Face of Danger

by Roxanne St Claire

  The possibility that every conversation was monitored stopped her from asking anything but the most mundane question. “What kind of dog was it?” she asked. Not the question she wanted to ask.

  He did okay staying with my—his what? Girlfriend?

  “Golden.” He gave her a wry smile. “A guy’s dog.”

  “Unlike Stella,” she said with a laugh. “An actress’s dog.”

  “She’s a good kid.” He petted her again, and Stella looked up at him with adoring eyes. She’d forgotten Cara Ferrari and found a new love. “You’re a good kid, right, Stell?”

  The exchange was so endearing. And encouraging. Surely a man that sweet with dogs would not let her business and life fold under the weight of a ten-million-dollar debt just because he didn’t agree with her methods—would he?

  Hard to tell with Dudley D. He clearly chose the conventional path when faced with an option. And Vivi avoided the conventional path by nature.

  “I have agents to meet us when we land,” he said.

  “Agents from the Boston office?” Not good. They’d recognize her from work the Guardian Angelinos had done for the FBI for sure.

  “No, these are agents who are in a satellite office out in Cape Cod.”

  In other words, she was safe.

  “They’ll escort you past the media. Under the circumstances, we’re keeping media out of the terminal in Nantucket. They’ll be approximately forty to fifty feet away.”

  And none of those reporters, or fans, would know she wasn’t Cara Ferrari. “Thank you,” she said again, sipping her coffee. “Will the agents stay?”

  “We’ll discuss that later.”

  Right now, she had to focus on getting to the house as Cara Ferrari.

  The landing gear dropped and the airfield came into sight. Almost immediately she could see the penned-in crowd, as heavy as it had been in L.A., despite the early hour. After they landed, the pilot and copilot handled her luggage, said good-bye, and dropped the stairs. She checked her phone—nothing from Cara and crew—then pulled on a baseball cap that had been packed in the bag and slid on sunglasses.

  “I’m ready,” she said to Lang. “Let’s do this.”

  “You’re missing something,” he said.

  She tapped the hat and sunglasses, did a mental inventory of her bag. “Oh, jeez. I guess I should carry it.” She stuffed her hand into the bag and pulled out the Oscar.

  “I meant woman’s best friend.” He lifted Stella from the floor and gave the wiggling dog to Vivi.

  “I think she’d rather be with her new best friend.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t fly in your pictures, Ms. Ferrari.”

  “You can call me Cara,” she said, giving him a grateful look, then snuggling the dog, who wanted no part of her. “Hey, pooch, help me out here.” She buried her face in Stella’s neck. “If this big law-abiding FBI dude can fake it, so can you.”

  Stella rumbled a growl and Lang, damn him, actually smiled in collusion.

  Two men and a woman waited at the bottom of the steps. If their serious expressions and conservative dress didn’t give them away as FBI agents, the holstered Glocks on their hips certainly did.

  Lang nodded to them, then put a hand on Vivi’s back to lead her down the stairs, toward the noise, cheers, questions, and flashbulbs.

  The pressure of his hand increased when she hesitated. “One step at a time, Cara,” he said into her ear, sending a chill straight down to the toes crammed into pointed shoes. “This is just another Oscar-winning performance for you.”

  With that, she lifted the hand not holding Stella, waved the Oscar the way she’d seen Cara do, then strode toward the waiting car, aware of the agents shooting glances at her.

  Had she passed the test with them? When they reached the car, a simple black limo, the other agents fell away and Lang ushered her into the back, then reached for Stella.

  “Let me give the dog and statuette to them,” he said, motioning to the other agents. “They’ll take care of both.”

  She looked up, surprised at the suggestion, then Lang pointed to her collar and lifted a brow. A listening device in Stella’s collar? Or the Oscar? Could Cara be that clever?

  She handed both to him, then slid across the bench, noticing the plastic barrier between the back and driver. The trunk slammed as someone loaded her bag, then Lang returned, and they were cocooned in silence.

  “This is one of our cars,” he said, settling into the seat with his back to the driver. “Completely bulletproof and soundproofed, and not a single possibility you’re being heard by anyone but me.” He tapped on the glass behind him with his knuckles. “Not even him. So we can talk.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Vivi asked.

  “I have to tell Joseph Gagliardi, the assistant director in Los Angeles, and his task force that Cara sent a body double.”

  She let out a soft grunt of frustration and disappointment. “Why? Why do you have to tell anyone? Can’t you just pretend you don’t know who I am?”

  “No.” Zero room for argument in that one syllable. “I don’t pretend with my boss.”

  “Would-be boss,” she corrected.

  “On this assignment, I report to him. We’ll tell them, explain the nondisclosure situation and—”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Vivi, this isn’t a negotiation,” he said, leaning forward to skewer her with a dark, unwavering look. “It’s my way or the highway.”

  “Don’t throw your 1950s clichés at me. There’s always another way.”

  He was silent for a second, his seething still in check. “Okay, what do you suggest?”

  “I told you—just pretend you don’t know me.”

  “I can’t do that, Vivi. We’re on record as associates, I use your firm all the time, and I can’t and won’t play dumb. It’ll come back and bite us both in the ass.”

  “If anyone else were on this case, I could have pulled this off.”

  He cocked his head in acknowledgment. “True enough. You look like her. You might have fooled someone who doesn’t know you. But I’m on this case and that changes everything.”

  It certainly did. Vivi turned to look out the window at the sunrise over the sea of reporters. “Let me talk to Cara.”

  “You can talk to her?”

  “I can get a message to her. Let me explain that you’ve found evidence to suggest a connection between the first two deaths, which has brought the FBI in—”

  “She knows that.”

  And didn’t tell me. So much for client confidence. “I’ll tell her they sent an agent who knows me,” she said. Would that fly with Cara Ferrari? She was unpredictable, and Vivi had no way of knowing how she’d respond. Ten million dollars because the FBI sent someone who knew Vivi? That didn’t seem fair.

  Cara probably didn’t give a flying pig about fair.

  “You can have until this afternoon,” Lang said, sounding like he was giving her a concession on a silver platter.

  “Which is what—five o’clock?”

  “Twelve-o-one p.m. Eastern time.”

  She smiled. “Of course, I forgot who I’m dealing with.”

  “You have six hours, Vivi. We call the FBI at noon.”

  “Noon-o-one, Mr. By the Book.”

  “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.” His phone rang and he took the call, speaking softly about a drug raid in the South End, staying on the phone until the limo slowed at a set of wrought-iron gates in front of a walled-in property, the evergreens thick enough that she could see only the roof and some chimneys from a large home tucked way off the road.

  A pack of reporters already waited in the driveway, creating a block at the gate. They were pushed back by men she assumed were more FBI agents. Once on the property, they followed a long and winding drive to an enormous country French–style house. A few hundred feet away, another, smaller, version of the same house was tucked into the wooded lot, connected to the main house by a long,
enclosed walkway.

  The car rolled over the brick pavers, then drove around the side of the house to a parking garage.

  Lang helped Vivi climb out of the car and guided her into the house, pausing in a large utility room.

  “Stay here and wait for me. I want to talk to the other agents.”

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “At noon-o-one,” he said, disappearing back into the garage.

  He hadn’t been gone five seconds when the door to the rest of the house popped open and a woman appeared and stared at Vivi. She looked about sixty years old, with curly once-blonde-now-bland hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her eyes were vivid blue, her skin weathered, her smile—well, there was no smile.

  “You’re an excellent choice,” she finally said.

  The housekeeper who knew all.

  “Mercedes Graff,” the woman confirmed with a tight nod, still scrutinizing Vivi. “Where’s the Hund?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The dog.”

  “Stella? Oh, they’re bringing her.”

  “One drop of urine in this house and she’s outside,” Mercedes said. “And she will not sleep in your bed.”

  Vivi almost laughed. “No worries there.” The woman pointed forward. “This way.”

  “One of the FBI agents is bringing my luggage.”

  “They’ll stay in the guesthouse,” she said, as if Vivi’s statement meant nothing. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  Not a chance she was going to piss off Lang when they were in the middle of such delicate negotiations. The last thing she wanted to do was lose the few hours she’d bought in the limo.

  “I’ll wait for him.”

  Mercedes looked disgusted as she marched past Vivi and opened the door to the garage; it was empty. “He’s gone to the guesthouse.” She turned and got right in Vivi’s face. “This would be a good opportunity for us to talk privately. About Cara.”

  Maybe she could tell Vivi where Cara was, something she wouldn’t do with Lang on their heels. And if Vivi got that information, it might make up for not following his orders. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They walked out into a wide hallway, heading to the right, away from a large kitchen in the other direction.

  “This is the main living area,” the other woman said, indicating the back of the house, giving Vivi a glimpse of luxury, all decorated in the ubiquitous shades of yellow. “My quarters are downstairs, below the kitchen and utility room. The first floor is for living and lounging, with several guest suites, and upstairs is your exclusive domain. The pool is private and completely inaccessible from the outside, so if you want to be seen from a distance, I suggest the balcony from your upstairs living room or take a drive.”

  Mercedes was obviously in the know on the whole deal. And no doubt every word she overheard Vivi say would go straight to her boss.

  In a vestibule at the top of the stairs, an oil painting of a fog-shrouded landscape dominated one wall across from a set of mahogany double doors. They opened to a dreamy sort of paradise, with a bank of windows looking out toward the ocean. The sprawling living area was decorated in the usual color, but pale in this room, more buttery than lemon.

  “There’s a small kitchen over there, with an office and complete gym, and this way is your bedroom.” Mercedes took her under an arched threshold, to a plush room with a massive California king bed at the center. Across from it, a fireplace took up most of the wall.

  All lovely, but not important to Vivi. “What did you want to tell me about Cara?”

  “That is a closet,” she said, opening another door that led to a room the size of a small country, completely stocked with clothes and more nightmarish shoes, a chaise longue, and a three-way dressing mirror. “And here is the bathroom.”

  Dropped down from Mount Olympus by the Goddess of Decadence.

  “I could get used to that tub,” Vivi said, eyeing the Jacuzzi that took up a third of the room, a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall mirror behind it. A flash of Lang in that tub tortured her for a second.

  “There’s a steam room and sauna, of course.”

  Of course. “What did you want to tell me about Cara?”

  She just gave her a blank look. “I wanted to show you her rooms.”

  “That’s not…” Vivi shook her head, knowing a brick wall when she saw one. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Mercedes,” she said softly. “This whole thing”—she waved a hand at her face to indicate the disguise—“is not about avoiding a curse or folklore or media speculation anymore.”

  “It never was,” the woman said simply.

  “There is evidence.” She had to be very careful, because even if the walls didn’t have eyes and ears, this woman did. Everything she said could go right back to Cara. “Additional evidence that there could be a connection between the deaths of Isobel DeSoto and Adrienne Dwight.”

  Still an expressionless stare was the only response.

  “That means,” Vivi said slowly, “Cara is in genuine danger.”

  She blinked. “I thought that’s why you’re here.”

  “It is, but the authorities… will need to know where she is. Soon.” Like at one minute after noon today.

  “They don’t need to know. You’re here and you’ve obviously fooled at least one FBI agent. I have no intention of letting out the truth about who you are.”

  “I need to talk to her, Mercedes. Please.”

  “Contact Marissa Hunter. That’s the only way to speak with Karen—er, Cara.”

  She wasn’t going to get anywhere badgering this woman. Not yet, anyway. “If you hear from her, will you tell me? Immediately?”

  She barely nodded. “Now you just get situated and comfortable and your bags will be up shortly.”

  She left the room and Vivi headed to use the bathroom, locking the door in case Lang came barreling up to let her have it for leaving the utility room. She paused at the mirror, startled for a split second at her own image, still not used to her new reflection.

  Leaning on the counter, she got closer, looking at her face. This disguise was supposed to be from a distance, or under a hat and sunglasses. She couldn’t fool Lang, and she probably couldn’t fool those other agents if they spent time here.

  She just had to hope Cara would understand that new evidence changed everything and the FBI could be trusted. Exhaustion and jet lag pressed down on her and a muscle throbbed at the base of her neck, as it always did when things weren’t quite right. Since she was a teenager, since… that night… she’d carried her stress in her neck and she usually listened to that miserable muscle when it screamed at her.

  Like it was doing now.

  She dropped her head forward to stretch her neck, the weight of all the fake hair making it worse. Closing her eyes, she reached up to rub the throbbing pain, bending farther over the sink, tempted by the faucets just inches away. Was it too soon to take off all the crap off her face and—

  The force from behind knocked her right into the mirror as one hand slammed over her mouth and another yanked her head farther into her chest with brute strength.

  A scream bubbling up with a flash of revulsion and horror triggered by the crush of a man from behind.

  She fought the panic, managing to flip her elbow around and get a dig into the ribs of her attacker. The jab of a gun in her back made her freeze.

  “Welcome home, Cara.”

  CHAPTER 5

  How the hell did you find this place?” Cara stepped into the cool morning air, the pungent, distinctive smell of salt air clearing her head from the hours of travel and a few milligrams of Xanax.

  Next to her on the wide porch, her sister gave a smug shrug. “This is me you’re talking about.” She lifted a steaming mug to her mouth, her brown hair getting frizzier by the moment this close to the sea. Dry California air was much kinder to Joellen’s kinks. “I’m the original miracle worker.”

  Or so she liked to
think. No doubt Marissa had dug it up and paid a small fortune out of Cara’s bank account for it. A hundred yards away, the surf crashed on a wide beach, the dunes blocking the view to the left and right. “It’s so private.”

  “That’s the idea, sister mine. You’re safe here.”

  Cara turned to eye Joellen. “This is not Nantucket.”

  She shook her head, sharpening mud-brown eyes. “And they say you’re not bright.”

  They did? Or she did? “My guess is the Vineyard or Cape Cod, close enough but not on the island crawling with media.” And other people.

  “You don’t want to take the chance of being on Nantucket,” Jo said, avoiding the question. “Not even to see Stella.”

  At the mention of her dog, Cara let out a sad sigh. No one had been able to find a dog that matched her baby, and it would have been weird for “Cara” to be seen without Stella. And if he saw, he’d know that woman wasn’t Cara.

  “I’m going with the Vineyard,” she said, based on the color of the sand and the height of the dune grass. She’d been born and raised on Nantucket; these islands off the coast of Cape Cod were in her blood.

  “You don’t need to know where we are, hon.” Joellen took a step closer and put a patronizing hand on Cara’s arm. “You’ll slip and tell someone. And he’ll find out. You know he’ll do everything to hunt you down, with his god-awful—hired help. You know he has those minions everywhere, all willing to do anything to—”

  “Stop.” Cara held up her hand. She hated when Joellen talked about it. “I won’t tell anyone anything. I haven’t yet, and I won’t.”

  “But now he has an excuse to kill you, Cara, and never risk getting blamed.”

  Cara gripped the railing as a wave rolled through her with the same power as the surf. Just a little travel nausea mixed with Xanax and Oscar fatigue, she told herself. Not fear.

  Didn’t he know she’d never risk her career by telling anyone anything? Even those creepy FBI agents who’d come to her house last month, mentioning his name, scrutinizing her for any response? She’d just played dumb. She’d acted dumb. Because Joellen was right about one thing: She was the smart sister, and she could act. And this was the role of her lifetime.