Hard Landing (4 page)

Approaching Max's dresser, she peeked into the elaborately carved teak box he'd brought back from his excursion to Malaysia. Brimming with business cards, pens, and loose change, she doubted it would yield any mysteries, as Max was careful to leave his work at the Spec Ops building on base, where he worked. Riffling through the contents, she found nothing suspicious.

Still musing, she strode into their beige and burgundy bathroom to use the facilities. As she washed her hands, her gaze settled on Max's bottle of Viagra pills, hidden behind a row of vitamin bottles. She picked it up, surprised to see only a handful of pills remaining out of an original supply of thirty.

The walls of the room shifted closer. Her heart beat a little faster. There were more pills missing than the number of times they'd had sex in the last year. Had he spilled them into the toilet by mistake? Or was Max having sex with other women?

Oddly enough, the thought of him cheating inspired less dismay than the realization that the missing pills didn't constitute proof of adultery. She would have to hire a detective who would then have to catch Max in the act before she could claim infidelity on his part.

She put the bottle back and left the bathroom.

The framed photograph of the two of them on their wedding day drew her toward the dresser on which it sat. Max, wearing his dress-white uniform with its array of medals and ribbons, had looked so formidable next to his much younger wife. Twelve years her senior, it had never occurred to her until just then that she may have been looking for a father figure, someone with an excellent work ethic and proven track record. Someone who wouldn't leave his family and shirk his responsibilities the way her father had.

My mistake
, she conceded. She had clearly married Max for the wrong reasons, never once guessing how difficult her marriage would become. If only she could simply breathe and smile and enjoy life without constantly worrying about his ridiculous expectations. And worse, his demeaning punishments intended to teach her to do better.

Why not just leave him and let him accuse her of abandoning him? Did she really need half the marital assets and spousal support? No, but she had emptied her own savings account the year before to keep their house out of foreclosure. She would never get that money back if she up and left. Plus, there was Max's threat to consider.
You will rue the day that you mention a divorce to me again.
What had he meant, exactly? She shivered at the pictures that flashed through her mind.

I'm stuck
, she thought.

A vision of Bronco's smiling face pushed aside the frightening images and gave rise to inexplicable sorrow.

Don't be stupid
.
You don't want him.

No, of course not. She only wanted to be more like him—carefree and unencumbered. And, on days like this one, it didn't seem like that would ever be the case.

* * *

Digging his heels into the carpet, Brant resisted Bethany's attempt to tug him down the short hallway toward his bedroom. Their take-out dinner was consumed, the movie was over, and Bethany wanted what she'd come over for—a satisfying booty call.

Ordinarily, he'd have been happy to oblige. Activity in the bedroom didn't involve talking any more than watching a movie did. And bringing women to orgasm as many times as was humanly feasible was a challenge he never tired of pursuing. In fact, he'd acquired unparalleled skills in that area, and Bethany was clearly angling for the action he could give her, except he didn't feel like obliging her tonight.

"What's wrong with you?" She thrust her lower lip out in a pout that would normally have caused him to cave but which he now found rather annoying. She gave up tugging and threw herself at him instead, rubbing her oversized breasts against his chest.

Feeling her hardened nipples begging for his attention did make his libido stir. But then he remembered Rebecca's taunt—
I bet you couldn't last a week,
and immediately his ardor dwindled. He peeled Bethany's hands from the back of his neck and set her at arm's length. "I have to get up early tomorrow."

"So?"

Getting up early was standard operating procedure, and he'd never let that fact get in the way of a good romp before. "I need to catch up on my sleep," he insisted. "I'm sorry."

Her jaw dropped in astonishment. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." He sent her an apologetic grimace, even as he grabbed her hand and led her toward the front door, snatching her purse off the back of the couch and looping the strap over her shoulder. "I'll be in touch," he promised.

"Oh, and I'm supposed to be grateful for that?" she mocked.

Her evident distress made him feel bad. "I guess not. Sorry." He reached for the doorknob, but she blocked his attempt to turn it.

"Someone else is coming over here," she guessed, her eyes snapping with suspicion. "It's that mixed-race chick, Christiana, isn't it?"

In spite of his efforts to live a double life, his sex partners had apparently still caught wind of each other. "No, Bethany," he assured her. "No one else is coming over. I just want to be alone, I promise."

"Liar!" In the next instant her purse clocked him hard across the face.

Damn, that hurt, but he supposed he deserved it—if not for his actions tonight, then in general.

Realizing what she'd done and looking suddenly fearful of reprisal, she reached for the door herself and scuttled through it.

He stuck his head out to watch her flee toward the stairs in the breezeway separating his apartment from the others on this level.

"Careful in those heels," he called out as she started down them in her stilettos.

"Fuck you!" she yelled back at him, turning just enough to flip him the bird, her face contorted with anger and pain.

Figuring he'd seen the last of Bethany, he was only mildly surprised to realize there was nothing about her he would miss. Still, he cringed at the pain he'd caused—even if it was only because she wanted good sex. But if it was because she'd pinned hopes on him or let her heart get involved, then he felt even worse. Despite his very best efforts to keep from hurting any woman, he was apparently just like his father, after all.

"Not anymore," he murmured, though he wasn't sure what he meant by his own words. All he knew was when he pictured himself through Rebecca's eyes, he couldn't see why she'd ever befriended him. He closed his apartment door and leaned against it.

Thinking of Rebecca led to wondering what Max was up to, keeping such a large sum of money secret from his wife. Who or what was Emile Victor DuPonte, anyway?

He glanced at his charging cell phone and contemplated calling Rebecca to check up on her. She worked twelve-hour days in the ER—a job that required nerves of steel, in his opinion. By this time of night, she was undoubtedly at home, but then so was Max. Even if he had her number, calling his commander's wife would find him transferred to a West Coast Team inside of a week. Dumb idea.

He plucked up his phone wanting to call someone, anyone. He thought about Hack, the new techno geek, and wondered if that man could figure out who Emile Victor DuPonte was. Brant had already Googled the name to no avail. Accessing his contacts, he dialed his new teammate.

Stuart "Hack" Rudolph answered after only one ring. "Chief?"

"Yeah, it's me." Brant turned to survey his messy living room. Take-out boxes still littered the coffee table. The couch cushions were all topsy-turvy. He went to tidy up while talking. "Are you busy right now? I could use a personal favor." He carried the boxes and plastic utensils to the trash and dumped them.

"Nah, just messing with some code, nothing too important. What d' you need?"

Hack's peculiar accent took getting used to. Northwest Vermont, he'd explained the day they'd met when Brant had listened to him and blurted, "What the fuck, dude?"

"This is going to sound strange," Brant prepped him, straightening the pillows on the couch, "but can you tell me more about the name Emile Victor DuPonte? I think it's an investment company, but I can't find it on Google. I want to know where it's located and what it invests in." Mentioning that Max owned the account was out of the question.

"Sure thing, Bronco," Hack said, with no question in his voice. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks. I owe you a six-pack."

"Bottle of red wine," Hack corrected him. "Penfolds Bin 2 Shiraz. It'll cost you twenty-seven bucks."

"Don't sell yourself short," Brant protested.

Hack chuckled and hung up.

Brant carried his phone to the sliding glass door and stepped out onto his balcony. From his apartment, situated three blocks from the beach front, south of the congested boardwalk, he could smell and hear the ocean, even if he couldn't see it. A neighborhood of overpriced homes blocked his view. With a prick of envy, he thought about Max's waterfront property and how he could never buy anything like that—not on a chief's salary. Did that make him less of a man in Rebecca's eyes?

Lowering himself into a deck chair, he pondered what to do. Since cavorting with playmates evidently took up most of his free time, he'd forgotten how to amuse himself.

He could invite Bullfrog over. The first class petty officer was probably reading one of his philosophy books with Brazilian guitar music playing softly in the background. Bullfrog didn't waste his free time on women; he spent it broadening his consciousness. It was a wonder he and Brant were even friends, considering what polar opposites they were.

Brant hesitated, recalling his promise to Rebecca not to tell a soul about her secret. He hadn't revealed too much to Hack, had he? And talking to Bullfrog was like consulting with his conscience. His friend didn't gossip—ever. Therefore, her secret would still be safe, his promise still intact—in the spirit in which it was given, if not technically.

The tinny ringing coming from his phone made him realize he'd dialed Bullfrog without making a conscious decision. His friend's distracted greeting confirmed what he was up to.

"Hey, I want to talk to you," Brant said. "Can you pop over?"

Conveniently, Bullfrog lived in the same apartment complex, same floor, on the opposite side of the breezeway, leaving him with few excuses not to comply.

"Are you alone?" his friend inquired warily.

Brant had made the mistake of inviting him over once when he'd brought home a pair of twins. That was before he realized his friend didn't do one-night stands.

"I
will
be alone if you don't come over," he pointed out.

He heard Bullfrog heave a sigh. Brant pictured him shutting a paperback. The man refused to get an e-reader. "Be there shortly."

Hours later, Brant's vibrating phone woke him from a deep sleep. He cracked an eye and glanced at the time—fifteen minutes before his alarm was due to go off.

Was this a call to action? Conditions were ripe for a hurricane to pop up in the Atlantic, and if one should ever head to Cuba, the SEALs would respond to execute a mission they'd been planning for a year. But it took days for a hurricane to move across the ocean, so that couldn't be the reason for the call.

Brant groaned. He and Bullfrog had stayed up way into the night, brainstorming all the possible reasons for Max to have a secret stash of money. He plucked his phone off the charger and peered at the caller ID. This wasn't a call to go wheels up. It was only Hack getting back to him.

"Yeah." He sat up hoping to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

"I think I found what you're looking for," Hack said without preamble.

Brant rubbed his bleary eyes. "Dude, I didn't mean for you to stay up all night working on it."

"No worries, Chief. I woke up ten minutes early and found what you're looking for. So get this: Emile Victor DuPonte is the name of a Swiss investment company."

Holy shit. Max had opened an overseas account? Well, well, that was a big no-no for members in the Spec Ops community.

"But that's not all," Hack added, bringing Brant more fully awake. "It looks like the company's not even authentic."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not recognized by FINMA, the Swiss Financial Market Supervisory Authority, as a legitimate asset management company. So maybe it's dirty, or something."

Jesus
. Brant's thoughts raced in several directions at once. Could he take what he'd learned straight to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service? "Looks like I owe you that bottle of wine," he said.

"Lucky for you it's on sale right now at the Oceana NEX. Pendfolds Bin 2 Shiraz," Hack reminded him. "It'll only cost you seventeen, if you hurry."

"I'll buy you a bottle tonight," Brant promised. Heck, he'd surprise the geek and buy him two. "Thanks for the research. Please don't mention this subject with anyone else."

"No problem." Hack's voice took on a serious tone. "Hey, if you need me again, don't hesitate to call any time, Chief."

How cool to have a techno genius in his corner, but Brant hoped he wouldn't need to take him up on his offer. What he ought to do was go straight to NCIS and let them delve into Max's business. But what evidence did he have besides hearsay?

Max wasn't stupid. NCIS had absolutely no jurisdiction overseas except on Navy bases, which was probably why Max had opened a foreign account in the first place. But why would he even need one unless he was up to something illegal?