Page 23
The cargo . . . that was interesting, though.
Auto parts.
Clothes.
Shoes.
Beauty products.
“Clothes and shoes.” He starred those in each entry. “What kind of shoes?”
Because high-end shoes? Those could add up fast. Falconetti’s shoe collection came close to the cost of his fish-and-ski, and her collection wasn’t even that large.
He tapped the marker against the words beauty products.
Nothing huge, nothing high dollar in one item, but those could add up to thousands, especially broken down and parted out.
So was this random and coincidental? Or was he looking at a retail pipeline?
A frustrated exhale bled from his lips. He’d get one hell of a lot more from a site visit than from a stack of somebody else’s reports.
His phone buzzed lightly, and he didn’t even have to look. That was his fifteen-minute alert reminding him of an online meeting.
“That looks interesting.” Caitlin’s husky voice slid over him.
He glanced around, pleasure and uncertainty mingling in him with a sharp spurt of guilt. “Hey.”
His gaze dipped to the pair of coffee cups she carried, steam rising from the fresh brew. Yep, he was a heel.
She passed him one cardboard-wrapped cup and leaned next to him, scanning the board. “What is this?”
“I don’t know yet.” Humor quirked at one corner of his lips before he took a cautious sip. Oh, hell, yeah. That was good. “Maybe a disruption to your shoe supply.”
Not moving her attention from his chart, she buried an unimpressed noise in her coffee.
“Maybe a retail pipeline.” He shifted, folding one foot over the other. “Not enough to see how they’re connected yet.”
“There are more Christofides losses.”
“Yeah, I saw that.” He crossed his arms, balancing his cup on his elbow. Her shoulder brushed his arm. “But they’re a bigger carrier, too, so that might be statistical.”
“And it’s all small consumer goods.”
“Yep.”
A half-smile curved her full mouth, a hint of affection there. “You want to run it down yourself.”
“Old habits die hard.” Like burying tough emotions in sexual release. Gaze on her profile, he cleared his throat. “Listen, about last night—”
“Not at work, Lamar.” The fine lines about her eyes tightened, and she threw her shoulders back, cadet-straight. With a pair of fingers, she nudged his chin so his gaze centered on the board. “What do you see?”
Dutifully, he focused on the notes, re-reading them. He relaxed into an exhale and took another sip. “The Christophides losses are mostly beauty products, and they’re close together. Somebody knows what’s on those trailers. How to hit them without them being missed til days later.”
“Mmm.” The soft noise vibrated between them, not agreeing or disagreeing. She simply waited, letting him talk it out. She knew more than anyone how his mind worked.
“Somebody with access to the manifests.” He tapped a finger against his ribs. “Dispatch, maybe.”
She shifted, shoulder brushing his once more. A hint of familiar spice, the shampoo and soap she liked, wafted over him.
