Bad News Travels

Chapter 1

Not many people could say that a chicken had saved their life.

But Jon Lancaster could. It had happened in the Republic of Mali, in West Africa. The region had been infiltrated by an Al Qaeda franchise called AQIM, which funded its terrorist activities by kidnapping foreign ambassadors and oil executives, and holding them for huge ransoms. It was nice work if you could get it, and AQIM had become one of the richest terrorist cells in the world.

Lancaster’s SEAL unit had been sent to Mali to rescue an oil executive named Duncan Farmer. Farmer and his wife had been hosting a dinner party in their home when an AQIM team burst in, executed several guests, and spirited Farmer away. The next day, a ransom note was delivered to the local American embassy.

The SEAL unit’s marching orders had been simple. Rescue Farmer and bring him home, and give AQIM a taste of their own medicine.

Lancaster was the front man, his relatively short stature and potbelly allowing him to mingle easily with the natives. He’d been born with gastroschisis, a condition that gave him a big stomach. People thought he was fat, but it was an illusion. Dressed in flowing robes and his face darkened by charcoal, he shuffled down the dirt road leading into town without drawing suspicion.

He’d left before dawn. It was quiet, and he saw only a handful of people, mostly women going to fetch water. As he neared town, a chicken ran out onto the road, and started squawking up a storm. Not just any chicken, but a variety called a naked neck, a prodigious layer of eggs. He’d encountered naked neck chickens during missions in Africa before, and was ready. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he removed a handful of corn, and sprinkled it liberally on the ground. The chicken quieted down and pecked away.

“Where are your buddies?” he asked.

It was an honest question. No one in Africa owned just one chicken; they owned a brood, and kept them for eggs and their meat. Having just one chicken would be like owning an aquarium and keeping a single fish. It didn’t feel right. He needed to find out why there was only one chicken, or risk putting himself and his unit in danger.

The chicken cleaned the ground and squawked for more. Kneeling, he held the rest of the corn in front of the chicken’s face, tempting it. Clearly irritated, the chicken flapped its wings, and the squawking grew louder.

A faint bock bock bock reached his ears, the sound originating from a mud house sitting a hundred feet off-road. The house had no electricity, the only sign of life a billow of smoke coming from its chimney. The bocking sound grew into a chorus as the brood, which he assumed was locked in pens behind the house, joined in.

He let the corn sift out of his hand, and the chicken started eating.

He wondered why the brood was locked up. There had to be a good reason, only it wasn’t coming to him. Had their owner been ordered by AQIM to lock up the chickens so they wouldn’t be a distraction? If so, then he was walking into a trap.

He decided to leave. Using a Garmin GPS, he got his coordinates, then walked back to his unit, who were hiding in the bush a half mile down the road. He relayed his suspicions to the officer in charge, and gave him the reading off his phone.

The OIC called the base, and requested a reconnaissance satellite spy on the area. A half hour later, the base gave them the bad news. Twenty armed men were hiding up the road from where he’d met the chicken. He wouldn’t have stood a chance.

The OIC asked for a drone to drop a bomb on the men. Then, the unit hunted down the villager who’d given them the bad information, and persuaded him to reveal where Farmer was being held prisoner. The next day, bruised and beaten but still very much alive, Farmer was flown back to the States with his family.

Lancaster thought about that chicken often. If it hadn’t run into the road and made a fuss, he would have walked into a trap, and probably perished. He owed that dumb bird his life, and for the longest time, he hadn’t ordered poultry when he was in a restaurant.

It seemed like the least he could do.

Memorial Presbyterian Church in Saint Augustine was a towering structure of poured concrete and crushed coquina stone, with architectural details painstakingly created with terra-cotta. Looking at the building took your breath away, and Lancaster couldn’t think of a more fitting place for Martin Daniels’s funeral to be held.

He had never met the man, but had heard so many stories from his daughter Beth that he felt like he knew him. Although it sounded trite, Daniels had been a pillar in his community. Surgeon, college professor, philanthropist, church elder. Everyone he had touched had come away better for the experience. He’d made the world a better place, and several hundred people had turned out to pay their respects.

“Dad would be embarrassed,” Beth said under her breath.

“Your father didn’t like spectacles, did he?” he asked.

“He hated them. Not that there’s anything we can do about it.”

He’d had to park several blocks away. As they neared the church, he asked if the knot in his tie looked okay. They stopped for Beth to check, and he gazed into her eyes. She’d been crying for days, and she looked like hell. It didn’t matter how old you were; when your last parent died, you became an orphan.

“You going to be okay?” he asked.

“I’m managing,” she said.

Grief had a way of robbing a person of their strength, and he knew of only one thing that would make Beth feel better. He hugged her.

“Thank you,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

The church was on a brick-lined street called Sevilla. As they crossed, a black Charger with tinted windows and black exhaust billowing from its tailpipe caught his eye. There were a dozen parked cars on the street, but the Charger was the only one occupied.

He stopped to stare while Beth kept walking.

“It’s nothing,” she said over her shoulder.

They’d been dating for a few months. Long enough for Beth to be able to read him, and know what he was thinking.

“How do you know it’s nothing? It looks suspicious,” he said.

“It’s broad daylight, and it’s a church. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“It doesn’t look right.”

“Get over it. Please.”

He quickly caught up. Melanie met them at the entrance. The sisters embraced, and Melanie gave Lancaster a hug. She was a wreck, and barely holding on.

“Nolan and Nicki are in the front row. They saved you seats,” she said.

“How many people are inside?” Beth asked.

“At least three hundred. It’s standing room only.”

“Dad would be mortified.”

“I was thinking the same thing. I guess it’s better than the church being empty. There are some FBI agents from the Jacksonville office who said they knew you.”

“How nice. I’ll have to make sure to say hello.”

Lancaster’s guard refused to go down. He shot a glance over his shoulder, and saw that the Charger hadn’t budged. It just felt wrong.

“When did the people start arriving?” he asked.

The question caught the sisters by surprise.

“About an hour ago. Why?” Melanie asked.

“Just curious.”

Holding hands, the sisters started to go in. They hadn’t always been close, but that had changed when Melanie’s daughter had become the target of predators, and Beth had joined forces with Lancaster to stop them. Since then, they’d grown tight, and were now doing a good job of emotionally supporting each other.

“I left my phone in the car. I’ll join you in a few,” he said.

“You better hurry. The service will be starting soon,” Melanie said.

He hurried down the front steps, and walked around the front of the church to Valencia Street, then began circling back to Sevilla. If people had started arriving an hour ago, then so had the Charger, otherwise it wouldn’t have gotten a parking space. So why had its occupants chosen to remain in their vehicle, with the engine running? That was the kind of thing undercover cops did, or criminals looking to settle a score. As far as he knew, Martin Daniels had led a clean life, but you could never be certain. As the naked neck chicken in Mali had taught him, it was better to be safe than sorry.

He hung a right on Riberia Street, and soon was on Sevilla. Not wanting to scare the occupants of the Charger away, he took off his sports jacket and folded it over his arm before approaching the vehicle from behind.

He rapped on the passenger window. It lowered, and a brutish man with a buzz cut and a boxer’s crooked nose stuck his head out. His teeth were stained a hideous brown, and his neck and hands were covered in tattoos in praise of the gangster life.

“What do you want?” the man asked.

His accent was Russian. Every country had criminal gangs, and in Russia they were called khuligans. Down in Fort Lauderdale where Lancaster lived, the khuligans ran strip clubs and escort services, and didn’t like to pay their taxes. They were harder to find in the rest of the state, and he wondered what brought this one here.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m lost,” he said. “Can you help me out?”

The khuligan gave him a hostile look. Lancaster pretended not to notice and removed his wallet. Kneeling, he extracted a slip of paper with the church’s address and held it in front of the man’s face. While the khuligan studied the address, he took a hard look at the driver, who was a slightly smaller version of his partner, his neck and hands also covered in jailhouse art.

“You are looking for the church?” the khuligan asked.

“That’s right. Do you know where it is?”

He jabbed a crooked finger at the ornate building. “Right there!”

“Oh my God, is that it? If it was a snake, it would have bitten me on the nose. Sorry to bother you gentlemen.” He slipped the piece of paper into his wallet. Clipped to the interior was the detective’s badge that the department had presented him when he’d pulled the pin. He tilted his wallet so the badge was clearly visible, then waited a beat before speaking again. “So what brings you boys here?”

The khuligan struggled for an answer. Lancaster had dealt with Russian gangsters, and had found that their understanding of the American justice system was poor. Most of them didn’t know about probable cause, or being read their Miranda rights.

“We came to pay our respects,” the khuligan mumbled.

“You knew the deceased?”

He nodded. Lancaster glanced into the car, and the driver nodded as well.

“Tell me his name.”

The khuligan’s eyes locked onto Lancaster’s.

“Dr. Martin Daniels,” he replied.

“How did you know him?”

“We did work around his home. The doctor didn’t like to climb ladders, so we cleaned his gutters and pruned his trees. He was a nice man.”

“You’re landscapers.”

“I think the expression is handymen. We take whatever work we can get.”

He was passing with flying colors, but there was still the question of why he and his friend were sitting in the car, and not inside the church.

“Why haven’t you gone inside?” Lancaster asked.

“We wanted to wait and stand in back. People look at us funny. You know how it is.”

The man was either a very good liar, or he was actually a friend of Martin’s. Lancaster was starting to feel that the latter was true, and he stepped away from the car.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said.

“You are a friend of Dr. Daniels?” the khuligan asked.

“Of the family. See you inside.”

Lancaster headed toward the church. Beth would be furious if the service started without him, and he began to jog. Going up the steps, he found himself thinking about the Charger’s interior. There were shift paddles mounted on the steering wheel, and they gave him pause. The only version of the Charger that came with shift paddles was the SRT Hellcat, which was the quickest, fastest, and most powerful sedan in the world, with 707 horsepower and 650 pound-feet of torque. He’d come into some money a few months ago and gone car shopping, and had seriously considered buying the Hellcat. Its base price was $65,000, but that didn’t include the $1,300 destination charge and the $1,700 gas guzzler tax, or the sales tax. Throw those charges in, and it ran $73,500.

The average handyman made fifteen bucks an hour. Hardly enough to insure a Hellcat, much less drive it off the lot. The khuligan lied to him. Intuition was the messenger of doubt, and his gut had known that these two jokers were up to no good. Now, finally, his brain was catching up.

He spun around, sensing the worst.

The Charger was gone.

Chapter 2

In the natural order of things, we buried our parents.

It was how life was supposed to work. The parents pass away, the children bury them, and the cycle of life continues. It was how everyone wanted it, yet it didn’t soften the blow when a parent died. The grief was overwhelming, the pain a dagger to the heart.

Staring at her father’s coffin, Daniels found herself playing back their last conversation, wondering how she’d missed her father’s obvious dismay. She knew that he wrestled with depression — he talked about it often, addressing his mental condition in the third person, as if he were his own patient — but suicide had never entered the conversation.

Dad had hidden his suicidal thoughts to protect her. That made sense. But what bothered her was that she’d never seen it coming. She was an FBI agent, and trained to see clues that other people missed. But that hadn’t been the case with her father’s suicide. She’d been in the dark, which had made the pain of losing him worse.

The tall, silver-haired minister took the podium. His name was Stan Dransfield, and he’d been a close friend of her father’s since he’d relocated to Saint Augustine a dozen years back. Dransfield spent a long moment unfolding his notes. He was having a hard time composing himself, and the silence in the church was uncomfortable.

Melanie leaned into her. “Where’s Jon?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Is he checking out that suspicious car?”

She glanced sideways at her sister. “You saw it too?”

“Nicki did. She said it didn’t look right.”

“Jon felt the same way.”

Daniels glanced down the pew at her niece. Nicki was taking CSI classes at her high school, and had developed a sixth sense for sniffing out suspicious behavior. Jon had been onto something when he’d called out the Charger, and she wished that she hadn’t doubted him.

“Excuse me.”

Jon had returned. Beth drew her legs in, and he sat down beside her.

“Where have you been hiding?” she whispered.

“Checking something out,” he whispered back.

“Anything to report?”

“Nope. False alarm.”

Dransfield cleared his throat and began to speak. He was a gifted orator, and his words brought a soothing calmness to the packed church. Beth looked straight ahead, listening hard. Not to the man on the podium, but to the man sitting beside her.

Within moments, she knew that Jon was lying.

While a student at the FBI academy, Daniels had been trained in the science of reading body language. Behavior analysis, as the bureau called it, was the ability to decode and interpret a suspect’s silent tip-offs, commonly called “tells.” How a suspect sat in a chair and held their hands was often as important as the words coming out of their mouth.

Reading tells was helpful during an interrogation, but it wasn’t foolproof. If a suspect was on drugs, there was no telling what their body language meant. The same was true of sociopaths, who lied so convincingly that they even fooled themselves.

Environment also played a role. If the environment was controlled — such as a police interrogation room — then the job was easier. If the environment wasn’t controlled, the job often became impossible.

Despite these limitations, reading tells was an important tool in crime fighting, and Daniels excelled at it. She would begin by asking a suspect innocent questions that she already knew the answers to. Then, she’d start tossing bombs, and watch the suspect’s body language and facial expressions to see if they changed.

She’d discovered another tip-off to a suspect’s truthfulness: breathing. Lying quickened a person’s pulse, which caused their breathing to accelerate. Like a pant, you could hear the lie coming out of his mouth.

Jon had a similar tell. When he became agitated, he shut his mouth and breathed heavily through his nose, which produced a faint whistle. She guessed that his nose had once been broken, and left him with a deviated septum.

She could hear that whistle now. Like wind passing through a stand of bamboo, it made a faint whee. Something was definitely bothering him. She guessed he’d talked to the driver of the Charger, and not liked the conversation’s outcome. Yet when she’d asked him, he said it was nothing. Which meant he lied to her.

Daniels considered lying an unpardonable sin. When she caught men in her life doing it, she blew them off. Without trust, there was nothing.

Jon had never lied to her before. He didn’t always answer her questions, but he never lied. So why now? Was it because she was upset, and telling her more bad news would make her mood worse? That was a good answer, and she decided to go with it for now. Later, when they were alone, she would get the truth out of him. If he did it again, he was history.

The church service was mercifully short, as was the graveside service, as her father would have wanted. Had Dad expressed his wishes to Dransfield during one of their fishing trips? It was just like him to control the narrative, even in death.

They drove to her father’s house in her rental. Jon was at the wheel, using Google Maps to guide him. She could still hear his whistling nose and knew that he was upset. She wanted to ask him what had happened with the Charger, but that would mean revealing the tell, and she wasn’t ready to go there just yet. She enjoyed the occasional upper hand.

Jon pulled up the driveway and parked. Her father’s house in Saint Augustine had been purchased not long after her mother’s death, and was not what Beth or her sister had expected. They’d thought he’d sell the family place and buy a condo, but instead, he’d bought a house big enough for his family to pile into during the holidays. Nestled in nature and steps from the beach, it had a multitude of decks and covered porches, plus three extra bedrooms. It had become the family home, and a place she loved visiting.

Melanie had yet to arrive, and the place was quiet. Jon killed the engine and turned in his seat to look at her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“A little better.”

“Strong enough to talk?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I wasn’t up-front with you earlier. I’m sorry.”

There. He’d come out and admitted it. Such a simple thing, yet so important.

“What weren’t you up-front with me about?” she asked.

“I had a chat with the guys in the Charger,” he said. “They were a couple of Russian khuligans, and they were on a first-name basis with your dad. Which begs the question, Why would Martin be mixed up with guys like this? Any idea?”

“Khuligans?”

“Gangsters.”

The question hit her hard. Her father had committed suicide without leaving a note, and there were lingering questions never far from her thoughts. Now Jon had added yet another twist.

“Back up a second,” she said. “Did these two guys tell you they were gangsters?”

“They told me they were landscapers who did work for Martin and came to pay their respects. But the model of vehicle they were driving was way above their pay grade.”

“Maybe the vehicle was borrowed.”

“That occurred to me. At the cemetery I got the name of your dad’s landscaper from Melanie. I found his company page on Facebook on my phone. He has two employees. Neither were the guys in the Charger.”

“So you established the guys that you spoke to weren’t landscapers. How did you make the leap to Russian gangsters?”

“Their tattoos.”

“So you’ve dealt with them before.”

“Russian gangsters started popping up in Fort Lauderdale when I was a cop. They had suitcases filled with cash, and bought strip clubs to launder money. One of the ringleaders got arrested and did a short stint in jail. I heard his arrest was deliberate.”

“The ringleader deliberately got himself busted?”

“He did it to network. Jail is a great place to meet other thugs.”

“Sounds hard-core. How did he make his money?”

“Drugs and extortion. The drugs were sold in the clubs. They rarely strayed out of Fort Lauderdale, which was why running into them here was so strange.”

“Did you get the Charger’s plate?”

“Of course I got the plate.”

“Send it to me.”

As Lancaster texted her the Charger’s plate number, Daniels gazed at the front of the house. The nagging suspicion that there was more to her dad’s death had been there for a while. Her father hadn’t talked about his desire to die, hadn’t left a note, and to end his life had used a World War II vintage handgun that no one had ever seen before. And now, there was a pair of Russian gangsters in the mix.

She decided to start with the Russians. They needed to be run down, and possibly interviewed. The question was, Did she have the emotional fortitude to handle an investigation? She hadn’t been sleeping well, and didn’t feel strong enough to do it. As if reading her thoughts, Jon placed his hand on her wrist, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Want some help with this one?” he asked.

“I need all the help I can get right now,” she said.

“I’m your man.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She likened grief to standing in the surf on a clear blue day, and being knocked over by a powerful wave. Sometimes it took a minute to right yourself; other times, it took much longer.

When she opened her eyes, she discovered that Melanie had arrived. She kissed Jon on the cheek, then got out of the rental to greet her sister’s family.

Chapter 3

“I hope they don’t sell the house,” Nicki said.

Lancaster and the teenager were taking a walk on the beach outside Martin’s home. An annoying flock of screeching gulls circled overhead, hoping for a handout. Otherwise, the beach was deserted.

“You like coming here, don’t you?” he said.

“I sure do. I remember the first Christmas we spent here. We were living in Virginia, and we drove down on a Friday. My mom wasn’t too thrilled about coming. I guess she was still sad over losing her mom, and her dad selling the place up north.”

“How old were you then?” he asked.

“Four.”

“You have a good memory. What was that first time like?”

“It was the best. The outside of the house was strung up with decorations and colored lights, and there was a big Christmas tree in the living room and five stockings hanging over the fireplace. My grandpa pulled out all the stops. Did you ever meet him?”

“Afraid not.”

“He was a cool guy.”

They stopped, and he opened his hand to reveal the collection of flat stones he had picked up during their walk. Nicki selected one and skimmed it over the water. She would turn sixteen soon, and had started taking the long walk into adulthood. He was concerned about her. She and Martin had been close, and he didn’t want her too badly scarred by her grandfather’s passing.

“How many skips was that?” he asked.

“Six. My record is eight.” She took another stone and gave it a heave. This one had Guinness Book of World Records all over it, and she clapped excitedly.

“Nine!” she said. “Should I quit while I’m ahead?”

“Never. You’re just getting warmed up.”

She threw another stone. This one plopped into the water after one skip. She groaned and dropped her chin. She began to cry, and he stood silently beside her, not wanting to disturb the moment. Drying her eyes, she lifted her head and gave him the thinnest of smiles. He had a supply of tissues in his pocket and handed her one.

“Let’s head back,” he suggested.

“Can we stay here? I need to tell you something,” she said.

He said okay. She took the rest of the stones from his hand, and started throwing them. “A day before my grandpa died, we talked over the phone. He made me promise not to tell my folks, so I didn’t.”

“That wasn’t smart, Nicki. Your parents are going to be upset.”

“Are you upset?”

“Yes, I am. This isn’t something you should have kept secret.”

“I’m sorry. There’s something wrong about the way he died, isn’t there?”

She was looking at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He didn’t want her jumping to any conclusions, and decided to put a lid on her suspicions.

“There’s nothing wrong about your grandfather’s death,” he said. “There are just questions that need to be answered, that’s all.”

“Like why he didn’t leave a note.”

“That’s right. What did the two of you talk about?”

“I was having problems with my science homework, so I messaged him. He called and answered my question, and then we talked. He sounded really depressed, and said he hadn’t been sleeping. He told me how sorry he was for the things he’d done.”

An icy finger ran down his spine. Nine months ago, pornographic videos had circulated on the internet with a young girl who looked remarkably like Nicki. The videos had set on fire the libidos of sexual predators far and wide, and put Nicki’s life in danger. That danger had since passed, and Lancaster wondered if Martin Daniels had seen those videos, and been aroused by them. Was that what he’d been hiding?

“Did your grandfather elaborate?” he asked.

“He said that he’d been tempted, and acted foolishly, and hurt himself and his family,” she said. “He asked me not to judge him. Before he hung up, he said that there was a passage in the Bible that would explain it. It was in Corinthians. I looked it up. I’m not sure what it all means.”

“Please show me.”

She took out her cell phone, got on the internet, and pulled up the passage. She handed him the phone, and he shielded the screen with his hand so he could read. It was from 1 Corinthians 10:13. No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it. “He did something bad, didn’t he?” the teenager said.

He handed her the cell phone. Martin had gotten caught up in something, and it had spiraled out of control. This was his goodbye note.

“Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “We need to tell your folks.”

They found Nicki’s father in the living room, answering emails on his iPad. Nolan Pearl was a neurosurgeon at a large hospital in Fort Lauderdale. He had a surgeon’s temperament, and rarely raised his voice or lost his temper.

“How was your walk?” he asked.

“It was fine,” Lancaster said. “Are Melanie and Beth around?”

“They’re in the dining room, going over Martin’s will and bank records.”

He glanced at Nicki. There was no time like the present when it came to telling the truth. She sat on the couch beside her father, and told him about her last conversation with Martin. Nolan gazed out the window when she was done.

“This isn’t good,” he said under his breath.

“We need to tell Melanie and Beth,” Lancaster said.

“My wife said they didn’t want to be disturbed. Let’s wait until they’re done.”

Turning to his daughter, Nolan said, “Nicki, I don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. There was no way you could have known that your grandfather was planning to take his own life. You’re not responsible here.”

The teenager slid across the couch and buried her head into her father’s chest. She was crying again, and her father consoled her.

“I’m going to fix coffee. Want some?” Lancaster asked.

Nolan said no thanks. Lancaster went to the kitchen and poured beans into the fancy machine and fixed three individual mugs, assuming that Beth and her sister would probably enjoy a pick-me-up. He opened the refrigerator in search of cream, and was surprised at the amount of food lining the shelves. Eggs, an assortment of cheeses, a six-pack of Guinness, bread, a bag of bagels, plus a half dozen yogurts. In the meat drawer he found sliced turkey and ham with expiration dates several days away; in the vegetable drawer, several plump tomatoes and a head of lettuce that looked fresh. He’d dealt with suicides as a cop, and in his experience, the departed waited until the last item in the fridge was eaten before taking their life. That wasn’t the case here, and he found himself struggling to understand Martin’s mindset before he died.

The cream was nearly finished. He split it between Beth’s and Melanie’s mugs, and tossed the empty carton into the trash. A receipt caught his eye, and he pulled it out for a closer look. It was from the local Publix supermarket, and contained many of the items in the fridge. The date was from three days ago, which was when the police believed that Martin had driven his car to Anastasia State Park before dusk and walked down a hiking trail to a secluded spot where he’d taken a gun and ended things.

The receipt had a time. Martin had purchased the groceries at 4:10 p.m. That didn’t make any sense. Why would Martin buy groceries, come home, put them in the fridge, then drive to the park and kill himself?

He didn’t know, but was determined to find out. Folding the receipt, he slipped it into his wallet, then took two of the mugs to Beth and Melanie. He tapped on the dining room door with his foot, and Beth appeared.

“For you, my lady,” he said.

“You’re so thoughtful.” Her face was puffy from a recent cry, and when he glanced into the room, he saw the same bereaved look on Melanie.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Beth said, and shut the door.

Chapter 4

Martin’s study was on the second floor and faced due east, with a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. A comfortable-looking leather chair was situated in front of the windows, with a neat stack of newspapers on the floor beside it.

The room had cathedral ceilings to accommodate the bookshelves that took up three of the walls. Martin was a fan of the mystery genre, and there were autographed collections by Connelly, Child, Grafton, and James W. Hall, whose Thorn novels set in Key Largo he’d read and enjoyed. Thorn was an off-the-grid loner who helped people in need, and the kind of guy he could see closing down a bar with.

There were volumes on American history, with several shelves dedicated to the Civil War and Abraham Lincoln. Finally, there were books on medicine, several of which Martin had authored while practicing up north.

Lancaster sat down at Martin’s desk. It was a double pedestal design with a walnut finish and brass pulls and dovetail construction. Martin’s personal items covered it, a visual history of his life, and he examined each item carefully.

There were framed photos of Beth and Melanie as children, and several of Martin’s late wife. Of more recent vintage was a photo of Martin on a fishing trip with a group of his buddies, each of them clutching a can of beer. They were all smiling and looked toasted. There were multiple paperweights, a wireless Bose speaker, a cup filled with pens and pencils, and several pairs of reading glasses.

The desk drawers were next. They contained old files and tax returns and nothing that bore closer examination. It was starting to feel like a dead end.

He pulled out the center drawer last. A blank legal pad and a badly chewed pencil plus a book of stamps. Game over.

He shoved the drawer back in, and noticed how tight the fit was. It made him wonder if there was something stuck in the back, so he pulled it out, and had a look. There was nothing there. Yet something didn’t feel right.

After a moment, he realized what the problem was. The opening was deeper than the depth of the drawer. A good inch wider.

He removed the drawer’s contents and put them on the desk. Then he flipped the drawer over, and found the culprit. On its underside the drawer had a secret compartment held in place by Scotch tape. He peeled away the tape and lifted the flap. For his effort, a folded piece of paper was revealed.

He put the drawer back together, replaced the contents, and inserted it into the desk. Then he unfolded the hidden paper. Printed in block letters was a word with lowercase letters, uppercase letters, and symbols, which he assumed was a password. There were also three numbers printed on the paper — 15, 25, 45. He wondered if there was a hidden safe, and he walked around the study, rapping on walls.

The wall containing the mystery novels was hollow, which he found appropriate. By removing the collection of Harry Bosch books, he discovered a wall with a secret latch. He turned the latch and gently pulled. The shelf swung outward.

He found himself staring at a circular wall safe. It was ensconced in concrete and looked recently poured. Martin had gone to a lot of trouble to install the safe, and keep it a secret, and he wondered why he’d done that.

He entered the three numbers written on the paper, and the safe popped open. The interior was lined with carpet, and contained a laptop computer and a checkbook.

He hesitated. There was no doubt in his mind that the password would give him access to the laptop’s hard drive, and shed light on why Martin had taken his life. But these things were not his to discover. They were for Beth and Melanie to look at, and digest. This was a family matter, and he needed to tread delicately.

“Jon!” a distressed voice said.

The voice was coming from outside the house, and it sounded like Nolan Pearl. He opened the French doors, stepped onto the balcony, and went to the railing. Looking down, he saw Nolan and Nicki standing in the backyard.

“What’s up?”

“We found something that you need to see,” Nolan said.

Nicki was crying, her eyes beseeching him to hurry.

“Give me a minute,” he said.

He went back into the study, shut the safe, and gave the dial a good spin. He shut the bookshelf and put the books back the way he’d found them. He folded the paper with the password and combination, and stuck it into his wallet.

Then, he headed for the door.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stopped at the entrance to the dining room. Beth and Melanie were still sequestered inside. Everything that he’d discovered in the study could wait, and he walked through the downstairs to the back door.

He found Nicki and her father outside by the garbage pails. Both father and daughter appeared shaken and upset.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nicki was putting the garbage out and found blood,” Nolan said. “Take a look for yourself.”

One of the pails had its lid off, and he peered inside at a black garbage bag with a yellow drawstring. The mouth of the bag was partially open, revealing a tissue with a patch of dark-brown blood the size of a silver dollar.

“Is this exactly how you found it?” he asked the teenager.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“Did you move anything?”

“No. I saw the blood and backed away. I didn’t touch anything.”

“That was very smart. Do me a favor, and go into the kitchen, and see if you can find a plastic Ziploc bag.”

She went inside. Lancaster took out his cell phone, and used it to photograph the bag. He took six shots, including three close-ups, as if documenting a crime scene. There could be a simple explanation for the blood, but until he discovered what that was, he was going to treat everything as possible evidence.

Nicki returned holding a Ziploc bag. Reaching into the pail, he undid the drawstring, and carefully removed a wadded Kleenex soaked with blood. Nicki opened the mouth of the Ziploc, and he placed the tissue inside and sealed it shut.

“That’s a lot of blood,” she said. “Did someone attack my grandfather?”

“That’s hard to say. Your grandfather could have cut himself shaving,” he told her. “Let’s gather the evidence and not jump to conclusions, okay?”

“Sure, Jon.”

“You have to admit, this looks awfully suspicious,” Nolan chimed in.

“It does look suspicious,” he said. “But we can’t let it cloud our judgment.”

“Got it.”

Lancaster hoisted the garbage bag out of the pail and removed its contents, which he placed on the ground. The bag was filled with garbage and old newspapers, but no more blood. He took photographs with his cell phone, just to have a record. Then he returned the items to the bag, put it into the pail, and replaced the lid.

Holding the Ziploc, he went into the kitchen, and found a Sharpie on a desk by the refrigerator. He wrote the date and time on the Ziploc, and put it on the island so Beth would see it when she came out. At the sink he scrubbed his hands.

“Did you find anything in the study?” Nicki asked.

“Yes. I found a hidden wall safe,” he replied.

“A wall safe? What’s in it?”

He didn’t want Nicki making any false assumptions, and decided to tell her a lie. “I didn’t open it. That’s for your mom and Aunt Beth to do.”

“What do you think’s inside?”

“I have no idea.”

He dried his hands with a paper towel. As he threw the towel away, his eyes scanned the kitchen. He did not see a box of Kleenex, and he guessed the bloody Kleenex in the trash had come from one of the bathrooms. How it had ended up in the kitchen garbage was anyone’s guess.

“Grab some Ziplocs,” he said. “We’re going to do some more snooping.”

He checked the wastebaskets in the two downstairs bathrooms, and found them empty. Nicki and her father hovered behind him, saying nothing.

He went upstairs and checked the bathroom in Martin’s bedroom. The trash can beneath the sink was loaded, and he dumped the contents on the floor, and had a look. A second bloodied Kleenex reared its ugly head. Nicki let out a little shriek.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s bag it. Did you bring the Sharpie?”

Nicki said no. He placed the Kleenex in a Ziploc and sealed it. As she started to leave with her father, he said, “Be sure to notate that this came from the upstairs bathroom.”

“I will,” she said.

“And leave the Ziplocs in case I find something.”

“You got it.”

He listened to Nicki and her father go downstairs. Then, he picked up a wadded piece of toilet paper lying on the floor. It had caught his eye as he’d scoured the trash can’s contents. To his relief, neither Nicki nor Nolan had noticed it.

He peeled the balled-up tissue apart. It contained a used condom and was brittle to the touch. Martin Daniels was an athletic septuagenarian, and it wasn’t a shock to imagine him having sex. The surprise was the condom itself — Manforce Pink Bubblegum Flavored. He knew it was this variety because of the hot-pink color and bubblegum smell. When he was a cop, he’d busted many streetwalkers. He knew this was a favored brand, and that it also came in a variety of tropical flavors.

Had Martin been paying for sex? It was a reasonable assumption, and he wondered if it somehow played into Martin’s decision to end things. He would wait until he got Beth alone before telling her, and let her decide what she wanted to do. It was going to be a painful conversation, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He sealed the condom into a Ziploc, and washed his hands before heading downstairs.

Chapter 5

Daniels liked to be in control. The majority of times she and Jon went somewhere, she drove. This had nothing to do with Jon’s skill behind the wheel, or the fact that he sometimes drove too fast. She simply needed to be the one handling the wheel.

The highway back into town was two lanes, and lined with palatial beachfront homes. She drove with her window down, the ocean breeze tingling her face. Jon was in the passenger seat, his nose whistle faint and true.

She waited a minute before speaking. “You’re holding back.”

“So are you,” he said.

She turned her head and stared at his profile.

“Explain yourself, ” she said accusingly.

“Watch out, there’s a squirrel on the side of the road,” he warned.

She looked straight ahead. There was no squirrel lurking on either side of the highway, and she began to fume.

“Don’t do that again,” she snapped.

“Sorry. Where are we going, anyway?” he asked.

“To the sheriff’s office. Should we flip a coin to decide this?”

“I’ll save you the trouble. I found more than a couple of bloody tissues during my search. I didn’t tell your niece or brother-in-law, but wanted you to hear it first.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because it’s not pleasant.”

Her eyes burned with tears. Losing her father had been awful, and she wasn’t ready for more bad news. She grabbed a bottled water out of the holder and chugged it.

“Want to do this later?” he asked.

“No. Lay it on me,” she said.

“Before I do that, I need to ask you a question.”

They came to a traffic light. Braking, she gave him her full attention.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Do you want me working this investigation?” he asked. “It feels like your father was in a bad situation, and I could find things that will hurt you. I don’t want to ruin our relationship.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You sure?”

She managed a smile. Jon wasn’t pretty to look at, but he was smart and honest and he could be trusted, and she hadn’t found many men who had all those traits. He was a good one, and she hoped he stuck around for a while.

“Yes,” she added for emphasis.

He dug a plastic bag out of his breast pocket. It landed on the dashboard, and she stared at a used condom of the hot-pink variety. Her mind raced with the possibilities of where it had come from. She swore, which was something that she rarely did.

“Fuck. Where did you find that thing?”

“In the wastebasket in your father’s bathroom.”

The light changed, and she goosed the accelerator. Her face was burning with embarrassment, and she stared straight ahead.

“So my dad was having sex. Big deal,” she said defensively.

“I was more surprised at the condom. It’s a brand I saw frequently as a cop. It’s bubblegum flavored, and it’s edible.”

“Meaning what? That it came from a hooker?”

“That would be my assumption.”

Her father was the classiest man she’d ever known, and the image of him having sex with a cheap prostitute was too much to bear. In anger, she punched the wheel.

“I’m sorry, Beth,” he said.

“Don’t be. I needed to know,” she said. “Thank you for shielding my sister and her family from this. I appreciate that.”

Jon lapsed into silence, and she sensed that the conversation was bothering him. For a long minute, neither one of them spoke.

“You found something bad in your dad’s records, didn’t you?” he said.

“How did you know that?” she said.

“Because you didn’t argue with me about the hooker. It’s a reasonable scenario, but there could be others. Your father went fishing with a group of buddies. Maybe one of them used the bedroom to have sex. It’s a possibility. But you accepted that it was your dad, which tells me you and Melanie found something in your dad’s records.”

“Were you listening through the wall?”

“No, Beth, it’s just a hunch. I suggested that your dad may have entertained a prostitute, and you didn’t fight it. So what did you discover?”

“His bank accounts were cleaned out.”

“How much?”

“One point two million dollars. The withdrawals were made during the past few weeks in the form of money orders. Where it went is anyone’s guess.”

“That’s a lot of money. Do you think he was being blackmailed?”

“That’s what my sister thinks. Melanie said that Dad was acting weird, and seemed to be under a lot of pressure. Extortion is certainly a possibility.”

“By who?”

She’d been wrestling with that same question. Pulling into the sheriff’s station, she parked in the visitor’s space by the front door.

“Let’s see if we can find out,” she said.

Lancaster had never known a woman like Beth. She did not tolerate fools, or foolish questions, nor did she like to explain herself. He had no idea why they were visiting the sheriff, but knew that in due time he’d have his answer.

They went inside. Beth identified herself to the sergeant at the reception desk, and then she asked to speak with the detective investigating her father’s death. Until a final report was filed, Martin’s death would be treated as a possible crime, and was the responsibility of the sheriff’s department.

They sat on a couch to wait. He wondered how much information Beth planned to share with the detective in charge. Would she tell him about the missing money, or the condom? His gut told him no. If Saint Augustine had a black mark, it was its police force, which had been featured in a pair of sobering documentaries that had run on the public broadcasting channels.

As the story went, the girlfriend of a rookie cop had been shot at point-blank range, and the evidence pointed to her boyfriend having pulled the trigger. For reasons that were unclear, the police department had concocted a story saying that the young woman was despondent, and had taken her own life. This was physically impossible based upon how the bullet had entered the dead woman’s head, and the fact that the victim’s jaw had been broken before she’d died. All evidence pointed to her boyfriend being involved.

But the police department had stuck to its crazy story, and no charges were filed against the boyfriend. It was the kind of coverup that gave small Florida towns a bad name, and when the Florida Department of Law Enforcement had tried to clear the air and conduct an investigation, the police had closed ranks, and made it impossible for the FDLE investigators to do their jobs. Justice had never been served.

Lancaster had seen his share of bad behavior on the force. Cops would alter evidence at crime scenes to get someone arrested, or alter testimony at trial to put a bad person behind bars. Other officers would witness these transgressions and say nothing, knowing that if they spoke up, it would ruin the cop’s career, as well as their own.

This stuff happened, and it was regrettable. But he’d never heard of an entire department covering up a murder. Maybe there was an explanation for why the rookie had shot his girlfriend. Perhaps they’d been having problems, and she’d gone into a rage and grabbed his gun and tried to shoot him, and in the scuffle taken a bullet herself. A story like that was believable. The one that had been fed to the public wasn’t believable, and as a result, the department wasn’t trusted by other law enforcement agencies.

“Special Agent Daniels?” A man in his fifties with a detective’s badge pinned to his jacket lapel stood before them. Tall and tan, he had a thick moustache and sideburns, and had his thumbs hooked into the top of his belt like a gunslinger in a TV Western. “I’m Detective Gaylord Sykes. How may I help you?”

Sykes was the epitome of a southern gentleman, with a soft drawl and easy manner. Daniels rose from the couch, as did Lancaster.

“I was hoping I might ask you a few questions concerning my father’s passing,” Daniels said.

“I was thinking you might come by. Please, come back to my office,” Sykes said. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jon Lancaster,” Lancaster said. “I’m a friend.”

“Nice to meet you, Jon. Would you like a drink? We have coffee and water.”

They both declined. Sykes used a plastic key to gain entry to the station, and he led them down a hallway to a corner office decorated with plaques and framed photos from various stages of his career. He’d been a cop most of his life, all of it serving Saint Augustine. He offered them chairs and leaned against the desk with his arms crossed.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Special Agent Daniels,” the detective said. “I didn’t know your father personally, but he had a wonderful reputation in the community. I’m sure this has been a very difficult time for you, and your family.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” Daniels said. “I was hoping you could let me see my father’s cell phone. The police report I read said that it was found with his body.”

“Actually, it was found in your father’s car,” Sykes said.

“May I see it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t release your father’s cell phone until my investigation is finished. Department rules.”

Daniels gave him a look. The FBI had authority over the police, and Beth could ask for whatever she wanted. Her authority was being challenged, and Lancaster could tell that she didn’t like it.

“Is the cell phone here?” she asked sternly.

“It is. Is something wrong?” Sykes asked.

“We found evidence at my father’s house that there might have been a struggle.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“A tissue soaked with blood. Jon put it in a plastic bag for safekeeping.”

Daniels opened her purse and removed the Ziploc, which she handed to Sykes, who held it up to the light. He shifted his attention to Lancaster.

“Where exactly did you find this?” the detective asked.

“Beth’s niece found it in a garbage pail by the back door,” he said. “She called me outside, and I removed it from the garbage bag and put it in the Ziploc.”

“That was smart. You a cop?”

“Retired.”

Sykes blinked. “I thought your name was familiar. You were down in Broward, if I’m not mistaken. There’s a video on YouTube of you rescuing a little girl on the side of I-95. That was one fine piece of shooting, sir.”

Lancaster’s career as a policeman had been defined by a commitment to protect the innocent, which he’d done every single day he’d worn a badge. Unfortunately, it was not how his career would be remembered. A two-minute video of him shooting a pair of kidnappers was his legacy, and would remain in cyberspace long after he was gone.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Did you find any other evidence in the house?” Sykes asked.

The Ziploc with the condom was in the breast pocket of his shirt. Before he could hand it over to the detective, Beth spoke.

“Just the bloody tissue,” she said.

“I see. Well, this definitely needs to be looked into. I’ll turn the tissue over to our CSI team, and see what they turn up,” Sykes said. “I’ll also need to get a brief statement from you, so I can add it to the report.”

“Of course,” Lancaster said.

“I’d like to see my father’s cell phone,” Daniels said. “Please get it for me.”

Sykes looked uncomfortable with the request, but he did not protest. He moved around the desk, and removed a drawstring envelope from a drawer. Untying the envelope, he dumped out a cell phone, and came around the desk and handed it to her. The device looked new, with hardly a scratch or blemish on its protective case.

Beth powered up the cell phone, and the screen came to life. The screen saver was a photograph taken from the balcony of Martin’s home during sunrise, the blinding sun balanced on a cloudless horizon. Lancaster imagined Martin sitting in his favorite chair reading the newspaper and deciding to take the shot. A spur-of-the-moment thing, captured for eternity.

“There are no apps on this phone. All the information’s been erased.” Beth looked at Sykes accusingly. “Who did this?”

“We believe your father did,” the detective said.

Beth tossed the phone on the desk, clearly angry. “What led you to that conclusion, Detective?”

“Your father’s body was found in a park by a hiker, who called the police. A pair of officers were sent out. They were shaken up by what they found, and called the station for help. I jumped in my car, and drove over. As you probably know, your father’s corpse was badly mutilated.”

“Your report said by a pack of coyotes,” Daniels said.

“That’s correct. It was impossible to identify his body, and he wasn’t carrying a wallet or ID. But there was a set of car keys in his pocket. I walked to the parking lot with one of the officers, and tried the keys in several parked cars. I got a match, and opened the vehicle. The cell phone was on the seat, along with your father’s wallet. It was on, and I saw that everything had been erased.”

“Which led you to assume that my father had done it.”

“I don’t see how anyone else could have.”

Beth’s anger hadn’t gone away. She rose from her chair and stared at Sykes, as if measuring him. The detective wilted under her gaze, and shrank a few inches.

“Was there anything you saw at the scene that looked strange? Anything at all?”

Sykes thought about it for a moment. He shook his head.

“It looked like a suicide,” Sykes said.

“Have you investigated many suicides?”

“I’m afraid I have. There’s a veterans’ home in town, and some of the patients get pretty despondent, and decide to take their own lives. They usually go off into the woods and end things on their own terms. That’s what it appeared your father did.”

“Do you have a copy of the pathologist’s report?”

Sykes removed a copy of Martin’s autopsy from a file in his desk and handed it to her.

“Thank you, Detective,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

Pulling out of the parking lot, Daniels erupted, and punched the wheel with a clenched fist. Her cheeks had turned crimson, and her breathing was accelerated.

“What’s wrong?” Lancaster asked.

“Everything,” she said in a rage. “That son of a bitch is lying!”

Chapter 6

“Slow down, before you hit someone,” Lancaster said.

Hell hath no fury like a woman lied to. Beth slammed the brakes so hard that he might have flown through the windshield had he not been strapped in. The street was empty, and she threw the vehicle into park and turned sideways to look at him.

“Switch places with me,” she said.

“You want me to drive back to your father’s place?”

“Please.”

Soon he was behind the wheel and using his memory to drive back to Martin’s home. Beth looked ready to explode, and he found himself feeling bad for Sykes. It was a crime to lie to an FBI agent, and the detective’s life was about to become a living hell.

“You want me to stop, get you something to drink?” he asked.

“No. Just be quiet, and let me calm down.”

“I didn’t like him either.”

“Sykes is a god damn snake. He erased my father’s cell phone.”

“Why would he do that?”

Beth’s voice cracked, and tears flowed down her cheeks. She was heading toward a meltdown, and on the next block he pulled into the parking lot of a Starbucks, and hustled inside. A minute later he emerged with a strawberry scone and a brownie the size of a small brick, which he handed to her on a napkin. In his other hand were two bottled waters, which he placed into the cupholder. She dug into the sweets.

“That was fast,” she said.

“I flashed my badge and told them it was an emergency, so they let me cut in line.”

“That’s going to get you in trouble someday. Want some?”

“No thanks.”

Soon the scone was reduced to crumbs. She bit into the brownie and emitted a happy groan. “This is so decadent. Thank you.”

“How can you be sure Sykes erased your father’s cell phone?”

“My father was something of a Luddite,” Beth said. “He disliked computers and smartphones, and still wrote on a typewriter. He believed the digital age was making people dumber instead of building intellect. He also despised social media and refused to have his own Facebook page.”

“How does this make Sykes the culprit?”

“I’m getting to that part. Last bite. Sure you don’t want some?”

“I’m good. You just downed two thousand calories. How do you stay so thin?”

“I’ve never had a problem with my weight. A few months ago, my father called me up, and said he wanted to buy a smartphone, and would I help him. He’d gone into a Verizon store, but the salesman was useless, and just confused him. That led him to call me.”

“Why would he want a smartphone if he was a Luddite?”

“My father said that Nicki had begged him to get one, so that he could have it in case of an emergency.”

“Makes sense. Did you help him?”

“Yes. I came down for a weekend, and we bought a phone together, and I showed him how to operate it. Dad didn’t even know how to power it up. Smartphones are designed by people who assume you’ve owned one before, or know that there are instruction tutorials on YouTube. My father was completely in the dark.”

Beth took a drink of her water. She was back to being herself, her voice calm and measured. “The phone had several preinstalled apps, including a couple for online casinos, which really ticked him off. I tried to show him how to uninstall them, and he said, ‘I don’t need to learn that. You do it.’”

“He actually said that?”

“Yep. My father had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the digital age. The less he had to learn about it, the better.”

“So your father didn’t know how to uninstall the app on his phone.”

“No, he did not. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have been something that he would have done before taking his life.”

He took his bottled water from the holder and screwed off the top. “Do you remember which apps were on your father’s phone?”

She closed her eyes, thinking hard. “There was an app for emails, and another for text messages. He had his retirement money with Vanguard, so I installed their app so he could look at his accounts. He liked to follow hockey, and I installed a sports app. I also installed the Weather Channel app so he would know if a storm was heading his way. And he had me install an app called Gallery so he could store photos and videos.”

“Of what?”

She opened her eyes. “Come again?”

“Your last sentence doesn’t make sense. Your father was motivated to buy a cell phone by his granddaughter. He didn’t know how to use it, and wasn’t in a hurry to learn. Yet for some reason, he asked you to install an app that would let him store photographs and videos. That meant he was intending to take photos and videos with his cell phone, and store them. Of what?”

“I have no earthly idea.”

“Was he into photography?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Bird watching?”

“No.”

“Did he enjoy photographing pretty girls?”

“Are you implying that my father was a dirty old man that enjoyed taking pictures of young women? You’re out of line, Jon.”

“I’m just trying to help you figure out what’s going on.”

Beth shot him a murderous glare. He’d seen that look before, and knew the conversation was about to turn ugly. He began to back out of the space.

“Stop,” she said.

He pulled back in and threw the car into park but left the engine running.

“I quit,” he said.

The words stunned her, and she struggled to reply.

“You can’t...,” she said.

“You want my help, you’ll answer my questions. Otherwise, I’d suggest you call the FBI agents from the Jacksonville office, and get them to assist you.”

She squeezed his forearm. “I want you, not them.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.”

“Warts and all?”

“Warts and all.”

“Let’s start this conversation over, shall we?” He turned off the ignition. “Did your father ever text you a photograph or video he’d taken? I’m betting he saw some pretty spectacular sunrises from his balcony.”

“He never did that.”

“Did he like to text, or send emails?”

“Hardly. When he wanted to talk, he called.”

The car’s interior was growing warm without the AC, and he rolled down the windows and for a long moment said absolutely nothing.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

“If your father rarely used emails or sent text messages, then the Gallery app would have been the only app on his phone stored with personal information. My gut tells me that Sykes erased the phone to get rid of whatever was on that app.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Come up with a better scenario. I can’t.”

Beth chewed her lower lip. The conversation had turned uncomfortable, and was making her look at her father in a different light.

“Let’s pretend you’re right, and the Gallery app is the key,” she said. “What do you think was stored on it?”

“Something of recent interest,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Your father had no interest in owning a cell phone. Then he wants to buy one, and he asks you to help him. He only cared about one app, and that was the Gallery app. Something happened in his life that made him want to start taking photographs, and store them on a cell phone.”

“Hold on a minute. My father didn’t want a cell phone. Nicki talked him into buying one. I already told you that.”

“Did Nicki tell you that, or did he?”

“He did. Do you think my father lied to me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But why would my father do that?”

“I have no idea what your father’s motivation was, but I’m pretty sure he made up that story to get you to help him buy a cell phone, and install the Gallery app on it. Otherwise, he could have just bought a cheap cell phone. It would have saved him a lot of money.”

“Dad wouldn’t have done that. He wasn’t a liar.”

“Why don’t we call your niece, and settle it?”

He had boxed her into a corner, and he saw a flame in her eyes. Beth yanked her cell phone out of her purse, and placed a call to her niece. She put her cell phone on speaker so they would be both able to hear the conversation.

“I’ll bet you dinner I’m right,” she said.

“Only if I can pick the restaurant,” he replied.

“You’re wrong about this, Jon.”

Lancaster wanted to be wrong, but the evidence said otherwise. Nicki answered in a terrified whisper.

“Aunt Beth. You need to come back,” the teenager said.

“What’s wrong, Nicki?” Daniels asked.

“There are two men inside the house trying to hurt us.”

“What? Who are they?”

“I don’t know. They have ski masks on.”

“Are you in a safe place?”

“Yes. I’m hiding in the panic room with my parents.”

“What panic room?”

“The one Grandpa built behind the kitchen pantry.”

Melanie came on the line. “Hurry, Beth! They have guns.”

“Did you call 911?”

“Yes. An automated answering service put me on hold.”

“Hold tight — we’re coming.”

Lancaster pulled out of the Starbucks with his tires screaming. Saint Augustine was a sleepy town, and he guessed the number of home invasions that took place during broad daylight was probably zero. He thought back to the pair of Russian thugs parked outside the church, and wished he’d done a better job putting the fear of God into them.

“Why would your father build a panic room?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Beth said.

Chapter 7

Daniels wanted to kick herself. Jon had picked up on the threat that the Russians parked outside the church had posed, and she’d ignored his warning. Being an FBI agent made her deal with facts, and as a result, she’d tuned out her intuition. That was a mistake, and now she was paying the price.

Jon drove at breakneck speed down her father’s street with the car’s emergency lights flashing. A half block from the house, he pulled into a neighbor’s driveway and parked. The neighbor was watering the yard and shot them a frightened look.

They jumped out and drew their sidearms. Daniels flashed her badge and told the neighbor there was a burglary taking place down the street, and to please call the police. The neighbor dropped the hose on the grass and ran inside.

There wasn’t a sidewalk, and they trotted down the middle of the street toward her father’s home. Her breathing was accelerated, and she could feel the world speeding up. Jon had been in a lot more of these situations, and she decided to follow his lead.

“Plan of attack?”

“We need to split up. I’ll take the front door, you go around back, and come through the kitchen door. It should be unlocked.”

“Got it.”

Jon came to a sudden halt. He lifted his arms and pointed his weapon straight ahead as if aiming at an imaginary target. They were a hundred feet from the house, their view of the driveway blocked by the neighbor’s wall of bushes.

Daniels stopped as well. She heard the faint rumble of a running engine.

“Is that them?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said.

The Charger flew in reverse down her father’s driveway, then turned in the street so it faced them. Its back end jumped, and it sprang forward like a sprinter coming out of the blocks. They were about to be run over, and she aimed at the darkened windshield.

Jon grabbed her by the shoulders, and lifted her clean off the pavement. He was deceptively strong, and he carried her off the street and straight into the bushes, his momentum allowing them to crash through.

They landed in a well-kept yard. A Jack Russell terrier charged them, voicing its disapproval. On the street, the Charger screamed past with its horn blaring, the driver taunting them. Daniels promised herself that she would pay them back for this.

She picked herself up off the ground and took a quick accounting of herself. Her clothes had been torn by the sharp branches, and she had dirt in her mouth. Jon stood beside her, his face cut in several places, the blood flowing freely.

“That was a bad idea, Beth,” he said.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “You’re hurt.”

“Flesh wounds. Did you run a trace on the license earlier?” he asked.

“No, but I will. Let’s go check on Melanie’s family.”

They crashed back through the bushes and ran down the street. The front door of the house was open, and they went inside and did a quick check downstairs. All clear.

“The rooms haven’t been touched,” she said. “What do you think they wanted?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to have a look upstairs,” Lancaster said. “Give a shout if you need me.”

He vanished up the stairwell. Daniels moved to the rear of the house and entered the kitchen. Nothing had been touched there, either, and it made her wonder what the Russians’ motive had been. She started to knock on the pantry wall to let Melanie know that it was safe to come out, but remembered that her sister had a concealed weapon permit, and might shoot through the wall if she thought they were in danger.

Daniels called her sister on her cell phone instead. “I’m here in the kitchen. They’re gone. You can come out.”

“Thank God,” Melanie said.

Daniels ended the connection. The kitchen had a small butler’s pantry, with opposing shelves containing canned goods and spices. The back wall swung in, and Melanie, Nicki, and Nolan emerged, looking scared out of their wits.

Daniels put her weapon down on the counter and hugged each of them. Melanie pulled a twig out of her sister’s hair, and they both started to cry.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” Melanie said.

Nolan took a seat at the breakfast nook. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and he was breathing through his mouth.

“Are you going to be okay, Nolan?” Daniels asked.

“I just need to catch my breath,” he said. “Your father didn’t get around to installing air conditioning in that room. It must have been a hundred degrees.”

“Did you get a look at them, Aunt Beth?” Nicki asked.

“I saw their car. It was the guys parked outside the church,” Daniels said.

“I told you so,” Nicki said to her parents.

“We have the license plate, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to track them down,” Daniels said. To her sister, she said, “When did Dad build a panic room?”

“Three months ago. I thought he told you.”

“I had no idea. Did he say why?”

“Nope. He just went and did it.”

To her niece, she said, “Nicki, do you remember asking your grandfather to buy a smartphone recently?”

“It wasn’t me,” Nicki said.

Her father had lied to her about why he’d purchased a smartphone, and had also built a panic room without bothering to tell her. Was it a coincidence, or were the two things connected?

Daniels entered the pantry and stuck her head into the room. Small and without windows, it had walls reinforced with sheets of steel. The door was also made of steel and several inches thick, with a deadbolt and a dozen hinge screws to resist battering. Her father had never mentioned any burglaries in the neighborhood, and she wondered why he hadn’t installed a security system if he was afraid of a break-in.

Nicki tugged on her sleeve. “Jon’s calling you.”

Daniels returned to the front of the house and stood at the bottom of the stairwell. Jon stood at the top, holding his weapon at his side. He looked worried, which was not like him. She started upstairs, and her niece followed.

“Nicki, don’t come up,” Lancaster said.

“Why not?” the teenager replied.

“Because it’s a crime scene, and I don’t want you disturbing anything.”

“A crime scene? What did you find?”

“Do as Jon says, honey. It’s for the best,” Daniels told her.

“I won’t touch anything, I promise,” her niece said.

“Please, Nicki.”

“Come on, I’m a part of this, too, aren’t I?”

“You most certainly are. The police should be arriving any minute. Here’s what I want you to do. Go to the living room window and wait for them. When they arrive, go to the front door, and bring them inside. They will need to take a statement from you, and your parents. Okay?”

Nicki mumbled disapprovingly and headed downstairs. Daniels watched her depart, then joined Lancaster at the top of the stairs.

“The study was ransacked,” he said. “They left a memento.”

“What kind of memento?”

“See for yourself.”

She followed him into her father’s study. Some men escaped the real world in their workshops or garages. Her father’s lair was his study, where he spent countless hours reading books and poring over newspapers. He had spent more time here than anywhere else, and had often referred to it as his haven.

She let out a gasp. The desk had been pulled apart, its files lying in a heap on the floor. The bookshelves had been pulled off the walls and toppled over, her father’s treasured books covering the floor. Many of the books had been ripped apart, and she suspected the burglars had been looking for something hidden within their pages.

As she walked around the room, she was careful not to touch anything. Her father had loved his books, and seeing them so mutilated filled her with anger. An open copy of Peter Robinson’s In a Dry Season lay at her feet, the title page autographed. She’d gone to the author’s book signing and gotten a copy for her father as a present. Dad had been thrilled, and said the book was one of his all-time favorites.

Her eyes were drawn to the wall safe. Like the panic room, she hadn’t been aware of its existence. Her father had been keeping secrets from her, and she could not fathom why. She glanced at Jon, who hadn’t made a sound.

“They were looking for the combination to the safe, weren’t they?” she said. “That’s why they tore apart his desk, and opened all his books.”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t look like they found it,” she said. “I wonder if my dad wrote the combination down, or if he just kept it in his head.”

“I have it in my wallet,” he said. “When you and Melanie were poring over your father’s financial records, I came upstairs, and had a look around the study. The combination was in a hidden compartment in his desk.”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “He was acting like a spy. Did you stumble across anything that would indicate why?”

“No, but there must be a good explanation. That safe would have been expensive to have installed, same for the panic room. He must have felt threatened.”

“And scared. You said they left a memento. Where is it?”

She followed him across the study. In the corner was a tarnished brass bucket that contained her father’s carved walking sticks. Propped up against the bucket was a mummified hand wrapped in cloth. Its fingers were long and bony, the skin the color of ash. It looked like a Halloween prop, and she picked it up for closer inspection. The skin was cold to the touch, and she felt an icy finger run down her back. It was real.

“This is sick,” she said.

“I feel the same way.”

She held it up to the light and studied it. At the FBI academy she’d studied forensics and knew that a mummified body was a result of accidental exposure to chemicals, extreme cold, or lack of air, and that the body would not decay further if kept in cool and dry conditions. The hand was in good condition, leading her to believe that it probably had come from a museum. The Russians had brought the hand here intending to leave it behind. They were trying to send a message.

“What does this mean?” she said aloud.

“It wasn’t meant for us,” he said.

Holding the hand was making her uncomfortable, and she placed it on her father’s desk. “Then for who?”

“The police.”

“You think they’ll understand what this means?”

“I think so. Detective Sykes erased the apps on your father’s cell phone. My guess is, Sykes isn’t the only one on the force who knows what’s going on.”

“The police are involved.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what?”

“The police know what’s going on, and don’t want it getting out. They’re conducting damage control, just like any other Florida police department.”

Daniels shook her head. She didn’t have a clue as to what Jon was saying.

“Florida’s economy is driven by tourism,” he said. “It’s the state’s economic engine, and drives everything from beer consumption to real estate sales. Local police departments are trained to suppress negative stories if they think it will hurt tourism. Saint Augustine is a tourist town, and will get hurt by a bad story in the newspapers.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Yes, I am. When I was a cop, we suppressed negative press all the time. That didn’t mean that we didn’t prosecute people who broke the law. We did. We just did our damnedest to keep the story out of the newspapers.”

“Because bad press hurts tourism.”

“That’s right.”

Daniels was getting a clearer picture of how things worked in Saint Augustine. She heard her niece calling and walked out of the study and went to the head of the stairwell.

She looked down to see Nicki standing below.

“What’s up?”

“The police are here,” her niece said.

“Keep them busy. I’ll be right down.”

“You got it, Aunt Beth.”

She returned to the study. She was wrestling with how much information she should share with the local cops, if any at all. She decided that they were not her friends, and would only suppress any negative information she shared about her father’s passing.

“The police have arrived,” she said. “We need to tell them about the Russians breaking into the house, and get them to file a report, but that’s all we should tell them. I don’t want to answer their questions, or share any other information. Okay?”

“My lips are sealed,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “I agree with you — the police are hiding something. Until I find out what it is, I won’t tell them any more than I have to. Please do the same.”

“I’ll do whatever you want, Beth.”

She took a deep breath. Losing her father had been hard, but what was happening now was harder. The anxiety must have shown on her face, because Jon put his arms around her for a hug. She shut her eyes, soaking in his strength.

“You’re the best,” she said.

Chapter 8

When Lancaster had reached forty, he’d noticed how young other people were starting to look. He didn’t know if it was a sign of his advancing years, or just his eyes going bad.

The cop who’d responded to Melanie’s and the neighbor’s 911 calls was a good example. He had a fresh, innocent face, and didn’t look older than sixteen, yet he was wearing a uniform and carrying a sidearm, so he had to be at least twenty-one. He seemed intimidated by Daniels’s FBI status, and kept swallowing his Adam’s apple.

“So you think the men that broke into your father’s house were also parked outside the church for his funeral service this morning,” the officer said.

“I do, Officer Spencer. It was the same black Dodge Charger, so I’d have to assume it was the same two men,” she said.

Spencer scribbled in his notepad. “Did you actually see them at the church?”

“Jon went to the car and spoke with them. He thought they looked suspicious.”

Spencer shifted his gaze. “Mr. Lancaster, if you don’t mind my saying, you shouldn’t be playing police officer. If there’s a problem, the Saint Augustine Police Department is more than capable of handling it, sir.”

“I’m a retired police officer,” Lancaster said.

“You from up north?”

“Broward County. I was a detective.”

“Oh, well that’s different. Did you get a look at them?”

“I did. They were a pair of Russian hoodlums with a lot of jailhouse tattoos. Early forties, short haircuts, heavy accents. They told me they’d done landscaping work for Beth’s father and had come to pay their respects. That turned out to be a lie.”

Spencer resumed writing. “Did they attend the funeral?”

“No. They took off after I confronted them.”

“Sound like a pair of bad hombres. Did you get their license?”

Beth gave a shake of the head and mouthed the word, No. Spencer was looking down and didn’t see it. Lancaster didn’t like withholding information from the police, but this was Beth’s rodeo, and he would do whatever she asked of him.

“Afraid not,” he said.

“That’s a shame.” Spencer flipped the notepad shut. “I’m going to ask our CSI team to come out, and dust the study for fingerprints. They’re busy right now, so it might not be until tomorrow. Will someone be here to let them into the house?”

“We’ll be here,” Beth said.

“Good enough. I’ll need to take the hand to headquarters, and let the CSI team run some tests. You never know, it might be carrying some strange diseases. You can never be too careful these days.”

The mummified hand sat on the edge of Martin’s desk in a towel. Spencer picked it up in his arms as if it were a baby, and made for the door. If the mummified hand was carrying a disease, Spencer would have put on rubber gloves before touching it. Lancaster glanced at Daniels and saw her mouth the word, Bullshit.

They went downstairs and followed Spencer outside to his cruiser, which was parked in the driveway. Spencer placed the hand in the trunk and gently closed it. He was pale, and clearly upset.

“Officer, I want you to come clean with me,” Beth said. “Why did someone put a human body part in my father’s study?”

“I don’t know,” the officer said.

“I don’t think you’re being truthful with me.”

Spencer chewed his lower lip and stared at the ground.

“You lied to us. The story about the hand carrying diseases isn’t true, is it?”

Spencer would have made a lousy poker player. Unable to hide his embarrassment, he took off his hat and punched the inside. He impressed Lancaster as a guy who went to church every Sunday, and would only lie if there was a good reason.

“You got me,” the officer said.

“You realize I could have you fired for doing that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“No, ma’am.”

“So what’s the real reason?”

“A bunch of mummified hands have shown up recently. It’s upsetting the hell out of people. They appear on the front stoops of houses wrapped in towels. It’s damn sick, you ask me. The mayor is worried that it will get out, and hurt our tourist business. So he asked the police chief to hide any mummified hands we find.”

“How many is a bunch?”

“Counting this one, seven.” He hesitated. “My bad. The number’s six.”

“Over what time span?”

“The last two months.”

“Any suspects?”

“A couple of punks got pulled in for questioning, but they all had alibis, and swore they’d never do such a thing. We hit a wall with the investigation.”

“Were the hands dropped in front of houses, or commercial businesses?”

“Houses.”

“Do you know the owners?”

“I know all of them.”

“Please give me their names. I may want to question them, and see if they were in any way connected with my father.”

“I’ll need to get permission from my supervisor.”

Beth gave the officer a murderous look. She possessed a dark side that could be downright scary, and Spencer shrank a few inches beneath her gaze.

“Bad idea,” she said. “By law, you’re required to answer my questions right now. If you don’t, I’ll do more than just get you fired. Am I making myself clear, Officer?”

There was not enough ground for Spencer to stare at.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

“Take out your notepad, and write down the owners’ names. Include the streets they live on as well.”

Spencer took out his notepad and pencil and did as told. Finished, he tore out the sheet of paper and handed it to her. Lancaster moved to his left, and read the list over Beth’s shoulder. Four men, one woman, two of them doctors.

Beth read each of the names aloud, along with their addresses, then had Spencer verify that the names were correct. Then, she had him sign and date the list, so there would be no confusion later on.

“I also need your card, in case I need to ask you further questions,” she said.

Spencer took out his business card, and scribbled a number on the back. “That’s my personal cell. If you need to call, please use that one,” he said.

“What’s the number on the front of the card?” Beth asked.

“That goes to my official cell phone.”

“You don’t want to talk to me on that one?”

“I’m between a rock and a hard place here, ma’am. My supervisor can have me disciplined for disobeying orders, and you can get me fired for lying. I’d prefer to keep any further conversations private, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be in touch.”

Spencer thought he was off the hook, and moved to get into his cruiser. Lancaster had not stopped thinking about the Charger parked in front of the church. Of all the puzzles associated with Martin’s death, it was bothering him the most, and like the chicken in the road in Africa, it was going to nag at him until he solved its riddle.

“Officer Spencer, I have one more question,” Lancaster said. “Would you mind telling me how large the police force in Saint Augustine is?”

Spencer was caught off guard by the question. “Come again?”

“How many officers are on the force?”

“About a hundred.”

“Do they patrol the city and the beach?”

“Just the city. The beach has its own force.”

“That’s a lot of officers for one city. Why so many?”

“The city has a big homeless population. We try to get them into shelters so they’re not sleeping outside. We had to add officers in order to deal with them.”

“How do these officers get around town?”

“By car.”

“So they’re constantly cruising the city, looking for the homeless.”

“That’s right. It’s extra work, but it keeps the crime rate down.”

“I’m sure it does. Thank you.”

Spencer looked rattled, and his tires squealed as he backed out of the driveway and left. Lancaster sensed another presence, and he turned around. Nicki stood in the open doorway, eavesdropping. He shot her a disapproving look, and she disappeared.

“Why did you ask him those questions?” Beth asked.

“The Charger was bothering me, but I couldn’t figure out why. Now I know.”

“I must have missed something. What did Spencer say?”

“That Saint Augustine has a large police force that regularly patrols the city.”

“So?”

“The Charger got to the church early to get that spot, and was parked there for over an hour,” he said. “Several police cruisers would surely have driven by it. The cops would have seen the same suspicious things that I did. Yet none stopped to talk with those jokers.”

“The police deliberately avoided them? Why would they do that?”

“Because someone told them to.”

“Sykes?”

“Could be. You told Spencer that we didn’t get the Charger’s license. Are you going to run the Charger down without the police’s help?”

“Yes. I was going to ask the FBI’s Jacksonville office to help me arrest the Russians. Care to join us?”

Lancaster enjoyed nothing more than a bust, and said yes. But first, he needed to have a talk with Nicki, and find out how much she’d heard of their conversation. This was a bad situation, and he didn’t want her drawn into it any further.

Enough people had already been hurt.

Chapter 9

The special agent in charge of the FBI’s Jacksonville office had been in Daniels’s class at Quantico. His name was Erce Phillips, and they had spent many hours in each other’s company, running the winding wooded trails within the base. She didn’t think they’d talked more than ten minutes during the time they’d spent together, yet Daniels felt like she knew him, and hadn’t been surprised to see him at the church that morning.

Daniels called the Jacksonville office, and Phillips took her call.

“I need your help,” she said. “Two armed men broke into my father’s house while my sister and family were there. I have the license plate of the vehicle they were driving, and need you to run a check for me.”

“That’s horrible,” Phillips said. “Is your sister’s family okay?”

“They hid in a panic room while the men ransacked my father’s study.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Your family has been through enough.”

“Thanks, Erce. It’s been a long day.”

She gave him the information and heard his fingers dance on a keyboard.

“My computer’s running slow today,” Phillips said. “Is this the same Charger that was parked outside the church this morning?”

“You noticed them too?”

“I thought they looked out of place. I wonder why they waited so long.”

“What do you mean?”

“The funeral was at ten. It’s now three thirty. Guys who burglarize houses scour the obituaries in newspapers, then park outside the church the day of the funeral. When everyone’s inside, they drive to the deceased person’s house, and break in. The guys that broke into your father’s house waited, and risked running into a member of your family. Doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. I don’t think they were burglars. Nothing was stolen.”

“Weird. Oh crap. My computer’s frozen up. Let me call you back.”

“You got it.”

She ended the call. She was standing in the corner of the living room, and could hear Jon engaged in a lively discussion with Nicki in the kitchen. Nicki aspired to be a law enforcement officer one day, yet instead of emulating her aunt, had chosen Jon to be her role model. Daniels didn’t have an issue with that. Jon was a strict disciplinarian, and she enjoyed standing back and watching him rein her niece in.

She entered the kitchen to find Nicki and Jon standing toe-to-toe like a pair of boxers squaring off in the ring. Nicki’s face was red, and she appeared to be on the losing end. Melanie and Nolan stood a safe distance away, saying nothing.

“But I can help your investigation if you let me stay,” her niece pleaded.

“That’s out of the question, Nicki,” Jon said.

“But I’m a good detective. You said so yourself.”

“You’re an excellent detective. That isn’t the issue here.”

“Then what — you just want me out of your hair?”

“We could actually use your help. The issue is, those men saw your faces when they broke into the house. They’re dangerous, and you’re not safe until they’re arrested. I want you to drive back to Fort Lauderdale with your parents, and let us deal with this.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea.” Melanie said. “It isn’t safe here.”

“I’ll go pack the suitcases,” Nolan said.

“But what about the dead hand you found in Grandpa’s study?” Nicki said, unwilling to quit.

Her father stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his daughter.

“What in God’s name are you talking about, Nicki?” Nolan asked.

“Jon found a mummy’s hand in Grandpa’s study,” she explained. “Officer Spencer brought it downstairs wrapped in a towel, and put it in the trunk of his cruiser. He acted really upset, and when Aunt Beth questioned him, he admitted there were other cases in Saint Augustine where hands had appeared on people’s property.”

Nolan stared at his sister-in-law. “Is this for real?”

“I’m afraid so,” Daniels said. “We don’t know what it means, or how the cases are connected. The police are trying to keep the whole thing quiet. They’re afraid if the story leaks out, it will have a negative impact on tourism.”

“Sounds like a coverup to me,” Nicki said.

Out of the mouths of teenagers came the most startling things. The kitchen fell silent, her accusation hanging like a dark cloud.

“What do you think the police are covering up?” Jon asked.

“Everything,” Nicki said.

“Be more specific.”

“I think the other people who got dead hands were connected to Grandpa. The Russians were trying to intimidate them. How about if I go online, and find the link? You told my CSI class that smart criminals never commit random acts, there’s always a motive. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find it.”

Daniels had heard enough. The last thing she wanted was Nicki doing background checks on the other names that Spencer had given them, tainting the investigation by sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Daniels said. “You and your parents are going to pack your things, and hit the road. Understood?”

“But—”

“No buts. This is for your own safety. Jon and I will figure out what’s going on.”

“But I can help.”

“You’re in harm’s way. Jon and I can’t protect your family while trying to figure this out. Please, do as I say.”

Melanie put her hand on Nicki’s shoulder. “It’s for the best, honey.”

“This is so totally unfair,” the teenager said.

Daniels had a bad feeling about her niece. As she stood in the driveway watching Nolan back out, she had a clear view of Nicki in the back seat. Her niece was furiously typing away on her iPad, and she could only imagine the trouble Nicki was going to get herself into. Nolan beeped twice before driving away.

“She’s just like you,” Lancaster said.

“Are you saying that I caused this behavior?” Daniels said.

“You’re a contributing factor.”

“You’re the one she looks up to.”

“But you’re the one she wants to be.”

It was a scary thought. Her cell phone vibrated. It was Erce, calling her back.

“The Charger is owned by a local hoodlum named Arlen Ray Childress,” the special agent said. “He’s got a rap sheet, including arrests for trespassing and peddling weed. His current address is Saint Augustine Beach. I’ll text you the info.”

“Great. Are you free right now?” Daniels asked.

“I am. Would you like me to assist you with the bust?”

“I would. I want to leave the local cops out of it. I spoke with a Detective Sykes earlier, and he wasn’t up front with me. I don’t trust him.”

“That’s not good. Is the sheriff’s department somehow involved?”

“I don’t know what to think, I just know Sykes lied to me. The police don’t respect outside authority, so I don’t feel any obligation to include them.”

“I hear you. Let me round up a team. We should be there in forty minutes, depending on traffic. I’ll call you when we get close.”

“Thanks, Erce.”

She ended the call. Jon stood beside her, staring at the spot in the driveway where Nolan’s vehicle had been parked. The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit, and Jon was trying to put them together. She could almost hear the gears shifting in his head.

“Making any headway?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I do know one thing,” he said.

“And what pray tell is that?”

“This is all about your father’s money. There’s no other explanation.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because a pair of Russian gangsters is involved. In my experience, the only thing Russian criminals care about is money. They’re obsessed with it. If we can figure out where the money that disappeared from your father’s bank accounts went, we’ll have a clearer picture as to what’s going on here.”

Jon was being diplomatic. He’d just said that her dad had been involved with the Russians. There was no hiding from it anymore, as difficult as it was to accept. Her father had gotten himself in trouble, and it was up to them to clean up the mess.

“Let’s go nail Arlen Childress,” she said.