Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Donning that figurative military hat takes everything I’ve got and then some. It takes more than willpower not to go to After Dark and demand an explanation from my wife. All I want to do is punish her. Because what she did leaves me frozen to my core.
“Focus,” Dante says, his voice serious. “Don’t let everything that Anya risked go to waste.”
I pull myself together with difficulty, forcing myself to focus like he said because he’s right. “What guarantee do we have the inventory is authentic?”
“Anya matched it against the payment record that came with the inventory.”
“What if they have more? What if Anya’s informant—” Fuck, I go cold just thinking about the risk she took. “—only has a part of the inventory?”
“She got your computer whiz to hack into the account using the banking information on the proof of payment. No other big transactions were made from that account. The payments for the weapons were split into smaller amounts and sent via offshore accounts. They thought they were careful, but Anya is a genius.”
I’m going to pull that woman over my knee and paddle her ass.
“Come,” I say, indicating my study. “We have to change tactics.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Anya
* * *
It’s easier than I thought to get access to the golf course locker room. All I have to do is make an appointment to visit the premises under the pretense of considering membership. I say Richard invited me. When I mention my surname, I get a time slot for this afternoon.
I drop Livy and Claire off at home earlier than usual. Fortunately, Saverio is meeting with Dante in his study. I rush to the dressing room and go through the pockets of the coat I hid the key in with my heart thumping between my ribs. Relief bursts through me when my fingers brush over the key.
Leaving Claire in Livy’s capable hands, I drive to Southampton and make it there with ten minutes to spare before my appointment. Worried that I may run into Tersia, I park at the far end of the parking lot where my car is hidden behind trees. Then I fake interest as a staff member shows me the clubhouse and recites their facilities. The lady blabbers on about the impressive history of the club as she drives me around the greens in a golf cart. She asks about my handicap, but I deflect the question by asking her so many other questions that she eventually gets so sidetracked she forgot she asked.
At the end of the tour, I say I need to use the ladies’ room. She points me in the right direction and goes on to chat to an elderly gentleman who announces that he just finished eighteen holes. I walk straight into the men’s locker room with the key in my hand. Thankfully, it’s a weekday, and the locker room is empty. I try every locker until I find the right one.
I’m praying that Mrs. Lewis forgot to inform the club of her husband’s passing and that they didn’t empty his locker. In that case, it won’t be opened until his membership period comes to an end or when they notice he hasn’t been back in months.
I quickly open the locker. The only item inside is a brown envelope. I shove it into my handbag, walk back to the reception area, and thank the lady for the tour, saying I’ll be in touch with my decision once I’ve visited a few other clubs.
Back at the car, I tear the envelope open with a shaky hand. A USB key drops out. I take my computer bag from the trunk and get behind the wheel, looking around to ensure I’m not attracting unwanted attention from staff or members as I take out my laptop and open it on my lap. Satisfied that the coast is clear, I insert the USB key into the reader slot of the laptop.
Several spreadsheets are saved under a file named Bianchi. I open them and scan the contents. They hold a detailed account of the bookkeeping Mr. Lewis managed for the Bianchi family as well as the money he stole and laundered at a company in Boston.
Taking my phone out of my bag, I look up the Boston factory. An article about the brutal murder of the owners pops up in the first line on my search engine.
My pulse spikes as I open the article, scared of what I’ll find. The men were tortured before shot execution style. A shiver works its way down my spine. I check the date, and then I think back.
The murders happened on the weekend Saverio was away. He walked me home after the police interrogation at the firm and spanked me for not calling him as he’d instructed before the police questioned me. I remember the date clearly because it was the day after he killed Mr. Lewis. Then Saverio left, and I didn’t see him until Monday when he ambushed me after I visited Evan Kearney.