Hush Hush by Erik Carter (best short novels of all time .TXT) 📗

a destitute area like this would be the place for crude, not refined, drugs; yet her note with the address had been labeled, REFINED.

The Secret of Summerford Point rested in his hands. He traced along the softened edges with his thumb, savoring the visceral contrast to his surroundings.

He’d been reading for several minutes. He convinced himself that he was doing so because he needed to keep pushing through the text, had to read pages when and where he could if he was going to get to the end and learn how Amber had used this book for her investigation.

And while there was truth to that, he also knew he was procrastinating, avoiding, delaying what he had to do. Because though he was a part-time private detective and had been in more than a few sticky situations, most of his work involved unfaithful spouses, insurance fraud, and the like. He didn’t delve into things like heroin sold in slums beneath overpasses.

He looked back to the book, midway down the page where he left off. The reading he’d done since parking on Falconer Street had seen Kara, kid detective, leaving the Summerford police station and later heading back to the docks for further investigation. But before she could step foot into the docks, she was confronted by the scar-faced man, who chased her through the empty nighttime streets of Summerford. The quaint town she loved so much took on a menacing ambiance when the shops were deserted, the windows were black, and she was being pursued by a sinister man.

She eluded him and thought she’d reached safety, then turned a corner and found him waiting. As he dragged her into an alley, she thought she was done for.

Only to discover that he was no villain after all.

He was an undercover agent with the FBI. His name was O’Malley. Even his scar wasn’t real.

Gavin continued reading.

And as Kara looked at the bite on her fork, waiting where she kept it suspended halfway to her mouth, it certainly did look tempting, even comforting, the crust flaky and the cherries glistening. She just didn’t have the appetite for it. Her stomach had been infiltrated by a most bothersome case of nerves.

O’Malley, on the other hand, had devoured his ravenously, and as he finished his last bite, he waved the waitress back to the table. Nothing seemed to faze this man. Which made sense. He was a professional, after all.

As the waitress refilled his coffee, Kara studied the face that had seemed so very sinister earlier in the evening in the shadows. Now, in the bright lighting of the diner, the slick-backed hair seemed almost debonair, and the dark eyes were intriguing, not threatening. He was quite handsome, reminding her a bit of Father. The fake scar even looked pleasant on him, an accentuation almost.

He nodded his thanks to the waitress then turned his attention back to Kara. He took a sip of his steaming coffee and said, “The Bureau has been tracing shipments of illegal weapons making their way into the States up and down the Eastern Seaboard, even little Summerford, believe it or not, which is why I’m here undercover.”

O’Malley’s steady voice was calming, suddenly making her cherry pie appetizing again. She picked up her fork.

“This morning at the foreman’s office, I found a pair of invoices,” she said. “The first was a company called Pearson Industries.”

O’Malley nodded. “That’s a cover for a low-level gang out of Italy—the crates that were being unloaded last night. And the other invoice?”

“Whitehead Incorporated.”

Her companion’s eyes flashed over the top of his mug. “Whitehead?”

Kara nodded.

O’Malley slowly lowered his coffee to the table. He turned to the window, looked out into the darkness.

“What is it?” Kara said.

He turned back to her. “Whitehead is a cover for one of the world’s largest illegal arms dealers.” He paused, his dark eyes looking into her intently. “With Soviet ties…”

Kara gasped.

The Soviets!

O’Malley faced the window again. He ran a hand along his stubble.

And when he returned his gaze to Kara, his expression had gone even more serious. “This means Summerford is a much bigger piece of the puzzle than the Bureau has been thinking.” He took a deep breath. “And I need to take action tonight.”

Gavin turned the page to the next chapter, inserted the Starbucks receipt he was using as a bookmark, and put the book on the passenger seat, looked outside to the pathetic masses milling through the detritus under the overpass. Many of them now looked his way. His car wasn’t necessarily a luxury machine—it was a Jeep Grand Cherokee—but it was relatively new, and he took care of it. Hell, any strange vehicle would raise suspicion at a place like this.

He resigned himself to the fact that he could no longer delay. He had to take action.

Slowly his hand went beneath the seat, fingers exploring until they touched cold metal. Retrieved it.

A Smith & Wesson Model 649 Bodyguard in a leather holster. A stainless-steel, .38-Special-chambered, shrouded-hammer, five-round revolver, small enough to stash in a pocket, holster and all.

He’d grown to hate it.

He hated holding it, hated seeing it, hated the responsibility of owning it.

He still enjoyed shooting it, which he’d done only at a range, never in the field. Still, those occasions had gotten more and more seldom. It had been years since he’d put a round through it.

The gun was a reminder of his brother’s assessment of him. To Carlton, Gavin was a failure, a soft, bleeding-heart thinker who never became a police detective but a part-time private detective, piecing together a living through part-time gigs with his other position as an adjunct professor; a bookish weakling who hadn’t even landed a wife; a poor influence for his daughter.

Gavin weighed the Smith in his palm. Exhaled. Then grabbed his olive-drab canvas messenger bag from the back seat and placed the gun and the paperback inside.

He stepped outside, locked the doors remotely with his key fob, and pressed the button a second time to sound the horn. Just in