Deadly Alliance (2 page)

She shook her head. “Never used it this way. It’s handy when hiking She looked at her pocket knife, folded and stuffed it in her pocket. Her eyes blinked in frenzy in spite of her bravery.

Fifteen minutes later, with the injured cops heading to Bear Valley Hospital and three unfriendlies loaded into the sheriff’s prisoner-transport vehicle, Burlie signed a complaint and then gushed over Finn and Amy. “You’re good people.” After saying it several times, he asked Finn to serve as his third-party witness and then turned to Amy. “My Lord, Amy. You came to my side. Thank you.”

When Burlie handed her a gift card, she accepted it with a smile. “I saw a lot. If you need a second witness, I can run through all of it.”

“If you’re willing, yes.” His voice was tight.

She offered him a reassuring smile. “Of course, Burlie. The idea of mobsters coming in and offering protection? This makes me mad.”

Sheriff Byron McGill stood in the center of their ring. “The Irish mob has their fingers in rentals, not to mention the Harp Hotel. Burlie, I’m glad you’ll stand up.”

Finn said, “This is new, Byron. I heard them talking. Mexicans and Arabs are partnering up.”

McGill said, “This odd blend exploded in Chicago.”

“They exist for mutual, financial benefit. Together, they’re pushing the Irish.” Finn placed a hand on Burlie’s shoulder.

The older man sighed, dragged his palms down his face. “I was damn scared.”

“An Irish mobster visited the Arrowbear Café earlier. The owner didn’t want to report it.” Amy sucked in a hard breath and turned to go.

Adrenaline spiraled through Finn’s system, leaving him jittery and pumped to high-alert; this was gangland in his backyard, not Iraq. He turned to the sheriff. “What’s your strategy, McGill?”

“We’ll pull out the stops.” McGill raised a brow. “Keep me posted, will you? We’ll arrest these motherfuckers when they come within yards of your business.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Burlie was not convinced. “If you harass them, they lash out on us.”

“Take the initiative. We’ll combat this together.” Sheriff McGill headed out.

Finn handed Burlie a twenty.

The owner put up his hands, refusing his money. “Finn Donahue. Investment guy. I never pegged you for a force of nature.”

He patted Burlie’s shoulder. “The situation required it.”

“If heaven is the way I saw it tonight,” Burlie said, “count me in. Again, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Finn went outside and caught up with Amy on the other side of the street.

Her gaze dipped to where his fingers wrapped around her elbow then bounced up. “Our species is flawed.”

“Sometimes. Can I drive you home?”

“No, I’m taking that taxi.” She blinked her eyes several times before a hearty attitude clicked into place.

He whistled for the cab.

“That cab isn’t going to drive itself. I’ve got the keys.” She held them high and jingled them.

As she hurried away, he tracked her khaki jacket as she scurried along rows of cars to the taxi. After her car door shut, he headed toward his office where a long night awaited him.

A car revved behind him. At the sound of a double beep, he turned and waved at Amy’s taxi.

* * *

Except for the full moon illuminating his corner office, Finn’s desk lamp was his only light. He tightened his fingers over the mouse as he reviewed month-end accounts receivables.

He fully expected this cruel ritual. When zeroing in on his company’s bank balance, cut by an eighth, a twinge shot up his back.

Another hour and then another passed as he hunched over his computer. With the air circulation turned off, now and then he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. His arms crossed on the desk, he cradled his head over them and feared the day when his shareholders learned of the missing cash.

The horror was in the continuity, the ongoing insomnia, the gastric upset. Making up the difference wouldn’t matter. He’d be powerless to pacify his clients. Looking at the oblivious blue monitor, he placed a hand over his frantic chest. He had to do something fast.

At times like this, his stint as an Army Ranger after 9/11 felt simplistic. He executed diverse operations against enemies of terrorism. He looked through a sight. The red dot locked on the target, and he fired.

Now he faced a catastrophe, soon to ruin his business and reputation. He refused to let it turn him from an honest man into a renegade. He upheld honor, valor, and duty to uncover truth.

Yesterday, he did a bit of digging and phoned every client. Using the excuse of personally monitor portfolios, he gave them a friendly heads-up to discuss their investments and their bill. Nothing was amiss.

Every month, after documenting his audit trail of loss, he brought a copy to the sheriff, his routine for three damn years. He blinked his tired eyes, dry from staring at the pixel-glare. The clock at the bottom of his screen read 3:00 a.m. As he stewed in righteous indignation, he reopened his bank account summary.

Numb in his autopilot state, having eliminated every possible business routine, he focused on software.

Never a gracious loser, he prayed for adrenaline to fuel him. Leaning close, he scrolled slowly through the deposit number column. It had to be here, a seamless overlay like a cancer. Someone knew what they were doing, and he shuddered at the timing.

The cesspit began after Lester Kelly was shot in a random drive-by. His partner wasn’t granted a quick, merciful death. Les lingered in a brainless state, cared for by Amy until his body gave up months before. It was illogical to pin this robbery on a dead man, but what about her? Finn gazed at the pile of applicants for the open bookkeeping job.

His staff accountant, Brad Rosenberg, after interviewing contenders, placed Amy’s application on top with a note. Amy worked as a sportswear designer, was employed as a taxi driver, but knew advanced features of Excel.

His jaw was tight enough to crack walnuts. A second later his mind skidded on Amy’s effort to help Burlie, solidifying her as a do-gooder. For three years, the bleeding heart cared for her ex-boyfriend. Again, why? They were no longer together. She volunteered with Bayliss McGill, the sheriff’s wife, to help foster kids. The two hikers, Amy and Bayliss, even picked up trash. Hell, she used to sit by his lonely dad at office holiday parties.

His nerve endings tingled with suspicion. Amy had taken her place alongside Les. More than once Finn caught him displaying questionable conduct, but Les was no cyber-genius. Only a seasoned hacker modified deposit codes.

Finn logged off, but his computer was impervious to powering down. A small circle turned in the center of the screen. A background program awakened. He inhaled deeply and jockeyed the mouse to access the computer server housing maintenance software.

He selected “Payment Processing” and scanned lines of source code crawling down the screen. Although Finn wasn’t a programmer, he knew the rules, patterns, and data names of C++. He held his breath as he hunted for parasite code surrounding the deposit label. An hour passed, and he found nothing buried in the multitude of Assembler code. Finn swallowed hard and snapped off the light.

Tomorrow he’d put on his game face, dress the part, issue orders, and sound like an executive. With his elbow on his desk, he propped his forehead in his hand. As he prayed for a miraculous breakthrough, he shut his eyes. Amy appeared to keep her life orderly and spotless. Was Les’ former girlfriend a random applicant did she have the
potential to destroy his business even further?

Chapter Two

There she was on a Friday morning in October in Lake Arrowhead heading for her third interview with Finn. Amy doubted he would hire her. Not if he knew what she’d discovered last night. Les or someone close to him had lodged a dirty secret inside her folder for shorts patterns.

Clenching the dratted envelope, she wasn’t the hopeful person she was yesterday when she stumbled through Arrowhead Cafe’s open door. Her achy toe twinged in pain, minor compared to the growing pulse across her forehead. As she whiffed rich, oily coffee, her stomach protested. She eased her way through bodies. Like everywhere in their lake community on a Friday, the restaurant crawled with out-of-towners.

Finn had chosen a secluded table here, instead of where she’d be working if he hired her. These people were strangers compared to office acquaintances, whom she knew because of Les, with an urge to snoop. Sinking into the same spot where she’d met Finn’s head accountant on Monday and Wednesday, a burn of anxiety made its way up her esophagus. She glanced at her phone’s home screen. No messages. He was late, and she listened for the rumble of his kickass Harley.

Heard it roar. He hadn’t forgotten their appointment.

A wave swelled through the crowd with heads turning and looking past where she huddled. Amy leaned around a pillar to spot the source of the commotion. Finn, all six-and-a-half feet of him, wore a black, tailor-fitted leather jacket and black-as-death, Kevlar pants. Sexy, yes, but she wasn’t here for a date. If and when the time was right, she’d pick an average-looking guy. Knowing how good looks fizzled made her immune.

With his helmet tucked under an elbow, Finn shifted between onlookers. The patrons tracked his rolling stride toward her.

She pulled back, instinct driving her to shield herself with the wide packet. It slipped from her hands and thumped to the floor. As she seized it, her peripheral vision caught his harsh, chiseled chin.

His intense, blue eyes stripped her of her talent for blending in. Exposed for who she was, guilty by association, he captured her distress. “You’re on the sunny side of prompt.” His ruthless face softened. “In spite of last night,” the tough guy added with more warmth in his tone.

Drat, she wasn’t immune, but she did have common sense. “I’m on time. No matter what.” Desperate for oxygen, she took a deep, slow breath and tried to release the hard grip she had on the thick envelope.

He studied her face. “What’s with the white knuckles?”

The manila envelope throbbed in her hands, begging her to come clean. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” He chuckled and waved off the idea. His manly cologne drifted her way, but she didn’t allow it to be intoxicating

The waitress, believing he’d signaled her, breezed over. “I know your order from before.” She set down lattes, a few sugar packets, and bagels, free on Fridays.

After handing the waitress a twenty, Finn slid a bite of bagel between his lips and followed it with a sip. He looked the same except for the furrowing of his brow. “When I glanced over your qualifications, I acted on impulse.”

“I acted as my own bookkeeper. Used Excel.”

“Before you became a taxi driver.”

“Well, you used to be an Army Ranger.” She sipped and coughed from the stupid thing she said. As she dug her fingernails into the envelope, packed with incrimination, she leaned toward the grave she was digging. “I found something of Lester’s.”

“I don’t collect keepsakes.” Tapping his steel-toed boot, the big guy eyed her as if he found the Les topic troubling.

Her hands were shaking. Never good at retorts, she came up dry.

He gazed at the earth-toned ceiling. “Okay, fine. Show me in an hour?”

Out of politeness, she finished her pumpkin spice latte, purchased and not to be wasted.

In a rush he downed his last drop and withdrew the mug from his lips. “You’ll start this morning?”

It sounded like a question, but she knew it was a command. She threw him a tight smile. “Yes, thank you. I’ll balance-sheet ten clients by end of day.”

“That does it, you’re hired.” He pulled out his cell. “Brooke. Our new bookkeeper is on her way. You know Amy. Get her going on paperwork?” Another command. On the adjacent table, littered with unopened sugar packets, he stuffed two into his pocket.

“Take mine.” She pushed hers toward him.

“You think I’m a sugar junkie?” He smiled. “Need to make a delivery. Someone ran out.” He had the hot-CEO thing going. His lashes lowered, taking on a slumberous expression that set her heart to pounding.

As she stood, she took note of his quirky combo of a love-em-and-leave-em reputation and friend. Lester’s former partner extended his hand. Amy returned his all-business handshake. For a few seconds while going through the doorway with his hand low on her back, her near-dead libido hummed.

He said, “Get going on the paperwork. Catch you later at the office?”

“Later, Finn,” she echoed and quickened her edgy pace toward his corporate headquarters. Not having told him drove her restlessness up a notch. With each step she took, she weaved various scenarios. If she didn’t tell him, the facts would come out, pellet her like hail, and she’d beg back her job behind the wheel of a taxi. She settled on sharing the envelope’s contents ASAP.

Shivering in spite of traitorous low-down embers, she pulled her blazer tighter. How should she say it? Hurrying toward The Bow, the three-story corporate showplace, she decided to say nothing and let the envelope speak for itself. Rain and lightning swept away dreams, but honesty prevented a mudslide of self-respect.

Finbar Donahue. Brown, longish hair with a hint of gray interspersed, blue eyes with lines from smiling, muscle-defined arms, and broad shoulders, the bachelor had won a Congressional Medal of Honor for selflessness. How alike were Finn and Les?

Mid-stride, she stopped. The partnership between Les and Finn had not been smooth. During Finn’s single visit to their condo, he sipped a Jack Daniels at Les’ bedside. Three years passed without a return visit. Finn did not hide Les’ double-dealings in her sewing room file.

Between buildings, she spotted white caps on the lake, illuminated by a mix of sun and clouds. Stopping for a moment to find peace, she listened to the watery chug of a fisherman’s trawler. Screeching gulls dive-bombed their morning catch, and she breathed in the fragrance of moss and smoking wood.

Her phone vibrated. Digging it out, she read the ID she’d set to Hiker Nag. “Hi there, Bayliss.”

“Remember about tomorrow? You’re leading us. It’s my job to remind you.

“I anticipated your call. I’ll be there. She chuckled at the obsessive nature of the Arrowbear Hiker.

“You survived the brawl at Burlie’s, I heard.” Bayliss, married to the sheriff, knew about a crime before it hit the news. “I thought you only used the knife tool for cutting twigs for kindling.” She chuckled.

“The corkscrew came in handy.”

“You’ve got two stinking weeks before your presentation, right?” Bayliss asked, clued into her daily happenings.

“Yeah. Kira Radner. Called me. It means everything.”

“I bet you’re smiling,” Bayliss said.

“Smiling to the point of crying.”

“Finn had better hire you,” Bayliss said. “You won’t get anywhere driving a taxi. Scratch that, you know what I mean.”

“If you can’t text while driving, you sure as heck can’t stitch.”

“Ha! Did you resign from Mountain Cabs?”

“Yes, and last night I returned the taxi.”

“Good luck,” Bayliss said.

“I’ll know by the end of today,” she said, not explaining the threatening discovery and how she might start actively hating Finn for not hiring her.

“See you tomorrow..” Bayliss clicked off.

As Amy closed in on The Bow, people filed into the birdcage glass elevator. She rushed for it and settled in for the windowed ride to the third floor.

Her heart squeezed at the mountain-lake panorama with golden oaks, red-orange maples, and evergreens reflecting over blue water. Within the planned community of the “Alps of Southern California”, every property enjoyed a mountain-lake vista. Consistency ruled, courtesy of the architectural committee’s regulation of three stories max. Roofs were rust-colored tile. Timber was stained walnut, and stucco was as warm as honey butter within the synchro-bubble.

Scrunched against the glass, people exited on the second floor as they conveyed wishes for a Happy Friday. Now with breathing room, she gazed down onto Main Street’s business district. Villagers were setting up tables for the Oktoberfest, the classic wooden boat show, the Art and Wine Festival, and the Chamber of Commerce’ Fall Tour of Homes, —all reminders to get out there and live, but the sky threatened rain.

The elevator jolted to a stop where Finn’s company, Edward Smithson, Inc., took over the entire third floor. With an unobstructed view of Lake Arrowhead, grandeur slammed her. Chill bumps rose on her skin. She felt cold, so very cold and out of place.

A moment later she greeted Brooke, a swanky Smithson fixture, who handed her a new employee clipboard. “Congratulations, Mrs. Kelly,” the redhead said. Addressing her as Mrs. Kelly indicated she wasn’t an insider.

“Les and I dated a very long time, Brooke.” Amy watched the receptionist tilt her head and twist her glossy lips. “We weren’t married actually.”

“But, you took care of him.”

“I did. After the shooting.”

The awkward moment passed. Amy slid onto a chair with the new hire forms, and her hand shook. Would she be fired on the first day? Amy fidgeted with her aquamarine earring as she signed the W-2 and insurance forms as Amy Isla Kintyre.

With nothing better to do, she pulled out her cell and accessed the accounting application, Mint. She punched in numbers, entering the bookkeeping monthly salary into the software, twice that of a taxi driver. She gazed at the thick envelope on her lap. Her breath hitched, and she was pretty sure her heart stopped.

* * *

Keeping his movements steady, the motorcycle responded to Finn’s shifting weight. Protective gear snugged around him, repelling a wind-fueled shower. Through the visor of his full-faced helmet, the world flowed past in water-shattered reflections of passing cars. Unlike the bike, Finn’s mind moved in broad sweeps, responding well to a new direction. Thanks to Amy Kintyre, he coasted away from blind alleys and headed along a fresh curve.

Finn rolled through an intersection, past Arrowhead Pizza where white, wrought-iron tables dotted the patio. A flock of starlings took shelter under orange umbrellas. After traveling another klick, he pulled onto a blacktop drive under an arched sign for Straight Arrow Ranch, his dad’s assisted-living complex.

Constructed mid-century, the fully-restored cabins enjoyed a new heyday. With branches resting on roofs, lodge pines hovered with maples and oaks alongside the log structures. Upscale wicker furniture graced front porches. Finn whiffed the succulent combination of ham and cornbread. The clubhouse’s home-cooked meals were catered.

Lately, Papa, more childish, enjoyed playing tricks on the lady next door. One of these days Mick Donahue would wind toilet paper around the front porch of uppity Dolly Pugh and her disobedient cocker spaniel, Sweet Pea.

A pine-scented gust lifted damp oak leaves as Finn kicked his way through a golden carpet to Papa’s cabin. With all the fees he paid, why didn’t the dining room at least have extra sugar? As he passed old, wooden wagons and a rose garden, he took his last step from his bike and freedom. He glanced at his Rolex but willed himself not to feel time pressure. Overdue for a visit, he fisted the sugar packets and skipped up porch steps.

With his own key he unlocked the front door. “Hey, Papa.” Inside the cabin reeked of medical-grade air freshener and Lysol spray left by the cleaning crew. “A-a-achoo!” Finn sneezed, unable to hold it back.

“Bless you, Finbar,” commented a gravelly-voice. With the push of his foot, Papa turned his La-Z-Boy and faced him. His sideburns, as shaggy as white caterpillars, were due for a trim from Mobile Barber. Once tall and robust, Mick was smaller now.

“Good to see you, Papa.” Finn’s hand connected with the shoulder of his dad’s tweed jacket. As he leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, he heard deep wheezing. Looking downward to see the ten-pound aluminum cylinder of oxygen, he said, “I see they gave you longer tubing.”

“Tethered, I can go fifty feet. Kind of like being henpecked, but not stomped on.” He let out a hacking guffaw.

Just out of diapers when Finn’s mom had stomped out, time elapsed between sad thoughts and floods of tears from mommy-rejection. His eyes, like replenishing water tanks, had kept his face red and raw. Abandoned at three-years old, he turned into a cold-storage locker. He and Papa recovered from the painful blow, but Finn developed a reply-all distrust of women.

His mother, Fiona, hitched herself to an Irish mob boss, Aidan Rourke, pregnant with his child. To this day, except for one-nighters, Finn sidestepped affairs of the heart. A woman trying to get close pulled him down. His body buckled under the weight of emotional intimacy. Its gravity sucked the life out of a sexual encounter, and desire slid into sludge.

“Finbar, you’re not tracking.” Papa noticed his blank expression.