Buch lesen: «Undercover With The Heiress»

CHAPTER ONE

May

“HOW MANY BODIES?” Kaden ducked under the yellow police tape and climbed the rotting porch steps.

“Three.” The photographer pointed at the man by his feet. “One here. Two inside.”

Kaden flashed his credentials at the uniform guarding the door. Plywood covered the cabin’s windows. The siding might have been white once. Now it peeled off termite-infested wood. Cement blocks propped up a corner of the wraparound porch. The place would probably blow over in the next tropical storm to hit the coast of Georgia.

Local deputies, DEA and FBI sifted through the crime scene. He took a deep breath and gagged on the stench. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he headed inside.

Plastic bags lay scattered on the floor. Drug residue covered tables lining a wall. An empty garbage can was tipped on its side. Apparently, the dealers had left in a hurry. If they were lucky, they might find prints.

The medical examiner knelt next to a second body.

Six-one or six-two. Male. Caucasian. Must run 220.

“Hey, O’Malley.” Kaden stared at the dried blood on the floor. “Do you have a cause of death?”

“GSW. All three bodies.” The medical examiner glanced up. “How are you, Farrell?”

“Frustrated we can’t shut this ring down.”

The FBI had been chasing Heather Bole and Thaddeus Magnussen for months trying to stem the flow of drugs coming through Georgia and Florida.

He nodded at the vic’s bloated face. “At least Magnussen’s no longer terrorizing the streets. Don’t suppose we got lucky and Heather Bole is here somewhere?”

“Not here. We’ll check the blood type and see if there’s more than our victims.” She shifted. “Need to show you something.”

O’Malley rolled the body onto his side, using her head to point. “Check out the streaks under the body.”

“Is that blood?” Kaden backed up to get the full picture. “It looks like something was dragged out from under him as he bled out. Did he fall on something?”

She shrugged. “Maybe a someone. We found this beneath the body.”

She held up an evidence bag. It contained a bloodstained sneaker. Pink. Small. No laces. Fluff filled the shoe’s ratty Velcro.

“Damn it. A kid was here.” He swallowed.

“Yeah.” O’Malley waved over her assistant. “This one’s ready for the lab.”

Kaden unclenched his teeth. A kid. A little girl by the look of the shoe. He would check the file, but he thought Heather had a daughter who was young. Three? Four? The task force had gotten that intel but hadn’t been able to get the kid to safety.

His granddad had rescued him. Now, getting children away from their criminal, drug dealing parents was his life’s mission. He would save the kid and put Heather Bole behind bars.

July

“ANOTHER DEAD END.” Kaden slammed down the conference room phone in the Atlanta FBI office. “Two months and every time someone spots Heather Bole, she vanishes.”

The partial print at the triple-murder site had a 75 percent chance of being Bole’s. It was enough to bring her in for questioning. If they found her.

“We’re hearing rumors Bole has partnered with Hector Salvez.” His boss rubbed his short dark hair. “Hector’s a hothead. That might make Heather easier to find.”

Roger leaned back in his chair and it let out a loud screech.

The noise crawled down Kaden’s spine. “Not soon enough.”

“Is this about the daughter? Are you worried she’s in danger?” Roger asked.

“Kids shouldn’t grow up in that environment.” Kaden rolled his neck and the vertebrae clicked.

Saving kids from the drug life was why he’d joined the FBI, why he was on the task force. If he could rid this part of the world of drugs and dealers, he’d be content. “Heather is moving...a lot. Could be Magnussen’s brother is seeking revenge.”

“Maybe.” Roger’s chair squealed again. “Maybe they’ll all kill each other and make our lives easier.”

“DEA has a witness that swears Bole had her kid with her before the shootings.” Kaden tugged on his tie. “She and Rasmussen ran together for five years. Now what’s Bole up to?”

“Taking over?” Roger held up the picture of the blood streaks. “If Heather shot him, it was pretty damn cold to shoot her partner with her kid in the room.”

“Five years ago she was a two-bit dealer in Atlanta. Then she moved to rural Georgia and started cooking meth.” Kaden tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “Breaking Bad has made people think cookin’ is easy money.”

Roger shook his head. “We’ll catch her eventually.”

Kaden nodded. But this case involved a kid. For weeks he’d worked the streets, talking to as many of Heather’s associates as possible. The other task force members had worked their own connections. Nada. Unless Bole was traveling on a fake ID, she had to be in the area.

Or she’d been dumped at sea. Always a possibility on the coast. He wasn’t worried about Heather, but the kid, Isabella, didn’t deserve this.

Roger tapped the table. “I need updates on your other cases.”

Kaden nodded and they discussed his active cases.

As they were wrapping up, Kaden’s cell rang. He peered at the unknown number.

“Go ahead,” Roger said.

“Kaden Farrell,” he answered.

“Hi, Kaden. This is Abby Fitzgerald. Your grandfather works for my family’s B and B.”

His heart gave a loud thump. “Is everything all right?”

“Nigel fell off a ladder. We’re at Memorial Health Center in Savannah.”

“Is he all right?” He clenched his phone. His grandfather was his only family.

“He’s getting X-rays right now.” Her soft drawl did nothing to soothe the panic racing through his chest. “They suspect he broke his hip.”

Crap. Broken hip? “I’ll be right down. What hospital again?”

She repeated the name while he scribbled.

“He didn’t lose consciousness,” she said. “But I thought you would want to know.”

“Thank you. I’m leaving right now.” He hung up and filled in Roger.

“Go.” Roger waved him away. “I’ll let you know if we hear anything new.”

Kaden rushed to his apartment. He grabbed his go bag, threw in his laptop and Dopp kit, and headed out of Atlanta.

Traffic on I-75 was bumper-to-bumper. Even the left-hand lane, void of trucks, barely moved at the speed limit. He longed to go hot and let the sirens get him to his grandfather.

Nigel had saved him. Pulled him away from his useless parents and shown him he could have a normal life. A life that didn’t require moving all the time and keeping an eye out for cops or DEA agents.

The miles crawled by. He merged onto I-16, hoping traffic would ease. No luck. Container trucks filled the right-hand lane, heading to the port of Savannah. He hit the radio and tuned into CNN, then the BBC, trying to knock out the voices in his head that were warning him he might lose his last family member. Even deep breaths didn’t ease the tightness in his chest.

Clutching the steering wheel, he exited on the 516. A broken hip at his grandfather’s age could be deadly. When he got to Waters Avenue and then Lexington, he exhaled. Finally.

He scouted the full ER parking deck. His fingers drummed the steering wheel. On the second pass, a car backed out and he grabbed the spot.

Dashing to the ER receptionist desk, he said, “I’m looking for Nigel Ganders.”

The young man searched. “He was just admitted.”

Kaden followed the directions to the correct floor, stopping at the nursing station to verify his grandfather’s room number. His heart pounded as he pushed open the door. And found a roomful of strangers.

“Kaden?” Granddad waved a finger at the three redheaded women in the room. “Who called my grandson for something this piddling?”

“I did.” One of the women shook her finger back in Granddad’s face. “He’s your emergency contact. Of course I called him.”

Granddad stared at Kaden. Then he touched his heart.

Tears threatened to spill from Kaden’s eyes. It had always been their signal. When Kaden had been playing basketball or giving a speech, it had been that small gesture that let him know Granddad loved and was proud of him.

The woman with a ponytail walked over, holding out her hand. “Hi, I’m Abby Fitzgerald. I called.”

“Nice to meet you.” Kaden’s response was automatic, but he stared at his grandfather. Nigel’s gray eyes were bright and his posture straight. His full head of white hair was as tidy as if he was heading to church instead of lying injured in a hospital bed.

Granddad made introductions. The other two women were also Fitzgeralds; Bess, long hair, and Dolley, short curly hair. He’d heard enough about the sisters from his granddad that Kaden said, “I almost feel like I know you.”

“Good. You’ll be staying in Savannah, right?” Abby asked.

“Yes.” No question. Kaden would be here for his grandfather.

“Wonderful.” Abby stepped out of his way, letting him move next to the bed. “You’ll be our guest at Fitzgerald House. No charge.”

Dolley grinned at him. “I’ve put a hold on a Carleton House room.”

“That’s not necessary.” Kaden looked at Granddad.

His grandfather shrugged. “No use protesting. They always get their way.”

“He’s right.” Abby smiled and patted Kaden’s arm. “At the B and B, you’re closer to the hospital than at Nigel’s house out on Tybee Island.”

“Umm, sure.” Kaden would have slept at the hospital.

“Good. Just head over when you’re ready. Here’s the address.” Dolley handed him a business card and then frowned. “I don’t think Nigel’s ever said what you do up in Atlanta.”

He hesitated. “I followed in my grandfather’s footsteps.”

“Construction?” Bess asked.

“Yes,” he lied. Few people knew he worked for the FBI and fewer knew about the drug task force. It was necessary to keep everyone and their families safe.

After exchanging phone numbers, Abby kissed Granddad’s cheek. “I’m heading back to Fitzgerald House. Call if you need anything.”

Dolley and Bess also kissed his granddad. “You take care of yourself,” Bess whispered loud enough for Kaden to hear.

Women loved his granddad. But not as much as Kaden did.

Once they were alone, his grandfather complained, “You didn’t need to drive down from Atlanta.”

“Of course I did.” Kaden wrapped his arms around Granddad’s shoulders. His Green Irish Tweed aftershave cut through the bite of hospital bleach burning his nose. He gulped deep breaths to capture the sandalwood scent. “What did the doctors say?”

“I fractured my hip.”

“How?” Kaden took the chair, but reached for his hand.

“Painting.” He grimaced, his thick white eyebrows forming a line. “I just wanted that last little bit and stretched too far.”

“You know better than that.” Kaden squeezed his hand. “You weren’t hopping the ladder along the outside of the wall like you did the first year I lived with you, were you?”

“I gave that up twenty years ago.” Granddad closed his eyes. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m here for you.” Kaden’s heart pounded a little harder as lines of pain etched his grandfather’s face. “Did they schedule your surgery yet?”

“They’re working on it.” His grandfather gave him his infamous no-nonsense look. “I don’t want to pull you away from your job.”

His work was important, but some days it felt like he was holding up an umbrella to battle a tsunami. Drugs flooded the southeast states and innocents were getting hurt.

“I’m not leaving you alone to deal with this.” Nigel had saved him. “I’m right where I belong.”

* * *

“‘RIKKI-TIKKI HAD A right to be proud of himself—but he did not grow too proud, and he kept the garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls.’” Courtney closed the book and smiled at the circle of children at her feet.

“Read another,” Jamison called in his strong Southie accent. “With more bad cobras!”

“I can’t.” Courtney shook her head. “Our time is up.”

Actually, she’d run over the library’s reading hour. But she’d wanted to finish The Jungle Book story. “I’ll see you next week.”

As she pushed up from her small chair, Jamison wrapped his arms around her knees. “Thank you, Miss Courtney.”

“You’re welcome.” She hugged the little boy. “Thank you for paying attention.”

Two months ago, Jamison hadn’t been able to sit still for more than five minutes. Now he sat for the entire story hour. She nodded as his mother took his hand. He’d learned she wouldn’t read if he was talking or running around.

Grandmothers, sitters and older siblings gathered up the rest of the children.

“Your reading group keeps growing.” Marlene, the librarian who organized the volunteers, took the book from Courtney.

“It’s fun.” And her little secret. No one knew about her weekly visits to this Southside Boston library.

Even though the book’s language had been formal, the kids had been great. How wonderful it would be to put together words to ignite the imaginations of children. Of course, today’s books couldn’t be as lyrical as Kipling’s writings, but oh, to be able to read something that she wrote to children. How amazing.

Not that it would happen. On her drive home, she rubbed the wrinkles in her forehead. Being her parents’ pretty little ornament took most of her day. To maintain her image, it took hours of shopping, salons and working out.

As she approached the gates of the family mansion, a dark shape darted from the bushes. She jerked the steering wheel. Metal scraped stone. She slammed on her brakes and her body jammed against her seat belt. “No!”

She threw the convertible into Park, jumped out and rounded the hood. Had she hit whatever had run in front of the car? She peered under the car, but didn’t find an injured animal.

Damn. Her front bumper was toast. Not again. Father would go ballistic.

She glared. They needed to expand the front gate. This was the third time she’d turned a teeny bit too tight and wrecked her pretty car.

Driving to the portico, she stomped up the entry stairs. Marcus had the door open before she hit the top step.

“Did you have a nice afternoon of shopping?” He took the bags from her.

She always said she was going shopping, which she did. It just wasn’t the entire truth. Her parents wouldn’t see the value of her spending time in a South Boston library.

She shook her head, curls whipping across her face. “I bumped the gate.”

One white eyebrow shot up. “Again?”

“An animal jumped out from the bushes.”

“Oh, Miss. Did you hit it?”

“No.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Could you...?”

“I’ll call the repair shop.” He tipped his head. “Your father would like to speak with you.”

She frowned, then forced her face to relax. She didn’t want a permanent furrow between her eyebrows, but it was hard. Nothing was right in her world. It had been off-kilter for months. “Where is he?”

“In his study.” Marcus headed up the left stairway with her packages.

Courtney’s heels clicked on the black-and-white foyer tiles. She longed to kick off her shoes, but she wasn’t sure what Father wanted. Had she done anything that might have irritated him lately? Last month it had been how late she was coming home, as if that mattered now that she was twenty-six. The month before he’d lectured her for a half hour about gossiping at the dinner table. And in February it had been the way she treated her new sister-in-law.

I can’t help that I’m not my perfect brother.

Outside Father’s study, she straightened her shoulders and smoothed the skirt of the red Versace sheath she’d worn to lunch with Gwen. Her eyes didn’t pop as much when she wore red. Now she wished she’d bought the dress in green, too.

She’d buy the green dress tomorrow. Better yet, she’d have them deliver it to the house.

Staring into the hallway mirror, she forced a smile onto her face and arranged her black curls so they cascaded over one shoulder. She was her father’s princess, even though he hadn’t called her that in years. The blasted furrow formed between her eyebrows again. She pressed on the hideous lines and took a deep breath. Opening the door, she glided into the room.

Father didn’t look up. He pointed to a guest chair and kept typing.

She stood next to the chair. Her dress looked so much better when she stood. She examined her manicure and waited.

Still not looking up, her father ordered, “Sit.”

Courtney gritted her teeth, but obeyed, moving around the chair. She slipped into her seat just as she’d been taught in the finishing classes she’d been forced to attend during high school.

Instead of crossing her ankles, she rebelled against the voice in her head and crossed her legs. By crossing her legs, she could admire the red soles of her Louboutin heels. They were a perfect match with her dress. She sat with her back ruler-straight, remembering the way the instructor had made her balance a book on her head.

Wasn’t she her father’s perfect daughter, dressed to the height of fashion? She folded her hands in her lap, but what she really wanted to do was thread her fingers through her pearl necklace. It had been a gift for her sixteenth birthday from her father, but Mother had probably signed his name to the card.

She could wait him out. She didn’t have anything else to do.

He looked up. Inhaled and exhaled. Twice.

Uh-oh. What had she done? He couldn’t already know about her car. She chewed her thumbnail, then quickly dropped her hand to her lap and twisted her fingers together.

His gray eyes narrowed and he held up an envelope. “Do you know what this is?”

Was he kidding? “An envelope?”

“Your credit card bill.”

She nodded, feeling her eyebrows coming together again. “Okay.”

“No. Not okay.” He pulled out the wad of paper. “Five thousand dollars at a shoe store?”

Shoes? She tapped her lip with her fingernail, longing to chew on it again, but she wasn’t fifteen anymore. “There was a sale.”

“So you spent five thousand dollars?” He spread out the pages, facing her. “We talked about this two months ago.”

“About what?” Whoops. She’d forgotten about that lecture. Paying bills wasn’t her responsibility. It was her father’s.

“About wasting money. About your shopping excesses.” He pushed back a black curl that slipped across his forehead.

She’d inherited her father’s hair, but she hoped never to see the white that peppered his. He might look distinguished, but women had to hide any sign of aging.

“It was an incredible sale.” She pointed to her shoes. “No one else I know owns this pair.” Or most of the shoes she’d picked up that day.

His face turned red. “Because they aren’t spendthrifts.”

“You always tell me to look my best.” It was all he’d ever expected.

“You have a mountain of clothes.” He pointed at the bill. “Two mountains of clothes based on the money you’ve spent. You’re done.”

“Done?” What was he talking about?

“I want your credit cards.”

“What for?” She couldn’t catch her breath.

“As of today, the endless spending stops.”

“But...”

He held out his hand and she dug into her Furla wallet. He stared at each card as she handed it to him. Pulling out scissors, he said, “Cut them up.”

“But what will I do?” If she couldn’t charge meals, drinks or clothes, what else was there?

“Get a job. Make your own money.” Her father threw up his hands. “Marry one of those worthless boys you hang around with and spend their money.”

He’d never been this angry. Ever. She swallowed and took the scissors and the first card. She cut it in half. Then half again. And kept going. The handle of the scissors imprinted on the base of her thumb. It hurt, but she couldn’t complain while her father glared at her.

“You now have a five-hundred-dollar credit limit on this card.” He held it out. “I expect that to be used for gas and parking to get you to job interviews.”

This couldn’t be happening. She leaned over the divide of his desk, touching his hand. Then she smiled, the smile that used to get her father’s attention. “Daddy, just last week you told me you liked the way I dressed.”

“Because that’s all you’re good at doing. Looking pretty.” He spit the words out and flipped her hand away.

She waved at her dress and shoes. “It costs money to look like this. Ask Mother.”

“You should have enough clothes to do that for years to come.” He stood, leaning on his fists. “I mean it. It’s time you got a job.”

Her spine slumped against the back of the chair. The imaginary book balancing on her head tumbled to the floor. The furrow between her eyebrows dug deep. “A job?”

“A job.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. “I guess I could be a—a personal shopper.”

He scowled. “You’re a Smythe. I expect you to get a worthwhile job.”

“Of course, Daddy.” With her spine as straight as a ruler, she left the room.

Worthwhile job? She swallowed back tears. She was qualified to do...absolutely nothing.

* * *

COURTNEY SHOVED THE throw pillows covering her bed to the floor.

How could she get a job? Her father hadn’t let her go to the college of her choice. She’d been accepted at Yale, Gray and Father’s alma mater. But dear old dad had forced her to attend Mount Holyoke, her mother’s college.

Daddy saved all his pride for Gray. Her brother had been on the dean’s list his entire college career. The first semester of her freshman year, she’d worked hard and made the dean’s list, too, hoping her father would relent and she could transfer. But he hadn’t been impressed. It wasn’t Yale, right? In rebellion, she’d gotten an English degree with an emphasis in Renaissance literature, and hadn’t paid attention to her grades. She’d gotten to read and that was fun. Would someone pay her to recite Shakespeare soliloquies?

She flopped to the center of her canopy bed, not caring that her shoes were on her white comforter.

A job.

She’d had one job during high school. When her aunt and uncle had gone to Europe for a month, she’d taken care of her two young cousins. Their cook had still been in residence, but she’d been responsible for the children. How would Nanny look on a résumé? Two consecutive summers of working for a few weeks should wow a perspective employer.

U won’t believe what happened, she texted Gwen.

No reply. Right, Gwen was getting a facial.

She touched her cheek. How would she pay for next week’s facial?

She’d talk to Mother. Her mother would calm Father down. She couldn’t live on five hundred dollars a month. Who did that to their only daughter?

Courtney hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a credit limit. She rubbed her forehead. Although last January, Laura had complained she had to watch her spending. Courtney and Gwen had quietly stopped hanging around with her. Since she and Gwen didn’t invite Laura anywhere, her entire posse excluded her.

She sat up with a jerk. Would that happen to her? Gwen’s text ringtone, “My Best Friend,” sounded. What happened?

She couldn’t tell Gwen. She tapped her nail against her lower lip. I hit the driveway pillar again.

Again?

Yes She should be adding tears.

Club 2nite?

Her heart pounded. What was she going to do? Can’t. Family dinner.

K. 2morrow?

I’ll let you know. She would avoid everyone until this crisis had passed. Mother would fix everything.

She stripped off her sheath and stepped into her closet to hang it with the rest of her red dresses. This was her haven, her beautiful clothes. Her armor.

She placed her heels in their spot next to the rest of the pairs that had caused this firestorm. She stroked her gorgeous new Manolo Blahnik boots. Okay, they hadn’t been on sale. Actually none of the shoes had been on sale, but it seemed like a reasonable excuse when she’d blurted it out.

Her fingers tapped her bare thigh. What could she wear that would make her look fragile and innocent? She twirled in a slow circle. Audrey Hepburn. White sleeveless blouse. Skinny black capris and black ballerina flats. She’d pull her hair up. Emphasize her eyes. She wasn’t as thin as the actress, but she was willowy. Who could punish Audrey Hepburn?