Chapter 44
Forty-Four
“YOU’RE BACK.” Riley came around the front desk at MacLeod Investigations and Security to hug Harper the next day. “Hey, bro.” She reached up and mussed Deck’s hair.
“So you got Randolph,” Grey said, coming to sit on the edge of his desk. “Not to mention proved Nick killed Taylor. Great job. Both of you.”
“Thanks,” Harper said. It felt good to see justice done, but she wished she could have seen justice done for Tracey and Amanda. “That reminds me . . . could I use one of your computers?”
“Of course.” Greyson gestured to the laptop sitting open on his desk.
“I want to look up the funeral arrangements for Tracey,” she said to Deck. “A friend of mine I lost over in Syria,” she explained to the group, then they all headed for the conference room to give her space.
She’d lost Taylor, Amanda, and Tracey. Not to mention all the others who had been with them in the shipping container. So much death. . . .
She searched Tracey’s name. The news articles pulled up first, listing her funeral date and time as “pending,” based on when her body would be returned to the States. But another news box caught her eye.
Tracey Alba wins Andres Xavier’s award for Outstanding Journalism on War-Torn Countries in the Middle East posthumously. Award to be presented at Xavier’s gala tomorrow evening.
Jumping up, she hurried to tell Deck, and they agreed to attend the gala in Tracey’s honor.
“I guess I better go buy a suit.”
She leaned against the doorjamb. “Try a tux. This thing is formal.”
“Okay.” He looked at Grey. “Where do I go for one of those?”
Grey shook his head. “Come on, I’ll take you to my tailor.”
Thank you, Harper mouthed.
“And I’ll take you dress shopping if you’d like,” Riley offered.
“That would be great, thanks.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought a new fancy dress. Probably Andres’s event last year, or was it the year before that?
Grey and Riley grabbed their keys, and they’d all headed for the door when Riley paused. “I almost forgot. A package came for you, Harper. It’s in my office. I’ll grab it.”
“It came here for Harp?” Deck stepped forward, looking at Grey and then back at Riley.
“Yeah, I just assumed you’d given someone the office address during the investigation. Didn’t you?”
“No,” said Harper, her shoulders tightening. “Who’s it from?”
“It doesn’t say, but it’s from California.” She strode to her office, and they all followed.
“It’s got a funky symbol,” Riley said, rummaging round her metal cabinet. “Here it is.”
She pulled it out, and Harper reared back.
Riley’s eyes opened wide as Deck moved to catch her.
“What is it, honey?”
“That’s the rebel symbol in Syria. The ones who kept me . . . They had it tattooed on their forearms.”
“Grey,” Deck said.
“On it.”
After examining the cardboard box for booby traps and incendiary devices—again, because they did so with every package that arrived on their doorstep unannounced—Grey handed it back over. “Clean.”
“Should I open it for you?” Deck offered.
“No.” She squared her shoulders and slipped on the gloves Riley gave her. “I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure? We have no idea what’s in it.”
“I got it.” She sliced the tape and pulled up the flaps, her heart thwacking in her chest. A small brown box sat inside, like the kind sold at airport shops for knickknacks. She lifted it out, took a stiff inhale, then opened it—and screamed.
She flung the box. The finger fell out, and she stumbled onto the floor.
Tears streaked down her face. “It’s . . .”
“Gone,” Grey said, having quickly retrieved the finger with gloved hands and replaced everything back into the cardboard box. He was nearly out the door with it under his arm.
“Where are you taking it?” Harper managed to ask.
“To the police. They can run the fingerprint, and we can get an identity.”
“We don’t need them to tell us. I know. It’s Tracey’s.”
Deck knelt by her side. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Remember I told you we exchanged token gifts?”
“Yeah.” Deck helped her to her feet.
“She gave me this necklace.” She pulled it out from under her sweater. “And I gave her that ring.” She pointed at the box, sorrow seeping into every pore of her skin. “But why? Why follow me home? Why send this? Because I escaped?”
“No,” Deck said, his arms wrapped around her. “I think this is about far more than that.”
She gazed up at him, confusion raking through her. “I don’t . . .”
“Let’s all go to the conference room and run through everything.”
“Good idea,” Riley said.
“I’ll be in with the coffee.” Grey moved for the kitchen.
Soon they all sat around the table. “The necklace,” Harper said, lifting her hair. “Could you help me take it off?” she asked Deck.
He did so and handed it to her. “The whole time we thought it was Big Max or Nick breaking in and trying to intimidate us.”
“It still might’ve been them for a portion of the incidents,” Deck suggested.
“But there’s got to be something with this necklace. It’s the only thing I brought back here with me, so if they’re looking for something . . .” She examined the locket, then opened it. Nothing. “I don’t understand.”
Riley leaned closer. “One time when I was working undercover, I wore a necklace like that, and it had the tiniest microphone hidden in a little stone.”
Harper turned the necklace over again. No stone, but maybe . . . She stuck the tip of her nail under the rose, and it moved. She slid it over and a microchip fell out.
“A computer chip?” Deck asked. “So that’s why your laptop was stolen. Someone working with the rebels was looking for the chip.”
“May I?” Grey asked for it, once again sliding on gloves.
“Please.”
He took it to his computer and the equipment he needed to read it. They all gathered around behind his chair.
“Tracey was a journalist in the region,” Harper said. “Maybe it contains part of her story, but what could be so important that it was worth—”
Deck glanced over at her. “What is it?”
“She told me it was important.” Tears stung her eyes, and she didn’t bother swatting them away.
“That last night before they came for her, she told me not to let her story die. She said I was strong, and she knew I’d make it out and not let her story die.
I thought she just meant about what we experienced, and I briefed both the military and the government on that, but what if it’s a more specific story? ”
“We’re about to find out.” Grey pulled up the files, and they all leaned in.
She frowned. “Andres Xavier? I don’t understand. Why hide a story about a great humanitarian? Unless the rebels didn’t want his work against them to get out . . . or . . .” She tilted her head. “Or he isn’t the great humanitarian he claims to be.”
This could not be happening. She exhaled a quivering breath. So much was rushing back. The crates the rebels had with markings burned off. Their yelling about where something was as they took Tracey.
She reached for the necklace. She’d had it all along. Through her escape from rebels, the break-ins and the surveillance.
They read through the article and scrolled through the photos—Andres, the great humanitarian who was short-changing villages for profit and, worse, supplying the rebels with arms, ammunition, and supplies to keep the war going. All for blood money in his pocket.
Deck looked back at her when they were done. “Well, how do you want to handle this?”
“Go get that tux.”