Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)

He did a good job,” Irina said as she applied moisturizer to the tattoo nestled between Liza’s shoulder blades, exposed by the tank top that dipped just enough in the back. “The artist in Monterey.”

“He really did. Thank you for doing this for me. I couldn’t reach it myself.”

A month ago, she would have asked Tom to help her. Except she knew that she wouldn’t have a month ago, because she hadn’t been ready for this tattoo then.

“I like it,” Karl said, glancing at her back as he walked to the coffeepot.

“Ooh,” Zoya said, coming over to stare. “Me too. Can I have one, Mom?”

“When you’re eighteen. Then I cannot stop you.”

“What’ll you get?” Karl asked, tugging on Zoya’s ponytail.

“I’ll think about it,” the teenager replied. “I’m not getting a tramp stamp for the hell of it.”

“Language,” Irina scolded.

“Bullshit,” Zoya coughed.

“Zoya, do not sass your mother,” Karl snapped.

Liza fought a smile. “My mom would have gotten out a sewing needle and offered to do the tattoo for me. Just like she did when I wanted to have my lip pierced.”

“But your lip isn’t pierced,” Zoya said.

“Exactly,” Liza said, and Irina chuckled.

“Your mother and I would have had a lot of long talks,” Irina said fondly.

“She would have loved you. You have so much in common, but mostly because you’ve been so good to me.”

“You are deserving of people being good to you.” Irina hesitated. “Tom’s called me a few times and I’m not sure what to say to him. Did you tell him that you were moving out?”

Liza sighed. “Yes. I told him I’d keep paying rent when he hinted that he wouldn’t approve whoever I got to sublet my side of the duplex.”

Irina went to the sink to wash her hands, her face set in a scowl. “He threatened you?”

“What a dick!” Zoya said.

“Language,” Irina scolded.

“But Zoya’s not wrong,” Karl said, frowning.

“Yes, she is.” Liza couldn’t let them believe that about Tom. “He was hurt that I was moving. And it is in our contract. He didn’t want just anyone renting from him, because sports fans can be intense. Everything he owns is bought in the name of a corporation so that people can’t stalk him. And that was before he joined the FBI and made criminals hate him.”

“I can understand that,” Irina allowed, pouring from the ever-present teapot.

“So no calling him a dick, Zoya,” Liza said. “He even registered my car under his corporation, so that anyone looking for him wouldn’t come at me.” She was going to have to register it in her own name when it expired. But that wouldn’t be until mid-January of the following year, so she had time to figure it out.

“Oh, all right,” Zoya muttered. “I just don’t like people hurting you.”

Liza smiled at the teenager. “And I appreciate that. Thank you,” she added when Irina filled her cup. She’d taken her first sip of the tea—not “special tea,” Irina assured her—when her cell phone began to ring. On the off chance that it wasn’t Tom, she checked the caller ID.

It was a number she didn’t recognize. I swear to God, Tom, if this is one of your burners . . . She hit accept and went nearly limp with relief when a woman asked to speak to Miss Barkley. God. I don’t even care if she’s a telemarketer. “This is she.”

“Hello. My name is Portia Sinclair. I’m the head of HR at Sunnyside Oaks Convalescence and Rehabilitation Center.”

“Oh.” Liza blinked. “That was fast. I just sent in my application last night.”

“Well, your résumé is very impressive, Miss Barkley. Would you be available to come in for an interview today? Say, noon? We have a pressing need to fill this position.”

Liza’s heart was racing. Yes. This was what she was meant to do, how she was meant to protect this family who’d taken her in. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

“Then I’ll text you the address. When you arrive, have the front desk call me.”

“I will. Thank you.” Liza ended the call and met three curious gazes. “Job interview.”

“We figured that out,” Irina said with a smile. “What facility?”

“It’s a convalescence and rehabilitation center,” Liza said, hedging on the name.

“Which one?” Karl asked, buttering his toast.

To hedge further would be more suspicious at this point. “Sunnyside Oaks.”

Irina frowned. So did Karl. “I . . . have heard of this place,” Irina said slowly.

“So have I,” Karl said, “but I can’t remember where.”

“Me too.” Zoya was busily typing into her phone. She grimaced. “One of their nurses was murdered last night. Penny Gaynor.”

Karl snapped his fingers. “That’s where I heard it, too. It sounds dangerous.”

Irina was still frowning. “I don’t know if it’s dangerous or not, but I knew a few nurses who took jobs there. None of them were women I’d call friends.”

Well, they are caring for Pastor, Liza thought. “Were they bad people, the nurses?”

“No, but they weren’t nice, either. The only one I remember being suspicious was a woman named Innes.” She tapped the rim of her cup, thinking. “She was accused of stealing narcotics by a patient’s family. There was never any proof, but no one had any trouble believing it was true. The woman had a hardened quality that made her difficult to warm up to.”

Good to know. Avoid Nurse Innes. “I see.”

Irina’s eyes narrowed. “Zoya, you’re going to be late for school.”

Zoya crossed her arms with a scowl. “I’m staying home. Dad told me to, remember? It’s why Abigail isn’t here. Amos kept her home, too. Does DJ Belmont ring a bell?”

“Zoya,” Irina warned. “Watch your tone.”

Zoya slumped in her chair. “Mom, if you want me to leave, just tell me to leave.”

“Leave,” Irina ordered.

Karl coughed to cover a laugh. “Come on, Zoya. We’ll find something to do.”

Keeping her gaze on Liza’s face, Irina grabbed a handful of Karl’s jacket. “Stay, please.”

“Oh, for the love of—,” Zoya grumbled. “I never get to hear the good stuff.” She stomped from the room, muttering under her breath.

“You know she’s waiting in the hall, eavesdropping,” Karl said.

“I know. Zoya!” Irina said no more until she heard Zoya’s footsteps above them. “We have a minute before she sneaks back down. You’re hiding something from us, Liza. Spill it.”

Liza blinked. Innocently, she thought.

Karl just chuckled. “We’ve raised eight children, Liza. Just tell her. She won’t give it up.”

Liza sighed, wishing she’d retreated with Zoya. She was torn. On one hand, she wasn’t supposed to speak of it per Molina and Raeburn, but on the other hand she trusted Irina and Karl. And having Irina’s take on the nurses she’d known who now worked for Sunnyside could be valuable. “I can’t tell you a lot, except that this place is important.”

Irina’s eyes narrowed. “To whom?”

Liza hesitated, then came as clean as she could. “To Mercy.”

Karl sucked in a shocked breath. “Then this place is dangerous.”

“Did Tom put you up to this?” Irina demanded.

“No. This was my decision. He knows, as do his superiors. He was not pleased.”

“This is wrong,” Irina said, shaking her head. “You cannot do this, lubimaya. I forbid it.”

Liza’s hackles shot up just as they had when Tom had forbidden her the night before. But she remained calm, because, like Tom, Irina’s expression was full of fear. “Irina,” she said gently. “Mercy should live without fear. Gideon, Amos, and Abigail, too. That’s worth a risk.”

“No,” Irina insisted. “I cannot sit idly while one of my girls sacrifices for another. It’s like asking me to choose one child over the other.”

“Thank you.” Affection roughened her voice. “Truly. But I went into combat zones. I’m trained to defend myself. And I’m qualified for this role. I’m a good choice.”

“I can’t . . .” Irina looked at Karl beseechingly. “How can we change her mind?”

“I don’t think we can. Or that we should. Liza has proven herself capable of making wise decisions.” He wagged his finger at Liza. “But you won’t take any undue risks.”

“None.” She crossed her heart. “Of course, you’re assuming I’ll even get the job.”

“You will,” Irina said sadly. “Because Portia Sinclair finds your résumé very impressive.”

Liza blinked. “You heard her say that? The HR lady on the phone?”

“I have good ears. I hear much.” She raised her voice. “Like footsteps in the hallway!”

“Dammit!” Zoya snapped. Her stomping footsteps could be heard going back up the stairs.

Karl shook his head. “She’s yours.”

“Remember that when she is valedictorian of her graduating class,” Irina said.

He leaned over to kiss Irina’s temple. “Then she’s mine.” He turned to Liza. “Okay, here’s how this is going to go. Because you are important to us. You get that, right?”

She smiled. “I do. Thank you. Now I need to get home and get ready for the interview.”

“Not so fast,” Karl said. “I know you’re a soldier and I know you can take care of yourself, but there’s also DJ Belmont to consider. If he knows that you were the one who spoiled his shot on Wednesday, he might be looking for you. I don’t want you driving around in a car he can follow. I’ve already given instructions to the guards in the lobby of your apartment to watch for Belmont and call 911 if they see him anywhere on or around the premises. Now I’m going to worry about people from Sunnyside Oaks lurking outside and following you. Especially if they find out where you used to live.”

“How could they?” Liza asked. “How could DJ? Nothing I own is in my name.”

“If someone wants to badly enough, they can,” Karl said darkly. “Do this for me, okay? Drive your car back to the apartment, and when you leave for the interview, take mine.”

Liza choked. “Your Tesla? Hell, no. I’d wreck it.”

“Not the Tesla.” Karl took a pen from his pocket and wrote something on the back of a napkin. “I keep an SUV there for VIP clients. It’s a Ford Expedition and has tinted windows. It’s made for privacy. The keys are hanging on a hook in the laundry room.” He gave her the napkin. “This is the slot where it’s parked. Please drive it when you go on your interview.”

“And any other time you drive yourself somewhere,” Irina added.

Liza folded the napkin and slipped it into her handbag, touched beyond words. “Thank you.”

Karl nodded once. “I don’t like this, nor do I understand what you’re doing, but I understand why you’re doing it. If I could do whatever this is in your place, I would, just to ensure that Mercy and the others have a normal life. But if there is any whiff of danger, we want you out of there.”

Liza nodded, knowing that by keeping Pastor’s presence a secret she was deceiving them, and she hated that. At the same time, having a car that could possibly be traced to an FBI agent was probably not the best idea. Having a car that could be traced to Karl wasn’t, either.

“The Expedition can’t be traced to you?”

“No. I’ve got a tangle of corporations that would keep even the most talented hackers scratching their heads for a while. I should know,” Karl added dryly. “I paid enough for hackers to try to bust in.”

“You’re that scared of stalkers?” Liza asked, now worried for Karl and Irina.

“No, dorogaya maya,” Irina said. “Karl, you have made her afraid for us. Liza, Karl’s marketing business works with celebrities who film endorsements and commercials. There is a lot of information in the company’s computer that could damage some very influential people. Their addresses, phone numbers, children’s names, products or brands that they haven’t yet launched, for example. Good security is necessary.”

“That makes me feel better.” Liza stood, kissing both of them on the cheek. “Thank you. I’ll be careful with your SUV.”

“Be careful with yourself,” Karl said gruffly.

“I will.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 8:30 A.M.

“You got all this in eight hours?” Croft asked, looking at the photographs Tom had spread over the conference table in Raeburn’s office, products of his overnight facial recognition searches. “Wow. Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” Tom lied. He hadn’t closed his eyes all night, Liza’s words banging in his head like sledgehammers. I need more than that.

He’d worked at his keyboard for hours, then had run on the treadmill. He’d even bathed Pebbles and baked a cake, but nothing had helped.

I need more than that. At some point he’d stopped hearing her voice say the words, instead hearing his own. I need more than that.

But did he? He didn’t have any idea.

“I mostly let the facial recognition software run,” he went on. “Knowing his initials and that he had a six-year-old son helped narrow things down.”

“So this is Kowalski,” Raeburn mused, examining each photo.

“Roland Kowalski,” Tom said, “when he’s working his drug business.”

Croft was looking at a photo of the man in a fancy three-piece suit. “And Anthony Ward when he’s developing real estate.”

“His office is in Granite Bay,” Tom said. Too close to the Sokolovs’ house.

“Lots of pricey real estate out there,” Raeburn said, turning to the second stack of photos. “His wife and kids, too? How did you find these?”

“His wife’s Facebook page,” Tom said. “Her name is Angelina. Their six-year-old son is Anthony Junior. They call him Tony. They have another son who’s about two.”

Raeburn’s brows went up. “The wife didn’t have her Facebook account locked?”

Tom shrugged.

Raeburn chuckled. “Right. No locks can keep you out.”

“I never said that.” But her password had been criminally easy to break. Her son’s birthday, easy to find from his birth certificate once he had the father’s name. Amateurs.

Raeburn waved a hand as if his denial was of no consequence. “Never mind. Bring the bastard in.”

“We’ll start at his business,” Croft said. “We’re more likely to be allowed in.”

Raeburn nodded. “Take Hall and Summerfield with you. I doubt he’ll come in easily.”

Tom felt a rush of adrenaline at that. He hadn’t been in a takedown situation since Ephraim’s last stand at Dunsmuir. He really wanted to take someone down today.

“Will do,” Croft said. “Anything else?”

Raeburn nodded. “I had your tattoo artist, Dixie Serratt, put in protective custody. She can’t ID Kowalski if she’s been harmed in the general population. When you bring Kowalski in, we’ll put him in a lineup. Any chance that your source would agree to do a visual?”

“Yes. He’s already agreed to that.”

“Good.” Raeburn pushed away from the conference table and returned to the chair behind his desk. “You have your orders. Keep me informed.”

When they were in the hall, Croft lifted a brow. “Who’s your source, Hunter? That sixteen-year-old who brought us Cameron Cook?”

“No.” Tom was saved further reply by the buzzing of his work phone. It was a San Francisco area code. “This is Agent Hunter.”

“This is Cameron Cook.”

Speaking of. Tom stopped midstep and leaned his back against the hallway wall, letting others pass. Croft stood beside him, looking concerned. “Cameron,” Tom said, and Croft tilted her head, hopeful excitement in her eyes. “How are you?”

“Not good,” Cameron confessed. “Have you heard anything? I’m so worried. Hayley’s due any day now. She must be so scared. And I can’t even think of my Jellybean in that place.”

Tom’s shoulders sagged. He fully understood Cameron’s fear. “I have some leads, but nothing that tells me where she is. I was hoping you’d gotten another e-mail.”

“No. Sometimes I stare at my screen for hours at a time, hitting refresh over and over.”

“I get that,” Tom said. And he did. It had been like that for him when Tory was murdered. He’d stalked her killer through Internet forums that no decent person should ever see, clicking refresh in the hope that the vile monster would show his virtual face. “I don’t have anything I can tell you, though. I’m sorry, Cameron.”

A choked sob met his ears. “Thank you anyway. I’m . . . I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t,” Tom said firmly. “I promise you didn’t. But keep watching your e-mail. Maybe Hayley and her brother will be able to send you another message.” Especially if Pastor and DJ were both in Sacramento. Tom wondered who was minding Eden in their absence.

“I hope so.” Cameron shuddered out a sigh. “I’ll call you as soon as I see something.”

“Thank you. Listen, Cameron, do you have someone with you?”

“My mom and dad. They let me take a few mental health days but they say I have to go back to school on Tuesday. So after that I can’t watch my e-mail.”

“If I have your permission, I can put an alert on your e-mail that will let me know if you get a message. I might see other personal messages, though.”

“Do it,” Cameron said quickly. “I got nothing to hide, Agent Hunter. I need to get Hayley back. I need her. And my daughter, too.”

“All right, then. I’ll send you a form you can sign, and then I can do it legally. I have to go now, but you have my number.” He ended the call and looked at Croft helplessly. “I hate having to tell him that I’ve got nothing.”

“But you don’t,” Croft encouraged. “You got a lot of somethings. We just don’t know how they fit together yet. But we will. Come on. We need to round up Hall and Summerfield. If Raeburn offers backup, I am for sure taking it.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 8:45 A.M.

“Oh my God.” DJ grimaced at his reflection in Smythe’s bathroom mirror. “This is awful.”

It wasn’t the dye’s fault. It had done exactly what was advertised. His hair and scruff were now Deep Dark Brown. Just like the guy on the box. So why do I look so bad?

He didn’t consider himself a vain man, but this was truly awful. “I look dead.”

Which was true. His skin was pale, his face gaunt. It hadn’t shown so much when his hair was blond, but it sure did now. His cheekbones jutted out in sharp relief, his dark eyes looking . . . Dark. Like black-hole dark.

Some people were not meant to go dark. He snorted. With their hair, anyway.

But, he thought objectively, he didn’t look like himself anymore, which was the effect he’d been going for. He trimmed his scruff and slid on the glasses that he’d bought on a whim.

“Not bad.” He stroked the edges of the goatee that was the only thing that looked better dark. The dye had made his blond scruff a little denser, and he’d been able to remove the stains left on his skin with some rubbing alcohol he’d found in the Smythes’ medicine cabinet. The glasses were an excellent touch, drawing attention to the end of his nose where he settled them.

Grooming completed, he cleaned up his mess and bagged it. He’d noticed the neighbors putting all their trash cans out the night before and he hadn’t heard the rumble of the garbage truck. He’d toss the bag into one of their cans on his way out. No way was he leaving any of his personal trash around any more bodies.

Nor would he leave any more extraneous bodies. That was what had led to Ephraim’s capture. I have to stop killing people and leaving them to be found.

He wasn’t sure what he himself could have done differently, though. Nurse Gaynor had deserved to die. She’d broken the trust of her patients and her employers. She’d been extortable.

Mrs. Ellis had also deserved it. She’d been a nosy busybody who’d probably never been told no in her life. This was what happened when women weren’t kept on a leash and busy doing chores. They got gossipy and peeked in your windows and played armchair detective.

Mr. Smythe, now . . . DJ did regret having to kill him. But if the man had only minded his own business, he would still be alive. Storing his body in the freezer had been necessary, because he could no longer count on Kowalski for body disposal.

Kowalski had to have some kind of chipper shredder, because the bodies simply disappeared. Even when there had been half a dozen rival gang members dead on the ground. He’d always wondered where Kowalski put them.

He wondered how long it would take for Mrs. Smythe to think of looking in the freezer for her husband once she got home. Maybe he should move some of that frozen meat out of the chest into the kitchen freezer. That way she wouldn’t need to open the chest for a while.

It would give him time, especially if he hadn’t finished this by Tuesday when Mrs. Smythe came home. Luckily, she hadn’t called yet, opting instead to send a few texts every day. He’d noticed a few new texts pop up on Nelson’s locked phone screen that morning and needed to try to answer them, or the lady of the house might ditch her trip and come home early.

DJ hoped Smythe’s face hadn’t gotten freezer burn. He wasn’t sure if it would still unlock his phone if there were ice crystals forming. Hopefully it wouldn’t matter, because hopefully he was getting out of here sooner rather than later.

He’d wasted too much time watching video that was after the fact. He had added the camera to Smythe’s Wi-Fi, which enabled him to watch the feed in real time when he wasn’t physically in the bedroom, but that was still playing defense. It was time to get ahead of the power curve.

After a good night’s sleep, he’d realized that he had a valuable piece of information: Daisy Dawson’s place of employment. Everyone else had either hidden their addresses behind fucking corporations or, like the Sokolovs, had round-the-clock security.

Daisy worked at a radio station in Midtown Sacramento. She was on the air right now, so she was there. Her show was over at ten, so he needed to get his ass in gear.

He was going to shoot her as she left work. With any luck, he’d kill her, and then all he’d need to do was pick off Gideon, Mercy, and Amos at the funeral. And if she survived, Gideon would rush to the hospital. I can follow him home from there.

Then, eventually, the prick would visit his sister. And then I’ll have them both.

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 12:00 P.M.

“Wow.” From behind the wheel of the Bureau-issued SUV, Croft stared up at the mansion that Anthony Ward—a.k.a. Roland Kowalski—and his wife Angelina called home.

Ward’s business location had been a bust. Mr. Ward had not been in, according to his receptionist. She’d told them that Mr. Ward would call them if he wanted to and, unless they had a warrant, to remove themselves from the premises or she was calling security.

Tom had low expectations for this home visit. Anthony Ward would already be in hiding. Or manufacturing an alibi. But maybe they could get through to Mrs. Ward.

Croft glanced at Tom from the corner of her eye as she turned into the grand driveway. “I guess this kind of place is old hat to you, though.”

The Wards’ house resembled an old manor home. “I’ve seen a few like this. A lot of my former teammates had estates like this, with electric fences and security guards.”

“Why don’t you?” Croft asked. “I’ve wondered why you bought a duplex in Rocklin when you could have had something like this.”

“I didn’t want something like this.”

Her glance had become disbelieving. “What did you want, then?”

“I lived in the house that my stepfather grew up in. When it got burned down, we rebuilt on the same foundation. It’s a home. Not a mansion. I wanted something like that.”

“But a duplex?”

“I liked the neighborhood,” he said defensively. “There are real families there that you can smile at, and you can buy their kids’ lemonade.”

She smiled. “Even though it was awful.”

He smiled back, not surprised that she remembered the detail from their conversation on Wednesday. “Even though.”

“But you could have afforded more.”

“Liza couldn’t.” The words were out of his mouth before he could call them back.

Croft’s brows went up. “Liza couldn’t? Did she buy the house with you?”

“No. But we’d agreed that she’d rent from me, and she stipulated that it be a place she could afford. She spent hours while we were driving down from Chicago researching neighborhoods and rent values. She found the duplex online.”

And he hadn’t argued. He’d been so damn grateful to know that she was on the other side of the wall that he’d made an offer on the duplex the day after they’d arrived in Sacramento.

“But don’t you want security?”

He shrugged. Hiding his address behind layers of corporations was good security, in his book. “I’m not that recognizable. That guy yesterday in Yuba City wasn’t rare, per se, but it doesn’t happen that often. And fans aren’t exactly a threat, except to my privacy.”

Croft shook her head fondly. “You already signed something for that cop’s kid, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Liza had—” His words stumbled to a halt and he felt his cheeks heat at Croft’s too-insightful gaze.

“Liza had?” Croft prompted.

“She bought some basketballs when we first moved in. For some of the kids I met at a charity event. They were raising money to help kids who’d come from abusive homes. Liza asked if I’d offer up some signed gear and told me that she’d found a sale on basketballs at the local sporting goods store. She bought four dozen.”

“Four dozen basketballs?” Croft laughed. “Where did she put them?”

“In my spare bedroom closet,” he said wryly. “Half of them are still there, and I’m terrified to open the door. It’s like snakes in a can.” He spread his hands like an explosion. “Boing. They rain down on my head and she laughs.”

Laughed. She laughed. Because she’d left and wasn’t laughing anymore.

Croft, having pulled to a stop in the circular driveway near the front door, turned in her seat to give him her full attention, so he forged on.

“Anyway, she donated the basketballs and the organization auctioned some of them off. The others they gave to kids as prizes for selling the most raffle tickets, that kind of thing.”

Croft tilted her head, studying him. “Did she buy the basketballs herself?”

He nodded, remembering that argument all too well. “I told her to use my credit card, but she’s stubborn. Said she had money saved and wanted to do some good.” His throat closed. “She said that she wished there’d been an organization like that to help me when I was a kid.”

“She knows about your bio-father, then?”

“Yes. She knows my whole family.”

She is my family.

I need more than that.

He cleared his throat again. “Let’s talk about Angelina Ward. You want to take the lead?”

“Nah. She might like the looks of you better. I’ll be bad cop this morning.”

“Only this morning?” Tom teased.

“Shut your pie hole,” she said, but with obvious affection. “You’re growing on me, kid.”

“Let’s do this. I assume she won’t want to let us in, but I’ll bat my eyelashes or something.”

“She’s not going to tell us anything, and if she lets us in, I’ll be shocked. But if she does let us in, be on the lookout for anything we can use to track her husband. Sometimes it’s as simple as a hotel brochure they’ve set aside or a Post-it Note on a fridge.”

A maid answered their knock. “We don’t accept solicitors.” She started to close the door.

Producing her badge, Croft rested her hand on the door, halting its progress. “Special Agents Croft and Hunter, here to see Mr. Ward.”

The maid’s eyes widened. “He’s—”

“That will be all, Carmela.” The words were delivered in a clipped staccato by a woman with waist-length black hair who wore a spotless white pantsuit. “Please return to your duties.” When the maid was gone, Angelina Ward glared at them with unveiled malice. “Get off my property.”

Tom smiled. “Ma’am, we’d just like to talk to your husband. That’s all.”

Angelina’s chin lifted. “He’s at work.”

“No, he’s actually not,” Tom said. “We’ve just come from there.”

“Well, he isn’t here. Leave, or I’ll report you for trespassing and harassment.”

Tom wanted to roll his eyes, but he held his smile. “We’re merely trying to get information on one of his business associates. Maybe you know him? Roland Kowalski?”

The woman’s nostrils flared and her jaw tightened. “Leave. Immediately.”

“Mommy?” a little boy’s voice asked uncertainly.

Angelina instantly changed from vicious to warmly maternal as she turned to the child who was hidden behind the door. “It’s all fine. These people are salesmen and are leaving.”

“I’ll make them leave,” the boy said, and Tom could picture the child’s chin lifting just as his mother’s had.

“No, sweetheart. Let Mommy handle this.”

“Call the police, Mommy. My teacher said so. I’ll call them. I know the number—911.”

“Smart kid,” Croft said, and Angelina glared at her.

“Go find Carmela, baby.”

A small foot stomped. “I am not a baby.”

“She’s got cookies,” Angelina said, ignoring the tiny tantrum. “Chocolate chip.”

“Okay!” The child ran, his footsteps growing softer as he raced toward cookie goodness.

Angelina turned back to face them, teeth bared. “Leave.”

Tom took a measured step back. “You should be protecting your son. With all due respect.”

“I am,” she snarled. “From the likes of you.”

“You know what your husband is,” Tom said softly. “You know the kind of enemies he makes. We’re trying to warn you about one of his enemies.” He didn’t know if that was true yet, but he had no doubt that DJ would turn on Kowalski’s family if he were cornered. “His name is DJ Belmont. You might know him as John Derby. He’s killed before and he’ll kill again. Don’t make the mistake of believing that he’d spare your child.”

The woman was breathing shallowly, her eyes flickering in fear for a moment before she shuttered her expression. “I’ve asked you nicely. Now I’m calling the police.”

Tom followed her quick glance skyward and noticed the security camera mounted above the door. She knows her husband is listening. “Well, if you think of anything or have any concern that this man will hurt you or your little boys, please call us.” He gave her his card and watched her rip it into pieces.

But she kept the pieces clenched in one closed fist. He hoped she would be able to reconstruct his number later. That would have to be enough for now.

“Thank you for your time,” he said. “We’re sorry to have troubled you, but this man is very dangerous.” He ventured another smile. “And your sons are very small.”

The door slammed and Croft shrugged. “Let’s go.” Back in the SUV, she belted up and turned to him. “Well?”

“She was being watched. There was a camera above her head.”

Croft nodded. “I caught that, too. Think she’s taping those pieces of your card together?”

“I hope so. Although she might be flushing them.” He checked his watch and made a decision. “Can we stop by the Sokolovs’ place on our way back?”

Croft started the engine. “Sure, but why?”

He sighed. “Liza has a lesson with Abigail today.”

“She’s still not answering your calls?”

I need more than that. He cleared his throat. “Something like that.”

The Sokolov house was unusually quiet. The only evidence of life was the security guard that Karl had hired to protect them when Mercy and her FBI protection detail were elsewhere.

Irina answered the door. “She’s not here. You can come in and check if you want.”

“No.” Tom sighed. “I believe you.”

Irina’s expression softened. “Good. You look tired, Tom. Come inside and have some tea.”

“I can’t now. Croft is waiting for me in the SUV. But thank you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you. Raphael told me that you are providing secure vehicles for Mercy’s birthday guests. We appreciate that, more than you know. Raphael is kicking himself for not thinking of it himself.”

Tom managed a smile. “He’s had a little bit on his mind.” He needed to try one more time. “Is Liza coming back today? Doesn’t she help with Abigail’s lessons?”

“Amos kept Abigail home today. Rafe told him to.”

Tom frowned. There was something Irina wasn’t telling him. “Where is Liza?” When she just shook her head, he glanced up, hearing a window open. Zoya looked down at him. “Care to share?” he called up.

“Nope,” she called back. “You’re walking the stalking line, Agent Hunter.”

Tom bit back a retort. Because the girl wasn’t wrong. “But she’s all right?” he asked Irina.

Irina’s smile was sad. “She’ll be fine, in time. But I do feel the need to ask why you keep bothering her. I haven’t known you long, but you don’t seem like the kind of man to push yourself on a woman who’s asked you to back off.”

Tom flinched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, having no idea how to answer.

She patted his arm. “Think on that. Then we will talk further. Be safe.”

And then she shut the door in his face. Numbly, he walked back to the SUV, feeling Croft’s gaze with every step. He got in and closed the door.

“Don’t ask. Please,” he said, pulling his seat belt on. “Let’s go back to the office, okay? We can figure out our next steps on Kowalski.”

“Okey-dokey.” She had started to back out of the driveway when Tom’s work cell began to buzz. “You are the most popular partner I’ve ever had,” she drawled.

Tom frowned. “It’s Gideon.”

Croft stopped the SUV and put it into park. “Answer it. On speaker, please.”

Tom wasn’t sure if she thought he’d given Gideon more Eden information or not, but he didn’t argue. “I’m with Croft,” he said by way of greeting. “You’re on speaker.”

“Someone tried to lure Daisy out of the radio station,” Gideon said, a tremble in his voice.

Croft’s mouth tightened. “What happened, Gideon?”

“I drove her in to work this morning. All this DJ Belmont stuff has had me rattled. About an hour ago, a man called asking if Poppy was still in the station.”

“Poppy is Daisy’s radio name,” Tom explained to Croft.

Croft rolled her eyes. “I know. I’m a listener. Go on, Gideon.”

“I’d already told the receptionist to let me know if Daisy got any calls. Daisy shot Belmont a month ago. If he knows that, he’ll be gunning for her, too.”

“Or he might use her to get to you,” Croft murmured. “And to Mercy through you.”

“Yeah,” Gideon bit out. “I figured that out myself. Another reason why I’m Daisy’s Velcro for the foreseeable future. The guy didn’t get anywhere with the receptionist, who taped the call. I checked it out and it came from a burner. An hour later, a bouquet of flowers arrived. The card said they were from one of the charities that she featured on the show last week.”

“But they weren’t?” Tom asked.

“No. I called, because my gut was in knots, and the flowers seemed too timely. The charity said that while they did appreciate Daisy’s shout-out, the flowers were not from them.”

“And then?” Tom didn’t think he was going to like the answer.

“And then I got mad. I took the flowers out to the dumpster and chucked them in.”

Croft winced. “And then?”

Gideon’s laugh was bitter. “And then the bastard shot me from a goddamn Lexus.”

Tom shared a tense glance with Croft. “Belmont? Did he hit you?” he asked, because Gideon was still talking. Therefore he hadn’t been hurt that badly, if at all.

“Vest.”

Croft’s cheeks flushed in anger. “Motherfucker. He shot you in the chest?”

“Yep. It’ll bruise, but I’ll live. I pulled my gun, but he drove away and there was too much foot traffic to risk shooting back. I called it in, but the license plates were another fake. Marin County issued the original plates to a Lexus in the same color six months ago.”

“He has access to private citizen information, then,” Croft said. “Not a surprise.”

“No, but also, he’s changed his appearance. It all happened so fast that I didn’t realize it until I watched the station’s security tapes. He’s dyed his hair dark. Has a goatee, too. His left arm was in a sling, so he’s still injured. Molina said she was updating the BOLO to reflect.”

“We need to roll, Gideon,” Croft said. “Do you need a ride out of there?”

“No. We’re sitting tight here for a while. Molina arranged for a Bureau transport van to pick us up. It’ll be disguised as a delivery van and will back up to the door so that we can crawl in and hide. I fucking hate this guy,” he finished.

“You’re not the only one.” Croft ended the call. “Let’s head back. We’ve got work to do.”