Trace Evidence: Michael Flint Series, #2

Praise for

New York Times and USA Today

Bestselling Author

Diane Capri

Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too. Kim Otto is a great, great character. I love her.

Lee Child, #1 Worldwide Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers

[A] welcome surprise… [W]orks from the first page to ‘The End’.

Larry King

Swift pacing and ongoing suspense are always present… [L]ikable protagonist who uses her political connections for a good cause… Readers should eagerly anticipate the next [book].

Top Pick, Romantic Times

…offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended.

Library Journal

[A] fast-paced legal thriller…energetic prose…an appealing heroine…clever and capable supporting cast…[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book].

Publishers Weekly

Expertise shines on every page.

Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha, and Macavity Award-Winning MWA Grand Master

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Copyright © 2022 Diane Capri, LLC

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Trace Evidence is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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eISBN: 9781942633730

Original cover design by: Cory Clubb

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Table of Contents

Reviews

Copyright

Dedication

Cast of Primary Characters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

More From Diane Capri

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About The Author

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Dedication

For the readers who have supported me and enjoyed my books and asked for more.

I couldn’t do this without you.

Thank you.

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Cast of Primary Characters

Michael Flint

Kathryn (Katie) Scarlett

Alonzo Drake

Veronica Beaumont

Jamison (Jamie) Beaumont

Josh Hallman

Mark Wilcox

Boyd Wilcox

Ruben Vega

Kevin Hayes

Sebastian (Baz) Shaw

Jasper Crane

Madeline (Maddy) Scarlett

and

Carlos Gaspar

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It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected.

—The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes in The Crooked Man

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Chapter One

Nassau, Bahamas

Friday

Michael Flint breathed evenly as he ignored muscle fatigue and the cold Atlantic Ocean pressing his body through his wetsuit like a taunting squeeze from an anaconda. He’d seen the sea do its worst. The ocean could surely squeeze a man to death more easily than the snake.

But he couldn’t think about that now. It was too late to turn back.

He’d trained smart and hard for this mission. Reminded his body of lessons learned long ago and practiced but rarely employed these days. He was more fit than he’d been in years.

His combat dive training had guided his equipment choices, too. His wetsuit snugged like a second skin, allowing unrestricted range of motion. The diving knife strapped to his leg was easily within reach.

An untraceable standard Sig Sauer P226 was tucked into his suit. The pistol featured a waterproof chamber, which meant he could fire effectively underwater.

He wasn’t expecting a gunfight before he reached The Sea King, but operations like these were unpredictable.

Around his waist were weights that countered his natural buoyancy and kept him effortlessly below the surface.

His lips and teeth held the mouthpiece for his rebreather system in place. The device recirculated a small volume of air, scrubbing away the harmful carbon dioxide before allowing the cleaned air back into his lungs.

The system was lightweight, which allowed freedom of movement, and eliminated exhaled bubbles that might otherwise announce his approach.

His exit strategy was just as sound. He wasn’t worried. He lived, as always, in the moment. Alert. Oriented. Controlled.

He breathed evenly through the mouthpiece as he swam, large scuba fins propelling him steadily forward. He glanced at his watch. He’d been swimming below the surface for thirty-seven minutes from the drop-off point. His rebreather system functioned normally and guaranteed a healthy margin of error. No need to surface yet.

At his current rate of speed, he would arrive at the luxury superyacht precisely as planned.

The Sea King rested off the east coast of Nassau, Bahamas, relaxed and alone in the sunshine like a lazy lizard. The wind was slow, the waves gentle. The yacht was capable of remarkably high speed for its size. But speed wasn’t its objective today.

Flint had studied every inch of The Sea King and its crew thoroughly for the past two weeks. As he completed his approach, another part of his brain ran through what he’d learned once more.

In the center, The Sea King rose three decks above the hull. The top deck was the owner’s private preserve. The deck below was ringed with a continuous band of mirrored windows that deflected heat without obstructing the stunning views from inside. When not in use, the helipad at the bow was designed to serve as a sundeck, often occupied by nude sunbathers. But none lounged there today.

The Sea King was famous among a certain social set. If the decks and staterooms could only talk, Flint’s client had said, scandalous secrets of internationally renowned masters of the universe would be revealed. To Flint, the depraved behavior of frivolous gadabouts was unimportant.

He wasn’t here to party.

As his father had done before him, the yacht’s current owner hosted a legendary card game each week. Participation was by invitation only, for men of a certain quality. A long list of potential players lusted after a seat at the table. Some worthy, some not, waited years for the chance. For more, the invitation would never come.

Flint was not welcome. Which was why his preparations had been especially thorough.

In a casino bar, he had befriended the ship’s private chef. Plied with enough alcohol, the chef had confirmed The Sea King’s custom interior layout, which Flint had retrieved from the manufacturer’s secret archives. With a high-powered telescope and secure military satellites, Flint had spent two weeks studying The Sea King’s activities.

The chef had drunkenly confirmed other details. The regular crew numbered ten, all weapons trained. Two were dedicated to security. The security team was identifiable by the black name tags they wore on their starched white uniforms. But it was their ruddy seaworn faces and bulging muscles that distinguished them as the ones most likely to win in close-quarters combat.

Flint had watched as wealthy visitors were ferried from the island to the helipad at The Sea King’s bow several times. Occasionally, women who didn’t behave like wives were included. Up to twelve guests could be luxuriously accommodated overnight. Daytime visitor capacity was 120 souls.

He’d learned The Sea King’s systems and routines, charted its timetables, placed trackers on the ship’s vehicles.

In short, over the past fourteen days, he’d identified, eliminated, and minimized risks until nothing but irreducible dangers remained.

Two hours before he entered the water, Flint had watched the helicopter deliver just five gamblers for the high-stakes poker game. With the crew and the owner, there were a total of sixteen people on board. Sixteen men. No girlfriends, no hookers, and certainly no wives or children.

Today’s batch were longtime gamblers, but they were not the best of the best. Which was how the yacht’s owner liked it. These players were the perfect patsies.

Just as Flint’s client had been.

Should the patsies ever realize they’d been cheated, they’d have no legal recourse.

Not that his client wanted to make a legal claim for his losses. Far from it. Attention to his plight from the courts or anyone else was the last thing he wanted. Which, in addition to extraordinary competence, was why he’d hired Flint. Discretion.

His client had lost a family heirloom. A not-so-small piece of jewelry. More specifically, an amber and gold pendant. The pendant was priceless because it had been a gift. From Nicholas II. The last Russian czar.

The client’s great-grandmother had been a young violinist. In the dark months before the Russian Revolution, she had performed a private concert for the Romanovs and their guests.

Czar Nicholas II had been so moved by the performance, his own children so entranced by the girl’s artistry, he had taken the pendant from his wife’s neck and bestowed it upon the young musician.

Hers was the last concert ever performed for the czar’s family. Months later, the Romanovs were executed in a grim stone cellar. The girl went on to become famous, for a time. She wore the Romanov pendant during every performance for the remainder of her career.

The pendant had been passed down through her family, until Flint’s client inherited it. Because of its provenance, the pendant was appraised at eight million dollars, but it was not insured. Money could never replace the heirloom.

Flint patted the cheap replica stashed in the waterproof pouch in his wetsuit. The genuine Romanov pendant was resting inside the safe in The Sea King’s private office, deep within the owner’s suite on the top deck.

All Flint had to do was exchange the fake pendant for the real one. When he thought of the mission like that, it seemed simple enough.

He kept up his rhythm, syncing his breathing to his power strokes with his arms and legs. The Sea King’s hull appeared dead ahead, relaxed and waiting in the sparkling water.

He glanced at his watch again. The first scheduled break in the poker game had ended fifteen minutes ago. They should be well under way again in the glass-enclosed salon on the main deck.

Flint approached the yacht’s aft, where the full-beam beach club featured a fold-down swim platform, deployed when guests were present. The platform was the easiest, fastest place to breach The Sea King from the ocean and the area least likely to be occupied during the intense poker game.

He stayed well below the surface and swam around the underside of the platform. There were no feet dangling in the water. He approached the platform’s right side and slowly lifted his head from the water. The platform was unoccupied.

Rattan furniture with thick white cushions and ocean-blue pillows was arranged on the teak wood floor to provide seating for six. Two club chairs, a love seat, two end tables, and an ottoman in the center completed the grouping. All as expected.

Flint removed his fins and attached them to his belt. He dropped his weights into the ocean, then lifted himself out of the water and onto the swim platform, keeping out of sight of a closed-circuit security camera.

He backed against the hull and grabbed his gun. From the same waterproof pouch he pulled a towel and wiped down his wetsuit. The last thing he needed was a trail of wet prints leading anyone to him. Satisfied, he tucked the towel under one of the cushions.

The owner’s suite was on the upper deck, two decks above him. Careful to avoid the security cameras, he moved into the ship along a corridor and took the rear stairs to the main deck. He flattened himself against a pillar and peered around its edge into the giant glass-walled salon.

Views of the vast ocean through the mirrored windows were breathtaking, but the six poker players seated at arm’s length around a circular table were intent on the game. Stacks of poker chips rested at each player’s right arm. No one spoke.

The dealer was a man from Long Island, New York. Flint recognized him from his dossier. A man of loose morals and questionable business practices. The stack of chips at his elbow was taller than any of the others. His reputation for expert gambling seemed well displayed.

Flint silently continued to the next set of stairs and climbed to the upper deck. He adjusted his grip on the gun. The Sea King’s security crew relaxed procedures while the yacht was at sea, knowing they could easily hear any approaching conveyance, in the unlikely event one should arrive. As expected, the owner’s suite entrance door was wide open.

Flint eased up to the side of the doorway. All he heard was an occasional exclamation from the gamblers below and the distant throb of the yacht’s engines, idling to provide power for climate control, lighting, kitchen equipment, and the like.

He had to keep moving. The longer he spent on the ship, the greater the chance of discovery and failure. Timing was always everything.

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Chapter Two

Flint looked around for threats and, seeing none, slipped carefully inside the owner’s suite. So far, so good.

Every inch of the suite screamed wealth and privilege. The Sea King’s multimillion-dollar purchase price had paid for custom interiors well beyond what many seafaring monarchs could afford.

He ignored the grandeur and passed through the lounge area to a short corridor. Two doors led off to bedrooms, but at the far end was the office. He checked behind him and moved into the passageway. His footsteps seemed loud to his hypersensitive ears inside the confined space. The gamblers were below him. He had to hope the yacht’s builders had been generous with the sound deadening between decks.

Wood creaked ahead of him. A door popped open. A crew member in a white suit stepped out, a silver tray with the meal’s remains held in both hands. His eyes widened at the same time Flint reversed his grip on the gun and threw a straight-arm punch.

The man’s mouth had barely begun to open when Flint’s knuckles hammered into his jaw. His head twisted sideways. His eyes rolled up and his body leaned backward.

Flint grabbed the tray with his free hand and shoved it against the collapsing man, pushing him to increase his backward momentum.

Flint quickly checked the room beyond the open door. The bed was unmade. He must have been cleaning the owner’s suite.

Flint lowered the unconscious man to the floor. Marco, according to his name tag. Flint placed the tray on the bed and dragged Marco into a closet. He closed and locked the door. Marco would be out for a while. By the time he regained consciousness, Flint planned to be long gone.

He listened hard. The players were still gambling and the engines were still rumbling. He heard no one headed in his direction.

Back in the corridor, he removed his tools from his pack and advanced toward the closed door. The office was the owner’s exclusive domain, according to his chef. Entry was restricted to two people, the owner and his head of security. A biometric panel controlled the lock.

Flint grinned when he saw the setup. It was just as the drunk chef had described.

A retina scan was required to unlock the office. Retina scanning had an error rate of one in ten million. Impossible odds, even for those seeking vengeance against a cheating gambler. Thus, it could be relied on to thwart the average burglar.

But while retina scanners seemed cool in the movies, they were finicky technology. Simply put, they weren’t reliable. Bright or inconsistent lighting, such as on this yacht, could cause malfunctions. If either the owner or his security chief developed any one of a number of eye conditions, the scanner would fail.

Which meant the retina scanner could lock the owner out of his own office as easily as it kept others out. Unacceptable.

The owner was wise enough to know the scanner’s weaknesses. He would also know that tech-savvy governments now chose iris recognition instead of retina recognition for reliability.

All of which meant that sophisticated individuals clever enough to use a retina scanner for security locks also had a backup system.

Like an iris scanner coupled with a fingerprint or palm-print scanner.

Or, like The Sea King’s owner, all three.

Flint grinned again. With advance planning, these backup systems could be hacked. And he was nothing if not an advance planner.

His preparation time had been well spent. More than once in the past two weeks, he’d crossed paths with the yacht owner in the VIP men’s lounge at the casino. He’d acquired samples of the owner’s fingerprints and palm prints. He’d captured high-resolution images of both of the man’s irises. He’d requested duplicates of all three biometrics from the lab. The entire process required a man with Flint’s talents and connections, of course.

He shoved his weapon into his belt and reached into his tool bag again for his counterfeits.

First, he allowed the retina scanner to reject his retinas and engage the backup system.

Next, he used the duplicate fingerprints, palm prints, and iris scans in the proper order to release the lock.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and reengaged the biometric scanners.

The safe was on the far wall. It was a high-quality item with an old-style combination lock. The owner was overly confident in his perimeter security. He didn’t expect a burglar to get this far.

Flint attached a small box to the safe door and donned an earphone. He listened to the clicks as he rotated the dial. Five turns first, to completely unwind the mechanism. Then he reversed direction, listening and feeling the clicks. The change in sound was easy to find with the specially designed amplifier, yet it took a full minute to get the last number.

The safe’s door popped open.

He heard footsteps. He brought the Sig up and aimed at the door. Flint strained to hear beyond the barrier.

Marco, a man called out, his voice hushed. Marco, where are you?

Flint heard doors being gently tapped, and then footsteps leading away. He waited a moment longer before lowering his weapon and returning to the open safe.

He tucked the Romanov pendant securely into his waterproof pouch. He pulled out the documents and valuables, arranged them on the floor, and took photographs. As a billionaire once told him, every good businessman always keeps insurance.

He restacked the contents inside the safe.

Finally, he placed the fake pendant on the precise spot where the real one had been a few minutes before. His client needed time to receive the Romanov pendant and return it to his safety-deposit box before the yacht’s owner realized it was missing. Satisfied the safe’s contents were arranged exactly as he’d found them, he locked the safe.

Briefly, he scanned the office. Luxury emanated from every square inch of the place. Had Flint been a different sort of burglar, he could have a very nice haul. But he was there for a purpose, and he had achieved it. He left everything except the pendant precisely where he’d found it.

Eight minutes after he’d entered the office, he pressed the lock release to open the door, slipped into the suite, and pulled the door closed. He heard the lock click into place and the beeping sounds of the biometric alarm resetting.

Still well within his planned elapsed time for the mission. Only his extraction remained.

He opened the door and glanced into the stateroom with the unmade bed. The tray and its mess were still in place. Whoever had come looking for Marco had not done the job for him. Flint closed the door again and moved on.

His bare feet padded down the corridor into the opulent lounge. Behind him, a loud bump. Flint spun, gun at the ready. The room was empty, and below, the gamblers were still talking. He breathed easy.

The door to the owner’s bedroom crashed open. Marco stumbled into the corridor, still groggy, hand to his head, barely able to stand.

Marco was in no condition to fight, but his noise would summon more of the crew. Flint turned and ran.

When he reached the stairs, he saw the crew was quicker than he’d expected. One of the two security guards, Hewitt, stood on the bottom step, a tree-trunk-thick arm pointing a Glock 19 at Flint’s chest. He gestured to Flint’s gun. Drop it.

Flint had been running, his arms pumping hard. He’d been preparing to take the stairs three at a time and keep going. The Sig was pointed upward. There was no way he could take aim before the guard fired.

Besides, he had come for an heirloom, not a killing spree.

Flint held his gun out, keeping it pointed toward the outside of the yacht. He heard footsteps behind him.

The groggy Marco arrived at his side. He shook his fist in Flint’s face and glowered. Ass—

Flint grabbed Marco’s arm before he could get the words out and launched him down the stairs. Flint followed behind, steering the man into Hewitt with his forearm.

The guard sidestepped. Flint launched a kick with his left leg into Hewitt’s groin. The guard buckled but didn’t collapse.

Flint shoved Marco in front of Hewitt and leapt toward the stairs to the lower level. Two more crewmen were climbing the steps. They were unarmed but could easily slow his progress until reinforcements arrived.

Flint veered around the stairs and ran toward the bow of the boat. Hewitt was back on his feet and closing fast.

Two shots rang out. Wood splintered from the low wall beside him. Flint dove for the floor. He was used to being shot at, and this bullet told him one thing. The first was a professionally placed warning but the next shot would hit him.

He ran behind the wall, doubled over to minimize his exposure. Hewitt appeared around the corner of the low wall. Aiming low, Flint fired once. Hewitt screamed and twisted sideways, tumbling out of view. Flint kept running.

He reached a stainless-steel ladder on his right. He threw himself onto the rungs, gripping the upright with one hand.

Freeze, growled a voice at the bottom of the ladder. The second security guard, Gilbey, wielded another Glock.

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Chapter Three

Flint paused. He didn’t remove his hand from the side rail. He could easily drop the six-foot distance to the main deck without injury. At that point, he could run, but a bullet from Gilbey’s weapon leveled at his abdomen would travel faster.

Down, said Gilbey, waving one