Deep Cover. Sandra Orchard
“Why don’t you come clean? It’s not like the case you’re on now puts her life in danger.”
“You of all people should know why,” Rick snapped, and immediately regretted it. He had enough to worry about without going back to that dark place. Zach alone knew the emotional hits he’d taken, but that didn’t mean Rick wanted to talk about them. Ever.
“You can’t live the rest of your life as if you have a bull’s-eye painted on your back, afraid anyone who gets too close will get caught in the spray.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Rick growled.
“What’s complicated? You obviously still love the woman. Tell her the truth.”
Rick pulled the tab on his can and took a long drink. The icy liquid pricked at his throat, like the vague sense of foreboding that pricked at his conscience. “Laud’s her uncle.”
The way Zach’s jaw slackened would’ve been funny if Rick hadn’t felt so miserable. Just being around Ginny for a few minutes, and as angry as she’d been with him, had stirred up all his longings. And regrets.
“When did you find out?”
“I knew all along.”
“Have you lost your mind? Does Drake know? I can’t believe the captain let you go in on this one. You had to know you’d run into her.”
“This conversation is between you and me. Got it? When Ginny and I dated, she claimed she rarely saw her uncle. Her connection shouldn’t have been an issue.”
“What is Ginny’s connection, exactly?”
“She’s the new PR person. In charge of fundraising.”
Zach pushed his fingers through his hair, then slapped on his ball cap. “Oh, man, you’re cooked. Pull out before the entire operation—and your cover—go up in flames.”
“I can’t. I’m here to put Laud out of business. A few days ago, I overheard a guy put the squeeze on him for fifty grand. The accent sounded Russian. If Laud owes the Russian mob that kind of cash, it’s only a matter of time before he torches another property.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. Someone sabotaged the construction site last night. Laud has to be getting desperate. His last project soared into six-digit overruns. He can’t keep starting new projects to finance unfinished ones. He intends to use this one to cash in. I can feel it. It’s the perfect setup. Skim money from the grants and donations to keep his creditors off his back. Then torch the place for the insurance before anyone catches on.”
“Perfect, except for one thing.”
“Yeah.” Rick’s breath seeped from his chest. “Ginny.”
“She’s bound to tell Laud you’re using an alias.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said, not thrilled with the plan but liking it better than the alternative. “I’ll admit I’ve had some run-ins with the law. That nugget should convince Laud I’m corruptible enough to hire to torch one of his buildings. Then I’ll have him.” Rick shook the tension from his shoulders. Yeah, this could work.
“What if you’re wrong? What if Ginny is part of the family business?”
“She’s not.” Rick crushed the soda can in his hand. That kind of innuendo was precisely why he wouldn’t let this assignment fall to someone else. He had to protect Ginny. He owed her that much.
Rick rubbed his still-sore ribs. He’d do whatever it took to convince her he was her best hope of getting this project built. With a saboteur on the prowl, more than her reputation was at risk.
“Consider this, my friend. If you nail her uncle, who do you think she’ll blame?”
“Me. I know.” Rick had no illusions about that. “Just like I know that when this case is over, we’re over.”
Laud switched off his bedroom lights, pressed his back to the wall and nudged aside the curtain. He hated coincidences—like the silver Ford Escort that started tailing him within hours of his visit to the insurance company.
Bad enough the insurance buffoons wouldn’t pay up on the townhouse fire. Further investigation, they claimed. Sure. Now this.
He let the curtain slip into place.
He swiped the back of his hand across his moist brow and stared at the overnight bag he’d dumped on his bed. What if his pal in the Ford didn’t work for the insurance company? What if he belonged to Petroski?
The slimeball probably had spies everywhere to make sure clients didn’t skip town before their next loan payments. The calling card at the construction site had no doubt been his friendly reminder.
Laud stalked down the hall. The cold laminate floor bit into his bare feet. He never should’ve come back to this stinkhole town where everyone knew his business before he did. He couldn’t even hire a decent salesman here.
Laud snapped on his desk lamp and glanced at the glossy sales brochure for his new high-end offices. The salesman had attached a business card with his photo—slicked-back hair, gapped teeth, cheap suit. No wonder the idiot had scarcely leased half the units at the Harbor Creek development.
The muscles in Laud’s neck bunched. He dug his fingers into the knots and kneaded them loose. He’d have to find another way to raise enough cash to keep Petroski off his back until Ginny came through for him.
Laud poured himself a double Scotch, tossed it back in one swallow, and waited for its magic to take effect. But the slow burn was no match for the flames smoldering in his chest.
He sank into his leather chair and tapped in the password for his online banking account. As the please wait circle swirled on his computer screen, Laud fed Duke’s resignation letter to the shredder. The man might be just the distraction he needed to preoccupy his niece, and her meddling mother, until his plans fell into place. He should’ve silenced his sister-in-law when he had the chance.
His banking info blipped onto the computer screen. A lousy three grand in the account—not enough to cover a week’s interest on the three million he owed Petroski, let alone a month’s.
The heat in his chest intensified.
He rubbed his knuckles over his ribs and popped another antacid.
Lori smiled at him from the hand-drawn picture on the corner of his desk. The sloppy scrawl looked like a three-year-old colored it, all big heads and stick arms outlined in worn-down crayons.
His insides twisted.
The latest blackmail note lay unopened on his desk.
Popping a second antacid into his mouth, he tore open the envelope. Boldfaced letters, cut and pasted from a newspaper, read: “You’ll pay. One way or another, you’ll pay.”
Blinding pain clawed at his chest. He clutched his shirt with one hand and grappled for the phone with the other. Punched nine—breathe—one—breathe—The pain released a fraction, then a fraction more. Not a heart attack. Anxiety. Just anxiety.
Laud slumped over the desk and drew in a big breath. He tried to hang up the phone. Missed. Shifted the receiver until it fit into the cradle. If he landed in the hospital, everything would collapse. He couldn’t afford to give in to weakness.
He straightened, retrieved the blackmail letter and flattened out the crinkles with his palm. No instructions. No explanations. No demands.
Just threats.
But from who?
Laud flicked his lighter at the edge of the paper and let the flames eat the words.
Just words.
The phone rang.
Laud