Page 45 of Ground Truth

Life was cheap in many parts of the world. But he preferred to believe his country was not one of those places. Even as Ella Belle Reed’s case proved otherwise.

“Watch your backs.” Myer gave him a steady gaze and he thought maybe she’d actually started to care about him a little bit. “The sort of man who sells something money should never be able to buy? The heart of a good and kind woman? That’s not the kind of man you want to mess with.”

“We’ll let you know how we make out,” Flint replied. “Can I reach you at the number on your card?”

Myer kept her gaze steady for another moment and gave him an encouraging smile. Then she turned, and hustled toward the station.

“What the hell…?” Drake said quietly as they watched her leave. “We’re investigating a killer and you’re trying to hustle up a date?”

“Come on,” Flint said as he walked. “We won’t find anything here that Myer hasn’t already given us.”

“Where are we going?” Drake said, falling into step beside Flint.

“Sarasota. I want to take a look at the area where Reed’s boat went down.”

“We won’t see anything but lots of water out there. What’s the point?”

“This story doesn’t hang together. Phillip Reed is either the unluckiest man who ever lived. Or he’s killed two wives.”

“Well, yeah. But he’s dead now, so what more can we do?” Drake pressed the key fob to unlock the SUV.

“Is he dead though?” Flint said, climbing into the cabin on the passenger side. “I’m not so sure.”

Drake’s eyes widened as he started the SUV and pulled out of the parking lot headed toward the airport. “So you think both Phillip and Greta survived that boating disaster? What are the odds?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Flint said flatly. He pulled out his cell phone to call Gaspar.

Hanna Campbell’s sister wasn’t a case on Gaspar’s books, and he wasn’t getting paid.

But Gaspar had volunteered. As ex-military, too. He should have known better.

The first rule of survival was always and forever: never volunteer.

-

Chapter 23

Switzerland

Ernst Hedinger received a full set of materials every morning before breakfast. The documents were loaded onto a tablet placed beside his chair.

One ongoing investigation he’d been following was the identity of the thief who recently breached his sophisticated security to steal one of his most prized possessions.

Any man who stole from Ernst Hedinger would live only long enough to regret his thievery. Not one moment more.

Finding this particular thief had proven more difficult than Hedinger expected. Which was fine. He appreciated a worthy adversary, knowing that the adversary wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy what he’d stolen.

The Stradivarius was his. He’d acquired it from a dictator before the man and most of his family were murdered in a military coup. Of course, he hadn’t actually paid the purchase price, since he’d known the dictator had been marked for death.

Hedinger shrugged.

Perhaps the dictator hadn’t been the instrument’s rightful owner, but his young daughter had played the Stradivarius so beautifully.

Only a barbarian would have sold the instrument to finance a war. What did grubby army generals know of fine music?

Hedinger would not rest until the thief returned the magnificent Stradivarius to occupy its rightful place in his salon.

Alas, that would not happen today.

---