LITMIR.BIZ

      To Sandy Lee, my almost daughter.

       Love, Jessica’s mom.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

       Chapter 1

       W hen Dennis Lincoln opened the door, the shower stall exhaled a cloud of steam. The mist hovered about him as he stepped quickly out of the cocooning warmth of the shower onto the tile. He shivered. The rest of the bathroom felt cold.

      The headache he’d had when he went to bed still throbbed lightly just outside his temples. Dennis carefully toweled the excess water out of his dark blond hair, then draped the damp towel over the silver rim of the shower stall.

      He’d stayed up until past two in the morning, watching the miniature surveillance cameras he had set up. Neither the one in the carport area right outside her door, nor the two within her apartment had picked up any activity. Looked as if it had been a slow night for both of them, he thought. A slow night in a succession of slow nights.

      Which was why it was now time for phase two of the operation.

      Phase two had been set in motion yesterday with a simple purchase from Mike’s House of Affordable Electronics. Much more than fifty-two inches of sound and screen, the TV gave Dennis a way to meet his quarry. It gave him an excuse to strike up a conversation, get into her apartment with her permission, and subsequently into her life. Right now, it seemed the best way to find the answers.

      Or, he thought with a wry smile as he glanced in the mirror, if she knew the questions.

      Not exactly the way he’d envisioned his future ten years ago, clutching that hard-won law degree. But it suited him.

      Even if it didn’t suit his face, Dennis mused as he pulled a comb through his wet hair. No one looking at his affable, guileless blue eyes and quirky half smile, complete with dimples, would have ever guessed what his true occupation was.

      Which was exactly what made him the best candidate for the job. It allowed him to make contacts, form quick relationships and get to the heart of the matter where a more abrupt, blunter man would have struggled weeks for a toe-hold.

      He’d been here, settled in at Sandcreek Apartments, for over a week now. That amounted to exactly eight days, and thousands of feet of frustration, if counted in video tape.

      So far, the cameras and the tap on her phone had yielded nothing out of the ordinary. If she was involved with the Syndicate the way her late husband had been, the involvement was covert. They hadn’t attempted to make any contact with her.

      Dennis couldn’t continue to sit on his hands and wait. Waiting always irritated him even though it was the hallmark of the job. He had to become friendly with her, to cull her favor and her trust.

      It shouldn’t be too difficult, he judged as he passed the blow dryer over his damp hair with wide, even movements. Nicole Logan looked as if she needed someone to talk to and he intended to be the one she opened up to.

      Blessed with a light beard, Dennis shaved quickly, then rinsed off his razor. His father’s razor, he thought absently, looking at the ancient, double-edged shaver. Just about the only thing, besides his hair color, that the old man had to pass on to him before he died.

      A razor and an armload of responsibilities Dennis had been too young to understand at the time. Understanding and acceptance came much later.

      Placing the razor into the medicine cabinet, Dennis walked into the bedroom and crossed to the rack where he had meticulously laid out his clothes the night before. Image was important. He had to look the part of an up-and-coming tax lawyer on the cusp of tax time.

      Something he might have actually been, he thought, slipping on his trousers, had things turned out differently.

      But they hadn’t, and he never looked back. Not once. This job had instantly given him what he had wanted. A way to take care of his mother and younger sister. His mother had died two years ago and Moira was on her own now, but he still remained with the Department. The money was decent. Having few needs of his own, he spent most of it on his sister.

      Up until she had died, he’d used it to spoil his mother, to pay her back, at least in part, for past sacrifices. But that wasn’t the only reason he was here. He enjoyed the job. It satisfied his latent lust for adventure that had come to the fore in the last decade.

      The same lust, he knew as he shrugged into his tapered mauve shirt, that had gnawed away at his father. Except that he knew how to channel it and Harry Lincoln had not. In the end, his father’s avarice and his yearning for more had led to his death. A casualty at the altar of the god of gambling.

      Dennis buttoned his cuffs slowly, trying to shake off the thought. Lately, his line of work was taking a toll on him that it hadn’t before. It wasn’t quite as exciting, quite as interesting or as satisfying as it had once been.

      But then, he was on the other side of thirty now, not twenty. Things changed.

      What didn’t change, he reminded himself, stepping up his pace, was that Sherwood was waiting for results. And it was up to him to deliver them.

      Dennis tucked the tails of his shirt into his tan slacks, getting his story straight in his head, should the woman in 176 ask questions. Any questions. Hesitation might raise suspicions and then all his work would be for nothing. Not that he’d invested a great deal of time into this particular phase of the operation, but there was over six months of groundwork that he had put in that he didn’t want to see go up in smoke.

      Especially now, with the last bit of information Winston had given him. His partner had told him that Paul Trask was the key figure in the

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