Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(113)

I’m on my feet in seconds and peering around the door frame to see the dogs standing in front of the door, growling.

Luke’s up and pulling on track pants. I run into my room to throw on the first pair of pants and T-shirt that I can find. And then my fingers make fast work of the safe so I can get to my gun. I check my phone for any calls from Warner, wondering if it could be him.

No missed calls.

This isn’t him.

A knock sounds.

I punch Warner’s number in and toss the phone to Luke. “Tell him what’s going on.” Right about now, I’m really wishing I didn’t demand that they shut off the cameras. Tiptoeing toward the door, I flick the safety off my gun. I shoo the dogs away with a gentle nudge of my foot, and then call out, “Who is it?”

“Delivery.” A deep, male voice. Not Russian, but still . . .

“At three a.m.?”

“It’s special.”

“Special my ass. The cops are on their way.”

There’s a long pause, and I hold my breath, listening for the cock of a gun. When he speaks again, it’s with less confidence. “I was told that you needed to receive this now, or it will be too late.”

“What will be too late?” Dammit. How do I ignore that?

“I don’t know, Miss. It’s . . . help.”

For all I know, the guy could have a gun aimed at the door, waiting for a shadow to pass over the peephole. I wave my hand several times, holding my breath. No shots fired.

I know what the protocol is here: wait for backup.

As quietly as possible, I unlatch the locks.

And then I throw open the door, gun aimed and ready.

A middle-aged man in a baseball cap that hides half of his face lets out a yelp of surprise, holding the flimsy white envelope tight against his chest as if it can somehow protect him from a bullet.

“Who sent you?” I demand to know.

He swallows and, instead of answering, he slowly extends his arms.

I’m torn between refusing it and grabbing it. Until I see the small emblem in the top right-hand corner of the envelope.

A black orchid.

I snatch it out of his hand. “You need to stay—”

The deliveryman turns and bolts, leaving me with no option but to either shoot him or let him go.

“Yeah . . . An envelope . . . He’s gone . . .” Luke is telling Warner. I didn’t notice he had stepped up beside me. To me he says, “Warner says not to open it until he gets here.”

I tear the seal open and pull several slips of paper out.

“Tell him he’s going to have to reschedule my flight.”

“Ready?” Warner calls from the black agency sedan he’s using to get me to the airport. My things—a suitcase stuffed with clothes I accumulated while undercover that they can’t possibly use on another case, and Stanley—are already packed in the backseat.

“Yeah, give me a minute?”

“We’ve already rescheduled the flight once . . .”

“And remind me why again?”

Warner slides his aviator glasses on and smirks at me. “Because you’re a superstar, Bertelli.” He rolls the window up, giving Luke and me some privacy as we say our goodbyes outside my building.

Except it’s not my building anymore.

I’m going home today.

Luke peers down at me with big blue eyes. “You seriously don’t know who sent you that envelope?”

To everyone else, including Sinclair and Warner, my official answer all morning has been “I have no clue.”

To Luke, I smile. “Do you want me to lie to you or just not answer?”

I can’t tell anyone that Elmira’s the one who sent me detailed instructions on where to find the stolen black SUVs, heading for Durban—on the coast of South Africa—at first light this morning, right down to the name and location of the ship in the Seattle port. Or that it was her prompting that led us to set up surveillance on Gold Bond to watch Vlad stroll in a few hours later, at exactly nine a.m., only to walk back out after fifteen minutes with a duffel bag full of cash. Or that it was Elmira who told us which port official would be receiving a call from Jerry Rosenthal, to confirm that the cargo was loaded and that he should release the money to Vlad.

The port official answered the phone with a shaky “yes,” while Warner breathed down his neck. By that point, a fleet of customs officers had already been sifting through containers for hours. Thirty-six black SUVs were discovered. It’ll take time to confirm that they’re all stolen.

I can’t tell any of them because I don’t know why she’d sabotage her own husband’s deal.

It’ll take time to build a solid case. We already have Jerry Rosenthal on handling the payment of the stolen Porsche, so we’ll have to see how cooperative he’ll be. It helps that Vlad pulled a gun when he saw the two cops approaching him outside Gold Bond. That gave us the excuse we needed to ask him what he did to deserve so much cash. With all the road blocks and dead ends we’ve dealt with on this case, it was almost a miracle that Vlad would be that stupid.

Luke shakes his head, but then smirks.

“So? What are you going to do now?”

He peers upward, squinting against the sun, as if the answer is up there. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll be figuring out life.”