Her Private Treasure. Wendy Etherington
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Puzzling over the discussion he’d heard, he checked his boat to be sure he’d locked the cabin door and secured the rope properly. The exchange had to be a payoff of some kind. The two men had clearly bought something from Jack. But coffee? Why would three men need to meet in the dead of night to buy and sell coffee?
He walked down the dock, stopping as he reached the boat Jack had retrieved the crate from. American Dream was clearly scripted on the hull in bright red letters. Jack’s boat, then.
Stooping, Carr glided his hand over the dock’s rough wooden planks. Something gritty caressed the tips of his fingers. He brought his hand to his face, inhaling the scent. Coffee.
With the scent, he recalled one significant reason coffee grounds might be placed in a crate, then traded for cash in the dead of night. Drugs.
Two weeks later
FBI SPECIAL AGENT Malina Blair glared at the stack of case files on her desk and thought seriously about pulling her pistol from its ever-present side holster and firing at will.
Two computer hacking cases, one suspected drug smuggling and six complaints from helpful citizens who thought they spotted someone from the Most Wanted list hiding out behind the fake designer bags in the straw market.
How far the mighty had fallen.
She recalled fondly the business executive son’s kidnapping case she’d closed three years ago. She supposed the son and his loved ones didn’t remember the ordeal in a positive light, but the family still sent her a Christmas card every year, thanking her for her sharpshooting skills.
And barely six months ago, she’d led a team in solving a six-year-old bank robbery, taking down the ring of suspects as they attempted to break into the main branch vault of the Bank of America in downtown Washington, D.C.
Good times. Career-making moments.
Formally interviewing Senator Phillip Grammer’s son on suspicion of securities and bank fraud hadn’t gone quite so well. The powerful politician had stormed into the interview and claimed his son had fallen in with the wrong crowd briefly and that he and the SEC were working out a special process of restitution.
Phil junior was special all right. He’d ratted on three other people—who Malina considered minor players in the deal—and got away scot-free.
While a lovely city, Charleston, South Carolina, wasn’t exactly the FBI’s hotbed of excitement. Getting back to headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, was imperative, especially since screwing up again was likely to land her reassigned in the desert-to-nowhere field office. Interrogating cacti.
With a sigh, she pulled out the folder about the smuggling case. Her boss had actually dropped this one on her desk that morning. At first, she’d hoped she’d been forgiven for her career-crushing mistake and assigned to the elite team that worked the harbor. With the Port of Charleston being the country’s fourth busiest, illicit goods and terrorist threats were a serious possibility.
Unfortunately, the case she’d been assigned was a vague suspicion of drug smuggling based on a two-minute overheard conversation that took place on nearby—and boringly tiny—Palmer’s Island. The single witness was an attorney and friend of her boss.
It seemed she had another day of tedium ahead of her.
Scooping up the documents, she headed out of her cubicle and toward the elevator.
“Hey, Malina,” Donald, one of her colleagues, called out as she passed his cube. “Gonna work another dog-napping case today?”
She never slowed her brisk stride as she called back, “I’ll see if I can fit it in after kicking your ass in combat training this afternoon.”
“Again,” several others called out helpfully from behind their own cubicle walls.
She lifted her lips in what some people might consider a sneer, but those who knew her recognized it as her version of a smile. She’d only been in the Charleston field office three weeks, and while everyone knew of her setback, most had at least come to respect her skills and determination. Hers was a cautionary tale none of them wanted coming true in their own lives.
Alone in the elevator, she allowed herself the weakness of closing her eyes as frustration overcame her. She should be in a corner office with a view. She should be solving important cases. She should be compiling letters of commendation.
She was good at her job—a few she’d worked with had even called her the best. If only she had tact as steady as her hands and as sure as her roundhouse kick, she’d rise to the top.
Donald hadn’t exaggerated. Her first case since arriving at the office had been a literal dog-napping.
The mayor’s prize Maltese had gone missing, and a ransom demand had been made. It had taken her all of two minutes in an interview with the dog walker to crack him and the master plot.
The mayor’s kids had hugged her; her coworkers had laughed their asses off.
Minutes later, while she drove her government-issue sedan over the bridge to Palmer’s Island, she cast a glance at the sun’s rays bouncing off the rippling Atlantic waves in the distance. Ahead was Patriot’s Point, where the decommissioned aircraft carrier the USS Yorktown had been permanently docked, awaiting the daily flood of tourists eager to explore her proud and massive decks.
The island that was her destination was even smaller than the one where she’d been raised. In fact, Kauai, Hawaii was as different from Palmer’s Island as two floating rock and sand masses could be. And yet, they had the same effect—they calmed and soothed as no other person, place or thing had ever managed in her life.
She’d continue to resist her mother’s assertion that someday she’d want to return home, but Palmer’s Island did force her to remember that her life hadn’t always been about ambition, power and politics.
She found the address she was looking for with little effort and pulled into the small sand-and-shell-dotted parking lot beside a large house that had been converted into a quad-plex of offices. A discreet sign announced Tessa Malone, Family Counselor; Jack Rafton, Island Insurance; Charlie McGary, Suncoast Real Estate; and Carr Hamilton, Attorney-at-Law.
Mr. Hamilton’s office was on the lower left, across the main hall from the insurance agent, who was the primary focus in the supposed smuggling operation.
The whole case would most certainly turn out to be nothing. Rafton and Hamilton were probably involved in some minor quarrel, and this was the attorney’s idea of revenge. Maybe Rafton had cut Hamilton off in traffic or carelessly blocked the driveway with cans on trash day or any number of other ridiculous things that people got worked up over.
For her, this trip was merely another hoop to jump through in order to get her career back on track.
She turned the brass knob on the door to Hamilton’s office and entered to find herself in a small but elegant reception area. Malina’s footsteps echoed across dark oak hardwood floors as a quick glance took in the emerald curtains, pale gold walls and expensive-looking antique furniture.
A woman with dark brown hair, streaked with silver, sat behind an antique cherry desk. She looked up with a polite smile. “May I help you?”
Malina pulled her badge from her jacket pocket. “Special Agent Malina Blair. I have an appointment with Mr. Hamilton.”
The polite smile never wavered, leading Malina to wonder if the cops came calling frequently or if she was simply unruffled by any visitor. “Of course.” She lifted the phone on her desk. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” After a brief conversation, she rose and hung up the phone. “This way, please.”
The receptionist/secretary turned away toward the door in the back of the room. Her tailored brown suit showed off her trim figure, just as her matching heels highlighted her confident stride.
Malina had discovered she could glean valuable information about the person in charge by watching subordinates.