The Sweetheart Racket (19 page)

“What?”

“On your stomach, Special Agent Silva,” she demanded. “Now.”

“When a naked woman makes demands, how can I refuse?”

He obliged. Across his shoulders, she recognized the image immediately. In black and gray and white with a touch of yellow for its claws and beak was a griffin, wings outstretched from shoulder to shoulder; a perfect mix of eagle and lion. The artist, whoever he or she was, was a genius.

“Wow. It's beautiful.” She traced her fingertips over the image. “Why did you choose a griffin?”

“It was a drunken decision I made after boot camp.”

“You were in the military?”

He rolled back over. “I was an army ranger for about five minutes. We were sent to Iraq on my first tour. I was riding in a Jeep and the driver lost control to avoid a kid on the road. We rolled, I got pins to fix my shattered leg, and I was out.”

“But you don't have a limp.”

“It doesn't matter.” He rubbed her thigh. “I'm a hard hit away from possibly rebreaking the bone. The army can't take a chance that I could be a liability in the field.”

That was understandable. “Do you miss the army?”

“Occasionally. But I'm happy with what I do.” He moved his hand to her inner thigh and up her leg. “I'm happy to be here with you.”

“I'm happy you're here, too.” Seeing his intentions, she straddled his hips. Leaning close, she bushed her breasts over his chest and touched her tongue to his lips.

“Let's do it again, ranger,” she said softly.

“Yes, ma'am.”

* * *

Rick didn't wake up for three hours. When he did, Taryn was sleeping and he was starving. Pulling on his jeans, more for Alvin's benefit than his own, he padded downstairs on bare feet and headed for the kitchen.

Something smelled hinky as he approached.

There he found Alvin, wearing a shirt and slacks and a floral apron, cooking something on the stove. Despite the failure of the air conditioning to bring the temperature of the house down below eighty degrees, the dog shivered at his feet like a coatless kid in a snowstorm.

“That mutt needs a sweater,” Rick said and he headed for the fridge. Inside were a four-pack of chocolate pudding cups, wilted lettuce in the crisper, cheese, bottled water, and a handful of condiments. What the other stuff was he couldn't discern from the wrappings. So he claimed a pudding and figured takeout for dinner.

“The mutt needs a dentist,” Alvin said in response, looking down. “And a plastic surgeon.”

Rick smiled, then searched for and found a spoon. He sat at the table and peeled off the foil lid. Licking the pudding off, he nodded and tossed the lid into the trash can. “Or a paper bag over his head.”

“Two, in case one breaks,” Alvin said, without missing a beat. He stirred the smelly stuff in the pot.

Sweet'ums growled while Rick smiled at the old joke. He wasn't about to trust the guy by any stretch, but Alvin was pretty quick on his feet for a primate.

“What are you cooking?” Rick asked when he finally acknowledged the odd odor. “It smells like a cross between skunk and pig entrails.” Or what he thought pig entrails and skunk would smell like. Nasty.

“It's cow tongue soup with barley and pork. My gran used to make it when I was a kid.” He took a sip off the spoon. “Want some?”

Rick grimaced. No wonder he hadn't recognized the ingredients in the fridge. The last time he ate tongue was, well, never. “No thanks.” He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket, scrolled for pizza delivery, and ordered a large pie with everything.

Leaving Alvin and the dog to their dinner, he went back upstairs for his wallet. Taryn slept on her side, her hair brushed back from her face and with only the sheet covering her nakedness from his view.

His heart tugged at him to stay. He wanted to crawl back into bed and wake her up by nuzzling her neck, but didn't think meeting the delivery guy naked, with an erection, would endear him to either the delivery boy or the neighbors across the street.

Instead, he collected his wallet and headed back downstairs.

* * *

Taryn awoke to the smell of pepperoni and . . . wet dog? She lifted her head to find Rick eating pizza at the end of her bed, and put a finger under her nose. The pepperoni must be rancid.

“What did you order on that? It smells horrible.”

Rick snorted and swallowed. “That smell is your houseguest making dinner. I've opened the kitchen windows and the screened door out back. It's not helping.” He waited for her to push up and lean against the headboard. “Pizza?”

Her stomach recoiled. She might never be hungry again.

“What is he making? Boiled roadkill?”

“Something like that. He says it's cow tongue but I think it's deceased possum scraped off the interstate.”

“Or a week-old raccoon, with a side of flattened squirrel,” she said. Making a face, Taryn went to the window and shoved open the pane. The evening breeze helped clear out the smell. In a few minutes, her appetite returned. She devoured two slices.

Rick's bare chest proved distracting as he finished the rest of the pizza. Her hands reached out for exploration of their own volition. She knew she should have a whole hell of a lot of regrets but couldn't manage to lock down one. She'd wanted sex and had three really great orgasms. What was there to regret?

And since he was already half naked, getting him out of his pants shouldn't prove that difficult. After all, why waste another moment wearing clothes when you don't know how long this brief sexual relationship might last?

“Are you tired?” she said and let the sheet slip.

He dropped his pizza crust. “Not that tired.”

“W
hat did you do to yourself?” Taryn asked, when she and Rick wandered into Summer's computer room the next morning. Jess was wearing sweat pants with one leg pushed up her thigh and an oversized Detroit Lions jersey, and was seated on a chair with a brace on her leg.

“I twisted my knee chasing a fifty-five-year-old poacher who was carrying a deer over his shoulder and gasping the whole time like he was having a heart attack.”

“You're lucky he didn't shoot you,” Taryn said.

“Exactly. And he could have,” Summer added. “He had a sawed-off rifle shoved down his pants.”

“But he didn't get a shot off,” Jess said. “When I went down, he dropped the deer and came over to check on me.” Jess tried to get a finger under the brace for an itch. Summer handed her a pen. “He was laughing and clutching his giant beer belly.”

“You didn't exact revenge?” Rick said.

Smiling, Jess shook her head. “I may have ‘accidently' clocked him with my binoculars when he bent over me. My arm may have involuntarily flailed around some, while I was writhing on the ground.”

Taryn chuckled. Of the three women, Jess was the one you'd least like to mess with. She was tough.

“Did he call for help?” Taryn said.

“Nope, I did.” Jess adjusted her leg. “He laughed, then clutched his chest, then pitched over face first into a patch of poison ivy. The paramedics said he'd had a heart attack.” She frowned. “After they took him to the hospital, I felt kind of bad for clocking him.”

Taryn and Summer agreed on that point. The former handed her a water cup. “Is there anything Rick and I can do for you?”

“I have that mall theft case I started yesterday and was wondering if you can work the stakeout tonight?” Jess said. “I was told to stay off my leg until Tuesday, and it's delivery day at the stores and a good night for thieves. Summer said you aren't set up for dates tonight.”

“Of course I can fill in.” Taryn glanced at Rick. Silent and naughty promises filled his eyes. Warmth crept up her neck.

“Thanks.” Jess pushed to her feet and collected one of Irving's canes she'd leaned against the desk. Once balanced, she glanced between Taryn and Rick and winked at the former. “Have fun tonight.” She hobbled out.

Taryn knew Jess wasn't talking about the stakeout.

The one thing about longtime friends was that they knew all your secrets. Summer lifted a questioning brow, stared intently at her friend, then her mouth dissolved into a knowing smile.

“You two did it.”

Rick's mouth twitched. Taryn frowned.

Summer had her confirmation. She ran her eyes appreciatively down Rick. “So much for keeping a professional distance. I must tell Irving. You broke the Brash & Brazen code of ethics. That cannot be tolerated.”

“You are so not funny,” Taryn said. “Can we get back to the case, please?”

Laughing, Summer spun around. “While you two were off breaking several morals clauses set down by this organization, I was discovering the real identity of one Teddy Brinkman.”

“Are you serious?” Taryn hurried over.

“Indeed I am.” Summer brought up the screen. “I used that old Social Security number to trace back forty years to a man named Karl Ridley. With further digging, I found records that showed he was actually born a U. S. citizen named Otto Karlheinz Fenstermacher, to German parents who'd come over from Germany shortly after World War II. There were sealed documents on the parents so I suspect they were either former allied spies or war criminals. When Otto was twenty-three, he became Karl Ridley and got a new Social Security number issued. The government does not do that as a common practice. That's why I think there was something odd going on with his parents.”

When she finished, she dropped back on her seat.

Taryn scanned the screen. “So Teddy Brinkman was born Otto Karlheinz Fenstermacher.”

“No wonder he changed it,” Rick piped in. “That's one hell of a long name. Can you imagine having to sign that on your kindergarten school papers?”

Summer turned. “I've seen worse. There once was this terrorist named Jorgeo—” Taryn nudged her, before she got off track. Summer did love to talk terrorists and international criminals. It didn't exactly make her a sought-out conversationalist at cocktail parties. Then again, with her looks, she could discuss icky bowel issues at length and still land at the top of everyone's guest list.

“Sorry.” Summer scrunched her nose. “I'll print out all I discovered about Otto, but don't expect much. His parents are both dead, his old high school was torn down in the seventies, and from what I could dredge up, he didn't have many friends. It seems like he reinvented himself after college with his new name and eventually became the con man we now know and love.”

Taryn nipped her bottom lip. “We take one step forward and twenty back. We may never catch this guy.”

“We'll catch him,” Rick said. “He has to make a mistake.”

The three fell silent. Taryn felt Rick's frustration. She wanted to close the case and put Brinkman in jail. The con man was a menace.

An idea came. “We know we're dealing with a seasoned criminal. Brinkman has years of bad behavior behind him. I think the only way to flush him out is if we push the Honey angle. She will be the bait to snag the fish.”

“But Honey has vanished, too,” Rick said.

“Yes, but someone has to know her. Can we set up a ‘Where's Honey' Facebook page?” Taryn clasped her hands together. “We'll claim to be a family member who's concerned about her well-being or something like that. We'll ask anyone with information to message us for a meeting. Hopefully, we'll get a hit.”

Summer was already typing. “It's worth a try. I'll also hack into her Match-Mate page and put in a connecting link to your Match-Mate page. If Honey's fans can't get to her, they might contact you instead. We could find someone who once dated her.”

For the first time in days, Taryn was hopeful. Then worry welled. “Wait. What if we put Honey in danger? What if Brinkman panics and hurts her, or worse?”

The idea of putting Honey in danger was a real concern. “Shit.” Rick struggled with his desire to catch Brinkman and the idea of allowing another woman to be hurt by the con man because of them. “Damn.”

Summer and Taryn shared a glance. “It's his mental process. Swearing helps clear his mind,” Taryn said.

Rick ignored them. “Okay. Summer hasn't found any dead wives or evidence that Brinkman is a murderer, correct?” She nodded. “Then I think we should chance this. At best, Honey is happily Mrs. Brinkman, or whatever name he's using now, and at worst, about to get ripped off for everything she has or murdered. If we can keep that from happening, then we're saving her from financial ruin, or death.”

“He's right,” Summer said.

“But you also need to factor in the storage unit shooting and the break-in at my house,” Taryn said, playing devil's advocate. “It's possible that Brinkman has upped his game.”

“I don't think so,” he said. “We know that neither of the shooters was Brinkman. Although we didn't get a clear look at their faces, they carried themselves like younger men. The burglar at your house was not Brinkman, either. He was too tall. What we don't know is how it's all connected.”

“Then we still aren't sure Honey isn't in danger,” Summer said, changing sides.

Taryn played with her ponytail. “We never did connect the storage shooting to our visit.”

“You're right.” Rick explained their theory. “If the shooters targeted us, there is no other explanation to how they knew we'd be there.”

When he finished, Summer was already typing. “Sorry. I forgot I was supposed to check this for you. Irving distracted me with a story about one of his godchildren and polygamy charges, and I lost track. This shouldn't take long to figure out. A hacker can find anything with one hand behind her back.”

While Summer dug, Taryn and Rick pulled up Jess's mall case on Taryn's computer. Several high-end stores had reported large thefts of merchandise, despite tight security. Jess had interviewed a few people, but hadn't made much progress. She suspected an inside job but hadn't had time to uncover a solid suspect.

“We'll wait until after the mall closes and see what we can find,” Taryn said.

He'd rather be home in her bed.

“Got it!” Summer cried. “You were right. When you searched for Brinkman's name, someone was watching!”