Secret Weapon

1. Emmy

1

EMMY

I was trapped in my worst nightmare.

No, not a poorly defended combat position with a battalion of heavily armed enemy soldiers circling—been there, done that, lived to tell the tale—but a small town in Oregon.

A small town with a big craft store.

And Bradley, my darling glitter-obsessed assistant, was currently in said craft store, and no doubt he was buying everything.

I should have pulled rank. I should have insisted we evacuate to Portland earlier this morning when we had the chance, but we were staying in a five-star hotel, and I’d been seduced by the idea of a massage and a breakfast buffet. f**k knows, I’d deserved both. The last few weeks had been brutal.

First, I’d had to survive Bradley’s festive vision, then I’d flown to Egypt to rescue a friend of a friend of a friend from a bunch of rogue smugglers and take a swim—involuntarily—in the River Nile. After Egypt, I’d spent two days dealing with corporate bullshit, which had actually been less fun than taking on the bunch of trigger-happy lunatics, and then my husband had asked me to assist with a little side project.

It had all started with a parrot.

An African Grey, to be precise, and a talkative one. Pinchy had been rescued from Animal Control by one pal and adopted by two others, and now he spent his days in an upscale Richmond apartment, begging for snacks and spewing curses. I’d always thought I swore like a trooper, but that damn bird gave me a run for my money.

He also had one particular catchphrase that intrigued us.

Don’t shoot Mike.

Or, as it later turned out, don’t shoot, Mike. Punctuation was important, kids.

A normal person would have embraced the expletive-ridden tirades and stocked up on parrot treats, but not my dear husband. No, Black wanted to know who Mike was and, more importantly, who hadn’t wanted him to shoot. The bird must have copied the words from someplace, right?

And as the head of investigations for Blackwood Security, the global security firm we owned along with two other business partners, Black had been in the best position to find out where.

The “where” had led us from Charlottesville to Santa Clarita via Las Vegas. Initially, Black had been looking for a common or garden murder with a perpetrator named Mike, but of course, it wasn’t that straightforward. When was anything ever straightforward?

First, he’d begun researching the habits of parrots. Turned out that when pet birds escaped, they didn’t tend to go all that far because they had no clue how to care for themselves in the wild. Once they’d tasted freedom and found it was kinda rancid, they often tried to fly back home.

A call to Animal Control told us where Pinchy had been picked up, so Black had taped a large-scale map of Virginia to the wall of our shared office and marked the location with a big red X. Then he’d worked his way outwards, reviewing every suspicious death for the past year. We didn’t think Pinchy would have survived longer than that on his own—the bird got crabby if he had to walk six steps to fetch his own almond. Hallie, who was Pinchy’s joint owner and a junior member of Blackwood’s investigations department, had assisted with the legwork, and Ford, her new boyfriend who also happened to be a cop in the Richmond PD, provided the occasional insight. After six weeks, the three of them had got absolutely nowhere.

No murder victim within a hundred-mile radius of Pinchy’s final landing place had owned a parrot.

We began to wonder if Pinchy might have been stolen, if he’d once lived out of state and been dumped when his new family got sick of his potty mouth. Or if his owner had been shot but survived. Ford contacted colleagues in other police departments to ask about parrot thefts, and we widened our search to include gunshot injuries. Hallie approached local veterinarians to see if they knew Pinchy and drew a blank. Nobody recalled a foul-mouthed parrot, and trust me, once you met that bird, you didn’t forget him easily.

The file almost made it as far as the cold-case pile, but not quite.

Why not?

Because Ford’s former partner was an asshole, that was why.

Detective Duncan was as lazy as he was inept, and as Ford was about to leave the station on Christmas Eve, his new partner, a wet-behind-the-ears, freshly promoted newbie named Jayme Matassa—call me Tass—had found a pile of dusty files on her desk. Files that hadn’t been there when she went to use the bathroom five minutes before. Also missing? Detective Duncan. Ford, being the gentleman that he was, had offered to take the files to the archive room so Tass could go home to her family. And Ford, being the nosy fucker that he was, had flipped the cover on the top file to see what was in it. That Duncan was listed as the lead detective hadn’t been a surprise. The case was a suicide, now closed, a fifty-six-year-old antiques dealer named Sharona Cummings who’d downed a bottle of wine and then blown her brains out. Sadly, the situation wasn’t a surprise either—too many people hit rock bottom and saw no other option. No, the surprise had been the bird sitting on her shoulder.

Pinchy.

Guess how Black spent Christmas Day?

After Christmas, one of Sharona’s former neighbours had put us in touch with Sharona’s daughter. Aubree Dobbs lived in Las Vegas with her husband and two kids, a perfect family in a McMansion on the outskirts of Henderson. Aubree worked part-time as a cosmetologist while the children were at school, and her husband was a pit boss on the Strip. Of course, we’d dropped by for a chat.

“If I’d known Mom was feeling that way, I’d have helped her, of course I would.” Aubree accepted the tissue I offered. Yes, I’d been roped into visiting, but at least Black and I could spend a night or two in our Vegas apartment recovering from the festive season. Just the two of us. “But we’d grown apart, and…and I have the kids, you know?”

“When did you last see your mom?” Black asked. He had a pretty good bedside manner when the mood took him.

“L-l-last Christmas.” And she’d died in April. “We h-h-had a fight.”

“What did you fight over?”

“Over Mike.”

Jackpot. But that did leave one big question…

“Who’s Mike?”

“Her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend now, I guess. My pop died years ago, and Mom dated, but nothing serious until he came along.”

“The file listed her boyfriend as Tony Spicer?”

“Michael is his middle name, and he always preferred it over Tony.”

“The two of you didn’t get along?”

Aubree shook her head. “Oh, he was smooth, but too smooth, if you know what I mean? Like it was all an act? The time or two I was on my own with him, he bordered on rude, and it was obvious why he was with my mom.”

We both waited expectantly, although I could predict where this was going.

“Money. Mom had money from Pop’s life insurance, and from her business, and Mike didn’t even have a job, not a proper one. Oh, sure, he had ideas. He convinced Mom to invest in a wind power plant, and a real estate development, and a Christmas tree farm in freaking Arizona. Every time I asked her about Mike’s ‘portfolio,’ about where the money was, she just said these things took time to turn a profit.”

“Did you give this information to the police?”

“Of course I did! But the detective told me it was a clear-cut case of suicide. She even left a note.”

And a neighbour had found Sharona dead, not Tony or Mike or whatever his name was. He’d shown up on the scene later, playing the part of devastated soulmate while the folks from the funeral home removed the body from the house. The note had been brief, just a couple of lines apologising for ending things that way, and if I recalled correctly, he’d been the person to identify the handwriting as hers.

“Detective Duncan, right?”

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. What did he say about the money?”

“That if she’d given it willingly, then there was nothing they could do. Mike bled her dry, and the cops didn’t think that contributed to her death? I’ll never forgive him. Never.” Aubree choked out a sob. “He lied about Captain too.” Yes, Pinchy had once been named Captain, which explained his love of pirate language. “Mike said he rehomed him to a neighbour, but I’ll bet he just opened the window and let him fly out.”

“You didn’t try to take him?”

“My son’s allergic to parrot dander. Every time we visited Mom, he’d start sneezing. I mean, I did offer to find him a new home—Captain, not my son—but Mike said he’d already handled it.” Another sob. “I’m s-s-so glad he landed on his feet in the end. Do you think his new owners might send me pictures?”

“I’m sure they will. But I’m curious—who taught Captain to swear? Your mom?”

An incredulous laugh burst from Aubree’s throat. “No, oh gosh, no. Captain belonged to my little brother, but when he started working on a cruise ship, Mom took care of him. Mom hated Cody’s job, hated it—she wanted him to become a doctor—but he always loved boats. That’s where Captain got his name.”

“Your brother’s still working in the cruise industry?”

Aubree nodded. “He’s a third officer now, sailing around the Mediterranean. He’ll be thrilled to hear about Captain too.”

“I’ll make sure you get updates.”

“And if you ever see Mike, tell him I hope he rots in hell.”

Oh, we most certainly would.

Our quest to find Anthony Michael Spicer, also known as Michael Christopher Barclay, also known as Elwood John Michaelson, took us on a digital journey from Richmond, over to New York, and back to the West Coast. Now known as Mick Baker, Mike was shacked up with a wealthy widow in Santa Clarita, living off her investments and no doubt scamming her out of every cent possible. Sharona Cummings hadn’t been his first victim, and if we didn’t do something about the problem born as Michael Elwood, she wouldn’t be his last, either. In the weeks before we touched down in California, we’d found six more women he’d taken advantage of. Three were dead—one “accident” and two “suicides”—and the other three rued the day they’d ever met the asshole.

The sun was setting as we rolled into Santa Clarita—me, Black, and my half-sister, Ana. Ana’s boyfriend had taken their daughter to visit his parents, and since Ana did better in combat situations than social ones, she’d opted to join us for the fun instead. Vance Webber, a senior investigator from Blackwood’s LA office, had done most of the legwork, so we knew Mike’s current mark was celebrating a friend’s birthday with a visit to a local spa. Mike was “working,” otherwise known as binge-watching TV in his pyjamas while eating a family-sized bag of pretzels.

He wasn’t amused when Black and I appeared in his living room. One could even say he was furious. But the anger soon turned to fear when Black shoved him back into his recliner and stood in front of him, arms folded. Black was a big guy—six feet seven with the muscles to match—and Mike stood a foot shorter. I pocketed his phone and took a wander around the house as Black educated him on the error of his ways. Mike’s latest victim had done well for herself. She owned a small chain of upscale shoe stores, and judging by the contents of her walk-in closet, she tested out most of the merchandise. I found a handgun in a drawer on Mike’s side of the closet and removed the ammo. Ditto for the pearl-handled revolver tucked away in his lady friend’s bedside table. I mooched through the three bedrooms, the four bathrooms, the generous kitchen/diner, and the small study. According to Vance, the woman had remortgaged recently to release equity, and the proceeds of the loan had been transferred to Hillside Wind Energy, Inc., which had a flashy website but no tangible assets that we could find.

By the time I finished my look-see, Black was wearing a faint smile.

“We’re going to give Mr. Elwood a ride to the police station. He’d like to confess a few things.”

“I need to change my clothes first,” he whined. “You said I could change my clothes.”

Black waved in the direction of the bedroom. “Be my guest.”

We followed him along the hallway and waited outside the door while he got dressed. I had no desire to see his frank and beans. A moment later, Ana spoke through my earpiece.

“You called it. He tried to go through the window, but he’s back inside now. Heading for the closet.”

The door opened, and Mike stood before us, mouth set in a hard line as he aimed his semi-automatic at Black’s chest. Oh, he tried to look tough, but his shaking hands gave the game away.

“Get out of my house.”

Black merely sighed. “We’ve just established that this isn’t your house.”

“You broke in!”

“We didn’t break a thing.”

Both Black and I were proficient at picking locks. He’d done the honours this time.

“Ever heard of the castle doctrine?”

“Of course.”

“So you know that I can use deadly force to defend my home.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then you’ll understand this.”

Mike pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked. Click-click-click. Yup, called it again. Sweat popped out on his brow as he stared at the useless weapon, unable to fathom why it wasn’t working. Hadn’t he noticed the change in weight when he picked it up? Clearly not. Dumbass.

Black picked him up and threw him back into the bedroom.

“You have five minutes.”

Five minutes later, Black and I stared down at the mess in the bathroom. Blood leaked from Mike’s wrists into the tub and trickled down the plughole. He was alive, but barely.

“Oh dear.” By my estimation, he had a minute or two to live. “What a terrible shame.”

Think I was upset? Think again. Why else would I have left the straight razor on the vanity?

Black was similarly distraught. “Overall, it’s a good outcome for taxpayers. Ready to go?”

“Do you want Italian or Chinese for dinner?”

“Is that even a question?”

Italian. Black always picked Italian. With gloved hands, I reloaded the weapons in the bedroom, and we faded into the night.

Our plan had gone swimmingly up until that point, so we were about due for a hiccup. And the hiccup came the next morning when the subject of an investigation got spooked and ran, so Black headed down to LA with Vance to assist in locating him. Ana and I were preparing to travel back to Virginia on our own when Hallie called. Was anyone available to help with a teensy issue in Oregon?

Originally, Dan—Hallie’s boss and a close friend of mine—had planned to go with her, but Dan’s son had just been sent home from school with suspected tonsillitis. Since the Oregon case involved a kid, and kids puzzled Hallie and scared the crap out of me, Ana—who was a mom and therefore qualified to advise on parental issues—agreed to provide support. And we’d wrapped up the case in a pretty little bow. The end.

Or so I’d hoped.

Now we were in the tiny little town of Baldwin’s Shore, although not for much longer. Hallie’s case was closed, and we were finally ready to fly home. Or at least, we’d be ready as soon as we removed Bradley from the f*****g craft store. My life was full of challenges, and this promised to be one of the toughest yet.