down a hit-and-run groom. The scam was swift and efficient, leaving heartache and ruin in its wake. The guy wooed divorcées, married them, drained them of all assets, then disappeared, taking on another identity and starting all over again somewhere else. His marks didn’t even know they’d been hit until it was too late.
After the con artist’s last foray, the bride, Laynie McDaniels, distraught by her losses, hanged herself in a motel room closet. She’d spent the past seven months on life support and had recently died. Her parents, Austin high society, feeling the authorities weren’t doing enough to capture and punish their daughter’s tormentor, had hired Seekers, Inc. a month after Laynie’s accident to locate the “dirty, rotten scoundrel” and bring him to justice. Circumstances pointed to foul play, but he needed court-solid evidence to back up the gut feeling. “He’s going by Warren Swanson this time. He’s passing himself off as a private detective in Nashua. And he’s about to strike again.”
“Let’s make sure we stop him before he does.”
“We need irrefutable evidence.”
“Uh-uh.”
Dom shoveled coffee cake into his mouth and chewed, trying to stay ahead of his bleak thoughts. Sweetheart scams rarely got prosecuted because who was to say that all hadn’t been given for love and the angry spurned lover hadn’t simply regretted her generosity? Not that many people reported the crime in the first place. Who wanted to admit they had been duped by a lover? The con artist counted on the character flaw of pride to get away and live to perpetuate the scam on some other unsuspecting love-starved pigeon.
Catching this guy would mean riding a delicate balance between putting an innocent woman in danger and making sure they got enough to put the guy behind bars for a good long time. Dom had to make this stop the impostor’s last. Evidence wasn’t a problem. Dom already had a six-inch-thick file with a number of aliases and addresses. What he lacked was proof of criminal intent. “I have a plan.”
“Shoot.”
The plan was simple enough: slip into Marston’s tightly knit community and pose as Luci Taylor’s boyfriend. Once he was close to both victim and con man, he could gather evidence. Dom reached for the mug of tea and drained it as if it were a shot of whiskey. Going in with guns blazing wasn’t going to work with this guy. He was too good at disappearing and reinventing himself. Dom couldn’t risk losing him again. This cover was the best way to snag him. “It requires going undercover to catch him hand in the cookie jar. I need to get close to him, win his trust.”
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
Nope, nothing out of the ordinary. Just a run-of-the-mill operation.
Except for one thing.
“The victim is Jillian Courville.” Dom chewed on the last piece of coffee cake and almost choked on it as it went down crooked.
“Is that a problem?”
Dom stared at the crumbs on his plate and swirled the fork through them. “Jill is Luci Taylor’s younger sister.” Jill was a spoiled divorcée who’d made out rich in her divorce settlement. And Luci? Falconer already knew about the Hostage Rescue Team and the way Cole Taylor had died. Dom looked around for more coffee cake and realized he’d eaten the whole thing without tasting it.
“Ah.” Hands tented over his lap, chin resting on his upraised fingers, Falconer rocked his chair back and forth. “I can send someone else.”
“No, I’ve got this guy’s number.” Dom had seen the havoc the con man had wreaked. Cuffing him was personal by now.
“What’s the problem then?”
“Luci.” Dom would be a reminder of everything she’d left behind, of everything she’d lost. He’d watched her for the past few days. Her routine was her comfort—the mornings spent in her fields, the afternoons in her barn, the mad rush of late afternoons taken up by her son’s needs. The master sniper had turned herself into the picture of a suburban soccer mom. She wouldn’t appreciate him showing up on her front steps.
But making peace and putting criminals behind bars where they could hurt only themselves had been his mission since his seventeen-year-old brother had been killed by a small-time con man. He couldn’t stop now just because his pride might get dinged. “She’s not going to like having anyone mess with her piece of paradise.”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
He’d thought of that, but once he put the plan through its paces, he figured trying to get one past Luci would bring more conflict than it would resolve. She might think she’d left her sniper days behind, but her warrior’s instincts were as sharp as ever. Twice, she’d nearly caught him following her as he’d tried to establish Jill’s habit pattern. “I need her help to get close to Swanson so he doesn’t feel threatened.”
“You can’t have it both ways.”
Dom pushed away the plate. “I know.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I need cover. He’s bound to check me out and it looks like he can do it, too, since he’s got Jill’s numbers all lined up. Leave the football history there for common ground. Swanson’s sporting a Super Bowl ring. Not his, mind you, just part of his cover. A salesman, maybe. That wouldn’t be a threat to him, especially if I’m not so good at it.”
Falconer’s grin slid sideways. “That’s going to be hard to do. You could sell manure to a pig farmer.”
“Aw, shucks, Falconer, I’m just a redneck from down Brazos County way. I couldn’t sell a plug nickel to a leaking dam.”
Falconer chuckled. “I’ll have Kingsley fix you up.”
“I’ll need data support.”
“You’ve got it.” Falconer gathered up his files. “Anything else?”
How about a face Luci wouldn’t hate on sight? “I’ve got everything covered.”
Everything but his dumb heart, and he couldn’t let Luci know she still had it in her back pocket. Not if he wanted her help.
“BRENDAN!” Luci Taylor bowled through the creaking back door of her Victorian fixer-upper, walked out of her garden clogs and into the kitchen without breaking stride. The room was a chaos of half-finished jobs, but she didn’t have time to worry about the cupboard doors waiting refinishing in the barn or the last wall of wallpaper waiting to be stripped. “We’re going to be late for soccer practice.”
“I can’t find my shoes.” The small voice came from somewhere in the front. She suspected the living room where her six-year-old son had surely parked his butt before the forbidden television. Her five minutes of picking basil leaves had turned into an hour of weeding, and he’d taken advantage of her distractibility.
Luci stuck her hands under running water and washed off the rich garden dirt with a homemade cake of rosemary soap. “They’ll be much easier to find once you turn off the TV.”
“Aww, Mo-om.”
“Come on. We have to pick up Jeff.” Jill’s carnival committee meeting was running late—as usual. On the positive side, if Jill hadn’t called requesting a ride for her seven-year-old son, Brendan might have missed practice altogether. Again. Luci still had summer’s unstructured time on her mind and, one week into school, she hadn’t quite gotten into the fall routine yet. She had to learn to wear a watch and not let time get away from her. Other moms managed to keep a regular schedule. She should be able to also.
“Do we hafta? He’s such a baby.”
Like a six-year-old was all grown-up. Luci transferred the cell phone from her sweatshirt pocket to her purse, then collected the storage bag of oranges she’d quartered earlier from the fridge. “He’s your cousin and you’re to be nice to him.”
“He’s a dork.”
“A