Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)

Tom set the pizza box on the bed, not really caring what was inside, because Liza was in his bed, smiling up at him. “Pepperoni, extra cheese, green peppers, and mushrooms.”

She sat cross-legged with the sheet tucked under her arms. All of the interesting parts were covered, but he figured he could persuade her to uncover again later. For now, she looked very happy and extremely relaxed and he felt a little thrill knowing he’d helped with that.

Pebbles trotted through the open bedroom door, her tail wagging.

“Did you bark at the evil pizza delivery man, Pebbles?” Liza crooned.

“She always does. This guy was smart, though.” Tom set a six-pack of Coke on the nightstand. “He brought dog biscuits, probably hoping to buy some goodwill.”

“But?”

“But Pebbles has already forgotten about him.” Because as much as he loved the dog, she wasn’t very smart.

“You’re a fickle girl,” she told Pebbles, who’d surprisingly bypassed the pizza, making a beeline for Liza, who’d leaned over to kiss the dog’s muzzle.

Okay, so Pebbles was much smarter than he’d thought. Tom stripped off the jeans he’d put on to meet the delivery guy and got under the sheet with Liza, more than pleased with the way her gaze raked over his body.

“Do we have to eat?” But then her stomach growled, making her laugh. “I guess we do.”

“We need fuel.” He put a slice of pizza on a paper plate and passed it over to her. “Then we can go again.”

She kissed his cheek. “A man with a plan,” she teased, then moaned when she bit into the pizza. “This is so much better than what Rafe got over the weekend. That was like cardboard.”

He stared at her, his food forgotten, the moan kick-starting his libido.

She saw him staring and laughed again. “Eat.”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Which pizza place did Rafe call?” he asked after he’d devoured his first piece, because he’d been much hungrier than he’d thought. “I’ll avoid them.”

She studied the box with a slight frown. “It might have been this one,” she said. “Maybe I just didn’t have any appetite that night.”

He sighed and started to apologize, but she shoved another slice of pizza in his mouth.

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” she scolded. “Maybe we had to go there to get here.”

He swallowed the bite he’d been force-fed. “Maybe. I still hate that I made you sad.”

“So make me happy again later,” she said cheekily.

He ate another piece, then pulled her hair aside so that he could reexamine the tattoo on her back. He still had so many questions about the tattoo artist. “That guy Sergio Iglesias? He did an amazing job with this.”

“He did. I’m really pleased with it.”

“Do you have to go back to have it colored in?”

“I do. Probably next month. I thought I’d go before I start nursing school.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Maybe I’d like to go with you.”

She clearly wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “Why?”

“Maybe I’d like a day to get away with you, to take a drive. To go to lunch after your session is over. Like we did with the first tattoo. I assume wherever you went had restaurants nearby.” He nearly winced because he didn’t entirely believe himself.

Neither did she, because her lips twitched. “Are you trying to get me to tell you where we went on Thursday?”

“Maybe.”

“Why, Tom? Just tell me the truth.”

He sighed. “Maybe I’m curious. Maybe I just like knowing about your day. And maybe I feel bad for the guy. You said the Bureau visit sent him into hiding.”

“He thought they were ICE,” she said, scowling. “He has a green card, but some entitled bitch wasn’t satisfied with the tattoo he did, even though she signed off on the design. She threatened him. Even got some guys who claimed to be ICE to harass him.”

It was his turn to scowl now. “That’s wrong.”

She chuckled, leaning sideways to kiss his biceps. “You are really cute, you know that? Such a Dudley Do-Right.”

“Will you stop calling me that?”

She tilted her head. “Does it really bother you?”

He sighed again. “No, not really. It’s fair enough.”

“Well, I’ll stop anyway. You are very earnest, though.” She sobered. “It is wrong, and he’s scared to death. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got deported on made-up charges.”

“I’ll make some calls,” he promised. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“So . . . where did you go?”

She laughed so loudly that Pebbles ran in circles, barking. “Oh my God. Okay.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Monterey. If Sergio says it’s okay, you can come with me next time.”

“I’ll still make the calls.”

“Because you are sincerely earnest. Nothing about you is an act.” She smiled at him and he thought he’d never get tired of the sight. “You’re a good man.”

“Thank you. So how did you find him?”

“Instagram and Facebook. It wasn’t hard. Any one of you Feds could have done it standing on your heads. Why didn’t you?”

That was a damn good question. “Raeburn didn’t think it was a lead worth pursuing. It wasn’t like that person had been to Eden and could tell us where to find it.”

“Well, he’s not wrong about part of it. William Holly—a.k.a. Boaz Travis—can’t lead you to Eden. He was only eleven years old when his mother got him out.”

Tom hesitated. “He’s also dead.”

She gaped, shocked. “How do you know that?”

“We talked to DJ’s relatives—his aunt and uncle. They owned the house where Pastor’s wife and kids were living when Boaz Travis went to get the Eden tattoo. The aunt and uncle didn’t know who Pastor’s wife and kids were, but said that the elder Belmonts had grown fond of them while they rented. They said that ‘William’ committed suicide.”

Liza sighed sadly. “Sergio said he knew that he was an unhappy young man.” She sighed again. “Daisy and I were hoping that whoever we found could give us one of the more recent Eden sites. Amos said that they reused sites, so if we found other locations we might find Eden now.”

Tom hid his wince. Liza and Daisy had gone to a lot of trouble because they hadn’t known that the Bureau already knew all of the old sites. That was on him. Or on Raeburn, because he’d forbidden any information sharing.

He must not have hidden his wince well enough, though, because her eyes narrowed. “You know,” she whispered. “You already know the locations of all of the old Eden sites.”

He sighed. “I can’t talk about it.”

“How did you know?” she demanded, ignoring his reluctance.

“Ephraim left some notebooks in his safe-deposit box.”

She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “He mapped out the old sites, but you didn’t tell us.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss the case with Gideon and Mercy,” he said regretfully.

“I understand need-to-know. You’ll make sure I know what I need to know, right?”

He tipped her chin up and kissed her. “If it keeps you safe, I’ll tell you everything.”

“I trust you,” she whispered against his mouth, then jerked away with a gasp. “Pebbles, no!”

She leaped out of bed in all her naked glory and reached for Pebbles, who was headed out of the bedroom, Liza’s boot in her mouth. Tail wagging, the dog thought it was a game and ran. Liza chased her around the bed, then stopped in the doorway.

Whirling around, fists on her hips, she glared at Tom. “A little help? She listens to you.”

“Because I don’t let her lick my face,” Tom said dryly, then openly leered at her. “Plus I’m too busy looking at you.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was pleased. “That shouldn’t make me forgive you as easily as it does.” She stomped out and he could hear her calling to Pebbles from down the hall.

And then he heard nothing.

He waited another beat, then jumped from the bed, closing the bedroom door before running to his office. Pebbles was half in and half out, her tail still wagging furiously. When he pushed by her, he could see the boot still in her mouth. “Drop it,” he ordered.

She dropped it immediately and Tom bent to scoop it up. “Here it is,” he said, but Liza didn’t reply. She was standing at his bulletin board, staring at the photos he’d collected.

His first thought was to tell her they were classified, but she’d already either known or figured out nearly everything about the case. Still, he strode forward, tugging at her shoulder.

“Liza, honey, don’t look at those. Some of these are intense. You don’t want those images in your mind.”

She looked over her shoulder, incredulous. “Tom, what part of ‘I was a fucking combat medic’ hasn’t sunk into your thick skull yet?”

He grimaced. “Right. Sorry. Still. Come back to bed with me.”

Ignoring him, she pointed to the photo of DJ Belmont as a child. “Where did you get this?”

Once again he considered telling her they were classified, but she was going into Sunnyside Oaks on Tuesday morning. She deserved all of the information he could give her.

Who knew what small detail might save her life if things went sideways?

He set her boot on his desk. “Waylon Belmont’s sister-in-law let me take a photo of one of the pictures she had on the wall when Croft and I interviewed her. Interestingly enough, we were at their rental house when you called—the same address as was listed on William Holly’s ID. We’d gone to check it first in the event that DJ remembered the house and went back there. He’d lived there with his mother at the time of their disappearance. Pastor’s wife showed up with the kids four years later. Those photos are of DJ and his father at the same age.”

“Whoa,” she murmured. “So you were physically sitting in front of William Holly’s old house when I called you about tracking him and his tattoo to Sergio?”

“Yes.” Resting his chin on the top of her head, he wrapped his arms around her waist as he studied the photo of DJ Belmont, curious as to what she saw that had her so transfixed. “Why?”

She pointed to the grainy photo he’d pulled from the old newspaper article about Pastor’s crimes against his old L.A. congregation, the embezzlement and fraud. “Bo and Bernice. Look at them. Now look at DJ. They’re about the same age in these photos.”

Tom did as she directed, then exhaled, far more stunned than he had any right to be. Because she’d immediately seen what he should have seen, but had not. “DJ and Waylon looked alike, but Bo and DJ could have been twins,” he said quietly.

“Uh-huh. And who is the common denominator?”

“Waylon. That certainly would explain how Pastor’s wife magically ended up in the Belmonts’ rental house. Croft and I figured that Waylon had taken them there, but we weren’t sure why.” He tapped a document thumbtacked at the top of the bulletin board.

She lifted on her toes to examine it. “A marriage license? I didn’t know that Waylon and Pastor’s wife were married. Was this while he was in prison?”

“The day he was released. Dammit, I should have seen this before.”

But he’d been distracted the day he’d fixed these photos to his board. By the woman who was now scrutinizing each and every document and photo he’d collected.

“What else did Waylon’s brother tell you?”

“That Pastor’s wife, Margo Holly, a.k.a. Marcia Travis, kept to herself, but the elder Belmonts—DJ’s grandparents—kind of adopted her kids. Holidays, school events.” He shook his head at his own thickness. “Because they were Bo and Bernie’s grandparents, too. By blood.”

“So . . .” Liza said slowly, “Waylon and Marcia marry and, I’m assuming, get divorced because she married Pastor six months later?” She’d found the copy of Marcia and Benton Travis’s marriage license on his bulletin board. “Then what? They changed their names, cooked up fake backgrounds, and applied to work at a church in L.A.? And nobody checked up on their résumés?”

“Back then it was easier to fake an identity and a résumé,” Tom said. “And I think that many congregations have a basic trust that whoever joins them in worship is one of them. Embezzlement from churches happens all the time still, and the churches are more likely to forgive the crime than a corporation would be. I can get you the statistics if you’re interested.”

“No, I believe you. That’s doubly sad, you know? Assholes who steal from churches don’t just steal money. They steal trust, too.”

“Yes,” Tom said simply. “I don’t know how many of these cases are even reported—then and now. Religious organizations—whatever the denomination—are either more willing to forgive because it’s ingrained in their beliefs or they’re embarrassed to have been cheated.”

“I imagine it’s a little bit of both,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder if Pastor knew. That the kids weren’t his, I mean.”

“Good question. None of this helps us find Eden, but I’m kind of invested in the story now. Once we do find Eden, and Pastor and DJ are in custody, I’d like to find Marcia and ask her.”

Liza leaned into him and he tightened his hold. “Do you know where she is?”

“Not exactly. I know where she went after she left Benicia, after her daughter graduated from college and her son killed himself. I know the daughter’s name was Tracy and she got married and moved away. Merle’s mother still gets postcards, but with no return address.”

“Bernice is still hiding,” Liza said sadly. “What about Margo or Marcia or Pastor’s wife, whatever you call her?”

“She married an architect in Modesto, which was when she moved out of the house in Benicia. I can’t find any architects in Modesto with a wife named Margo. Once it’s safe, maybe you should do your Facebook magic and track her down.”

“Don’t make fun,” she warned.

“I’m not,” he promised. “I’m totally not. I’m serious.”

“Then maybe I will.” She turned to look up at him. “How did you know Pastor was at Sunnyside Oaks?”

“I was able to get into Eden’s bank account by tracing transfers made to Ephraim’s account. I set an alert for activity and it let me know that money had been transferred to Sunnyside Oaks.”

“Who did the transfer?”

“I assume Pastor did.”

“Not DJ?”

Tom frowned. “I don’t have any proof one way or the other, but it seems that if DJ had access to the money, he’d have taken his share a long time ago.”

“Pastor’s holding on to the purse strings,” she murmured. “Not a shock. He must do Internet transfers, since they have a computer.”

“I figured as much. I haven’t been able to trace the location of whoever’s moving money around, though. We could subpoena the bank’s records, but it’s offshore and that would take a long time.”

“And Pastor and DJ might find out and move Eden again. Plus, that young woman needs help now. The one who’s pregnant.”

“Hayley Gibbs. She’s been on my mind,” Tom admitted.

“No surprise. Just like I want to save Mercy and Abigail because I didn’t save my sister, you want to make sure Hayley’s baby is safe because—” She cut herself off. “I’m sorry.”

His heart hurt, but she wasn’t the cause. “No need to be sorry. I do want Hayley safe because I couldn’t save Tory and our baby. You can say her name. You can mention the baby. It’s okay. I know you care.”

Her smile was tremulous, as was the kiss she pressed to his jaw before turning back to study the documents on his board. She tapped a finger on Eden’s bank account summary, the minimal withdrawals and the hefty quarterly deposits. “The quarterly deposits are really big,” she said. “Are they making that much money from selling mushrooms?”

“The guys in Forensic Accounting think that those are investment dividends, based on the rate of growth. Pastor and DJ may keep the cash from their drug sales for operating expenses.”

“Wow. Well, whoever is managing their money is doing an amazing job.”

“Pastor did time in the pen for bank fraud and forgery, among other things. He was a stockbroker who skimmed money from his clients. He was pretty good at making money for his clients, so they didn’t suspect him for some time. He has the skills to manage money.”

“I wonder how he did his banking back then. I mean, before the Internet.”

Tom hadn’t expected that question. “What?”

“Well, they’ve been nomadic for thirty years. The Internet’s only been around for, what, twenty-five years or so? And online banking is newer than that. I guess Pastor had to visit an actual bank in person in the early days. Especially if he was setting up an offshore account. And someone had to manage his investments before the Internet unless he managed to leave the compound to do it himself.”

Oh my God, she’s right. Tom’s thoughts began to percolate. “Amos said Pastor hasn’t left the compound in more than ten years. Not until now—which Amos doesn’t know about, so don’t tell him.” His heart began to beat faster as he mentally worked through the possibilities. “The money Pastor embezzled from his church in L.A. was never found. It’s likely that he parked that offshore, too. He had to have had a banker on the outside at the beginning. What if he still does? Their money has grown incredibly and maybe Pastor’s savvy enough to invest in all the right places, but . . . what if he’s had help?”

“But you’d need to subpoena the offshore bank to find out who that is—or was, right?”

“Yeah, unless . . .” A puzzle piece dropped into place. “Unless I can find someone who knew him well enough to know who he’d trust with his money.”

Liza turned in his arms, her eyes wide. “Someone like his wife?”

He smiled at her. “Exactly. I mean, if we find her and if she did know who helped him set up those accounts, it’s unlikely that he’s still working with that person after all this time. But it’s a start. There should be some evidence, like paperwork transferred from one bank to the next.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “You are a genius, Liza Barkley.”

Her cheeks went pink, but she looked pleased. “But even if you find his banker, what does that tell you?”

“If he’s communicated with Pastor recently—like to maybe transfer money to Sunnyside Oaks—we can get a warrant for his computer, or even his phone records. It might be another way to locate Eden. Especially if we aren’t able to get the location from either Pastor or DJ. They may never discuss it inside Sunnyside’s walls, and if we arrest them, they may not talk. We have to have alternate paths to getting the information we need.”

“So you’re going to keep looking for Pastor’s wife?”

“Yes, but secondary to getting your protection set up. I need you safe on Tuesday, and every day after that you go into that place.”

She nodded. “I’m not oblivious to the danger, Tom,” she said seriously. “And I am afraid. But not so afraid that I’m going to back out.”

“I know. I also know that you were incredibly brave the day your friends were killed. I know that you saved a lot of lives and got hurt yourself. Molina told me the whole story. She called your old CO, who was very complimentary. You never mentioned that you got a Purple Heart.”

She shrugged dismissively. “I got shot in the hip, but it wasn’t life-threatening.”

He brushed his fingertips over the butterfly tattoo. “Here?”

“Yeah. Got that in Chicago, a few days after Christmas.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want to remember that day.”

“But you’re okay with remembering it now.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes. They deserve that much. For me to remember them.”

“Will you tell me someday? About the Purple Heart?”

“Yes.” Her voice trembled. “But not today, okay?”

“Okay. You want to go back and finish our supper?”

“That sounds perfect.”

He led her back to the bedroom, grabbing her boot from his desk on the way out. As he expected, Pebbles sat at attention outside the bedroom door, sniffing the air.

He opened the door and told Pebbles, “Down.” Immediately she dropped to her belly. “Good girl.”

While Liza climbed back into bed, Tom dug his phone from the pocket of his trousers, hoping that he hadn’t missed any messages. Raeburn had put them all on call, after all.

Thankfully there was nothing from Raeburn, but he did have a message. “Huh.”

Liza paused, a slice of pizza an inch from her mouth. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s a text from Jeff Bunker.” He turned it so that she could see the message from the sixteen-year-old journalism major.

Got a promising lead on search for Craig Hickman. Expect news early in the am East Coast time. Will text when I know more.

“Who’s Craig Hickman?” Liza asked.

“He was the college kid who first exposed Pastor’s embezzlement from the church in L.A. He was beaten severely and then his parents’ house was burned down. Pastor’s followers were suspects. Craig disappeared shortly after that.”

Her eyes widened. “He was killed?”

“No. One of Jeff’s journalist mentors said he changed his name and moved away.”

“That was probably smart,” she murmured. “Why is Jeff looking for him?”

“I think he wants to write the story of his career when Eden’s found. He’s looking for all the background, and Craig Hickman is important because he started it all when he exposed Pastor’s crimes. He’s keeping me up to date because I’m curious as well. Let me text him a quick thanks and then we can eat.”

She smiled. “And then we can play.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, MAY 29, 3:30 A.M.

Cop or Fed?

DJ studied the figure behind the wheel of the black sedan parked in front of Kowalski’s house. The sedan had been there when he’d arrived hours before and hadn’t moved. The driver wore a dark suit and tie. So probably a Fed. Possibly an undercover cop.

He thought of the trash he’d left in the can the day he’d packed his things and left the Yuba City house. Kowalski had touched a few of those cans. Maybe they’d gotten his prints, too.

That was a satisfying thought. But it could also be someone from a rival gang, out to end Kowalski, which wasn’t a bad thought, either. Whoever it was, DJ needed to get rid of them before he made his own move.

The fence around Kowalski’s—or Anthony Ward’s—large estate was tall and likely electrified. However, the satellite view on Google Maps showed several large trees along the fence at the rear of the property. Depending on how old the satellite photos were, those trees could be even taller or possibly trimmed so that their limbs no longer hung over the fence. He was banking on the former, because that was how he planned to breach Kowalski’s stronghold.

Kowalski had taught him that move, too. He would be so proud.

He’d thought a lot about Kowalski and had concluded that the man couldn’t be convinced to back off. DJ needed to either kill him or get the weapons he was looking for, finish the job he’d started with Mercy and Gideon, then disappear.

It was possible that none of Kowalski’s weapons were stored here, but DJ wasn’t leaving until he’d found either enough firepower to take out the Sokolov house with Mercy Callahan in it or something to trade for what he needed. If he had to, he’d take Kowalski’s kid.

DJ really didn’t want to do that. Hostages were messy, but he needed as many weapons as he could get, and he wasn’t naive enough to believe that Kowalski would just give him some. If Kowalski played ball, DJ would return the kid. Worst case, he could leave the kid at the Smythes’ house and Mrs. Smythe would find him once she returned.

And if Mercy wasn’t in the Sokolovs’ house when he blew it sky- high? She’d show up to the funerals of whoever had been. DJ wasn’t picky and didn’t care if he killed the entire Sokolov family. He wanted Mercy and Gideon gone. Then he’d pick off Amos for stealing his truck and Daisy Dawson for shooting his shoulder.

Which, while not at a hundred percent, was far better than it had been a week ago. After a few nights in a soft bed, nightly soaks in Smythe’s Jacuzzi tub, and doses of the painkillers he’d found in Smythe’s medicine cabinet, his arm was steadily improving.

He still couldn’t lift his rifle, so he now had it propped on the trunk of the Honda Civic he’d stolen from the woman near the airport.

It was time to get this show on the road. Kowalski’s wife had finally turned out her bedroom light an hour before. He wasn’t sure where the kid’s bedroom was, but he had a decent idea. One of the windows had a very faint glow, like it might have been a night-light. He’d soon find out.

Centering the sedan’s driver in his sight, DJ pulled the trigger. He wouldn’t have a lot of time now, especially if the driver had been on his radio. His rifle had a damn good suppressor, but glass still made a shattering sound. And the driver would be unable to check in.

Someone could show up soon, so he slid the rifle to his back, adjusting the strap, then grabbed his nearly empty duffel bag. It was for carrying away any treats he came across. Hopefully lots and lots of rifles, piles of ammo, and a pound or two of explosives.

His handgun was holstered at his waist. In the duffel was the service weapon he’d taken from the cop he’d killed the night before, the drugged hamburger he’d taken from the schoolteacher, and zip ties that he’d taken from the dead cop’s gun belt. He’d also brought rope, duct tape, and a can of black spray paint in case he encountered any security cameras.

Another of Kowalski’s tricks.

He was sprinting from his car toward the house when a burly man came from a gate in the electric fence. The man approached the black sedan from the passenger side and peered in.

DJ dropped to a crouch behind a tree and slid his rifle from his shoulder, propping it on the ground. He slithered to his stomach and checked his scope.

Well, damn. He knew the burly guy. He’d met with him several times. He was Kowalski’s right-hand man, responsible for the Chicos’ security. DJ centered the crosshairs on the man’s head and pulled the trigger.

The guy dropped like a rock.

DJ ran to Kowalski’s security man and checked for a pulse. There was none, so he helped himself to the man’s gun, phone, and keys, stowing everything but the keys in the duffel. The keys went into his own pocket.

He was relieved to find the tree near the back fence standing tall. The lowest limb was a little too high for him to easily reach, so he fashioned a pulley from the rope and a few minutes later was standing on the limb, looking into Kowalski’s windows. The house was grand, of that there was no doubt. It had to be ten thousand square feet, the backyard enormous.

So far, so good. No lights in the house came on, so the wife and kid were still sleeping. There was no sign of the dog mentioned in the teacher’s notes, which was a relief. It would take precious minutes for the drugs to incapacitate a Rottweiler. Plus, he liked dogs.

He heard the next security guard before he saw him, softly speaking into a walkie-talkie.

“Keating isn’t answering. Be on alert and do not leave your post,” the man commanded. Once he came into view, DJ realized he knew this guy, too. They’d done a drop-off a few years ago.

Drawing his handgun, DJ waited until the man was walking under the tree limb, then fired two quick shots into the man’s head. He then jumped from the limb to the ground, landing in a crouch a few feet from the remains. He headed for the garage door, figuring the six-car garage was as good a place as any to store weapons, as the house appeared to have no basement.

He saw the third guy long before the guy saw him. Creeping along the back wall, the third security guy was definitely lower tier. He was young, maybe twenty years old, and scared.

DJ shoved his handgun to the back of the young man’s head. “If you make a sound, I will kill you. Nod if you understand. Do not speak.”

The man nodded frantically and did not speak.

DJ patted him down and found a knife and two guns. He added them to his duffel bag. “Good. I’m looking for weapons. Take me to them and I’ll let you go.”

The guy began walking toward the garage, where he unlocked an exterior door into the cavernous space. The entire wall was covered with cabinets and safes, and while the garage could easily hold six vehicles, the only ones inside were a van, a pickup, and a red Jaguar.

The young man made a grunting sound, and DJ realized that he was asking for permission to speak. “Go ahead. But if you scream, you’re dead. I got nothing to lose.”

“I don’t know the combinations to the safes. I don’t have keys for the cabinets, either.”

DJ took the first guard’s keys from his pocket. “Open all the cabinets.” The safes would have to wait for another day.

The third guard complied and a few minutes later, all the cabinet doors were open. DJ was thunderstruck. There were enough guns here to stage a revolution.

DJ dumped the contents of his duffel bag on the passenger seat of the panel van, then handed the bag to the guard. “Three rifles. Ten boxes of ammo. Six handguns. Fill it.”

The man sprang into action and a minute later returned with the bag mostly full. “Here,” he said, his hands shaking.

“Explosives?”

The man swallowed. “There’s some C-4, but it’s in the safe. Dynamite is in the cabinets, though.”

It would have to do. “Bring a box and put it in the back of the van.”

The man complied, scurrying like a mouse. When he was done, DJ checked the contents of the bag before stowing it on the floorboard of the van. “Keys.”

The man handed him the keys. “I did what you said. I’m gonna go now.”

“You must be new,” DJ said dryly.

“Real new. My first night was last week.”

“Should have picked a different boss.” DJ shot the man in the head, firing a second time before checking his pulse to be sure he was dead. He found the garage door opener in the van and hit the switch. When the door rose, he wasn’t sure what he’d find, but he was pleasantly surprised to see no one there.

He drove down the driveway and past the black sedan to where he’d left the Honda Civic. Leaving the head of security’s phone in the van, he transferred the box of dynamite and the duffel bag full of weapons from the van to the Civic, then slid behind its wheel. And drove away.

Two in the win column. If Kowalski had been home, he hadn’t done a thing to save his men. Hell, the man probably had a panic room or some kind of a bunker he could hide in.

If he hadn’t been home, he’d be hearing all about this from his missus.

Either way, DJ had gotten what he’d come for.

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, MAY 29, 4:00 A.M.

Tom bolted upright in bed, waking Liza. Hearing the ringing of a phone, she propped up on her elbow to see him grabbing at all three of his cells, looking adorably confused.

“It’s this one,” she said, taking the other two from his hands. “The one that says ‘Jeff Bunker’ on the screen. You want to touch the button that says ‘accept.’ ”

He gave her the stink-eye as he answered the call. “Jeff? . . . Well, yeah, I was asleep, but it’s all right. What do you have?”

Liza sat up, giving him a stink-eye of her own. Speaker, she mouthed.

“Gonna put you on speaker, if that’s okay?” He did so, then said, “Liza is here, just so you know.”

Jeff was silent a moment, then cackled. “She’s there? In your bed? Dammit, Liza.”

“What?” Liza asked.

“I lost the bet. Shit. Zoya’s going to make me pay, too. Thanks a lot, Liza.”

She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “You bet on me and Tom?”

“What?” Tom burst out. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Apparently Jeff has been betting on if we’d get together,” Liza said dryly, then patted Tom’s arm. “Are you awake now?”

“It wasn’t if,” Jeff said, still cackling. “It was when. I said it would be after Tom solved the case. Zoya figured before. I guess I don’t mind paying up, though.” He snickered. “Go, Liza.”

Tom was shaking his head, utterly nonplussed. “You bet on me and Liza?”

“Keep up, honey,” Liza said lightly.

Jeff laughed louder. “Oh my God. Am I the first to know? Oh, please say I can tell.”

Liza met Tom’s eyes. Are we keeping this a secret? she wanted to ask.

His eyes narrowed at her and then at the phone. “Of course you can tell. This isn’t a secret.”

“Good.” Jeff sounded serious now. “I wouldn’t have told if you’d said no. I’m getting better at not being an asshole.”

“I know,” Tom said gently, then yawned. “What do you have?”

“I found Craig Hickman.”

Tom blinked. “I thought you were going to text me.”

“I was, but this might be important. His new name is Zachary Goodman. He’s a reporter for a local paper in Richmond, Virginia, and teaches English at the high school. I’m going to tell you how I found him first, because that explains what he knows.”

Tom pulled his tablet to his lap, ready to take notes. “Whenever you’re ready, kid.”

“So. You remember that Hickman was beaten severely after he helped expose Pastor’s crimes in his old L.A. church, right? That was after Pastor and his family disappeared. The L.A. church was left in shambles, with parishioners having screaming fights and flinging threats at each other.”

“Those who wanted Pastor to stay versus those who wanted him gone,” Tom said. “I know.”

“Some of those were death threats, but Hickman kept digging. All of what I’m telling you came from Erica Mann. She’s the L.A. reporter who wrote most of the newspaper articles back when the scandal first broke thirty years ago. The two have kept in touch all this time. I contacted her after we texted yesterday and asked her point-blank if she could get a message to Hickman. She was quiet for a long time, then said she’d forward him a message with my contact info but couldn’t guarantee he’d answer it. But he did. He called me right before I called you.”

“What did Mr. Hickman tell you?” Liza asked.

“That he’d been contacted twelve years ago by Erica Mann. She’d received an e-mail from a woman who wished to make him reparations. Hickman was interested only because he wanted to know who was looking for him. He’s . . . really paranoid, even now. So he contacted the woman using an untraceable phone. He actually took the train to New York City to make the call because he didn’t trust that they couldn’t find him and he didn’t want his family involved. He recognized her voice right away, even after all those years. It was Pastor’s wife.”

Tom glanced at Liza with a frown. “Why did she want to find him?”

“She said she felt terrible for the wrongs done to his family. I mean, this was twenty years later, so Hickman wasn’t interested in her apologies and told her so. She said she understood, and that she wanted to offer him reparations in the amount of—wait for it—a million bucks.”

Liza gasped. “Oh my God.”

Tom whistled softly. “Wow. Did he take it?”

“No, but he didn’t turn her down right away. He talked to his parents first. Hickman didn’t want it for himself. He figured it was blood money, but his folks had lost everything, so he offered it to them. They didn’t want it, either. So Hickman contacted her back and said no, but that if she was truly serious about reparations, she’d donate the cash to an L.A. charity for the homeless, for drug addicts, or for LGBTQ youth. All were groups that Pastor preached against.”

“Did she?” Liza asked.

“She did. About three days later, there was an announcement that one of the LGBTQ youth shelters in L.A. had received an anonymous million-dollar donation. Hickman didn’t know what had made her contact him or if she’d actually changed, but he was still suspicious. He knew that Pastor had left with some of the wealthiest of the congregation, all of whom had sold everything they owned, just like Amos did. Hickman figured a million bucks was a drop in the bucket to them and that if they really wanted to find him, they might donate the money as a trap.”

“Ordinarily I’d say he was paranoid, but not in this case,” Tom said.

“I know, right? He hired a private detective to trace her phone call,” Jeff went on. “The call came from a Margo Kitson in Walnut Creek, California. You’ll find her online.”

Tom was already typing. “Oh my God, here she is. Margo Kitson. Married to Hugh Kitson. Here’s her photo.” He turned the tablet so that Liza could see.

A woman in a floor-length evening gown stood with a man in a tuxedo. When Tom zoomed in on the woman’s face, Liza could see that it was an older version of the woman in the grainy photo with Pastor and the then-five-year-old twins on Tom’s bulletin board.

“Is that the political fund-raiser from last year?” Jeff asked. “I found that one, too. Was going to send you the links. I have their address, too, if you’re interested.”

“I just found it,” Tom said. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

“If you can tell me where the million bucks came from without having to kill me, I’d really like to know,” Jeff said. “I think Hickman would like to know what caused her to reach out to him in the first place. She wouldn’t tell him when they talked years ago. That’s all I got.”

“That’s a lot,” Liza said warmly. “You did good, Jeff.”

“Well,” Jeff said, sounding embarrassed. “Least I can do for Mercy Callahan. If you can eliminate this threat to her and the others, I’ll be glad. Are you going to Walnut Creek, Tom?”

“I am. I’d already put in for a personal day. I figured Rafe would need help getting the guests to and from the airport. But the security firm is doing a good job and there will be an FBI presence at the Sokolovs’ for at least another day or two.”

“I know. I’m here,” Jeff said glumly. “It’s like we’re in prison. I hope it’s over soon.”

“Your mouth, God’s ear.” Tom held his finger over the end button. “We done?”

“Yep. I’d go to sleep, but I want to be the first one in the kitchen when Irina wakes up so I can tell her that she’s out twenty bucks.”

“She bet, too?” Tom asked, clearly affronted.

“Oh yeah. We had ten people in the pool.”

Liza chuckled quietly, patting Tom’s hand. “Who won?”

“Karl,” Jeff grumbled. “He always wins. Zoya and I had a side bet that she won. But I get to announce it, so I’m good. Bye.”

The call ended and Tom set the phone and his tablet aside. “We’re going to Walnut Creek.”

“We as in me and you?” Liza asked, hoping. “Or you and Croft?”

“I’ll see if she wants to come with us.”

Liza beamed up at him. “Thank you. It means a lot to me to help right now.”

“I know.” He kissed her lightly. “Will this be enough, though? Once we get Belmont in custody and the folks in Eden to safety, will your need to help be satisfied, or will I need to always worry that you’re exposing yourself to danger?”

She wanted to frown at him for asking the question, but she supposed it was fair. She was trying to make amends for the people she hadn’t saved. “It should be enough. By July I’ll be in nursing school and can focus all that guilt on getting good grades and being a damn good nurse.”

“The best.” He shut off the bedside light and slid back down until he was under the sheets with her. “You wake up unfairly chipper.”

“I was a soldier,” Liza said, snuggling into him when he wrapped his arm around her. His chest was the nicest of pillows. “We learned to sleep with one eye open.”

“I bet you’ll go right back to sleep, won’t you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m awake now.” He guided her hand to his erection. “What do you say?”

She wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed, his answering hiss like music. “Yes.”