Paula Graves - Dead Man's Curve

“The family?” she asked.

“The Coopers. As in Cooper Security. Ever heard of it?”

“Oh. Of course.” Anyone in law enforcement around these parts had heard of Cooper Security, the private agency that had brought down a major-league global conspiracy involving some of the previous administration’s top people. “I thought you said this Cooper was a fisherman, though.”

“He was. But Mrs. Cooper works for Cooper Security. They’d have been informed by now, and they have access to helicopters, hell, maybe even private jets, which means they can be up in these mountains before you can say ‘civilian interference in an official investigation.’ No way will they stay out of this, not with both an employee and one of their own cousins gone missing.”

She tried to gauge whether Landry found the thought disturbing or not. For her part, she didn’t like the idea of civilians, however skilled and resourceful they might be, getting up in her business on a case. It cramped her style, if nothing else.

“Why don’t we see if we can get a couple of rooms and stay here for the night?” Landry suggested, surprising her. She slanted a sharp look his way. “Territorial rights,” he added with another ghost of a smile.

She smiled back. “Stake our claim?”

“Somebody’s gotta do it. Might as well be us.”

First sign of life she’d seen in Landry since they’d arrived. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not, but at least it suited her own intentions.

She called the resident agency and talked to Pete Chang, the Special Agent in Charge. “Do you think the case will benefit from your staying in town instead of commuting?” he asked.

“I do,” she answered with more confidence than she felt.

“Approved. Just do the paperwork.”

She hung up and nodded to Landry. “Go take care of getting the rooms.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Where are you going?”

“Just want a look around.” She wandered across the parking lot, where a crowd had gathered in the deepening gloom. Onlookers were ubiquitous at any crime scene, though in a town this small, the crowd wasn’t as large as it might have been in a bigger place.

She let her gaze run across the crowd, just out of habit. It had surely taken more than one person to overpower and abduct two able-bodied people, especially if one of those people was a Cooper and the other one worked for Cooper Security. Not likely they could spare someone to see what was going on at the crime scene.

But it wouldn’t hurt to give the onlookers a little extra scrutiny.

Most of the people in the crowd came across as tourists rather than locals, though Ava couldn’t put her finger on what, exactly, gave her that impression. She wasn’t a local herself, though she was close. Her hometown was Bridal Falls, Kentucky, not far across the state line up near Jellico, Tennessee. She knew her way around the mountains.

Some of the people in this crowd weren’t dressed for the mountain climate—too many clothes or not enough, depending on where they came from, she supposed. Some wore socks with sandals, which every self-respecting Southerner knew to be a big, flashing sign of an outsider. As she wandered closer to the gathered crowd, she heard a few northeastern and Midwestern accents as well, mingling with the Southern drawls.

Apparently, Landry had followed her, for his deep drawl hummed near her ear. “Is this some sort of FBI magic trick? You listening for the voice of J. Edgar or something?”

“Go get us some rooms,” she repeated.

She couldn’t see him, but she pictured his shrug. After his one brief moment of liveliness, he was back to the guy who didn’t quite give enough of a damn about anything to put up much of an argument. He would have bugged the hell out of her last case partner, an uptight blue flamer from somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

Didn’t bother her a bit, though. A little objectiveness about a case was usually a good thing. Better than sweating every detail until you started seeing things that weren’t there.

She turned away from the crowd and looked back at the motel. It was picturesque, she supposed, in the way small mountain motels were. The facade was pure sixties kitsch, complete with a space-age neon sign starting to glow bright aqua in the waning daylight. To a certain type of traveler, she supposed, the Mountain View Motor Lodge might prove too much of a temptation to resist.

Which one chose the place? she wondered. Probably the wife. This was a wife kind of place.

She noticed a truck and a high-end bass boat parked near the end of the lot. The husband was a fisherman. The boat was probably his. She pulled out her cell phone and made a note to check whether forensics had taken a look at the vehicle and the water craft.

Slipping the phone back in her pocket, she turned toward the crowd, letting her gaze slide across the faces again as she pondered the obvious question nobody had yet asked.

Why would someone kidnap a fisherman and his wife? Was it the Cooper name? Was it the wife’s job at Cooper Security?

As she reached for her phone again to make a note to check into the wife’s open cases, her gaze snagged on a face in the crowd.

He stood near the back, a golden-skinned face in the middle of a sea of various skin colors. Dark hair worn longer than the fashion these days lay thick and wavy around his angular features. He had a full lower lip and deep brown eyes that, back in her foolish, romantic youth, she’d thought soulful.

Someone in front of him shifted, blocking him from her view. She edged sideways, impatient, but when the space opened again, he was gone.

The electric shock coursing through her body kept zinging, however, shooting quivers along her nerve endings and sprinkling chill bumps down her arms and legs. A tidal wave of images and memories swept through her brain, washing out all good sense and replacing it with a tumble of sensations and wishes and the time-worn detritus of shattered dreams.

It’s him, she thought, her heart racing like a startled deer.

Except it couldn’t be him. How could it be?

Sinclair Solano was very, very dead.

* * *

UNTIL THAT BRIEF, electric clash of gazes with the woman across the motel parking lot, Sinclair Solano had almost lost touch with what it meant to be alive. He’d forgotten that something other than caution or dread could animate his pulse or spark a flood of adrenaline into his system. That his skin could tingle with pleasurable anticipation and not just the fear of discovery.

But as soon as the sensation bloomed, he crushed it with ruthless intent. He had no time for anticipation. No room for pleasure. His sister, Alicia, had disappeared from her motel room earlier that day, and while Sinclair could offer no evidence to support his theory, he knew deep in his gut—where the worst of his regrets festered—that she’d been taken because of him.

Someone in Sanselmo had discovered the truth. He hadn’t died in Tesoro Harbor, as the world supposed.

And if he had not, then his former comrades would assume only one thing: he had been their enemy, not their friend.

And enemies were not allowed to live.

The crowd shifted, and he darted back toward the woods across the sheltered road, grateful that summer’s thick foliage hadn’t yet surrendered to the death throes of autumn. He’d dressed today, as he had since coming to these mountains, in olive drab and camouflage, an old habit from his days with the rebels in Sanselmo. Blending into his surroundings had become second nature to him long before his “death,” and nothing he’d experienced since that time had given him a reason to change.

Home these days was a lightweight weatherproof tent in the woods. He was able to pitch the tent in minutes and disassemble it as quickly as the need arose.