Page 41 of Riptide
Or before Gabediscovered who she really was.
Whichever came first.
12
"Chief,I need your professional opinion on something."
Gabe looked up from his budget reports to find Ellie Torres standing in his doorway holding what appeared to be a dead possum.
"Is that?—"
"Harold Bianchi's possum. Found it in his chicken coop this morning. He's claiming foul play." Torres held the stiff animal at arm's length. "Specifically, he thinks the Sampsons poisoned it because they're 'anti-wildlife.'"
"The Sampsons are on the board of the Audubon Society. They’re bird-watchers."
"I mentioned that. He said possums eat bird eggs, so obviously they're suspects."
Gabe rubbed his temples. "Is there any evidence of poisoning?"
"The possum appears to have died of old age. But Harold insists on a full investigation."
This was his life now, from FBI counterintelligence to small-town possum detective.
"Tell Harold we'll look into it," Gabe said. "Which means you'll spend five minutes Googling 'possum natural causes' and write up a report saying it died of natural causes."
Ellie grinned. "I like how you think, Chief." She paused. "Where should I put the body?"
"Not in my office."
"Fair enough."
She left, taking the possum with her.
Gabe turned back to his window, rubbing his temples. Movement on Main Street caught his eye—Wade's truck pulling up in front of the bakery. The passenger door opened and Cara climbed out, clearly exhausted. She said something to Wade, then headed for the bakery's side entrance.
Portland. Reagan mentioned Cara was going up there this morning, something about meeting with a supplier. But Wade had gone with her, which meant it wasn't about suppliers at all.
Then Gabe saw her.
Blaire Mitchell sat in a silver Mercedes across the street, phone raised, clearly photographing Cara's return. She lowered the phone, smiled to herself, and started typing.
Gabe's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
*Saw your sweetie heading out of town this morning. Road trip with the old dude. She's not running, is she? —B*
Ice settled in Gabe's gut. She was right there. Watching. Making sure he knew she was watching.
The message was a power play. But more than that—it was a threat. She wanted him to know she could get to Cara anytime she wanted.
He didn't respond. Wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
But his jaw tightened as he deleted the message.
The door opened again. Pearl Henderson this time, wearing a purple tracksuit and carrying a three-ring binder.
"Gabriel. We need to discuss the Spring festival planning committee."
