True Lies (4 page)

And obviously, she would be skilled enough to pull off the dangerous night smuggling runs.

Resolutely, Bruce redirected his gaze to the panoramic view beneath the wing. He was on the verge of letting his feelings interfere with his professional detachment again. Yet he simply couldn’t imagine Emma participating in something so abhorrent. Not with this plane, not with the way she loved to fly. Would someone with her exceptional competence willingly pervert their skill?

He hoped the answer was no.

“Are you okay so far?” she asked, raising her voice over the noise of the engine and the air rushing against the windshield.

“Sure,” he answered. “Hey, it’s beautiful way out here, isn’t it? You really can’t tell from the ground. I'm glad Hugh steered me your way.”

She started a lazy turn, nudging the rudder with her foot to minimize the stomach-wrenching slide typical of less skillful pilots. “So am I.” Sunlight flashed briefly from her sunglasses as she glanced toward him. “Everyone needs a vacation now and then, Bruce.”

Her smile took him by surprise. It was sudden, and as brilliant as the rising sun that glowed above the forested hills. Her cheeks rounded, displaying an unexpected dimple at one corner of her mouth. Her entire face relaxed with uncomplicated pleasure and innocent joy.

Bruce clenched the fist he’d jammed into his pocket, reminding himself yet again to maintain his objectivity as well as his cover. Being alone for the day on an isolated lake would put him in an ideal position to learn more about Emma Cassidy. Even if there was a possibility that she wasn’t guilty of being part of the smuggling ring, the trail
had
led to her, so she would have to know something about it. If he gained her trust, got closer to her, he could use her to lead him to the criminals.

Without warning, a memory surfaced from a case he had worked on the previous year. He had used someone then, too. In order to do his job, he had manipulated an innocent man into risking his life. He had accomplished what he had set out to do, but at what cost?

You used him. You and your disgusting masquerades, you don’t care who gets hurt. All you see is your job, your rigid picture of right and wrong...

But he was a cop. It was his job to see nothing but right and wrong. This job was his life, it was all he had. After Lizzie’s death, it had been all that had kept him going. He’d never experienced these kinds of doubts before.

God, maybe he really did need a vacation.

A light breeze had sprung up by the time they reached the lake Emma had pointed out on her map. She used the pattern of the ripples on the surface to gauge the direction and strength of the ground level wind, expertly bringing the plane to a near stall seconds before the pontoons kissed the water.

They spent the morning fishing for bass. She took Bruce to spots she had found on past trips, like the place near a pair of rocky islands where on a calm day you could actually look down and see the dark shapes of the fish moving below, but as she had already guessed, Bruce was hopeless as far as his angling skills were concerned. By the time the sun drew overhead, he had managed to land no more than two small fish, even though the brand new rod that Hugh had sold him had bent double with heavy strikes several times.

Emma lounged against a life jacket in the stern, her hat tipped over her face so that she could study Bruce unobtrusively. Not that there was much to see. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and he had a way of tipping his face so that the brim of that grimy baseball cap obscured what the beard didn’t.

It almost appeared as if he were trying to hide. She knew all about hiding, but what made Bruce do so? Was it because of his weight? His clumsiness?

The canoe wobbled alarmingly as he juggled his rod to a different position. Another bass fought its way to freedom. “Oh, heck,” he muttered.

Reaching into the padded lunch sack in front of her, Emma withdrew an apple and held it up. “Would you like to have something to eat?”

He propped his rod against the bow and twisted to face her, setting the canoe into motion once more. “Thanks, but I don’t have much of an appetite today.”

“Neither do the fish.” She took a bite of the apple. “We might have better luck later in the day.”

“You mean around sunset?”

“A few hours before sunset. I don’t like to fly after dark.”

“You don’t? How come?”

“I'm not instrument rated. The Cessna doesn’t have any of those state-of-the-art gadgets that would keep me from slamming into the side of Mount Katahdin.”

He glanced toward the forest-cloaked hills on the horizon and moistened his lips nervously. “We're not near that, are we? If something delayed us and you needed to fly at dusk, we wouldn’t really, uh, hit a mountain, would we?”

“I was exaggerating, Bruce. I’d be more likely to graze it than to slam into the side.”

“Uh, that’s reassuring.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice softening. Had he always been this timid a person? He must have had a terrible time during his childhood. “I chart my course before I fly, and I can calculate my position by dead reckoning or by simply looking out the window.”

“Have you ever flown at night?”

She bit into her apple again and nodded. “Not much, and not for long. It’s too risky.”

“But theoretically, you could do it?”

“Sure. In an emergency, I suppose any pilot could, as long as the weather was clear.”

“You seem to enjoy flying. How long have you been a pilot?”

“Since I was old enough to drive.” Stretching her legs in front of her, she crossed her ankles on the gunnel and nibbled at her apple. She couldn’t prevent the smile as she remembered the wonder of her first time at the controls of an aircraft. “My first lesson was in an old Piper Cub that must have been held together with chewing gum and baling wire. It was the scariest and most exhilarating experience of my life. And I knew then and there that I would do anything to get the chance to fly solo. The feeling of total freedom that you get when you're in the air is like nothing else. For that brief time you leave all your problems on the ground and escape into a world where nothing matters but the sound of the wind and the feel of the rudder pedals beneath your feet and the stick in your hands—” She broke off, realizing that Bruce was looking at her oddly. “Sorry. Don’t ever ask a pilot about flying.”

“Not that it’s my business, but why haven’t you gone for your professional license? You could make more money if you could charge a higher fee. If you advertised in some of the tourist magazines you could get a nice little business going here.”

“The money’s not important. And I've got other obligations.”

“Oh. Sorry. I guess I'm always thinking like an accountant. I’d never dream of doing anything as risky as flying a plane,” he murmured.

What could she say to that? In a way he reminded her of her brother, not that they resembled each other physically, but Bruce and Simon both seemed to suffer from a lack of self-confidence. She assessed the way Bruce sat, with his shoulders hunched awkwardly and his hands clasped loosely between his legs. His posture was the picture of dejection. She should be feeling sorry for him. But that was another way in which Bruce differed from Simon. As far as this timid accountant was concerned, her feelings weren’t exactly sisterly.

She bit down hard on her apple. She had done this fishing routine with plenty of other men, but the seventeen foot aluminum canoe had never seemed so small before. Even with his face essentially concealed and the bulky red life jacket swelled around his body, she
still
felt that odd awareness of his presence. “How long have you been an accountant, Bruce?”

“I've been working at the same job since I finished college.”

“Do you like your work?”

“Oh, yes.” He hesitated. “It’s all I do. I keep myself very busy with my job. Most of the time it’s interesting and challenging, but lately I've been starting to wonder whether I'm letting myself become too personally involved.”

“You're a workaholic, right?”

“That about
sums
it up.” He laughed and self-consciously tugged at the brim of his cap. “Sorry. Accountant humor.”

Emma was intrigued at the glimpse of wit. She felt as if a chink had opened in the bland facade he was projecting. “Did you bring your camera with you today?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. It’s in my pack.”

“You know, just because you hired me and my plane to bring you fishing, doesn’t mean you have to fish. There are some nice scenes to photograph around here, and in this sunlight the colors should be spectacular.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” he exclaimed, quickly leaning forward. Unfortunately, his hand caught the edge of the thermos of coffee that she’d brought, knocking it heavily against the side of the canoe. Glass crunched as the interior liner shattered with the impact. “Aw, heck.”

His hand must have bumped it awfully hard to make it break like that, she thought. “It’s okay, Bruce.”

“I'm sorry. I'll replace it for you when I get back to town.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was old and liable to break anytime.”

“No, it was my fault. I insist.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice deepened and held a trace of regret. “I'm sorry, Emma.” He pulled his camera out of his pack and juggled the ruined thermos inside.

* * *

With the curtains drawn and the door securely bolted, Bruce stretched facedown on the carpet and started into another set of push-ups. His shoulders flexed rhythmically and his biceps swelled as the blood pounded through his veins, but twenty repetitions barely had him breathing hard. Clenching his jaw, he angled his legs apart, curled his left hand onto the small of his back, and did ten more using only his right arm. He followed with ten more using his left arm.

The waiting was frustrating. He had lifted a perfect set of prints from the broken thermos and had faxed them to Xavier hours ago. That should break through the dead end that they’d run up against with the background check. It seemed that there were no records of Emma Cassidy prior to three years ago when she had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and bought the cabin at the lake. It had taken him by surprise, and he didn’t like that. After the day he had spent with her, he had been almost convinced of her innocence, so this new development had hit him hard. If she had nothing to hide, why had she gone to so much trouble to cover her tracks?

He rolled over, clasped his hands behind his head, and continued his workout with sit-ups. A sheen of sweat dampened his bare skin, glistening on the swells of lean muscle that ridged along his abdomen. Angry red stripes wrapped around his waist where he’d ripped off the adhesive tape that had held his false paunch in place. Emma didn’t seem to care about the extra weight that Bruce Prendergast lugged around. Her manner toward him had actually softened as the day had worn on. By the time they had returned to her cabin, they had started a tentative friendship. It was exactly what he’d hoped would happen. Once he established a degree of trust, he would be able to use her. Use. There was that word again.

With a muttered curse, he let his head thump back against the carpet. She hadn’t cared about his weight, and she had barely taken notice of the money he’d given her before he’d left. And when she had said goodbye and had wished him luck on the rest of his vacation, she’d sounded sincere. She’d even gently cautioned him against buying any more fishing gear from Hugh. Bruce had already seen how that wily old man who ran the Bethel Corners gas station overcharged the unwary tourist. Knowing the way these things worked, Bruce suspected that Hugh would be getting a tidy kickback for sending Emma some business.

At the first ring of the telephone, Bruce jackknifed to his feet and padded across the room to answer. As soon as he heard Xavier’s gravelly voice, he tucked the receiver against his shoulder, grabbed his glasses and his notebook and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Okay, what have you got?”

“That’s quite a fishing trip you're on up there.”

“Did you get anything from those prints?”

“Oh, yeah. I found out who your Emma Cassidy is. Her full name is Emmaline Cassidy Duprey.”

“Duprey.” He paused a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Her father was Lewis Duprey. Old money, estate on Long Island, your typical high-flying corporate executive type until he served four years in prison for stock market fraud. Kept a low profile once he was released, died under suspicious circumstances three years ago.”

Bruce underlined a word in his notebook. “Three years? That’s when Emma bought the property here.”

“Uh-huh. She was a real society princess until she shortened her name and dropped out of sight after the funeral. Still heads an investment group and has a place on the board of directors at a half dozen companies, but she’s managed to shun publicity.”

Bruce jotted down Xavier’s revelations. A society princess? Dressed in an old plaid jacket, lounging in a canoe with her booted feet resting on the gunnel? Right now he would deal with the facts. He’d think about what it all meant later. “Was a fine imposed along with Duprey’s prison sentence?”

“A hefty one. He declared bankruptcy, but he managed to shield a large chunk of the family fortune in trust funds for his children. His daughter stepped in to take over what was left of the finances while he was in prison. From what I could dig up, she was even more successful than Lewis. There were plenty of rumors that she was as crooked as the old man, but if she was doing anything illegal, she was smart enough not to get caught.”

“She must have been just a kid.”

“Eighteen when Lewis was convicted.”

“How many other children?”

“There’s one brother, Simon, five years younger. He was in and out of trouble as a juvenile.”

“What about the mother?”

“In and out of substance abuse clinics until she overdosed on sleeping pills several years ago.”

Another image of Emma flashed through his mind. Smiling, carefree, with the endless sky reflected in her aviator sunglasses. She’d said she loved to fly. She’d said it made her feel free.