Murder Mix-Up. Lisa Phillips

eyebrows lifted. “He lives up there, by Seattle?”

      Declan nodded. “Someone rented an apartment in Tacoma. He listed his occupation as ‘marine.’”

      “But I’m based out of Camp Pendleton. Southern California.”

      “I know.” Declan smiled. He was pleased for his brother, even not knowing much about his life. It shouldn’t be a surprise—not a good one anyway—learning something so simple. “And a Corporal now?”

      Nicholas didn’t reply. “Is there anything else?”

      It was Portia who said, “You have an idea why a man is using your identity?” She’d leaned down close enough a strand of her hair tickled the side of his face. “He has a driver’s license and credit cards.”

      Nicholas’s gaze shifted to her, and Declan saw something there. What he didn’t know was whether it was about Portia or the question.

      Nicholas said, “I’m in Afghanistan. How do I know what’s happening in Washington State? I can tell you my wallet was stolen a few months back. Happened to a couple of other guys in my squad, as well. I canceled my cards and got a new driver’s license.” He shrugged.

      “Fair enough,” Portia said. “But the question had to be asked.”

      “Can I get back to sleep now?”

      “I need to talk to you about something first,” Declan said. “The man who killed this guy with your ID, he waited around—or came back—and shot at me. Special Agent Finch thinks someone might have it in for us.” He let that settle in with his brother, then said, “I’m going to fill her in on our...history.”

      “Not my history.”

      “I know you want to bury your head in the sand, but that doesn’t mean you’ve moved on.” At least, that was the way his shrink had explained it. “You’re still mad. Apparently, at me. And while it is in the past, it’s also part of us.”

      Nicholas leaned back in his chair. It was written all over his face that he didn’t want to hear what Declan said.

      He was going to say it anyway. “I want you to be careful.”

      “I’m in a war zone.”

      “You know what I mean, Nick. I don’t think this guy is going to come after you there, but he shot at me. He’s committed enough he found someone with your name, met with him and shot him dead.” Declan blew out a breath. “That guy is dead because of us.”

      “Not my fault.”

      “That’s not what I meant.” Declan ground his back teeth for a second. “I just want you to be aware, so you can be safe.”

      “I’ll be careful. Now, are we done?”

      He sighed. Nodded.

      Nicholas clicked off the call, halfway out of his chair before the screen blanked.

      Declan leaned back and blew out a breath. When he glanced up at Portia she had a compassionate look on her face. He almost told her right then.

      “Coffee?”

      Declan looked at his watch. Nine thirty-four in the evening. “I doubt I’ll sleep a wink, so sure.”

      She took him to a break room. When she placed the mug in front of him and sat, he didn’t waste any time. “My real name isn’t Declan Stringer. It’s Declan Harris. My brother and I changed our names when we moved in with our aunt and uncle. We didn’t want to be those kids, the ones whose father had swindled investors out of millions and stashed it all in an offshore account.”

      She didn’t sip her coffee. Portia just watched him, and fingered the handle of her mug. Listened.

      “He was caught. Tried. The whole thing was a Ponzi scheme. When he went to prison we were left with nothing.”

      Nothing but each other and their aunt and uncle, and even that had turned sour. Declan and his brother hadn’t ever been best friends, the way brothers could be. They were too different. Nicholas internalized everything, and he never let a single thing go. Declan couldn’t live with that kind of bitterness. He’d had to figure out how to work the feeling out.

      He said, “Dad got out of prison six years ago. Nicholas had just graduated from high school. Dad called, said he wanted to see us both. Only I showed up. My brother wasn’t interested. Dad never came, though. I never saw him again.”

      Portia’s jaw clenched, and he recalled how she’d told him her own father had died.

      He said, “I’m sorry if this brings up bad memories.”

      “You’re worried about me?” She waved away his concern, her coffee mug still untouched. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

      Declan wasn’t convinced that was true.

      “I’ll look into the people your father swindled. See if there’s anyone who might still be around to want revenge. People like that usually aren’t quiet about their intentions.”

      She asked him about the tan truck the assailant had driven away in, and he told her everything he remembered. They compiled a description together, and she had him write it all down. Sign it.

      At the end she said, “It’s not much to go on. Not even really enough for a BOLO, since we don’t have a sketch of the man. The sheriff can keep his eye out for a tan truck and a Caucasian man in his forties. Dark clothes, with a ball cap. But there’s no way to narrow that down.”

      He thought over everything. “You really think I’m still in danger?”

      “Don’t drop your guard. Not until we figure out who your father wronged. Whoever it is could be the one who wants you and your brother dead.”

      He opened his mouth to tell her he’d be careful and wound up doing a jaw-popping yawn. “I should probably get some rest.” Things would make more sense in the morning. He’d be able to make a plan. See what else these NCIS agents had come up with. Maybe they’d even find the guy tomorrow. “You don’t think it’s his real identity that got him killed. So it must be some other reason than my brother’s name as well?”

      “I’m not ruling out either of those theories. We’re trying to figure out who the deceased really is, running his prints and such.” She got up. “But we’re also not going to assume you aren’t in danger. Until we know for sure, we can’t make assumptions.”

      Declan nodded. That made sense.

      Especially halfway to the hotel, when he realized he was being followed.

      By a tan truck.

       FOUR

      It wasn’t far to the hotel, but Portia kept her car behind Declan’s on Charleston Boulevard. Close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close he’d see her. There was no way she was going to let even a trained Secret Service agent go it alone when there was a gunman loose. If Declan figured out she was behind him—doubtful, since she was trained at this—she would simply tell him it was about the case.

      Her dead guy. Her killer. Her arrest to make.

      He’d probably feel better thinking she’d essentially made him the bait by following him, half expecting that same truck to show up. But it would be worse if he thought she was trying to protect him. She wouldn’t admit it was a little bit of both—along with a side of keeping her eye on a man who’d insinuated himself into her work life. It didn’t matter what his reasoning was, he’d gone behind her back to get on the case.

      Portia intended to nurse the sting of that rather than think about the attraction she felt between them every time he turned those dark eyes to her. Soon enough he was going to hop a plane back to his White