She thought again of Casey Duncan. He was so familiar to her. She must have met him before or something. He’d said no. Maybe he only reminded her of someone she’d run into eons ago.

  Something darted out in front of her. She slammed on her brakes. Her heart launched into her throat. A cat pounced across the yard to her left. Close. Too close. She had to pay better attention.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror, grateful no one was behind her. Then she checked the houses on either side of the street. This was the first cat she’d spotted.

  On the right, a dozen or more cats lounged on the porch of the old bungalow that had seen far better days. This had to be it. Naomi backed up a few feet and turned into the driveway. As she emerged from her car, felines bounced off the porch and romped out to the driveway to greet her. She leaned down and stroked the sleek back of one and then the next. Dark velvety bodies twined around her legs, rubbing and purring.

  By the time she reached the porch she had counted seventeen cats of all types and colors. Besides a rocking chair and a rickety table, three boxes waited on the porch. She checked the labels, didn’t recognize the senders’ addresses. The boxes were addressed to “occupant.”

  The squalling cats drew her attention. She realized they were probably hungry. If this house did belong to Arlene, she hadn’t been around to feed them. An ache bloomed in Naomi’s chest. She checked the door...locked.

  “Okay, kitties. I can go to the store and get food.” One of the cats trotted over to a large plastic container tucked behind the rocking chair and rubbed against it. Naomi wandered in the same direction. She had a look at the container, white plastic. With little effort she popped off the lid. “Aha.”

  The scent of cat food had the many felines crowding up against her. Since she didn’t see any bowls she dropped handfuls all around that end of the porch. When she estimated she’d distributed enough, she closed the lid and went back to the boxes. Why would Arlene have things delivered to this house instead of her own? If intended for her, why wasn’t her name on the boxes?

  She cupped her hands on either side of her face and stared through the windows. The house looked empty. No furniture. Dark inside save for the tree-shaded light that filtered in through the windows.

  Naomi moved down the steps and from one side of the house to the next and peered into each window. Every room she could see was the same: empty. Mostly dark.

  When she reached the front porch again, she knelt down to examine the boxes more closely. Three typical cardboard shipping boxes, three different senders from three different addresses. California, New York and Idaho. She picked at the packaging tape across the top until she’d peeled it back far enough to open the box flaps of the first one. Inside was a white Styrofoam object.

  Cooler? She shuddered at the thought of what she’d found in not one but two freezers.

  This was just a cooler, she reminded herself. Not big enough for a body. She tried to pull it out of the box, but the fit was too tight to lift the cooler free. She turned the box upside down and shook it. It was heavier than she’d expected. Slowly but surely, her arms burning with the effort, the white cooler slid out of the box. The cooler was taped across the top, as well. More picking and tearing with her nails. She kept them cut short, so it took some time. Finally, the stubborn tape was all peeled back, pulling white dots of Styrofoam with it.

  Briefly she considered she should probably call Agent Duncan. He would want her to wear latex gloves for this. He would most likely want to check this out himself.

  Too late. She’d already touched the packaging. She might as well finish what she started. Besides, her curiosity was killing her. She tugged at the lid until it came loose. A steamy fog rose from the container. She reared back.

  Dry ice, she realized. Her mom had ordered holiday hams that came packed this way. The dry ice wasn’t like regular ice. It was best not to touch it.

  She waved away the fog and peered inside. She closed her eyes a second, shook her head and then looked again.

  Eyes, wide open, peered back at her.

  Face.

  Dread expanded in her stomach.

  A face. Female.

  It was a face...a head.

  A muffled cry tore from her throat. She fell back onto her butt, then scrambled away like a crab.

  She clawed at her pocket for her cell phone.

  She had to call Agent Duncan.

  Chapter Seven

  High Street, 9:30 p.m.

  Casey tucked his cell phone back into his pocket and surveyed the ongoing work in the High Street house allegedly rented by Arlene Beck. The place had appeared vacant but had proven anything but empty.

  As he watched, more of the paneling on the walls was removed. Two forensics techs had crawled around under the house checking between floor joists and in any other potential hiding place. So far, they’d found just under two million dollars. All in small bills and bundled neatly for storage in the wall cavities.

  The call he’d just received had added another twist to this already bizarre case. Dental records had confirmed the identity of the woman whose head was in the box Naomi opened. The woman had been missing for more than a week. Her identity had changed everything.

  This was no longer a mere homicide investigation. This thing had sprouted roots that went far and deep.

  “Got more money in the back bedroom.”

  The words echoed through the house.

  Casey walked through the rooms, each one lit like a photo studio with all the auxiliary lighting they’d brought in, until he reached the newest piece of evidence. More bundles of cash lined sporadic spaces in the wall cavities.

  The tech glanced at Casey as he entered the room. “I’m guessing we have another million in here.”

  Earlier today Casey had decided on the most likely scenario for what Arlene Beck was up to. He’d suspected she was conducting illegal green burials. It was fairly easy to set up a professional-looking website and then to make the necessary arrangements. Once the body was turned over to Beck the family probably never inquired as to additional details or locations.

  Beck was not simply burying the bodies free of chemicals and anything else that inhibited decomposition, she was using the bodies for her own purposes. Doubling her money so to speak.

  With today’s find he understood the business was far more sadistic.

  Casey snapped more pics with his phone to use when he briefed Naomi. “Check them all,” he said to the tech. “The attic, too. If there’s anything else in this place I want to know about it.”

  Sheriff Tanner was outside briefing Brannigan, who’d already done a walk-through of the house. Casey joined them on the back porch. A crime scene perimeter had been set up around the yard, front and back. Already reporters had gathered on the street out front and shouted questions at any uniform or official-looking person who appeared. Brannigan had agreed to handle tonight’s crowd at a ten o’clock press briefing. The three of them—Casey, Tanner and Brannigan—had put together a statement that really didn’t state a lot. But it was all they were prepared to give at this time. Far too many unanswered questions remained at this point.

  “The vic in the box has been ID’d,” he told the chief and the sheriff as he approached their position on the porch. It was well past dark but the single bare bulb in the overhead light provided enough illumination for Casey to see the lines of worry on the other men’s faces. No one wanted this kind of evil to visit their community.

  But crime didn’t pause at the borders of any town. It crossed lines of all kinds.

  “Helen Radner. She vanished just over a week ago. Her abandoned car was only a few blocks from her home in Philadelphia. She had agreed to testify against Big Tom Richmond.”

  Brannigan gave a long, low whistle. “I heard something about that. The missing woman was the first witness who’d ever agreed to testify against him.”

  “She made the mistake of calling to say she was coming in. They were monitoring her phone and had her before she was out of her neighborhood.” Casey shook his head. “I guess now we know where she ended up.”

  “Damn.” Tanner pushed back his cowboy hat and rubbed at his forehead. “This will go national,” he said, stating aloud what they all already knew. “I’ll call in my reserve deputies. We’ll have reporters from every major news outlet in the country descending on us.”

  “Good idea,” Brannigan agreed. “I’ll do the same.” To Casey he said, “The lab in Nashville picked up the other remains found at the farm. Rowan will be forwarding her final report to you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” This was officially the Bureau’s case now. Brannigan and Tanner would continue to assist as needed, which would be immensely helpful since this was their territory. They knew the place and the people. “I should go break the news to Ms. Honea.”

  Casey made his way toward his vehicle. A local shelter had called in volunteers from all over the county to pick up the cats for safekeeping until they could be rehomed. Photos of each one would be posted on the city website in case anyone in the neighborhood had a cat missing. Cats liked to roam. Casey had never been a cat person but his older-by-two-years sister and only sibling had loved them.

  “Agent Duncan!”

  “Agent Duncan!”

  Reporters shouted his name but officers prevented them from following Casey to his SUV. There would be a second official press conference tomorrow or the next day that he would conduct. Tonight Brannigan and Tanner would inform the citizens of their community about the ongoing investigation and give assurances as to their safety and the steps local authorities planned to take.

  Driving along the country road in the darkness Casey considered how often he’d thought of Naomi over the years. She had been his first real crush. Of course she had no idea. She’d basically ignored him, but he hadn’t been able to ignore her. Once he’d learned what became of her with that glimpse into her Hollywood life, he’d made an effort to keep up with her. Looking back, he decided his walk down memory lane after seeing that commercial must have been the result of a breakup. His relationships never lasted very long. Even when he put in the extra effort.

  The situation only grew worse after he found Naomi again. He ended up unconsciously comparing every woman he dated with Naomi. It was totally ridiculous, he recognized. When the right person came along, he’d forget all about Naomi and ancient history.

  The front porch light at the end of the long driveway to the Honea farmhouse had his pulse skittering like a guy about to go on his first date.

  “Idiot,” he grumbled.

  He parked next to her vintage pickup and got out. The conversation to come wasn’t one he looked forward to, but it was necessary. At this time, he had no reason to suspect she was involved in whatever Beck had going. The concept that he wasn’t completely objective where Naomi was concerned wasn’t lost on him.

  He glanced up at the full moon hanging low in the night sky. Halloween coming up and the full moon seemed somehow fitting with this increasingly strange case. He glanced around the place. The big old white barn in the distance and the towering dark trees crowded around the white farmhouse spoke of peace and quiet. Solitude and contentment. But there was a lie behind that picturesque facade. The real questions were how did that lie start and how deep did it go?

  Equally important, who started it?

  The door opened as he climbed the steps to the porch. Naomi, her fiery red hair backlit by the light inside, waited for him to say something, he supposed. It wasn’t unseasonably cool tonight, but she had the afghan that usually hung on the back of the sofa draped around her shoulders.

  “I know it’s late,” he offered, “but I hoped we could talk.”

  Almost eleven by now, he guessed. He was tired and she probably was, as well. This had been a hell of a two days.

  “Would you like coffee?” She turned into the house, leaving him to follow.

  “Coffee would be good. Thanks.” He closed the door behind him, locked it before joining her in the kitchen.

  The scent of coffee grounds filled the air as she scooped generous heaps into the brew basket. When she’d added water to the reservoir and hit the brew button, she faced him and said, “I watched the press conference. Chief Brannigan was very vague.”

  “Vague is the best we can do right now,” he explained, hesitated, then went on. “We’ve identified the woman.”

  She pulled the afghan tighter. Waited. Said nothing.

  “She was to be a witness against the head of an organized-crime syndicate in Philadelphia. She disappeared about a week ago.”

  Naomi’s eyes closed for a moment as she absorbed the impact of his words. This was not the kind of news one wanted to hear about a longtime employee—a member of the family, really.

  “Why...” She drew in a sharp breath as if what she had to say was almost too difficult to convey. “Why was her head mailed to Arlene?”

  The brew process started its gurgling and hissing routine, ushering renewed smells of dark roast coffee into the air. “I can’t answer that question with any measure of accuracy, but I can make an experienced guess based on the only other evidence found at the property.”

  She squared her shoulders, causing the afghan to drop from one side, revealing a pale length of skin between her shoulder and her throat. “I’m listening.”

  “Money. Bundles of cash hidden in the wall cavities. A lot of cash.”

  “But you can’t be sure the money was Arlene’s.”

  “We’ve confirmed the house was leased to her. The landlord stated she—Arlene—leased the property for immigrant workers at the farm.” He knew this to be only a cover story. The employees of the farm were all locals who didn’t need housing.

  Naomi turned away, reached for a mug with a trembling hand. “Then you’re telling me that Arlene was somehow connected to organized crime.” She poured the mug full of steaming coffee and offered it to him.

  He accepted, grateful for the caffeine-infused liquid. “I believe she was, yes.” He sipped the coffee, winced at the burn of hot liquid, but at the moment he needed the fortification it promised.

  She walked back to the living room and sat in her usual chair. After downing another swallow, he wandered back the same way. Took a seat on the sofa.

  “You’ve decided my father was taking money from Arlene and most likely was helping her do...” She hesitated as if uncertain how to label the horrible thing lying cold and raw in front of her. “To cover up murders. Why would this Philadelphia mob bother sending a victim all the way to Tennessee? Why not just dispose of her there? Or someplace closer? This seems far-fetched at best.”

  “That is a piece of the puzzle I don’t have yet. It doesn’t add up strictly from a logistics standpoint. I can only assume there is—was—some sort of agreement between Arlene and the man in charge.”

  “This makes no sense at all. If she had an agreement, why is she dead?”

  “Mob families have rules. They have territory. To cross the line is to make yourself a target. When a person makes the decision to go into business with these kinds of criminals, there is no going back and no room for error.”

  “Now you’re saying she double-crossed the mob.” Naomi held up a hand and the afghan fell to her elbows. “You’ve been here hardly more than twenty-four hours and already you’ve decided my family is involved with organized crime. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  Casey stared at the dark brew in his mug for a moment, took another swallow, a deeper one now that it had cooled. Then he sat the mug on the coffee table. “I’m speaking in general terms, ma’am. At this point, it’s difficult to rule out Ms. Beck, with the mounting evidence that points to her involvement, but it’s not my job to prove her guilt. My job is to find the evidence and solve the crime based on what I can actually prove, not on speculation. There are lawyers and judges who determine if the evidence I find is significant enough to prove the actors I allege to be involved are guilty.”

  * * *

  NAOMI WATCHED THE movements of his hands, the way he inclined his head as he spoke. Somehow, she knew this man. “I’m sorry,” she interrupted his monologue about the difference between what cops do and what lawyers do. “Are you certain we’ve never met? You said no before but I swear...” She shook her head. “There’s something about you—maybe your eyes?—that seems so familiar.”

  Her timing was ridiculous, of course. There were far more pressing issues. But she needed to know or maybe she just needed a moment that wasn’t about murder and bodies and mobsters.

  He stared at her for so long she decided he wasn’t going to respond. Then he finished off his coffee and leaned back on the sofa, his attention fully on her.

  “I grew up in Mississippi. Meridian, Mississippi. Attended Ole Miss. My first assignment with the FBI was in Jackson. Then I ended up in Nashville.”

  “I don’t recall ever having been to Meridian,” she said. Why did he seem so intent on evading the real question? “I’ve been to Nashville a million times. Maybe we ran into each other there.”

  “Every summer my family spent a lot of time on the coast. Gulfport. Biloxi. But one summer we went to Mobile instead. Stayed at a resort in Gulf Shores.”

  Naomi’s eyes locked with his and in that instant she remembered. “I was eleven that summer. You were thirteen. You had a dog... Jefferson. A chocolate Lab.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Loved that dog. He died while I was in college. I still miss him.”

  Her heart pounded so hard she could scarcely breathe. “We played all the time. The first few days I was there we were inseparable.” How could she have forgotten? The boy had grown into a very handsome man. “Why didn’t you say something?”