Edge of Sight

by Roxanne St Claire

  As she put the milk carton back in the fridge, he grabbed her arm. “I never get caught.” His gaze dropped to the milk, where it turned to pure lust. “That fucker looks like the Holy Grail to me. Can I have it?”

  “Of course.” She gave the bottle to him. “Help yourself.”

  “Zach’s right about you.” He twisted off the plastic cap, flipped it into the trash without looking, and put the bottle to his mouth to gulp.

  Her stomach did a somersault imagining exactly what Zach had said that was “right” about her. But she refused to ask, instead giving him a wry smile as he wiped his mouth like a twelve-year-old who knew he had broken the rules and didn’t really care.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Your mother let you do that?”

  He chuckled. “Lemme tell you something, Sam. My ma’s got two weaknesses, I’m happy to say. Me and Chessie. Ever notice how we’re the only Rossis with blue eyes?” He winked one of them, the thick lashes brushing together. “Frannie had a secret lover; that’s my opinion. Chess and me? We’re not Judge Jimmy’s kids. You can tell by looking at us.”

  For a minute, she thought he was serious; then he laughed and nudged her. “The whole family’s batshit crazy, don’t you think? Throw in the two orphans from Italy—one a daredevil, the other just the devil, and I don’t have to tell you who’s which—and we had a helluva household. I miss them all.”

  She regarded him, considering what he’d add to the chaos, insults, and love that went zinging around “Frannie’s” table. “I bet your mother’d do anything to see you, Gabe. Even keep a secret.”

  He held up a hand, like “don’t go there.” “Honey, I’m not afraid of Ma spilling the beans. It’s somebody trailing me to her that worries me. I got freaks who want me dead.”

  “Welcome to my world,” she said drily, taking her cup to the table. “Maybe you need some help from the Guardian Angelinos?”

  “Oh, please, Vivi’s smoking crack again.”

  “You don’t like the idea?”

  “Hell, yeah. I love the idea, but the name sucks donkey nads, if you know what I mean.”

  She laughed. “So, whatever you call the business, do you think her idea can work?”

  “Her idea? Oh, that’s rich. Okay, I’ll let her take credit, but I’m the one who put her in touch with our second or third or whatever cousin down in New York. I’ve worked on a case with that Christiano dude, and he’s a bad emeffer. Plus he cooks like freakin’ Nino. But, yeah, Vivi and Zach could do what his company does.” He stopped for a dramatic pause and grinned. “If they had about a million bucks.”

  “They need an investor, then.”

  “Slightly.” He tossed the empty milk container in the trash. “Aren’t you client number one?”

  “Yep, and I’m pro bono for them, so no million bucks for this job.”

  “There could be paying clients, though. I sure as shit know a few. And something has to feed my boy Zach’s need for controlled adventure now that he’s not on first approach. And, trust me, he can be in charge of recruiting. That son of a bitch has saved so many Delta and SEAL asses, you can’t imagine how many favors he’s owed. You have no idea what that animal did over there.”

  “No,” she agreed. “I don’t. He doesn’t talk much about it.”

  “He’s just bitter.”

  “About his injury?”

  “About having to leave.” Gabe sat in one of the chairs, knuckling the Formica top to make his point. “That man would never have left the military if they didn’t squeeze him out.”

  “They squeezed him out?”

  He shrugged. “Desk duty. Same difference to a guy like him. And don’t listen to that BS that says you can’t be a Ranger with impaired vision. He maybe can’t do some of the shit he did before, but he can still sniff out trouble in a safe house and clean out a room of terrorist asswipes and get mission-critical information out of a battle situation with the one eye he has closed tight. But Uncle Sam didn’t think so. And neither did Christiano’s ass-kicking chick boss.”

  “Could you possibly clean up your language in front of a lady?” Zach marched into the kitchen, barechested, the fly on his faded jeans unbuttoned, the tattoos and some scars on full display, except for his eye, which was covered by the leather patch. The one visible was narrowed in fury.

  “Here’s Happy, dwarf number seven.” Gabe stood and yanked his shirt off, revealing a few tattoos eerily similar to Zach’s and just as many muscles. At the sink, he threw the shirt in, flipping cold water on it and dousing it in some dish soap. “So, Sam, you ready for a little action? We’ll need you on the job.”

  “What’s it entail?”

  Zach stabbed his hands through wet hair, taking the other seat to stare at the photo of her that still lay on the table. “Gabe’s a digital-imaging expert,” he said. “Did he tell you what he noticed about the picture, or was he too busy reviewing the shrapnel holes in my résumé?”

  “I love it when you whine,” Gabe said with a chuckle, leaning against the sink, abandoning his efforts at laundry.

  “What about the picture?” Sam asked.

  He shifted his cool blue gaze to her. “Here’s what I see in that picture, Sam. First of all, that’s from a high-res, expensive digital camera; you can tell by the way the light curves over your face. Even a really top-quality film camera, which it doesn’t sound like the one your hit man took, would not have the change in density between the light and dark that’s on there. See?”

  She squinted at the picture and certainly did not see, but nodded, accepting his expertise.

  He gave the shirt a squeeze and shake, then smoothed it over the rim of the sink. “You said the camera was above you, right? Pointed down at, what, about a forty-five-degree angle?”

  “Yes, maybe ten or twelve feet off the floor.”

  “Then there was another camera in the room. A much better CCTV, with a feed somewhere. More than just Harry the Hit Man has your picture, sweetheart. Hate to break it to you.”

  Her jaw dropped as she processed that.

  “My guess is if we find out who that is,” Zach said, “we find out who arranged to have Sterling killed.”

  “Bingo,” Gabe said. “And, you know, the hit man doesn’t get his money until all the witnesses are taken out. If he can’t take you out, whoever hired him to do the job doesn’t have to pay. Or, if they do the job themselves, they can pay him less. This is an old trick, usually complicated by one other little fact.”

  Zach leaned forward. “The assassin has to prove he killed you to get his money. Unless they get you first.”

  Inside, her whole being grew cold. “Are you saying there are two people after me? The person who hired the assassin and the assassin?”

  Zach nodded. “It’s possible. I’d like to know exactly where that other camera feeds and who knows they’re in there. Gabe might be able to get us that information if we can get the chip from the camera.”

  “Knowing your height and the angle of that picture, I think we could find the camera. I’m kinda good at stuff like that.” Gabe added a cocky smile. “Shit, I’m good at everything.”

  “That’s the felony?” she asked.

  “Simple restaurant break-in,” Gabe said. “No biggie. If I can get the chip out of a hidden CCTV, I know someone who can find out where it was programmed to be sent. We’d know where it’s going, and we might know—assuming it’s not legit and installed by the restaurant owner—who monitored the hit and maybe who paid for it.”

  “Right now, it’s the only lead we have and maybe one the police don’t have,” Zach said. “I think it’s worth a shot to get whatever information we can.”

  Sam agreed. “But the police have scoured that cellar. It was a crime scene. Do you mean to tell me they haven’t found a hidden camera and therefore don’t know who has the feed? They would confiscate that as evidence.”

  “Hey, maybe they did,” Gabe said. “Maybe the fucking cops sent this picture to you.” />
  She and Zach shared a look, both thinking of what JP had found in her file. Intimidate. Impeach. Provide incentive to lie.

  But would someone actually destroy evidence of a murder to get her?

  “It’s a long shot,” she said.

  “My favorite kind,” Gabe replied. “Whatdya say, cuz? You up for an adventure?”

  Gabe and Zach grinned at each other like bad boys about to vandalize the playground.

  “I really hate to ruin your fun,” Sam said. “But I have a key and I know the alarm code. We can just walk in.”

  “Keys to the wine cellar?” Zach asked.

  “I know where one is hidden. Anyway, there’s never a guarantee that the restaurant’s empty. Chef comes in during the wee hours, so does the maître d’ and the sommelier. Plus, there’s a cleaning crew. It’s just unlikely to walk in and find no one. But I still like the idea, and think we should do it.”

  “Look, if there’s no subterfuge, I’m out.” Gabe laughed at Sam’s stunned look. “Kidding, hon. But, seriously, if you don’t need me, then I’d be much happier if you two handled this and I could maintain a zero profile. If you tell me your exact height to the quarter inch, I’ll show Zach a formula that’ll help figure where the camera is or damn near. Then you two get the chip, which will take a few minutes and some tools that I’ll give you, and meet me afterward. I’ll take it from there.”

  “Five foot five and three quarters, barefoot,” she said. “Are we going to call Detective O’Hara and tell him someone sent me this picture?”

  Zach looked at her as if she was nuts. “No.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll go get ready to leave. The earlier we’re there, the less chance of people in the kitchen.” As she walked past Zach, he dragged a finger over her knuckles and gave her a secret smile.

  “No second-guessing now, Sammi.”

  “I promise.” She left and crossed the living room, on the way to the stairway, when she noticed her flip-flops, discarded under the dining table, lost when he’d scooped her up and Rhett Butlered her to bed.

  Her smile widening, she sidestepped and reached under the table to get the shoes.

  “See, what’d I tell you?” Zach asked, his voice soft and conspiratorial, but loud enough for her to hear.

  She froze as her fingers curled around the straps. Eavesdropping was never a smart move, but when it was the man she once loved talking about her… how could she resist?

  “Oh, you’re right,” Gabe said. “You better run like hell.”

  “I will, as soon as this whole business is over.”

  Her smile faltered and disappeared as she quietly picked up the shoes and tiptoed up the stairs. No need to second-guess—now she knew exactly what she was in for.

  Again.

  CHAPTER 17

  I hate you. I hate you with the strength of a thousand suns,” Vivi snarled at her phone, comfortable that her boss had hung up and didn’t hear her exclamations of disgust. The very last thing she wanted to do was chase down a story about a mugging on the Emerson campus. Seriously, this was investigative reporting?

  “I have a murder to investigate, dude,” she said to the phone as she tossed the device on the coffee table in her living room. “I hate you, Tom Swift.”

  Well, Swyff, but her editor at the Bullet wasn’t always too swift, so he’d earned the nickname. The phone dinged again, this time a text.

  Get on the interview, Vivi. You haven’t filed a story in days.

  God, he was relentless. She typed in bite me… then deleted. Probably not a great time to get fired. She still needed income, plus the Boston Bullet connections could provide a steady stream of potential clients for the Guardian Angelinos.

  I’ll head over to Emerson and track the victim down.

  She stabbed Send and swore softly. Some people were just not made to have a boss, she thought as she grabbed a light hoodie. It wasn’t cold, but the skies were threatening, which meant take the T, and carry the board.

  Where the hell had she put her Charlie Pass? She checked all the usual places, finding nothing, frustration mounting, then stuck her hands in the jacket pockets.

  No Charlie Pass, but she pulled out a tiny jump drive. Was this hers? She flipped it around, certain she’d never seen it before.

  Curiosity outweighed the need to get over to Emerson. Instead, she powered up her laptop and stuck the drive in the USB port, trying to remember if she’d ever seen the device before. Maybe she’d picked it up at the Bullet office last time she was in?

  There were three documents in a file called FM. One was a jpeg; the other two were Word docs. She tried the image first, opening up to a scan of a newspaper article. The Boston Globe, she thought, but old. Very old. In a typeface she hadn’t seen on anything but microfiche, probably from the late 1970s.

  The headline had been cut off, but as soon as she started reading, she knew what the FM stood for.

  Once again, alleged Irish mob leader Finley MacCauley eluded arrest…

  A fine chill made the hairs on the back of her head do a little happy dance, the way they always did when she was on to something. She minimized the image and clicked on the first unnamed document. Across the top, the words CONFIDENTIAL/DRAFT in huge oversized caps. Her gaze slid down to the opening paragraph…

  The Brahmin crowd is about to be hit with a bomb… proof that Boston socialite and wife of columnist Joshua Sterling, Devyn Hewitt Sterling, is in fact the illegitimate daughter of notorious fugitive Finley MacCauley, who has been missing and, some think, dead. Adopted in a secret legal exchange that left no record of her birth mother’s name…

  Joshua’s wife was the daughter of Finn MacCauley? The very name Taylor Sly had whispered to her yesterday afternoon?

  That’s where she got the jump drive! When Taylor hugged her, she slipped it in Vivi’s pocket… making sure it didn’t turn up in the police search. But why didn’t she want it in the hands of the police? Had Joshua given this to Taylor? Why? Because his wife was connected to Finn?

  Had Devyn Sterling arranged to have him killed before he took this public? Why would he do that to her? For the same reason he’d have an affair with Taylor Sly. He was scum. But not even scum deserved to die.

  Her phone beeped with a call, and she just knew who it was. A look at the ID confirmed it.

  “I’ll go this afternoon, Tom,” she said before her boss could bark at her.

  “I’ll put someone else on the story,” he said, disgust in his voice.

  “No, please, I’ll do it. I promise. This afternoon.”

  “It’ll be on the Boston Globe website by then, Vivi. You’re losing your edge, kid.”

  She bristled at the nickname and the comment. “I’ll go now, Tom. Then I need the afternoon to work on something else.”

  “Vivi, do the interview and get your ass in here by eleven for a staff meeting. You miss, you’re done. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  She hung up, her brain still on Taylor Sly. If she broke this story, he wouldn’t fire her. Forget that! If she cracked this murder, the Guardian Angelinos would be launched as a force to be reckoned with.

  Didn’t that big, bad trainer say Taylor worked out on Sundays and Tuesdays? If she couldn’t get into Equinox to talk to her, then that creature of habit would be in a limo outside Starbucks in less than two hours.

  And Vivi would be in a freaking staff meeting.

  But the Angelinos were a team, and there was no reason to miss this opportunity. She had Marc on the phone in a matter of seconds.

  “You seriously want to work for the Guardian Angelinos?” she asked.

  “You know I do.”

  “I have your first assignment.”

  If information was power, then Sam should be a superhero. She knew that this interlude with Zach was temporary, that he was going to “run for the hills” when this “assignment” was over. So all she had to do was get through this ordeal alive, and without giving up her heart to a man who’d
already put a bayonet through it.

  But driving through a dreary Boston morning on the way to break into Paupiette’s and steal evidence, neither one of those outcomes seemed guaranteed. She was in grave danger… physically and emotionally. How could she stop either one? She couldn’t hide forever from a killer who wanted her dead, especially if there was more than one person. And she couldn’t help feeling whole and happy when she made love to Zach Angelino.

  It wasn’t just sex. Not then, and not now.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Zach said as they navigated the South End traffic and pedestrians.

  “Mmm. Lot on my brain.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not asking more about Gabe.”

  Gabe? Like she had room in this worryfest for him. “CIA?”

  “Something like that. I don’t even know the exact organization. All I know is the pay is through the roof, the perks are off the charts, and the life expectancy is about thirty-five.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-three, but don’t worry. He’s invincible, or at least I like to think so.”

  “You’re closer to him than your other cousins; I can tell.”

  “Closest in age, and mind-set, yeah. He was a little bit of a troublemaker, too, when I was growing up. So it wasn’t unusual for the two of us to be in the doghouse at the same time. JP was just perfect, naturally, and Marc was too damn wily to get into trouble. Gabe’s a risk-taker and I was a risk… maker. So we have more in common than you might imagine.”

  “And he never sees the family.”

  “Very rarely. But he’ll get out of that dark world eventually.”

  “And then he can be a Guardian Angelino.”

  Zach snorted softly. “Right.” He turned into the alley behind the restaurant. “Is that the back basement door?”

  “Yes, but we’ll go in the side, into the kitchen. And that’s the maître d’s car. Even though the restaurant’s closed on Tuesday, I’m not surprised he’s here. Keegan’s a workaholic.” She took a deep breath and corralled her inner calm. This was going to take some acting skills. “Let’s go. I’ll occupy Keegan; you go to the wine vault.”