Deadly Alliance (6 page)

“All the more reason I want this case.” Guhleman sat back in his chair, establishing himself as pack leader.

McGill chased his last bite with coffee. “Want to know about the second phase? The laundered funds flow into the Danske Bank on O’Connell Street in Dublin.”

“The parent bank is headquartered in Copenhagen,” Finn said. “Danske took over the former National Irish Bank. Has to be Irish Mafia money.” He looked over the agent’s shoulder and noticed the Danske Bank logo on his computer.

Guhleman was punching in information. “It’s Aidan Rourke’s account. Ah, we’ve got ourselves a money trail. How the mighty fall.”

“And fall hard,” Finn said. “Takbir will meet them at the bank.”

Guhleman said, “Before that, they’ll take hostages. Who’s first in line?”

McGill said, “Rourke’s family. His wife. Unless she’s disposable. Daughter, sons, niece.”

Guhleman said, “What about the witness?”

McGill swept his gaze in Finn’s direction.

“Amy’s with me.” Finn pictured her face when her purse was taken. Fear for her safety deepened. Some things you can control. A lot can go wrong. Even a top-of-the-line security system fails with an electricity outage
.

“One thing for sure,” Guhleman said. “With Takbir, nothing is static. The way they make money evolves and then falls apart. This is their newest method.”

The skies of the future darkened, bombarded him. The black club of ISIS struck him, loosening his hold on objectivity. It stung his temper, made him feel driven and hardened. It cracked his hard shell of control and allowed toxic anger to seep in. He’d strike back, outwit and outmaneuver them.
Let it be me.

McGill stood up. “Excuse me for a moment. Nature calls.” The sheriff left for the men’s room.

Lines around Guhleman’s eyes tightened. “We’ll shove this back. Give Takbir a little surprise.”

A muscle tingled in Finn’s jaw. “Sounds good.”

Guhleman reached into his pocket and produced keys. “Before I leave, phone this number.” The agent handed him a business card. “Emergencies only.”

“Okay.” Finn dialed Guhleman.

Guhleman answered and saved Finn’s number. “I’m driving over to the Harp Hotel.”

“I’ll let McGill know.” Gazing out the window, Finn spotted a parked, red Audi. Hoping no one would barge in and interrupt, he sucked in an impatient breath. When the car drove away, he exhaled. He gazed at the sheriff’s credenza where a gigantic, fiberglass trout was immobilized in a leap from a puddle of blue, fiberglass water. Fine work of a taxidermist. He marveled at the task of making something dead look alive. He thought of Les. Are you alive or dead? His training as a ranger told him not to jump to conclusions.

Next to the life-like trout, a stack of flyers advertised, Catch Some Fun on Trout Days. Finn grabbed one and took note of the date. Three weeks from now, if things settled down, he’d get Papa Mick out on a pontoon with his oxygen tank.

With a minute to spare, Finn phoned his dad. “Papa. Don’t suppose you’ve had time to contact the Kelly couple.”

“Matter of fact, I did. I asked Rose Kelly about Liam.” His voice broke with a cough.

“What did his mother say?” Finn trusted the Kellys on the level of hungry rodents who ate their young.

“Before Les was shot, he paid in advance for Liam’s care.” His tone was apologetic. “Rose said, ‘Pre-mortem, Les took over the Liam project.’”

“The Liam project? Cold, bastard, cheapskates.” Finn planned to probe further.

“Bastards,” Papa said. “Rose and Dean were glad when Liam was off their hands.”

Finn said, “They don’t visit, don’t know where he is.”

“Don’t care enough to know,” Papa said. “Anyway, I told her you and I planned to drop by.”

“What was her response?” Finn asked.

“She said, ‘Anytime, just call first. We’re at the same address.’”

“Let’s drive down tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be ready,” Papa said, “I googled their address. Their house is a tear-down-rebuild.”

Finn detected censure in his dad’s tone and asked, “Who funded the bill for that project?”

“Peter Pan?” Papa took a raspy breath. “Wait, he’s in Never-never-land.”

For the next several minutes they talked about trout fishing. “I’ll rent a pontoon,” Finn said.

“Can I bring Dolly? She wants to get out on the lake.”

“Sure, Papa. Sweet Pea, too.”

“You should invite Amy.” Papa was taking charge. “Let’s double date. All four of us can go fishing. Watch the sunset. Nothing like a fall evening.”

Didn’t look like he had a choice.

“Still there, Finn?”

“You win. I’ll ask Amy. She has a map of the ridge. She wants you to look at it.”

“I can tell her more about the ridge than a map can, son. You rarely come across anyone up there.”

Finn said, “Off the beaten path, huh? Guess that’s the point of a map.”

“Amy has interests. Outside of her, I mean. She’s different than most women you’ve dated.” Papa started coughing and had to hang up. His COPD was chronic, but cool, fresh air on the lake cleared his lungs.

Finn pondered the Kelly twins. One evil and the other disabled to the point of being non-verbal. Would the sheriff lend a hand for fingerprinting? Twins had the same DNA, but unique prints. He needed more evidence before he ran it by Gary Guhleman.

He didn’t budge for a few more minutes in the silent room. The scent of raw wood filled his nostrils. The newly constructed Twin Peaks Sheriff Station testified to a growing tax base. His own business was brisk except for the killer drain.

If not for Papa’s health, he’d leave the crisp mountain air and return to the valley’s smog. He had no affinity for down jackets. Chilly today, his wool sweater gave him a rash.

He wanted to get up and shut an open window. Maybe it was his headache making his teeth chatter. A chill came in many forms. He scrubbed a hand down his face and looked up to see McGill.

“Amazing fit,” the sheriff said. “I talked with the detective again. Your losses match the deposits in the phony account.”

“Minus the withdrawals?” Finn asked.

“Right,” the cop said.

“Is the balance under ten thousand?” Finn knew a wire transfer of less than ten large avoided a currency transaction report.

“Balance is about five thousand.”

The Roaches need to liquidate. Finn stood up and stretched. “It’ll be interesting to get the full story.”

McGill said, “I’ll send a pair of cops to watch over Amy’s condo.”

Finn said, “She’s staying at my place. I’d appreciate it if they keep an eye out.”

McGill lifted his coffee cup in a salute. “Have a good time. After this mess is over, you’ll have no reason to be together.”

“Based on—

—Amy’s dogged dependability. You’re the opposite. When you stop calling, she’ll call you to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m predictable, huh.” When a woman wanted to get close, he wanted to run.

“An excessive caretaker isn’t for you.” McGill shrugged. “Look, bud, got to split. Election’s coming up. I’m meeting a reporter from Alpenhorn News.”

Finn trusted McGill to serve his constituency. “Guhleman left for the hotel. Leave with your siren on. Be the only guy on the front page. Go.” Finn said it again. “Go,” but wiped his brow with worry. These days, the sheriff operated like a professor or an anthropologist. McGill walked a political path, but failed to beat the bushes.

* * *

Amy headed across the parking lot of the Saddleback Inn to meet Finn for dinner, and her body shook like she had some kind of palsy. She imagined being in the Black Forest with trees so dense sunlight was blocked. She took notice of the alpine structure. It met the Arrowhead’s building code of three stories high but felt mythological and dangerous. Was it filled with devils in differing guises like those at the Harp Hotel? Encircled by towering cedars and pines, she made her way along a cobblestone path.

By the time she arrived at the entrance of the sprawling tavern-style landmark, she shook off her fear. A glass-encased box contained numerous flyers. The restaurant rotated art work from Laguna Beach galleries and currently displayed California Impressionists. She scanned a community theater flyer. Tickets were available for The Butler Did It. Other flyers announced workshops for stage make-up, costume building, and mask making. A flyer for Trout Days caught her attention most of all, and she picked one up and placed it in a plastic folder along with her spreadsheets.

All the events at the Inn suited the clientele. This get-away drew Hollywood executives, countless movie stars, and even Mafioso’s who liked to dabble. If a person were staying overnight, which she wasn’t, this was just as upscale as the Harp Hotel. Nowhere felt safe.

Winding her way toward The Grill, she admired the lobby’s rustic chic but hoped she wouldn’t be admiring it for too long. The dull buzz of her iPhone had her bending to retrieve it from her bag. Finn was ringing her.

“Amy, I parked next to your Ford Explorer.”

The sound of his firm, controlled voice sent nerve-tingles down her spine. “Lucky you.”

“I am lucky. I’ll see you soon.” She’d driven to the Inn to meet him. Finbar Donahue. Most days, too busy to think about her absence of a love life, today she thought of nothing else.

He laughed. “I meant you’re lucky to have a car with an access code. Your car keys were in your purse.”

“Ah.” She kept an extra set of keys in the glove compartment.

He said, “There you are. Standing by the stone fireplace.”

“That’d be me.”

He swivelled gracefully to say hello to someone. The glimpse of his profile kindled a spark in her heart. He looked at her, caught her staring, and she waved. A woman gravitated toward him, put her hand on her throat and laughed. “Hey handsome.” He slowed for a chat.

Amy swallowed back a tinge of jealousy. With a man like Finn there would be competition. If she wanted to take a run at him, this was her time. Time to primp. Above the fireplace was a mirror, and Amy glanced into it. Seeing her reflection, she tossed her hair to give it some oomph and then froze. One of her aquamarine earrings was missing. Her heart lurched. She tipped her head and saw Finn rush to her side.

“What’s wrong?” He witnessed her reaction, but his frown did not have the power to bring back her earring.

She lifted her hand to her bare earlobe. “My earring. It’s gone.” Her voice caught on her emotions. “My grandparents gave them to me.” Amy shook her head, unable to continue, miserable at the thought of losing their pricey graduation gift.

He tipped his forehead, just inches away from hers. “When do you last know it was there?”

“In the reception area of your office, I was playing with one. Hey, it’s my fault.”

While facing her, he made an immediate phone call to building maintenance at The Bow. “Look at me,” he said as he held up his iPhone and snapped a photo of her remaining earring.

She said, “You’re not the only one who snaps pictures.”

He smiled. “I’m calling the maintenance people. Stay still.”

Amy tried not to feel self-conscious as he took another picture, spoke with someone, and ended his call. “I’m grateful for your effort.”

He shot off the email and photo attachment.

“It’s a thing.” She didn’t want to get carried away. “It’s replaceable. That’s not true with people.”

“Which reminds me,” he said. “My dad wants a look at your map.”

“Great! It’s either Fuller Ridge or Silver-wood.”

Heading arm-in-arm toward the dining room, he came to an abrupt stop. “Where did you find the map?”

“Next to the manila folder. I have a good feeling it’s bad.”

“The map is useful to someone.” His frown told her he calculated potential hazards. “We’ll swing by your place.” His voice rumbled. “Get the map and whatever else you might need.”

“Okay.” She’d scanned the map into her computer as a backup.

Console tables on either side of the French doors held floral arrangements, and he paused to sniff them.

“You admire flowers.” She didn’t take him for the sensitive type. He rode a motorcycle when he wasn’t driving his vintage GTO. “What draws you to them?”

“Blossoms open. Fragrance is sweet and real.” He looked at her and went on looking at her.

Or was she being ridiculous? “I like the genuine article— rayon, polyester.”

He laughed his way to the hostess. “We’d like a table on the deck.”

We? How sweet. A small bubble of pride expanded inside her. She was with him.

The back wall was dominated by rows of French doors leading to a broad terrace. He took her hand and led the way to where heat lamps warmed the space. For a second she admired the rosy glow of the setting sun before lights blinked on inside a tent.

“That tent,” he said, “serves as an art gallery.”

“This is lovely.” She refused to think about earlier and whiffed the night air. It smelled of freshly mown grass and honeysuckle. “The tent is pretty all lit up.” Silhouettes of people sipped wine and chatted with each other. “I don’t know anyone in Lake Arrowhead who collects art. Art, as opposed to decor.”