If I Should Die

TWENTY

I’m used to people lying to save their ass, but I couldn’t be one hundred percent positive whether Carl was telling the truth. He swore up and down that not only had he not told anyone to take a shot at the P.I and his bitch, but he hadn’t heard that anyone had gone off on their own.

He did, however, have a hand in Jimmy Benson’s truck going off the road.

He said, “I told them to bring me Jimmy alive. They said his truck just lost control and went into the water.”

I didn’t buy it. Trucks don’t just lose control.

Carl was a problem on many levels—he thought he was in charge and he had manipulated the loyalty of the team I’d put together. He’d stayed in Spruce Lake and people here trusted him.

Which was why I couldn’t pepper him with shotgun pellets and watch him slowly bleed to death, however much I wanted to.

People were scared of me, and I could work with that, but until this deal was finalized on Sunday—and Carl had to be alive for the final handshake—killing him was not an option.

That put me in a bad mood.

Coupled with, of course, the problem of the shooter.

I didn’t ask for Ian’s advice often, but on issues like this he sometimes had good insight. We were already halfway to Potsdam to meet my pet cop and make sure he finished his last job.

“Carl swears he knows nothing about the sniper.”

“Do you believe him?” Ian asked.

“Unless he’s become a far better liar over the years.”

It wasn’t solely because I thought he was telling the truth; a sniper wasn’t Carl’s style. Did someone want to fuck up my operation? Killing a civilian would bring in cops I didn’t control during the next critical forty-eight hours.

“The clients,” Ian said discreetly, “could have sent an advance team.”

“Without me knowing?” I changed the subject. “What did you find at Benson’s place?” I asked.

“Nothing that would indicate Jimmy was playing both sides,” Ian said. “But I did spot the P.I. Sean Rogan in the neighborhood.”

My instincts vibrated. “How close? Benson is right off the main road.”

“At the intersection, headed toward Hendrickson’s place.”

That could mean something or nothing. I needed to assess Rogan myself. “Did you dig anything up on him?”

“Not much. He is who he says he is—a private investigator out of Washington, D.C. From what I could put together, he specializes in computer security. Graduated from M.I.T. That’s near Boston, could be where he met Hendrickson.”

Something didn’t feel right. Hendrickson was at least five, maybe ten, years older than Rogan. “Dig deeper.”

“I already have the word out. I’ll have reports coming in tonight.”

“And Lucy Kincaid?”

“We may have a problem there. When Weddle said she worked for the morgue, I was able to track her down easily. Thing is, she doesn’t work there anymore. She left three months ago. They told me she could be reached at FBI Headquarters.”

I slammed my fist on the dashboard. “Fuck!”

“I think it’s a coincidence—she has no ties to Albany.”

“I don’t care; it’s too risky.”

I weighed my options. She couldn’t be an agent—not after only three months—but she definitely knew Feds. If she went missing or turned up dead, others would start snooping.

For all I knew, she’d already called in her buddies.

And if the Feds identified the dead bitch, everything would come tumbling down. All I needed was two more days.

Ian pulled into the Potsdam town limits. “Let’s do this quick,” I told him. “I need to get back to Spruce Lake. It’s time everyone knows I’m back.”