Authors: Allison Brennan
He did, however, have a hand in Jimmy Benson’s truck going off the road
.
He said, “I told them to bring me Jimmy alive. They said his truck just lost control and went into the water.”
I didn’t buy it. Trucks don’t just lose control
.
Carl was a problem on many levels—he thought he was in charge and he had manipulated the loyalty of the team I’d put together. He’d stayed in Spruce Lake and people here trusted him
.
Which was why I couldn’t pepper him with shotgun pellets and watch him slowly bleed to death, however much I wanted to
.
People were scared of me, and I could work with that, but until this deal was finalized on Sunday—and
Carl had to be alive for the final handshake—killing him was not an option
.
That put me in a bad mood
.
Coupled with, of course, the problem of the shooter
.
I didn’t ask for Ian’s advice often, but on issues like this he sometimes had good insight. We were already halfway to Potsdam to meet my pet cop and make sure he finished his last job
.
“Carl swears he knows nothing about the sniper.”
“Do you believe him?” Ian asked
.
“Unless he’s become a far better liar over the years.”
It wasn’t solely because I thought he was telling the truth; a sniper wasn’t Carl’s style. Did someone want to fuck up my operation? Killing a civilian would bring in cops I didn’t control during the next critical forty-eight hours
.
“The clients,” Ian said discreetly, “could have sent an advance team.”
“Without me knowing?” I changed the subject. “What did you find at Benson’s place?” I asked
.
“Nothing that would indicate Jimmy was playing both sides,” Ian said. “But I did spot the P.I. Sean Rogan in the neighborhood.”
My instincts vibrated. “How close? Benson is right off the main road.”
“At the intersection, headed toward Hendrickson’s place.”
That could mean something or nothing. I needed to assess Rogan myself. “Did you dig anything up on him?”
“Not much. He is who he says he is—a private investigator out of Washington, D.C. From what I could put together, he specializes in computer security. Graduated
from M.I.T. That’s near Boston, could be where he met Hendrickson.”
Something didn’t feel right. Hendrickson was at least five, maybe ten, years older than Rogan. “Dig deeper.”
“I already have the word out. I’ll have reports coming in tonight.”
“And Lucy Kincaid?”
“We may have a problem there. When Weddle said she worked for the morgue, I was able to track her down easily. Thing is, she doesn’t work there anymore. She left three months ago. They told me she could be reached at FBI Headquarters.”
I slammed my fist on the dashboard. “Fuck!”
“I think it’s a coincidence—she has no ties to Albany.”
“I don’t care; it’s too risky.”
I weighed my options. She couldn’t be an agent—not after only three months—but she definitely
knew
Feds. If she went missing or turned up dead, others would start snooping
.
For all I knew, she’d already called in her buddies
.
And if the Feds identified the dead bitch, everything would come tumbling down. All I needed was two more days
.
Ian pulled into the Potsdam town limits. “Let’s do this quick,” I told him. “I need to get back to Spruce Lake. It’s time everyone knows I’m back.”
TWENTY-ONE
“I’m not quite sure what you hope to accomplish tonight,” Tim told Sean as they sat in the truck outside the Lock & Barrel.
Sean was barely listening. He wanted to go back and set things right with Lucy, but he didn’t know how to explain it to her.
It wasn’t her fault that Sean had a flash of jealousy whenever Noah Armstrong’s name was mentioned. Lucy had never said or implied or even
hinted
that she was more than a friend and colleague to Noah. She had done nothing to make Sean believe she wasn’t committed to him alone—except she’d never said
I love you
.
Foolish, really, for him to come back to that. For years he’d cringed when he heard his ex-girlfriends declare their love, because he didn’t believe it and he didn’t feel it. And since he’d never stuck with any of them for long, he couldn’t imagine that they were being honest with him, or themselves.
But Sean had known he loved Lucy almost from the beginning. And his feelings had only deepened since.
Maybe it was the methodical way Noah had insinuated himself in Lucy’s life. Like quietly cutting through red tape when Lucy’s FBI application was held up. And there was no way Sean believed for a minute that Noah didn’t have everything to do with Lucy being assigned to him while she waited for a slot to open at the FBI training academy.
However, when it came right down to it, Patrick was the problem. Patrick thought Noah was better for Lucy than Sean, and had made that clear in more ways than one. He’d said as much, and it had festered in Sean’s head like a tumor. Growing darker and blacker until just the mention of Noah—the by-the-book G-man—made Sean see red. He had to shut down, otherwise he’d explode and say something that could jeopardize his relationship with Lucy. He had to get his reaction under control before he tried to explain it to her.
If he even could.
He put all of it aside to focus on the task at hand.
“Sorry,” he said to Tim, dismissing his preoccupation. “Just thinking things through. We go in, observe, see who’s talking to whom. Make a point of discussing what’s been happening. Make it clear you’re not going to be scared off, but that maybe holding off on the grand opening is a good idea.”
“Do you really think we’re going to learn anything?”
“Someone here knows something. Hell, maybe the whole town is in on it.” He paused. “Do you know James Benson?”
Tim shook his head. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“He worked for Fire and Rescue. He is missing and presumed dead.”
“What does that have to do with the lodge?”
“He’s the brother-in-law of Paul Swain. His nephew is the one who set fire to the lodge.”
Tim straightened his spine and glared at Sean. “Nephew?”
“Swain’s son.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
Sean should have approached this differently. “I don’t trust that deputy,” he said cautiously. “His reactions were atypical, and I find it suspicious that there aren’t more cops in and out of that mine.”
“You don’t trust many people, do you?”
“I suppose not.”
“I’ll grant you Weddle—I don’t know what to make of him—but he’s not the only cop in St. Lawrence County.”
“I’ve already put in a request to meet with the detective-sergeant assigned to the case. His secretary called to set up an appointment first thing tomorrow morning. Let’s go inside. I’ll buy you a beer. Anybody asks, you’re postponing the resort.”
“But I thought—”
“That was yesterday. Today, let’s play their game. Callahan wanted us to postpone. We give them what they want and see where it leads.”
They walked in and like last night, conversation halted momentarily as Sean and Tim ambled over to the bar. Even the band in the back hit a sour note. Sean sat down on the bar’s far side, where he could clearly see both the front door and the door leading into the kitchen. The bartender was different from the one the night before—as different as you could get. Instead of old Reggie, this bartender was an attractive female—and one who knew she was hot. With long, curly dark red hair and big green eyes, she wore tight jeans tucked into well-worn boots.
She smiled as she approached them. “What can I get for you fellas?”
“Two drafts,” Sean said.
Conversation resumed as soon as they were seated, though everyone’s attention seemed to be focused on them. Sean observed there were twice as many people tonight as yesterday. It was Friday, after the dinner hour, in a small town and the Lock & Barrel was the only nightlife for miles. Sean never would have survived growing up in a town like Spruce Lake.
The redhead placed the beers in front of them. Sean noticed two scars on her left forearm. Too high to be a suicide attempt, but definitely a knife attack.
“I haven’t seen you two before,” the bartender said. “Let me guess—Adam and Tim Hendrickson?”
“Half right,” Sean said.
“I’m Tim,” Tim acknowledged. “This is my friend Sean.”
She smiled brightly, but Sean sensed that she was observing them like specimens. She flirted, but not like Trina, the waitress. This woman was calculating; Sean saw it in her eyes, in the way she seemed attuned to everyone in the room, even though she looked right at him.
“I didn’t think this town was big enough for two bartenders,” Sean said.
“Reggie was feeling under the weather; I’m just helping out tonight.”
“And do you have a name?”
She extended her hand and smiled seductively. “Bobbie,” she said. She wore rings on nearly every finger; several diamonds and one large emerald stood out. If they were real—and they looked as though they were—she wore thousands of dollars on her hands. If fake, they were expensive fakes.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“I heard about your troubles, Tim. The whole town is talking. I’m so sorry.”
Tim shrugged. “Well, I really have no choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have to postpone the opening.”
She frowned dramatically, but Sean didn’t think she was a bit sorry. She looked as if she was playing a part and enjoying every minute of it. “That’s awful.”
“I thought most of the people here were opposed to the Spruce Lake Resort,” Sean said.
She shrugged. “I don’t really have an opinion.”
“Someone shot at me today,” Sean said, watching Bobbie closely.
“Really? Who?”
“Don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
Bobbie’s neck muscles tightened—just briefly, but it was an interesting sign that she was irritated. “How?”
“I’m a private investigator. I’m pretty good at my job.”
“Oh! A private eye. Wow. Like Sam Spade?”
Sean noticed that Bobbie ignored everyone except him and Tim. He found it odd that Trina, not Bobbie, was filling orders. Bobbie was trying hard to sound like a ditz, but her eyes were too sharp and observant. A man in his midtwenties sat at the end of the bar observing the three of them, trying to be discreet, but Sean pegged him as security. Why did Bobbie need security?
He responded to her query. “Mostly computer work. Boring, really. Nothing like Thomas Magnum.”
She stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“From the television show,
Magnum, P.I
. You’re probably too young to remember—
I’m
too young to remember—but I caught the reruns.”
She frowned, a flash of anger in her eyes. Why? Because she didn’t know a television character?
“I don’t have time for TV,” she snapped and turned away, grabbing a rag from under the bar. “I gotta get back to work, boys,” she said as if they were the ones keeping her.
“Of course,” Sean said. She halfheartedly wiped down the bar, refilling a couple of drafts on the way without talking to anyone, until she got to the watchful guy at the end. She fixed him a Scotch and soda—light on the Scotch, Sean noted.
Bobbie was a nickname for Roberta. Was that sly woman Roberta Swain? Did she actually live in Spruce Lake, and if so, when had she moved back from Florida? Patrick hadn’t been able to get a picture of her, but she looked about the right age, early thirties.
“That conversation was strange,” Tim said quietly.
“Yep,” Sean concurred. He watched the patrons. Everyone was trying
not
to look at Bobbie. They seemed deferential. Scared? Maybe. Angry. It was as though the whole town was in on a conspiracy to shut down the resort, and now the big guns were out.
With Patrick coming into town, Sean could cover a lot more territory and keep an eye on Bobbie the relief bartender. After talking to him last night, Sean suspected that Henry Callahan knew all the town secrets. Maybe Sean could convince him to be forthcoming, even if he had to find a way to protect him.
“Are you ready to go?” Tim asked. “I don’t think we’re going to learn anything here.”
“I’ve already learned a lot.” He wasn’t going to discuss what he suspected while they were still here. “It’s only been twenty minutes. I want to see who shows up in the next hour. Since we’ve sat here, four people have stepped out, and now the band.”
“Probably for a smoke.”
“Probably,” Sean said, not believing it for a minute. Smoking was the excuse. Someone had called in their sighting, and Sean wanted to know who.
Sean had swung by Ricky’s house on the way to the bar and his car wasn’t there, nor was there any sign that he’d been home since bolting this afternoon. If Sean could get him to talk, he’d protect the kid himself—or send him far from Spruce Lake. The U.S. Marshals had nothing on the Rogan family when it came to hiding people. But Ricky would have to be willing to share information and go all the way.
Could Paul Swain be running a drug operation from prison? Certainly a possibility if he was powerful enough. The police might not think the drug lab was still around, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t moved it nearby, or wasn’t involved in another way.
Sean knew a bit about the international drug trade—his brother Kane had been fighting drug and human trafficking in South and Central America for twenty years. It was war down there—murder, bribery, corruption. It was the same here, but on a smaller scale. Cleaner. Cops were harder to bribe, though not impossible. Corruption existed, but not as blatant or as widespread.
But a town like Spruce Lake would be perfect for drug running. Near the Canadian border, remote, with people desperate to survive and no way to get out. The big cities in Canada had the same drug and gang problems as big cities in America.