Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,133

to Belmont. Have you ever heard of a guy called Kowalski? You said you knew some of the members of the Chicos, and he’s supposed to be one of their higher-ups.”

“Kowalski,” Rafe growled. “Yeah. I know him. Low-to-mid-level thug. Did a few deals with him when I was undercover. If he’s a possibility for the Ellis woman’s murder, that means he was also there. With Belmont.”

Tom had hoped Rafe would make that connection. “Can you describe him?”

“I can do better than that. I can give you a photo. It’s five years old, but his face is clear. It was one of my surveillance photos and . . . well, I’m not supposed to still have it.”

That was a helluva lot more than they’d gotten from any of the local PDs, and Tom wondered why. That Kowalski had cops in his pocket was a possibility. “I won’t say it was from you.”

“At this point, I don’t care. It’s unlikely that I’ll return to SacPD, at least in my old role.”

A month ago, Rafe had been bitter about an injury keeping him from being a detective again. He was sounding resigned now. No, not resigned. Accepting. There was a difference.

“I still won’t tell,” Tom said, “unless it’s unavoidable, and I’ll give you a heads-up first.”

“Thanks. I assume you’ll want this photo sent to your burner? I still have the number.”

“No, you don’t. I tossed that burner two weeks ago. Never keep them for long.” He gave Rafe the new number, then had a thought. “Does Gideon have a burner?” Because Liza had called him about William Holly’s—a.k.a. Pastor’s son Bo’s—tattoo on a burner phone.

“You don’t quit, do you?” Rafe asked, amused. “Talk to Gideon. I’m not involved.”

“I will.” His burner chimed and Tom immediately opened the text from Rafe. “You have a burner, too, I see. This isn’t your normal number.”

“We see, we learn,” Rafe said lightly. “I always carried one when I was undercover, but I’m finding it has its uses even now.”

Tom looked at the photo of Kowalski. “He looks ordinary.”

“Best way to blend,” Rafe said.

Tom glanced at the signed basketball on the edge of his desk—the child’s birthday gift he’d promised the officer in Yuba City—with a sigh. He might always be recognized. He’d likely never be able to blend. “True enough. What do you remember about him?”

“He seemed educated and too polite. The kind of polite that makes you check for your wallet and to be sure there’s no knife in your back. He once took a personal call when we were doing a deal. Left in a flash. His partner said his wife had just gone into labor. That was six years ago.”

“So we’re looking for a family man with a six-year-old kid.”

“Six-year-old boy. His partner yelled after him to remember that he’d promised to name the baby after him. So maybe they were brothers.”

“What was the partner’s name?”

“Jed, but none of them used their real names. I got something else that will help.”

“What is it?”

“Kowalski always dressed very well. His shirts were always starched and pressed. Even his jeans were pressed. Hell, he even wore Gucci loafers once. He was a show-off.”

Tom winced, because he had a pair of Gucci loafers, too. “So he liked to look good?”

“No, he liked to look good, and he carried a hankie in his pocket. Pulled it out once to wipe the sweat from his forehead on a hundred-and-six-degree day. The hankie was monogrammed. ‘A.W.’ ”

“A.W.,” Tom repeated, his pulse starting to thrum. “Initials and facial recognition software might be enough to find this guy. Did SacPD try to find him?”

“If they did, they didn’t try very hard, because they never managed a true ID. But Kowalski was a minor player at the time. Definitely still clawing his way up the ladder. The brass had arrested all the top guys in the organized crime syndicate. After that, the momentum fizzled.”

“And you never tried?”

“No,” Rafe said. “After I closed that case, I took some time off to grieve Bella.”

The woman he’d lost at the crime boss’s hands. “Got it.”

“Did you grieve your Tory, Tom?” Rafe asked gently.

“I saw her murderer get justice,” Tom said grimly.

“Not the same. Not even close. If you haven’t grieved, you can’t move on.”

Tom closed his eyes, not wanting to have this conversation. “I grieved, okay?” he snapped, mostly to make Rafe shut up. Then realized that he really had grieved. “Liza let me talk about her,” he added quietly.

“Oh,” Rafe breathed.

Tom cleared his throat, remembering the gentle