Double Cross Page 11

  “What do you know about her?”

  “We all served in the Army together. She has a record, but so far nothing leads to the elderly scam.”

  “Does Preston know her name?”

  “I contacted him this afternoon.”

  “Got a pic of her?”

  “Depends on who she is at the time.”

  Laurel hated dealing with him. “I’d like whatever you have. And for the record, I asked nicely.”

  He took a sip of water, but she saw his ploy. Delaying an answer made him look like he was in control. Fat chance.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “I might have it.”

  “You can get me this woman’s name and pic. How many others are in the operation?”

  “I don’t know at this point. Hope to hear by the weekend. Not much we can do until then except be seen together.”

  “Did you ever reciprocate after he saved your life?”

  Wilmington shook his head. “I’m using my indebtedness as an excuse to team up with him.”

  She understood his approach, if only she could believe him. “Okay. I know my job. Sit tight and wait until I hear from you.” She considered what he’d told her. “I’m assuming I’ll be followed until your friend believes he can trust me.”

  “His favorite method is to meet you face-to-face. If you’re seeing someone, I caution you to avoid him until this is over.”

  There went any hope of a friendship with Daniel.

  CHAPTER 21

  5:00 P.M. THURSDAY

  Laurel tightened the girth on her white Arabian stallion, Phantom. Best friend a girl ever had. She told him about the past, the present, and her goals for the future. Never a fear her words might appear on Facebook or as the subject of online chatter. He heard details concerning FBI cases, her victories, her regrets, and her discouragements. Lots of the latter. Her stallion’s demands were simple—good food, a clean stall, and a brush-down after a vigorous run. Controlling his sometimes-unpredictable nature fit her personality, but he was the perfect stress reliever and a good substitute for a boyfriend—without complicated demands.

  North of Houston near Pinehurst, where the earth rolled gently toward Dallas with tall pines and oaks, she could race Phantom across the open pastures and release all the tension the world threw her way. The city was her home, where she worked and lived, but here she breathed escape.

  Slipping her foot into the stirrup, she hoisted herself into the saddle. Such joy, wild and free, like the wind until she became the wind. She should have been born a century earlier, when technology didn’t consist of instant communication from anywhere in the world. Her Samsung Galaxy S 5 rested in her jacket pocket for those who needed immediate attention—and her Glock within inches of her fingers.

  She patted Phantom’s neck and laughed when he tossed his head. A gusty breeze added to his friskiness. They both wanted this run. Dusk would fall in two hours, which gave them a little time to enjoy the somewhat-cooler temperatures of fall combined with green pastures and full ponds. Goldenrods sprang up like nature’s final hold on color, proud of their fall beauty, and deep-yellow daisies held court around a huge rock.

  “I need to unload,” she whispered to the stallion. “Just when I thought I’d never have to be concerned about Morton Wilmington, life throws a curve. I’m afraid, Phantom. He has motive to see me dead.”

  Last night she’d dug into Wilmington’s Army records and confirmed the names of Geoff Cayden and Josie Fields. With the names, she texted SSA Preston for the FIG to run a complete background. Fingerprints would be in military records for future reference. Now to wait for the report.

  Who’d gotten into his offshore account and helped themselves to $4 million just before his release? A poor sport of a business associate? One of his bodyguards? If the purpose had been to discredit her, what would happen next? And why make it so obvious by depositing it into her account?

  She raced the stallion over familiar landmarks, her mind whirling with issues biting her heels. Slowly her muscles relaxed, and the latest FBI case was pushed to a remote corner of her mind. Inhaling the crisp air, she admired the landscape not chewed and spit out like the city—natural, peaceful, and flowing. Not like her job and the mounting danger from it.

  Phantom’s coat dampened beneath her jean-clad legs, and the sun descended in streaks of gold and orange. Time to head back to the stables, where a group of riders had completed their day too. Someday she’d have her own acreage and take care of Phantom herself, a ranch in the hill country with a facility like Silver Hospitality. An idea she’d held on to for years. She dug her heels into Phantom’s sides for one more race.

  Movement to her left, behind a huge live oak, grabbed her attention.

  Her shoulder stung as though a swarm of bees had taken revenge on her flesh. She grabbed her burning shoulder. Blood oozed between her fingers. Her head spun, and she bent low over Phantom.

  8:35 P.M. THURSDAY

  Daniel drove home from his grandparents’. The article and photo of Laurel and Wilmington’s reunion in the Chronicle threatened to put him in a bad mood.

  Green inched up his spine. He was beginning to despise the color.

  Stupid for a grown man.

  He turned up the volume on the radio for an update of the local news.

  “A former Houston FBI agent was shot this evening near Pinehurst. Laurel Evertson met a sniper’s bullet while riding at Lone Star Stables. No arrests have been made, and there’s no information at this time about her condition. She’d been relieved of her official duties at the bureau on Monday. Sources didn’t indicate a motive for the shooting.”

  Alarm rattled him. He was convinced she was still working the case with the FBI. Why else would someone take a shot at her? Old enemy? He contacted a dispatcher at the station.

  “Hey, Mike. This is Daniel. Can you pull up a report for me? Just heard a former FBI special agent by the name of Laurel Evertson was involved in a shooting.”

  “Sure. Give me a minute while I get the information.” He made small talk for a moment before apparently finding the report. “Okay, here goes. No arrests have been made. Evertson has a horse at Lone Star Stables. Usually rides on Sunday afternoons. Tonight she wasn’t so lucky because someone took a shot at her. She rode to the stables for help.”

  “How serious?”

  “Treated and released. What’s your interest?”

  “I’ve met her. Surprised, that’s all. What kind of bullet?”

  “A .45.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Speculation. She’s hit the news a lot this week regarding her relationship with Morton Wilmington, the FBI giving her the boot, and now this.”

  It all seemed highly suspicious to him. “The FBI isn’t going to release information on one of their own, past or present, if it jeopardizes a case,” Daniel said.

  “They’re working with us at the crime scene, which leads me to wonder why she was fired. The media’s running with all of it.”

  Daniel turned his truck toward Pinehurst. He knew the location of Lone Star Stables.

  CHAPTER 22

  10:40 P.M. THURSDAY

  After the emergency room trip, Laurel drove back to the stable with her right shoulder bandaged and in a sling. So lucky the bullet hadn’t penetrated the bone. She masked the apprehension stalking her with an agent persona while her insides cratered. Floodlights lit up the night sky, illuminating the crime scene and those seeking evidence related to her shooting. Too many Montgomery County cops, FBI agents, and media types combed the area. She avoided the FBI. No point getting into a shouting match. The shooter could be among any of them, and she’d never know. She slipped among the law enforcement, looking for a clue.

  This morning she’d texted SSA Preston about Josie Fields to ensure Wilmington had told the truth.

  Had Geoff Cayden or Josie Fields called the hit? Had Morton Wilmington? Was it a threat? Had the shooter missed on purpose, or had Laurel gotten lucky?


  Laurel observed the investigation. Most of the items retrieved were collected in plastic and leakproof containers. She’d bet next month’s paycheck on nothing incriminating being found. Thank goodness she’d seen the movement and Phantom jumped—and not tossed her off.

  Miss Kathryn would have called it a God-thing.

  “Agent Evertson.”

  She recognized the voice and slowly turned. “Officer Hilton.”

  “Daniel.”

  “Okay. I’m Laurel. What brings you here?”

  He frowned in the shadows. “The obvious. Are you okay? Looks like you should be home in bed.”

  Fresh blood seeped through the sterile wrappings. As soon as she finished here, she’d get some rest. “The hospital fixed me up. Got the bullet.”

  “I see your red badge of courage. Did you drive yourself there?”

  “It wasn’t that bad.” Actually she’d fought to keep her car on the road, and her shoulder stung horribly.

  “Which means you drove back to the crime site. Why am I not surprised?” He pointed to reporters taking pics and videos. “You’re the focus of every camera.”

  She cringed. “I’m trying to avoid them. A good investigator has to check out the crime scene.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Myself.” Think, Laurel, before you’re exposed. “I’m done here. Hard to retrace a shooter’s path in the dark.”

  “What did the doctor give you?”

  “Intravenous antibiotics and a shot of morphine.”

  “Now I understand your lack of common sense. Couldn’t have been much more than an hour ago. You could have killed yourself driving here. What are you doing, setting yourself up for another close-range bullet?”

  Laurel swallowed a response, noting the pain and morphine would be talking. She and Daniel barely knew each other, but she sensed an unspoken attraction between them, or maybe that was wishful thinking on her part. “I wanted to make sure my horse was okay, brushed down.”

  “Really? Aren’t there people in the stables to take care of that?”

  She stiffened, more with the pain than his question. “This is none of your concern. I’m the victim here, and I wanted to check for evidence.”

  “As if it’s not bagged and marked. What else did they give you for pain?”

  “Prescription meds.”

  “Have you filled it?”

  “When I leave here, I’ll find a 24-7 pharmacy. I want the shooter found, and I want the motive. The guy fired to my left, making it weird my right shoulder caught the bullet.” She drew in a weary breath. “If Phantom hadn’t bolted, law enforcement would be investigating a murder.” She paused, allowing reality to settle to the bottom of her stomach. “Can’t figure out why he didn’t shoot again. What ran him off?” Looking back at the stables, she remembered the crowd of people. “He was afraid of being seen.”

  She was talking too much. Must be the drugs flowing through her veins. She and Daniel walked toward a section of the pasture beneath the canopy of the live oak where the shooter had been positioned. A police officer carrying a flashlight greeted them. Another officer searched through the leaves with his K-9’s nose to the ground.

  “I saw movement here, but it could have been an animal. Then again, the wind could have affected the bullet’s trajectory,” she said.

  “The shooter had to be aware of your schedule,” Daniel said. “Followed you and didn’t leave a trace.”

  “A pro doesn’t leave a calling card.” Laurel moved toward the area where others sifted through pine needles and brush. “I looked there too. Clean.” She blew out her exasperation. “I seem to attract the volatile ones on both sides of the law.” The fire in her shoulder marred her good sense. “You mean well, Daniel, and I appreciate your being here. But you’re stepping on treacherous ground. It’s best you leave here now. I—”

  “Ma’am, can I have a word with you?”

  Laurel whirled toward the male voice. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. In the dim light it was difficult to make out his features. He had light hair swept back to his collar and wore jeans, a cowboy hat, and a University of Texas sweatshirt. “What can I do for you?”

  “I work at the stables, and I’d like to brush down your horse. Don’t look like you’re up to the job. Can’t remember your horse’s name.” He drew out his words, a good ole boy.

  “It’s a he, a stallion, and his name is Phantom. I’d really appreciate it. Your name?”

  “Alex Lockhart.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded and turned toward the stables. She studied his back . . . hadn’t seen him before. Could he be Geoff Cayden, or was she being paranoid? She shivered. Rest would clear her mind. She called to the man. “Alex, can I see your ID?”

  He returned to her side and pulled out his wallet—Texas DL. Matched up. “Thanks.” She handed it back to him. Her thoughts ran crazy. Geoff Cayden wouldn’t be stupid enough to not have ID. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.”

  “Sure, ma’am. Just wanted to offer my assistance.” He tipped his hat and walked away.

  “Laurel, like the stable hand, I want to help.” Daniel’s words were gentle. “You can’t solve what happened tonight in your condition, and I agree the likelihood of a shooter leaving anything behind is slim. Be glad the doctor yanked the bullet from your shoulder because it’s all you have.”

  “Laurel.” She recognized Wilmington’s voice. He touched her shoulder and she cringed. Would this night ever end? “Sweetheart, are you all right? I just heard you were shot. Why didn’t you call?”

  Oh, the things she’d like to spit at him. Instead she forced a smile and kissed his cheek. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  He glanced at Daniel and stuck out his arm. “I’m Morton Wilmington.”

  “Officer Daniel Hilton.”

  “Looks like you were taking care of my girl. I have the situation under control now.”

  Laurel gazed into Daniel’s face, wishing for the impossible. “Thank you for your help. Be safe.”

  CHAPTER 23

  12:02 A.M. FRIDAY

  Laurel sat in her car, seeking energy to climb the stairs to her apartment. But Wilmington had followed her, and he would stay parked until she disappeared up the stairs. She’d held her own in hand-to-hand combat, even knocked out two of Wilmington’s bodyguards when the FBI surrounded his condo five years ago. Bruises and sore muscles were part of the game, but not the steady throb of taking a bullet to the shoulder, even if it wasn’t serious. Every time her heart beat, a surge of white-hot pain tore across her flesh, leaving her angry in one breath and wanting to cry in the next.

  She was such a girl.

  Grabbing her purse, she exited her car and waved at Wilmington. Exhaustion pelted every inch of her flesh, and her wound hurt worse than when the doctor did his probing and numbed her. As she took the last flight, she bumped her shoulder rounding the turn and cried out. Now she was bleeding. Tears welled her eyes, not just for her injury but for the regrets stalking her. Tomorrow she’d feel better.

  Glad none of her neighbors were out at this hour. They’d see the blood oozing from the bandage and call 911. She unlocked the door to her haven, the sights and smells of spiced apple greeting her. Tonight her fragile spirit required comfort that came only from her private domain.

  Standing in the tiny kitchen of her apartment, she grabbed a glass. Oops. She laid the pain relievers on the counter and searched her pantry for peanut butter. No way would she take those babies on an empty stomach. After washing down the peanut butter with a swallow of orange juice, she reached for the pills and the antibiotic, the size of one of Phantom’s pills.

  Her phone rang, and she grabbed it. “I’m inside and good,” she said.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Wilmington’s voice ground with determination. “Cayden or his sidekick is responsible.”

  “Okay. I’m going to bed. Uh, Morton, we’re supposed to catch them, not kill them.”

/>   He chuckled. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  She was hit with a burst of pain from her shoulder. Yep, she was taking two of the prescription pain meds. If someone with murder on their mind got inside her apartment, he’d have an easy kill. “I gotta go.” And ended the call.

  She crawled into bed and snapped off the lamp. Officer Daniel Hilton popped back into her mind. Correction: far-too-good-looking Officer Daniel Hilton.

  11:35 A.M. FRIDAY

  Daniel never knew what to expect when he worked Fridays. Usually crazy. People not at work or in school were in a hurry to get an early start on the weekend and didn’t appreciate anyone or anything getting in their way. They were testy, rude, and careless. And those were the good guys.

  So far, it was a typical Friday, not giving him a free moment to think about the situation with his grandparents or Laurel. He’d left the crime scene last night when Morton Wilmington apparently took over things. Laurel had thanked him. . . . She didn’t seem too pleased to see the ex-con. Strange, the two were supposed to be cozy.

  Late morning he responded to a 911 call. Another possible home invasion. A frantic woman was concerned about her friend. Blood droplets outside the door alarmed her. The friend’s car was parked in the designated area, but when the woman rang the doorbell to check on her, no one responded. Neither did the friend answer her phone. The blood indicated a possible crime. He turned on his lights and sped to the address. A long time ago, he realized God would have him respond to the cases where he could do the most good. Potentially finding a woman’s bloody body made him question that resolve.

  The brick complex sat behind an iron fence. Attractive, well-kept, and encased behind a security gate. He hated those things when responding to a call. He showed his creds and parked in front of the address before hurrying up the stairs to the second floor. Sure enough, blood drops spattered the cement steps and the floor outside the door. Pulling his Glock, he patted his Springfield XD on his vest—his own backup.