Page 61 of Westin

“I’d get lost if I did.”

He lowered his head in agreement before stepping out, pulling the door closed behind him. Lee had the feeling he would have locked it if he could.

She studied the computer screen for a moment, struggling a little to get back into that mindset of work. It was like returning to the office after a prolonged vacation. Only Lee hadn’t been on vacation. Not really. She was on the run.

She slipped the memory card from her sunflower pendant and popped it into the slot on the side of the computer, waiting as the operating system read it and gave her the option of opening it. She scrolled through the files, remembering the rush to put each one on that card and the ones she’d been forced to leave behind when Fang had suddenly arrived in the office. She sent up a quick, silent prayer, hoping she hadn’t left the wrong ones behind.

Criminals were normally very smart about the kind of information they kept track of. They encoded it, used their own ciphers so that the cops couldn’t figure it out if they happened to confiscate a computer or ledger. There were those who set computer viruses on their system that would destroy all the information if someone tried to take it, and those who simply never wrote a single thing down. They kept it all in their heads, or just kept things so pared down they didn’t have to keep track of anything. Lee had come across all kinds, and she’d figured out how to get what she needed from each and every one.

Fang was a new kind of stupid. He kept notes on everything—every transaction, every customer, every conversation. There were recordings, spreadsheets, journal entries. He wrote down what he had for lunch each day, what girl he took to bed that night, what he bought at the grocery store. He was anal in everything he did, and he kept track of it like it was going to be a part of the history books one day.

Good for law enforcement. Not so good for Fang and his gang.

Lee combed through the files, reading as quickly as she could, not sure how long she had for going through this. Some of it meant nothing to her, but others had little tidbits that connected to other bits she knew would eventually make puzzle pieces. The client list was invaluable. Her boss would love to have that. The journal entries were tedious, but not really as useful as she’d hoped. It was in the audio files, though, that she began to hit pay dirt.

She got up and searched through the cabinet where she’d seen Clint get the computer, finally finding a set of earbuds that looked brand-new. She plugged them into the computer and listened, curiosity turning into disappointment, and disappointment becoming a knife in the back.

Shit, shit, shit!

She didn’t want to believe it, but the proof was here. She wondered if Will had been aware of Fang’s habit of recording all his phone calls. If he had, he had to know that she would listen to them eventually. Was that why? Was it Will who sent Fang back into the office that night? Had he meant for Fang to kill her? What a shock it must have been to him when she’d called him, asking for help after escaping the club that night. Is that why he’d sent her to the airport, why he’d arranged for her to get on a flight for New Orleans instead of Seattle? Was that why he’d instructed her to drive north?

Lee was beginning to feel like a fool. She’d played into Will’s hands like a blind person following another blind person. She never questioned him. Not once. She should have.

But if she had, would she be here now? Would she be breathing?

Lee used her credentials to get into her files at the DEA, verifying a few things she had begun to suspect as she looked through Fang’s files. She had a better idea now what Will had done, had been doing. She was putting together pieces she was sure he’d never suspected she would find.

As she worked, she couldn’t help but think of the years she’d worked with Will, the things they’d shared. He’d been her partner for five years, at her side through dozens of cases, so many undercover assignments that she couldn’t even remember how many. And it wasn’t just work. How many times had she slept on his couch after a bad case when she couldn’t be alone? How many times had she sat at his dinner table, chatting with his wife while he made jokes from the kitchen? How many times had she held his children, babysat them so that he and his wife could have a few precious moments alone together? How many times had she heard him talk about his kids, talk about his pride and his fears?

They’d cried together, laughed, gotten drunk together, even kissed a few times. Granted, it was usually for an undercover gig, but they had. He was the one who whispered in her ear when she was about to take the bad guy down, the one who talked her down when things went wrong. They weren’t just coworkers. He was more of a brother to her than her own half-brother would ever be.

How could he have turned on her?

Lee had learned a lot of things over the past five years of working undercover. She could dance like a professional, could seduce a priest. She could cook a pretty good batch of meth, knew the street value of almost every illegal drug on the market. She could break down a Colt M4A1 carbine assault rifle faster than a SEAL could. She’d talked her way out of dozens of dangerous situations and taken the stand in over twenty criminal courts. It wasn’t always about drugs and guns. There were several times when computer skills were essential. She’d learned how to hack a computer like a pro, a skill that she’d never used outside of an undercover assignment until this moment.

She had to make sure she was right. She had to know that what she was about to set in motion wasn’t going to destroy a good cop. It wasn’t just her life on the line here.

Measure twice, cut once. It was a piece of advice her father once gave her that had come in handy more times than he could ever have imagined it would.

***

Westin was only partially surprised to find Dominic Mollohan standing in Miss Dulcie’s sitting room. He’d known Mollohan wasn’t the kind of man to be made a fool of, but he hadn’t thought he’d have the balls to show up at Golden Sphinx after what Westin had revealed to him the night before. But maybe he’d underestimated the man.

“Mr. Mollohan has spent the last hour telling me about your behavior at his home last night, Westin,” Miss Dulcie said the moment Clint had left the room, her voice soft and steady. “He wanted to make sure I knew just how rude he felt your behavior had been.”

“I’ve come here to request that your ranch hands stay away from my home and my daughter,” Mollohan said directly to Miss Dulcie, not Westin, a weariness to his voice that suggested he’d said this more than once already.

Miss Dulcie lowered her head slightly. “Would you like to explain yourself, Westin?”

A soft grunt escaped Westin’s lips. Explain himself? Was that really something Mollohan wanted him to do in front of witnesses?

Apparently not.

“I don’t need an explanation,” Mollohan quickly interjected. “I just want your people to stay as far from my house as possible! It’s ridiculous! I shouldn’t have to put up with uneducated, boorish young men coming to my house and thinking they can do and say anything they want to do and say!”

“Uneducated?” Westin tilted his head slightly. “Is that what you think? That my mother didn’t raise a boy who understands the importance of an education? Or is it simply that you believe people who don’t live in your social bracket can’t afford school?”

“Westin,” Miss Dulcie said softly in warning.

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