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She didn’t love the persona they’d created. “Why do I need to have a criminal record for passing bad checks?”
“If you’re too squeaky clean, the scumbags won’t be able to relate to you.”
He returned to his minivan and dragged out a beat-up, filthy tarp. He didn’t ask for her help, but stretching the tarp over the boxes would be easier with two people.
She picked up one end. “This thing looks like it went through a cattle stampede.”
“Brady Gilliam wouldn’t have a new tarp.”
“Oh, good. Now you’re referring to yourself in the third person.”
“I’m not Gilliam yet.”
She helped him spread the tarp and tie it down. “Where did Brady Gilliam get all this stuff?”
“I had some of it shipped from my home in Arlington, and I found the rest in army surplus and secondhand stores.”
“You’re kind of a compulsive planner, aren’t you?”
He said nothing, which was fine with her. The question had been rhetorical. His compulsiveness was a given.
That tendency made him extremely vulnerable to teasing. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d embarrassed her with his off-handed, unexpected marriage proposal, and she intended to get even.
He finished with the tarp and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Thanks for volunteering the use of your truck.”
“Sure thing.” He’d already changed her Colorado license plates to California. “I don’t even mind that you think my sweet, red, Toyota pickup is beat-up enough to belong to the itinerant Gilliam couple. I mean, sure, she’s got a little rust and a couple of dents, but she looks good for a twelve-year-old truck.”
“She’s also got an oil leak and needs a tune-up.” He patted the side of the truck. “I could fix that for you.”
“You?”
“My grandpa owns a car repair shop. I’ve worked for him since I was teenager.”
A surprising bit of info. “You don’t seem like the type who’d get his hands dirty.”
“I wear gloves.”
“Of course you do.”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. With his stubble and his sweat and his background as a car mechanic, he almost didn’t seem like a fed … almost. He gave a nod. “I think we’re ready to go.”
“Really?” Not until I get my revenge. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”
He looked down at his black T-shirt and cargo pants. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Nothing, if you’re Brady Masters, FBI agent. In that identity, it makes sense for you to wear a fitted black T-shirt and khaki cargo pants that still look new.”
“They are new. Bought them yesterday.”
“If you’re going to pass yourself off as Brady Gilliam, we’re going to have to grunge you up.”
He faced her directly, and she had a momentary flashback to her sexy dreams. Whether he was a fed or an artist or anything else, Brady was a fine-looking man—tall and lean with wide shoulders. Although his gray eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, the lower half of his face was expressive. When amused, his dimple appeared. Most of the time, his jaw was tight and determined—like it was right now.
“What makes you an expert on grunge?” he asked.
“Dude, I grew up in San Francisco and I went to college at Berkeley. I know what starving artists look like.”
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Untuck your shirt and take off your socks.”
Reluctantly, he did as she said. He cringed as he stuck his bare feet into his running shoes. “Happy?”
“Those sneakers look like they just walked out of a mall. Maybe you should wear sandals.”
“I don’t like sandals.”
“You need to loosen up. Let your toes come out and breathe.” She thoroughly enjoyed giving him a hard time. “And you’ve got to lose the wristwatch.”
His right hand coiled protectively around his gold watchband. “Not the watch.”
“Artists don’t pay attention to time. Gilliam isn’t the kind of guy who punches a time clock or makes appointments.”
“It’s a long drive. I’ll take off the watch when we’re close to Durango.”
Her next bit of supposedly well-meaning advice was sure to push him over the edge. “You know what would make you really look like an out-of-work artist?”
“What?”
“A tattoo. Maybe a dragon starting on your wrist, going all the way up your arm and wrapping around your throat.”
He recoiled as though she’d splashed him in the face with a bucket of ice water. “No tats. No way.”
She smiled sweetly. Payback was fun. “I’m teasing.”
“That was a joke?”
“I just wanted to get under your skin, no pun intended.”
He exhaled through flared nostrils as he rubbed his un-tattooed forearm. “This undercover stuff doesn’t come easy for me. I have to work at it.”
“Because you’re not a good liar?”
“Lying doesn’t bother me. I have a hard time acting like somebody else. It’s not natural. Cole suggested that I set up Brady Gilliam to reflect as much of my core personality as possible.” He stuck his hand into his pocket. “Speaking of Gilliam, I should give you this ring.”
She took the wedding band from him. To her surprise, it wasn’t a cheap dime store ring. The band was white gold with a Celtic knot design. “Brady, this is beautiful.”
“Even if I was a struggling artist and all-around failure, I’d want my beloved wife to have something special. That’s the only kind of marriage I can imagine.”
Just when she was beginning to think that she had the upper hand, he had disarmed her. She slipped the ring onto her finger. “A perfect fit.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
This occasion seemed to call for something more. A hug? A peck on the cheek? That might give him the wrong idea. They were only pretending to be married. She wasn’t attracted to him. Okay, maybe she was a little bit attracted …
The uncomfortable moment ended when his cell phone rang and he answered. As he talked, he went to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. They’d already decided that she’d take the first shift driving because she knew her way around the area. She climbed behind the steering wheel, fastened her seat belt and plugged her key into the ignition.
He ended his call and turned toward her. “That was Cole.”
She started the engine. “Why did he call?”
“He’s been coordinating with local law enforcement. During the past five months, three young women have gone missing from Denver.”
“That’s terrible, but it doesn’t sound like a lot.”
“All three were eight months pregnant.”
A shudder wrenched through her. With the teasing and the packing and the rushing around, she’d almost forgotten why they were going undercover. This investigation wasn’t a game. These missing women were victims of the worst kind of crime.
She worked with new mothers every day. There was no worse pain than losing a child.
Chapter Five
Her twelve-year-old truck didn’t have GPS, but Brady trusted Petra to find the best route from Granby to Durango in the southwest corner of Colorado. If they got lost, he’d use the map function on his phone to get them back on track.
He took advantage of Petra’s time behind the wheel to make some phone calls. Even though he’d be reporting his progress to the agent in charge of the ITEP task force, Brady had opted to use Cole McClure as his point man. Not only did Cole have years of undercover experience, but he also had a decent relationship with Colorado law enforcement. His information regarding the three missing pregnant women might prove useful.
By the time Brady got off the phone, they were well on their way, cruising on a paved, two-lane highway with wide shoulders. Petra drove five to ten miles over the speed limit, but he wasn’t complaining. The weather was good, and the traffic was light. He settled back for a long drive—over three hundred miles crossing the Continental Divide and descending approximately a thousand feet in elevation. Near Durango, the average temperature would be nine to twelve degrees warmer, and the aspen leaves were just beginning to turn gold.
He leaned back against his seat. “I like a good road trip.”
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Texas.”
“I thought I heard a bit of a drawl in your voice. Where in Texas?”
“Austin.” He hesitated before saying more. “Cole told me that we should integrate as much of our real life as possible into our undercover identity. It’s easier to remember.”
“Is Brady Gilliam from Austin?”
He nodded. “Like me, he has a younger brother and a twin sister. My real twin, Barbara, is in the FBI, based in Manhattan. I think I’ll have my undercover twin also live in New York City, but I’ll say she’s a schoolteacher.”
Her window was down, and the breeze whipped through her long auburn hair. She used a paisley scarf as a headband, and the long ends draped over her shoulder. In her circle-shaped sunglasses, white muslin blouse and loose-fitting patterned trousers, she looked like a free spirit—not the type of woman he spent time with, much less married.
“When I was growing up,” she said, “I wanted a twin. Somebody who was always on my side.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works in the movies.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Not anymore.”
He’d made his peace with his miserable childhood. Staring through the windshield, he watched the rise and fall of rolling hills of dry, khaki-colored grasses. No longer did he waste time hating his alcoholic, abusive father—a man who came in and out of his life when the mood suited him. Long ago, Brady had given up trying to understand why his mother stayed loyal to the man she’d married at the expense of her children.
He still had the scars from the last time his father had given him a whipping. He’d just turned twelve and was almost as tall as his dad but half his size. After the old man beat him, he’d gone after Barbara. That had been when Brady fought back. His rage had given him the strength of a grown man. Every time he was knocked down, he’d gotten back up and fought even harder. His father left with a broken nose and never came back.
This horror story wasn’t something he’d share with Petra. It was better to let her think that he and Barbara were the idyllic image of twins in matching colors.
He cleared his throat. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
“Probably six hours.”
“There are two things we need to accomplish.” He brushed away the past and concentrated on a positive, rational agenda. “Number one, I should brief you on what to expect at the Lost Lamb Ranch. Number two, we’ll firm up our undercover identities.”
“Let’s start with what Cole told you,” she said. “You just got off the phone with him, right?”
He nodded. “He’s sending me mug shots for the missing women in an email. We should both memorize the pictures.”
“What did the police find when they investigated?”
“No leads.”
“That’s hard to believe. The disappearance of a pregnant woman is usually a high-priority, high-profile case.”
“Not for these women,” Brady said. “They weren’t beloved daughters or wives. They were homeless. Nobody organized a neighborhood search party to find them.”
“But somebody noticed. Somebody reported them missing.”
“Drug addict friends who, needless to say, didn’t do much to cooperate with the authorities. It’s entirely possible that these women took off for a couple of days and then showed up and nobody bothered to tell the police. Or they moved to another city.”
Darkly, she said, “Or they fell into the hands of traffickers who wanted them and their babies.”
“They prey on the homeless, the helpless. Pregnant women are an easy target. They’re already vulnerable and scared. If somebody offered them a place to stay until they deliver their babies—a place like Lost Lamb Ranch—they’d jump at it.”
“Tell me about the Lost Lamb.”
“It’s run by Francine Kelso, a woman in her forties who has a record as a hooker and was suspected of being a madam. She doesn’t hide her past. Instead, she points to it with pride and claims to have turned over a new leaf.”
Petra nodded. “She’s operating out of the same playbook that we’re using.”
“How so?”
“You just told me to use parts of my real past to establish my undercover identity.” She toyed with the pink crystal that hung from a silver chain around her neck. “That’s what Francine is doing, using her real past to disguise what she’s doing in the present.”
He appreciated how perceptive Petra was. Her insights seemed to come from an intuitive sense. “You’re good at reading people.”
“In my line of work, it helps to understand where somebody is coming from.”
