Nanny (18 page)

“Yes,” she said. The whisper of sound was so focused and contained that it left Gabe chilled.

“I'll kill them.” He jerked out his cell phone. “What's your SAC's number?”

“No.”
She gripped Gabe's arm, her hand trembling slightly. “He knows already.”

“The bastard
knows
and he's doing nothing?”

“He's looking into who's behind this, but they're not stupid. Plus, they know exactly what he'll be watching for.”

“So they wear gloves and wipe any prints,” Gabe said flatly. “No licked stamps. Cheap, common paper that you can buy in any grocery store.”

“That's about it.”

Was this the reason she never asked for help, Gabe wondered, because she couldn't trust anyone around her? If so, it was a cold, brutal way to live.

Even as he fought the need to touch her, Gabe forced himself to stay very still, completely controlled. When had her emotions become so transparent to him? And what the hell had happened to his usual detachment?

Because the questions left him irritated, Gabe forced them out of his mind. “If they're cocky, they'll give themselves away. With a little help,” he added grimly.

“How?”

“Let me work on a few ideas.” He considered several scenarios to discuss with Izzy. Hell, there wasn't any piece of recording or surveillance equipment that Teague couldn't ramp up, hot-wire, or generally finesse into turning somersaults and backflips.

Which was exactly what Gabe had already put in place for Cara's safety. Now they'd rig the same thing for Summer.

But when they cornered the bastards who were hounding Summer, Gabe would be certain they spent a little quality time together alone with him in a soundproof room.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Nothing important.”

“Gabe, I don't want your help.” Her shoulders squared. “I mean it. This is my job, my problem. I can handle it.”

“Sure you can. I'm just going to talk to someone who happens to be good at electronics.” Izzy would cut him off at the knees for such an underestimation of his amazing array of talents. “I'll pass on whatever he says. You can't object to that?”

“And you'll stay out of it?”

“Absolutely.” Like hell, he would. “Satisfied?”

She gave an uncertain smile, which caught Gabe hard right at the middle of his chest, making him wonder when the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He cursed silently, aware that he'd just gone past simple sexual attraction.

Emotions were starting to get involved, and emotions always made things sticky. Worst of all, emotions had the potential to short-circuit his concentration.

Of course, he wouldn't let that happen. Gabe had stopped being a tongue-tied, sweaty-palmed teenager a few decades ago, and
these
emotions were going right into the garbage can.

“Now you're scowling,” Summer said quietly.

He looked at his watch and shrugged. “It's getting late and we should go. I'll load the luggage, then give you a tour of the new security equipment.”

“But your friend—”

“Izzy appears to have gotten tied up in town, and we only have fifteen minutes until we leave for the airport. I'll do the short version now and fill in the rest later, after I catch up with you in Arizona.”

“What about the spent shell from Cara's bedroom?”

“We're checking for prints, but I doubt we'll find any. It's a standard purchase anywhere in the country, so no luck sourcing it, either.”

Summer blocked his way. “What did you say you did for a living?”

“I didn't.” Calmly, Gabe cut around her. “After I load up, we'll start with the pressure-sensitive plates outside the back windows.”

He hid a smile when he heard Summer mutter “hard-ass” and fall in behind him.

 

Izzy hated trim-layer chromatography techniques.

The need to use them didn't often arise, which was a good thing, because they left him in a foul mood. But since he was aware of how much competition there was for use of the expensive equipment at the FBI's central crime lab, he was happy to lend a hand, especially if he didn't have to run the tests himself.

Fortunately, a lot of people owed him favors.

He hunched over his computer, muttering. After careful deliberation, he picked up the phone and punched in a string of numbers.

“Forensic documents,” an impatient woman's voice said.

“Sara, how are you doing?”

There was a brief pause, then a hiss of indrawn breath. “Izzy? Is that you?”

“Afraid so, Doc.”

“So, are you drunk, in trouble, or in need of a favor?”

“So cynical. A man can't call up a sexy, gorgeous woman on a whim?”

The forensic document expert on the other end of the line gave a smoky laugh. “Oh, a million men could and would. But it's not your style, Izzy. You're too decent—and too damned smart—to get a woman's hopes up for nothing.” She waited a beat. “Aren't you?”

Izzy wiggled uneasily. He'd forgotten the last time they'd met—and the unexpectedly intimate offer Sara had made to him. “My father taught me that the lady is always right. You can interpret that any way you want. So how many letters do you have after your name now?”

“Only three, but they appear to be adequate. Since I'm in the middle of an ink examination, I've got to be quick. That is, unless you want to take me out to dinner so we have more time.”

Izzy laughed. “I wish I could, Sara, but I'm on an assignment.”

“Now why doesn't that surprise me?” She gave a dramatic sigh. “So what is it you need? Watermark evaluation? Infrared ink comparison? Paper analysis?”

“Can I get the whole combo meal?” Izzy asked carefully.

“
Everything?
Do you have any idea what kind of backlog—” She stopped, took a breath. “Of course you know. Sorry about that. We're insanely shorthanded around here since several of our people were transferred over to counterterrorism. And I still owe you for setting up our network and connecting us to the federal DNA and fingerprint databases.”

“It was my pleasure, Doc.”

She cleared her throat. “Anything else you need, besides the combo meal?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Izzy thought. “While you're at it, how about checking for hair and fiber, along with possible latents? Any impression evidence and static dust lifts would be nice, too.”

“How about I give you the Hope Diamond while I'm at it?” the world-renowned director of the San Mateo County Forensic Document Division snapped.

“No need. Blue was never my color.”

“If I didn't owe you—”

“You don't owe me a thing, Sara.” Izzy's voice was grave. “You're the best I've ever seen, and it was my pleasure to help you get the new lab computers online. I appreciate how busy you are, so it's no problem if you can't take the time right now. I'll find someone else to—”

“Like hell you will. Get me your documents and do it fast. I've got two vacation days coming and I'll cancel my trip to Martinique.”

“I couldn't possibly let you—”

“A joke, okay? All I had planned was three George Clooney videos and some artery-clogging popcorn. Working for you will be a whole lot healthier.”

Izzy smiled. “Now I owe
you,
Sara. It's a good thing I happen to have a source for that new Swiss electron microscope you've been lusting after.”

She gave a yelp of pure delight. “You
mean
it? You wouldn't toy with me about a thing like that, would you?”

“Scout's honor.”

“You were
never
a scout, but we'll overlook that for now. Get me your evidence and make sure it's uncontaminated. And just for the record,” she added dryly, “the electron microscope isn't the only thing I've been lusting after.”

Before Izzy could think of a suitable answer, she hung up on him.

chapter
21

W
here's Liberace? I don't see his cage.” Frantic, Sophy scrambled up the aisle of the small plane, looking for her mother.

“He's fine, honey.” Cara smoothed her hair, looking frazzled. “He's right in his cage in the back.”

“You're
sure
?”

“Tate put him there personally.”

“Oh.” Sophy took a slow breath. “Uncle Tate is careful. He wouldn't forget Liberace.”

Cara studied her daughter, wondering where these new fears had come from. “Of course he wouldn't. Now it's time to strap in because we're ready to take off. Can you hear the motor change rhythm?” When all else failed, distraction was the best answer, Cara knew.

 

In the wing of the small airport north of Monterey, a technician in gray coveralls moved unhurriedly, recording equipment transfers and completed repairs.

With a new girlfriend who liked pretty things, Ray Markle had a salary that never stretched far enough, so the quiet offer that had come his way four months ago proved to be a godsend. All he had to do was note any flight plans filed for Senator Winslow's Cessna Grand Caravan, then make a call to an anonymous voice-mail box with all the details.

Ray had been able to take his astonished girlfriend to Acapulco the following month, and now they were planning a trip to Paris, thanks to payments wired directly into his new bank account in the Caymans. Ray accessed the account from an ATM card sent to him in an envelope with no return address, and he had no idea of the source of these payments, nor did he care. He told himself it wasn't breaking the law to jot down a few flight details.

As Senator Winslow and his group boarded the Cessna, the technician stood behind a wall of outbound cargo, dialing the phone number burned into his memory. When he heard the short electronic
click,
he rattled off the details of the senator's flight plan. Next stop for the Cessna was Elko, Nevada. Ray hadn't been able to track any stops beyond Elko, but he had a cousin near Vegas who worked weekends in Elko. In exchange for one month's payment on his new truck, his cousin would track the plane outbound to its next destination.

The whole arrangement suited Markle just fine—except for one detail. He wasn't an imaginative man, but the day the offer had come by phone, he'd been warned by a harsh, electronic voice exactly what would happen to him if he ever decided to discuss the arrangement.

The graphic description still made his skin crawl.

As the Cessna lifted smoothly from the runway, Ray was already on the phone with his cousin in Nevada.

 

“But I don't
understand
? Where is Ms. M? Why isn't she going with us?”

“Lower your voice, Sophy.” Cara was sharper than she intended, all too aware of the airport crew scattered nearby. “I told you we'd discuss this at the ranch.”

“But why—?”

“Stow it, Sophy.” Audra bent down beside her sister, glaring. “Can't you see this is important?” she hissed.

Sophy swallowed. “Important how?”

“Later.”
Gripping her arm, Audra walked Sophy to the front of the plane. “Look, Mom brought Liberace's cage up here.”

Instantly distracted, Sophy let out a yelp and crouched down to chatter nonsense at her pet ferret, which answered with noisy indignation at his incarceration.

“Thank you, Audra.” Cara put a hand on her daughter's arm. “Sometimes she wears me out. We'll discuss everything, I promise, just as soon as we get to the ranch.” She squared her shoulders. “I shouldn't have waited this long to tell you the truth, either. Now maybe you'll share something with me.” She softened her tone. “Like why you believe you're fat.”

Instantly Audra flushed bright red. “She told you?”

“Of course Summer did, darling. And we can work this out, I promise, but only when we stop keeping secrets. That goes for me as well as you.”

“You're worried about something bad, aren't you, Mom? No offense, but you've been a little hyper lately.”

Looking at her suddenly mature and thoughtful daughter, Cara felt a crazy urge to laugh.
They grow up,
she thought in amazement. They argue and they yell, but then they grow up, and one day they actually give you great advice.

Life couldn't be all bad.

“We'll talk about that, too, honey. I promise.”

“Cara, can I talk to you a moment?” Tate Winslow made a small gesture toward his pilot, who was walking down the aft stairs.

“Of course. Audra, will you stay here with Sophy for a second?”

“Sure, Mom.”

Cara followed Tate outside, where he scanned the nearby runway. Seeing no one within hearing range, Tate nodded to his pilot. “James tells me there's a storm front running through southern Wyoming. Things could get bumpy up there.”

“Is that dangerous?” Cara asked the pilot.

“No, ma'am. Mainly uncomfortable. I suggested we alter our route to avoid the turbulence, but it may involve an extra stop and more airtime.”

“I'd like to make it easy on the girls.” Cara looked up at the open door to the Cessna. “Audra gets airsick, I'm afraid.”

“No problem. I'll arrange it.” The pilot nodded and headed off across the runway.

Tate moved closer to Cara as a small Jeep lumbered past, loaded down with cargo crates. “There's a tropical storm heading toward the Pacific Coast of Mexico, too. Bad time for flying.”

“But Los Reyes is—”

Tate cut her off, frowning. “No names, honey. Our travelers have been informed. They'll be considering alternate routes.”

Cara rubbed her neck as another cargo transport lumbered past. “I'm having second thoughts about this plan, Tate. It's going to be very dangerous if they question the wrong people.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “There must be an informant there at the clinic. No one else could have known about me or the date.” She hesitated for a moment.

“What's wrong, Cara? Did you tell someone else?”

“No.” Cara took a breath. “It could only be the staff at the clinic.”

“Then let our friends call the shots. They're professionals, and they won't be sloppy.”

Cara closed her eyes and ran her hands over her face. “Maybe we should call everything off. Both trips.”

“You and the girls need to be somewhere safe now. Trust me, no one can get within ten miles of the Lazy W without Bud and his boys running them to ground.”

Cara touched his face gently. “I never could resist a glib-tongued politician with an agenda.”

“Damned right,” the senator said, in no way taking offense. “Now let's get this bird back in the air. Bud has four barn-sized strip steaks waiting to slap on the grill. Three minutes up, three minutes down.”

Cara wrinkled her nose. “That's barbaric. You may as well hear them
moo
.”

“No, ma'am. That's beef the way it's meant to be served.” Chuckling, Tate took her arm and guided her toward the Cessna, where a man in khaki work pants backed down the stairs carrying a metal box filled with cleaning supplies. He nodded politely as he moved aside to let them pass.

If either Cara or Tate had looked closer, they would have noticed that the worker's bright identity badge read “T. Markle, Maintenance.”

 

At the other side of the airport Summer was waiting to board a small cargo plane. The painted sign on its wings read “Almost, Arizona—there's only one way to get closer to heaven!”

“Ms. Mulvaney?” A lanky man with a grizzled face and a big clipboard sauntered toward her. “Just got you on under the wire. Had to remove a skid of extra virgin olive oil to do it, though.”

Summer blinked at him. “Who are—”

The man stuck out a dusty hand. “Name's Grady. Deputy sheriff of Almost, Arizona, and editor of the
Almost Gazette.
” His eyes narrowed. “Don't reckon I can interview you for the next issue. Not when I was told to keep this all quiet like.”

“I'm afraid so, er—Grady.” Summer followed him across the tarmac, trying to keep pace with his long strides. She'd been told by Gabe to expect a deputy sheriff named Grady to meet her in Elko, but the rest of the details of her trip were vague. “Is that the plane we'll be taking?”

“Sure is. And you're in luck, ma'am. The sheriff is piloting today. One of his favorite things when he's got a day off, which is next to never.”

Summer followed Grady up the stairs, where two young men were nearly done loading boxes of high-end food products. When she turned, her breath caught.

The man in the cowboy boots and well-worn Stetson was the spitting image of Mel Gibson, right down to the devilish grin. “Welcome aboard Almost Air, ma'am. I'm T.J. McCall.”

Summer shook hands, trying to conceal her surprise.

“Don't worry about trying to hide the shock,” Grady drawled. “T.J.'s used to it by now. If you come with me, I'll show you to your seat.”

“Enjoy your flight, ma'am.” The sheriff/pilot gave a two-finger wave and headed to the cockpit. Summer was barely settled and strapped in when the small plane began to taxi across the steaming tarmac.

“Next stop, Arizona,” Grady said proudly.

 

“I
know
that, Ray. But I'm positive they said Mexico. The woman mentioned a place called Los Reyes, or something close to that.” Terry Markle cupped his cell phone, speaking quietly in the stairwell just off the Elko staff lounge. “She was arguing with him, Ray. And I'll be damned if that wasn't Senator Tate Winslow
himself
she was arguing with.” His voice rose with excitement. “Her two girls were real polite, even introduced me to their pet ferret—”

“To hell with their pet ferret,” his cousin snapped. “What I need are their flight plans and ETA.”

“I'm on my way to check now.”

“Did anyone leave the plane in Elko?”

“A woman. Tall, with dark hair. A real looker, or she would have been if she hadn't been wearing such a gawdawful ugly gray suit. Hell, women today—”

“Stow it, Terry. Get me the flight plan and the names of all the passengers. Then see if you can find out where the other woman went.”

“I've been trying to tell you where she went. Hell, you never listen to—”

“Where?”

“She took a cargo plane south. Almost Airlines.”

“Almost what?”

“Almost, Arizona,” Terry said impatiently. Clouds were piling up on the horizon. Storm coming, he figured. “They're a small carrier south of Phoenix.
Way
south,” he added.

“Okay, good work. Gotta go, Terry.”

“Wait. You'll wire me that money, right? My new truck—”

“Consider it done,” Ray snapped. “And keep your damned mouth shut.”

Terry shook his head as the line went dead. His cousin was a real jerk, but who couldn't use a little extra money? Smiling, he sauntered off to finesse the Cessna's final flight information from an old friend he knew in administration.

 

Over the next half hour four calls were made to the anonymous voice-mail number. Strategies were devised, maps consulted, money discussed. Within twenty minutes, wheels began to turn on both sides of the border, greased by vast amounts of untraceable cash. The world was full of secrets, but if you had enough money, as Ray Markle's employer did, no secrets were safe.

Patrick Flanagan smiled as he put down the phone. Life was good.

And it was about to get even better.