Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,81

stared at his screen. The money had been wired to a Dr. Ralph Arnold of Sacramento.

Fingers flying, Tom googled the man and found absolutely nothing of note in the standard search results. No address, not even a photograph. He then checked the California DMV database and found the man’s photo.

Ralph Arnold was . . . ordinary. Medium height, medium build. Dishwater-blond hair that had grayed at the temples. He could be anyone.

But he was someone—someone who Eden trusted and needed enough to wire a hundred grand to. Right off, that made the man a definite person of interest.

Tom unlocked his safe and pulled out the laptop he used for the dark web. He was protected by multiple levels of proxy servers on his main computer, but he’d been taught to be careful by his first white-hat mentor, Ethan Buchanan.

Ethan had taken Tom under his wing when he’d been a junior in high school. Tom had managed to break into a protected government website and realized how vulnerable he was. He’d backed out quickly and had never been approached by men in black asking questions, but he’d realized that he could have been in real trouble. Life-destroying, going-to-prison trouble. So he’d taken his laptop to Ethan and asked for help.

Ethan’s brows had nearly shot off his forehead when he’d seen what Tom had accomplished on his own, but then he’d rolled up his sleeves and taught Tom to be a white hat, too.

Tom owed the man a great deal and thought about him every time he delved into the dark web. Be safe, was Ethan’s first rule. Don’t compromise your everyday workstation.

Tom signed in on his throwaway laptop and opened the browser that provided entrée into the dark web. He wasn’t going to dig that deep yet. He’d do a quick search, then report the Eden activity to Molina.

He sighed. No, he’d send it to Raeburn first and call Molina right after. He didn’t want her kept in the dark, and it seemed that Raeburn was capable of doing just that.

Ralph Arnold MD, he typed into the search window. Then whistled softly when his screen filled with links, all referencing Arnold’s very private practice. He operated a surgery out of his home, which was well guarded. He accepted U.S. dollars, euros, rubles, pesos, and yuan.

References abounded—many from satisfied former patients with code names like Coyote and Scarface and Moll. The man appeared to be a doctor to both Hollywood celebrities and the stars of organized crime.

Having sufficient information for the moment, Tom dialed Agent Raeburn.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 4:40 A.M.

DJ pulled the truck through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Dr. Arnold’s home. He’d received a call from Dr. Arnold’s office manager confirming that payment had been received and that the address had been texted to his phone only minutes before.

Way to leave things till the last minute, he thought, feeling manipulated, distrusted, and surly. Most of which had been caused by Pastor, the bastard.

The house was located in an upscale neighborhood about fifteen minutes from the airport. DJ figured that made transport more convenient for the celebrities and crime bosses coming from out of town.

He half-expected to see Kowalski at the doctor’s house, waiting for them, but the drug dealer was nowhere in sight.

DJ drove around to the back as he’d been instructed and stopped the truck in front of a large garage. The doors rolled up, revealing an ambulance, two nurses in white scrubs, and a muscled man about the size of a gorilla who held a rifle in his arms.

“Mr. Belmont?” one of the nurses asked. Her name tag read Jones.

“Yes. My father is in the back of the truck. His wife is with him.”

“We’ll get your father checked in and have your mother fill out his paperwork.”

“She’s not my mother.” DJ had to bite back a wince, because he hadn’t intended to say that aloud. The less information he provided, the safer he’d stay. “What paperwork? I was assured the doctor would require no paperwork.”

The woman smiled. “Just his medical history. No identification required.”

A hundred thousand bucks seemed to be enough identification for Dr. Arnold.

DJ opened the back of the truck. Coleen looked exhausted and Pastor was either asleep or unconscious.

“Asleep,” Coleen said, reading the question in DJ’s expression.

Nurse Jones climbed up into the back of the truck, the muscled man taking position at the open truck door. She knelt beside Pastor and took his wrist, frowning. “His pulse is very weak.”

“I know,” Coleen