Deadly Alliance (4 page)

Amy smiled, and her crystal-green gaze sought his. She found his comment amusing. Her professional attire included a gray satin blouse tucked into a herringbone skirt. When she moved, her layered, dark-blonde hair settled into a sleek flip over her shoulders.

Amy’s bending and reaching, as she took control of her four-by-four cubicle, was damn compelling. She found a rhythm with a handy notepad beside her computer. Using Brad’s password, she turned sideways to open files. Attractive summed up her symmetrical profile and creamy complexion.

For a long while, getting hot and heavy had not been on his mind. Her envelope gave him concrete evidence to bring to the sheriff and eased his tension. As she brushed tresses off her face, he wanted to nibble on her ear.

Amy packed her lithe frame with succulent curves. He enjoyed observing her ample bust, which required high-performance support. He’d like to see those globes running free. He’d never considered her as dating material. Timing was off. When she started dating Les, he was hooking up with Miss California. Now it was too late. She worked for him. Hands off. Finn liked women—lots of women, all women, in all shapes and sizes and ethnicities as long as they met the enthusiasm requirement. He hadn’t tested this, but she was off-limits for another reason. He didn’t intend to put her through another relationship leading to nowhere.

Finn kept things loose. A woman in his bed, but not in his life was what he often said. There hadn’t been that either.

A cardboard box sat on her L-shaped desk, and Amy spun it around. Reading the name scrolled on the side, she jumped back. “Cassidy Holloway. She was there for me.”

He’d observed Cassidy and Les ducking into the Pine Lodge on a few occasions.

“Such a kind-hearted person.” Amy’s voice tensed. She stared at her computer screen. Her project papers were tucked in a folder, and she didn’t pull the next one out. “Cassidy is generous.”

According to Brad, co-workers picked up on Cassidy’s slack. Her manipulative personality, bubbly enough to unearth the dead, concerned him. “When was she there for you?”

“The morning Les died. I stood outside. Watched the mortuary staff load Les into the back of the hearse.” She curled her upper lip, indicating replacing Cassidy was a problem for her.

He waited while she collected her thoughts. “As I recall, that was early,” he said.

“Five in the morning,” she said. “Introduced herself. Said she’d worked for Les, and then I recognized her.”

Finn labeled Cassidy as a stalker. She liked to run along his country road, stop, and walk the perimeter of his property. “Let me guess. She was out jogging.”

She nodded. “Cassidy drove me. The wind was fierce that morning. When I got out of the car it, nearly blew me over.”

“Did she escort you along?” He tried to keep the conversation going.

Amy nodded. “I’ll never forget her wiry arm. Felt as tight as a crayfish pincher.”

Finn said, “No escaping?”

“Not if I tried.”

“A grip like that shows tension. On her part. What else was going on?”

“She saw a man’s silhouette. Lester’s.”

“Right then?”

“Yup. Up on the granite bluff. Or so she thought. The early morning sun was full on it. The reflected glare was blinding.”

“Did you see Lester’s ghooooost, Amy?”

She gave him a brief smile. “Nope. No ghost and no Lester. We waited until the sun went behind a cloud. Nothing,” she said.

Finn forced himself to hold back opinions. “Les’ body was in the morgue.”

“I know, but this sort of thing happens,” she said, “after someone dies. We think we see them.”

“In any case,” Finn said, “she helped you make arrangements.”

Amy nodded. “She asked me questions. Stuff like, ‘What about church membership? Cremation? No? Okay, sign here.’ ” A full minute passed. Staring daggers at the cardboard box, Amy asked, “Why was she fired?”

“You asked me that. Ask her.” Finn shrugged a shoulder, trying to loosen up. “She’s coming for her box.”

Her eyes, fringed with natural lashes, narrowed to slits. She took an exasperated breath. “She won’t be happy with me.” He turned on his heel to go, but collided with Cassidy. “Excuse me,” he said.

“You’re excused, Finn.” Cassidy brought a hand under her chin, palm facing down, and wiggled her fingers. A sparkling, pink diamond graced her ring finger. “I’m engaged.”

“Beautiful, Cassidy. What an unusual color.” Amy leaned forward to study her ring.

“It’s a Le Vian. I couldn’t resist their raspberry rhodolite.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked.

“Spencer.”

Amy gasped at the mention of Les’ son.

By the look of her anguish, Finn knew it mattered to Amy to know. It mattered a lot. Lester’s son, a wet noodle, covered it up by acting like an asshole.

Amy asked, “Does Spencer plan to finish college?”

“Nope. He wants to be among the sixty percent who start and don’t graduate.” Cassidy turned to Amy. “It’s not like Spencer’s college fund can spend itself.”

“He might decide to go later,” Amy said.

As Finn observed their conversation, Spencer’s image floated into his mind. Was he devious or just anxious? Had Cassidy told Spencer she’d seen his dear, old dad on the bluff?

“How about this, turn the spotlight on Spencer and me,” Cassidy said. “Let’s plan an engagement party.”

“Sure.” Amy threw her a glance. “Would your parents like to co-host the event?”

“They’re out of the area,” Cassidy said, “so to speak. Kind of like your parents.”

Amy said, “You knew about that? It happened long ago.”

“Les told me. You were a kid. No one knew where they’d gone.”

Amy glanced at Finn. “Police training with sonar gear led to their discovery at the bottom of a Los Angeles reservoir.”

Finn imagined her pain, and the thought of always having his dad swept over him like a gentle wave. Amy’s state with neither parent peppered the swell like broken seashells. “Where did you live?”

Amy said, “My brother and I moved in with my grandparents.”

“Well?” Cassidy’s abrupt question clashed like a wave against a rock.

“Of course. Yes.” Amy wavered for a moment. “My condo complex has an elegant party room.” Her voice rose in strength as she presented a solution.

An angry thought tickled Finn’s tongue. What was Amy, part of everyone’s wallpaper? His body tensed at the absurdity of the burdens she carried. He said, “Spencer likes Mexican food.”

“That’s right, he does.” Something peaceful settled in Amy’s deep-set eyes. “What about margaritas, mini fish tacos and great guacamole?”

“Sounds delicious,” Cassidy said. “Can we have something other than cake for dessert?”

“I agree. Save cake for the wedding,” Amy said. “It’s fall. Candy apples?”

Picking up her cardboard box, Cassidy turned to go.

“I’ll walk you to your car.” Amy picked up her small purse.

“Dooney and Bourke mini bag? Crazy small.” Cassidy’s boots tapped out an impatient staccato as she stepped around the cubicle.

Amy didn’t defend her bag. “We’ll walk and talk. Nail down the date.”

Cassidy said, “I have a date. Next weekend.”

“I’ll leave you two,” Finn said. Irritated over Amy’s faith in spiteful people, he slipped away to contact Sheriff McGill. Time was of the essence while a couple of dogs scrap around a bone. Another dog jumps in and snatches it away. Cassidy was a jackal, and Amy was foolish enough to hand feed her.

Chapter Four

Amy shuffled a few steps behind Cassidy. In spite of party planning, the recently-fired slouched along with her box as they made their way toward a parking structure.

Cassidy dominated the conversation which jumped from the weather to Cassidy’s horoscope. “It’s fraught with uncooperative planets.”

“What about the sun and the moon?” Amy sighed, and as she tagged along, she tried to calm nerves frazzled from the guilt mayhem. They passed the luxury Harp Hotel-on-the-lake and then came upon a line of noontime street vendors. She breathed the air, heavy with the scent of grilled bratwurst. “Smell good?”

“So good,” Cassidy said, “but I only eat organic.”

“Can I buy you a fruit smoothie?” Amy asked.

“Ugh, no thanks.” Cassidy squiggled her nose.

Amy caught her angry drift. “I’m sorry. I landed a job at your expense.”

“Goes without saying.” Cassidy shook her head, and her brunette bob bounced. “Just kidding. You had nothing to do with it.” The exit box she carried tipped, and she gave it a rough shake to even out its contents. “I’m this way.” Cassidy signaled with her head. “Want to bail? I’m up a level.”

“Hiking uphill works the glutes.” Amy trudged in silence around the corner of the structure. She took a deep breath and came up dry on what to say next.

“Just so you know,” Cassidy said. “Brad goes home for lunch. He returns after one exact hour.”

Amy kept pace as they walked the final incline. “You’re giving me the inside scoop on Brad? Thanks.” Veering onto a side topic, she asked, “How many kids do he and Mireille have now?”

“Two to dote on.” Cassidy stopped for a moment and grappled for her keys.

Amy kept an eye out along a line of cars for Cassidy’s, a junker with the rusted-out floorboards and busted heater.

“You’re looking for my old heap.” Cassidy clicked her electronic key, and a brilliant-red Audi Quatto chirped. Seconds later she slid her box into the back seat.

“Your new car is beautiful.” Amy admired the sleek design.

“Spencer bought two. His is silver.”

“Classy,” Amy said to the woman roughly her age of thirty. “A husband and wife set.”

“It will be. On our special day, I want doves.” Cassidy’s dented ego was recovering.

“Don’t fall into the bridezilla trench.”

“Who, me?”

Amy spotted a jacket hanging inside a dry cleaner’s bag. “That jacket is my design!” Her mood brightened when she remembered the year her winter-wear came in urban shades.

“Fabric is top quality,” Cassidy said. “It’s in good shape after five years of wear.”

“Goodness me. I appreciate that.” Amy’s heart warmed.

“You don’t do pink.” She gave a dramatic groan.

“Muted pink as in marshmallow peeps? Love pastels on ages three to six months.”

“Never mind, the mustard with gray piping came in my size.” The brunette grabbed the hanger and held it against her. As she toyed with the collar, the vibrant orange-yellow was pretty against her olive complexion.

“You’re really something. Do you know that? Les called you The Live Wire. Did everyone call you that at Smithson?”

“Probably. I’m not regulation among accountants.” Without the advantage of make-up, Cassidy’s round eyes turned downward at the corners.

“With clothing, you have taste.” Amy wanted to burst out in a giggle. “Do you express yourself with color?”

“With pink mostly.” Cassidy lowered her voice. “The world needs more pink.”

“Pink does create tranquility.” Amy patted Cassidy on the shoulder.

“I’m an artist,” Cassidy said with a pensive tone.

“What’s your medium?” Amy was jonesing for an exit.

“My life is my art.”

Amy reminded herself not to be judgmental about someone who bought her jacket.

Cassidy looked at her with puppy eyes. “Aren’t you buddy-buddy with Bayliss McGill?”

“We’ve known each other many years.”

“The two of you fundraise for Bearwood Closet, am I right?”

“Yes.” Amy hesitated, weighing what to say next. “If you’re interested, please join us.” She grounded herself with inclusiveness. “The Closet is for foster kids. We help teens dress up for dances and proms.”

“Second-hand dresses made to look like new,” Cassidy said. “I heard about the project yesterday.”

“You picked up a flyer?” Amy had distributed a stack in downtown Big Bear.

“Got mine at the Mountain Recovery Center. I interviewed for a job.”

“How did it go?” Amy remembered Bayliss needed a receptionist.

“Took a bit of a pay cut,” Cassidy said and then smiled. “I start Monday.”

“Cool. You found something fast.” She noticed a stairway within the parking structure, reminding her it was flush with the hotel. She turned her attention back to their conversation. “Had you been looking long?”

“Had to,” she said, “after Brad’s crappy performance review.” With hand over her mouth, she whispered, “He noticed my late arrivals and long lunches.”

“Irritated with him?” Amy rubbed a smudge off the car’s shiny surface, far different than Cassidy’s former stick-shift.

“Not really, just been busy,” Cassidy said and adjusted the raspberry-pink rock.

“With getting engaged,” Amy said.

“Turned my world inside out.” Cassidy chuckled. “No more hitting the clubs.”

“You’re funny,” Amy said, knowing Spencer was a few months past his twenty-first birthday. “How’s Spencer’s world?”

“He’s a basket case.” Her eyes narrowed, and her gossip-sharing smile faded.

“You don’t have to get married.”

Cassidy shrugged.

After a long pause, Amy said, “Guess you’re past living together.”

“I wanted a solid,” Cassidy said. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Amy said, but felt guarded.

“How did you know Les was dead?”

“Well, I put my ear to his chest,” she said. “I heard no heartbeat, no soft breathing.”

“Did you feel any emotion?”

“I felt a flutter of panic. That I remember. It hit me like fear.”

“Fear? How weird.” Cassidy arched her brows into half-moons.

“Except I wasn’t afraid,” Amy said. Sensations were similar.

“You didn’t phone right away?” Cassidy asked as if she knew. Did she?

“I sat alone awhile.” She recalled swallowing, as if a pressure-cooker valve kept her from practicalities. “Eventually I phoned the police. They phoned the mortuary.”

“When I drove you,” Cassidy said, “You weren’t the least bit cold.”

“I don’t recall.” Amy felt bold. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.”

“Shoot.” Cassidy opened her car door.

“At the mortuary,” Amy said, “You believed Les stood on a ridge.”

“Sounds crazy, I know.” Getting into her car, Cassidy tipped her head toward the backseat. “Many memories are in that box. Les is full of surprises.”

Is he? Amy shuddered as she dragged her mind to the impossible. On quicksand, sinking fast, it was as if Cassidy knew the joke and the punch line, and the joke was on her.

“Oh my! Will you look at that!” Cassidy chuckled as her eyes shifted toward a moving car.

“What?” Amy followed her focus.

“There goes Moneypenny in Sheriff Byron McGill’s cruiser.” With a deep rumble of her motor, Cassidy gave her a see-ya wave. “We’ll talk soon.” She backed out her shiny, red car and then floored it.

With a sudden need to use the facilities, she headed toward the bathrooms. After the ruckus outside Burlie’s ladies’ room, she expected to make an uneventful visit.

* * *

Amy entered the bathroom and faced a door opposite, the entrance to the Harp Hotel on the Lake. No wonder this bathroom was elegant. Waffle towels and an assortment of fragrance mists, lotions, and a milk-glass, soap pump sat on a green-marble counter next to a vintage-looking faucet. If she weren’t in a hurry, she’d spray herself with the cologne in the shamrock container.

There were two large stalls, and she peeked under the shiny white doors to make sure she wouldn’t intrude upon someone. After making sure it was empty, she headed in and hung her little handbag on a hook. About to use the toilet, she heard muffled voices. Wasn’t she alone?

Glancing upward, she spotted a vent. The voices came from a room in the hotel. Did she hear strong words? She stepped onto the toilet seat and stood on tiptoes, straining to raise herself even higher. As she peered through the vent, she realized she was looking over a balcony and onto a large conference room. This bathroom, on the second level of the parking structure, was level with the hotel’s mezzanine.

About twenty feet below, the marble floor gleamed up at her, but the scene was far from friendly business. A half-dozen men wore turbans and black, body armor with the Takbir insignia embroidered on them. The symbol, hard to ignore this year, was white Arabic writing on their rolling-sand motif flag and displayed with every hostage crisis. Flowing robes extended half-way below their shins.

The robed men surrounded four men seated with their hands on a round table. These men were held captive, she was certain. The two facing her wearing Claddagh rings on their third fingers had visited Les. The rings married them, molded them into a brotherhood. Whether they wore suits or the Levis they’d worn on their visit, they
bound together by a code of violence and silence. For years the Waterfront Roached remained an impenetrable and unstoppable force. Until now.

The Irish Mafioso appearance was as easy to recognize as the Takbir terrorists. In her hometown of Long Beach, the Waterfront Roaches went about their business in match-match suits. The Irish Kings of Cocaine ruled the warehouse district. After scrutinizing the backs of the other two suits, one wore a fedora identical to the Irish mobster at the coffee shop. Next she zeroed in on the other man with slicked back, silver hair who’d visited Les at their condo. Was an Islamic gang taking over the Irish mob’s territory?

Fearing they’d see her, she cringed, but the thugs were far below. Concentrating, she tried to make out what was happening down there. She looked through the vent. They were talking again.

One of the robes said, “We are defenders of the Prophet. You failed our leader, Rourke.” Speaking with unaccented English meant he was a recruit.

Where had she heard the name Rourke?

She concentrated on the leader in his white tunic. He jerked to a halt in front of Rourke and pulled his black bandanna down to speak. His accent was Middle Eastern, and his face contorted with anger.

“Let me impress upon you,” came rough words from Rourke, “we can both win.”

“You are not our brother,” the robed leader barked. “This is our territory now. Pledge your finances to us.”

“Wait! Hold on!” stammered a young, suited man facing her direction.

Hold onto what? When Amy watched the leader gesture toward his guard, she feared something bad was about to happen.

The guard raised his arms in the air. Coming from under his robe, light reflected on a long sword. He wrapped both hands around it and whipped it through the air. Like lightning, his arms and body made a complete circle.

Amy gasped at the sword, aimed for the seated guy’s neck.

Rourke whipped out a blade at thigh level and threw it, striking the robed man in the shoulder.

His sword thudded onto the floor, but his man brought out a pistol. With Rourke in its cross-hairs, the gun discharged and ripped through Rourke’s shoulder and out the other side.

Another robed man picked up the sword and swung it upward, but a suited man shot him twice in the chest. He crashed to the floor. A puddle of blood reddened his robe and seeped outward.

In all her years, nothing prepared her for this horror. She shivered from fright, but steadied herself against the stall wall. She froze as seconds passed but told herself to serve justice.

Take photos! Pulling out her iPhone, she touched the camera-button, took photos from various angles, and thanked God for the soft click-click-click.

Again, she glanced through the vent. Running his hand through his blood-spattered white hair, Rourke stumbled. Irish companions supported him through the room’s double doors.

The robed leader looked up in her direction. She ducked. A second later, she snapped two more photos of the gruesome scene. Enough evidence. Time to scram. Leaping off the toilet, she darted out the door to the parking structure. Cold air brushed her skin.

She charged down the ramp. Around and around, she sped with all her might. She took a quick glance over her shoulder. A shadow from a careening SUV. Light blue. She dove behind a parked car. As the SUV passed, the windows rolled down. The barrel of a rifle appeared. Tires squealed. The SUV zoomed off.

Crouching motionless for a full minute, her heart thumped from the close call. She willed herself to get out of there. She sprinted through the exit. Coming onto the street, she spotted the open door of the Arrowbear Cafe.