Page 6 of Philly
“He knows more,” she replied. Unease slithered through her at the confidence in her statement, but so did a sense of rightness.
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar. You always have a plan.”
She exhaled. “I need more intel on the Nolan and Quayle families. If it’s possible that one of them was behind the bombing that killed Elizabeth—if I had more proof—Gabriel might be more willing to talk with me.”
“Then find enough proof to persuade him.”
“Easier said than done, Daph. I’ve had the thumb drive Elizabeth left me for three and a half years, and the only thing I’ve managed to decipher are those two names: Nolan and Quayle.”
“Both of whom were negotiating contracts with the French government when that bomb went off,” Daphne reminded her. As if she needed reminding. That bomb had killed her best friend.
“Yes, but at any given time, there are hundreds of businesses in negotiations with the French government,” she replied.
“But only two caught Elizabeth’s attention,” Daphne shot back, not at all put off by her doubts. Callie did her best to rein in those tendencies—they didn’t serve her well in the field. But left to her own devices, she second-guessed everything. Even which coffee mug to use in the morning. A charming legacy from her childhood when nothing short of perfection was acceptable.
“I never met Elizabeth,” Daphne said, her voice softening. Despite choosing a different way to cope with their upbringing—the day Daphne turned eighteen, she signed with a modeling agency and moved to Paris without a word to their parents—she understood Callie’s process. Callie sometimes wished she had her sister’s strength, but she’d long ago accepted that they were different people. And that she could no more live like Daphne than Daphne could live like her.
“She left that thumb drive for you, Cal,” Daphne continued. “She trusted you. Honor her by trusting yourself. I know, it’s hard, but take the chance. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Nothing. That was the truth. The FBI had shut down her request to reopen the investigation, and with her reputation of being by the book, had never questioned whether she’d follow the order. If she tried (again) and failed (again), no one but her and Daphne would know. And even if someone else knew, did it matter? Elizabeth Lightfoot had been her roommate at the FBIAcademy—she’d been a second sister, her first real friend, and in many ways, a mentor despite being the same age. Daphne was right; she owed it to herself and to Elizabeth to be the person Elizabeth believed her to be. Not one without doubts or reservations, but one who pushed through those.
“Her mom,” Callie said.
“What?”
“I took two weeks of vacation. I have ten days left. I need to talk with Elizabeth’s mom. Lyda and Liza were close, very close. If anyone can help me figure out what the files in the thumb drive mean, it will be Lyda.”
“There you go. A plan,” Daphne said.
Yes, a plan. The tightness in her chest eased and for the first time that day, she smiled. “Guess I’m headed to Santa Fe.”
“Call me when you get there. You know the drill.”
“I do, and I will.” Although both their parents were still alive and well, the sisters only counted on each other. A tiny family, but a strong one. “Good luck with the next plot twist. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Daphne replied before hanging up.
Callie didn’t wait to pull up Lyda Lightfoot’s number, and the call connected less than a minute later. Two hours after hanging up, she returned her car to the small airport south of Mystery Lake and checked in to her flight to LA, where she’d catch a connecting flight to Albuquerque.
Maybe the trip would be for naught, but regardless, she’d get to spend time with Lyda. And she had a plan.
4
Behind the bar at Rita C’s, Philly stared at the door as he dried a glass. All day he’d debated calling Laura and checking in on her. But he didn’t know what kind of strings Callie could pull or whether one of those strings could be tapping his phone. Despite being nearly certain her investigation wasn’t official, he didn’t want to take the chance. There was too much at risk.
“You good?” Monk asked as he brought in a box filled with bottles to restock the back bar. Monday nights tended to be quiet, but three bike clubs from France on a tour of the American West filled the bar alongside a few regulars. Philly didn’t mind the unexpected crowd. Revenue would be up for the night, and they were polite. The group of fifty or so riders reminded him of the Falcons in some ways—just a bunch of friends who shared a love of riding.
“Yeah, I’m good. I’ll restock when I finish drying these glasses.” He nodded to the other end of the bar. “I think that group wants more drinks.”
Monk glanced behind him. “I’ll get it, but I wasn’t talking about whether you’re good behind the bar.”
“I know,” Philly said with a grin. Ever since Callie walked back into his life two months ago, his brothers had not exactly tiptoed around him but eyed him with cautious curiosity. And concern. He appreciated their circumspection—he’d be all up in brothers’ business if the roles were reversed—but being treated like a delicate flower every time Callie showed up in town was getting old.
He could fix the problem by enlightening them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Reliving that part of his past wasn’t on his to-do list today or any day in the next fifty years. Not to mention, if hedidtell them the details of what went down between him and the still-beautiful Callie Parks almost twenty years ago, his brothers would never let her set foot in the club again. And having an FBI agent as an ally—even one as tenuous as Callie—came in handy. He didn’t want to burn that bridge. If he needed any evidence as to why, all he had to do was point to how she’d helped Stone and Juliana as well as Viper and Lina.
