Second Wind (Cypress Coast Book 1) Read online

  She pushed his hand away. “I’ll take care of these. You don’t need to wait on me. I’m feeling much better—really.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, but—”

  “No ‘buts’. Go make yourself comfortable in the living room, and Rufus might deign to sit on your lap.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  She stacked the silverware on the plates and carried them to the sink. “You’d be amazed how zen you can feel, weighed down by twenty-three pounds of purring fuzzball.”

  He laughed. “When you put it like that, how can I resist?”

  He strolled into the living room and settled on the sofa. As if on cue, Rufus awoke in his spot in the corner, eyed the intruder, then moseyed over and went to work kneading Jake’s thighs into a suitable nest. He settled facing forward and contented himself by flipping the tip of his tail plume across Jake’s mouth and nose. Jake tried slapping it away, but the feline was undeterred.

  A few minutes later, Laurel came in bearing a pair of steaming mugs. She sat beside him and offered one. “I figured caffeine might be a bad idea this evening, so I made some herbal tea.”

  Jake accepted the mug. “Thanks.”

  A smile teased the corners of her lips. “I see Rufus has made himself comfortable.”

  Jake grimaced and pushed the cat’s enormous, fluffy tail out of his face yet again. “Yeah. As predicted.”

  A faraway look stole into Laurel’s eyes. She dropped her chin and glanced down at the floor. “Thank you for dinner…and for staying. I appreciate the company. Today was…difficult.”

  “I understand. Regardless of Vargis’s actions, you used to be engaged to the man. The death of someone close is always a shock, especially if violence was involved.” He set his tea down and reached for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it.

  She glanced up and met his gaze. “You say that as if you have personal experience.”

  “In a way, I do.” His left hand absently rubbed Rufus’s head, upping the cat’s baseline purr to a level nearing that of a muffled jackhammer.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Did he? “Maybe another time. It was years ago. Right now, I want to concentrate on you.” That might not have come out exactly the way he’d intended, but it was true.

  She sighed, leaned back against the sofa, and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure what to think about me. I don’t know how to feel right now. Part of me is sad Richard’s dead, part is relieved, and part is ashamed of the part that’s relieved.”

  “That sounds pretty normal. I’d worry if you didn’t have those feelings. But I was thinking of something more practical.”

  She turned her head with a spark of interest in her eyes. “I like practical. Practical is good. I could use a healthy dose of practical right now. It would help take my mind off all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’.”

  “You said Vargis came here looking for a certain flash drive, right?”

  Her expression changed from open to cautious in an instant. “That’s what he claimed.”

  “But you don’t know where it is. Right?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  She eased away slightly. “If I knew where it was, I would have given it to him.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s on the drive?”

  “None at all. And I don’t care. If it’s Richard’s drive, it’s his business.”

  Jake shifted position to see her face more clearly, disturbing Rufus, who protested by digging needle-sharp claws into the muscles of his thighs. He sucked in a swift breath, but otherwise ignored the annoyed feline. This conversation was too important. He knew he was walking a fine line and had to tread carefully. For Laurel’s own safety, he needed her to trust him.

  He met her suspicious gaze openly. “I have more questions, and I need your help, but first, I have to tell you a little more about myself.”

  She crossed her arms, and a spark of triumph flared in her eyes. “Go ahead.”

  Her reaction drew him up short. He hesitated for a second, unsure how to reply, but it was too late to back out now. “I told you I was an accountant for the FBI.”

  “More like a bookkeeper, as I recall.”

  “That was your word, not mine.”

  “You didn’t correct my impression, however.”

  She had him there. “No, I didn’t. It wasn’t important then.”

  “But it’s important now.”

  “Yes. What I do is a little more involved than bookkeeping. I’m a forensic accountant. Do you know what that is?”

  The smile on her lips held a hint of superiority. “I do.”

  Her response set him back a second. “Really? Then you’re one of the few.”

  She nodded. “Melody told me.”

  “When?”

  “Shortly after I met you.”

  “Oh…okay. Well, that will help you understand what I’m going to tell you.”

  “What I want to know is, what does any of this have to do with Richard, or with me, or with his missing flash drive?”

  Jake picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. “For several months, I’ve been part of an investigation into money laundering by members of Russian organized crime.”

  She gave a snort of disbelief. “Somebody’s been feeding you a line. Richard was an art dealer, and I was basically his gofer. Neither of us had anything to do with Russian gangsters.”

  “Don’t be so sure. How much do you know about the Russian mob?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Only what you see in the movies. They’re ugly, violent, and covered with bad tattoos.”

  He let out a sputtery laugh, disturbing Rufus, who jumped down and marched from the room in an exaggerated huff. “Those are the street-level criminals. We’re after bigger fish. They can be violent, too, but they’re also extremely wealthy and determined to protect their wealth at any cost. They’ve operated on the East Coast for years, but we’ve recently seen signs of a couple of organizations moving their businesses to the West Coast because they’ve come under too much scrutiny in New York.”

  Laurel crossed her legs. “I still don’t see what that could have to do with Richard or me.”

  Jake leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “In New York, Russian mobsters have historically preferred to launder their money through real estate sales. Some of that is happening out here, too, in certain ultra-high-end markets. However, until recently my investigation has focused on a Russian mafia-financed methamphetamine distribution operation centered in Las Vegas with connections throughout California.”

  “Richard might have been a lot of things, but I can’t believe he was a drug dealer.”

  Jake shook his head. “I’m not saying he was, but we have new evidence the Russians have started laundering some of their cash through fine art transactions on the West Coast, beginning in Seattle.”

  Laurel’s tight posture loosened, and her arms dropped to her sides. “And you think Richard might have been involved.”

  “It’s possible. The lack of oversight and regulation in the private art market make it a perfect vehicle. Another name has also come up. Do you know a man named Sergei Ivanov?”

  ****

  Sergei Ivanov. That was a name Laurel hadn’t expected to hear again.

  Sergei wasn’t an easy man to forget, as much as she might have liked to. He was lean and taut, with dark hair combed straight back from the widow’s peak in the center of his forehead and a neatly trimmed goatee. He was striking—some women might even have called him handsome—but to Laurel, his black gaze had always seemed flat and dead, and his narrow lips had a cruel twist. Every time she’d seen him, he’d been impeccably and expensively dressed. He reminded her of a top-dollar movie assassin. It might be fanciful, but in her mind, she’d given him the nickname “Rasputin in Armani.” If someone had told her the man had been voted Most Likely to Carve
You Up Like a Beluga Sturgeon at the Moscow Institute for Budding Psychopaths, she wouldn’t have been surprised. And now Jake Carlson was connecting him, and by extension Richard—and possibly even herself—to the Russian mob.

  “So, do you know the man?” Jake repeated.

  There was no point in lying. She’d heard on TV that police interrogators rarely ask questions to which they don’t already know the answers, and Jake’s questions felt very much like an interrogation. “He was Richard’s business partner, but I don’t know him well. He didn’t come into the office very often, and even when he was there, he kept himself apart—distant but polite. I can’t say he’s one of my favorite people, but what makes you think he’s involved in money laundering?”

  “Do you remember the painting Anna in Blue?”

  She nodded. “It’s hard to forget.”

  “Would you consider it to be highly collectible, something a sophisticated connoisseur would purchase?”

  “It’s not to my taste, but I don’t claim to be an expert.”

  “We’re currently working on tracking its movements for the past several months. It appears to have changed hands a number of times, each for a highly inflated price paid in untraceable cash. Some of the transactions have been tied to the organization of a Russian crime boss named Vladimir Roskov. Have you ever heard that name?”

  She thought for a minute. A number of Richard’s clients had been Russian, but the name Roskov didn’t ring a bell. “I don’t think so.”

  “Had you ever seen or heard of the painting before it turned up in St. James’s gallery?”

  Her pulse skipped. He probably knows the answer to that question, too. “As a matter of fact, Richard sold it about a year ago. I helped process the sale.” She frowned. “But surely you don’t think Victor is involved in any illegal schemes.”

  “I don’t have positive proof, but he’s made some questionable financial transactions in the past few months.”

  She bristled in defense of her new employer and friend. “Victor is a longtime, respected art dealer. I don’t know anything about his finances, but the fact that he traded for Anna in Blue doesn’t prove a connection to either Richard or Sergei Ivanov or that Russian gangster, whatever his name was.”

  She realized how naive the words sounded as soon as they left her mouth. Jake was right. Compared to the major international auction houses, the world of private art dealers could be murky when it came to issues of ownership and provenance. She doubted it would have occurred to Victor to ask for identification from another dealer or collector when purchasing or trading for a piece. However, she still refused to believe he was knowingly involved in anything illegal.

  Jake kept his gaze pinned on her face. “I hope you’re right about St. James, but for the time being, he remains under investigation.”

  She tucked her feet under her and curled into the corner of the sofa. “Why are you telling me this? You said you needed my help.”

  “We need to find that flash drive. It might be critical to the case.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment. Richard said he put it in my bag, but I can’t find it. I’ve turned my purse inside out, even checked the lining for any lumps, but it wasn’t there. I thought he might have meant my computer bag, so I went through that, too. The only two drives I found contained photos of my college art projects. I think he must have gotten confused. He probably misplaced it somewhere in the condo. Do you really think it’s that important?”

  “For criminals these days—the same as for legitimate business people—there’s nothing more important than data. The fact that Vargis went to such lengths to hide the drive, and was killed immediately after attempting to retrieve it, suggests whatever is on that drive is extremely valuable to someone. Did he give you any idea what information it contains?”

  She shook her head. “None at all. I haven’t a clue.”

  “I’d be happy to help you look.”

  Both his expression and voice were innocently hopeful, but she wasn’t buying it. “Is that your unofficial way of requesting to search my belongings without a warrant?”

  His jaw flexed, and his eyes narrowed a fraction. “Do you want me to get a warrant?”

  Good question. Ever since they’d met, he’d been helpful and seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being. She’d sensed an occasional undercurrent of tension, but to be honest, some of that might have come from her. Either way, she didn’t like being treated like a suspect.

  His gaze met hers, and his voice softened. “I’m just trying to do my job, Laurel. And I want to make sure you’re not a target of the person who murdered Vargis. The sooner we find that drive, the safer you’ll be.”

  Her chest tightened. He was right. The unknown killer might still be in the area, and it wasn’t unreasonable to believe he might come after her if he thought she had what he wanted. She released a soft sigh. “You saw what I brought with me from Seattle. Right now, everything is scattered around my room or crammed into a few boxes, but I plan to move into my apartment Wednesday. If you want to, you can go through everything as I unpack.”

  He leaned forward, reached for her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. I’ll take Wednesday off and be here at eight in the morning.”

  Her lips tipped up on one side. “Then you’ll find me in my pajamas. I didn’t plan to start until around ten. As I said, I don’t have that much stuff.”

  His return smile was broader. “In that case, I’ll come at nine and bring doughnuts. You can’t move without plenty of sugar and caffeine.” Still holding her hand, he pushed to his feet, pulling her with him. “I’d better say goodnight. Your mom should be home from the restaurant soon, and you look like you could use some rest.”

  She didn’t want to think about what she looked like. She felt like a week-old hairball Rufus had hacked up. When she reached up instinctively to smooth her hair, Jake brushed her hand aside.

  Long, gentle fingers glided over her hair before tucking the rebellious lock back behind her ear. He bent, and his face loomed close to hers, his breath warm against her cheek. “I meant what I said about keeping you safe, Laurel. I can’t explain why, but in a few short weeks, you’ve become very important to me.” He trailed a forefinger down the side of her cheek. “You’re connected to the case, and I know I shouldn’t, but…”

  His head lowered, and her eyes closed automatically—her brain was still stuck on trying to make sense of his words. His lips touched hers, lightly at first, but with a sense of urgency held firmly in check. As the pressure slowly increased, her brain abandoned his words to focus on his mouth.

  Jake Carlson is kissing me, and I seem to be kissing him back.

  It felt lovely, but she was rapidly approaching that warm-puddle-of-goo state which, in her weakened condition, could spell disaster. Her hands rested against his chest. She could push him away if she wanted to. It wasn’t too late.

  Before she could decide, he lifted his head.

  His expression was somber, but his deep blue eyes twinkled. “I should probably say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Are you?”

  Was she? “I don’t know.”

  He laughed. “Well, I guess that’s better than ‘yes’.” He planted one last, swift kiss on her forehead, released her, and headed for the door. “I’ll see you Wednesday morning, if not before, and be sure to call me if you find that Memory Stick.”

  After he left, Laurel locked the door and headed to bed. As she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she kept going over their conversation. Had Jake kissed her to take her mind off Richard’s death, or did he actually care about her, as he’d said? He was a complicated man—sometimes an open book and sometimes shrouded in secrets. Maybe he was one of those men who grew on you. He wasn’t her usual type with his clean-cut, Minnesota-farm-boy good looks, but the longer she knew him, the more attractive he seemed to become.

  Once in bed she fell asleep almost immediately, but images of a bloodless, fish-nibbled corpse
tormented her dreams, leaving her exhausted, anxious, and vaguely nauseous. At some point Rufus must have joined her because the fluffy orange plume of his tail lying across her pillow was the first thing she saw when her alarm went off in the morning.

  After a quick shower, she bolted down a cup of coffee and a single slice of dry, whole grain toast and hit the road. She knew she’d be early but wanted to make sure the gallery was in good order for Victor’s return. She also wanted to snag the closest possible parking place. She had no idea what those creepy bikers had been doing yesterday, but if she saw them again, she was likely to start screaming. And that kind of ruckus was guaranteed to land her on the front page of the Carmel Pine Cone newspaper—something she’d been warned against since childhood.

  Happily, there was no sign of the motorcyclists on the short walk from her car to Gallery St. James. She unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and set about readying the place for the day’s business. While she worked, she pondered what to tell Victor about yesterday’s events. There was no point in avoiding it—word of a body on the beach would spread through town like a nasty strain of the flu.

  Victor arrived at the gallery a little after eleven o’clock. Laurel was chatting with a nice, older couple from Vancouver about an oil painting of a local vineyard, but she smiled and gave him a little wave as he made his way back to the office. While she finished ringing up the sale, her mind was on her pending conversation with her boss. She’d gone back and forth all morning about how much to tell him and decided to stick to the basic facts about Richard’s death. Jake’s suspicions about Russian gangsters and money laundering were his own problem.

  After the Canadian couple left with their carefully wrapped purchase, she flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the front door. She hated to close the gallery, but she wanted to speak to Victor as soon as possible, and it would only take a few minutes.