Sherri Shackelford - No Safe Place

“Mr. Ross?” the elderly female voice on the other end spoke.

“Yes.”

“This is your neighbor, Ruth. Remember I brought you dinner when you moved in?”

“Yes. I remember.” He had three others in the freezer. For reasons he couldn’t explain, married women believed that single men were perpetually in dire need of lasagna. “It was delicious. How can I help you, Ruth?”

“You know I don’t like to pry, but you said I could call you anytime.”

“Absolutely.” He lifted his eyes heavenward. “Anytime.”

“There’s a strange car parked in your drive, but no lights on inside. I thought I saw the beam from a flashlight. I can’t tell with all this rain. But something seems suspicious.”

A flicker of apprehension sharpened his focus. “What kind of car?”

“You know, a car. Four doors...”

That narrowed it down. If his house was being searched, the intruder hadn’t tripped his alarm. He’d have been notified by now.

“Are there any other cars parked on the street?” he asked.

He’d fielded more than one late-night encounter with a drunken college kid looking for a party who hadn’t gotten word the frat boys had moved.

“Let me check,” Ruth said.

A lengthy pause followed. The waitress appeared at their table. Following Beth’s order of a chicken salad croissant, Corbin angled his phone away and requested a club sandwich.

“I’m back.” Ruth declared. “Just the car in your drive.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ruth.”

“Would you like me to call the police?” she asked, a trill of hope in her request. “I can hang up with you and call them right now.”

“It’s, uh, probably my girlfriend,” Corbin assured her. He didn’t need an unsuspecting officer stumbling into this mess. “She’s watering the plants while I’m out of town. I appreciate the call. If you see anything else out of the ordinary, let me know. Talk soon.” He disconnected the call before she could continue the conversation.

Beth glanced up from her glass of water. “Everything all right?”

“Not exactly.”

He rested the phone on the table and stared out the window. There was no way the men from the parking garage had discovered his identity. The address listed on his car registration and his Quetech Industries employee paperwork didn’t match where he currently lived. They hadn’t followed him, or he’d have seen their car.

Beth tilted her head. “What is it?”

If they hadn’t traced him, then they must be tracking Beth. But how? Or had she deliberately given someone his address?

His determination hardened. Beth Greenwood had worked with Timothy Swan on the Cayman Holdings case. She had information she wasn’t sharing. She was running. She’d get them both killed if he didn’t stay on his guard.

He had to assume the worst—that she was a knowing accomplice to a money-laundering scheme that was funding a sleeper terrorist cell. At the very least, she must be profiting. Why else would she be involved?

His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “Give me your phone.”

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