Chapter Eight
B irch sauntered into Serpent’s Tongue with two cups of coffee in hand and a grin on his face. “Thanks for opening on short notice,” he said to Ryder, as he placed one cup in front of him and took a sip of his own. “How does the schedule look?”
Ryder leaned back in his chair. “Look at all the rainbows and sunshine just flying out of your ass this morning.” He slid the calendar over. “You have a touch-up arriving in twenty, then you’re free for the rest of the day.”
Yanking the desk drawer open, he lifted his organized stacks of paperwork out and turned to the filing cabinet on the hunt for a manilla envelope. “In that case, text your uncle and let him know I’ll be by this afternoon with the tax stuff. The sooner I drop it off, the sooner I can stop thinking about it.”
The morning flew by, his mind occupied with memories of waking up on the sofa in Jocelyn’s hotel room, her lithe body draped over him. Her hair had tickled his arm as she huffed and resettled on him, sending a wave of contentment through him and erasing all thoughts of the outside world simply because of one kiss.
One toe-curling kiss.
One toe-curling, addictive kiss, a lukewarm steak, and a movie with more explosions than actual plot had him riding a goddamn rainbow into work despite his frantic text letting Ryder know he’d be late for the first time since Serpent’s Tongue opened its doors.
Double-checking the envelope, he collected his phone and keys and popped his head into the back room where Ryder was working on a guy’s leg, the outline of a skull taking shape. “I’m out of here. Want me to come back and lock up tonight?”
“Nah, I got it. Enjoy your day off tomorrow.”
Checking out the detailed stencil, he gave his partner an impressed nod. “You too. See you Thursday.”
The drive out to Hullenshead was long, the pavement riddled with potholes and poorly sealed cracks. Unwilling to destroy his truck’s suspension on a tax run, he slowed down and cranked his music to combat the extra drive time.
Ryder’s uncle Trevor lived on an acreage on the outskirts of the town, the road leading to his Tudor-style home lined with towering maple trees. Birch had been there a handful of times over the past three years, and every time he pulled up to the house, he was impressed with the care Trevor Drayson and his wife Cora took of the place. Unlike his own house, this one didn’t have a single paint chip or mismatched shingle. The covered porch had wicker seating and hanging flower baskets interspersed with tiny lights, while his had two cheap lawn chairs and a bike chained to the rails. Although overwhelming to think about, his visits to the property always amped him up to make a few updates to his own, his could-do plans so often thwarted by must-fixes.
Trevor was a decent guy if not overly friendly, and his wife more than made up for it with her baking. Parking beside the oversized garage at the east end of the property, he tucked the overflowing manila envelope under his arm and walked across the lush grass to the front door.
“Birch! Lovely to see you again.” Cora smiled, swinging the door open before he could even knock. “Come in, honey. Trevor is just taking a call but he’ll be out shortly.”
She led him into the kitchen where she already had a tray of cookies sitting out beside a jug of lemonade, alongside cups that looked more expensive than his truck arranged in a neat line.
“Take a seat,” she ordered, bringing a plate of fresh-cut fruit over. “And tell me all about why I’m seeing your little brother’s backside plastered all over my social media.”
*
Jocelyn sat in Bill Fogerty’s office, doing her best to imitate a statue while he reviewed his notes with the two deputies she would be accompanying to the final address on their list.
Although she was frequently debriefed on the legalities surrounding her work, it wasn’t often that she was privy to the details before she had her hands on the paperwork. Listening to Fogerty run through the list of companies tied to the account she’d initially been attached to was almost overwhelming. The number of businesses linked to the one person she was assigned to uncover was growing across the country, each one filtering enough money to avoid being flagged by their banks individually, but enough to bring the grand total well into the millions when combined.
“Anything we find will be reviewed by Ms. Carter before we forward the findings,” Bill announced, pulling her into the conversation. “With her help, I’m hoping we can bring laundering charges against any business operating in our jurisdiction and pass the rest onto their respective PDs. Questions?”
When he was met with silence, he tapped on his desk with his palm. “Okay then. Keep me updated this afternoon.”
Jocelyn followed the two officers to their patrol car, glancing at the name plates on their chests to refresh her memory.
Klassen and Torres.
She could remember that.
Klassen was the shorter of the two men and she stood an inch taller than him in her heels. Not much older than she was, his straw-blond hair was neatly styled, his face clean-shaven. Torres, on the other hand, towered over her. His black hair was streaked with silver and slicked back, his mirrored sunglasses hiding the impish glint in his eye she’d caught inside.
Of the two, she was hiding behind Torres if anything went south. Height aside, something about Klassen told her that he’d have no issue shoving her aside to save his own skin, and her internal compass rarely steered her in the wrong direction.
“I apologize for making you ride in the back again, ma’am,” Torres said as he opened the door for her. “Fogerty won’t let us bend the rules, or we would.”
Smiling at him, she swung her purse and laptop bag into the back and slipped onto the bench seat. “I’ll survive. But thank you.”
The men chatted comfortably for the long drive, including her just intermittently when they remembered she was behind them. Every so often their radio would crackle to life, and they’d pause to listen before continuing on, the region’s afternoon calls little more than minor complaints.
Just when she was beginning to feel a swell of nausea overtake her from the horrific condition of the highway, Torres turned north and slowed.
The smooth road was lined with acreages, each plot of land divided by tall trees intended to provide the little community with a sense of wild isolation. The houses were stunning, the landscaping she could see through gaps in the foliage seemingly plucked from gardening magazines. It was a perfectly curated neighborhood, one she felt uneasy in as Torres drove them up the long driveway of the last address on her list.
Klaussen and Torres got out, opened her door for her, and led the way to the ornately carved wooden doors of the home. Warrant in hand, Klaussen knocked on the door and they waited, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps before the door swung open.
“Trevor Drayson?” Klaussen asked, unfolding the paper in his hand when the man nodded. “We have a warrant to search these premises for documents relating to fraudulent business practices and money laundering.”
Drayson.
The name was familiar to her, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite pull it to the forefront.
The man looked to be in his fifties, his face stern as he stepped outside and closed the door tightly behind him. He took the warrant and read it over, his stony expression unwavering as his gaze lifted to hers. “Are you law enforcement?”
“No, sir.”
Opening the door, he stepped aside. “You two may enter. She stays outside.”
She waited until she was by herself before exhaling and retreating down the stairs, doing her best to appear calm and collected while Klaussen and Torres were inside. Minutes ticked by, the tension in her body rising the longer she stood in the yard pretending to play with her phone while she let her mind wander to Birch.
Or, more specifically, to Birch’s quiet plea not to fuck him over.
Because she wanted to beg the same of him, wanted desperately to hear him say he was what she believed him to be. She wanted him to promise that what was happening between them was simple and honest, something she could remember with a smile when she returned to the coast where favors were used as romantic currency.
Logically she knew there was no endgame he was using her to achieve, because he wasn’t the man she was hunting. She had no fear of him doing what her ex-boyfriend had done, manipulating her emotions and basing their entire relationship on the expectation that she would manipulate evidence.
Birch had no power backing him, no wealth to protect, no international reputation to uphold. He didn’t need a pawn in the type of games only the uber rich enjoyed.
He wasn’t one of them.
But her old wounds had left scars, and all it had taken last night was a single kiss to remind her just how easily those scars could shred open.
The one-hour mark was fast approaching when the door swung open and Torres walked out, Klaussen behind him. Both men had large evidence bags in their hands, stacks of papers and envelopes visible through the clear plastic.
Pausing in the doorway, Klaussen called into the home. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Drayson. Mr. Baker, I suggest you have a long talk with your accountant.”
Drayson.
Baker.
Her heart caught in her throat as Birch walked onto the veranda, his hazel eyes hard until he saw her standing beside the patrol car.
“Okay, Ms. Carter,” Torres said, holding the door for her. “We’ll head back to the station and get these processed so you can start your work.”
She took a step toward the voice, unable to look away from the betrayal on Birch’s face she knew mirrored her own. She was unable to turn from the resigned slouch of his shoulders and the anger in his clenched fists. As she opened her mouth to speak, to ask him what he was doing there with the faint hope the puzzle pieces didn’t fit, he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Taking a steadying breath, she turned her back to him and got in the car.