Would she recognize him? Thank God he didn’t wear a wig today, and she’d never seen his natural, reddish hair. He had makeup on, colored lenses, and jowl changers. And without the elevator heels he’d worn to kill Sterling, he was barely five-ten.
Should he keep going, back up, or stay put?
Or fire two shots and hope that wasn’t bulletproof glass?
Or throw it in reverse and peel backward? But if he did that, then Samantha would know without a doubt that he had marked her. He looked in his own rearview mirror and gauged the hill. Backing all the way up could rip the transmission from this piece of crap. That ancient Mercedes could fly up backward and upside down.
Why the hell had that guy stopped, anyway?
Because he was smart. And probably armed. He wanted to force Levon out of the car, or around them, or something. To get a shot at him. He could see the driver unlocking his seatbelt. Was he coming after him? Could Levon take them both, right now, right here?
Ugly, ugly. Yes, he could do the job, but the likelihood of leaving evidence was incalculable. Along with the likelihood of getting killed. He had to get out.
He threw the gear into reverse and slammed on the gas, jolting forward as the truck jerked and got traction on the potholed asphalt, tires squealing as he catapulted backward, the engine screaming, the weight fighting gravity, a feat for a good piece of machinery. A miracle for this.
The Mercedes rolled into action, doing exactly what he was doing, only better and faster. Son of a bitch.
He floored it and the truck fishtailed wildly, forcing him to fight with the wheel to stay on the road and go faster, farther. The Mercedes was five feet from him now, screaming, too, but in a much more powerful and controlled way.
Killing that son of a bitch would be fun. But he couldn’t risk his whole career for the fun of it.
Finally he crested the top of the hill, whipping in a tight circle to face the road, then smashing the gear back into drive. He slammed on the accelerator just as the Mercedes reached the top, turned on a dime, and cut him off, screeching to a stop.
Levon had to jam the brakes to keep from hitting him.
Now he was trapped, and there was only one thing to do.
“I’ll get him out of the car,” Zach said as he dragged the slide of the pistol Marc had given him and it clicked with a loud, satisfying finality. “You don’t move, Sam, until I have him completely under control. Then you get a look at him.”
She looked over his shoulder, inhaling a calming breath. The ride up the hill straight at what could be a killer had left her whole insides watery. “He’s doing something. Getting a gun, maybe? Be careful, Zach.”
He barely nodded, throwing open the door. He climbed out, aiming his pistol with two hands, as mean and menacing as anything she’d ever seen. He took long, slow strides toward the truck.
He left his door open, so she could hear, but the truck’s windows were up and tinted, making it difficult to see the outline of the driver through the Mercedes’s back window. It could just be some idiot following them. Could be one of Billy’s neighbors they’d spooked by stopping on the hill. Could be some guy in a hurry who got pissed off that the car in front of him had stopped on the shortcut and decided to back up.
Or it could be the man who killed Joshua Sterling, hunting her down.
The man finally rolled down his window. Sam held her breath in anticipation of a shot, but he held up empty hands. “What the hell, dude?” he yelled at Zach.
“Get out of the car.”
“Show me your fucking badge, then I’ll get out.”
“You’re lookin’ at it. Get out.” Every step Zach took was predatory, intense, focused. If the guy driving the truck was just… no one… then he was probably saying his last prayers right this minute. Because Zach looked every bit the killer.
“Hey, just take my wallet, man. Just take the cards and I got about sixty bucks. Please. I need the truck. Please.”
“Get out and put your hands on the car.”
He opened the door, wearing a collared pullover with a Sears logo and dark pants, a tool belt hanging.
“Take that off and drop it on the ground.” Zach said, nodding to the belt.
He unlatched his tool belt and released it to the ground; then he shot both hands up in the air again.
“Where’s your wallet?” Zach asked.
“In my back pocket,” he replied, starting to lower his right hand.
“Turn around,” Zach said. “And stay that way.”
The man did as ordered, giving Sam the first direct look at his face. Her heart dropped a little as nothing about him looked even vaguely familiar. He was certainly not the short-haired, pockmarked, six-foot murderer she had seen in the wine cellar.
“What are you doing in Roxbury, Mr. Martin?” Zach asked, the wallet flipped open. “It’s a long way from Brockton.”
“I’m trying to find an address for a washer repair. That’s what I do. I work for Sears.” He glanced over his shoulder at Zach. “And everyone pays me in checks, man, so I don’t have a lot of cash.”
“What address are you looking for?”
“I think it’s, um, 329 Hale Street. But there’s no such number. I saw your car go down that hill and that ain’t even on my GPS, so I followed.”
“Step aside and put both hands on the hood.”
He did, and Zach held the gun on him, while he reached into the car and looked like he was unplugging a GPS. Sam squinted at the face, kind of jowly. Hair over his collar. Definitely not as tall as she remembered. Or was he?
Oh, God. It was like the lineup all over again.
With one hand on the pistol and one on the GPS unit, Zach pressed a few buttons. He threw it back in the car and notched his chin toward the man. “Hands on the hood. Spread your legs.”
He got a vile look, but the man flattened his hands on the hood of the truck and widened his stance, allowing Zach to pat him down.
Zach took a step back and gave a nod to Sam. “Come on out and take a look.”
“A look at what?” the man asked. “Are you two some kind of perverts or something?”
Sam ignored the comment, walking closer.
“The GPS has home programmed as the same address that’s on his license,” Zach said. “Do you recognize him?”
The man narrowed blue eyes at her. “Who the fuck are you? Why would you recognize me?”
“Turn your head,” she said.
The man just stared at her. “Fuck you.”
“Turn,” Zach ordered, raising the gun to the man’s head.
He gave her a profile and Sam looked closer. No pockmarks. No bump. And no one’s hair could grow that much in a week.
Unless he’d been in disguise that night.
“Can you face me again, please?”
He did, his expression softening. “Who you looking for, lady? Why are you staring at me?”
She’d only heard the killer say two words… I’m in… but this man’s voice was completely different. At least, she thought so.
The all-too-familiar twist of second-, third-, and fourth-guessing curled low in her belly.
“No.” She shook her head and then looked at the man who held the gun. “It’s not him.”
“You’re absolutely positive?”
She wasn’t absolutely positive of anything, except they’d just stopped a Sears repairman whose only crime was getting lost. She hoped.
“That’s not him,” she repeated, walking back to the car. She slowed her step, took one more look, and offered an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, sir. Really.”
Zach flipped him his wallet, and the man fumbled and missed. By the time he was standing up from getting the wallet and his tools, they were already halfway down the street.
Sam watched him in the side view mirror, shaking his head as he got back into the truck.
“Sometimes,” she finally said, “I don’t think I’ll ever trust my judgment again.”
“Then you’l
l have a hard time in the courtroom, Sammi. Not to mention everywhere else in your life.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“You’re going to have to trust your instincts again at some point. Even if they’re wrong, like mine just were.” He put his hand on hers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And, oddly, it was. Sam didn’t move; instead she just enjoyed the warmth and strength in that hand that had just held a pistol, ready to kill for her if he had to.
“I know,” she agreed.
“Otherwise,” he continued, “you’ll never make a decision you won’t second-guess. You’ll never believe in yourself.”
Exactly right. “That’s my biggest fear.”
“Then fight it and don’t let one mistake haunt you for the rest of your life. That’s just the suckiest way to live.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience, Zach.”
He just gave a noncommittal shrug.
“I know I shouldn’t second-guess every decision,” she said. “I mean, stopping that guy, that was the right thing to do.”
“Damn straight it was. If that had been the guy who killed Sterling and is after you, then—”
“Might be after me,” she corrected. “We have no proof.”
“So you think that car that almost mowed you down behind your apartment and shot twice at us was just another random drive-by on a normal night in Somerville?”
She closed her eyes on a sigh, not bothering to argue. “But that wasn’t the man,” she said. “Although, you know, what if he was wearing makeup that night? He could be a master of disguises for all I know. He could be anywhere. Him.” She pointed at a man getting into a parked car. “Him.” Another one walking on the side of the road, a cell phone to his ear. “Or her.” A blue SUV driven by a young woman.
Zach squeezed her hand. “You know what you need, Sammi?”
An unholy tendril of sexual longing curled through her at the tone and the question. That’s what she needed, all right. Another hands-free orgasm. “What?”
“Some of Nino’s homemade wine. I asked him to leave it.”
“While you were talking about your mother?”
He lifted his hand. “I knew you were eavesdropping.”
“Listening as I walked into the room is not eavesdropping. Anyway, I wonder what she’d have thought of me, too.”
“My mother? If I like you, she’d like you.”
“Do you like me?” she asked, a smile tugging.
He just threw her a sideways look. “What do you think?”
She didn’t answer as he parked in the spot behind the house and led her through the back door, their system for entering kind of normal now. He cased the first floor, and when he was certain it was clear, guided her past the kitchen. Then he searched the second and third floors.
While she waited, she inhaled the smell of something delicious Nino had cooked for them and eyed the carafe of red wine on the counter. God bless the man, she did need some of that.
Next to it was the plastic shopping bag full of the mail she’d brought home last night. She’d never even looked at it. Opening it, she tugged out the catalogs and bills, and one slightly oversized envelope with a typed address. No return address, but it was postmarked Boston.
Her heart jumped. Could it be? She tore it quickly, so desperately needing good news. Normal news. News that would make her certain of her future, her law degree, her dream.
Zach walked in. “Everything’s clear.”
“God, I hope this is what I think it is,” she said, the edge of the envelope still sealed shut.
“What’s that?
“Scholarship approval. I applied for about twenty of them, but haven’t heard—ow!” She snapped her hand back, automatically sucking on the paper cut. “Shit, that hurt.”
“Here, let me.”
“It’s okay,” she said, sucking some more, then letting blood dribble on the envelope. “Like Harvard isn’t going to get enough of my blood.” She laughed.
He got the envelope open and blew into the slit to widen it, then handed it back to her. “I’ll let you do the honors, Counselor.”
She gave him a smile and reached in, the smile fading. “It’s only one page. I smell a rejection.” Ignoring the trail of blood she left on it, she opened the trifolded letter and stared.
And then the rest of her blood turned to ice.
“Here’s a paper towel for the blood, Sam.”
His words garbled, drowned out by the exaggerated thumping of her heart as she stared at the picture.
At her face. Her expression of fear. Like looking in a mirror. Except it was a picture… caught on tape… and at the bottom, red marker the same color as her fresh blood.
Until we meet again.
She looked up at him, the paper fluttering to the floor from her shaking hands. “It’s from him.”
“Jesus.” He reached for the paper but she dropped it, letting it float to the counter.
“Don’t touch it. It could have evidence. Don’t…” Her gaze shifted to the look on her face in the picture. “I can’t pretend he doesn’t know me, Zach. And he wants me. He wants me dead.”
Using the paper towel, he lifted one minuscule corner of the paper, which had been printed in black and white from a laser printer.
“How did he get that off a video camera?” she asked.
“I suppose there are a lot of ways. Copying it onto a computer, freezing the frame.” With his other hand, he grabbed a clean towel and spread it on the table, gingerly laying the paper faceup.
“That must have been the moment I saw it happen. The very second. I was…” She frowned and shook her head. “See how faulty the memory is? I thought the camera was looking down more, you know, like it would have gotten the top of my head. That’s like the killer himself took the picture.”
He dropped into the seat across from her, studying the picture. “Unless this guy is a complete idiot, this makes no sense.”
“Why?”
“Why warn you that he knows?”
“To scare me.” She rubbed her arms, chills still blossoming. “Which he’s done magnificently.”
“To what end?”
“To let me know he knows my name, where I live. That I can’t hide from him.” She hated that her voice cracked.
“Exactly,” he said, reaching a reassuring hand over to her. “Which would only put you on high alert. In deeper hiding. Unwilling to take any risk that would expose you to him.”
She nodded, frowning at the picture, still not imagining that was the angle that the video would have gotten. “So why send it?”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
A fresh set of goose bumps danced up her arms. “Then who did?”
“That’s what we have to figure out.” He angled his head to look at the picture again. “Except you said he had the video camera with him. I suppose he could have given the tape to someone else. Like the person who hired him to kill Sterling. Maybe someone who wants you to stay hidden.”
She swallowed hard as realization hit. “I guess I should call Detective O’Hara.”
“Not so fast.” He nodded to the picture. “Let’s give that to Marc tomorrow. He has some really good connections at FBI evidence labs, and we should learn as much as we can from it before we hand it over. Nothing’s going to happen tonight. I’ll fill Marc and Vivi in tomorrow; then we’ll decide what to do.”
She pushed back from the table. “I’m afraid I lost my appetite again.”
“Go take a bath,” he suggested. “And here, take some wine.” He got up and got her a glass. “And let me know if you want company.”
She smiled, for the first time since she’d opened the envelope. “You’ll just talk me into… things.” She took the glass. “And I need to be alone.”
An hour later, the wine had done its trick, and the bath had just about finished her off when a thought occurred to her.
If Zach was right, and whoever sent the picture wanted her to stay hi
dden, was it possible that person didn’t want the killer to find her? Why not? She had to ask Zach his opinion.
Climbing out of the lukewarm water, she toweled off, ran a brush through her damp hair, and stepped into the sleep pants and tank top she’d taken into the bathroom. Slipping into a pair of flip-flops, she opened the door and froze, sucking in a surprised breath.
A light flickered downstairs, and the notes of soft music drifted up with the aroma of food. She tiptoed down the stairs and peeked around the corner to the candlelit table, where two juice glasses of wine and a basket of bread waited.
Zach came around the corner from the kitchen with two steaming bowls of pasta. “I was just going to call you for Nino’s linguine and clam sauce. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry.”
She hesitated on the bottom step, fighting a smile. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I’m full of surprises, Sammi.”
She tingled at the endearment and the way he held his hand out to her. She took it, almost melting at how gentle his touch was.
“You feel better?” he asked.
“I do. I will.” She let him lead her to the table. “I had to ask you something, but…” She just shook her head as he pulled out the chair with the same flair Keegan might with his best customer. “I forgot what it was.”
“Who would want you to stay in hiding?” He took the chair on the corner, next to her. For the first time in days, he was on her right, his scar and patch easily visible, and highlighted by the candlelight.
“That’s exactly the question I just asked myself,” she replied. “We must have been thinking the same thing at the same time.”
“I thought about that an hour ago,” he said. “The rest of the time I was thinking about you.”
She laughed self-consciously. “What are you up to, Zach?”
“Having dinner. Is that a crime? Although, I imagine someone who works at a four-star restaurant thinks this is.” He handed her a paper towel. “No cloth napkins or fine crystal tonight.”
“Three star. This’ll work.” She put it on her lap and reached for the glass. “Not sure I can take another of these.” Or all of this… romance. “But cheers.”
He lifted his glass to hers. “Here’s to long conversations, Sam.” He touched her glass with his. “The first of many.”
Edge of Sight Page 18
