Read Online Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) by J. Mark Bertrand - Free Book Online Page B

don’t. And if you don’t, fine. Brandon Ford, if he really existed, would have gone through enough of a background check to put my mind at ease. He wouldn’t worry me any more than the club members at Shooter’s Paradise do. But I wonder what Lorenz would think of my extracurricular activities. All those armed citizens might freak him out.
    Then again, maybe not. He surprises me sometimes. But there’s no point in getting into all that. Brandon Ford doesn’t exist. The photos, along with everything else, were staged. That’s what I’m meant to believe, anyway. The question is, for whom? The way Bea made it sound, somebody wanted a big shipment of assault rifles, which suggests the Mexican cartels. The headlines have been full of Federal cases against dealers shipping their wares down south, profiteering from the drug war. The only problem with that theory is that a sting operation making use of a fake gun dealer would be designed to snare the buyer. If the buyer’s a Gulf Cartel drug lord, what’s the point? It’s not like the Policía Federal or the DEA don’t have enough on those thugs already.
    “Is there something wrong?” Lorenz asks. “You’ve been funny all morning.”
    “Everything’s fine.”
    Leaning over, he opens the glove compartment and shakes the ibuprofen bottle in my face. “Are you off your meds, is that it? I thought the leg was doing better.”
    “Just keep your eyes on the road,” I say, shifting in the seat. “It’s not my leg, anyway. It’s something in my back. The pain is just a symptom. I must have pinched a nerve.”
    “All right.” He tosses the bottle into my lap. “I just wish you’d get your head in the game. I can’t be carrying you on this.”
    I flip on the radio, scanning the dial for some music.
    “Hey, man. I’m just kidding. I’ll carry you as far as I can.”
    He smiles and I smile back just to make him stop.
    ———
    The woman comes to the door barefoot, wearing cuffed shorts and a white T-shirt. She says her name is Miranda Ford and she has a driver’s license to back it up. She ushers us into a cramped apartment, a real step down from the house we’ve just seen. In the living room, a dark-haired toddler I recognize from the box of pictures scribbles on construction paper while a younger kid in a playpen watches him. She walks us past them to a kitchen table that’s been set up as a home office. Underneath the table, there’s a box like the ones stored in the garage, this one labeled CRAFTING , its flaps gaping. The table itself has been converted into work space. At one end there’s a big flat-screen computer, and at the other a sewing machine lit up by an adjustable work lamp clamped to the table’s edge. Lorenz asks and she explains that she makes purses and other bags and sells them online.
    “That way I can stay home with the boys.”
    “And that’s your only income?” I ask.
    “I get money from my ex,” she says, “and I work part-time for a friend of mine who opened her own shop.”
    I keep stealing looks at her, half expecting a wink of the eye or some other acknowledgment that this is all a sham. But if it is, they’ve gone through a lot of trouble. You don’t stick a woman in an apartment with a fake ID and two prop kids on the off chance someone will go digging into a cover story.
    She offers us something to drink—the options include water, Diet Coke, and apple juice—then clears some chairs for us to sit. I glance back at the children, not wanting to make a scene in front of them. For her part, Miranda Ford gives no sign of anxiety. As if the police are always dropping by and she’s only mildly curious about our reasons.
    “I wonder if we could talk somewhere private?” I ask.
    “Of course.” She looks around, then frowns. “Only there’s not really any place besides the bedroom or the boys’ room.”
    “Why don’t we go out on the steps?”
    She follows us reluctantly, telling the toddler she’ll be just