Face of danger, p.1
Face of Danger, page 1
ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE
FACE OF DANGER
NEW YORK BOSTON
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Table of Contents
A Preview of Edge of Sight
A Preview of Shiver of Fear
Copyright Page
For the survivors.
You know who you are.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book is a joint effort and, once again, I’ve had an embarrassment of riches when it comes to people willing to help. In particular, there are a few standouts who deserve praise on the page:
Barbie Furtado, beta reader and dear friend, who deserves far more credit than this simple acknowledgment. She read the manuscript as many times as I wrote it (we lost count), sacrificed hours of sleep so that I could wake to a lengthy critique, and gave of herself on a personal level to be sure I had some very important facts straight. She even made it six thousand miles from Fortaleza to Florida to hand deliver her love and support. Thank you, CD.
EMT John Johnson of the Atlanta area, for emergency medical support (on the facts, not the author), the lovely ladies of Windwalker Real Estate in Nantucket, Mass., who provided in-depth information about their glorious island, publicist Sharon Newcomb of Ocean Spray who offered assistance on the cranberry bogs, former FBI agent James Vatter, who is just an all-around priceless law enforcement resource, and Rossella Re, my Italian language specialist. Any errors are mine, not theirs.
My right hand and left, Kristen Painter and Louisa Edwards, who read snippets, brainstorm plot twists, open wine bottles, and generally perform the BFF task with style and substance. The über-talented ladies of Murder She Writes, as well, provide daily support, advice, ideas, and a safe place to rant, making it impossible to do my job without them. A special shout-out to Allison Brennan, always the voice of reason in a sea of crazy, and Kresley Cole, who just plain rocks.
My publishing team: Executive Editor Amy Pierpont, Editorial Assistant Lauren Plude, and the legions of brilliant professionals at Grand Central/Forever who guided this manuscript from concept to completion. And Robin Rue, literary agent without equal, who does everything she’s supposed to do (and more) with grace, humor, and patience.
And, as always, my loving husband, Rich, creator of Uncle Nino’s Comforting Cacciatore, and my dream-come-true kids, Dante and Mia, who teach me more about life than I could ever teach them. I fluff you all.
ACTRESS ISOBEL DESOTO FOUND DEAD IN HER HOME
Second Oscar Winner’s Death Fuels Conspiracy: Coincidence, Curse, or Red Carpet Killer?
Los Angeles, California, April 18
The body of Oscar-winning actress Isobel DeSoto, 36, was found in her Malibu Canyon home early this morning by her housekeeper. Sources close to the investigation say numerous prescription medications were found at the scene.
The actress was last seen leaving the Hollywood Hills home of director Angus Gaites, where she attended a dinner party given in honor of her recent Academy Award for Best Actress for her role as a young widow in the film The Devil’s Compass, directed by Gaites. Ms. DeSoto’s death is fueling a groundswell of Internet and media speculation regarding the untimely deaths of two consecutive winners of the Best Actress Oscar. One year ago, just weeks after winning the Academy Award for her leading role as Madame de Pompadour in the blockbuster film Hall of Mirrors, actress Adrienne Dwight lost control of her car and careened over a Los Angeles hillside to what has been officially called an accidental death.
Assistant Director Joseph Gagliardi, head of the Criminal Programs Division of the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office, has confirmed that the investigation is being turned over to the FBI, indicating that authorities think these deaths could be the act of a serial killer.
When asked about the reaction of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, President Gilbert Gordon confirmed that nothing about the Oscar tradition would change. However, a source within the Academy added that “if there’s a Red Carpet Killer, then next year’s nominees may very well be hoping to lose.”
CHAPTER 1
The Bunker Hill Bridge cast a long shadow over the sea of slate gray concrete bowls and ramps, the whine of traffic competing with the constant whirl of BMX and skate wheels on concrete. It was music to Vivi Angelino’s ears.
Trotting down the hill from one of the viewing areas, she scooped up a discarded napkin that had blown from the refreshment stand and popped it into the trash. Charles River Skate Park was her baby, and even the smallest piece of trash marred its perfection.
Switching her board from one hand to the other, she paused at the bottom of the half-pipe to watch as some kid attempted a five-forty McTwist. A thrum of empathetic exhilaration pulsed through her as the skater sailed into the air and spun gracefully into the move.
Vivi had yet to land the five-forty, but when she did it would be here, at the Boston park she’d spent every spare minute raising money and corralling support to build.
The McTwister wiped out right in front of her with a slam and a loud “Sonofabitch!”
Vivi walked over to help the kid up, offering knuckles to the failed skater. “You’ll get it.”
“Damn right I will,” he said, popping up even though his butt had to burn. “The McTwist is better than sex.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, half to herself as she checked out the top of the ramp. “Haven’t tried it yet.”
The cement reflected silver white in the rare winter sunshine, a gift on a Sunday in February, when the weather gods usually tortured Boston with snow.
The pipe was crowded, so she decided to cruise the park some more and give herself mental back pats for the all the hard volunteer work she’d done. All the years of trips to City Hall, all the presentations to council members, all the free time she’d sacrificed had been worth it to give the skaters of Boston a home for their passion. These kids, city rats most of them, had no idea how to rally politicians and city leaders to get what they wanted. But Vivi was older—though no less passionate about her pastime—and remembered how frustrating it could be to be a teenager with no voice.
So she’d been their voice, and this glorious jigsaw of concrete and grass was the result. She eyed the strategically placed viewing areas where parents and partners, newbs and wannabes looked out over the courses and—shit. Her heart dropped like a longboard on the eight-foot ramp.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton Lang stood with strong hands gripping the rail, broad shoulders tensed in determination, his relentless gaze sweeping over the ramps like a deadly sniper intent on finding his next victim.
Lang was the very last person she’d ever expect to see at Charles River Skate Park.
He’d only make fun of it. Tease her for being a little old for a skateboard.
Not that his opinion mattered. He was a client of her security and investigation firm, and this was a nonworking Sunday morning. Who cared if he saw her hanging at the park she had built?
She did. She cared too freaking much about everything that concerned Colt Lang. And that was her problem. Her dirty little secret problem.
So what the hell was this uptight white-bread FBI agent doing on her sacrosanct skate park grounds, wrecking her perfectly awesome Sunday morning? How could he have found her here?
And now he would see her with three inches of hair standing on end from her last trip down the vert pipe, her face damp with sweat, her clothes hanging off her like she’d grabbed them from her bedroom floor and stepped in without even glancing in the mirror. Because, well, she had.
But it doesn’t matter, right, Viviana? He’s just a client.
Right.
She stole another look, and saw him take his phone out of his pocket.
Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her—he’d have to have a really excellent eye to pick her up in this sea of skaters, every single one wearing the same uniform of baggy top and cargo pants, sunglasses, and helmet.
Inside the pocket of her cargo pants, her phone rang. Damn. He was calling her.
She turned, trying to use her board to shield herself as she slipped the phone out, hoping he wasn’t scanning the crowd to spot anyone answering a cell phone at that moment. It would be so like him to use that sneaky tactic to find her.
“Yeah?” The word sounded as on edge as he made her feel.
“Yeah?” His baritone tickled her ear. “That’s how you answer the phone?”
“Oh, so sorry, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of Proper Phone Etiquette and Manners. Let’s have a do-over.” She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Mr. Lang. Viviana Angelino at your service—despite the fact that it is Sunday morning and I am not anywhere near the Guardian Angelinos office. How can I help you?”
He laughed, a mix of a grunt and a low catch in his throat, hating, absolutely hating, that the sound sent a little jolt right down to her toes.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Goddamn him. “What are you talking about?”
“I think I see you, but I need you to turn around.”
“You see me? I’m in church right now, so I seriously doubt that you see me.”
“Church? Right. You’re worshipping at the altar of Airwalk.”
How’d he know that brand? And what made her think she could lie to him?
“Turn around, Vivi.” He said her name just the way she liked it: Vee-vee. He drew out those twin syllables and made those long e’s sound… sexy.
Still, she refused to move. “Just tell me what you wan
“I want you to turn around.”
“Do you have a job for the Guardian Angelinos?” she asked.
“No.”
The single syllable, invasive, and, oh Lord, sexy, punched her gut. “Do you need a report on the assignment that Zach is currently working on?”
“No.”
“Do you have a big fat check to give me for all the consulting work we do on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“No.”
“Then go away and I’ll see you at our scheduled meeting Monday at eleven o’clock.”
A hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump.
“No.” He tightened his grip and eased her around. “Turn around.”
She felt the heat of his body behind her, his presence so strong it made her go weak behind the knee pads.
“Damn you, Lang.” She pivoted, her gaze landing on the Izod logo on his chest, his jacket hanging open to confirm what she already suspected. He was a nerd who wore collared pullovers. And they fit like a dream.
With one finger, he gently tapped the brim of her helmet. “This is very cute, Angelino.”
“I told you I hate to be called—”
“Cute. I know.”
The air cooled her sweaty head when he took the helmet off. Great. Helmet hair.
His smile deepened and his hazel eyes glinted gold and green. “What else could you call this, other than cute?”
Mortifying?
She stepped back and glared at him. What the hell did she care what Lang thought of her? “This is my Sunday special. I’m off the clock right now, Lang, so what do you want?”
“A good security specialist and investigator is never off the clock,” he said, all condescension and good reason. “I thought you were a little business-owning tigress, working tirelessly to build your new organization into a force in the security industry.”
“Remind me never to confide anything in you again.” Anything. Especially her fantasies.
She eased the longboard between them, desperate to put any kind of barrier between them.
Lang seemed to be getting way too much enjoyment from her disheveled state. Of course he was amused. He’d cruised into her world like a package of perfection—not a chestnut hair out of place, his stupid preppy shirt pressed like it just came off the rack at Bloomingdale’s and fitting so snug over his expansive shoulders. She’d bet her life he was carrying a Glock under that jacket, too.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded.
“You shaved, Lang? On a Sunday? What’s wrong with you?”
He brushed his whiskerless face. “It’s the former Boy Scout in me.”
She rolled her eyes. It was the nerd in him. And, God, that nerd did unholy things to her insides.
“Want something to drink?” he asked, putting a casual hand on her shoulder like he owned her. She’d tied her sweatshirt around her waist after her last run, so no doubt her skin felt damp through the cotton T-shirt he touched. Oh, fabulous. Now he was sticking to her. “There’s a refreshment stand over there.”
“I know.” She dropped the board and hopped on, zipping a few feet ahead of him. “I built it.”
Before he could answer, she kicked to the ground and took off ahead of him, rounded a concrete hill, swerved up the side, twisted the board into a perfect one-eighty, then landed hard.
“You built it?” he asked, reaching her just as she toed the board and gave him a cocky look.
“I supervised the fund-raising team that scared up the dollars to build it,” she explained. “Charles River Skate Park is the result of the hard work of a major community volunteer organization. One that I happen to be extremely involved with.”
“Really.” He scrutinized her for a moment, like an art dealer who kind of saw something worthwhile—but then he looked away. Like he’d rather pass.
She hated that his disinterest torqued her.
Disinterest is good, Vivi. He’s a client. Client. Cli-ent. How often did she need to remind herself of that?
He slipped her helmet back on her head. “Don’t skate without this.”
She took it back off again. “I’m walking, not skating. What do you want from me today, Lang?”
“I just came to tell you I have to cancel our meeting tomorrow. I had a change in my schedule. I can come over to your offices on Wednesday if you have time.”
Like he couldn’t have called to tell her that. Or sent a text, since they seemed to be exchanging plenty of them on a regular basis. Couldn’t he just leave a message with Chessie? Why did control-freak Lang always need to do business in person?
Was it because he didn’t trust the efficient delivery of an e-mail message, or because he wanted to see her? She squashed the thought, and considered how much to tell him when she replied.
“You’ll have to meet with my brother on Wednesday. I’ll be out of town.”
He gave her an interested look. “Work or fun?”
“Work is fun. Maybe not for hardened FBI agents, but we budding security-business owners have a blast.”
“I’m serious.”
That made her laugh. “You were born serious, Lang.”
He almost smiled. But not quite. “Where are you going?”
“Need-to-know basis. And sorry, but you don’t.” He’d just scoff at the whole idea anyway. “You’re not our only client, you know.”
“I’m the only one here.”
Just the way he said it sent warmth rolling through every female corner of her body.
“You can meet with Zach,” she said. “My brother is up to speed on all our open cases. You’ll never miss me.”
His brow twitched upward, ever so imperceptibly. Like… like maybe he would miss her. “I was hoping you’d give a full report on the Berkower case I handed over to the Guardian Angelinos last month. That case is in your bailiwick.”
“Bailiwick?” She choked a derisive laugh. “Where do you get these words? Everything’s in my bailiwick, but I’m going to be in L.A., so—”
“You’ve got clients in L.A. now?” He sounded surprised, and way too interested. “I didn’t realize your little company was going national.”
Your little company. She should be used to slight put-downs from Lang by now. They were a fact of life, no different from the teasing she took from the cousins she and Zach were raised with. She knew it was just his way of maintaining control. Still, they irked her.
“If you knew why I was going, you wouldn’t be so liberal with your thinly veiled insults.”
“Then tell me.”
Some skaters whizzed by, swerving to miss Lang, who strode down the path like he’d built the place instead of Vivi and her band of volunteers.
“Can’t,” she said simply. “It’s client confidential.” Or it would be. As soon as she got the job.
“So you do have a California client? That’s interesting.”
She almost lied, but her mother’s well-painted image of St. Peter at the pearly gates counting up her lifetime tally stopped her, as it always did. “To be honest, it’s just a pitch for new business, but I think we have a shot.” A very long shot. But that was her favorite kind. “Why is that interesting?”
“Because…” He hesitated, sliding a glance at her. “I may be moving out there.”
Her heart dropped so hard and fast she felt it hit bottom. “Really?”
He shrugged, feigning a casualness that something told her he didn’t feel. “Possibly. There’s an opening for an SAC position out there that I’ve been interviewing for.”
“Whoa, Lang.” She gave him a playful punch in the arm, using the opportunity to let her knuckles enjoy the hard bump of his bicep. “Big promotion to Special Agent in Charge, losing that pesky ‘assistant’ handle.” A promotion that would put him three thousand miles away. “You’d be running the whole office?”
“God, no. Only the Criminal Programs Division, which is pretty big. There are multiple SACs in an office that size, so it’d still be a move out—er, up.”
