Mountain Blizzard Read online

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “That’s the idea.” But he loosened his hold. If he hoped to get any useful information from this moron, he needed to get him talking, answering simple questions. “Have you got a first name?”

  “I don’t have to tell you.”

  Sean cranked up the pressure on his arm. “I like to know who I’m talking to.”

  “They call me Bulldog.”

  Sean could see the resemblance in the droopy eyes and jowls. “Do you know Morelli?”

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  “Do you have a partner?”

  “I work alone.”

  Bulldog hesitated just long enough for Sean to doubt him. He twisted the arm. “Your partner, is he waiting in the car?”

  “I’m alone, damn you.”

  Sean decided to take advantage of this moment of cooperation. “You were told to be on the lookout for Ms. Peterson, is that right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let go of my arm.”

  Sean wanted to know if Bulldog was responding to an alert that might have come from Levine or if he’d seen them sneak through her secret entrance. “Why did you come into the apartment?”

  “I saw you.”

  “Outside?”

  “No,” Bulldog said. “There are two cameras in here.”

  Surely someone else was watching, and Bulldog would have reinforcements in a matter of minutes. They needed to get the hell out of there.

  Sean should have guessed. Dylan would have figured out the camera surveillance and also would have known how to disarm the electronics. But Dylan wasn’t here. Sean needed to step up his game.

  “They told you to look for her,” Sean said. “When you found her, what were you supposed to do?”

  “Not supposed to kill her. Just to grab her, bring her to Morelli or to Wynter.”

  “What do they want from her?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Sean thought back to his conversation with Morelli, who had also denied that he meant to hurt Emily. Morelli wanted information about a theft. Why did these guys think she knew something about treachery among smugglers?

  Using cord from the blinds, he tied Bulldog’s wrists and ankles. He could have called the FBI, but he didn’t trust Levine. And they couldn’t wait around for the cops; Bulldog’s backup would get here first. When he pulled Emily out the door, he was surprised to see that she was dragging an extra-large suitcase.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I just grabbed clothes and shoes.”

  Behind the building, she struggled to push the suitcase through the grass. He took it from her and zipped across the backyards to the sidewalk to their rental car.

  Using every evasive driving technique he’d been taught and some he’d invented himself, he maneuvered the rental car through the neighborhoods, up and down the hills of San Francisco on their way back to the Pendragon. Sean was good at getting rid of anyone who might be following. Sometimes he pretended he was being tailed just for the practice.

  He seemed to be dusting off many of the skills he’d learned at Quantico and in the field. The martial arts techniques he’d used to take down Bulldog came naturally. And he had a natural talent for interrogation.

  Still, he didn’t have the answer to several questions: Why did Wynter’s men think Emily knew who was stealing from them? Were they being robbed? Was it a rival gang?

  It was clear to him that he and Emily needed a different approach to their situation. A strong defense was the first priority, protecting her from thugs like Bulldog who wanted to hurt her. But they also ought to develop an offensive effort, tracking down the details of the crime. He couldn’t help thinking that Patrone’s murder was somehow connected to the smuggling.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. Her rage had begun to abate, but her color was still high and her eyes flashed like angry beacons. “Why did they tear my home apart? What were they looking for?”

  “Evidence,” he said. “The research and interviews that went into your articles about Wynter must have hit too close to home. Morelli said he wanted information from you.”

  “What does that have to do with my personal belongings?”

  “Flash drives,” he said.

  “What about them?”

  Her outrage about having her apartment wrecked and her things violated seemed to be clouding her brain function. “Think about it,” he said. “You’d store evidence on a flash drive, right?”

  “And they were searching for those.” She did an eye roll that made her look like a teenager. “As if I’m that stupid? I’d never leave valuable info lying around.”

  She leaned back against the passenger seat and cast a dark, moody gaze through the windshield. He doubted that she even noticed that they were driving along the Embarcadero where they used to go jogging past the Ferry Building clock tower. They’d stop by the fat palm trees out in front and kiss. She’d have her long hair tamed in braids and would be dressed in layers of many colors with tights and socks and shorts and sweats. He’d called her Raggedy Ann.

  Long ago, when they’d been falling in love, the scenery had felt more beautiful. The Bay Bridge spanning to Yerba Buena Island seemed majestic. He came to think of that bridge as the gateway separating him from her apartment in Oakland. When he drove across, he’d tried to leave his FBI undercover identity behind.

  After swinging through a few more illogical turns, he doubled back toward Ghirardelli Square. “Do you want to stop for chocolate?”

  “No,” she said glumly. “Wait a minute. Yes, I want to stop.” She threw her hands up. “I don’t know.”

  “Still upset,” he said. “You were pretty mad back at your apartment.”

  “I was.”

  “It showed in the way you threw that picture at Bulldog. For a minute, I thought I’d need to protect him from you.”

  She chuckled, but her amusement faded fast. Her tone was completely serious as she said, “I need to be able to protect myself.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, but I’d rather not give you a firearm.”

  “Why not?” She immediately took offense. “I know how to handle a gun.”

  “Too well,” he said. “I’d rather not leave a trail of dead bodies in our wake like a Quentin Tarantino film. I think you should have a stun gun.”

  “Yes, please.”

  At the hotel, he used the parking structure to hide their vehicle. In their suite, he ran another sweep for bugs and found nothing alarming. He might be overcautious, but it was better to be too safe than to be too sorry.

  He sank down on the sofa. “I wish I’d caught the mini-cameras at your apartment. As soon as we walked in the door and saw the place ransacked, I should have known. Electronics are an easier way to do surveillance than a stakeout.”

  “No harm done.” She flopped down beside him, stretched out her legs and propped her heels against the coffee table.

  “Now they know what we look like. You heard what Bulldog said. He must have been working off an old photo of you, didn’t even know you’d cut your hair.”

  “And they have a video of you.” She smiled up at him. “Not that it matters. They already had photos of you from our wedding pictures.”

  “You don’t keep those lying around, do you?”

  “The picture I threw was from our wedding. We were outside my parents’ house by the Russian olive tree.”

  He was surprised that she’d had their photo matted and framed and hanging on the wall. He’d stuffed his copies of their wedding photos into the bottom of a drawer. He didn’t want to be reminded of how happy they’d been. “Why did you keep it?”

  “Sentimental reasons,” she said. “I like to remember the good stuff, like when you kissed me i
n the middle of the ceremony, even though you weren’t supposed to.”

  “Couldn’t help it,” he mumbled. “You were too beautiful.”

  “What woman doesn’t want a memento of the sweetest, loveliest day of her life?”

  “I guess men see things differently.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer until she was leaning against him.

  “How different?”

  “If it’s over, move on,” he said. “Better to forget when you’ve lost that loving feeling and it’s gone, gone, gone. Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

  Her chin tilted upward. The shimmer in her lovely eyes was just like their wedding when he couldn’t hold back. Sean had to kiss her. He had to taste those warm pink lips and feel the silky softness of her hair as the strands sifted through his fingers.

  When he brought her back to the Pendragon, he hadn’t planned to sweep her off her feet and into the bedroom, but he couldn’t help himself. And she didn’t appear to be objecting.

  After the kiss subsided, her arms twined around his neck. She burrowed against his chest, and she purred like a feminine, feline motorboat. He rose from the sofa, lifting her, and carried her toward the bed with covers still askew after last night’s tryst.

  The other bed had barely been touched. The geometrically patterned spread in shades of black, white and gray was tucked under the pillows. He placed her on that bed. Her curvy body made an interesting artistic contrast with the sleek design. He could have studied her for hours in many different poses.

  But she wouldn’t hold still for that. “Don’t we have a lot of other things to do?”

  He stretched out beside her. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “You haven’t forgotten the murder, have you? And our investigation?”

  The only detective work he wanted to do was finding out whether she preferred kisses on her neck or love bites on her earlobe. He pinned her on the bed with his leg straddling her lower body and his arm reaching across to hold her wrist. Taking his time, he kissed her thoroughly and deeply.

  When he gazed once again into her eyes, her pupils were unfocused. The corners of her mouth lifted in a contented smile. But she didn’t offer words of encouragement.

  “This is not surrender,” she said.

  “We’re not at war. We both want the same thing.”

  “Later,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  “Don’t say ground rules.”

  He stole a quick kiss and sprang off the bed. It took a ton of willpower to walk away from her when he so desperately wanted to fall at her knees and beg for her attention. But he managed to reach the kitchenette, where he filled a glass with water and helped himself to an apple from the complimentary fruit basket on the counter.

  He was ready to get this crime solved. As soon as he did, she’d promised to give him what he wanted. That was an effective motivation.

  She appeared in the archway between the living room and bedroom. “We should start in Chinatown. And don’t forget that I want to talk to Jerome Strauss.”

  They could launch themselves onto the city streets, trying not to be spotted by Wynter’s men and hoping they’d stumble over the truth. Or they could take a few minutes to reflect and create a plan. He could use the skills he’d learned at Quantico.

  “It’ll save time,” he said, “if we build profiles. That way, we’ll know what we’re looking for.”

  “Profiles? Like you used to do in the FBI?”

  “That’s right.”

  She’d always hated his work, and he braced for a storm of hostility. Instead of sneering, she beamed. “Let me get my computer. I want to take notes.”

  Her reaction was uncharacteristic. He’d expected her to object, to tell him that the feds didn’t know how to do anything but lie convincingly. Instead, she hopped onto a stool and set up her laptop on the counter separating the kitchenette from the living room.

  When she was plugged in and turned on, she looked up at him. “Go ahead,” she said brightly. “I’m ready.”

  Who are you, and what have you done with my cranky, know-it-all ex-wife? The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better than to blurt them out.

  She hated the FBI. While they were married, she’d told him dozens of times that he shouldn’t be putting himself in danger, shouldn’t be assuming undercover identities and lying to people, shouldn’t be taking orders from the heartless feds. On one particularly dismal occasion, she’d told him to choose between her and his work. She would have easily won that contest, but he didn’t want her to think she could make demands like that.

  Her opinion had changed. And he was glad. “We need two profiles,” he said, “one for the victim, Roger Patrone, and another for the person or persons who are stealing from Wynter.”

  “Frankie Wynter killed Patrone,” she said. “What will we learn from the victim’s profile?”

  “We know who killed Patrone, but we don’t know why. Was Frankie acting alone? Following orders from his father? It could be useful to have the victimology.”

  “One of the last things Patrone said before he was shot was ‘I want to see the kids.’ Is that important?”

  He nodded. “Who are the kids, and why is he looking for them? It’s all important.”

  While she talked, her fingers danced across the keyboard. “You mentioned profiling the person or persons who might be stealing from Wynter. Why?”

  “Once we’ve identified them, we can use that information as leverage with Morelli and Wynter.”

  “Got it,” she said. “Leverage.”

  He enjoyed the give-and-take between them. “Solving the crime against the criminals gives us something else to pass on to the FBI.”

  “If this all works out, we could put Wynter out of business and the person or persons who are stealing from him. We could take down two big, bad birds with one investigation.” She hesitated. “It’s funny, isn’t it? When I look at it this way, I’m not really in danger.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “If I tell Wynter’s men what they want to know, they’ll owe me a favor. At the very least, they’ll call off the chase.”

  Her starry-eyed, poetic attitude had returned full force. Sean knew this version of Emily; he’d married her. He remembered how she’d tell him—with a completely straight face—that all people were essentially good. She was sweet, innocent and completely misguided.

  He gently stroked her cheek. “I guess it’s safe to say that investigative reporting hasn’t tarnished your sunny outlook.”

  “But it has,” she said. “I’m aware of a dark side. Wynter and his crew have committed heinous crimes. They’re terrible people.”

  “Not people you can trust,” he pointed out.

  “Oh.”

  “And what do you think these heinous people will do when they find out what you know? They’ll have no further use for Emily Peterson.”

  “And they’ll let me go,” she said hopefully.

  “They’ll kill you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Perched on a high stool, Emily folded her arms on the countertop that separated the kitchenette from the living room. She rested her forehead on her arms and stared down her nose at the flecks of silver in the polished black marble surface. She tried to sort through the options. Every logical path led to the same place: her death. There had to be another way. But what? According to Sean, Wynter’s men would consider her expendable after she named the person who was stealing from them, which was information she didn’t have.

  “If I ever figure out who’s messing with Wynter,” she said, “I can’t tell.”

  “True,” Sean said. “But we’ve got to pretend that you know, starting now.”

  Crazy complicated! “Why?”

  “Information is p
ower. Wynter won’t hurt us as long as we have something he wants, either intelligence or, better yet, evidence.”

  “But I don’t,” she said.

  “It’s okay, as long as he doesn’t know that you don’t know what he wants to know.”

  Groaning, she lifted her head and rubbed her forehead as though she could erase the confusion. “I don’t get it.”

  “Think of a poker game,” he said. “I know you’re familiar with five-card stud because I vividly remember the night you hustled me and three other FBI agents.”

  She remembered, too. “I won fifty-two dollars and forty-five cents.”

  “Cute,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Anyway, when it comes to Wynter and the info he wants, we’re playing a bluff...until we have the whole thing figured out.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “We pull in the feds, and you go into protective custody.”

  “Or to Paris,” she said. That was another solution. Why not? They could forget the whole damn thing and soar off into the sunset. “We could have a nice, long trip. Just you and me.”

  He still hadn’t shaved off his stubble, and his black hair was tousled. He looked rather rakish, like a pirate. She wouldn’t mind being looted and plundered by Sean. It wouldn’t be like they were married or anything...just a fling.

  “Havana,” he said, “the trade winds, the tropical heat, the waves lapping against the seawall.”

  “Let’s go right now. I could do articles about Cuba and see Hemingway’s house. We’d lie in the sun and sip mojitos.”

  But she knew it wasn’t possible to toss aside her responsibilities. She needed to take care of the threat from Wynter before he went after her family. Or her friends, she thought of the explosion at BP Reporter. She’d tried to call Jerome Strauss, but he didn’t answer and she really couldn’t leave a text or a number that could be backtracked to her.

  “It might take a long time to neutralize the threat,” he said. “What if it’s never safe for you in San Francisco?”