The Evasion Read online

  “Aside from that knife sticking out of you?”

  “Don’t get dramatic on me.”

  He stopped mid-crunch, gawked at her and went back to burning through his anger. “Maybe someone needs to get dramatic. In a few hours, we pay Ellie another visit.”

  “The sheriff said he’d talk to her.”

  “Great. Then we both can. Either way, Ellie will tell us who her supplier is.”

  Jo propped her head on her hand and the sheet slid off her bare shoulder. “You think Ellie is involved in the knife thing?”

  “Don’t know. We’ll find out.”

  “How long are you going to be killing yourself here?”

  He glanced up at her as he crunched. “As long as it takes for me to not feel homicidal.”

  “Ooh, given your foul mood that might be a while. I’m going back to sleep. Unless there’s anything I can do for you.”

  Ha. Sex with Jo didn’t take a lot of convincing. “Twenty more crunches. I’ll need a shower. We always have fun in the shower.”

  She grinned at him, all sly and wicked and so completely Jo. If he hadn’t known it before, he definitely knew now—he wanted to marry this woman. She’d put him in an early grave, but he’d enjoy the ride while he could.

  —:—

  “Morning, Ellie,” Gabe said, striding through the door to the shop.

  Jo latched onto one of his back belt loops and tugged. “Take it easy, sergeant.”

  Ellie glanced up from whatever she was doing behind the register. “Well, good morning folks. How are y’all today?”

  “We’re doing great,” Gabe said. “Well, maybe not great considering we had a package waiting in our hotel room last night.”

  “Gabe,” Jo said.

  “A package?”

  “Yeah. A Barelli purse. A fake one.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  For God’s sake. What was he doing? Jo eased forward, hoping Gabe would take the hint and shut up. “Ellie, has the sheriff contacted you this morning?”

  “No. Why would the sheriff contact me?”

  Jo took a business card out of her purse. If she could keep the madman next to her at bay, she might have a shot at convincing Ellie to tell them where her supplier stored their stock. “My name is Joanna Pomeroy, I’m an attorney from New York. One of my clients is Barelli Incorporated.”

  Ellie took the business card, ran her fingers over the gold embossed letters. “Oh.”

  “I’m an intellectual property attorney. I help crack down on the sale of counterfeit items.”

  “Oh,” Ellie said again, but this time that oh was packed with a whole lot of understanding. Yes, Miss Ellie, you are running illegal items through your shop.

  Jo held her hand to Gabe. “This is Sergeant Townsend. He’s from the New York City Police Department. He’s part of the Clean Sweep task force. We’re here looking for a Donald Martinson. He allegedly runs a multi-million dollar counterfeiting operation and he’s wanted for questioning in New York.”

  “Yeah,” Gabe said. “He also allegedly conspired to kill two women by locking them in a burning building.”

  “Oh, my God!” Ellie said.

  Jo shot Gabe a look and he shrugged. “Them’s the facts, ma’am.”

  “Ellie,” Jo said, “Sergeant Townsend and I received a tip that Donald Martinson is in the area. The package that was left for us at the hotel last night, in our experienced opinion, confirms he’s here. Now we have to find him. Can you help us with that?”

  If any of what Jo said had registered in Ellie’s apparently frying mind was anyone’s guess. The woman’s partially open mouth and rapid, shallow breathing definitely indicated a level of nervousness.

  Beside Jo, Gabe tapped his fingers against his legs, that limitless, primal energy filling the empty shop. He’s going to snap. Almost a year of working with him taught her the warning signs. The stiff posture, the focused intensity. When Gabe took over a situation his already large body expanded, his presence saturating the room.

  “Ellie,” he said. Here we go. “You are going to be arrested for selling counterfeit merchandise because the bag you sold us yesterday is most definitely counterfeit. So, right off the bat, we’re talking conspiracy and trafficking charges. The conspiracy charge will get you a max of five years in prison. The trafficking? For each count, that’s somewhere around ten years. Then there’s the fine you’ll get. That could be in the millions.” He turned to Jo. “Am I right, Counselor?”

  Jo stayed silent. No sense interrupting when he was on a roll. Seriously, she could bludgeon him right now. She’d been doing fine easing Ellie into talking to them and then—wham!—Mr. August throws his mighty weight around.

  “Last guy we busted got 40 years,” he said to Ellie. “You up for that?” Poor Ellie’s face stretched long, the color fading to a putrid green. “Or—and I think you’re gonna like this option—you can be a cooperating witness and never see the inside of a cell.”

  “C-c-cooperating witness?”

  Jo crowded closer to the desk, sending Gabe the definite message that he should back off. “Yes. If you agree to provide information about the counterfeit goods we can help you stay out of prison.”

  “I have young kids. A husband. I didn’t know I was breaking the law.”

  “Copyright infringement,” Jo said.

  “I didn’t know. I swear.”

  With all the cases Jo had dealt with, she didn’t doubt Ellie didn’t fully grasp her crime. Most people who sold counterfeit goods didn’t understand copyright infringement. Or that they were literally taking money from companies that paid enormous amounts to build their brands.

  “Can you help us, Ellie?”

  She bobbed her head. Three times. “He’s new to the area. He came in about a month ago and showed me samples. He’s also working with some of the vendors at the outdoor market on Sundays. He sells me the bags wholesale and I mark them up by fifty percent. They’ve been selling like crazy.”

  Of course they have. “I’m sure. How much inventory are you carrying?”

  “I’m fresh out. You bought the last bag. I’ve been calling for three days begging for more. They told me I’d get more on Friday.”

  Friday. And today was Wednesday. Which meant Martinson was getting a shipment sometime this week.

  Jo slid Martinson’s picture from her purse. “Is this the man?”

  “Yes. That’s him.”

  The bells on the shop door jangled. Jo and Gabe turned to see the sheriff looming in the doorway, his lips puckered, his nostrils as wide as his big chest that rose and fell. A bull on the attack.

  Oops.

  “Sheriff,” Ellie squealed. “I swear I didn’t know.”

  The sheriff patted the air. “Now, now, now. You just settle down.” He swung a vicious glare at Gabe and Jo. “Did I not make myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” Gabe said. “Except, Ms. Pomeroy received a gift at the hotel last night. And it wasn’t what I’d call a nice one. You’d know that if you answered our call.”

  “What gift?”

  “We’ll bring it down to your office, let you see it. Your crime scene people can check for prints.”

  “Boy, what are you talking about?”

  Oh, jeez. Calling Gabe boy would likely send Mr. August into overload. He’d need another hundred push-ups after this. He stepped forward, his long body a head taller than the sheriff’s.

  Make it two hundred push-ups.

  “Sheriff, I’m playing nice here. I really am. You are harboring a fugitive. A man wanted for not only trafficking counterfeit goods, but more importantly, conspiracy to commit murder. Now, you will either help us or I get on the phone with the mayor of New York and tell him we’ve found our guy but the local sheriff isn’t cooperating. I’ll tell him we need the FBI and maybe the Department of Justice. They’re not particularly fond of counterfeiters.”

  And, wow, Jo loved this man. He might have driven her crazy with Ellie, but the way he handled this s
heriff? Poetry.

  At the mention of the Justice Department, the sheriff straightened. “Don’t go gettin’ above your raising. We don’t need any feds. I can take care of this. I don’t have crime scene techs here. We use the regional lab.”

  “Fine.” Gabe said. “You tell me where it is, and I’ll deliver the items to them. Because, no offense, Sheriff, I don’t trust anything about this town.”

  —:—

  Driving to the Gilfroy Laboratory hadn’t been on the daily to-do list, but Jo couldn’t blame Gabe for wanting to hand-deliver their evidence. With the sheriff’s permission of course. Even if it did take a wee bit of strong-arming.

  One thing about her man, when he wanted something, he found a way to make it happen.

  After dropping off their bag of evidence, Jo stepped out of the lab’s front door into the afternoon sunshine and glanced at Gabe holding the door for her. “I have a plan.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Hardy, har, sergeant.”

  He smiled at her in that way that made the crappiest of crappy days instantly transform to something light, fun and worthwhile. Crazy in love with this man. “First, I’m starving. The prints will take a while, so let’s eat lunch.”

  “That idea I can get behind.”

  As they walked, she held up two fingers. “Second, if Martinson told Ellie she’d have new stock by the end of the week, he must have a shipment coming in either today or tomorrow.”

  “A safe assumption.”

  “If he has a shipment coming in, how’s that shipment getting here? We know from his activities in New York that he brought items into the States via container ship. Stands to reason that he’s down here, conveniently twenty-ish miles from the Charleston Port Authority—one of the largest ports in the country—to expand his criminal empire.”

  They reached the rental car and Gabe leaned on it. “If I know you, you want to talk to someone at the Port Authority.”

  Jo batted her eyes. “Am I so predictable?”

  Laughing at her, he drew his phone from his pocket and scrolled his contacts. “This is one for Bev. She’ll throw the mayor’s name around and get us someone to talk to. Then we eat.”

  Lunch on the run and a schlep across two huge counties brought them to the Charleston Port Authority where Bev, the make-things-happen queen, had found them a Customs and Border Patrol inspector to speak to.

  Gabe parked the car and turned to Jo. “All we have is TBR Industries? No other name?”

  “Not unless we can somehow tie Martinson or his list of family members to something.”

  “Doubtful. After we busted his New York operation, he’s probably not shipping this stuff in under TBR. He’s flying under the radar.”

  Jo thought about it a second. Think like him. How would Martinson do this? He’d use a new company name for sure. Something not flagged in the system. And what about the sender? He’d need a new one. But he’d still be using the same supplier for the counterfeit merchandise. They’d most likely have a different name to avoid discovery.

  “Jo?”

  She squinted at Gabe. Reviewed the angles in her mind.

  He sighed. “I hate that look. That look is always trouble.”

  “Not this time. We need to have the Port Authority look at any shipments coming from the same general region as Martinson’s other shipments. Also which shipping companies he uses. He may not have changed suppliers, but he wouldn’t risk them using the same name as last time. If I were a betting woman, I’d say same supplier, different name and same shipping companies.”

  Gabe whistled. “Good work, Counselor. They’d have to crosscheck any cargo from shipping companies Martinson has used in the past. If he uses big companies—that could be a lot of shipments.”

  “But it’s worth a try, right?”

  He pushed open the car door and slid out. “It’s all we’ve got. Let’s hope he’s using a shipping company that’s not so popular.”

  Chapter Six

  Forty-five minutes later, after leaving all pertinent—and some not so pertinent—information about Donald Martinson’s prior activities with the CBP inspector, Jo and Gabe were back at their rental car. Gabe glanced up at a clear blue sky and decided he’d like to find a place along the harbor where he and Jo could be still. Have a drink—him a beer, she a dirty martini—and just be a regular couple. Which they weren’t. Not in the sense he wanted them to be.

  The short of it? He didn’t like sneaking around at home.

  Next to him, Jo tugged on his shirt to get his attention. “With all the information I gave them, I should have just left my laptop.”

  “Please. That poor schmo was already crapping his pants with the info dump you left him. The laptop would have meant psychiatric care.”

  After said crapping, the inspector assured them he’d have answers in the next couple of hours. He’d also warned them that if Martinson had a shipment coming in using alternate names and shipping companies, they’d be trying to find a needle in a haystack.

  Gabe didn’t give a shit. He’d risk it. Hell, he’d search those containers himself if he had to.

  “Where to now?” she asked. “Sooner or later, the sheriff is bound to hear about our excursion to the Port Authority. Well, I did tell him we had an appointment there.”

  Gabe’s stomach pinched. If this went bust, Tom would chew him up. Sanctions would be sure to follow.

  If it went bust.

  Which meant he couldn’t let their investigation go bust.

  “We’re back to Ellie. She needs to help us figure out where Martinson is storing his stuff.”

  From Jo’s jacket pocket, her phone rang. She dug it out, glanced at the number. “Ooh. This might be the lab.” She hit the button. “Hello?” She nodded at Gabe. “Right…Really? Can you email it to me? Thank you.”

  She punched off and tapped the phone against her lips.

  “That was a fascinating conversation.”

  “Sorry. Should have put him on speaker. It’s partial good news. The only print that came up in AFIS is that of one Hillary Hodges.”

  “And she’s who?”

  Jo flopped out her bottom lip. “Beats me. She has a rap sheet. Mostly petty crimes. Basically, she’s a grifter. He’s emailing me a report.”

  “Where do we find her?”

  “You’ll love this, Mr. August. Her last known address is in New York.”

  Gabe squeezed his eyes closed. Those hours of sleep he’d lost last night would come in handy now. He shook it off. Caffeine—lots of it—would be his next stop. “So, we’ve got a dead end?”

  “We do. Unless someone in town knows Hillary Hodges. We can show Ellie the photo coming over by email.”

  “And Little Timmy. Maybe the woman who sent you the purse is Hillary, but she’s using Thelma as an alias.”

  Jo smacked him on the arm, the tips of her fingers stinging his bare skin. “Yes! We should start with Timmy. Show him the photo and if he identifies her, you can do your…” she cleared her throat, threw her shoulders back, “…’you-can-go-to-prison-or-be-a-cooperating-witness’ routine.”

  Gabe had to laugh. She did a hell of an impression of him. Never admit it. “I don’t sound like that.”

  She poked him in the arm. “You did this morning, hot shot.”

  A breeze blew in from the harbor sending a few strands of Jo’s hair across her face. He hooked his finger around them, dragged them back the way she liked it. “Hey, I was pissed. We’re down here, supposedly on an assignment that should have kept you out of the action, and on day one, we’re burned. If Bev or Tom knew, they’d order us back to New York. Today. No argument.”

  “I agree. That’s why we’re not telling them. We’re close to this guy. I know it. We just have to keep working.”

  Gabe glanced beyond her to the docks. Sunny day like this, the water would sparkle, reminding him of being a kid and crabbing with his father. He’d hated crabbing back then. Now? He might like to try it again. Might force
him to slow down every now and again. With his job and squeezing in time with Jo, the days ran together.

  Order of the day: work, go to Jo’s, have dinner, shower, collapse in bed, sleep. Next day, same thing. Not that any red-blooded male would consider it a bad routine. Not with Jo anyway. Still, it left him…unsatisfied…somehow cheated.

  “We need to go on a date.”

  She glanced up from studying her phone. Probably waiting for that email. “Pardon?”

  “Us. We need to go on a date. All we do is work, go to your place, eat, have sex and sleep.”

  “Whoa, fella.” She dropped the phone back in her pocket, stepped closer and tugged on his T-shirt. “Is this a complaint or a statement? Because it hasn’t seemed to bother you before.”

  “It’s not a complaint.” He tilted his head, thought about it a second. “Maybe it is. I don’t know. I want more. It would be nice to take a weekend and go somewhere. Take day trips, I don’t know.”

  Jo blinked a couple of times. He’d surprised her. Good. Sometimes she needed surprises.

  “Well, Gabe Townsend, I never figured you for a romantic.”

  “Neither did I. Suddenly, it’s important. I want us to slow down once in a while.

  He ran a finger under her chin, back and forth, back and forth, and those beautiful eyes of hers sparked. Amazing. He dipped his head, kissed her, lingered longer than usual because, hell, they were in public and he didn’t get to do that too often. After a few long seconds, he backed away, dropped another quick kiss on her lips. “I want you to meet my parents.”

  He studied her reaction, took note of the cues, the slightly raised eyebrows and barely puckered lips. “Is that a problem? Considering the whole ‘I love you’ thing?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not a problem at all. Of course, you’ll have to meet my folks too. And you might run screaming from that freak show.”

  Jo’s parents were political consultants. One a democrat and one a republican. He laughed and his body went loose. “I’ll tell them I’m an independent.”

  “For the love of God, don’t say that. They’ll eat you alive.”

  “I have a gun.”

  She snorted. “There is that.”