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Unearthed
Jordan Gray
Mills & Boon M&B




The fleeing man sped toward the parked cars.
Drawing closer to his quarry, Michael launched himself forward and grabbed for the man’s feet. He succeeded in wrapping an arm around his knees and the two of them went down in a sprawl. Just before they hit the ground, Michael heard a sudden, harsh crack.
He knew immediately something was wrong. The man fell too loosely. Normally a person would tighten up a little, even if he’d been trained professionally to fall.
Rolling to his feet, Michael kept one hand locked around the man’s ankle so he wouldn’t get away. One glance assured Michael that wouldn’t be the case.
A trickle of blood slid down his attacker’s cheek and dripped off his nose from a round wound on his temple.

Cast of Characters
Michael and Molly Graham—The young couple have come to Blackpool for a simpler life…only things in the small town are anything but simple.
DCI Paddington—The stolid inspector has a laid-back approach to investigation—so laid-back that it’s fuelled rumors he’s only in Blackpool to bide his time until retirement.
The Crowes—The members of the Crowe family are reputed to have more secrets than they have money. And they keep both very well. Especially those of their most notorious ancestor, Charles Crowe….
Rohan Wallace—Michael’s friend clings to life in the hospital, shot by Aleister Crowe for trespassing on his land. But what was he doing there? What was so important that Rohan would risk his very life?
Stefan Draghici—The head of the gypsy clan that has come to Blackpool to reclaim the fortune in gold they say was stolen from their ancestors by Charles Crowe. Their search for the gold has come up empty, however, and the gold has come up empty, however, and the Draghicis are becoming desperate….
Lockwood Nightingale—Aleister’s devoted attorney. How far will he go to protect his client’s interests—and his own?
Greed, jealousy, betrayal, trickery, murder—
secrets are the heart of Blackpool.

Unearthed
Jordan Gray


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE
HOW CLOSE COULD A MAN COME TO death before he gave up the fight and slid into that dark abyss? Michael Graham stared down at the still, unresponsive figure in the white field of the hospital bed. He didn’t know how many times the question had filled his mind during the past five days.
“He hasn’t quit fighting.” The middle-aged nurse jotted notes on the clipboard she held. She didn’t look at Michael but he knew she had sized him up as closely as she had the patient. “That’s a good sign. You have to take hope in that, Mr. Graham.”
“I know. I do take hope in that, Mrs. Guilder. Thank you.” Michael leaned against the wall near the room’s slatted window. Merciful Angels Hospital conducted business within an old building in Blackpool, but the interior had been gutted and refitted with modern equipment and dutiful personnel like Nurse Guilder.
The woman shot Michael a measuring glance. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”
“I have.” Michael lied easily, but he had the suspicion that the nurse instantly saw through him.
“Sometimes the sickness of a friend is hardest on those around them. At least the people in the hospital are getting rest and being monitored. You might try getting a little more sleep.”
Michael couldn’t argue. He felt bone-tired and twitchy, the way he did in the final stages of putting a video-game project together, almost ready to go gold and turn a new game loose on the public. Those times had always been particularly draining. But they’d been nothing like watching over Rohan Wallace these past five days since he’d been shot by Aleister Crowe, who claimed Rohan had been trespassing on his property. Michael blamed himself for the near-death of his friend. Hadn’t he dragged him into all this?
Truth to tell, though, it was the late hours spent trying to figure out his latest puzzle, one that Rohan had helped him discover…
“I will try to get more sleep, Nurse Guilder.”
The nurse nodded in satisfaction, made a final notation and hung up the clipboard. “Are you going to be here awhile longer?”
“If that’s all right.”
“Of course.”
Even if Michael left, his thoughts wouldn’t stray far from Rohan Wallace. His guilt had kept him from accompanying his wife, Molly, to the harbor where she was picking up Rohan’s grandmother.
“I was told that Detective Chief Inspector Paddington has managed to find this poor soul’s family,” Nurse Guilder said.
“He has.” Michael knew she was pumping him for information. Part of him resented that, but he realized that gossip and stories were the lifeblood of a little town like Blackpool.
Besides that, he wanted to counteract the idea the local citizens had of Rohan Wallace as a thief. No one yet knew what he had been doing at Crowe’s Nest, the ancestral home of the Crowe family, or why Aleister Crowe had shot him. Michael felt certain it had something to do with the model of the original town of Blackpool that Rohan had helped him construct, based on the one in the library. Their reconstruction had revealed some interesting secrets, but it hadn’t revealed them all.
At times when he was feeling morbid, Michael wondered why Crowe hadn’t killed Rohan that night. Several months ago, he’d witnessed Aleister Crowe kill a man without hesitation. Except in that instance, he had done it to protect Michael from thugs trying to kill him.
So why had Crowe spared Rohan’s life?
The nurse interrupted his thoughts. “Is Mr. Wallace’s family coming to see him?”
“His grandmother is on her way now.” Michael flicked a glance at the clock on the wall. “She should be here anytime. My wife went down to the harbor to meet her.”
“Such a young man.” Nurse Guilder shook her head sorrowfully and looked at the figure on the bed. “This is going to be a hard thing for a grandmother to see, even knowing he’ll live. I’ve got two grandchildren of my own. Like angels, they are. I wouldn’t want any kind of harm to come to them, no matter what mischief they got themselves into.”
“No.” Michael studied the beeping, clicking machines that watched over Rohan while he remained in the coma. “He’s healing nicely?”
“Of course. Doctor Timms is absolutely brilliant at his craft. If I had to get shot, he’s the very man I’d want working on me.” Nurse Guilder paused at the door. “There’s a fresh pot of tea put on if you want some.”
Michael let his empty cup hang from a finger against his jeans and gave her a smile. “Maybe in a bit.”
She left.
Anxious, he walked over to the bed and stared down at the man who’d been both friend and confidant to him. One didn’t always mean the other. Rohan Wallace was different. Michael had sensed that from the start, and he’d learned to pay attention to the things Rohan knew. Even without understanding exactly how he knew them.
In the past five days, Rohan had lost weight, despite the constant saline and glucose IV bags. He was nearly Michael’s age, somewhere in his early thirties, and wore dreadlocks. His ebony skin had a warm cocoa luster, and scars from past physical encounters marked his arms and shoulders. A tube ran up his nose and bandages swathed his chest under the thin hospital gown.
Rohan had been—was, Michael insisted—a physical man. His callused hands revealed a long and intimate acquaintanceship with hard work. He was quick to laugh and quick to joke. And he had never hesitated to cover Michael’s back.
Michael took his iPhone mobile device from his pocket and texted his wife. Molly probably wouldn’t be able to hear the phone at the marina. With the archaeologists still mucking about after the discovery of the slaver the Seaclipse, the marina was a noisy place.
GRANDMOTHER?
To his surprise, Molly’s reply was almost instant.
PLANE’S COMING NOW. TALK TO YOU SOON.
Opening the digital photo album on his iPhone, Michael studied the three-dimensional model he and Rohan had made of Blackpool. He had been intrigued by and noticed that the older buildings had enjoyed special relationships with each other, and then realized that the sides were designed to fold in on themselves to create a cube. He believed the cube was a three-dimensional map, but of what? Where did it lead? Each of the cube sides also held geometric markings: a square, a triangle, a pentagon and others. But again, he had no idea what they meant.
Blackpool had begun its life as a smuggler’s port, a dream harbor where stolen goods could be swapped, stored and sold. In the 1700s, pirates had considered the town a haven, and legitimate businesses had sprung up in short order. Inns and taverns and eating places had manifested first, quickly followed by a blacksmith’s forge, a cooper’s shop, a carpenter’s workshop and a ship-repair business.
Glancing out the window, he stared down at the harbor. Professor Hume-Thorson’s graduate students still worked at the site where the Seaclipse had gone down.
The slave ship remained out of reach for an in-depth study and hadn’t yet given up all her secrets. Enough surprises, though, had spilled out to start tongues wagging throughout Blackpool. Several marina businesses remained angry at the continuing marine investigation. Only two days ago, local sailors had gotten into a proper donnybrook with the archaeology crew. From all accounts, the professor had proven himself quite capable at fisticuffs. The locals now had a grudging respect for the newcomers.
The marina’s makeover was progressing, too, though it would be a while before things were finished. Blackpool was in a state of transition, and many of the citizens blamed Molly, his wife, because she’d been responsible for securing the grant money that had enabled the renovations to go forward.
In a way, Michael had to admit that the feeling was justified. Molly had helped engineer a lot of changes in Blackpool, but most were ones that residents wanted or thought necessary. Such as the marina remodel. The problem was that most folks wanted the changes to happen in the blink of an eye. The town hated anything that impeded the pace of everyday life.
Michael turned away from the window and wished he could just as easily turn away from the guilt that plagued him. Rohan lay unmoving on the bed. Why did you go to Crowe’s Nest that night? What were you hoping to prove? What did you see in our model that I haven’t yet?
Those questions gnawed relentlessly at Michael. He was used to being consumed by his imagination. He’d designed award-winning video games for years. He loved problems, and he loved solving them. But the conundrum Rohan had created was—at present—unsolvable. That rankled.
Coming up with a game-logic problem, designing an appropriate level, figuring out a story line that would prompt a player to think in the right direction—all of these things depended on how clever Michael was. Realworld mysteries demanded a whole new realm of patience and perseverance.
He sighed and rolled his neck. Then he noticed the man standing quietly in the doorway.
The aristocratic profile and the widow’s peak made Aleister Crowe instantly stand out in a crowd. He was approximately Michael’s age, in his early thirties, and was an inch or so shorter. Michael was built broader and more muscular, but Crowe was a predatory wolf. The walking stick he carried with the silver crow as a handle was an affectation rather than an aid, but it also set him apart from others. As always, he wore an immaculate black suit. Today he had a bloodred tea rose in his lapel. It made Michael suspect the man had come from a lunch engagement with a woman.
Somehow the thought that Crowe had been out pursuing a potential love interest before coming to the hospital made his presence there even more egregious.
“Did you come round hoping your little friend might whisper secrets into your ear?” Crowe’s cold gaze pierced Michael.
“What are you doing here?” Instinctively, Michael walked around the bed and put himself between Rohan and Crowe.
“The last I’d heard, Paddington still wasn’t handcuffing Wallace to the bed. I wanted to make sure it was safe to go home.”
“You’re lying.”
Smiling in amusement, Crowe cocked an eyebrow. “You’re far too emotional, Michael. You really should get some rest.”
Michael made himself breathe slowly.
Crowe looked past him. “Where is your wife?”
“On an errand. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
With a shrug, the man twirled his walking stick. “Contrary to your present belief, I don’t much care what you and your wife do in Blackpool. I only want to ensure that my family is protected.”
“Rohan didn’t go there that night to hurt you.”
“Then maybe you’d care to tell me why that man was sneaking through my house? How he managed to steal past a very sophisticated security system?”
Michael didn’t have an answer.
Crowe nodded arrogantly. “I thought as much.” He adjusted the tea rose in his lapel, then started to walk out of the room. “Take care, Michael. These lost causes you and your wife have a habit of chasing after might one day turn around and bite you.”

CHAPTER TWO
THE BRIGHT YELLOW FLOATPLANE bobbed in the air as it fought turbulence. Getting to Blackpool was difficult by road, and the floatplane service was the quickest mode of transportation.
Shading her eyes even though she wore sunglasses, Molly Graham watched the plane’s descent. She stood at the end of the pier that thrust out into the Blackpool harbor. Noise from all the diesel-and petrol-powered engines created a disturbing cacophony that battered her with sonic fists. The salt air stung as it filled her nostrils.
She wore a casual business suit—a dove-gray jacket and skirt with a simple white button-down and a gray herringbone fedora with a white band. She also wore sensible dark gray strappy ankle boots with wide four-inch heels that wouldn’t get caught in the planks of the pier. Her handbag matched the shoes. The wind shifted and her dark auburn hair danced across her shoulders.
Irwin Jaeger stood at Molly’s side. He was the Grahams’ houseman, one of the two full-time employees that came with the manor house she and Michael had purchased. Irwin was thin and in his early seventies and he wore his black livery like a suit of armor. His bushy mustache twitched a little. “Appears to be a bit of a draft up there.”
Molly surveyed the water. Chop stirred the surface. “I’m beginning to think we should have picked up Mrs. Myrie in London.”
“It was her wish to come with all due speed. If we had picked her up, she wouldn’t have arrived in Blackpool until late this evening.”
“I know.”
“And she did inquire about possible air transport here.”
“Yes, but a floatplane? At her age?”
Irwin stiffened slightly. “Might I suggest that age and infirmity don’t always go together? That there is nothing wrong with keeping longevity in close orbit with a sense of adventure?”
“Sorry.”
Irwin smiled at that and adjusted his thick bifocals. His muddy-brown eyes twinkled. “It could well be that, under other circumstances, Mrs. Myrie might consider flying in a floatplane to be one of her grandest adventures.”
Under other circumstances. Molly wished that the visit had been just that. She hadn’t gotten to know Rohan Wallace quite as well as Michael had, but she’d liked the man. Over the phone, his grandmother had come across as a darling woman with a large personality.
“Well, let’s hope she doesn’t have too much adventure.” As Molly refocused her attention on the plane, it began to circle, losing speed and altitude.
A moment later, the floatplane splashed into the harbor, hopped a few times, tilted crazily for an instant, then recovered. After a quick adjustment, the aircraft turned and sped toward the pier. The propeller cut the air and powered them forward, skipping over the chop.
When the floatplane neared the pier, Irwin picked up a mooring line. Even before the plane stopped moving forward, the cockpit door opened and a teenager with wild green hair shoved his head and shoulders out. Sunlight gleamed on his facial piercings. He wore a black T-shirt that had a skull in a top hat and black powder pistols crossed under its chin.
Molly groaned. “I can’t believe Solomon let Rory fly Mrs. Myrie out here. I specifically asked him to do it himself.”
On occasion, she and Michael had hired Solomon Crates to fly them into London. Generally that was only on days that Michael had to handle some emergency meeting at his video-game company.
Rory caught the line when Irwin threw it, then used both hands to haul the plane toward the pier. “Hallo, Mrs. G.” He waved enthusiastically.
“Hello, Rory. Where’s your dad?”
“Himself is back at home. Mother insisted on eating something different last night.” Rory grinned, looking every bit of twelve though Molly knew he was at least sixteen. “From all indications, the sushi didn’t agree with him. He couldn’t bring Mrs. Myrie over, so he asked me to.” He made a “tah-dah” gesture. “So here we are. And I gotta admit, she’s quite the flyer.”
“After that rough landing, I’ll be surprised if she ever considers flying again.” Molly tried to peer into the plane.
Rory put a finger to his lips and held up a hand. He smiled encouragingly. “I thought it was a good landing myself.” He waved for Molly to agree.
“Don’t make no excuses for me, young man,” came a voice from the plane. “That was one of the worst landings I’ve made in a while. But it’s been years since I had the chance to land a plane, so I thank you for the opportunity.”
Incredulous, Molly stared as Rory dropped down to the floating dock and reached back toward the door.
Nanny Myrie, Rohan’s grandmother, appeared in the doorway. She wasn’t exactly what Molly had imagined when she’d talked to the woman over the phone. She was around five feet tall and full figured. White hair with dark charcoal streaks framed a round, golden-brown face. She wore a colorful blue-and-green dress and a silver necklace.
“That landing wasn’t none of this boy’s fault.” Nanny reached down to take Rory’s hand.
“What are you talking about?” Rory gently helped the woman onto the dock. “That was a fantastic bit of flyin’, Mrs. M. Absolutely brill. I was never worried for a minute.”
“You flew the plane?” Molly gaped at the older woman.
Beside her, Irwin stifled a laugh, failed and had to cover it with a cough. “Pardon me. I had something in my throat.”
“I did fly the plane.” Nanny Myrie crossed the floating dock with ease and climbed the ladder to the pier without pause. “I haven’t had the opportunity in a long time. It brought back a lot of memories. Good memories.”
Irwin offered his hand and the woman took it. He helped her up to the pier and introduced himself.
“You’re Mrs. Graham?” The woman turned to Molly.
“I am. But please call me Molly.” With a smile, she shook her hand.
The older woman’s grip was firm and strong and rough with calluses. “Molly, you may call me Nanny.”
“Of course.”
“You’re American, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But your husband’s not? He didn’t sound American when I talked with him on the phone.”
“Right, Michael is British.”
“You’ll have to tell me how you two met sometime.” Nanny rubbed the back of Molly’s hand. “I’m sure there’s a story there.”
“There is.”
“I appreciate you and your husband flying me in.”
“It’s our pleasure.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know that. Once I learned Rohan was here in the hospital, I had to find a way to get to him. I’m all the family that boy has left.”
At the sadness in Nanny’s voice, Molly’s heart went out to the woman. “I’m sure Rohan feels very lucky.”
Nanny’s hand tightened on Molly’s briefly. She looked past her to the harbor. “Awfully busy place.”
“There’s a lot going on right now.”
“The policeman I talked to—”
“Detective Chief Inspector Maurice Paddington.”
Nanny nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. He said that you’re responsible for a lot of this.”
Thank you for that, Inspector Paddington. “Unfortunately I seem to have stirred up more than I’d thought possible.” Molly was a grant writer. Usually she worked for nonprofit companies, as she had with the projects in Blackpool, but she’d also worked with corporate entities for a percentage. Her success had enabled her to take an early retirement, and one that she felt was well deserved after all her hard work.
Keeping up the pace she’d had before she’d met Michael wouldn’t have allowed the close marriage they had now. Michael had stepped away from much of his design work for the same reasons. Both of them had enough money invested to be financially stable for the rest of their lives. But they also picked up the occasional project that appealed to them. Michael hadn’t quit working on his own brands, though he did turn the games out at a slower rate these days.
“Mr. Paddington seems to think that some of the things you and your husband have been interested in might be what got my grandson in trouble.”
Molly searched the woman’s dark eyes but found no accusation there. “To be honest, Michael and I don’t know what Rohan was doing at the Crowe house that night.”
“The policeman led me to believe Rohan was friends with your husband.”
“They were. They are. Michael likes Rohan a lot. They’ve been working on a project together.”
“What project?”
“I’m sure Michael will show you if you want to see it. Explaining it just isn’t the same.” Nanny nodded.
“But Rohan didn’t tell us much, I’m afraid,” Molly added. “He was a very private person.”
“That boy has always been too quiet. Always thinking, always with his head up in the clouds. Never could get nothing out of him unless he was ready to talk about it.”
Molly wanted to turn the conversation to a lighter subject. “Speaking of up in the clouds, where did you learn to fly a floatplane?”
Nanny smiled. “In Kingston. I did crop dusting for farmers and I hauled tourists around in helicopters.”
“You fly helicopters, too?”
“Not anymore. But I probably still can. It’s not something you forget how to do.”
Rory passed the woman’s bags up to Irwin, then clambered up to help Irwin carry them to the waiting vintage limousine. The luxury car had come with the house, as well, and Michael and Molly seldom used it. However, Irwin loved taking it out every chance he got. He’d absolutely insisted on driving it to pick up their guest.
“Have you seen my grandson today, Molly?”
“Only a short time ago. We left Michael at the hospital with him.” Molly hesitated. “Michael’s been to visit Rohan at least once every day.”
“He’s a good friend to my grandbaby.”
“Michael’s a good person.”
“This thing that happened to Rohan, it must be hard on your husband.”
“It is.”
Nanny looked out across the harbor, but Molly knew the woman wasn’t seeing the ships and the buildings around the marina. She felt certain Nanny Myrie was thinking about that little boy Rohan Wallace had once been.
“The most difficult question for Michael is why Rohan was at the Crowes’ house that night.” Molly spoke softly, hoping not to offend. “Michael keeps wanting to blame himself. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but until he finds out what happened, I’m afraid he’s going to remain disconsolate.”
Turning back to Molly, Nanny patted her on the arm. “Don’t you be fretting too much about that husband of yours, Molly. I can tell you now, just like I’ll tell your Michael—this had nothing to do with some project. Rohan was obsessed with digging into the Crowes. That’s why he came all this way. The paths of that family and mine crossed a long time ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rohan didn’t end up in Blackpool by chance, Molly. He came here for a reason. Let’s get to the hospital and I’ll tell you and your husband about it. Ain’t no reason for him to be feeling responsible one minute longer.”
The woman’s declaration lifted some of the dread from Molly’s heart. She hated not knowing what was going on, and she hated the fact that Michael felt it was his fault.
“Ladies, the car is ready.” Irwin stood politely waiting.
Nanny stuck her arm through Molly’s and they walked up the pier toward the waiting car. Sensing someone watching her, Molly glanced up at the marina. Most, if not all, of the town knew who she was, but there were a number of tourists in Blackpool, as well.
A long-haired young man in dark clothes stood staring at her. Even when she caught him looking at her, he didn’t turn away. He just grinned, but there was no mirth in his expression. Judging by the black leather jacket, tattoos and facial piercings, he was one of Stefan Draghici’s gypsy family. The Draghici family had shown up in Blackpool several months ago claiming that the Crowe family owed them a fortune in Romanian gold that had been stolen from their ancestors.
“Irwin.” Molly reached into her jacket pocket for her iPhone.
“I see him, miss.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Was he there before?”
“This is the first I’ve noticed him.” Irwin paused. “I don’t think we’re in for any trouble. There are too many people in the vicinity.”
And if he was going to do something, he would have done it already. Molly knew that was what Irwin hadn’t said. The thought chilled her even more than the breeze blowing in off the sea. She blinked and the young man was gone.

CHAPTER THREE
IN THE HOSPITAL LOUNGE, Michael helped himself to a cup of tea while he talked to Keith over his iPhone. Keith was a good friend and the primary artist on the current video game they were designing. The game revolved around an underwater fantasy world filled with fantastic creatures, mermaids and adventure. Lots and lots of adventure. At present, they were working on a downloadable-content episode to add to the original game. “No, no, loved the sketches of the undersea city, mate.”
“So what’s your problem, then?” Keith sounded irritable, but that was because he’d just gotten up. “Something must be wrong.”
“Nobody said anything was wrong with them. Didn’t you get my notes?”
Keith sighed. “I got your book, if that’s what you emailed me. A note, Michael, is something that fits on a Post-it. Or a three-by-five-inch index card. That’s a bloody note. What you sent me was a freaking history.”
“Sorry. I thought maybe you’d want to see the document. It has a detailed history of the city.”
“I’m not a reader, Michael. I’m a graphic guy. If a story can’t be told in pictures, I’m not interested.”
“And if it’s over ten minutes long. Yeah, yeah, I remember. Short attention span. You know, your romantic life must be a mess.” Michael added a scone to his tea saucer.
“My romantic life is just fine. I’m sure Katrina can provide a glowing recommendation if you’re interested.” Katrina was Keith’s significant other. She was organized and neat, the exact opposite of Keith. “In twenty-five words or less, what do you want me to do with the concepts of the city?”
“Older.”
“Older?”
“The buildings need to be older. The edges are too defined. There aren’t enough barnacles and age spots. And there should be scars from past wars. Gaps and missing pieces.”
“Ah. See? You could have just said that in your email.”
Chagrined, Michael knew it was true. He hadn’t been focused. He’d been distracted. He still was. Only, now he was thinking about the encounter with Aleister Crowe and alternative ways he could have responded.
“So where’s your head at, Michael?”
“Just sorting through things.”
“Your friend’s shooting still bothering you?”
“I haven’t forgotten about it.”
“Maybe I should wander up that way for a few days.”
Michael smiled at the thought. “You? In Blackpool? Aside from the fact that Molly would be afraid you’d get us strung up on the nearest yardarm, you wouldn’t last a day before you’d go as mad as a hatter.”
“You have such little faith.”
“I know you and I love you, mate. You’re a brother to me. I appreciate the offer, but there’s nothing you can do here.”
“If that changes, you’ll tell me?”
“The very instant.”
“Okay. Well, in the meantime, I’ll age your city.”
“By thousands of years. It should be literally on the verge of turning to dust on the seafloor.”
“Got it. I’ll work it up and get it back to you.”
“Soon?”
Keith laughed. “Soon enough.”
“I want the city to be the only thing aging.”
Keith groaned good-naturedly. “Thought you were retired and away from all the deadline pressure. Just for fun, you said. Just to keep your hand in.”
“I meant that, but we’ve still got people waiting on us for work so they can keep cashing paychecks.” That was the secondary reason for keeping the studio alive. The primary one was because Michael couldn’t stop imagining games. There were just too many interesting things in the world. Actually, worlds. And a lot of them were always traipsing through his mind.
“Give me a week, mate, and I’ll present you with a much older undersea city.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Michael rang off and started to pocket his mobile, but it buzzed to signal a new text.

I HAVE NANNY MYRIE. DID YOU KNOW SHE CAN FLY A FLOATPLANE?

Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rohan Wallace’s grandmother at all, much less as a floatplane pilot. He slid his iPhone into his jeans and headed back to his friend’s room.

A MAN STOOD BY ROHAN’S BED when Michael reached the open door. About six feet tall and thirtyish, he had chestnut-brown hair pulled into a small ponytail. A dragon tattoo snaked up from the collar of the dark blue suit jacket he wore. His jeans were tucked into motorcycle boots.
“Rohan. C’mon, mate, I need you to wake up.” The man’s voice held a desperate note. “You’re leaving me hanging here. These guys I’ve got chasing after me aren’t messing about.”
Moving quietly, Michael put the teacup and saucer onto the small window shelf by the door. “Who are you?”
The man whirled around. Wild-eyed and breathing fast, he stared at Michael. “Just checking on my mate. That’s all. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.”
Michael spread his hands away from his sides to show that he meant no harm. “My name’s Michael Graham.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “I know who you are. I’ll ask you to clear that door.”
Slowly, Michael shook his head. “Not until you give me some identification.”
The man grinned, but it was a sick expression and tainted with panic. “You don’t need that.”
“Sorry. I don’t succumb to Jedi mind tricks. But I will be having your name.”
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Slicey.” With a quick snap of his wrist, the man pulled a switchblade knife into view. He flipped it open as easily as breathing and the stainless-steel edge gleamed. It would have been an excellent cut-scene in a game. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I don’t have time for a lot of questions.”
His stomach twisting and turning sour with fear, Michael raised his hands. Until moving to Blackpool, he’d led a rather dull life when it came to criminal affairs. But recently he’d been threatened, beaten and shot at. He wasn’t becoming any more inured to violence—his quivering stomach was the perfect illustration of that fact—but he was determined that he wasn’t going to allow any information this man might have about what Rohan was doing in Crowe’s Nest that night to slip through his fingers.
“Stand aside.” The man held the switchblade before him.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. I need to know what business you’ve had with my friend.”
“None of yours.”
“I’ll have to be the judge of that.”
Smoothly and without hesitation, the man lunged forward, his body following the knife. Reacting instinctively, reflexes honed from rugby and other sports he’d played, Michael slapped the man’s hand away. The fellow tried to slip through the door, but Michael slammed his body into his attacker’s and bounced him off the door frame.
Off balance and slightly dazed, the thug swept the knife back at Michael, who managed to grab the man’s wrist in both hands, but not before the blade sliced through his rugby jersey and burned across his stomach. Twisting viciously, Michael experienced a momentary thrill of success as the switchblade clattered to the floor. He took just a second to kick the weapon under Rohan’s bed, then the man head-butted him in the face.
The room and the lights swam in Michael’s vision and pain filled his skull. He managed to stay upright despite the dizziness that surged through him. He felt blood running down his face and stomach and told himself he was a proper cretin for trying to mix it up with a man with a knife.
Then his attacker slammed a shoulder into him and knocked him backward. Before Michael could recover, the man shoved him out of the way and ran. Staggering, senses reeling, Michael followed.

MERCIFUL ANGELS WAS SMALL. The second-floor nurses’ station was in the center of the building next to the flight of stairs leading down. Hospital rooms lined halls on either side of the large area. Frightened nurses stepped back from the man as he ran. Michael trailed at his heels and, with his longer strides, gained steadily.
Grabbing the low wall near the stairs, the man whipped around it and took the stairway down to the first floor. Two nurses shouted out in alarm and Michael felt certain security would be alerted. That suited him fine, although the guards he’d seen were all elderly gentlemen and didn’t look as if they’d put up much of a fight. He hoped that Paddington or one of Blackpool’s constables would be nearby. With all the work going on in the marina and the shipwreck discovery, extra men were on duty.
Losing his attacker at the first landing, Michael panicked for a moment till he made the corner and spotted the guy streaking for the front door. By the time the man reached it, Michael was closing the distance again.
The man burst through the door and ran outside into the small yard. Merciful Angels was only a couple blocks back of Main Street and fronted a residential area filled with small, old houses. The tiny visitors’ parking lot in front of the hospital was barely large enough to hold six vehicles. Both of the town’s ambulances sat at the emergency-room entrance.
The streets in Blackpool were small and narrow, built more for wagons and carts than sedans. The citizens got around on bicycles, mopeds and motorbikes. Very few had cars, and only a handful of businesses used delivery vans.
Up to full speed now, the fleeing man sped toward the parked cars. One of them was Aleister Crowe’s green Jaguar. Crowe stood to the side of the vehicle, talking on his mobile.
Another man stood near Crowe. He was about Crowe’s age and prim, dressed in a gunmetal-gray business suit with neatly coiffed blond hair and amber-tinted aviator sunglasses.
Drawing closer to his quarry, Michael launched himself forward and grabbed for the man’s feet. He succeeded in wrapping an arm around his knees and the two of them went down in a sprawl. Just before they hit the ground, Michael heard a sudden, harsh crack.
He knew immediately something was wrong. The man fell too loosely. Normally a person would tighten up a little even if he’d been trained professionally to fall.
Rolling to his feet, Michael kept one hand locked around the man’s ankle so he wouldn’t get away. One glance at the man assured him that wouldn’t be the case. A trickle of blood slid down his attacker’s cheek and dripped off his nose from a round wound on his temple.
Stunned, Michael couldn’t help but stare for a moment, then he ran for cover beside the cars.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” The man who had been standing with Crowe was now huddled beside him, holding his arms protectively over his head.
“Sniper.” Michael fumbled for his iPhone and got it out.
Crowe shifted, turning on his feet while remaining in a crouched position. “One sniper or more?”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t know.” He punched the speed dial for the Blackpool police station. Since he and Molly had started helping the police solve murders, he’d kept the number ready.
“Were they after you or the other man?” Crowe asked.
“Whoever shot him got his target.”
“Are you wounded?”
“I don’t think so.” The mobile began to ring while Michael patted himself down. “You’re bleeding.”
“Had a disagreement with that bloke before we turned it into a footrace.”
“Who was the dead man?”
“I have no idea.” Michael scanned the surrounding houses, wondering if the sniper was already moving into a more advantageous position.
Mercifully, his call was answered. “Blackpool police station. State the nature of your emergency.”
“This is Michael Graham. A man has just been shot dead at Merciful Angels. Ring DCI Paddington, would you?” He spoke much more calmly and rationally than he felt. What had the man been doing in Rohan Wallace’s room? How had Rohan left the man hanging? And who was after him? Had the sniper only been shooting at the dead man? Or was Michael a target, too?

CHAPTER FOUR
“HAVE YOU AND YOUR HUSBAND lived here long?”
Seated in the limousine’s plush backseat, Molly gazed at Blackpool with affection. “No, not long. We both came from big cities—Michael from London, and I grew up in Queens. We actually met in Los Angeles, if you can believe that, and we were torn about where to live. But when we saw Blackpool, we knew we had to live here. At least for a while.”
Nanny Myrie nodded. “So this is not where you’ll be putting down roots.”
Molly frowned a little at that and felt uncomfortable. “I don’t think ‘putting down roots’ is something either of us has thought about. Our adult lives have been so hectic, always running after one deadline or another, that we just wanted to slow things down for a while.”
“Have you?” Nanny peered at her expectantly.
“Slowed things down?”
“Yes.”
Thinking back over the past few months and the constant barrage of riddles, mysteries and murders that had complicated their lives, Molly shook her head. “Not really. But it hasn’t been for lack of trying.”
A knowing smile spread across Nanny’s face. “I’m afraid you may find that life doesn’t really slow down. Especially if you have a tendency toward adventure anyway.”
A siren swooped in from behind them.
Glancing back over her shoulder as Irwin discreetly pulled to the side, Molly watched in astonishment as one of the Blackpool police units roared past the limousine.
Nanny stiffened and stared anxiously after the departing police cruiser. “That vehicle seems to be heading in the same direction we are.”
“Yes, it does.” Molly opened her handbag and took out her iPhone. She punched Michael’s name and waited as panic stretched within her. All the horrible things she’d experienced over the past months came clamoring back. She willed Michael to answer his cell.
He picked up almost immediately, sounding tense. “Molly? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Why, has something happened?”
Michael’s sigh of relief was audible. “There’s been a bit of a skirmish at the hospital. Perhaps it would be better if you took Mrs. Myrie somewhere and waited till things calm down here.”
“I don’t think so.” Molly wasn’t going to do that until she saw for herself that Michael was healthy and in one piece.
“Then again, maybe you’re right. You might be safer here. Until we can figure out who the dead man is and why he was killed.”
“Mr. Graham.” Molly recognized the voice of DCI Paddington. He sounded irritated and officious. “It would be better if we didn’t go about announcing everything for the world to hear. The investigation might be less of a bother. We certainly have no end of lollygaggers and looky-loos standing about as it is.”
“Molly, I’m sure you’ve got a hundred questions, but the inspector’s beside himself. I love you.”
“I love you, too. We’ll be there in just a moment.”
Michael sighed. “I’ll be glad to see you, but I can’t speak for the inspector. Ta.”
Before Molly could say goodbye, Michael had broken the connection. She slid the phone back into her handbag.
“Something is wrong?” Nanny gazed at Molly with soulful eyes.
“Rohan’s situation hasn’t changed, but a man has been murdered. The inspector won’t let Michael say more than that.” Straining anxiously to look ahead, she saw the rooftop of Merciful Angels. In the next moment, she spotted the police cars surrounding the small parking area. Instant relief washed through her when she recognized Michael standing there.

IRWIN PARKED THE CAR AS CLOSE to the activity as he could, but Sergeant Luann Krebs and one of the temporary constables were putting up crime-scene tape to secure the area.
Officious and no-nonsense as ever, Krebs held up a hand as Molly got out of the limousine. A frown darkened the woman’s square-jawed face. Her short blond hair moved slightly in the breeze. “I’ll have to ask you to stay there, Mrs. Graham.”
“I want to see my husband.” Molly worked hard to keep the panic from her voice.
Krebs put one hand on her uniform belt and jerked her other thumb over her shoulder. “We can’t disturb the site of the shooting. I can assure you that he’s fine.”
“He told me that much over the phone.”
Krebs shook her head. “Mr. Graham is being questioned. He shouldn’t be giving out information over his mobile.” She reached for the walkie-talkie at her belt.
Exasperated, Molly leaned a hip against the limousine.
The locals had turned out by the dozens. They stood just beyond the yellow tape and collapsible sawhorses used to mark the scene. All of them talked and gestured, pointing to the parking area.
A man’s body lay sprawled across the small lot but Molly had lost sight of Michael. Then she spotted Paddington. The Detective Chief Inspector was a large man but carried his weight well because he was broad shouldered. He paced in front of a Jaguar that looked suspiciously like Aleister Crowe’s and pulled at his fierce mustache. The inspector was in quite the mood, just as Michael had said.
“Does anyone know the identity of the man that was shot?” Molly asked Krebs, amazed she was calm enough to pose such a question.
Krebs pursed her lips before answering. “That’s police business, Mrs. Graham. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” Her eyes locked on Nanny Myrie. “Is this Mr. Wallace’s family?”
“His grandmother, yes. Mrs. Nanny Myrie.”
A moment passed as Krebs considered the situation. “I think it would be a good idea if you and Mrs. Myrie went into the hospital. I know the inspector will want to talk to you, Mrs. Myrie.” The sergeant lifted the crime-scene tape. “Come along now.”
Talk to us or grill us? Molly wondered. Based on past experience with the inspector, she knew Paddington tended toward surly when upset. Reluctantly, Molly guided Nanny under the tape and toward the hospital.

PERCHED ON THE EDGE of Paddington’s car fender, Michael was glad most of his panic had subsided. Residual adrenaline still made his hands shake, but for the most part he was again in control of himself. He’d examined the knife wound and judged it to be minor, the bleeding already stopped.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen the dead man before today?” Paddington stood in front of Michael. The effort it took for the man to remain still made him almost vibrate. He kept his hands busy with his pipe.
“I’m sure.”
“But he knew Rohan Wallace.”
“He knew Rohan’s name. He called him ‘mate.’ But I couldn’t testify to how close their relationship was.”
Paddington puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “He said Rohan left him hanging?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“And that people were looking for him?”
“Yes.” Michael was conscious of the microrecorder in the inspector’s pocket. He felt sick, and his awareness of the body lying only a short distance away felt more and more disturbing.
“He didn’t happen to say why they were looking for him?”
Michael gestured at his bruised face. “There wasn’t much time for chatting, Inspector. I walked in on him and he made to leave. I tried to stop him.”
“Why would you do that, Mr. Graham? You could just as easily have allowed him to go.”
Surprised, Michael considered that. Then he thought about why the inspector might have asked the question and pointed out the option. “I want to know what happened to Rohan. That man, whoever he was, offered an opportunity to find out.”
“What made you so sure of that?”
“I wasn’t. We didn’t get very far into the discussion when he pulled a knife on me. A switchblade. You’ll find it under Rohan’s bed.”
Paddington glanced at one of the policemen beside him. “Be a good lad and go secure that weapon.”
The policeman nodded and left.
Paddington swiveled his gaze back to Michael. “Rohan Wallace was shot while burgling the Crowe home.”
“I’m not satisfied that’s the whole truth of the matter.”
A short distance away, Aleister Crowe slid off his vehicle and approached Michael, thrusting an angry finger in his direction. “What are you trying to say? That I deliberately shot a man with no justification?”
Blood boiling with renewed anger, Michael stood and faced Crowe. “Did you?”
“No.”
“No one found a weapon on Rohan that night, Crowe.”
“You can strangle a man with your bare hands while he’s sleeping.”
“It’s not as fast as shooting people, though, is it?”
Crowe took another step forward and Michael automatically raised his hands in defense.
Quick as a fox, Crowe’s blond companion stepped between Michael and Crowe and held Crowe back. “Aleister. Aleister. Listen to me. You’re not doing yourself any good here. Let it go.”
Paddington had placed a big hand in the middle of Michael’s chest, but focused on the blond man. “Who are you?”
“Lockwood Nightingale.”
“What business did you have here today, Mr. Nightingale?”
“I’m a friend of Mr. Crowe’s.”
“Really?”
Breathing hard, Michael retreated to Paddington’s car.
Paddington shifted his attention to Crowe. “You often meet your friends at the hospital, Mr. Crowe?”
“I was here on business, Inspector.” Nightingale straightened his jacket and smiled.
“What business might that be?”
Crowe leaned in, his face tight with anger. “My business, and none of yours.”
Nightingale spoke in a soft voice. “Easy, Aleister. Let me handle this. Please.”
With an oath, Crowe turned away.
“I was here today as a favor to Aleister, Inspector Paddington.” Nightingale reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out an engraved cardholder. He flipped the holder open with a practiced flourish and produced an expensive embossed card. “I’m a solicitor.”
Paddington took the card and examined it. “Do you feel you need a solicitor, Mr. Crowe?”
Crowe started to make a scathing reply, judging from the apoplectic expression he wore, then subsided when Nightingale raised a hand.
“I advised Mr. Crowe that he might want to seek counsel regarding the shooting incident in his home.” Nightingale put the cardholder away.
“No charges have been brought against Mr. Crowe.”
Nightingale smiled unctuously. “We have two matters before us, Inspector. I believe the criminal matter has been put to rest, and that Mr. Crowe acted in the best interests of his family when he shot a trespasser in his home.”
Michael started to object, but Paddington raised an admonishing hand without looking in his direction. Bitterly, Michael swallowed his comments.
“But I also advised Mr. Crowe that Rohan Wallace’s family might seek to place fiduciary responsibility on him in civil court. We met here today so that I could deliver a court order to have copies of the injured man’s hospital reports released to me. In case we end up in court over the matter. A little prejudicial caution, I admit.”
“Rohan hasn’t had any family to speak up for him,” Michael said before Paddington could wave him to silence.
“But that isn’t the case anymore, is it? Mr. Wallace’s grandmother has arrived in Blackpool.”
Paddington raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that, Mr. Nightingale?”
The solicitor shrugged. “I witnessed her arrival only a few moments ago. I heard your sergeant acknowledge her.” He pointed toward the limousine.
Irwin stood at the front of the vehicle like a soldier at his post. Michael almost smiled at that; the man’s dedication to his vocation was reassuring.
“Therefore, Inspector, lines on this battlefront are changing.”
Michael gazed down at the dead man and couldn’t agree more.
Paddington’s mobile rang and he pulled it from his hip holster. He said his name and listened briefly, then closed the mobile and put it away. He glanced at Michael. “It appears they found the spot where the shots came from. Would you like to come along?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You needn’t if you don’t wish to.”
“No. I’d be happy to come. This just isn’t the kind of thing you’d normally invite me to.”
“This, Mr. Graham, doesn’t appear to be a normal day.”

CHAPTER FIVE
“THE SHOOTER STOOD HERE, Inspector, and he had a clear view of the hospital.”
Michael didn’t recognize the serious middle-aged man in the Blackpool Police uniform. He assumed he was one of the temporary officers that were helping out during the remodel of the marina. With all the new people in town, as well as the supplies and equipment, extra security had been necessary.
The officer looked earnest and neat as a pin. His short-cropped hair was barely longer than the stubble Michael wore. Creases showed in the corners of his eyes and lightly on his forehead. His tan was deep, burned into his flesh by years of working in the sun.
“Tell me your name.”
“Watts, Inspector. Trevor Watts.”
“Ah, yes.” Paddington nodded in satisfaction. “You’re the lad with exotic military training.”
“Yes, sir. I did a bit with the Special Air Service. Mustered out honorably with injuries a few years back.”
Michael was impressed. The SAS was England’s foremost special-forces unit. The team had seen action around the globe and were noted for their thoroughness and precision.
“SAS, eh?” Paddington gazed out the bedroom window of the second-floor flat they were in across from the hospital. Other than a few trees, the view was clear. “Then I’d assume you know something of shooting like this.”
“Yes, sir. I was extremely proficient.”
Paddington pointed his pipe at the spot where the dead man had gone down. “How far away would you say the target was?”
“Seven hundred seventy-eight yards, sir.”
“That’s awfully exact, Officer.”
Watts reached into a small bag on his belt and took out micro-size binoculars. “Opti-Logic Sabre II laser rangefinder. Good out to a thousand yards. After I saw that shot, I thought I might need this, so I got it out of my car.”
Michael’s curiosity was piqued. “What about the shot told you that you might need that device?”
“The round hit the man, correct, Mr. Graham?”
Michael nodded.
“Seven hundred and seventy-eight yards, though I didn’t know the exact measurement at the time, plus the fact that the bullet ripped through the victim’s apricot tipped me to the fact that we were probably dealing with an experienced sniper. That’s why I started scouting the buildings that fit the trajectory and the field of fire.”
“‘Apricot’?”
“Yes, sir. The medulla oblongata. Located at the base of the skull. Controls involuntary movement. Ensures an instant kill. You put a bullet through that, or the second cervical vertebra, and whomever you shoot is checked out of the festivities.”
“You make the shooter sound like he was really good.”
“He was, sir. No doubt about it. To pop a man like that, while he’s on the run? Bloody good, sir, and that’s the bottom line.”
Michael watched the man and wondered what he did when he wasn’t hanging about Blackpool, helping with security. He suspected it was generally something a lot more demanding, and they were lucky to have him.
Only then did Michael realize that Paddington had been carefully watching him throughout the exchange. Michael let out a breath and shook his head. “You knew the shooter could have killed me, too.”
“The thought crossed my mind simply because the shot that killed that poor devil was so accurately placed and you emerged without a scratch.” Paddington glanced around the bedroom. “I felt you should know what you were truly facing today.”
Michael’s knees were suddenly weak. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
Watts pointed to a chair at a small computer desk. “There. Please stay out of the way. And if you’re going to be sick, please do so in the bin there.” He pointed to the small metal rectangle under the desk.
In order to forestall the sick pulsing in his stomach, Michael focused on the room. Judging from the pictures tucked into the bulletin board on the wall, the flat’s renter was a young woman interested in music. Stills of Lady Gaga were displayed prominently. “Where’s the room’s occupant?”
“At Coffey’s Garage where she works.”
“She was there during the shooting?”
“Her employer confirmed that the young woman has been at work since eight this morning. Constantly in his sight.”
Trying to forget about the sniping incident, Michael examined the pictures of a young woman on the bulletin board. He assumed that the flat was hers. “Does she have a boyfriend?”
“One whose hobby includes sniper rifles?” Paddington smiled. “It’s not going to be that easy. There is a young man, but he’s in London at the moment, applying for a job.”
“I suppose you’ve confirmed that?”
“Talked to him myself, and to his potential employer.” Paddington surveyed the hardwood floor.
Watts was down on his hands and knees, shining a torch under the bed. “I’ve checked, Inspector, but I can’t find the man’s brass anywhere.”
“Policed up after himself?”
Watts resumed standing and seemed put off by the development. “Yes, sir. The man was very thorough. And he got out of here without being seen, according to the residents I’ve chatted up.”
Those residents stood out in the hall, talking to themselves. Michael heard the constant buzz of conversation splashing around the room. If they knew anything, they would tell.
He studied the lock on the door. It was intact and apparently unmarked. So how had the sniper gotten into the room?

“WE’VE GOT A NAME for the dead man.” Paddington closed his mobile and slipped it into his jacket pocket as he trotted down the stairs inside the small building. Crime-scene investigators were still going over the flat.
Michael trailed after the inspector, knowing Paddington wouldn’t tell him anything till he was ready to. Over the past few months, the inspector had come to see the Grahams as annoyances. At least, that was the way Michael felt. Paddington tended to be closed off about his work, and Michael respected that. Unfortunately, he and Molly hadn’t had much choice about becoming involved.
More gawkers stood outside on the lawn of the building, while another crowd was kept at bay from the corpse in the parking lot by yellow crime-scene tape. The coroner was there, as well, now.
“Grady Dunkirk.” At the bottom of the stairs, Paddington looked back up at Michael.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Evidently he was quite a friend of Rohan Wallace.”
“If he was, I didn’t know about it. Wait, why did you say ‘a name’?” The inflection and choice of words made Michael curious.
Paddington was silent for a moment, and Michael didn’t think he was going to get an answer.
“I say ‘a name’ because the one he gave was false. Krebs initiated a background check on the man and the trace ended pretty quickly. He worked on one of the renovation jobs down at the marina, but his paperwork was thin. It would never have held up under a real examination.” A rueful look pinched Paddington’s broad face. “Unfortunately, with all the remodeling Mrs. Graham has got started at the marina, jobs have been plentiful and there hasn’t been time to see who’s who.”
Michael bridled at that. Molly’s vision for Blackpool was brilliant, and other people in town thought so, too, or none of her ideas would have gotten off the ground. “Inspector, with all due respect, I don’t think Molly is in any way—”
Paddington waved him off. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. That was just an observation.”
“Sounded like more than that.”
The inspector sighed and wiped his lower face with a handkerchief. “This used to be a comfortable little town, Mr. Graham, before you and your wife moved here. You can take that as you will.”
Choosing to ignore the jibe for the moment, Michael asked, “Have you been able to trace the dead man’s real identity?”
“We’re working on it.” The inspector glanced at Michael and lifted an eyebrow. “You’re a very good amateur detective, Mr. Graham, and I don’t mean to encourage you in any way.”
“Believe me, Inspector, if it were up to me, Molly and I would have stayed out of every investigation we’ve been involved with. What we’ve experienced—what we’ve all experienced—is just a bit of bad luck at being part of these situations at all.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Then what was that business with Mr. Crowe earlier?”
Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and met the inspector’s gaze full on. “I don’t like the man.”
“Mr. Crowe does seem to fancy Mrs. Graham’s company more than yours.”
“Trying to stir up trouble?”
“Jealousy can be a bothersome thing, that’s all.”
“I’m not jealous of Aleister Crowe’s attentiveness to Molly. If there’s one thing that’s a constant in our world, it’s my relationship with my wife.” Michael smiled. “The sun will set in the east, Inspector, before I ever doubt Molly.”
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Graham.” Paddington echoed Michael’s smile a little. “I’ve seen that for myself, and I’m quite certain Mrs. Graham would say the same. But you are not so trusting of Crowe.”
Michael shrugged. “I didn’t like him before he shot Rohan.”
“Rohan Wallace was guilty of breaking and entering into the man’s house.”
“Rohan wasn’t armed.”
“As you’ve seen yourself over these past few months, it doesn’t take an armed man to kill a person. Just a very determined one. But you’re missing the point, Mr. Graham. A few points, actually.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
Paddington smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing in Mr. Wallace’s background suggests that he had the necessary skills to circumvent the state-of-the-art security around Crowe’s Nest.”
Michael was actually glad to hear the inspector say that.
“I hadn’t missed that little fact, Mr. Graham. You and your missus’s meddling aside, the Blackpool police department got along quite well before you decided to try your hand at investigatory work.”
“I never said you didn’t, Inspector.”
“So do you know what I’ve been looking for since Mr. Wallace was shot?”
Michael realized the answer almost immediately. “Someone who could help Rohan break into Crowe’s Nest.”
“Exactly.” Paddington nodded at the group gathered around the body. “Now I have a man, a desperate man by your account, that wished to speak to Mr. Wallace. He’s not in the hospital more than a few minutes and he manages to get himself shot. By an expert marksman.”
Immediately the pieces fell together in Michael’s mind and he chided himself for not seeing it earlier. “An expert marksman. And Rohan needed an expert cracksman to get into Crowe’s Nest. You think that once you find out who the dead man truly is, it’ll lead you to who the marksman is.”
Paddington touched his nose and smiled. “At least, Mr. Graham, I’ll have an idea of where to look. Experts tend to know each other.”
“If they were friends, why did the shooter kill Grady Dunkirk, or whatever his name turns out to be?”
“You should be able to figure that one out.”
“To keep Dunkirk from spilling what he knew?” Paddington nodded.
“But what?”
“Who he was working for.” Paddington shrugged. “Maybe something went missing that night and we haven’t heard about it. Maybe someone decided the pie shouldn’t be split so many ways. From the sounds of things, you were going to catch Dunkirk. Somebody didn’t want him caught.”
“Then why allow him to talk to Rohan?”
“Maybe his pallies didn’t. Or maybe they made him talk to Rohan. Either way, Dunkirk is dead because of his friends.”
“Awfully cold-blooded, don’t you think?”
“I do. But that’s the kind of work they were in. I have to ask myself, though, how did Rohan Wallace know men such as this?” Paddington looked at Michael. “That was the grandmother with Mrs. Graham, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’d like to have a word with her.”

CHAPTER SIX
MOLLY SAT IN THE CORNER of Rohan Wallace’s hospital room and watched Nanny Myrie softly stroke her grandson’s forehead. Rohan didn’t respond; the machines kept beeping. Molly hated the helpless feeling that filled her. She also felt intrusive, so she turned her attention to the window.
That wasn’t much better. The police cars and the crime-scene tape instantly claimed her attention. She sighed and looked down at the cell phone in her hands. Michael, where are you?
“Do you know my grandson well, Molly?”
“Not terribly. He was more Michael’s friend than mine. They did all sorts of things together.”
“Like what?”
“Sports, mostly. Hiking. Bicycling. Some fishing. Sailing. Those aren’t my types of activities. I join Michael occasionally, but he’s a much more devoted participant than I am. Rohan gave—gives—him someone to hang with.”
“I’m certain he does. Sounds like your man hasn’t quite lost touch with the boy he was.”
“No, and I don’t think he ever will.”
“Men should never completely step away from being boys. When they do, they lose the capacity to dream dreams that can change their worlds and the worlds of all those around them.” Nanny finally took the seat beside the bed. She laced her fingers through Rohan’s without disturbing the medical equipment.
“If they at least learned to pick up after themselves, it would be an improvement.”
Despite the heavy emotions trapped in the room, Nanny chuckled. “Ah, but that is part of what we must put up with in order to keep them as they are. If they were perfect, we’d have nothing to do.”
For a moment, the silence stretched. “What was Rohan like as a child, Nanny?”
The old woman shook her head. “Oh, he was quite a handful, this one was. Always into something. I ended up raising him.”
“He mentioned that several times. He loves you very much.”
“I know. That didn’t stop him from walking his own way, though. Too much of his mother in him for that.” Nanny smiled. “That’s partly my fault, of course. I was never quite the stay-at-home mother my daughter wanted.”
“I can see how flying floatplanes and helicopters could have gotten in the way of that.”
“They did. And there were any number of other adventures. I took her with me on several of them, and I think that was the root of the wanderlust that made her leave us and go out to see the world. She was a Peace Corps volunteer. Worked with Doctors Without Borders. You’ve heard of them.”
“Yes. Medical experts that work in impoverished regions.”
“Those people see a lot of bad things in the world. Sickness. War. Famine. Evil things. I lost her in West Africa. A fever took her. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. She was just…gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tears glittered in the old woman’s eyes. “That’s something you just never get used to. Losing someone.” She took a breath and looked at Rohan. “Rohan was only fourteen years old when she died, though he barely knew his mother after she became a doctor and went off to see the world. She never spoke of his father. My daughter never told anyone his name. I think maybe he was a married man. There was talk of a professor at her university. These things happen to young women. In her own way, I’m not sure she ever recovered from that, either.”
Molly sat quietly and listened. Outside, people talked and the world went on as usual, but inside, the past was alive again.
“Rohan missed his mother, but they’d never been close. Not close enough.”
“But he had you.”
Nanny nodded proudly. “He did have me. And I taught him to throw baseballs and fish and even to fight.”
“Fight?” That surprised Molly.
Nanny looked up at her and laughed. “I know. It seems far-fetched. Someone as small as me. But I learned how to fight because I grew up in a household with seven sisters and four brothers. You learn to scuffle in a large family.”
Molly smiled.
“Should have maybe been my husband teaching Rohan.” Nanny turned back to her grandson. “Would have been if Mose had lived. I lost him in a shipwreck during a storm. He worked with the coast guard.”
So much misery. Molly didn’t know what to say.
“Me and this one, we were always close. Always together. I made him grow up straight and tall as I could, but boys tend to have minds of their own.”
“What is he doing in Blackpool? You mentioned that he didn’t just end up here.”
“He didn’t. Something special brought him to this place.”
“What?”
Nanny smoothed Rohan’s forehead. “I don’t know for sure yet. We’ll have to figure that out. But I’m sure it had to do with the legend.”
“The one about Charles Crowe and his hidden treasure?”
“That might be part of it, but there’s more to it. You see, when Rohan was a child, I told him stories of the heritage we lost in West Africa during the slaving years. So many families got torn apart, and so much was lost. People were displaced, Molly, but heritage and culture?” Nanny shook her head. “That was all scattered and forgotten. I told Rohan that it was a wish of mine to see something of our family revealed. Our history. That was what he was doing here. And if he went to Aleister Crowe’s home, it was because he believed that family has some of that history.”

AFTER HE’D CONVINCED Paddington to talk with Nanny Myrie later, Michael left the inspector and went back into the hospital. He found Molly sitting with Nanny Myrie and Rohan. The old woman sat at her grandson’s side and softly hummed to herself. Before he could enter, Molly waved him off.
Molly got up. “Nanny?”
The old woman looked up at her.
“I’m going to step outside for a cup of tea. Would you like anything?”
“Water would be fine.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Nanny returned her attention to Rohan.
Outside the room, Molly took Michael by the arm. He kissed her forehead. “I guess I’m buying you a cup of tea.”
“You are.”

AT THE TEA SERVICE IN the waiting room, Molly looked at Michael. “You’re certain you’re all right?” She pulled at his shirt where the dead man’s blood—and his own, though he’d never tell her—had dried.
“I’m fine.” Michael poured tea and handed her a cup. “So what are we doing out here? I would have been glad to bring you a cup of tea.”
“I wanted to talk to you away from Nanny. That poor woman is already carrying enough of a burden without hearing about everything that happened out there.”
Michael sighed. “She’s going to end up hearing about it, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because Dunkirk was visiting Rohan shortly before he was shot. I chased him out of the building.” Michael quickly related the story and brought Molly up to speed.
“This man, Dunkirk—”
“Or whatever his name actually proves to be.”
“—was working at the marina?”
“Yes.”
“On one of the restoration projects that I brought to Blackpool?”
“It appears so.”
Molly withdrew and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Hey.” Michael took her hand in his. “That man didn’t come to Blackpool to work on the marina. He came to break into Crowe’s Nest. If he hadn’t had the renovation to use as a cover, he’d have found something else. This isn’t any fault of yours.”
“Doesn’t feel that way.”
“If Rohan hadn’t gone to Crowe’s Nest, probably with this man, and Nanny Myrie wasn’t sitting in that hospital room right now, would you feel this way?”
Molly let out a slow breath. “No. She’s a good woman, Michael. She’s been through a lot.”
“I understand. I like Rohan.” Michael shrugged and smiled. “We’re not going to give up on them. We’re going to help them. But we can’t do that by dwelling on the past.”
“The past seems to be where all this started. You said you never knew why Rohan came here?”
Michael shook his head. “When we first met he told me he was just passing through. Looking for work.”
“But he spent a lot of time with you.”
“Blame my magnetic personality.”
“Oh, I blame you for many things, Michael Graham. And you can, under the right conditions, have an inflated view of yourself.”
“Ouch. Did I tell you I was very nearly shot today?”
“You said the sniper deliberately missed you.” Molly fisted his shirt and pulled him close. She kissed him and the chemistry that bound them sizzled anew inside Michael’s body. She pulled away entirely too soon. “For which I’m eternally grateful. What I want you to focus on is that Rohan made sure he was with you, and the two of you were always working on those models of the town buildings.”
Michael thought about that, remembering how Rohan had been interested in his extracurricular project practically from the moment he’d heard about it. “Funny, I never noticed that before.”
“Because you were so caught up in figuring out how the model fit together. You become quite distracted when you’re trying to figure something out.”
“Possibly.”
“Definitely. The point is, you were blind to Rohan’s interest.”
Michael looked at her and realized there was something she wasn’t telling him. “You know why Rohan is here.”
“Nanny Myrie says that Rohan came here searching for possible artifacts that were taken during the slave trade. She thinks Rohan connected the artifacts to the Crowe family.”
“But how? Blackpool was long associated with smuggling, but evidence of slave trading was only found recently with the discovery of the Seaclipse. And there is no evidence tying the Crowe family to it.”
“Maybe we should ask Nanny.”
“Speaking of Nanny, Paddington would like to have a meeting with her, as well.” Michael glanced around. “I don’t really think this place would be good for that.”
“I won’t have her taken to the Blackpool police station and questioned there.”
“She could choose not to go.”
Molly gave him a look. “Do you really suppose Paddington is going to let that stop him?”
“No. Not with that dead man out there and still no answers about what’s going on.”
“I have a simple solution.”
“All ears, love.”
“Ask the inspector to dinner with us tonight. He can talk to Nanny there.”
“Under our watchful eye?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t think Paddington will have a problem with that. He’ll get a good meal thrown in.”
“I’ll call Iris and have her see about dinner arrangements.” Molly took out her mobile.
“You do that and I’ll go meet Rohan’s grandmother.” Michael turned and started to walk away.
“Wait.” Molly paid for one of the bottles of water from the vending machine and handed it over to Michael. “She wanted water.”

BACK AT ROHAN’S ROOM, Michael introduced himself and handed Nanny Myrie the bottled water.
“Thank you, Mr. Graham.”
“You’re welcome. Please, call me Michael.”
“Michael.” The old woman drank. “My grandson thinks a lot of you.”
“I wasn’t aware you’d been in touch.”
“An email from the internet café here and there. Not much. But he did mention the model you two were building of the town. He said you thought it was more than just a model.”
“Yes—it’s a puzzle of some sort. The buildings actually fit together to form a three-dimensional object, but I don’t know what its purpose is. Maybe it has to do with the tunnels underneath the buildings…. Rohan improved a lot of the buildings. If it hadn’t been for his skill, I don’t think I would’ve realized it was a puzzle.”
Someone cleared his voice.
Looking up, Michael saw Lockwood Nightingale standing in the doorway. The guard Paddington had assigned to the room had the solicitor out for the moment, but Nightingale didn’t seem as if he was going to be easily dissuaded.

CHAPTER SEVEN
“MRS. MYRIE, MY NAME IS Lockwood Nightingale. I need to have a word with you.”
Michael faced the man and took one step, enough to put himself between Nightingale and Rohan’s grandmother. “Perhaps this isn’t the right time.”
The solicitor stood his ground. “Mr. Graham, although I can see no reason for this to be any of your concern, perhaps you can suggest a better opportunity for a discussion between Mrs. Myrie and myself.”
“I can’t say.” Michael kept his voice calm but it was sheathed in steel. There was something about the man’s elitist attitude that rubbed him the wrong way. Getting money or being born into money just didn’t agree with some people. “But this is definitely not the time or the place.”
Nightingale peered past Michael at the old woman. “We could let Mrs. Myrie speak for herself.”
“About what?” Nanny stood and approached, but she didn’t step past Michael’s side.
“I represent Mr. Aleister Crowe, Mrs. Myrie.”
“The man that put my grandson in that bed?”
Nightingale froze for just a moment, but he didn’t bat an eye. “Quite.”
Nanny’s face turned hard. “Is Mr. Crowe too afraid to speak to me himself?”
“I advised him not to.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I thought it wouldn’t be prudent.”
“So you’re protecting him.”
Michael had to work to keep a grin off his face. Apparently Rohan’s grandmother didn’t take nonsense from slick solicitors.
“I wouldn’t say that I was protecting him, Mrs. Myrie.”
“Let me say it for you.” Nanny crossed her arms and regarded Nightingale as though he were something repugnant.
“There are legal matters that need attending to. I thought perhaps we might address them. I am in a position to ensure that Mr. Crowe is not interested in bringing criminal charges against your grandson in return for an agreement that your grandson won’t pursue a civil matter regarding the shooting.”
“Mr. Nightingale, was it?”
Nightingale nodded, and he preened just a little. Obviously he liked the sound of his own name.
“For the record, and you can quote me on this, there is nothing civil about shooting an unarmed man.” Nanny’s voice was as harsh as a whipcrack.
The burly policeman standing at the door chuckled, then covered the noise with a cough.
Nightingale glared at the man but didn’t say anything. He swiveled his attention back to Nanny with laser intensity. “Before you insist on making anything personal of this, you might want to consider your grandson’s future. If he comes out of that coma—”
“When he comes out of the coma.”
“—do you really want him spending the next several years in prison for breaking and entering?”
“Mr. Nightingale, I may look like an old woman to you, and my grandson may look like he’s on his deathbed, but that’s not the case. I’m not a stupid person and Rohan hasn’t stopped fighting. I know that Mr. Aleister Crowe can’t stop a criminal court from pressing charges if it wishes to, and my grandson’s fate was decided the moment he stepped into that house. You have nothing to offer me. You only want me to release your employer.”
Nightingale sniffed at that. “Aleister isn’t my employer. He’s my friend.”
“You’ll excuse me my rudeness due to my age, which you’ve already sought to take advantage of, but I know an employee when I see one. You work for people, Mr. Nightingale. No matter how much money you make and how much of a rich veneer you put on, that’s not going to change. You think like an employee.”
Nightingale flushed red.
“Please don’t contact me in the future, Mr. Nightingale. I will definitely be far less cordial than I am today. If you need to get in touch with me regarding legal matters, I’ll have my attorney contact you.”
“Do you have a solicitor?” Nightingale struggled to save face.
“I’m sure Mr. Graham can help me sort one out.”
Michael smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Mrs. Myrie—”
The policeman turned toward Nightingale. “Sir, the lady has been very polite, in my opinion, and it’s my opinion that matters here. Now, she’s gently told you to shove off, so I’d be for shoving off if I was you. Otherwise I might be inclined to point out she could file a harassment complaint and have you carried down to the police station.”
Nightingale didn’t say anything further, but he fired one of his engraved business cards into the air.
Eyes and hands trained by thousands of hours of gaming, Michael plucked the card from the air and made the feat look effortless. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Nightingale.”
The solicitor strode away.
Nanny patted the policeman on the arm. “Thank you, Officer.”
The man smiled and winked at her. “It was my pleasure, madam. I don’t care for a puffed-up popinjay like that one. And you’ve enough troubles without him adding to them.”
Taking Michael by the arm, Nanny turned him around and walked back to the bed. “Michael, I know that you might believe I’m a frail old woman—”
“Actually, Nanny, I stand corrected.”
“Good. I’m glad that we’ve got that out of the way.” Nanny stopped at the bed. “I know Inspector Paddington will wish to speak with me.”
“He’s already mentioned that.”
“The quicker we get that over with, the better. That way, the inspector can mark that off his to-do list and move on to whatever else he has on his plate. We need him out of the way.”
“We do?”
“Perhaps that was presumptuous of me. I hope to find out more about what drove Rohan to invade the Crowe house that night. He wouldn’t have gone there unless he had a reason.”
“I agree.”
“Then I’ll need to start looking for those answers.”
“I’d love to help.”
“We’d love to help,” Molly said as she walked through the doorway to the room. “No one else I know can keep Michael out of trouble.”
Nanny smiled at that. “I’m sure you can’t keep him completely out of trouble.”
“Perhaps not.” Molly smiled ruefully. “But no one does it better.”
“I would rather not meet the inspector on his home territory, either,” Nanny continued. “Somewhere away from the police department, I should think. And away from prying eyes.”
“You know, I believe I have just the place.”
Nanny’s eyes twinkled. “I’m not surprised.”
“How about dinner at our house?”
“Home-court rules?”
“Of course.”
Michael shook his head in amazement. Nanny Myrie and Molly had already stepped in sync. Paddington had no idea what he was in for.

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