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Authors: Marliss Melton
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Max's left turn signal blinked on. Bemused, Rebecca let him veer into the Virginia Beach Municipal Center without following him. She continued straight another block, turned left on Nimmo Drive, and backtracked toward the courthouse. But the parking lot stood empty. Where could Max have gone?
The fear of being seen by him had her gripping the steering wheel with damp hands as she drove deeper into the municipal center. At last, her gaze lit upon his Tahoe, parked in the deserted post office lot. And there was Max, hastening for the front doors. She quickly turned the other way to avoid being seen by him.
Why would Max make a trip to the post office on a Sunday, when the service desk was closed? Only the lobby with the automated teller and all the private mail boxes could be accessed on a Sunday. Oh . A sudden suspicion popped into her head.
Was it possible he was using her old mailbox key?
Her thoughts flew in a dozen different directions at once. She hadn't remembered to ask him about it the previous night. Had he renewed her rental without her even knowing? Why would he need another mailbox when he had a permanent address—unless, of course, he got mail he didn't want her knowing about... Just like he didn't want her knowing about his account with Emile Victor DuPonte.
A chill settled over her at the realization that she'd stumbled on yet another secret.
The urge to share it with Bronco rose up in her immediately. She tamped it down as she drove toward her home. Bronco didn't need to be told everything his commander was up to. It would only corrode the fabric of the Team's working relationship, which needed to stay strong in order for the task unit to function optimally.
I'm not going to involve him, she swore to herself. She could investigate this matter personally. If she was lucky, she would find proof that Max was breaking the law, and then she'd be able to leave her marriage in the hopes that he would be convicted.
* * *
Max could feel his designer-label polo shirt sticking to his back as he darted into the post office. Even on a Sunday, when the place was deserted, coming here elevated his pulse, especially since he had started working for the mob. At first, he had kept Rebecca's old post office box in order to monitor her correspondence, making certain she didn't have any old flames he needed to be aware of. Later, it offered a convenient way for him to receive his subscription of Hustler magazine. Now the Scarpas used it to send him information.
They'd identified his first two targets this way. The first time, they'd sent him a copy of a wedding invitation for a wedding taking place at Town Point Park on the Norfolk waterfront the evening of May 23, along with photos of the man they claimed was a snitch. Max had shot him during the outdoor reception, from the vantage of his boat, anchored half a mile off shore, in the Elizabeth River.
For his second victim, they'd sent him a photo of a fat, balding man sunning on the deck of a sailboat. Max had recognized the marina where the sailboat was moored. By water, it wasn't all that far from where he lived. Since his getaway had been so clean the first time, he'd opted to kill his second target the same way, though it had made him nervous to repeat the same strategy.
This time, if he went through with the job, he'd change up his modus operandi . Problem was he might get stuck working for the mob indefinitely. He was beginning to see how they would make it difficult for him to stop, dangling increasingly larger rewards before him. He had caught himself envisioning his second home in Bermuda lately.
Crossing the empty lobby, Max inserted the key at #2850, pulled the little door open and stared in disappointment. The box stood empty. Damn it . Now he would have to return on a weekday and risk running into someone he knew.
Slamming the box shut, he locked it back up and skulked out of the post office.
Chapter 5
Rebecca eyed her old post office box with
The fear of being seen by him had her gripping the steering wheel with damp hands as she drove deeper into the municipal center. At last, her gaze lit upon his Tahoe, parked in the deserted post office lot. And there was Max, hastening for the front doors. She quickly turned the other way to avoid being seen by him.
Why would Max make a trip to the post office on a Sunday, when the service desk was closed? Only the lobby with the automated teller and all the private mail boxes could be accessed on a Sunday. Oh . A sudden suspicion popped into her head.
Was it possible he was using her old mailbox key?
Her thoughts flew in a dozen different directions at once. She hadn't remembered to ask him about it the previous night. Had he renewed her rental without her even knowing? Why would he need another mailbox when he had a permanent address—unless, of course, he got mail he didn't want her knowing about... Just like he didn't want her knowing about his account with Emile Victor DuPonte.
A chill settled over her at the realization that she'd stumbled on yet another secret.
The urge to share it with Bronco rose up in her immediately. She tamped it down as she drove toward her home. Bronco didn't need to be told everything his commander was up to. It would only corrode the fabric of the Team's working relationship, which needed to stay strong in order for the task unit to function optimally.
I'm not going to involve him, she swore to herself. She could investigate this matter personally. If she was lucky, she would find proof that Max was breaking the law, and then she'd be able to leave her marriage in the hopes that he would be convicted.
* * *
Max could feel his designer-label polo shirt sticking to his back as he darted into the post office. Even on a Sunday, when the place was deserted, coming here elevated his pulse, especially since he had started working for the mob. At first, he had kept Rebecca's old post office box in order to monitor her correspondence, making certain she didn't have any old flames he needed to be aware of. Later, it offered a convenient way for him to receive his subscription of Hustler magazine. Now the Scarpas used it to send him information.
They'd identified his first two targets this way. The first time, they'd sent him a copy of a wedding invitation for a wedding taking place at Town Point Park on the Norfolk waterfront the evening of May 23, along with photos of the man they claimed was a snitch. Max had shot him during the outdoor reception, from the vantage of his boat, anchored half a mile off shore, in the Elizabeth River.
For his second victim, they'd sent him a photo of a fat, balding man sunning on the deck of a sailboat. Max had recognized the marina where the sailboat was moored. By water, it wasn't all that far from where he lived. Since his getaway had been so clean the first time, he'd opted to kill his second target the same way, though it had made him nervous to repeat the same strategy.
This time, if he went through with the job, he'd change up his modus operandi . Problem was he might get stuck working for the mob indefinitely. He was beginning to see how they would make it difficult for him to stop, dangling increasingly larger rewards before him. He had caught himself envisioning his second home in Bermuda lately.
Crossing the empty lobby, Max inserted the key at #2850, pulled the little door open and stared in disappointment. The box stood empty. Damn it . Now he would have to return on a weekday and risk running into someone he knew.
Slamming the box shut, he locked it back up and skulked out of the post office.
Chapter 5
Rebecca eyed her old post office box with
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