The Specialist (Norcross #3) - Anna Hackett Page 0,45
he’d once been military. His brown hair was cut short, and she got a glimpse of a holster under his jacket. A badge was clipped to his belt.
“Hi, Easton.”
“Hunt.”
The men shook hands.
“Harlow Carlson, Detective Hunter Morgan.”
“Nice to meet you,” Harlow said.
“I wish it was under better circumstances.” The detective eyed the two of them. “Sorry for ruining your Saturday morning.”
“Was anything taken?” she asked.
Surely if they’d found blood or anything concerning, he would’ve mentioned it.
“Maybe you could tell me. I tried to contact your parents, but I didn’t get an answer on either of their numbers.”
“My mom’s away at a yoga retreat, and regularly turns her phone off. And my dad’s…off on business.”
Hunt’s green gaze was piercing, and she guessed he wasn’t buying that.
“Come on.” He jerked his head toward the house.
He led them in the front door. The scent of lemons hit Harlow. It was a cleaning product the housekeeper had used since she was a little girl. Everything looked normal. Her mom liked the Hamptons style—lots of white with touches of blues and wood.
“They got in through the back door to the kitchen,” Hunt said.
In the kitchen, broken glass was scattered across the floor.
“They have an alarm,” she said.
“Disabled.”
Had this been Antoine looking for her dad? Rhoda looking for her dagger?
“The house has been searched, but they were pretty careful, except in the office.”
Her father’s office was a mess. She gasped, and Easton wrapped an arm around her.
The desk chair was tipped over, things were yanked off shelves, and empty drawers hung open from the desk.
Harlow bit her lip. Behind the desk, the safe set in the wall was open and very empty.
“You know what your dad kept in here?” Hunt asked.
“Some cash, a little jewelry, a few business papers. Nothing hugely valuable.” She looked around. “Not worth all this effort.”
“You know why someone would break into your father’s office, Ms. Carlson?”
“Call me Harlow. And…um…” She wasn’t sure how much to tell the detective. Her father was consorting with criminals, had stolen a valuable collectible.
“If we find out anything, we’ll let you know,” Easton said smoothly.
Hunt sighed, a resigned look on his rugged face. “How much trouble is Carlson in?”
“We’ll contact you when we know more.”
“Is Vander involved?”
“Vander is involved in a lot of things,” Easton replied.
Hunt stared at the ceiling. “Fuck. Sorry, Harlow.” The detective pinned Easton with a glare. “This is some fucked-up situation where you keep me in the dark, then pull me in to clean up your mess.”
“When a crime has been committed that we need to report, we’ll call you. Like we always do.”
“You owe me, Norcross.”
“I’ll buy you a beer.”
Hunt snorted. “I want a case of something old, Scottish, and expensive.” His gaze turned serious. “Call me if you need me.”
Easton nodded. “Thanks, Hunt.”
“The uniforms are going to board up the broken window.”
“Thank you,” Harlow said.
“Let’s go.” Easton urged her out of the office, and to the front door.
In the car, she twisted her hands together. “We had to lie to a police detective.”
“Oh, Hunt was very aware of that. He’s used to us…skirting some of the rules.”
“You did it to protect my dad.”
“Your father isn’t a drug kingpin or murderer, Harlow. He got in over his head and he’s floundering. This will all be over soon.”
Her cell phone rang. Mom was on the screen. “Mom?”
“Harlow!” Her mom’s voice was almost a screech. “I got a message from the police. The house was broken into. Your father isn’t answering again.”
Harlow pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s fine, Mom. I just left the house, and met with the police.”
“Oh, my gosh. What’s happening?”
“The window on the back door was broken, but that’s it. Everything’s fine.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s busy with some work deal. You know how he is.”
“He works too hard.”
Harlow bit her lip. “And he just wants you to relax.”
“I do have a Bikram yoga class starting soon.”
“Go, balance your chakras.”
“I hear that sarcasm, Harlow Maree.”
Harlow smiled. Her mom could be funny and sweet when she wasn’t being anxious and paranoid. “I like yoga too, Mom, just not as much as you do.”
“You’re sure everything’s fine?”
“Nothing to worry about.” Harlow kept her tone as breezy as she could manage. She said goodbye and shoved the phone back into her handbag. Then she let out a long breath.
“You should tell her,” Easton said.
“No.” Harlow shook her head. “Mom’s…delicate. She doesn’t deal well with stress. We shield her.”
Since she was a child, Harlow knew not to go to her mother with a cut or