Once Burned (Task Force Eagle) (9 page)

“Don’t go. After Robichaud verified my ATF
credentials, he gave me a copy of the old arson report and all the other files.
And there’s been a development in the Tyson fire. The fire marshal isn’t
sharing that or our actual status with the media.”

“A development? What?”

The speedboat’s wake rocked the
Amy Jo
, sending
Lani stumbling toward the side rail.

He caught her to him. “Steady. Don’t want you taking a
dive. Especially at low tide. Harbor’s supposedly clean but who knows what’s in
the mud.”

At his embrace, every cell in her body danced the
cha-cha-cha. She swallowed and backed away. “Way to brighten my morning a
little more, hot shot. What new development?”

“Voices carry over the water. What do you say we take
the boat out to Ragged Rocks? Seals should be sunning for another few hours
before the tide’s too high.”

Chapter 9

Jake held his breath when Lani paused, studying him.
He could almost see her skeptical brain turning over his offer. Was she
questioning his motivation? She should question his sanity.

“Sure,” she finally said. “Why not.”

“Great!” He released her and set to getting ready to
motor out.

He let out his breath slowly as he cast off the bow
line. She was so wary of him, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d run
away. Except she was too determined to get answers.

He hadn’t lied. Taking her out on the boat seemed the
safest location for sharing his tale. But when he’d held her hand, the pull of
attraction was powerful. She was brave and yet so vulnerable he wanted to tuck
her in his pocket. He couldn’t seem to resist her. Stupid. No future in it. She
sure as hell didn’t encourage him. But her eyes did darken and flicker with
heat.

As he released the stern line, two men back by the
harbor office shed caught his eye. The harbormaster was talking to the workman
named Brandon who’d spoken to Kevin at the Wheelhouse. The two men were staring
at the
Amy Jo
but then turned away, still in conversation.

Jake’s gut clenched. Ed Pascal had probably heard
about the Cameron fire and this latest arson. A man with his finger on the
pulse, the harbormaster. Jake had seen Brandon around the village a few times
since the Wheelhouse. A little younger than Pascal, he had an amiable enough
face, not hostile or furtive. If that meant anything at all.

Brandon sucked the life out of the cigarette hanging
from his mouth, threw it down and jogged up the hill. Pascal ambled down the
dock toward the rowdy teenagers’ boat slip.

Maybe Brandon had nothing to do with the fire. Either
fire. Maybe the two men had been ogling the beautiful woman on his boat. Wouldn’t
hurt to ask Donovan to add Brandon to background checks he’d requested. Pascal
was already on the list.

A few minutes later, he guided the
Amy Jo
slowly past Dragon Rocks, no dragon now, at low tide only a hazardous line of rocks.
A double-crested cormorant, its black wings outspread to dry, perched atop one
outcrop.

Once past the lighthouse on the point, he opened the
throttle and plowed through the water, wrinkled in the freshening breeze.
Careful to steer around the string of lime-green lobster buoys ahead, he
inhaled the clean salt air and eyed the woman standing beside him.

In a blue-and-white striped T-shirt and navy pants
that reached just below her knees, she looked ready for yachting, not an outing
on an old stink-pot. Retrofitted but still a noisy old lobster boat. She could’ve
sat beside him on one of the padded stools his uncle had added to the cockpit
but chose to stand off to the left. Away from him. The breeze blew a few
escaped strands of hair around her face, softening her fierce demeanor. For the
first time, she looked relaxed, even at peace, instead of defensive. Maybe
being out on the water.

“What?” Shoulders squared, she glared.

“Chill. Just admiring your hair. Looks good that way.”

“Oh. Thanks. Nora did the braid. Cooler off my neck.”
She returned her gaze to the open waters, where two schooners from the Rockland
fleet sailed downwind into Penobscot Bay. Looked like the
Heritage
and
the three-masted
Victory Chimes
, their white sails fat-cheeked in the
brisk breeze.

He did like her hair. Liked the way pulling it back
showed off her elegant neck, although he preferred it loose. Spread across his
pillow, it’d—

Don’t even go there.
He was already losing the
battle to maintain a distance between them. Not the way to adhere to his
rule—he couldn’t fail someone if he didn’t get close. She might be able to blow
off the attempted break-in, but he knew better. The scum meant business. He had
to convince her to take more precautions.

In a half hour they arrived at Ragged Rocks, a
mussel-encrusted black ridge that barely peeked above the waters at high tide.
He spotted the bobbing orange-and-white regulatory marker above the submerged
rocks but checked his chart and the depth finder anyway.

“Oh, look.” Lani edged nearer, pointed with one hand
and laid the other on his forearm. “There are the seals. They’re so comical.”

Almost every surface of the jagged outcropping had its
temporary resident harbor seal, basking in the sun. The biggest males had the
prime spots. Females and youngsters had to make do with narrow ledges or
lumpier perches. Unafraid of the intruding humans or the boat, they fanned
their flippers and stretched their necks.

His hand itched to cover Lani’s. “They’re so fat, you
wonder how they climb up on those rocks. They look like sausages.”

She erupted in a rich low laugh. “Ick, I’ll never eat
a sausage again. The seals remind me of balloons. You know, those balloon
animals some guy always makes at the county fair.”

“I never saw a brown or gray balloon animal,” he said.

“You are
so
literal.” She turned on him, then
blinked. “You’re kidding. Right?”

When he air-chalked up a point, she laughed again,
then seemed to notice her hand remained on his arm and jerked it away.

Her reaction reminded him in a rush this was
temporary. She was easy to talk to, understanding and not judgmental, and they
still had that banter thing between them. Comfortable, but it meant nothing.

“Jake, either you lured me out here under false
pretenses or you have secrets to share. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about
the case report. Get to it or take me back.” Her protective thorns were back in
place, judging from her wary gaze.

“Some of this isn’t going to be easy to hear.” When
she nodded, he drew a breath before diving into it. “The Tyson fire was started
with spilled gasoline and matches.”

“Like the fire that killed Gail.”

“Right, as far as it goes. This one was supposed to
look like Tyson tripped on the mower or a gas can and knocked himself out as he
hit the barn floor. An accidental fire. Except for two things.”

“The matches, for one. How did they survive the fire?”

“Good call. Make that three exceptions. The remains of
the matchbook fell between the floorboards into the dirt. Not unusual. Second,
the wound on Tyson’s head showed he was hit by a blunt instrument considerably
smaller than a floor.”

“Like a two-by-four?” She stepped closer, leaning on
the console.

“Something like that. The weapon could’ve been burned
up in the fire.”

“You’re saving the third as your secret weapon. Give, Wescott.”

“You know anything about cyclonite, or C-4?”

A frown crimped her brow. “I’ve come across that in
novels. Isn’t C-4 a plastic explosive used by the military?”

He nodded, still trying to get his brain around this
turn of events. “Military, yes, or in this case, bad guys who’ve stolen it.”

“And that’s how the investigator cleared me? Because
someone used C-4?”

“They didn’t really suspect you or me before. That
news story was a little inaccurate. Chalk it up to bad reporting. But the C-4
drives this arson in a whole new direction.”

“Holy crap. Looks like I woke up a bigger dragon than
I thought.” Seals forgotten, she sank onto a stool and waited, her summer glow
paled to the color of a whelk shell.

“The Mexican drug cartel wars have been in the news the
past few years,” he began. “But what you probably don’t know is that at least
one of the cartel leaders, a drug kingpin nicknamed El Águila—”

“The Eagle.” When he gaped, she added, “Spent a summer
semester in Mexico working with an NGO. Became pretty fluent in Spanish.”

“You keep surprising me.” He continued, “El Águila
moved part of his operation to the Northeast to escape the violence and the
stricter border control. He smuggles both ways—drugs like cocaine, heroin, and
prescription painkillers into the U.S. and illegal weapons out.”

“Like the C-4.”

“That and rifles, M240B machine guns, rocket
launchers, to name a few.” No point in mentioning the explosion in New
Hampshire was C-4. “The ATF and DEA and some other alphabet agencies have
formed Task Force Eagle to cooperate on the case. We think one of El Águila’s
men is using this coastline for the smuggling. Name of Hector Vargas. No
description. It’s probably an alias.”

“Maine hires Guatemalans and other Central American
workers for summer harvests but not in D Harbor. Dark-skinned or not, a
Hispanic would find it hard to hide out here.”

“Exactly what’s making my job so hard,” he said. “We
suspect a local must be working with Vargas. Only a local would know all the
coves and islands and inlets, as well as places to store the weapons until they
move them offshore.”

His gaze tangled with hers for a long moment. The
idling motor’s rumble and the sea’s wash battled with his thudding heart as he
waited for her to reach the conclusion he had. She wrapped her hand around his
forearm and her fingers held on tight. “Then Gail’s murderer, and Tyson’s,
could be the same. And he’s somehow gotten involved in the gun smuggling.”

He let out a long breath. “His career in crime didn’t
stop with one arson-murder. Or this time he hired a pro with connections to the
source.”

She kept her thoughts to herself but left her hand on
his arm. He figured she needed time to absorb the enormity of what she’d just
learned. They watched the lounging seals until another craft came roaring up
behind them. He turned to see the power boat casting up twin walls of water as
it plowed through the sea.

“Jake?” She stared at the other boat.

“Damn idiot. He could ram us if he doesn’t turn. Hold
on to the safety grips.” He spun the wheel, veering the boat to starboard.

As rapidly as the intruder had zoomed toward them, it
turned and zoomed away again. The giant wake nearly swamped the old lobster
boat’s stern. Seals plopped into the roiling water.

The turbulence rocked the
Amy Jo
like a Nor’easter.

He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his
body as he throttled forward to feed power to the diesels below. Hell, like the
other night with the truck, he didn’t get the boat name or registration number.
Except this time he would remember the hull’s conformation and the red paint
job zig-zagged by silver lightning bolts.

When the
Amy Jo
reached calmer water, Lani
still stood in his embrace. He savored the bump of her hip at the boat’s
movement, the swell of her breast against his side, the lemony scent of her
hair.

A moment later, she must’ve come out of her shock
because she stepped aside. “What the hell was that turkey doing?”

His jaw cramped. “Maybe a warning. For me this time.”
Before she could respond, he went on. “The arsonist must believe you saw him or
know something that connects him to the fire. Why do you suppose he waited
until now to attack you?”

She dragged her gaze away from the seals, now
clambering back up on the rocks. The pain had returned to her eyes, dulling
their amber luster. “I’m not sure he did wait.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were a couple incidents I’ve wondered about.
Years ago, not long after the fire. Mom came into my hospital room to find a
strange man near my bed. He said he was a doctor but I was the wrong patient.
He left in a hurry. When she described the man, the nurse said they had no such
doctor.”

“Can you describe the fake doctor?”

She shook her head. “I never saw him. I was sleeping.
Mostly that’s what I did those days. Meds kept me out.”

He wanted to pull her back into his arms and leach the
hurt out of her and into himself. Impossible. “You said a couple times.”

“Yes, about eight years ago in Boston. An accident or
I could’ve imagined it. Someone on the subway platform pushed me as the train
was arriving, but a woman pulled me back from the edge in time.”

“And nothing more until now?”

“No. You think he decided I really didn’t remember?”

“Maybe. You were far away and had put the fire behind
you. He figured he was safe.”

“But now I’ve come back to Dragon Harbor.”

“And you’ve spread it around that you’re starting to
remember.” He shook his head at her rashness. “Staying out of town in a house
with old-fashioned, flimsy locks isn’t safe.”

She backed up and crossed her arms. “Where do you
expect me to go? The Eastward Inn? Like I could afford that on a teacher’s
salary.” She rolled her eyes.

She’d gone exactly where he wanted her. “Then get new
locks. Talk to Mike Spear at the marina tomorrow. I’ll install the suckers.” He
could see the brain cells sizzling as she considered that one. She couldn’t be
so stubborn she didn’t see the need for safety.

“Mike’s on my list of people to interview,” she said. “Gail
used to babysit for his son. Two birds with one lock.”

“
Three
locks. Front, kitchen, and garage entrance.”
And he’d nail the windows shut if necessary.

“You’re a royal pain in the ass, Wescott.”

“My mission in life, honey. And stay locked up or soon
you may find more than some guy you can scare off with a shotgun. This killer
probably has plenty more C-4.”