Deadly Little Secrets by Jeanne Adams Page A

profitable.
    More flashlights winked on and moved toward him. He wondered if any of the company phones would show an outgoing call at the time the limo left the gallery. He’d check that himself. People could—and frequently were—stupid enough to use a traceable phone for such things.
    The necessity of that unpleasant task left him feeling hollow, momentarily defeated. He could guard against intruders, help redirect business issues that devolved into personal attacks, but traitors and crazy people never followed a type of any kind. They killed for reasons other than greed, and seldom for glory. Whatever cause they espoused was usually so personal, so unpredictable, they couldn’t be traced. Or prevented.
    He was deathly afraid that this was a vendetta, one that couldn’t be solved with money or jail time. If the old family discord was rearing its ugly head again, he would insist on calling in some additional help. His security measures were comprehensive, but they’d need a special team if it turned out the Gianikopolis feud was heating up again.
    â€œBromley?” a voice called from beyond the bobbing flashlights coming toward him.
    â€œHere!” He flipped the light he held from side to side.
    The detective the county had assigned to Dav’s various cases hiked into view, along with a slender crime scene officer. For once Baxter had on jeans, boots, and a heavy canvas coat to keep out the chill, far more practical for this night’s work than his usual dark suit.
    â€œDamn mess, this,” Baxter drawled as he shined his Maglite around the smashed landscaping. Baxter’s Texas burr made the words softer than the sentiment. He was a solid cop, but his finite county resources didn’t stretch to chasing international-level assassins.
    â€œGot some blood, some cloth.” Gates directed the CSI officer with his light. Two of his team came up with a portable floodlight and got it working. The tech nodded her thanks but didn’t say anything, so Gates turned back to Baxter. “Not much else to go with. Tracks go nowhere. Can’t find a vehicle trace either,” Gates said, with a grimace and a flick of a hand toward the tracking dog his team had hurried out to the scene.
    The dog was tugging at the end of the lead now that he’d come back from a run halfway down the scrubby hillside without alerting. The would-be assassin had evidently had a car waiting, and had disappeared fast. “One of these days I hope we actually catch one of these sons-of-bitches.”
    â€œTell me about it.” Baxter added his own testy note to the night’s lament. “Mr. G okay?”
    â€œHe was on the back side of the house. Didn’t even know there was an issue till the alarms went off.”
    â€œSo, who’s pissed at him this month?” Baxter grunted as he moved carefully through the thorns to the wall itself.
    â€œThe usual. Central American cartels. United Arab Emirates. Hong Kong conglomerates. Fellow Greek shippers who didn’t get business. Half of America’s corporate movers and shakers. Most of them don’t go in for shooting first, however. They’d rather kill him financially.”
    â€œYep, the usual,” Baxter muttered, peering at the wall. “Kelsey,” he called to the tech, waiting for her to finish bagging something before he pointed at the wall. “Got some marks here, maybe climbing pitons, but there’s some trace. Want me to get it?”
    She shook her head. “Nah, I’ll do it.” She shot a look at Gates, but continued to silently collect samples where the bushes were flattened before rising and making her own careful way to the wall, bags and envelopes in hand.
    He watched for a moment or two as she dug minute metal fragments from the stucco and brick, but turned back to Baxter when the man cleared his throat.
    â€œSo, off the record, you got any idea what this is about?”
    Gates shook