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  “There’s been . . . chatter.” Declan exhaled, knowing his boss would dismiss this as casually as he had Darmadi’s dying words.

  Alan pushed back in his swivel chair, his long, slender fingers twitching on the armrests. He was losing his patience. “Chatter?”

  Declan cleared his throat, stretched his shoulders until his muscles contracted in the center of his back, and took a deep breath before responding. Everything rode on this. “Yes, sir.” He pulled out his notebook. “I’ve been listening for code words.” He flipped through the transcript pages until he found the one he wanted, highlighted and tabbed.

  Tanner glanced over, curiosity dancing in her beautiful brown eyes, but she didn’t say a word.

  She was usually the first to speak and the one to protest or argue most vehemently, and she was good at it. It made for some of the best verbal sparring and deep discussions he’d ever had. He found her savvy wit and intelligence both impressive and sexy. Yes, much to his chagrin, he thought Tanner Shaw all those things and more. He admired the woman, and she’d come to mean a great deal to him.

  When it had happened—when his feelings had shifted and become far, far deeper—he wasn’t quite certain, but it had definitely happened.

  “And?” Alan tapped his fingers.

  Declan swallowed. He needed to focus, to speed this up. Get your head in the game, Grey. “I’ve heard chatter about the family expanding.”

  Alan cocked his head. “What family?”

  Declan moved to the whiteboard, where he placed his surveillance photos. “A man from Malaysia immigrated four years ago and has been steadily bringing over an intriguing number of ‘nephews.’”

  Alan frowned. “Nephews?”

  “Yes, sir. Supposed relatives. Young Southeast Asian men in their early twenties—all Muslim.” He paused briefly but wanted, needed, to keep pounding the importance of this case into his boss’s shortsighted mind. “Several are on student visas, pursuing degrees in biochemistry, chemical engineering, or biology. The first young man he brought over now specializes in virology.”

  “Smart nephews.”

  “All fourteen of them?”

  “Have you checked if they really are his nephews? Some families are large.”

  “Documentation in that area is easily bought, but we’re digging deeper, and we have the CIA regional department overseas digging as well. Mack’s been a great help.”

  Michael “Mack” Jacobs was his main contact at the CIA, the agent who served as a liaison between Declan and whatever region he needed help from. Over the years, he’d become a friend, the two meeting occasionally for dinner or a cup of joe in Georgetown, where Mack resided, or he’d come up Declan’s way for a pickup game of rugby with the guys.

  Parker was leery of anybody in the CIA, but he too liked Mack as a person. He just didn’t trust the agency as an entity, said he didn’t like the read he got off most agents—said they were called “spooks” for a reason. But even he agreed they were a necessary agency, just not one he wanted any part of.

  Alan exhaled, steepling his fingers. “This had better be worth it.”

  “It is. I’m telling you, I can feel it in my gut.”

  “Well, luckily for you, Miss Shaw believes she has something too, and I hope it is more concrete than her gut and some chatter.” Alan indicated for her to proceed.

  “Thank you.” Tanner nodded, and Declan found himself literally sitting on the edge of the swivel chair, scooting out from the conference table before his knees knocked the underside of it again.

  “Over the last few months, I’ve been in regular contact with Mira,” she said.

  “The woman taken from the house where Anajay Darmadi was staying?” Declan asked.

  “Yes. After your raid on the house, my former organization, the Intercultural Resource Center,” she said, no doubt more for Alan’s information than his, “safely placed her in a new location and have been working with her to make a new life for her here in America.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Alan said, “but its pertinence to the case . . . ?”

  That was rude. What Tanner did was beyond admirable, but that was Alan—always direct and focused on the case at hand.

  “That’s great,” he said, truly admiring her work and compassion for those in need.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she responded, clearly surprised. He hated that his respect and admiration for her work surprised her. He wanted her to know how genuinely he believed in what she did, in how she relentlessly fought for the rights of the marginalized and oppressed. It was just how she sometimes went about it—without any concern for her safety—that terrified him.

  “Miss Shaw?” Alan grunted.

  “Right,” she said. “Mira confided in me that before the house was raided, men were coming through at a regular pace. From there they were moved to strategic locations to wait until they were called upon.”

  “Called upon by whom?” Alan asked, straightening.

  She had him. Finally. He was reeled in, or at least interested.

  “She didn’t know. No names were used.”

  “What do you know of this woman? Can she be trusted?”

  “I know she was brought over against her will on a ship from Malaysia. Her father sold her to a man who in turn handed her over to a different man after the ship docked in Baltimore’s port.”

  “Did she say who bought her from her father?” Alan pressed. He wanted the facts and wanted them quickly.

  You’ve got this, Tanner. Fighting his impulse to let Alan have it for being so bullish, Declan said a silent prayer for God to guide and strengthen her. He knew she could handle the situation, and her occasional hostility toward his attempts to protect her was a clear sign that she was no fan of his treatment. He didn’t blame her. It was just that when it came to Tanner, a highly protective mode kicked in—so strong, he felt helpless to control it at times.

  “She can describe the man, but she doesn’t know his name. She thought he was the captain of the ship that transported her to the U.S. She said he’s American.”

  Declan’s muscles coiled. The captain of the Hiram, the merchant ship sailing under a Malaysian flag, who snuck Anajay Darmadi into the country was American. A former soldier who was currently serving time for smuggling and treason.

  Could it be the same man? Randal Jackson had smuggled in not only Darmadi but dozens of refugees whom he and his crew treated like slaves. If it hadn’t been for Tanner’s intervention, those refugees would now be the property of “business man” and loan shark Max Stallings, who too was now serving time for human trafficking.

  Both men had also been linked to FBI agent Steven Burke, who’d been undercover on the Hiram. Whether he was under FBI sanction or not was still up for debate, but he’d been killed on the ship. Most likely by Darmadi when, Declan was guessing, Burke’s true identity came to light. Burke was yet another facet of this case Declan had barely scratched the surface of.

  “If I showed Mira a picture of the man I believe she’s describing, would she be willing to look?” Declan asked.

  Tanner’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking Randal Jackson, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Will Mira look at his picture?”

  “I can ask,” Tanner said cautiously.

  Alan stood, collected his files, and smoothed his jacket. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You two are going to work this together.”

  “Excuse me?” Declan swallowed. He already had a partner. Not that he wouldn’t mind the time spent with Tanner.

  “What?” Tanner’s face brightened.

  Of course it would. Any chance of danger.

  “Agent Kadyrov is on bereavement leave for her father’s death out west. So in the meantime, you two”—he pointed between them—“see what you can get out of Mira, dig a little deeper on this ‘family’ and the nephews, find out what the CIA learns on their end through Mack, and pay Captain Randal Jackson another visit in the pen if Mi
ra identifies him as the man who brought her over from Malaysia.” He stood and headed for the door. Once in the hallway, he turned with a frown on his face. “If by the time Lexi returns to work you two don’t have anything concrete, we’re letting this go. It’s already been two months, and I fear we’re chasing nothing but ghosts.”

  2

  Griffin took a seat at a two-person table in the upper brick-walled loft of La Scala. A rectangular window overlooked Little Italy, where Declan lived, and a balcony overlooked the bocce ball court on the lower level.

  He’d asked Lucio, the maître d’, to send a man fitting Haywood’s description up when he arrived. Before long he led Haywood to their table.

  Haywood surveyed the secluded area, and relief swept across his face. He hung his jacket across his chair and took a seat opposite Griffin, his back to the bocce ball court, and Griffin’s to the wall. Always to the wall. It was ingrained in him as a homicide detective.

  Griffin waited until the server introduced himself, brought them water, and left, before leaning forward and whispering, “What’s going on?” Haywood’s cryptic message had been weighing on his mind for the past three hours. Time to get at it.

  Haywood exhaled, his crooked fingers clasping together, shuffling. Crooked from his years of baseball, playing catcher all the way through college and breaking fingers more times than he could remember.

  Haywood leaned in, whispering in his gravelly voice, “I think my partner is embezzling from my clients and setting me up to take the fall.”

  Griffin choked on his water. “What?”

  The waiter returned for their order, and they quickly made a decision so they could get back to their discussion—Griffin ordering the spinach fettuccini and Haywood the seafood fra diavolo. The waiter departed as quickly as he’d come, providing them the privacy they needed.

  Griffin looked to his friend. Was he serious?

  Haywood’s twitchy hands, flushed face, and rapidly bouncing knee all indicated a man in the grip of fear.

  Haywood cleared his throat before continuing, his voice still low. “Clients of mine, John and Elizabeth Markum, came to me concerned with some discrepancies in their accounts.” He shook out the white cloth napkin and dabbed his forehead with it.

  “What did you do?” Griffin asked, floored.

  “I assured them I’d look into it.”

  “And?”

  Haywood glanced around, even though no one sat at the only other table on the loft. “Money is missing, transferred to an offshore account.”

  “Transferred by whom?”

  Haywood swallowed, his pronounced Adam’s apple dipping. “It shows I did it, but I swear, son, I didn’t.”

  “Why do you think Lowell is the one who is behind it and not Emmitt?”

  “Because only Lowell knows my log-in information.”

  Griffin frowned. “Why does he know your log-in information?”

  “In case of an emergency. To protect our clients. If something happens to one of us, we can take care of each other’s clients.”

  “Speaking of clients, has he embezzled from any of his own?”

  “Not that I can tell. It’ll take me time to comb through all the accounts, but it looks like he’s only siphoning from my clients—I’m guessing in an attempt to make me look like the guilty party.”

  “So the Markums aren’t the only ones he’s stealing from?”

  “No, but they are the only ones who have come to me about it.” Haywood shook his head with a sigh. “So far I’ve found four accounts.”

  “And you didn’t notice until now?” That rocked his confidence in Haywood’s account management abilities.

  “Lowell was careful. Covered his tracks. If the Markums hadn’t come to me, it would have taken me a while to notice it.”

  “Okay, then we’ll go to the station. I can introduce you to—”

  “No.” Haywood shook his head vehemently. “I don’t have any proof it was Lowell. I’m not going to the cops. Officially,” he added, looking at Griff. “Not until I have proof.”

  “What proof?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll keep searching until I find it.”

  “I may have another option.”

  “Oh?”

  He handed Haywood Kate Maxwell’s card.

  Griffin led Haywood into Charm City Investigations, the Fell’s Point private investigation firm Kate Maxwell ran. Kate had become a member of “the Pirates” when she started dating Luke during their freshman year at the University of Maryland, College Park. That is, until Luke went missing right before their college graduation, but they’d all remained close with Kate. She was family.

  Griffin found her at a makeshift desk in the front room. She liked to be where the action was and where she could keep an eye on things. Her actual office sat empty at the end of the hall, next to Parker’s lab.

  She glanced up at their entry.

  “Kate, this is Haywood Grant. Haywood, this is Kate Maxwell.”

  Kate stood, and Haywood stepped forward, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Kate shook his hand and then slipped her thumbs in her back jean pockets. Griffin had seen her do it so many times, it must be habit, borderline muscle memory by now. “So, how can I help you, Mr. Grant?”

  He dipped his head slightly. “Haywood, please.”

  “Okay.” Kate smiled. “Why don’t we take a seat”—she gestured to the circle of leather chairs and arched sofa where the group shared meals multiple times a week—“and you can catch me up to speed.”

  Haywood filled her in, Griffin noting a few subtle differences in his wording, but Haywood was flustered. No story ever came out exactly the same way twice.

  “I’ll get started right away,” Kate said.

  Haywood straightened. “You should come to the retreat.”

  “Retreat?”

  “The one Parker, Declan, and I go to in Hunt Valley every fall,” Griffin said. “It kicks off tonight. Avery and Finley are going too.”

  Her gaze tracked to Luke’s file on her desk and she hesitated. “Sure,” she said after a moment. “Sounds like a good plan. It’ll let me meet the Markums and Lowell in a casual setting.”

  He wasn’t surprised at her hestitation and he knew full well she’d bring Luke’s file with her. Ever since she’d found proof of life—or what she believed was proof of life—she’d been unstoppable. How Griffin longed to see her move on with her life. Her devotion was admirable, even inspiring, but he feared after so many years it was wrongly placed.

  “Wonderful.” Haywood smiled. “Then I’ll see you all there.”

  “Unfortunately Declan won’t be able to attend this year,” Griffin said.

  Haywood arched his brows. “My assistant didn’t mention that.”

  “He’s got his hands full with a case.”

  “That’s too bad,” Haywood said, “but I’ll look forward to seeing the rest of you.” He smiled in Kate’s direction. “I think you’ll find our retreat a PI’s dream with all the gossip that goes on.”

  “Gossip’s not really my thing,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Nope. I’m a sucker for the truth.”

  And anything that tied to Luke.

  3

  No,” Tanner said, frustration searing through her. How could a man she found so intriguing vex her so thoroughly?

  “You heard Alan,” Declan said. “We need to interview Mira.”

  “I understand the importance of the situation, but this is Mira’s life.”

  “We’re not going to harm her.”

  “Perhaps not intentionally, but she’s hidden away, and she’s scared of the men we rescued her from. There’s a chance they’re watching you, and if they see you go to her . . .”

  “Let me stop you right there. I’d know if I was being tailed.”

  “You really don’t think Dr. Ebeid is keeping tabs on you?”

  “Tabs, probably. Tailing me, no. He doesn’t have some
one watching my every move. Trust me.”

  “You’re that confident of yourself?”

  “Of my ability to sense a tail? Yes.”

  “And if you’re wrong, it could get Mira killed. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

  “We have orders.”

  Of course Mr. By-the-Book would go there. Orders. Duty. She respected him for it, but where did compassion and instinct—doing the right thing despite orders—come in?

  “Fine,” she finally said after what felt like a five-minute staring contest. “I’ll go talk to Mira.” She visited Mira at least weekly, and no harm had come to her friend. She was a safe person, and Mira trusted her. Even if Declan was the one responsible for her freedom after discovering the house she’d been held hostage in, Mira was understandably terrified of men, and there was no doubt she was still in danger.

  Unfortunately, none of the men arrested in the raid had talked, and nothing had been found on-site to prove a connection to Dr. Ebeid, the president of the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic and the man they strongly believed was behind the encroaching terrorist threat.

  “I need to be there,” Declan said.

  How did she know he’d automatically disagree? “Why?”

  “Because I have questions to ask her.”

  “Tell me what questions, and I’ll ask her.”

  He strode around to sit on the corner of his desk, his hands—twice the width of hers, folded in his lap. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I need to be able to respond appropriately to her answers, which will in turn dictate my next questions. It’s a flowing dialogue, not a set list of questions.”

  From her training she knew he was right, so how did she argue that one?

  Frustration surged through Tanner’s limbs as they climbed the stairs to Mira’s apartment. Alan had insisted that either Declan accompany her or they’d track down Mira’s location and go in with a team of Alan’s choosing.

  Knowing that this was the better of the two options, Tanner led Declan up the nine flights of stairs, as the elevator was still on the fritz.