Risky Obsession (Wolf Security #3)

1. Lacey

CHAPTER 1

Lacey

I have lived on both sides of the law and survived, though not unscathed. But I’d been lucky. After I’d spent many years breaking the rules, I got my shit together before the downward spiral I was on ended with me six feet under.

I was officially off duty this sunny Sunday morning, but my detective obligations never stopped at the end of my shift. Keeping busy was my way of making up for all the wrongs I’d done in my life and there was no such thing as a day off, especially when I had open cases to solve.

As the Border Force boat I’d hitched a ride on approached the only jetty on Amber Island, both dread and excitement tangled in my mind. The sun edged over the top of the steep hilltop, casting an eerie glow that produced shadows that stretched across the island, adding fuel to my niggling doubts.

I was operating on a hunch, and my visit to a grieving woman on Amber Island could turn out to be a waste of time. But something tingled in my brain, telling me otherwise. I’d learned the hard way not to ignore my instincts.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you, Lacey?” Whisper asked as the noise of the boat engine reduced to a dull purr.

“Nah. This shouldn’t take long. Are you still okay to hang around for a bit?”

“Sure. There’s always something to do on this boat.”

Whisper was an incredible Border Force operative, and she was always busy. I was just lucky she was available to bring me here during her work hours.

“Ring me if you need anything,” Whisper said as she secured the boat to the pylon with a rope as thick as her wrist.

“Will do.” I flashed a smile, then jumped onto the jetty.

During our ninety-minute trip to the island, Whisper and I had shared stories. She was six years younger than me, yet her maturity and qualifications were outstanding. And she’d been smart enough to choose her career from an early age.

Eight years ago, I’d been given a choice too: help the police take down my boyfriend, Axel Mullins, who was the president of the Jinx motorcycle gang, or go to jail for a very long time.

My choice made me a lot of enemies, but I could live with that.

I marched along the weathered timber boardwalk toward the road that ran from the water’s edge to the top of the hill. According to the most recent census, just seventy-six people, housed in twenty-seven homes, were on Amber Island which was accessible only by boat. The woman I was visiting had been born on this island, inherited the home from her parents, and had never lived anywhere else.

Halfway up the hill, I removed my sunglasses, slotted them next to my loaded Glock 43X pistol in the crossbody bag at my hip, and zipped the bag back up. Unlike the weapons I used in my stupid years in the bikie gang, this weapon fit nicely in my hand, and it was legal.

I pushed through a creaking gate and strode along the stone path flanked with pretty flowers. Before I knocked on the door, it opened and a woman who looked like she’d lived through decades of grieving twisted her hands together.

“Are you the police officer?”

I received this look of confusion often. I appeared younger than thirty-one and dressed in jeans and my pale pink shirt with white buttons, my casual outfit made me look like I was out for Sunday lunch rather than serious police business.

I offered a sympathetic smile. “Hello, Carol. Yes, I’m Lacey Brooks. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

“Come in.” Carol waved me into her home and shut the door behind her. “This way. ”

She shuffled ahead of me with a prominent limp, and we crossed a hallway lined with dozens of mismatched frames displaying happy times.

At a sofa that faced a large deck with sweeping views of the ocean, she indicated for me to take a seat. “Would you like coffee? Tea?”

“Just a glass of water, please.” I sat, and as I waited for Carol to return to the room, my stomach churned. This was the part of my police career that I disliked the most: visiting distraught loved ones who desperately wanted answers . . . answers that I didn’t have.

Carol placed a glass of water on the table in front of me, and she sat in the next chair, nursing a coffee mug, which, based on the potent aroma emanating from the cup, contained rum, rather than coffee.

“Do you have some news for me about Gordon?” As she drank, her glossy eyes pleaded with mine.

I nodded, and her trembling hand went to her mouth.

“A boat has been found that we believe belonged to Gordon.” I slipped a photo from the side zipper of my bag and handed it to her.

She gasped.

“Yes, that’s Gordon’s boat.” Her voice quivered. “Where did you find it?”

“It was found on Keyhole Island.”

She frowned. “That’s a deserted island.”

“Yes, about sixty miles away.”

Her chin dimpled. “And was . . .? Did you . . .?”

Anticipating what she was trying to say, I said, “We didn’t find Gordon.”

Her face crumbled and she sucked in a huge breath, fighting her emotions.

Gordon Sommers had left to go fishing by himself four months ago on a perfect summer day, but he had never come home. It had been assumed that Gordon had suffered a tragic boating accident.

However, I’d been working on a different theory. A month ago, Indiana Smith, a salvage expert, and my co-worker, Detective Tyler Kingsley, found a seaplane wreck on the bottom of the ocean. The unidentified man in the pilot seat had been shot and the person who shot him also remained a mystery.

Based on forensic testing on the sunken seaplane, it crashed about four months ago, which was around the same time Carol’s husband went missing. And that was a coincidence that deserved investigating.

My theory was that the pilot’s murderer survived the plane crash and that Carol’s poor fisherman husband was in the wrong place at the wrong time and became the next victim.

“On the day Gordon went missing, do you know where he planned to go fishing?”

Nursing the cup in her lap, she huffed. “He never told me. I don’t think he knew himself half the time. He just went wherever the wind or currents took him.”

I had read the previous police interview about Gordon’s disappearance where she’d said the same.

“How well did Gordon know these waters?”

“He spent nearly every day of his life out there.” She swept her hand toward the view. “He knew that ocean better than he knew our kitchen. There is no way Gordon had a silly accident like everyone is saying. No way.”

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’m working on a theory that I unfortunately can’t—” A buzzing noise pierced the silence, and as I searched across the deck for the source of the noise, a drone lowered into my view.

“What the—” I jumped up and raced onto the deck.

The drone hovered at eye level for one heartbeat before it shot into the air and vanished over Carol’s roof.

“That bastard is always spying on us.” Carol stepped to my side.

“Who?”

“The creep at the top of the hill. I’ve reported him to the police many times, but they don’t care.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s an asshole.” She shrugged. “Sorry. Nobody knows his name. He’s been living in that eyesore he built at the top of the hill for about eight years, but I don’t know a single person on this island who has met the weirdo.”

Weirdo?

“What do you know about him?” I asked .

“Only that the bastard spies on us, and he never answers his door.” She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Gordon and I tried many times.”

When Indiana and Kingsley had found that seaplane wreck, they’d been lucky to survive a drone attack that sunk Indiana’s boat. This drone was another coincidence I couldn’t ignore.

I rested my hand on Carol’s bony shoulder. “I’m going to talk to him. I’ll come back and see you once I’m done.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good luck.”

As I charged up the steep hill, I pulled my phone from my bag to call my captain about the drone, but I had no signal. No wonder most of the houses I passed had massive antennas on their roof.

The road ended at a turnaround at the top of the hill and only one driveway fed off that asphalt circle. At the entrance to the driveway stood a set of massive wrought iron gates topped with sharpened spears, like tribal warriors would use. Stretching left and right from the gates was an eight-foot-high brick fence with razor wire along the top.

The rich weirdo has some serious security here.

I pressed the intercom button at the side of the gate and showed my police badge at the black dome I assumed was a camera. As I waited for a response, I checked my phone again. Still no signal.

“Hello.” The man’s voice sounded much friendlier than I’d anticipated.

“Hello, I’m Detective Brooks from Rosebud Police Station. May I come in, please? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll wait here for my colleagues to join me with a search warrant.” If he didn’t let me in, that was exactly what I would do.

I peered up at the dome, certain someone was watching me.

The gate unclicked and made a whirring noise as it slid aside.

As I strode up the path running parallel to the tree-lined driveway, cameras nestled amongst the foliage moved to follow my trek. The gate rolled back into position behind me and clicked closed. Stifling air was trapped in the foliage, and I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

Why the hell does this man need so much security?

I checked my phone again, no signal.

Shit. I’m flying solo here. Maybe I should leave and return with Kinglsey and a warrant .

Then again, maybe this wealthy yet paranoid weirdo just valued his privacy.

The path departed the driveway, and I climbed a set of stone steps flanked by lush bushes and fancy lanterns that looked like gaslights from the 1900s.

The top of the path met with a large stone platform and a set of massive wooden doors that probably needed a crane to lift into position. As I waited for the doors to open, I searched thick bushes that blocked out both the road I’d taken up here and the ocean view and found two more discretely hidden cameras.

Faint sounds of several locks clicked, the door eased open, and I was greeted by one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in person. He wore a white business shirt that was unbuttoned, revealing a defined torso that took my breath away. He smiled like he’d caught me perving, and I wanted to slap myself.

“Hello. I’m Detective Brooks.”

I didn’t know where to look: his stunning chocolate eyes, his exquisite body, his gorgeous smile.

“Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m running late for an appointment, but come in.” He strolled away, giving me no choice but to follow him. His emerald-colored business pants fit his butt so well, I decided they were custom-made. He wore no shoes, and he crossed the slate floor with the agility of a man who did yoga every day.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said as I slipped my badge back into my bag.

“That’s because I didn’t tell you.” He shot his gaze at me over his shoulder. “I’m Grant Hughes.”

I frowned. Is that his real name?

“I know what you’re thinking. Sounds like Hugh Grant, right? My mother’s sense of humor was as warped as her infatuation with the English actor. I should have changed my name a long time ago before it became too hard.” He laughed and seemed so relaxed.

Despite his pleasantness and invitation into his home, there was something about him that gave me the creeps.

He led me to a massive living room past an opulent marble fireplace with a large oil painting on the wall above the mantle. The hairs on my neck bristled. The art was either an exquisite replica of the original Monet painting that I’d seen on Chui’s yacht that was ruined when the vessel sank or this painting was from the same series by the famous artist. If the latter was true, then the floral garden artwork was worth a fortune.

Hughes strolled across the slate floor, passing two seating areas, a set of caramel-colored leather sofas facing the fire, and eight individual chairs flanked by two walls adorned with dozens of fancy bottles of alcohol.

He stopped at a third seating area which was positioned to take in an uninterrupted view of the ocean. The sweeping panorama from the top of the hill was breathtaking.

He indicated for me to sit. “I would offer you a drink, but I really must . . .”

As I sat, he glanced at his watch.

Is that a real Rolex?

“That’s okay,” I said. “I just need to ask a few questions, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“How can I help you, officer?” Remaining standing, he loomed over me.

I was only five feet, four inches tall, so I was used to that. It didn’t help that he’d asked me to sit, though.

As he buttoned up his shirt, his gaze raked over my features as if he were memorizing my face. Which wasn’t necessary, given the number of cameras that had recorded my arrival.

“I’m investigating the disappearance of one of your neighbors, Gordon Sommers. Did you know him?”

He shook his head before I’d finished my sentence. “No, can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“His wife told me that they have tried to visit you a few times. Is there a reason why you wouldn’t see them?”

He laughed and a flicker of unease crossed his features before he masked it.

“You wouldn’t believe the amount of people who arrive unannounced at my gate.” He smirked with a twisted expression that sent chills down my spine. “Someone is always wanting something from me. Usually money.”

His gaze fell on the tattoo on my wrist, and I rolled my arm over, hiding the promise I’d made myself away from him.

Numerous statues and pieces of art were dotted around the room. I’d visited many luxury homes, but this guy was loaded. Where did he get his wealth from?

“It seems like you have done very well for yourself,” I said.

He tucked his shirt into his pants. “Is that a question?”

“What do you do for a living?”

He shrugged. “This and that.”

I glared at him. “That’s a bit vague.”

“I don’t understand what my career has to do with the disappearance of the fisherman?”

Dread inched up my spine. “I didn’t say he was a fisherman.”

He half chuckled. “I took a guess. It’s what most of the residents of this island do.”

“I thought you didn’t talk to your neighbors.”

“I don’t.”

I shifted forward in my seat, ready to stand. “Is that why you spy on them with your drone?”

He checked his watch again. “Well, I really must get ready for this meeting, so . . .”

I stood and he stepped back, waving for me to go ahead of him.

As I walked in front of him, I committed the opulent furnishings to my memory. On one of the shelves containing an extensive alcohol collection, a golden statue of a scorpion carried a bottle of wine between its tail and claw. My mind raced. Chui’s drug empire was Scorpion Industries. That’s a weird coincidence.

Between the drink cabinets was a series of famed pictures. One held a certificate for a Bachelor of Business in Accounting. I peered at it, trying to read more information.

Could he be Chui’s accountant?

My breath hitched. It would explain why this guy was loaded.

His arm thrust around my neck. “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

My feet left the floor and as I clawed at his arm around my neck, I tried to scream. He dragged me backward. I elbowed him in the ribs and kicked my heels into his knees.

“Fuck!” he hissed in my ear.

Fighting for breath, I jabbed my right hand over my shoulder, aiming my thumbnail at his eyeball.

He lifted me higher, his grip tightening around my neck .

With my vision blurring, I jerked my head back, connecting with his nose in a sickening crunch.

He staggered backward and when his grip loosened, I twisted my head and sunk my teeth into his forearm.

Howling, he released me.

Gasping for air, I faced him head-on and fumbled for my bag which had twisted around to my back.

He charged at me, and sidestepping his attack, I punched his temple. Roaring with rage, he swung his fists wildly and connected with my cheek. Wincing, I dodged sideways, desperate to stay one step ahead of him.

Grant wiped blood from his nose and his stunning blue eyes grew dark with fury. “You stupid bitch.” He lunged at me again.

I ducked out of his way and punched his side, aiming for his kidney. It was like punching a brick wall.

Growling, I kicked the side of his knee.

He staggered sideways, pushed off the sofa arm, and raised his fist at me. Blood oozed down his chin. “You bitch!” Lowering his shoulder, he lunged at me again.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins, but I wasn’t quick enough to dodge his attack. He punched my jaw, sending me sprawling, and I crashed onto a coffee table and hit the floor. Two of my fingers bent at shocking angles. I shrieked as pain ripped across my right hand.

Oh fuck! He broke my fingers.

My heart pounded against my chest and my bruised ribs protested with every labored breath. As the metallic tang of blood flooded my mouth, I wrestled to get my bag to my front, but my fingers fumbled with the zipper.

He tried to kick me, but I rolled away from his blow. Scrambling to my feet, I dodged his punch and then rammed my fist into his stomach.

Grunting, he buckled over. I grabbed a black and gold vase and smashed it over his head. Shards of porcelain flew through the air as Grant stumbled backward.

I gripped a shard of the broken vase to use as a weapon. As he lunged toward me, I slashed his arm and kicked his thigh.

He fell onto his hands and knees. “Fuck.”

“Grant Hughes,” I said, panting. “I’m arresting you under suspicion of murder and corruption and?— ”

Roaring like a trapped animal, he jumped to his feet and charged at me like a raging bull.

I kicked his groin.

He buckled forward, but swung his fist, connecting with my jaw.

My head snapped sideways. I gasped at the pain, tears stinging my eyes.

His face twisted in fury, and he shoved me hard. I tumbled sideways and tripped over a knee-high elephant statue. The elephant tusk tore through my jeans and took a gash out of my calf. I cried out as searing, hot pain scraped up my leg. Agony radiated through my body as I hauled myself to my feet. I spun around with my fists raised, expecting to be attacked.

Grant was halfway across the room, sprinting away like a desperate criminal.

“Fuck!” I gritted my teeth against the pain and chased after him. But the agony blazing up my leg hampered my chase.

“You’ll never get away, Hughes,” I yelled across the room.

Grant reached the wall of alcohol and paused.

A secret door opened, and he stepped through. The door closed behind him and seemed to vanish as it blended in with the shelving around it.

I sprinted across the room and at the wall of alcohol, I tried to find the opening mechanism. But there was nothing obvious. I yanked bottles off the shelf, smashing them to the floor as I searched for a button, or lever, but I couldn’t figure it out.

“Son of a bitch!” He’s getting away.