Cassie Miles - The Final Secret

Noah paused to issue a quick instruction to Tony Vega, telling him to hold off on the metal detector. Then he ascended the curving staircase, taking two steps at a time, hoping that a talk with the general would clear up his questions about Warrick.

Outside the general’s bedroom, he came to a halt with his fist raised to knock. From inside, he heard an argument. General Haymarket’s voice was gruff and monosyllabic. The woman sounded like a soprano singing an aria. It had to be Ruby. She’d already made it clear that she didn’t like this fund-raiser, and now she was telling him that she had no intention of making an appearance.

Noah’s unfortunate marriage had ended in divorce five years ago, and he had plenty of experience with domestic tirades—enough that he knew better than to interrupt. Stepping back, he leaned against the wall in the wide hallway and put through another call to Anna Rose. Her face popped up on the screen of his cell phone.

With her index finger, she pushed her polka-dot glasses up on her nose and said, “There’s a suspicious person working as a security agent for Mitch Murano.”

“Why suspicious?”

“A series of cyber indicators lead me to believe that he’s using a fake identity.”

As she rattled off an impressive number of clues that led to her conclusion, he tried not to eavesdrop on the general and Ruby. The word liar was being bandied about, also cheating , scum-sucking creep . On both sides, it was harsh.

He stepped away from the door. “Anna Rose, I think you’re onto something.”

“Thank you, dear. There are times when this old computer broad hits the mark. Call me Super Cyber Anna Banana.”

“Another comic book character?”

“Actually, it’s what my grandson Flip calls me. Anna Banana is sparkly and does shape-shifting, usually turning into fruit.”

“In the meantime...”

“I ran facial recognition on this guy and came up with a match.”

“Kenneth Warrick?”

“Bingo!”

Gennie’s former boyfriend was becoming a problem. “Send me his most recent photo and I’ll alert everybody to be on the lookout.”

“I’ll dig into links between Warrick and Murano and the general,” she said.

“Add Ruby Haymarket into that mix. She took a class with Murano.”

As if responding to a cue, Ruby charged into the hallway, leaving the bedroom door open behind her. Over her shoulder, she shouted at the general, “Don’t try to stop me. I can’t stand Mitch Murano, and I refuse to pretend that I like the man.”

The half-dressed general followed her through the door. “You won’t be missed. I’ll be too busy chatting up Lydia Green and Crystal.”

“Seriously, Roger? Are you trying to make me jealous?” Her honey-blond hair was caught up in a high ponytail that fell past the collar of her shirt. Her sculpted eyebrows arched in disdain. “You can talk to those piglets all you want. I’m going for a ride.”

Noah stood directly in her path. Stepping out of the way wasn’t in his nature, and so he squared his shoulders and stood his ground. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“I’m not old enough to be a ma’am . We’re probably the same age.”

Give or take a decade. “Did I hear you say that you were going for a ride?”

“That’s right.” She braced her fists on the hips of her skinny jeans and glared at him. “Have you got a problem with that?”

“It’s none of my business unless your ride puts you in harm’s way. I want to be certain that you’re safe. Allow me to escort you.”

He cocked his arm, and she latched on. “If you want to ride with me, I have a stallion you might be able to handle.”

“I’m needed here, but I’ll instruct one of my men to take you to the stables.”

She tossed a glance over her shoulder at her husband. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“I won’t.” The general’s face was blistering red. “I don’t give a hot damn if you settle your cute little behind into the saddle and ride across the mountains to California. It might jostle some sense into that pea brain of yours.”

“He doesn’t get me,” she whispered to Noah, “and he never will. Not until the day he dies.”

He sincerely hoped that day didn’t come on his watch.

The small circular tables scattered in the center of the ballroom were meant for standing and chatting while sampling from the buffet. Before the guests arrived, they were vacant. Gennie wended her way through the tables and across the dance floor to approach Zoey. Though the redhead wore a modest pantsuit with sleeves that covered her ripped biceps, she still looked buff. Not an ounce of flab on that tanned well-toned body.

She greeted Gennie. “So, G-Fox, are you ready for this party to get started?”

“I’ve got one question. How much do you know about flowers?”

Zoey smiled and shrugged. “They smell good?”

After a quick lecture on the toxic posies in the floral displays, Gennie mentioned Kenneth Warrick. “Have you heard of him? He used to be a private contractor in Afghanistan.”

“I was in the navy, never stationed in the Middle East.”

“He placed the order with the florist requesting those particular flowers, maybe as a threat to the guest of honor. What can you tell me about Murano?”

Zoey kept her eyes straight ahead and spoke out of the corner of her mouth as if dribbling out a secret. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this Warrick character wanted to poison Murano. Lots of people have a beef with him...including me.”

“Wait a minute!” Gennie was unsure she’d heard correctly. “You said Murano changed your life.”

“That doesn’t mean I like the guy. He claims to be spiritual and says his method is tough love , but there was nothing lovely about the way he treated me. After I left the navy, I was in a real bad place. My weight dropped to ninety-eight pounds. I dosed my morning orange juice with vodka, and that was when I bothered to get up. Mostly I stayed in bed and stayed stoned.”

“Weed?”

“And worse. I can’t believe I abused my body like that.” Her side-talking lips pinched together. “I hit rock bottom. That’s where smarmy Mitch Murano and his promise of meditation and healing came into play. I dropped four grand on a course with him. His idea of treatment was to tell me in no uncertain terms that I was hopeless and would never amount to anything. After a few weeks with him, I wanted to die.”

Gennie listened without comment. She empathized and identified with the emotional struggle that often came when leaving the service. Her injuries and the deaths of her team fed her PTSD. There had been days when she’d stared into the abyss and longed for death.

“Then I got angry,” Zoey said.

“I understand.”

“I was determined to prove my worth. Started working out like a woman possessed. I took martial arts classes and boxing, spent hours with the heavy bag, picturing Murano’s face and punching hard. After gallons of sweat and tears, I discovered the skills and talent for honing my body. I got strong. Nobody was ever going to hurt me again.”

“Do you think Murano meant for that to happen?” Gennie suggested. “Maybe he planned it that way.”

“I considered the possibility, but when I tried to thank him, Murano didn’t even remember my name. All he wanted was to sell me another class.”

She looked toward the ballroom entrance, and Gennie followed her gaze. Three other field agents—two black and one white, all former Army Rangers—had their heads together. She knew that they were armed, skilled combatants. With all this security, she shouldn’t have felt apprehensive in the least. Her gaze went toward the poisonous flowers. Warning or threat? “How did Murano connect with the general?”