One Wrong Move, page 30
“They left a message at Christie’s,” Greyson said.
“What did it say this time?” Andi asked.
“It was actually made out to Christian and in a man’s handwriting.”
“Why the change?” Andi asked. “Why were the notes made out to me in the first place if this was all about you? And why in a woman’s handwriting?”
“I’m guessing so that it wasn’t obvious it was him straightaway. It would make sense why they used a woman’s handwriting to start,” Christian said, cracking his knuckles from the hours of shuffling cards.
“Julia’s handwriting, you think?” Andi asked.
“That’d be my bet. I’m guessing they had her write them before this all kicked off. Certainly before she was murdered. They probably figured a woman’s handwriting would throw us off.”
“And now?” Andi asked.
“Ethan knows we’re on to him, so he’s communicating directly with me. What does the message say, Grey?”
“‘They try to beat me. They try in vain. And when I win, I end in pain.’”
“Death,” Christian said.
“Was Ethan violent before?” Andi asked. “I mean, when you knew him?”
“No.” Christian shook his head. “Not at all. I feel certain Enrique is the one who’s been after us, and he also matches the description of the man seen with Alex in the white SUV, so I’m guessing he killed her too.”
“And Julia?” Greyson asked.
“Could have been Enrique or it could have been Cyrus. He’s got to be the violent one in the theft partnership. Ethan never was.”
“Maybe he’s changed,” Andi said.
It was possible, but just didn’t fit with the man he knew, though that man might not even exist anymore. Jail changed people. Bitterness rotted the bones.
“Well, one of them is certainly violent,” Greyson said. “One or possibly both of them severely beat two security guards at Christie’s. They’re being seen to now and thankfully will be all right.”
“They’re taking bigger risks,” Christian said. “Hitting a place with guards.” This was getting more dangerous by the second.
“Sounds like they’re determined to see their plan through, no matter the cost,” Andi said.
“That’s what I fear,” Christian said, looking at Andi. She could hold her own, but he’d protect her with his life.
“What do we do now?” Andi asked, rocking back on the soles of her bare feet.
“Now we catch them,” he said, moving for his gun, slipping it into his waist holder.
“How?” she asked.
“Just to be safe, we go through the list of all the places in California he and I researched.”
“Including the yachts?” Greyson asked.
“They are my highest priority. Ethan was really hyped up about the possibility. I’ll text you a list of the ones I remember researching. See if you can find what marinas they’re currently in—if any are in Cali and still operational. If I was planning a double heist, I’d hit a yacht next. No one would expect it in domestic waters, plus easy getaway by boat.”
“Consider it done,” Greyson said. “I’ll get you two on a flight into L.A. and text you the info. Call when you’re on the ground.”
“Will do.”
“And, Christian . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. If Teresa Gutierrez sent one man to take you guys out, I doubt she’ll hesitate to send another.”
SIXTY-FIVE
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Deckard rang Mitch’s doorbell. Thanks to Greyson’s call, everything was in place, but how was he going to deal with the fact he’d helped set a murderer free? Righteous anger burned through his limbs. Anger for all Mitch had done to Anne, to Andi, and for pulling a brilliant con on him. How hadn’t he seen that? Maybe he needed to rethink things? Take some time off to clear his head? But all that had to wait until Mitch was where he belonged, even if it was for a different reason.
Mitch opened the door, then smiled. “Deckard. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”
“Really. What for?”
“Just interested in the man who set me free.”
Deckard swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He had to remain calm, level, and keep his focus on the bigger picture or he’d lose it on Mitch. “Can we come in? I’ve got something I need to run by you.”
“Sure, okay.” Mitch’s gaze fixed on Harper.
The thought of Mitch even looking at Harper, especially the way he was right now—with a mix of interest and curiosity—turned Deckard’s stomach. Made him want to yank Harper away from the evil man as fast as he could. What Mitch had done was flat-out evil. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“I’m Harper Grace,” she said, pulling Deckard back to the moment.
“Harper.” Mitch took her hand and placed his other one over their clasped ones. “So nice to meet you. You’re Deckard’s friend?”
Deckard clamped his jaw. He wasn’t asking. He knew exactly who she was. He knew about everything—sending someone to try to take them out. It was him. Deckard took a stiff inhale.
Harper looked at Deckard. “Yes.” She nodded. “And partner,” she added.
Good answer. They were partners on the case, but Mitch could naturally assume romantic partners, given the way it was phrased. Which equated to—“let go of her hand before I bust your lip.” It took all the restraint he had to keep from lunging at Mitch for all he’d done, for all the pain and sorrow he’d inflicted.
“Ah. I see,” Mitch said, releasing her hand. “Then I’d say he’s a lucky man.”
She looked at Deckard with a smile. Mitch had taken it the way they’d hoped. Whatever kept the creep from leering at Harper. He would be a lucky man indeed if Harper were his, but they were hardly there yet. And with her leaving for her mission with the International Committee for the Red Cross, their chance, his chance to . . . to . . . He rubbed his neck. He needed to shift his focus.
“Right,” he said. “So can we come in for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure.” Mitch stepped back, allowing them passage in. “Would you like a beer?”
“Soda would be great, if you have it,” Deckard said, buying them time. He’d drink the soda nice and slow.
“Harper, how about you?” Mitch asked.
“I’m good, but thanks.”
He smiled, then led them through the oversized foyer, down a short hall, and out into the open kitchen and living space.
Clearly, Mitch was faring far better than the tiny apartment he stayed in right after his conviction was vacated. Deckard took a sharp inhale, trying to simmer the anger coursing through him. It’d all been an act. The tears shed over the loss of Anne, the disappointment over his wife leaving him, the poor man starting over from scratch with his reputation shot. He’d probably moved into this house shortly after they officially parted ways.
He scanned the space while Mitch rummaged in the fridge. His gaze centered on the photographs lining the bookshelf. He took a step closer, one in particular catching his eye. One taken of Mitch, Councilman Markowitz, and the man Randy had identified as taking the bloody shirt from the life-preserver box.
Mitch turned around and handed Deckard his soda. “You like the pictures?”
“I just noticed this one. I think I had seen it before when I was working your case.”
“Right,” Mitch said, strolling toward it.
“Are those Masonic rings?” Deckard asked.
“Yep. One of the oldest societies in our country, founded long before our country began,” Mitch explained.
“Right. I recognize the councilman, but this guy I can’t place.”
“Just another lodge member.”
“Ah.” Mitch could blow off telling him about the third man. It didn’t matter. They knew who he was, and if the picture was taken before Mitch went to prison, it meant the three knew each other before, and regardless of how Mitch played it off, the three were tight. Tight enough for the man to kidnap Randy’s sister and hold her hostage until Randy pulled the shirt from evidence and handed it over to him on Mitch’s behalf.
“You should drink your soda before it gets warm,” Mitch said.
“Sure,” Deckard said, opening the can. “So are you back to running your real estate development company?” he asked.
“Yep.” Mitch twisted the cap off his beer.
“You must be doing well. I mean, look at this place.”
“The company is doing well. We’re building a brand-new community off Taylor Avenue,” he said, leading them to a round table in the corner with a large diorama on it. “Here’s the design.”
“Impressive,” Deckard said. “But wasn’t this supposed to have been built a while ago? I think right around the time you went to jail.”
Mitch rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re running behind schedule because of my time in jail, but it’s coming.” He shifted his gaze from Deckard to Harper. “What do you think, Harper?”
“Very nice. In fact,” she said, “I believe I read about this planned community in the news.”
Mitch smiled. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Your friend, Councilman Markowitz. Isn’t he the one who did all that lobbying for it?”
“I believe so,” Mitch said, stepping away from the diorama.
“How many other communities have you planned with him?” Deckard asked.
“What?” Mitch swiped his nose. “I haven’t built anything with the councilman.”
“Really?” Deckard said. “Then I wonder why he and your backers helped get you out of prison?”
“Excuse me?” Mitch said, his gaze cold, piercing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Deckard pulled the envelope from his jacket and dropped the pictures of Markowitz taking the bloody shirt from William Richards. “Looks like your two buddies had a vested interest in getting you out of prison.”
Mitch’s jaw tightened as he walked toward the pictures. “What are these?”
“See for yourself,” Deckard said.
Mitch picked the one of Markowitz holding the bloody shirt in the evidence bag.
“He got you out of prison, right?” Deckard prodded.
“No.” Mitch’s voice grew as cold as his stare. “I got me out of prison. I had what they all needed, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it up unless they got me out.”
“What’d you have that was so valuable they’d go through all they did?” Deckard asked.
“The land rights. They’d have been out millions without me,” Mitch said, picking up the picture of him with Richards and Markowitz.
“And Anne . . .” Deckard said, his chest squeezing. “She discovered something, and you killed her for it.”
A wicked grin spread on his lips. “So you finally figured it out.” Mitch chuckled. “Took you long enough. And the great thing is”—Mitch dropped the picture back on the table—“thanks to you and a little thing called double jeopardy, you can’t do a thing about it.”
“So what was it? She figured out you and Markowitz were duping investors in the real estate development projects, cheating families who bought homes you were never going to build?”
“Stupid . . .” Mitch rambled on with a string of curse words describing the woman he’d killed in cold blood. “She was listening when she shouldn’t have been, looking for things she shouldn’t have.”
“So you and the councilman are running a Ponzi scheme, and Anne discovered it. Maybe even found evidence against you.”
“I admit no such thing. I barely know the councilman.”
“Really? Sure sounded like you knew him well. And there’s this . . .” Deckard pulled out the last picture Randy had given them. The one of Mitch and Markowitz exchanging an envelope.
“There’s no harm in knowing a councilman,” Mitch said. His lies were so clear now, but he was no longer playing a part.
“I wonder what you two were exchanging. I’m assuming not the money we located in your and Markowitz’s offshore accounts.”
The muscle in Mitch’s lip twitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, the FBI fraud unit is digging into it. I’m sure they’ll figure it out. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing you back behind bars.” Deckard clapped Mitch on the shoulder. “Thanks for the soda.” He set it down. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
“You have nothing,” Mitch hollered. “These pictures prove nothing.”
“Feel free to keep them. The FBI has all they need,” Deckard called over his shoulder.
Deckard let Harper head out first as they strode to the front door, his hand on the grip of his gun just in case Mitch’s fury got the better of him and he tried anything stupid.
Mitch stalked after them. “You can’t do this.”
“That’s the thing, Mitch, I already did.” Deckard stepped outside in the warmth of the sun and smiled at the FBI vehicle in the driveway.
SIXTY-SIX
CHRISTIAN HELD THE DOOR of Christie’s Auction House in Los Angeles open for Andi. Agents still moved around, crime scene tape cordoning off an open door to their right.
Once on the ground, they’d checked in with Greyson. He’d located all five yachts Christian had texted to him. One was dry-docked, and four were in various marinas, stretching from San Diego all the way to a marina near Rosewood. He didn’t recall any of the yachts they cased having a Mesoamerican collection, so what were they after?
They decided Greyson would do a little more research, and they’d call back once they were finished at Christie’s. Perhaps one had acquired an Aztec or Mesoamerican heritage collection since they’d first researched them in what seemed a lifetime ago. For him it was. He had a new life in Christ. He prayed the same for Ethan, that his bitterness would leave him, that he’d stop the course he was on that would only end badly—possibly in death, given his violent partner. He prayed Ethan hadn’t crossed that line, prayed God would open his eyes to the new life he could have in Him.
Christian released a pent-up exhale as they took in the lobby and followed voices down a hall.
Once again, they were stuck in a holding position, and he hated it. But there was no sense driving randomly up and down the coast until they had at least some confidence in where they were headed. If they chose the wrong yacht, they could be hours away from the right one. Over seven hundred miles stretched between San Diego and Rosewood. They had to hold firm until they figured out the target, and then they’d have to pray they made it in time.
The hall exited into a wide room with rows of white chairs lined up to face a stage with a podium. His gaze fixed on the wooden door with crime-scene tape across it, then to a distraught woman who stood talking with a man. Definitely FBI.
“We should talk with her.” He inclined his head. “When she’s done with the agent.”
“That won’t be happening,” a man behind him said.
A man whose voice he knew all too well. He closed his eyes on a breath, then turned to face his past. “Agent Hopkins,” he said.
“Christian O’Brady,” Hopkins said, looking past his shoulder at Andi. “And who is this?”
“Andi Forester,” she said, fishing a card from her bag and handing it to Hopkins.
“An insurance investigator.” His black brows arched. “We’ve already worked with one. He left maybe twenty minutes ago.”
“My company doesn’t insure Christie’s.”
He handed her card back to her. “Then what are you doing here?” He looked between the two of them and laughed. “I see. You’ve hooked up with an insurance investigator. All part of the con, O’Brady?”
His jaw tensed. “I’m not pulling a con.” And he wasn’t “hooking up.”
“So I suppose you had nothing to do with this.” Hopkins indicated the area with the crime-scene tape with a sweep of his arm.
“I told you, that’s not me anymore.”
“In my experience, people don’t change, which is why I wasn’t surprised to find this here.” Hopkins pulled an evidence bag from his jacket pocket with a cream envelope like all the rest. This one with his name scrolled across. “Looks like your partner left you a message.”
“He’s not my partner, and I’m not involved.”
“Then what are you doing here, and why was this”—he wagged the envelope—“left for you?”
“I’m working the case.”
Hopkins chuckled, hard. “Ah, that’s rich. Working the heist investigation.” After a moment, he stilled. “Oh, you’re serious.”
“Yes. I’m a PI.” He showed his badge. “Miss Forester and I have been investigating the robberies from the start—in New Mexico. That’s why we’re here.”
“Sure you are.”
Christian took a steadying breath and prayed for composure. “Can we see what’s in the envelope?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Hopkins slid it back into his pocket.
“He’s been leaving us clues,” Andi said. “We need to see the next one.”
“So you’re saying your partner is leaving you breadcrumbs?” Hopkins rocked back on his heels.
Christian pumped his hands in and out of fists, then shook his fingers out. He would not lose his temper, no matter how obtuse Agent Hopkins chose to be.
“So far he has been,” Andi said.
“If you call Sheriff Brunswick of the Jeopardy Falls, New Mexico, sheriff’s department, he can vouch for us on this.”
“I’ll do just that. You two take a seat while I make the call.” Hopkins gestured to the rows of chairs already set up for the auction that was to take place tonight.
Ten minutes later, he returned. “All right. I’ll read the note to you, and you let me know where we”—he indicated his teammates with a sweep of his hand—“need to go next.”
“It’s not always about a place,” Christian said. “Sometimes it’s a more general message.”
