Her Very Strict Captain, Carpenter, Maggie [top 50 books to read TXT] 📗

he moved through the first one. Coming up empty, he moved to the second.

It appeared the bed had been hurriedly made, and shining the light on the floor, he spotted odd pieces of fluff. Picking them up, he rubbed them between his fingers, then shone his light across the bed. Another piece of fluff sat near the decorative cushions sitting haphazardly against the pillows. Intrigued, he climbed on the mattress, crawled up to them, and turned one over.

The zipper was half open.

As he picked up the cushion next to it, some of the stuffing dropped out. His heart suddenly racing, he placed the flashlight between his teeth and tore into each of them.

Nothing.

But Elizabeth had been there.

The cushions were where she’d hidden the cash.

His exasperation boiling over, he hurled them across the cabin.

Taking a long breath, he calmed himself down, and as his mind cleared, he realized two things; the cushions wouldn’t have been large enough to hold it all, and she’d left in a hurry.

A frown crossed his brow.

She may have been forced to leave some behind.

Fifteen minutes later, a methodical search of the cabins had proven fruitless.

He moved into the compact bathroom.

The only possible hiding place was a small cabinet beneath the sink. Sitting rather than crouching, he opened the door to find nothing but a package of toilet rolls and a spray cleaner. Steeling himself to continue the hunt, he was about to leave when he spotted several tears across the top of the plastic.

A knowing grin curled his lips.

Chapter 7

The muffled buzzing of Scott’s phone jolted him from sleep. Gently extricating himself from Elizabeth’s limbs, he moved swiftly from the bed and snatched it from the pocket of his sweatpants, but moving into the salon he was met by light streaming through the windows. Glancing at the screen, he discovered it was 8:33 a.m. He rarely slept past seven a.m. Opening the text, he was surprised a second time.

We need to talk asap.

A worried frown crossing his brow, he quickly pulled on a pair of shorts, walked out on deck, and placed the call.

“What’s going on, Frank?” he asked quietly. “Where’s my info, and why do you need to talk?”

“Hi, Scott, your researcher uncovered some disturbing information. That’s why she didn’t send it to you and I’m calling.”

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t. Detective Miller was recently involved in a raid of a drug ring operating out of a mansion in the San Fernando Valley.”

“So…?”

“The home was owned by Sonny Conchello.”

“Sonny Conchello?” Scott repeated. “They picked up Sonny Conchello? Holy crap.”

“He was supposed to be there, but—”

“But I assume he wasn’t,” Scott declared, cutting him off. “That bastard is as slippery as El Chapo used to be.”

“Not only that, things didn’t go well, and that’s an understatement. The agents were ambushed and there were serious casualties. When the dust settled, the narcotics they found were minimal, certainly not enough to justify the raid, and there was no cash. None. Zip. Nada. But they did find the body of a guy who was identified as a DEA agent. He’d infiltrated the gang.”

“Fuck. So Conchello has been tipped off about the raid and the undercover agent?”

“They must have been, but Scott, Elizabeth McKay was a familiar figure at the Conchello mansion. She’s believed to have been there at the time of the raid, but word is she managed to duck out a side gate. It was enough for Miller to get a search warrant. In her apartment he found the gun that killed the undercover agent, and a few wads of cash. One of the gang members who copped a plea claimed Conchello kept a sports bag loaded with money in his safe.”

“Are you saying Elizabeth killed this cop and disappeared with the money?”

“I’m just giving you the information we have. You can draw your own conclusions, but Detective Miller is on her trail, and he’s determined to hunt her down. Now it’s your turn, Scott. What’s going on down there? How did Miller and McKay cross your path, and do they have any connection with our operation?”

Scott hesitated, then made his choice. “Dan Miller is here trying to find Elizabeth McKay, and he thought she was one of my passengers. He’s been a real pain in the ass, and Frank, I don’t like him. How does an LAPD detective end up with a Rolex Submariner on his wrist?”

“Maybe it’s a fake.”

“The second hand moved smoothly. It wasn’t running on a battery.”

“You don’t miss much, Scott.”

“That’s why I’m still alive.”

“He could have a rich girlfriend.”

“Trust me, he’s not good looking enough,” Scott remarked with a grimace. “That hair and mustache of his would scare Cruella Deville, but send me the file on that raid, and any dirt floating around on Miller. Also, ask Penny to dig into Elizabeth McKay’s connection to Conchello. Dan Miller smells bad. He sure as hell didn’t get that watch solving crimes. But more important, the more I know, the more I’ll be able to piece this together, and figure out if either of them are linked to what we’re doing. That’s what we need to know, right?”

“Absolutely, and the way things are moving, I have to believe their presence down there is more than coincidental. I also think it’s time to give this operation a name.”

“Let me think about that. I’ll text it to you.”

“Sounds good.”

Ending the call, Scott stood on the deck and stared out at the water, his knees automatically flexing with the movement of the boat beneath his feet. Profound and disturbing questions loomed in the forefront of his mind.

If Dan Miller really had planted the gun and cash in Elizabeth’s apartment, what had motivated him? Why did Elizabeth have the wads of money in her bag, but equally important, and even more disturbing, what exactly was her relationship with the international drug lord?

* * *

Lifting slowly out of a deep, dreamless sleep, Elizabeth rolled over to snuggle against Scott, only to find the bed empty. Sitting up,