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Back Deception Cove
Chapters (78)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-One
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. Twenty-Four
  31. Twenty-Five
  32. Twenty-Six
  33. Twenty-Seven
  34. Twenty-Eight
  35. Twenty-Nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-One
  38. Thirty-Two
  39. Thirty-Three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. Thirty-Eight
  45. Thirty-Nine
  46. Forty
  47. Forty-One
  48. Forty-Two
  49. Forty-Three
  50. Forty-Four
  51. Forty-Five
  52. Forty-Six
  53. Forty-Seven
  54. Forty-Eight
  55. Forty-Nine
  56. Fifty
  57. Fifty-One
  58. Fifty-Two
  59. Fifty-Three
  60. Fifty-Four
  61. Fifty-Five
  62. Fifty-Six
  63. Fifty-Seven
  64. Fifty-Eight
  65. Fifty-Nine
  66. Sixty
  67. Sixty-One
  68. Sixty-Two
  69. Sixty-Three
  70. Sixty-Four
  71. Sixty-Five
  72. Sixty-Six
  73. Sixty-Seven
  74. Sixty-Eight
  75. Acknowledgments
  76. Discover More
  77. About the Author
  78. Also by Owen Laukkanen

Jess said nothing. She studied Shelby Walker across the table. What about the part where you fucked him? she was thinking. How’d it come about that you were sleeping with my husband; where does that fit into this picture?

“Did your husband ever call you while you were overseas?” Burke asked, filling the silence. “Ever write you any emails, anything he might have let on where he’d stashed the package?”

Jess shook her head. “He just talked about trucks and the new home he was going to build me, all the usual stuff. And…” She stopped. Felt stupid, so stupid, all of a sudden.

“Yeah?”

“Fishing,” she said, and reached for the whiskey. “He sent me a letter that arrived after he died. Fishing was all it was.” She looked at Burke. “He said he’d had a real damn good day of fishing.”

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Three

The Nigerian man appeared at Bryce Whitmer’s front door precisely on time. He was short and lean, well groomed, his hands freshly manicured, his black hair cropped close to the skull. He wore a suit, freshly pressed and onyx black, the white shirt beneath a stark contrast to his dark brown skin.

His face was clean shaved and unblemished, save a scar he wore across his right cheek, a souvenir from another conflict, long ago, another precious commodity, another part of the world. He left a black Chevy Suburban parked in Whitmer’s driveway.

Bryce Whitmer answered the door. He looked the man up and down. Took in the suit, the Suburban, and—of course—the color of his skin, almost a photonegative of Whitmer’s own wan complexion.

“Guess you must be Okafor,” Whitmer said.

The man smiled thin, a humorless expression. “My name is Joy,” he said. “I am here on Mr. Okafor’s behalf. May I come in?”

“Okafor didn’t say anything about any Joy,” Whitmer replied. He hadn’t budged.

Joy’s smile, small though it was, didn’t waver. He produced a cell phone from his pocket. “You are welcome to call Mr. Okafor to discuss my presence here, if you feel the need.”

Whitmer looked at the phone like it was an alien artifact. Then, wordless, he stepped aside and let Joy through the door—taking care as he did so, Joy noticed, to reveal the Colt Python he held at his hip.

Kirby Harwood, Cole Sweeney, and Dale Whitmer sat in the kitchen. They stood when Joy walked in.

“You’re not Okafor,” Harwood said.

Joy smiled his thin smile again. “No, I am not,” he agreed, “and that is a good thing for you and your friends. I am the man Mr. Okafor sends to clean up situations like that in which you find yourselves.” He met each of the men’s eyes in turn. “If you and I are talking, it means you still have hope. By the time you see Ateke Okafor, it’s already too late.”