Stolen (Lucy Kincaid Novels) Page 12

  Hunter didn’t like crowds or strangers.

  “Colton trusts her,” Sean said, mostly to himself.

  “Yeah.”

  “And Evan?”

  “Why don’t you talk to Skye? She brought him in. Two, three years ago. Three years is a long time.”

  Meaning a long time to prove himself as loyal. Three years was how long Sean and Colton had worked together at MIT.

  “Oh, I get it,” Hunter said. “You don’t want to talk to Skye because you used to sleep with her.”

  “That’s not it,” Sean said. “It’s just been awkward, okay?”

  “She looks at you when you’re not looking, you know.”

  Sean had almost forgotten how observant Hunter could be. He often disappeared in a room because he was so quiet. “She knows I’m not interested.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to C. about this?”

  “I tried. Sort of. Sean hadn’t wanted to make Colton suspicious.”

  “You know, he’s been trying to get you back for a long time, and I think it bothered him that your brother never liked him.”

  “Duke was family.”

  “I don’t know why you’re back just for this job.”

  “Because I quit RCK and I needed the money.” Sean hated lying to Hunter. By the look on his face, Hunter believed Sean completely. “Colton always said I could come back. I never thought I would, but C. was a better brother to me than my own flesh and blood.” Right now, that felt like the truth.

  “Family’s complicated,” Hunter said.

  “You’re telling me.” Sean redirected the subject again. “Has C. told you anything about Thursday?”

  “I know what I’m supposed to do.” Hunter inched away. Almost imperceptibly, but he was getting suspicious of Sean’s questions. Damn, he had to be more careful.

  “I’m concerned about the people C. is working for.” Sean needed to put Hunter at ease. “I think they’re manipulating him because he is so desperate for information about Travis’s drug trials.”

  Hunter relaxed. “You don’t need to worry. C. has it under control.”

  “If you say so.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes; then Hunter said, “You know, Evan could never replace you. I think C. expected that he would, but he didn’t.”

  “’Cause I’m irreplaceable,” Sean said with a wide grin.

  Hunter laughed. “Yeah. You are.”

  “So are you, buddy.”

  Hunter wouldn’t do well in prison, but Sean had already worked out a plan to make sure that nothing came back on Hunter. Sean hoped that he could keep them all out of jail—all he wanted was Jonathan Paxton. But Sean couldn’t say anything until after the big job at PBM.

  “I dug around on Evan when he first joined. C. asked me to.”

  “I figured.”

  “You should talk to him; he’d tell you anything you want to know.”

  “I will.”

  “You think Carol or Evan brought in the fed?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “I can find out.”

  “I don’t want you getting into trouble. With anyone.”

  “Sean, you’re good. I’m great.”

  Sean laughed and patted Hunter on the back. “You know, I really missed you.”

  Hunter threw his wrapper in the nearby trash can. “I wasn’t the one who left.”

  * * *

  After Hunter left the park, Sean walked the short distance to the main public library to further research PBM and the seven board members. He’d found some leads when he was searching on the Internet, but much of the referenced information wasn’t digitized.

  So far, nothing Sean had read connected PBM or the board with Jonathan Paxton. There was little information about Joyce Bonner’s father, Randall, on the PBM Web site other than the fact that he’d started the company with his college roommate, Jeffrey Pham, and had died ten years ago, leaving his company to his sole heir, his daughter, Joyce.

  Sean wanted to learn more about Randall Bonner, who was the same age as Paxton. Because he was a lifelong New York resident and had contributed extensively to the history and industry of the state, the library should have information on him.

  Sean read several articles about how Randall and Jeffrey founded PBM, their purpose, what they hoped to achieve in cancer research. Nothing jumped out until Sean found a society page article that mentioned Randall:

  Randall J. Bonner, pictured here with his daughter, Joyce, and her fiancé, Thomas Lynch.

  It was one of those obvious things that Sean hadn’t noticed. He knew that Joyce Bonner had two children, but he hadn’t thought about her spouse. He only knew that Lynch wasn’t in her life.

  Sean pulled up his phone and did a quick search on Thomas Lynch. There were too many. He narrowed it down by connecting Lynch to Bonner.

  That’s when things got weird.

  There wasn’t a lot on Thomas Lynch. He was an attractive man on the surface, but he didn’t seem to be photographed with anyone other than the Bonner family.

  Friends.

  Sean scoured all the photos of Joyce he could find, both before and after her marriage. Before her marriage she was surrounded by friends; after her marriage there were only a few photos of her. All were with her husband, her father, or her children.

  The photo history showed Joyce changing, from young and laughing to serious and sad. Because Randall Bonner had been part of New York society, there had been plenty of photos—Joyce was catalogued in over fifty photos the year before she was engaged to six the year after she married.

  Why had Joyce changed? Because of her husband? Or did something else happen to make her a recluse? Why did she return to her maiden name? She’d changed her last name after her wedding, but her husband had died eight years later, shortly after the birth of her second child, in a boating accident.

  Sean went back to the original article about the Bonner-Lynch wedding. Maid of honor, bridesmaids, ushers, yada yada. There were hundreds of people at the church, at the reception; honeymoon in France. An entire two-page spread of photos that Sean almost skipped over until he saw someone familiar:

  The lovely bride, Joyce Lynch, dancing with her godfather, Attorney General Jonathan Paxton.

  The photo of Paxton was his profile only, and he was twenty years younger. This was taken two years after his daughter disappeared. She’d been murdered, but he hadn’t known that at the time.

  Joyce was twenty when she married Lynch. Paxton’s daughter would have been twenty that year. Paxton and Randall Bonner had been friends. Joyce and Monique, Paxton’s daughter, had likely been friends. That was the connection.

  Except what did it matter? Why would Paxton want Colton to break into PBM? What could Paxton possibly want in the company? Why couldn’t he ask his goddaughter for what he needed? And why would he help Colton take down a business to which he had close personal ties? It made no sense.

  Sean rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t had enough sleep, and his head ached. He needed a fresh set of eyes, but he couldn’t discuss this with anyone except Noah, and right now Sean didn’t want to talk to him. Maybe this was what happened to cops on a stakeout—they started as friends and after a couple days ended up wanting to go a couple rounds with fists. Only Noah and Sean hadn’t started as friends.

  “Back to the drawing board,” Sean muttered, and pulled up the information he’d found on Thomas Lynch.

  It seemed obvious, at second glance, that after Joyce married Lynch, she’d pulled away from her friends and family. She gave birth to her first child, a daughter, two years after the wedding, and to her son six years later, a month before Lynch died in a boating accident.

  Sean looked up all articles related to the boating accident. According to witness reports, Lynch had suffered a heart attack. He’d been sailing with his father-in-law and a family friend.

  Jonathan Paxton.

  Had Paxton and Bonner had something to do with Lynch’s death? Though Bonner was wea
lthy, his money was tied up in PBM. Joyce Bonner received half of Lynch’s sizable estate, and the other half was divided equally between their two children.

  Murder? Sean wasn’t surprised. Paxton had killed before, but he targeted sex offenders and other creeps. He was a vigilante. Was he also a profiteer? Had he helped his old friend kill off Lynch for the money? Or was there another reason?

  Sean didn’t know how important it was, if at all, but his gut told him something was fishy. The only connection he could find between PBM and Paxton was this—and Sean was going to run with it.

  He’d been in the library for six hours—it was already mid-afternoon. He hadn’t heard from Hunter yet, so he grabbed a hot dog from a street vendor and sat on a bench eating while sending his notes and questions on Bonner, Lynch, and Paxton to Noah. Maybe there had been an investigation into Lynch’s death that Noah could find out about. And if not, maybe he had access to financial records regarding the will or the pharmaceutical company. Legal access—because Sean knew he could get whatever he needed if Noah let him hack into the company again. But after their conversation yesterday, Sean wasn’t going to push it.

  Sean had gotten up to toss his garbage in a nearby can when he saw a familiar face. He glanced again, and the man was gone. This was New York City—lots of people—maybe it wasn’t someone Sean knew. And he didn’t get a good look, just a feeling of familiarity, and as he tried to remember the face, he drew a blank. He’d only seen the man’s profile.

  Still, Sean couldn’t be too careful. He walked the three blocks from the library to Grand Central Station, then took a train into Brooklyn, went window-shopping, saw a stuffed animal that looked just like Lucy’s cat, Chip. On a whim, Sean went in and bought it.

  While paying at the register, Sean kept his eye on the window. A man stood across the street, back to the storefront, texting on his phone. Except that was a trick Sean used often when he was tailing someone.

  Sergio Russo.

  Paxton’s hired thug. Russo and Sean had unwillingly worked together once and had an uneasy truce.

  The truce was over.

  Sean grabbed his bag and ran across the street. Russo saw him and almost bolted.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Making sure you’re not getting into any trouble.”

  “Let me rephrase. Why is Paxton having you follow me?”

  “I’m sure you know.”

  Sean didn’t know.

  Russo said in a low voice, “Paxton will make your life hell if you screw this up.”

  “Don’t follow me.” Sean turned and left. Then he smiled. He’d done something to piss off Senator Paxton. Definitely the silver lining for the day.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sean walked into Noah’s apartment early Tuesday evening more contemplative than anything else.

  “Where have you been all day?” Noah asked. His tone was accusatory.

  “Researching and evading one of Paxton’s hired guns.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you get my e-mail about Joyce Bonner and her husband?”

  “Yes, but who was following you?”

  “Sergio Russo. He works for Paxton. His daughter was raped and killed by a repeat offender. Russo attacked him and was tossed in prison. Ripe for the picking by the likes of Paxton. Someone who would have done well at RCK if he didn’t have major ethics issues.”

  Noah didn’t say anything. Sean continued, “I must have done something, because when I confronted Russo he told me not to fuck up the assignment. I’ll keep my eyes open. I’m not worried about Russo.”

  “Well, maybe you should be. We have word that Paxton landed in LaGuardia late last night. He’s at his apartment on the Upper West Side.”

  “He’s nervous. Coming to town at the same time he has Colton breaking into PBM. Sending Russo to follow me.”

  “Does he know where you’re living?”

  “No. I lost Russo in Brooklyn, before I went to talk to Joyce Bonner’s maid of honor.”

  Sean sat down at the table and slid over a file that he’d copied at the library that morning.

  “Becca Shuman,” he said. “Joyce Bonner’s best friend from high school. In her wedding, hasn’t spoken to her much since. But she filled me in on the details.”

  “I hope you have a point,” Noah said.

  Sean frowned but decided to cut Noah a little slack. “I do. I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version. Jonathan Paxton and Randall Bonner grew up next-door neighbors in the same small upstate New York town. Paxton is Joyce Bonner’s godfather. Bonner funded Paxton’s early campaigns, before he died. They’re tight; at least they were.

  “Joyce married Thomas Lynch. She was twenty; he was twenty-eight. He was controlling, judgmental, and Becca believed abusive. Their son was born eight weeks early after Joyce fell down the stairs. She told the doctors and police she tripped. They believed her. Becca didn’t, but by that point Joyce had stopped talking to her.

  “Two months later, Lynch died in a boating accident, and the only witnesses were Paxton and Randall Bonner.”

  “I see where you’re going with this, but you have no evidence that Paxton was involved with the death. What did the coroner say?”

  “Body was never found intact. They found a partial skeleton three years later and confirmed it was Lynch through DNA. Paxton and Bonner said he’d complained of chest pains and stumbled overboard. They searched, but couldn’t find him.” Sean rolled his eyes. “He was thirty-eight.”

  “And you think it was murder?”

  “Heart attack could have been drug-induced, if there even was a heart attack. Randall Bonner founded a medical research company; if anyone could fake a heart attack, it’s him. Joyce and her kids got all the money. She put most of her share into the company.”

  “Why would Paxton try to destroy the company?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  Noah sighed. “We have nothing, and in forty-eight hours you’ll be committing a major felony.”

  “We have something. We have a connection. And it’s not my first felony.” Sean wished he knew why Noah was being such a jerk.

  “Geez,” Noah mumbled.

  “I’m going to keep digging around, but I know the connection is here somewhere. What about you? You find anything?”

  “More than you on your day out,” Noah snapped. “I know that there is no active investigation on you, but Deanna Brighton is looking at Colton Thayer for mortgage fraud.”

  Sean almost laughed. “Mortgage fraud? Colton? Not in a million years.”

  “But bank fraud’s okay?”

  Sean bit back an irritated comment.

  “That has to be a cover. She must be using a fake investigation to access information on Colton and me.”

  “You’re accusing a federal agent of a serious crime.”

  “She went to Quantico to question Lucy. She wanted to know where I’m living. She followed me from the pub. The woman is obsessed.”

  “She’s doing her job.”

  “She has a vendetta.”

  Noah raised an eyebrow. “You would certainly know a lot about vendettas, wouldn’t you?”

  “She’s taking authority too far,” Sean said.

  “There are safeguards to prevent that,” Noah replied.

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Armstrong.”

  Noah stared at him and Sean finally said, “What is it? You’re the one who wanted me to go undercover, yet ever since we’ve been in New York you’ve been an ass. I thought you’d agree with me about Deanna Brighton. Frankly, I thought you’d mellowed out this past year.”

  “This isn’t about Agent Brighton. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Then what is it about? Is it about this case? That you think I’m getting away with something?”

  “You are.”

  “Fuck this, Armstrong. It was nearly ten years ago. And you brought me into this mess.”

  “You don’t regret it.”
<
br />   “You mean with Martin Holdings? Hell no. That guy was a bastard. He deserved everything we did, and more—and don’t tell me I should have gone to the authorities. Because they would have done shit, and you know it. I told you and Rick everything.”

  “And you’d do it again.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  They stared at each other. An impasse, maybe. But Sean was in too deep with Colton not to see this through. Sean had to give Noah something, an olive branch.

  Sean’s phone rang and he sent the call straight to voice mail.

  “I’m not anti-law enforcement,” Sean said. “I know too many good cops. You, even.” He gave Noah a half smile, but Noah wasn’t in the mood.

  “And,” Sean continued, “I will never do anything to risk Lucy losing her faith or trust in me. I love her too much.”

  Noah nodded slowly. “That I believe. It’s for Lucy I’m doing this.”

  “What does that mean?” Sean said, a streak of jealousy running through his veins. He’d known for the past year that Noah had feelings for Lucy. It was something Sean, as a guy, just knew. And Noah knew Sean knew.

  “Are you in love with her?” There, he’d said it. And it hurt. Not because he thought Lucy would return the feelings, but because some people thought a man like Noah—a cop, a military hero, a law-and-order stalwart—would be better for Lucy than a private investigator and semi-retired computer hacker.

  Slowly, Noah shook his head. “I love Lucy, but not like you. You don’t need to be jealous.”

  “Lucy respects you. She trusts you. If she even thinks—”

  “I care for Lucy, but I’m not competing for her.” Noah ran his hand over his face. “I’m having a hard time with this case, okay? I’ve had issues with RCK in the past, when it was just your brothers and JT Caruso running things. You guys think you’re all above the law, and I’ll admit, after hearing about your shenanigans with Colton Thayer at MIT, I wanted to shut down the whole operation.”

  Noah turned away and looked out the window. SoHo was bustling with the club scene, and the street below was a major thoroughfare to get to two of the most popular clubs in the area.