrote it?”

“My name was at the bottom!”

“What?” His concern escalated as she recounted a play-by-play of the morning meeting. Her being incriminated for counterfeiting could have been inadvertent, but this was deliberate. “Any idea who would do this? Or why?”

“To get me in hot water with the mayor, apparently, and with half the town who would never have believed a bad word about him if it'd been printed. Not to mention with my employer. Which makes me wonder if GPC was behind the letter. Peter knows I don't want GPC here. If he told his bosses . . .”

Tom shook his head. “Too big a risk that Harold would go straight to press without checking facts. A story like this could taint their credibility as much as the mayor's.” Tom paced the small, windowless room. “Could be someone inside city hall who wanted to expose the mayor but feared for his own job. Your working here, coupled with your recent notoriety, makes you a convenient scapegoat.”

“They'd have to know I'd deny it.”

“Yeah, but after the letter's been printed, the damage to the mayor would already be done.” It made sense, even if he didn't believe it.

She shrugged. “I suppose. It's less scary than thinking GPC has launched a campaign to derail me.”

The door burst open. A young woman in a lab coat, carrying a mug, glanced from Tom to Kate to the coffeepot on the narrow counter behind them and then backed out of the room. “Sorry.”

Kate moaned.

Tom brushed a tendril of hair from her eyes. “What's wrong?”

Her look turned sheepish. “Last time you showed up at my work, it was to arrest me.”

He winced. Not his finest moment.

“If that lab tech, or Marjorie at reception, spreads the word that you came looking for me again, I can just imagine the rumors that will start flying.”

He gave her a half smile and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “That you've forgiven me?”

“No! That I'm guilty of counterfeiting.”

His stomach soured at her “no,” even though he was halfway sure it didn't apply to the forgiveness part. “No one will think that. Besides, Marjorie knows I came looking for Peter.”

“Oh.” The word sounded hollow, as if she was disappointed his visit hadn't been personal. As much as he'd like nothing better than to explore that feeling, he refocused on why he'd come in the first place.

“Do you know why Peter isn't here?”

“I overheard the director say he had an urgent personal matter to attend to.”

Tom clenched his jaw. He knew he'd seen a flicker of recognition in Peter's expression when he viewed the video clip of the plaid shirt guy watching him through the hardware store window. He'd denied it, but chances were the guy worked for GPC too. And if GPC found out what Peter knew about Kate, they might've decided to take him out of the equation.

“What's wrong?”

“What makes you think anything's wrong?” he hedged.

“Because your cheek muscle always flicks like that when you're worried.”

He scraped a hand over his jaw. Good thing she hadn't been around him in his undercover days. A tell like that could've gotten him killed. He nudged her toward a chair. “I need to tell you something.”

She perched on the edge, her anxious gaze searching his.

He drew in a deep breath. There was no easy way to share what he'd learned. “I think you might be right about the officers who took your father into custody. One died as the result of a
hit-and-run. The driver was never found. The other was shot during a drug raid along with his partner and the suspect.”

“That's horrible.” Her hand slid down to her throat. “And it does sound terribly convenient, doesn't it?”

“The report says that before he died, the detective shot his killer. Ballistics matched his gun.” Tom winced at the hollowed-out look in Kate's eyes, the color draining from her face. He shouldn't have told her. Not here. Not in the middle of her workday. The murder happened twenty years ago. What good could come of dredging it up?

“But . . .?” she prompted.

He let out a breath. “In the crime scene photos, the detective's gun is in his right hand, but his holster was on his left hip.”

Her face went even paler. “He was set up.”

“Looks that way.”

“Do you think my dad's—?” Her breathing quickened and he knew what she was afraid to ask. Was her dad's heart attack a lie too? Had he really been murdered?

After walking Tom to the lobby, Kate headed for her lab. Her shoes squeaked on the polished marble floor of the empty hallway, and a creepy feeling trickled down her neck. She couldn't shake the images conjured by Tom's revelation of the slain police officers who'd worked Dad's case, let alone Tom's warnings to watch her back. A door slammed behind her.

She spun around. The hall was still empty.
Get a grip
. No one is trying to kill you.
She skimmed her thumb over the metal key to her lab door. This edgy, check-over-her-shoulder-at-every-sound paranoia would only make GPC gloat.

And she wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

She pushed the key into the lock. Somehow she'd figure out what secret her father discovered about them and make them accountable.

Her mind flashed to an image of an ambushed police officer. Her key jammed. If GPC could take out a police officer . . .

She shook her head, refitted the key.
The Lord is my protector.
Please, Lord, lead me to the truth.
She pushed through the door.

“How'd the meeting go?” Patti asked without looking up from her microscope.

“Fine.”

Patti snapped off the microscope's illuminator and swiveled her chair in Kate's direction. “So they're not shutting down our research?”

“No, of course not.”

“You don't have to sound so shocked. You're the one who's been worrying this GPC partnership would ruin things.”

She still was, on top of a gazillion new things to worry about. Kate massaged her temples. If she didn't get a full night's sleep soon, she'd wind up with a full-blown, weeklong migraine.

Patti must've read her mind. She pulled a bottle from her pocket and tipped a couple of pills into Kate's hand. “Here, these will help with the headache. You've got to stop worrying so much.”

Kate examined the pills—extra-strength acetaminophen—then gulped them down with a glass of water. “Thanks.”

Her supervisor walked in as she threw back the pills. “Let me guess. You're moonlighting.”

She rolled her eyes. Darryl was one to talk, with his sideline of mushroom research.

“Up too late working on the computer,” she explained.

The corner of his lips ticked up. “Perfecting your design, were you?”

“Huh?” She closed her eyes. Her head hurt too much to try to decipher what he was talking about.

He opened his wallet, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the workbench, smoothing the edges with his fingers. “Fooled my wife.”

Patti gasped. “You know Kate didn't pass off that phony bill. Beth's her friend.”

Darryl chuckled. “Kate knows I'm kidding.”

Kate gawked at the bill. “You need to report this. Tom—I mean, Detective Parker—is trying to track down the counterfeiter, and every lead helps. Does Beth have any idea who gave it to her?”

“I said I was kidding.” Darryl slapped Kate's back, jolting her brain into a new level of torture. “I ran this off the color printer. Wanted to see how realistic it'd look.”

Patti picked up the fake, rubbed the paper between her fingers, and twisted it one way, then the other as she peered at the image. “It's actually pretty good.”

“Don't be getting any ideas,” Kate warned in mock scolding. Patti had inherited a fortune from her parents' estate. She probably didn't even need this job, let alone a few phony bills to make ends meet.

Darryl plucked the bill from Patti's fingers. “I don't know. Could solve all my financial woes.”

Patti's jaw dropped. “You wouldn't!”

“No, he wouldn't.” Kate pressed her palms to his back and pushed him toward the door. Not an easy task considering he was built like a linebacker and enjoyed pulling her young assistant's leg far too much. “Don't you have real work to do, Darryl?”

“I was going to ask the same of you. Where have you been?
Your detective
called looking for you this morning.”

Massaging her throbbing temples, Kate ignored his goading. Darryl took far too much delight in the fact that
a cop
was interested in dating her, considering how many times she'd said cops couldn't be trusted. “I was in a meeting.” She shooed him
toward the door. “And the sooner you leave, the sooner I can get to work.” She shut the door behind him, then rejoined Patti.

As they worked through their samples, her pain-dulled mind drifted over the various internet articles she'd read last night. Peter had said her dad had been watching TV in the airport coffee shop when he'd arrived, which suggested, assuming he'd told the truth, that something Dad saw had sparked his decision. She'd assumed it had been a news item. But maybe it was a documentary. Or just an image that had triggered a realization. Kate pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated by how little the pain meds had done for her headache.

Patti straightened from hunching over the bench and stretched her back. “Can you believe Darryl actually printed a phony twenty-dollar bill?”

“Obviously has too much time on his hands.” She'd have to ask Tom if he knew yet how the counterfeit bills were made. She doubted Lucetta had a computer if she was scraping to send money home every month. But Pedro likely had access to friends' computers. They'd think it a lark, too, to print off a bunch of counterfeit bills.

Counterfeit.
Counterfeit.
What if that's what Dad had discovered? What if the university research was a bogus cover story GPC used to gain access to the plant resources they wanted in Colombia? That would explain why her online searches didn't score a single university working on a research project for them at that time.

Except . . .

How could she prove it? They apparently never got what they were after. Which was weird. Why not just send someone else to retrieve more plants?
Unless . . .

Her heart jitterbugged. Unless they'd really been after
something else, something that had been smuggled into the country along with the plants.

She clamped her pounding head between her hands and groaned. The whole scenario was starting to sound like a B movie—bad and unbelievable.

Tom's appetite soured at the sight of Hank and the mayor having lunch together in A Cup or Two. The mayor—a poster boy for tall, dark, and handsome, although he reminded Tom of a weasel—seemed to have the chief's unquestioning support, which, if the mayor was guilty of any of the allegations in that letter, didn't bode well for Hank's future.

Tom shoved the thought away as he bypassed the sidebar filled with canisters of herbal teas and ordered a coffee and muffin from the counter at the back of the store. Tom slanted another glance at his childhood-friend-turned-boss. Hank had too much to prove to this town. Becoming a dirty cop would just prove what the naysayers had been saying about his old friend since high school. Like father, like son. Criminal.

Hank waved him over. “Join us.”

Tom nodded to King. “Mayor.”

“Detective.” King pulled out the chair next to him, and Tom reluctantly took a seat. “Any progress on the counterfeit case?”

“We've confirmed the counterfeit bills were printed on a color laser printer on a unique specialty paper.”

“Laser?” King straightened his glasses and peered at him more intently. “Those aren't that common, are they? Should be able to narrow in on a suspect in no time.”

Right.
Tom tiredly peeled the paper from his muffin.
Some
one's been watching too many
cop shows.
“Without corroborating evidence to justify a search warrant, I can't simply check the memory of every color laser printer in town. The counterfeiter might not even live here.”

“As my grandpappy liked to say, work is ninety-nine percent perspiration—” King's cell phone buzzed.

“And one percent inspiration,” Tom mumbled, repeating the oft-used saying the mayor trotted out for every other inspirational speech he gave around town.

“Exactly!” King clicked off his phone with only a quick glance at the screen. “You've got your inspiration. Now find the people with that kind of printer and check them out. Most would be more than happy to let you. Don't you think? To prove their innocence.”

“Yeah.” Hank put down his sandwich. “If they agree to let you check, you don't need a warrant.”

“And if they don't agree,” the mayor added, “you'll have one more name for your suspect list.”

Tom bit into his muffin to avoid the need to comment. Unfortunately, he already had more than enough suspects. But his prime ones—Pedro, and Lucetta Lopez—had already denied owning computers, let alone printers. And the hotel Peter stayed in only had ink-jet printers available to their clientele.

“It's important we maintain our stellar town image,” the mayor went on.

Stellar?
Tom choked on his bite of muffin. Three months ago the counter girl from this very tea shop had murdered Kate's friend and then tried to off Kate. He sipped his coffee to keep from saying as much. No need to agitate the man. “I'll do my best, sir.”

“That's what I like to hear.” He flashed one of his toothy campaign smiles.

Tom fought not to roll his eyes.

“The mayor is courting a couple of other major employers for the town,” Hank shared.

“Really?” Tom wasn't sure how he felt about that. A lot of folks around here needed jobs, but . . . “You're not afraid we'll lose the small-town feel we've worked so hard to promote?” He motioned to the picture window at the front of the shop. The cobbled street. The wrought iron lampposts. The old-fashioned brick storefronts decorated with potted petunias of red and white and every shade of pink in between.

“We did that to attract tourism dollars, but the market's too seasonal. We need year-round employment for our citizens.” His voice rose to stump quality as he seemed to realize others were listening in.

Oh brother. Does this
man ever take a break?

“Hear, hear,” cheered a guy who'd just walked in the door—the same guy who'd questioned Kate's innocence, and his ethics, the last time Tom was in here.

King waved to him. “Thanks, Vic.” King lowered his voice and leaned forward. “There's a prime example. Vic hasn't had steady employment since the feed mill closed over a year ago.”

“He seems to be doing okay,” Tom countered. “Has his own lawn care business. I saw him mowing a lawn this morning.”

“Doesn't pay enough, though. He's always looking for more work. Even contracts out to a janitorial service a couple of nights a week.” King's gaze flitted across nearby tables, and he lifted his voice. “A man shouldn't have to work day and night to make ends meet.”

A whispered frenzy of “So true” and “That's why I voted for King” rose around them.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Tom's stomach. If Kate got her way and blocked GPC's move here, she'd become the town pariah overnight.

King winked at him, not the least bit ashamed at his blatant campaigning. Considering the next election would be this fall, he probably hoped to get at least one new business breaking ground in their town before citizens went to the polls. Tom hoped for Kate's sake that it wasn't GPC.

Apparently satisfied with his brief publicity plug, King returned his attention to his cell phone and tapped the screen. “Can you believe the gall of this woman?” King slanted his phone so Hank could read the text message. “I knew she was lying about the letter.”

Tom tensed. Was King talking about Kate? He leaned over to try to see the screen.

Hank turned it for him with an almost gleeful look. “I told you that woman couldn't be trusted.”

At the sender's name—Kate Adams—Tom pressed his lips shut and read,

I should've known someone as crooked as you would control the media too.

“That doesn't sound like Kate,” Tom said.

“Wake up, Parker. Clearly, she's not what you think.” Hank downed the last of his coffee, then clunked the mug on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Looks like we need to pay the research station another visit, Mayor.”

“Wait.” Tom stayed the mayor's hand and pulled out his
own phone to compare numbers. Just as he thought. “That's not her, see.”

He showed the mayor her name and number in his contact list. “The numbers don't match.”

“She must've gotten a new number.”

“Since this morning?” Tom shook his head. “I contacted her at this number a few hours ago.” At least she said she'd gotten the message. “Someone's setting her up.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Hank snatched Tom's phone and glanced from his screen to King's.

“I don't know.” Tom jotted the number into his notebook, his mind racing through several unpalatable possibilities. “But I'll do my best to find out who's behind this.”