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  Even given her youth and past training, she felt stiff, stealthily getting out of the car and slipping into the wake of the other two.

  Their journey back downtown took a different route than earlier, to a degree that Sam began doubting that Arlo’s was their destination. In the end, however, keeping to darker, less-frequented back streets, the duo ahead of her did indeed end up where she’d thought they would, albeit with one difference: When they stopped, looked around, and finally crouched out of sight in the shadow of a parked van, Doug and the girl were almost at Arlo’s rear service entrance—one street down and around the corner from its Main Street front door.

  The time Sam had noted before now came into play. From her own hiding spot down the street, she noticed that it was exactly at two that the covert couple rose and crossed the sidewalk just as a crack appeared in the store’s doorway, revealing the small, skinny, and previously missing third member of their crew.

  This was without question Sam’s watershed moment. Now, at last, with absolute proof in hand, she should have run to the nearest phone and alerted the police. She knew this. But hubris is not restricted to young males only. And Sammie’s ego was still bruised from that afternoon—especially from the blows delivered by the attitude of the unpleasant Willy Kunkle.

  As a result, she didn’t dash for the phone, but instead moved quickly for the now-closed door, rationalizing that she needed to rule out whether the lock had been activated behind them.

  It hadn’t been. The door opened at her touch. It was all the encouragement she needed. She slipped inside.

  Her education in covert operations kicked in as soon as she’d quietly eased the door shut, freezing her in place and stimulating her to study her surroundings. The first thing she saw, partially explaining why the door had been left unlocked, was a bundle of electrical wires running from the top of the door to a circuit running along the wall. It wasn’t pretty or sophisticated, but the rig had successfully bypassed the building’s alarm system. Not only had Skinny Guy worked some magic from the inside, explaining his earlier vanishing act, but it now seemed clear that the three of them planned this to be their equally quiet way out.

  Hopeful that her targets had gone on ahead, Sam took the risk of firing up a small penlight and, holding it between her teeth, reached high overhead to undo the bypass. Score one point for spontaneity, she thought. Whatever happened to her, word would get out about what was going on in here as soon as the crooks unwittingly tripped the alarm.

  Slightly bolstered by that notion, she moved on, down a dimly lit hallway to the bottom of a metal stairway. Arlo’s was built on a hill, a standard feature in Brattleboro, with its two commercially active floors just overhead. Down here, Sam could see only storage rooms, shipping areas, and offices.

  Slowly, sensitive to the slightest sound or motion, she moved up, her rubber-soled shoes silent on the metal stairs.

  The lighting overhead cast a minimal glow, presumably just enough to deter thieves, Sammie thought with an inner smile, but also sufficient to help her find her way among and between the racks and aisles of clothes and merchandise.

  She knew where she was going, given the charade she’d witnessed in the jewelry section earlier, but conscious of how paranoid her opposition had to be about being discovered. If she was going to survive this, her wariness had to match their own, at the least.

  She heard them before they came into view, moving about, muttering among themselves, and shifting things around. In addition, as she reached the corner leading into the jewelry section, she saw glimmers flitting across the ceiling, presumably from small flashlights shifting nervously from place to place.

  And then, at last, she saw the three of them, dressed in black, wearing gloves, with hiking lights strapped to their heads like covert miners, and carrying cloth bags half stuffed with objects from two parallel rows of glass display cases. They were moving fast, mostly silently, and looked as if they were almost done.

  That’s when it struck her that—dismantling of the alarm bypass notwithstanding—she had no idea what to do.

  Until she saw a fire pull on the opposite wall, mounted above a fire extinguisher.

  Relieved, she crouched to make the crossing while staying out of sight, when a powerful set of hands suddenly landed on both her shoulders from behind, accompanied by a quiet, familiar voice that whispered, almost conversationally, “Let’s not do that, okay?”

  Finding the grip, along with the man’s tone, more comforting than hostile, she twisted her head to look into the face of a smiling Willy Kunkle. He had appeared from nowhere, without a sound, as quietly as a passing thought.

  At that moment, the world around her transformed with the literal snap of a switch: The lights came on, armed men appeared as if from thin air, and voices began bellowing at the three thieves to show their hands and drop to the floor.

  Stunned, Sammie straightened, recognizing Gunther and DeFlorio among the tactical team, and even their older boss, Frank Murphy, leaning against a wall, still wearing his coat and tie.

  Kunkle gave her shoulder a pat before releasing her. “This what you were hoping for?” he asked.

  She stared at him, stunned. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Chapter 5

  Gunther handed Sam a mug of coffee, stamped BPD, as she sat at the conference table back at the police department. “I can’t swear to its quality. I put too much cream and maple syrup in mine to know,” he said.

  She took a sip and thought he might have been well served by his taste for adulterants.

  “You okay?” he asked, settling in across from her.

  “Physically?” she asked. “Sure. As for the rest, not so good.”

  “You think we should’ve told you?”

  She paused to consider that and had to answer honestly. “It might’ve been nice, but I know why you didn’t. I wouldn’t have in your place, I guess.”

  “That’s very generous,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Did I at least tip you off, that Doug was dirty?” she asked him. “Or was I a total bystander, just in the way?”

  Typical of the man, Joe’s response was diplomatic. “No, no. You just gave us a little extra to figure out—upped the challenge some.”

  “No shit,” said Willy Kunkle, entering with his own cup, and sitting down. “You coming home earlier than planned screwed us up something royal.”

  Sam stared at him, for once ignoring his manner in favor of his message. “You knew when I was supposed to get here? Nobody knew that.” She paused to reflect on the accuracy of that and added, “Except my mom.”

  Joe and Willy exchanged glances, which prompted the lieutenant to rise, cross to the door, and beckon to someone out of sight, saying, “You better come in here.”

  The man who entered next was Doug Hammond. He had a badge clipped to his belt and was wearing a gun and a smile.

  He extended his hand out to her for a shake. “Tom Franklin,” he said. “U.S. Treasury.”

  Sam stared at them all, her mouth half open.

  “This has been Tom’s deal from the start,” Joe explained. “The one you call Skinny Guy is actually Mel Neary, and his girlfriend’s Tammy Wilson. Treasury’s been after them across the entire Northeast, for reasons I won’t bore you with, and heard through a source that, as ironies would have it, they were running low on cash, despite the fact that they print the stuff.”

  “Sometimes,” Franklin explained, “the best way to nail a bad guy is to hit him from where he doesn’t expect. These two were looking for a little fast cash to tide them over, and I took advantage of that in about three days, total. That’s why your appearance almost messed us up. We hadn’t planned on it.”

  “But my mom,” Sammie protested. “The robbery.”

  Franklin laughed. “Yeah, sorry. That’s what I mean. We had to improvise. She’s at a safe house, not jail.”

  Willy, of course, had to bring the mood down to his comfort level. “Don’t think she turned into a Junior G-Ma
n, though. We were the ones who put Tom together with her. We’d caught her earlier carrying some dope and she was looking for a deal. It was either play with us or get locked up. Just sayin’.”

  “Thank you for that, Willy,” Joe said quietly.

  Kunkle shrugged, looking straight at Sam. “I doubt you’re into fairy tales. This was all probably confusing enough without your thinking old Helen had changed her spots as well. She was game. I’ll give her that, and so are you. But reality is what it is. We never gave her much of a choice.”

  Sam let that soak in, acknowledging its truth. She still may not have improved her opinion about Kunkle, but she did have to give him marks for honesty.

  “So she’s not in jail,” she said, seeking reconfirmation.

  “No,” Joe answered her directly.

  “Nor are you,” Willy added, “despite impeding an investigation, illegal entering, impersonating an officer, theft of personal property, if we count that videotape, and whatever else we could cook up, if so inclined.”

  Sam stared at him balefully, without comment.

  Willy then removed some of the sting from his words by smiling broadly and commenting, “You showed a lot of moxie.”

  Joe following that up with, “You told me when we first met that you were looking for a job. You have anything in mind?”

  Sam hesitated a moment, still reeling slightly. “Not really. I figured I’d just take something and then spend some time looking around. Get used to the place again.”

  Joe tilted his head toward Willy. “He’s not easily impressed. Nor am I. How ’bout you come work for us?”

  Sammie sat back in her chair. “Tell me more,” she said, feeling for the first time since her return the sense of worth she’d been seeking.

  Read on for a preview of Bomber’s Moon

  Coming in September 2019

  Copyright 2019

  BOMBER’S MOON

  CHAPTER 1

  It was cold, dark, and slightly breezy, causing a few dry snowflakes to scurry the length of Sally Kravitz’s windshield. Across the street from her parked car was an example of some urban set designer’s fantasy. Soaked in muted, indirect mood lighting, and displayed, as on a theater stage, behind two enormous plate-glass windows was an awkwardly arranged tableau of British pub, Old West watering hole, and Yuppie fern brew bar. The building housing it had been built long ago as a car dealership, however, and its windows intended not for picturesque intimacy, but to allow a full view of chrome-glazed behemoths within.

  Sally shifted in her seat and adjusted her wool scarf, at once envying the contented patrons enjoying the warmth of a movie prop–perfect castiron stove, while sensitive to how it must feel to have those two huge sheets of black glass reflecting back at them, ironically forbidding any view of the outdoors, or, indeed, of her looking in.

  She wasn’t watching all of them, of course. Only Tom Morris, suspected of philandering by his wife—who’d hired Sally to “catch him in the act,” as she’d quaintly put it.

  That wasn’t happening right now, however. Tom Morris was eating nuts at the bar, chatting with a male neighbor, and drinking a craft beer.

  Sally gently let out a puff of air, away from the windshield, so as not to fog it up. There were private investigators who liked surveillance jobs—preferred them, in fact. She wasn’t among them. But the wife in this situation was the mother of a friend, and from what Sally had been told, Tom—already an interloper because of being the stepfather—also wasn’t deemed very smart, and therefore was expected to misstep sooner than later, thereby ending Sally’s obligation.

  She leveled her long-lens camera and took a picture of Tom and his companion, to have the latter on record. She’d been a PI for a few years only, but she already knew the value of keeping an open mind and collecting more than she might need. It was often the small, unexpected details that shifted the scales in a case’s favor.

  While it didn’t apply to her, a large number of private eyes were retired police, given by their training to closing cases quickly, and with a prosecutorial outlook. Sally didn’t fault their past training under demanding bosses, in dangerous work environments, and at low wages for creating a certain narrow-minded efficiency.

  But she’d developed a different style. To be fair, she’d never routinely been in harm’s way as had so many ex-cops. When things got dangerous for her, as they did occasionally, she could always take off. The freedom accompanying that option had encouraged a corresponding ability to frequently reflect and weigh her choices before acting.

  Like now, watching Tom. He’d told his wife he’d be late getting home, as he’d be tied up in meetings. That much was a lie, although seemingly an innocent one, but where, to another investigator, the reason behind it might have suggested a quick drink before heading home, Sally held off jumping to that conclusion and stayed put, biding her time. Life had taught her early and often to be skeptical, if not cynical—a lesson too often refreshed by reality.

  As if on cue, the source of her interest let out one last silent burst of laughter, drained his glass, and stood. He gave his drinking buddy a half-dismissive wave, laid his money on the bar, and headed for the door, donning his coat as he went.

  Sally pursed her lips, her meditations interrupted by a sudden, if elusive, notion, like a tune just beyond memory’s recall. On the strength of it, the benign appearance of Mr. Morris’s chosen activity—and that he’d lied about it—expanded in Sally’s mind to something beyond a simple desire for some moments out on the town alone.

  In the best of fictional private eye scenarios, given the hour, the snow, and the darkness, here is when some bit of action would have kicked in as Tom stepped outside—perhaps a kidnapping, a drive-by, or a long-anticipated clandestine meeting.

  But this was Wilmington, Vermont, a tourist crossroads west of Brattleboro, south of several nearby ski resorts. It was a cluster of shops, restaurants, bars, and stores, heavily catering to flatlander travelers driving hormonal SUVs with sticker prices equaling those of many outlying local homes.

  It was no place to encourage visions of The Third Man or an Alfred Hitchcock thriller.

  Suitably, therefore, Tom Morris buttoned his designer-labeled coat across an increasingly expanding belly, pulled up his collar, and strolled along the sidewalk to the parking lot on Sally’s side of the street. It was located behind her, which now made her position unwieldy, possibly requiring a U-turn. But she waited, studying her rearview mirror, trusting in her initial choice. Tom lived and worked in Brattleboro, and the shortest route there lay directly ahead, under the glaring red traffic light.

  Sure enough, he fired up a BMW X5, ignited its blinding xenon headlights, and pulled past Sally’s purposefully nondescript old Subaru to stop at the intersection, his blinker indicating an intended left-hand turn.

  Sally waited until she knew he’d be checking both directions as he pulled forward, before mimicking his motions unnoticed, and pulling into the road behind him.

  From then on, it was smooth going, traveling Route 9 east, toward Bratt, as most locals called it, just two cars among a smattering of others.

  Sally was happier being in motion. She was, if not a restless sort, certainly more given to action than to comforting predictability—or sitting for hours in a car. From youth, she’d been honed to this by a deeply eccentric single father, whom she only ever called Dan, and who had a habit of breaking into high-end homes so he could absorb the illicit high, eat a small stolen snack, and slip away—after also tapping their electronic devices. Like a mountain climber leaving only footprints behind, he was happy to have met and conquered another challenge.

  The fact that it was illegal, dangerous, and fundamentally weird had never seemed to weigh on him.

  During daylight hours, Dan held off-the-radar, menial jobs, not for the negligible money, but to study the world around him, like a field anthropologist. His break-ins supplied him with access to information, rather than three-dimensional goods. He’d told Sally
that her blue-blood education had been funded this way—investing in stocks using insider knowledge—but she suspected something a little less harmless might have also played a role. He’d certainly built a very sophisticated computerized databank, filled with personal details far beyond a few good stock tips. And all of it was dynamic and self-perpetuating, since the ‘ears and eyes’ viruses he’d installed on all those phones and computers allowed him to see and hear what was going on within them, as well as inside every device they subsequently contacted. If one of his victims texted or emailed somebody, the virus accompanied it, creating a new listening post for Dan. Over time, he had become a small-town, one-man National Security Agency.

  It stood to reason that Dan had eventually begun training Sally in his tradecraft, if not his use of its results, bringing her along on some of his break-ins. And she’d enjoyed it, until the inevitable, near-lethal mishap, involving the wrong sort of people.

  Everyone had survived that historic near miss, but Sally had taken its lesson to heart, and, to his credit, Dan had respected her decision to leave him to his own activities—to the point where they never even discussed them anymore. Dan, in fact, had helped in this self-effacement by stopping a peculiar trademark habit he’d practiced: In addition to eating something at every home he entered, he would leave a Post-it note greeting beside one of its sleeping occupants, a signature that had quickly earned him the nickname “Tag Man.”

  This he had stopped, either because he no longer practiced his “entries,” as he called them—which Sally doubted—or out of respect for her.

  Nevertheless, some of his inner drive must have worked its way into her soul. Which was in part why she’d ended up as a PI. It had been seductive, dropping into other people’s lives. In an unusual mirroring of an actor’s thirst for the identity of others, Sally had opted to observe people almost invisibly—to watch, listen, document, and learn from them. Either supportively, as when employed by a defense attorney to mitigate the prosecution’s slanted portrait of an accused, or in opposition, as now, when a betrayed wife needed to cut her losses without sacrificing her rights to the silverware and a decent alimony.