Edge of Sight

by Roxanne St Claire

  The woman didn’t respond, but touched a flat-panel screen in front of her, then pressed a headset so small Vivi hadn’t seen it under her hair.

  “Jagger, your twelve o’clock is here.” She nodded to Vivi. “Have a seat.”

  “Can I look inside?” Vivi asked, jutting her chin to the glass doors that led to the gym.

  “Jagger’ll be here in just a few minutes. He’ll give you a tour.”

  Taylor Sly’s personal training session was going to end at noon, after which, if she was the creature of habit Vivi’s quick research had shown her to be, she’d shower, blow dry, make up, and leave Equinox at about the same time Vivi did. If Vivi timed her tour and bogus interview of a new trainer perfectly, they’d be walking out at approximately the same time, introduced casually by the trainer. Giving Vivi access to the elusive, impossible-to-reach Taylor Sly, the woman Teddy the oversexed waiter had mentioned last night.

  Taylor had been dining at Paupiette’s the night of the murder; Vivi had confirmed that with Sam, although Vivi hadn’t mentioned that she planned to track the woman down this morning.

  As far as Vivi could tell from the stories that had run, Taylor hadn’t spoken to a single journalist. The available police records—which were sketchy at best—showed Taylor had two separate police interviews this past week, about the standard amount for every patron and employee in the restaurant that night.

  The owner of an elite modeling agency and a former model herself, Taylor probably wouldn’t grant an interview to some investigative website. So Vivi had decided to get creative, an approach she expected would be the hallmark of the Guardian Angelinos.

  Thinking about her company, she stood at the window, looking down at the mid-Sunday bustle of Back Bay, her body humming with excitement as the idea moved from concept to execution.

  The Guardian Angelinos just needed one good success to get started. And now they had a client who needed protection and a crime that needed to be cracked. If she and Zach did this right, the company had a shot. Every dream had to start somewhere, right?

  So whatever she got out of Taylor—if anything—wasn’t going to be turned into yet another anonymous quote for the Boston Bullet. No, it was going in File Number One for the Guardian Angelinos.

  “Viviana Angelino?” A man’s voice pulled her from the thoughts. “I’m Jagger Musenda.”

  She’d had a blurred mental image of a man with such an unusual name, but no matter what she’d conjured up, it wouldn’t have been this… big, black, or beautiful.

  “They sent you from Central Casting, I’m guessing,” she said, coming forward with her hand extended. He took it, engulfed hers, and grinned.

  “You look like you already work out, Viviana,” he said, holding the glass door for her. “Although we recommend cross trainers over skate shoes.”

  “It’s Vivi, and I do work out. Just thinking about a switch.” From the Y, where nobody gives a shit about lifestyles. “I wanted to check this place out and talk to a trainer. Maybe some of your clients.” Like Taylor Sly.

  “No problem. Let’s start with the personal training area, then we’ll do the weights, the cycling and Pilates center, the yoga rooms, the wifi hotspot and café, and, of course, the private spa.” He glanced down at her. “Your current club have a spa?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He started his spiel, asking enough questions to force her to pay attention to him, but she was still able to check out every treadmill and elliptical for her target. Taylor Sly was nowhere in sight.

  “You may be aware that there are four distinct styles of training,” he said, guiding her to a mirror. He dwarfed her in size and breadth, a magnificent human from his perfectly shaped shaved head right down to his size fourteens. “The first one is—”

  “Whatever you do,” she said, holding his gaze in the mirror. “Is what I want to do.”

  He grinned. “I do everything, including fourteen hours a week of modern dance. You sure you want to go there?”

  Fascinated, she turned. “I used to do ballet, but it bored the crap out of me.”

  “I bet it would. I hold a black belt in Shaolin Kung Fu. You’d like that.”

  She let out a low whistle. “Damn. I’m impressed.” And getting further away from her goal here, she reminded herself. “So tell me about your clients. Who are you training today? Seems like you’d be slow on a Sunday.”

  “I have a few clients that insist on Sundays, and, frankly, for what we charge, they can come in any day of the week.” He put an authoritative hand on her shoulder, forcing her to turn with just the pressure of his thumb. “As I was saying—”

  The door to the training room opened behind them, but the mirror didn’t give Vivi a view of who it was.

  “Hey, Jagger, did I leave my lifting gloves in here?” a woman asked.

  “I didn’t see them, Ms. Sly.”

  Bingo. Vivi stepped away from the mirror to get a look at her. “Oh, hey. Hi.”

  The woman, already backing away from the door, hesitated, a baseball cap pulled so low over her face, Vivi couldn’t see anything but large reflective sunglasses, high cheekbones, and a wide glossy mouth. “Hello.”

  Damn, she was leaving. “Are you a client of Jagger’s?” Vivi stepped closer to the door. “I’d love to talk to you about the program.”

  She just pointed a French-tipped nail at Jagger. “He’s the man, and that is all you need to know if you’re looking for a trainer.”

  “How long have you been training with him?” Vivi got closer, adding her friendliest smile. “I really wanted to talk to some of his long-standing clients to get a reference. Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”

  Very slowly, Taylor eased the sunglasses down her nose, revealing blue-green eyes fringed with dark lashes and dramatic dark brows. Eyes that had sold a lot of tubes of mascara back in the seventies, when Taylor Sly graced the pages of Glamour and Cosmo. They had some crow’s feet now, but were still stunning.

  “It’s not a good time, Miss…”

  “Angelino. When would be a good time?”

  The eyes scrutinized again, slipping over Vivi’s face with purpose and intent. “Not now.” She pulled away and let the door close.

  Vivi immediately reached for the knob, but a huge black hand closed over hers. Tight.

  “She said it’s not a good time.”

  She wrenched out of his grasp. “I really want to talk to a client of yours and she’s right here.”

  “I can get you a list of references,” he said, guiding her back to the mirror. “Don’t bother that woman.”

  Vivi swore mentally as the window of opportunity slammed shut. As Jagger continued the four disciplines of personal training, Vivi ran through all her other options to get to Taylor Sly. Slim and none—at least, if she went through the standard channels and requested an appointment or interview.

  Vivi loathed standard channels.

  By the time Jagger had taken her through the weight room, Vivi was itching to get out and hook up with her cousin, Nicki, to drive out to Sudbury. God knew how Zach was torturing poor Sam by now.

  “Thanks, Jagger,” she said, pointing to the glass doors of the lobby. “I’m going to pass on the spa today; this place is going to be out of my price range.”

  He gave her a long, curious look, following her out. “Then why did you come in?”

  She liked him, and that was a fact. Not only was he physical perfection, he was very cool and had a nice, easy sense of humor. And most of all, she liked to keep her lies to a minimum because she really did believe that St. Peter was counting and one too many would send her the wrong way when all was said and done.

  “I wanted to talk to Taylor Sly.”

  Surprising her, a smile pulled at his lips. “You should have just said so.”

  She gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry to take up your time.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of fingerless leather gloves. “Unless I’m wrong, and I r
arely am, she’s in a limo in front of Starbucks, less than a block from here, while her driver gets her an iced organic chai tea. Every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday, like clockwork at 12:40 PM. Wave these in the window, and you might be able to talk to her.”

  Vivi drew back, unable to stop a smile. “Dude. I like the way you work.”

  “She liked your look, I could tell. Maybe you have a shot. Did you bring your portfolio?”

  She realized what was happening; Jagger thought she wanted modeling representation. Which was, actually, a brilliant way to get a few minutes with the elusive Ms. Sly.

  “No, but I just want an appointment. Thank you so much,” she said, taking the gloves. “You rock.”

  He gave her a little hitch of his chin in good-bye, and she headed out to find the limo in front of Starbucks.

  It was there, exactly as he’d said, double parked. She tapped on the back window, peering into blackness, not even sure anyone was in the car. No one responded, so she waved the gloves.

  “I got these for you, Ms. Sly.”

  Instantly, the window came down and Taylor Sly leaned forward. The sunglasses and hat were gone, revealing a beautiful woman about forty-five years old. “Thank you, Ms. Angelino.”

  She didn’t reach for the gloves, so Vivi leaned a little closer. “You think we could talk?”

  “I think so, yes. Call my assistant, Anthea, for an appointment tomorrow.”

  Yes. “I’ll do that, thank you. Don’t you want your gloves?”

  “They’re not mine.” Taylor sat back, out of sight, and the window rolled up. At the same instant, the limo pulled away, inches from Vivi’s toes. She jumped up on the curb, staring at the back end as it joined the traffic… holding the gloves.

  She stuffed them into her jacket and looked back at the limo, lost in traffic now.

  Zach barely spoke through dinner, making Sam feel the need to keep up with the chatter at the table, which now included Vivi and Nicki, the psychologist who was second to last among the five Rossi siblings.

  Marc and Vivi carried most of the conversation. Like the rest of the family, Marc was dark-haired, dark-eyed, strong-featured, and strong-minded. Sam liked him immediately, much more than the more daunting oldest Rossi, JP. As soon as she’d met Marc, Sam was comfortable with the idea of him being her bodyguard, even though Zach had yet to mention it.

  Marc was friendly to her, even a little flirtatious, which seemed to make Zach even quieter. Nicki was more like JP, a watcher, not a talker, and all of them seemed deferential to their father and Uncle Nino, which, in Sam’s mind, made them a typical Italian patriarchal household, with Aunt Fran the loving, affectionate, forgiving mother of them all.

  Except something told Sam there was a lot more going on in this family than standard dynamics; she just hadn’t figured them all out yet. The looks that passed between JP and Zach were dark, but neither said a word to the other. Chessie chattered and Nicki opined, Uncle Jim made the occasional dry remark, and Vivi was like a live wire that kept them all electrified.

  As soon as the meal ended, Zach folded his napkin, thanked his uncle, and pushed his chair back. “Guests get cleanup passes,” he said. “I’ll play you a game of Eight Ball, Sammi.”

  The nickname caught her off guard, as did the suggestion. Had he even talked to Marc yet? Maybe that was his plan—the pass-off over billiards. Because there was certainly no discussion of her situation at the table, and she hadn’t seen him talk privately to Marc at all, just Nino and Vivi, when she arrived. Now, Marc was in the kitchen with Vivi and Chessie.

  In the flurry of activity, people leaving, cleaning, finishing the discussion, Sam followed Zach to a finished basement set up with a wide-screen TV, a bar, and a gorgeous rosewood pool table. The size and well-used comfort of the room suggested this was as much a gathering place for the Rossis as the kitchen, but for the moment, the family had left them alone.

  Wordlessly, Zach took down a pool cue and chalk, then racked the balls.

  “I think you forgot to mention something to Marc,” she said, leaning against the wall to watch him.

  “I didn’t forget.”

  “When are you going to ask him?”

  He looked up from the opposite side of the table, the Tiffany-style light casting a gold and red glow on his face, the eye patch looking more menacing than usual. “I don’t like his car.”

  She choked a soft laugh. “Seriously?”

  “I thought I’d talk to him about driving something safer.”

  “When?”

  “You want to break?”

  “I want an answer. When?”

  “I’ll break.” He came around, lined up the cue, and scattered the balls, knocking one in. “That was the fourteen. I’m stripes.”

  “Zach. You changed your mind, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, studying the pattern of balls on the table. But something told her he wasn’t thinking about his next shot. “I just don’t see any real benefit to bringing someone else into this.”

  “You saw plenty of benefit on the way out here. What changed?”

  He glanced at her. “Would you hate it that much if I decided to stick around and protect you?”

  Part of her would. The part with the job of guarding her heart and using common sense. Other parts—like every female hormone in her body—didn’t seem to mind being around him at all. Longed for more, in fact.

  She dug for the heart-guarding, common-sense-wielding part, taking her own pool cue from the stand on the wall. “What about the safe house?”

  “I got one. We’ll leave here and go there.”

  Her jaw unhinged. “How did you do that?”

  “I have connections.” He lined up a shot of the ten ball in the corner pocket.

  “Good ones.” JP’s voice just beat Zach’s shot, making him hit too hard, miss the shot, and send the cue ball into the pocket.

  Slowly, he straightened and turned as his cousin entered the game room. “Private party, JP. See ya.”

  “Connections in the police department,” JP said to Sam, his midnight eyes boring through her. “Can’t beat those when you’re escorting an eyewitness around town.”

  Sam tightened her hand around the pool cue. “So you know.”

  “You didn’t tell her yet?” he asked Zach.

  “Tell me what?” She looked from one to the other.

  “Nothing you don’t already know, Sam, believe me.”

  But she didn’t believe him, leveling her gaze on JP, a solid bear of a man with a thick neck, short hair. He wasn’t quite as handsome as the rest of the family, more rugged and tough looking, imposing in a different way than Zach and Marc. For a second, she wondered about the missing Gabe, who was barely spoken of, but dragged her attention back to the conversation.

  “Why don’t you fill me in, JP, so I can decide if I already know it or not.”

  “You want to tell her or should I?” JP asked Zach.

  “JP thinks he found some kind of mysterious notation in your police file, Sam.” Zach took another shot, apparently forgetting that the rules of the game made it her shot. “He claims someone has put you on a secret list of witnesses notated with something called the Triple I.”

  Sam felt the blood drain from her head a little. Obviously JP knew everything about the situation… and more. “The Triple I?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

  “When there’s a witness of…” JP tilted his head toward Sam, with a mix of apology and accusation. “Questionable credibility—”

  “There’s nothing questionable about her credibility,” Zach ground out, turning from the table to glare at his cousin.

  “—perceived questionable credibility, they might get put on a TI list, with the goal of loading that person’s file with anything that will impeach, intimidate, or prove incentive to lie when the case comes to court.”

  Sam let the words roll around her head. Impeach, intimidate, or prove incentive to lie. Lovely.

  �
��Zach’s right,” she said. “I do already know this. Not as some formal notation in my file, obviously, but I’ve known for a long time that I have enemies in the Boston PD.”

  “So you can leave now, JP,” Zach said.

  “Wait.” Sam took a step toward him. “I have a question for you. Just how ‘intimidating’ can this intimidation be? Because, to be honest, all you’ve made me want to do is fight back.”

  Zach shot her a look over his pool cue. “Don’t even think about it, Sam. Are you forgetting that a cruiser passed you just seconds before some clown jumped you last night? You think that was a coincidence?”

  Her heart skipped at the thought. “Oh. I never made that connection.”

  “I did,” Zach said, his focus back on JP. “I’ve never been all that impressed with Boston’s finest. Who in the PD benefits when a witness for the prosecution is discredited, by the way?”

  “In this case?” JP notched his brow. “Friends of officers who’ve lost their jobs because of this witness’s testimony.”

  “It wasn’t my testimony that got me enemies,” Sam said, vaguely aware that Zach was coming closer to her to line up his next shot. But it felt like a move of solidarity and protection as he closed the space between them.

  “It was her work to exonerate a wrongfully accused and incarcerated man that got officers fired,” Zach said. “And if this ‘Triple I’ bullshit really does exist somewhere other than your imagination, the cops who put it together should be fired.”

  “Most of them have been,” JP replied coolly. “And for God’s sake, Zach, I’m just the messenger. Don’t shoot me. Your principal could be caught in friendly fire.”

  “She won’t be.” In front of Sam, he leaned forward to line up another shot.

  “Because you’re protecting her? With no gun and one—”

  Zach smacked the cue ball, slamming a striped ball into the pocket with a thud. “Yes. I am.”

  “Listen to me, Zach. I want to help you.”

  “Mmm.” The sound was rich with doubt as Zach walked away, rounding the table and chalking the end of the stick. “I’ve been on the receiving end of your help a few times in the past. No thanks.”

  “I know Quentin O’Hara,” JP said.