Hush (4 page)

She was afraid that delving too deeply into Jeff's death might make
her
a target. It was kind of like that if-a-tree-falls-in-a-forest-where-no-one-can-hear-it-does-it-make-a-sound thing: if no one
knew
that Jeff had told her all his suspicions, that she had his phone, which contained the connect-the-dots material he had put together on the other questionable deaths and possibly photos of his killers and who knew what information besides, did that mean she was in danger anyway?

There was no way anyone could know that she had been the one to find Jeff's body. There was no way anyone could know that she'd taken Jeff's phone. There was no way anyone could know what was on that phone.

Was there?

Once the funeral was over, once her brain fog had lifted, she meant to go through the material on Jeff's phone with a fine-tooth comb.

But then she looked back at Margaret and Emma huddled together, and thought maybe she wouldn't. After all, nothing she found would bring Jeff back. She had herself and Margaret and
Emma to think about now. Maybe it would be best to simply let a murdered ex-husband lie.

“I miss him so much,” Emma sobbed into her mother's shoulder.

Riley's insides twisted. For the three of them, Jeff's death was the ultimate nightmare, the culmination of nearly a year of terrible events, and if one of them openly broke now under the weight of it, the only surprising thing about it would be that it hadn't happened sooner.

Father Snyder said, “Let us pray.”

Riley bowed her head at the priest's directive. But the last thing in the world she felt like doing was praying, and her eyes stayed open. As Father Snyder's voice filled the air, she scanned the crowd. Impossible to say who she resented more: the unabashedly curious who, like her, ignored the directive to pray and kept craning their necks, or the reporters and camera crews that mingled with the crowd as if they had every right to be there, or Margaret's contingent of exquisitely coiffed and dressed high-­society friends, only a very few of whom had bothered to stay in touch after George's arrest, or the snotty mean-girl group from Emma's expensive private high school who were obviously eating the whole thing up, or the dark-suited law enforcement types who stood out in this sea of dark-suited men because of their square-shouldered posture, their closed expressions and watchful eyes.

She was equal opportunity, Riley decided: she hated them all.

Her eyes collided with the glance of a tall, powerfully built man who was staring straight at her. His face was harsh-featured, too grim at the moment to be described as handsome, with broad, Slavic cheekbones and a hard mouth above a square jaw. His dark
hair was cut ruthlessly short, and he had a deep, real-looking tan, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. She guessed him to be in his late thirties, and she was as sure as it was possible to be that she had never seen him before in her life. He stood far back in the crowd, and she probably wouldn't have noticed him except that he was inches taller than the people around him and was regarding her intently.

Everything about him, from his haircut to his well-cut black suit to the big, muscular body it covered, to the way he stood with his hands clasped lightly in front of him, made her think federal agent.

Like everyone else, the feds were searching for the missing money. Hard to believe that something in the neighborhood of a billion dollars could just up and vanish, but George continued to insist that all the money was gone, spent in maintaining his lifestyle. She, Margaret, Emma, and especially Jeff had been questioned so often and so extensively about what they knew of its whereabouts that they had come to detest federal agents on sight.

That they'd had the nerve to invade Jeff's funeral infuriated her.

Bastards
.

She glared at the man, which she realized a split second into it was a waste of time and effort—he wouldn't be able to tell because of her sunglasses.

“. . . Amen,” Father Snyder said, concluding the prayer, and Riley's attention shifted back to him as, along with the rest of the crowd, she responded with the obligatory “Amen.”

Moments later the service ended, and when she glanced back toward the tall fed he was gone.

FINN
'
S GAZE
swept the crowd again. The tinted windows darkened the scene but didn't interfere with the details. Viktor Arshun was there. So were Tony Millan, Omar Khan, Al Guzman. All serious bad guys, enforcers for the Russian mob, stateside organized crime, Islamic-fascist interests, and the Medellín drug cartel, respectively. He knew them by sight, because it was his business to know them by sight. They didn't know him by sight, because it was his business to make sure they didn't. He had no doubt there were others like them in the mix, as well, circling the family and closest friends of George Cowan like sharks around chum.

Like him, they were after the money. From the look of things, Cowan had picked a lethal bunch to screw over.

No wonder he had practically run into the arms of the FBI when his crimes had been found out, pleading guilty even before he could be put on trial. Federal prison, where he was currently segregated from the general population, was the safest place on earth for him under the circumstances.

If he'd ended up anyplace else, he'd already be dead.

“Anything jump out at you?” Bax asked. He was behind the wheel of the inconspicuous gray Acura that was parked along the service road a few cars behind the limo that had brought the family to the cemetery. Far enough away to remain unnoticed among all the parked vehicles lining both sides of the road, but close enough to allow Finn to keep his eye on his target: Riley Cowan.

Who, to his annoyance, had made him. Her oversized sunglasses had concealed her eyes, but the way her mouth had tightened
as she looked at him, the way her jaw had firmed and her back had stiffened, the whole hostile vibe he'd picked up from her as she'd zeroed in on him out of the hundreds of mourners in the cemetery, had left him in no doubt that she'd noticed him and either taken an instant personal dislike to him (unlikely) or pegged him as a representative of something she had a problem with. Exactly what she had pegged him as, he couldn't be sure, although he guessed it was probably some kind of cop. It didn't matter: he wasn't there to be noticed, and it had prompted his retreat to the car. He'd just slid into the passenger seat beside Bax.

“Nah,” Finn replied. He was burning up in his black suit, and not sorry to be out of the blazing heat even if it did slightly hamper his monitoring of the situation. Remote surveillance—hidden cameras, listening devices, etc.—had its limitations: person-­to-person encounters outdoors were notoriously difficult to keep tabs on that way. Which was why he'd been standing among the crowd watching when he'd been made. He decided to humor Bax by feeding him what the other man would consider information. “They were talking to people before the service started, but none of it was really one-on-one. Looked like regular funeral stuff.”

Jesus, the air-conditioning feels good. Texas in August is hot as hell
.
Who could live full-time in a place like this?

For an instant Finn thought of Wyoming: the weather would be beautiful, cool and sunny, nothing like this raging furnace. He'd give a lot to be back there right now, working the ranch he'd bought and was slowly whipping into shape. Fixing fences, constructing shelters for the herd of Angus cattle he was building up, tending to the livestock—all that had been therapy for him after his last assignment had gone disastrously wrong. He'd
almost been killed, a friend had been killed, and he'd retired. For almost three years, he'd been free. Had thought he was free forever. Then the summons had come: they needed him again.

His lip curled: it was one of those offers you couldn't refuse.

He hadn't even thought they knew where he was.

“You really think one of them knows where the money is?” Bax asked.

“Hard to say,” Finn responded noncommittally, knowing that Bax was referring to the Cowan women who he was watching, too. “George had to know his house of cards was going to collapse someday. No way he didn't prepare for the eventuality. No way he doesn't have a stash. No way he didn't tell somebody where to find his stash. Was it one of them? I don't know yet.”

“My money was on Jeff. But with him dead and no activity anywhere . . .” Bax shrugged and his voice trailed off. Once Finn had informed him that he hadn't killed Jeff, Bax had been able to take a more objective view of what had gone down. By no activity, he meant none of the literally thousands of communication channels the government was monitoring had lit up in the wake of Jeff's death.

“Doesn't mean he didn't know,” Finn said, glancing at the camera. “Just means he didn't tell anybody we know about before he died. At least, not so we've discovered.”

If Jeff had talked to whoever had killed him, the sharks wouldn't still be hanging around. Word spread fast in a community like theirs, and somebody would be making a grab for the money. Unless the recipient of Jeff's confidence was smart enough
not
to make a move.

His gaze fastened thoughtfully on Riley Cowan, holding
hands with her mother-in-law, whose other arm was around her wilting and tearful teen daughter.

Despite the heat, and the tragic circumstances, the three of them still managed to look coolly elegant as they stood for a moment talking to the minister with the crowd in motion around them. They were no longer card-carrying members of the one percent—far from it—but despite the spectacular fall in their circumstances they still had that indefinable air about them that marked the rich. He supposed that wasn't so surprising in the mother, Margaret, who was rail thin with the kind of carefully kept, chin-length blond hair that seemed universal to wealthy women of a certain age, or the sister, Emma, a pretty teen with a long, flaxen ponytail, who incidentally was the only one to show the kind of emotion he would have expected from the deceased's loving family. They'd been born rich, lived all their lives in a silver spoon world. The ex-wife—the joker in the deck—whose bright red hair and killer curves made her stand out in the crowd, was the one who surprised him.

Who kept on surprising him.

For the funeral her sleeveless dress was knee-length, figure-­skimming, conservative. A far cry from the short, tight number she'd been wearing when he'd watched her discover Jeff's body. With her milk-white skin and fine features, she looked as to-the-manor-born as any of them.

Not bad for the daughter of a diner waitress and a steelworker. The background check he'd done on her had revealed a gritty past. Her dad had abandoned the family when she was eight. Her mother had died when she was seventeen, after struggling to provide for Riley and a younger, disabled sister. After that, Riley had
done it all, going to school, working, taking care of the sister right up until the sister died, about six months before she met Jeff.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

Finn hadn't liked Jeff Cowan. He had zero respect for the guy. But he had to admit that the bogus billionaire's baby boy could pick 'em: the woman was out of the ordinary, and not just because she was smokin' hot.

But did she know where the money was? The jury was still out on that. At the very least, her actions made her extremely interesting to him.

To begin with, she'd squawked her head off to the local yokels about her suspicions that Jeff had been murdered, but she hadn't said a word to anybody about walking inside the family mansion in the middle of the night and finding her ex-husband's body. And as far as he could tell, she hadn't told a soul about taking that phone.

Which ten minutes later she'd disabled by removing the battery, so that if anyone tried remotely locating it they would come up empty.

He wouldn't have expected her to even think of doing something like that, much less know how to do it.

Smart woman. The question was, how smart?

She had a degree in finance. And she'd been building her own investment firm before George's arrest brought the walls tumbling down.

It was a combination that had earned her his undivided attention, unless and until a more viable prospect came along.

“You
sure
Cowan didn't commit suicide?” Bax asked, his tone almost diffident. A chubby five eleven, he had chipmunk cheeks, a
snub nose, and smallish blue eyes beneath a light brown brush cut. He was an FBI special agent, but not exactly what anyone would picture when they thought FBI agent: he was a number cruncher, a computer nerd, a geek whose specialty was financial crimes.

Finn had been brought in as the “asset recovery specialist,” in alphabet agency speak. With no official government role, he had an unofficial mandate to do whatever he had to do to locate the missing money. Bax was, technically, his supervisor. The handler charged with holding the attack dog's leash.

Good luck with that.

“Yeah,” Finn replied without elaborating. Once upon a time, as a deep-cover CIA operative, it had been his business to get men to talk. He knew all the techniques. He had no doubt that Jeff's eventual death might well have been part of the program that night. But someone had gotten sloppy, and it had happened sooner than anticipated.

If whoever had killed him had been good at their jobs, Finn might even have arrived in time to save the little turd's life.

For a price, of course. Everything worth having always came with a price. In Jeff's case, that price would have been information.

He had a feeling that by the time he'd shown up, Jeff would have been more than willing to tell everything he knew.

“Maybe we should just go ahead and question her. Now that the funeral's over and everything, I mean,” Bax said uneasily. He was referring to Riley Cowan, whose bright red hair made her impossible to miss among the eddy and swirl of the crowd.