Yuletide Suspect. Lisa Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ until now—Tate went over to look as well. They glanced at each other, and Tate said, “Russians.”

      “Like the mob?” Liberty asked. “In backwoods Montana?”

      The sheriff stepped back and shrugged. “It happens. Not often, but all kinds of people travel through this town on the way to somewhere. Some of them even like it and stay, and not all are law-abiding citizens.” He glanced at Tate. “I got an update about this missing plane an hour ago. We should talk about it.”

      Tate didn’t like the look on Dane’s face at all. He’d known, and he stood there and let Liberty give her whole speech about him being a criminal.

      “You want to take my badge for being involved, and keep it until I’m out from under suspicion?” The idea of losing the job as well, when he’d already lost so much, sat like a bad burrito in his stomach.

      Liberty gasped. “His badge?”

      He nearly kicked himself for saying it while she was here.

      Dane said, “Tate is a deputy with the county sheriff’s department. He only works shifts occasionally, and I pay him so much less than he’s worth it’s not even funny. But technically he’s an employee. And as a sounding board, he’s been invaluable.”

      Tate shook his head and pulled the badge from his drawer. “More like it’s your attempt to make sure I’m not cooped up here all the time. Like it’s a bad thing.”

      The sheriff shrugged again, pocketed the badge and then took the now-cuffed intruder out to his car where he’d be secure.

      Liberty nodded. “The FBI doesn’t know you’re a deputy sheriff. It will strengthen our argument.”

      Tate said, “We don’t have an argument, Liberty. We don’t have anything. You took care of that.” He saw the blow the words inflicted, but couldn’t let himself care about it. She’d ripped him to shreds when she’d given his ring back and started the cascading fall of his life into this pit. A pit he tried to pretty up, just so he didn’t dwell on the fact that it was kind of pathetic.

      Now the Secret Service was here investigating a missing plane and three people, and they thought he was involved? He needed to get out in front of this, or he could wind up spending the rest of his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

      If he cared enough, he’d ask her about the blog she’d mentioned. But Tate figured he’d find out soon enough. After she left his house.

      He opened the hall closet and started to put his coat on.

      Liberty had followed. “You’re going out now?”

      He looked at her, trying hard to hide everything he was feeling. “Lock the door before you leave.”

      “Where are you even going? You should stay here, help me convince the FBI you had nothing to do with this.”

      “Or I could go and find the plane and those missing people instead.”

      The sheriff walked back in. “If they think you’re involved with this, it’s going to be messy to unravel. But I’ll do what I can. I’ve got your back, Tate. You know that.”

      He held out his hand, and Tate shook it.

      Liberty didn’t wait long before she asked, “Where are you going to look? Do you have an idea of where it might be?”

      “Maybe.” Tate pulled on a pair of gloves. “I know where I’m going to look first, at least.” He turned away from their huddle toward the door. Yeah, this likely wasn’t turning out the way she’d thought it would, but at least if he was gone looking for the plane, then the Secret Service might be convinced he wasn’t involved.

      Dane followed Tate to the door. Liberty walked over, her hand out for the sheriff to shake, but Dane didn’t see it. His attention was on a black duffel leaned against the wall. The sheriff stepped toward the bag. “What is this?”

      They worked out together, and Dane had never seen that bag before...because Tate had never seen that bag before. “It’s not mine.”

      The bag was partially unzipped. The sheriff pulled the zipper back all the way as Liberty moved closer to them. Inside the duffel were bundles of cash secured by rubber bands, and an orange box the size of a lockbox like the one he kept his gun in. The sheriff lifted it out of the bag.

      On the side of the box it said, FLIGHT RECORDER. DO NOT OPEN.

       THREE

      “That’s not mine.” Tate said the words before he’d even thought them through.

      The sheriff glanced over his shoulder at Tate, looking like he wanted to kick him. “Of course I know this isn’t yours, dude. Except now what we have are two Russian intruders—one in my car, one who’s fled—and a bag of money, along with what I’m guessing is the voice recorder for the plane that’s currently missing. Which means any search the FBI has going for this thing—if it’s active—is going to lead them right here. To the home of their lead suspect.”

      Liberty paled. “He’s being framed.”

      Tate almost thought she might have cared for him just then as he studied her face and heard the soft tone of her words. Too bad he knew that wasn’t the case. He didn’t believe she’d come here because of any lingering feelings for him. She probably just wanted to save her reputation at work by convincing everyone she was prepared to do her job and arrest Tate—who was about to be labeled a traitor to his country.

      Liberty looked at him, saw he was staring at her and glanced away.

      “You should get your coat on,” he said. Like he was going to hang around here so she could arrest him? She’d said the Secret Service were on their way. “And you should also switch out your shoes for boots.”

      Tate didn’t wait around for her to comply. He strode to the closet and pulled out another set of gloves that would actually keep her hands warm, along with a hat, and turned back to her in time to see her plant one hand on her hip.

      “What do you mean put my coat on? Why do I need my coat?”

      “Because you’re coming with me.” He put all the outerwear in her hands and then turned to the sheriff. “You’re good, right? I can leave?”

      “Sure,” Dane said with a distinct smirk on his face. “Just keep your phone on you.”

      “Good idea.” Who knew how far away the plane was.

      Tate strode to the kitchen and opened the junk drawer, not worried anyone would be able to use the thing to track him. It was almost useless, capable of making calls and sending texts—not that he ever did—and that was all.

      He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the power button. Hopefully he’d charged it before he turned it off last time. He only kept it with him when he was on shift as a deputy sheriff. There was no signal on this mountain, so there was no point in having it on up here. One of these days he would switch to the carrier that actually got a tiny signal in this area, but he hadn’t done it yet.

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