Undercover Protector

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “I’ve had a hole in my memory since I was a teenager, Anderson. I’ve known for just as long that Garibaldi isn’t who he says he is. But I never did anything about it. I took his payoff money in the form of hospital bills and my education, even though I really had no idea what it was I was being paid off for. My only experience with the authorities taught me that Garibaldi is capable of mass manipulation. My brother died trying to keep me safe. The sheer amount of guilt I have is enough to make me crazy.” She managed a half-hearted smile. “And I’m not sure I was all that sane to begin with.”

  “So I guess I should hurry up?”

  “Please.”

  Without further comment, Anderson jammed the USB stick into the corresponding slot, and in seconds a series of files—each labeled with a date—appeared on the laptop’s screen. He set it up to open versus save, just in case the laptop got into the wrong hands, and when Anderson clicked on one, a host of tiny photographs flickered into view. And even as small as they were, Nadine knew exactly what they were.

  * * *

  Nadine’s audible inhale made Anderson turn his attention away from the computer screen.

  “See something?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Every one of those thumbnails is a shot of the car my dad drove for Garibaldi.”

  He turned back to the laptop. The car was navy, with nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other sedans.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Click one.”

  Anderson complied, choosing a picture at random. Nadine pointed at what looked like a smudge on the driver’s-side bumper.

  “See that right there?” she said. “You can’t tell so much from the photo, but it’s pale pink paint. My dad had it parked in the driveway one day, and I crashed into it with my bike. It was brand-new at the time. I thought he was going to be furious—especially because the car belonged to his boss—but he laughed it off. He said the mark was shaped like a heart, and he asked Garibaldi to leave it there so he could think of me every time he got inside.”

  “Sounds like you meant a lot to your father.”

  “I thought we were close, right up until the day I found out about his other life.”

  “A thing like that could make you question everything.”

  “It did. At least for the two days that I had before the bomb. After that, it was all beeping machines and doctors and trying to make people think I hadn’t lost my mind. Then it became something I didn’t want to think about.”

  “No hashing it out in therapy?”

  “I’ve always favored actions over words.” She met his eyes. “What about you?”

  He felt compelled to tell the truth. “Therapy? Years of it. You remember what I told you about my mom and how she wanted me to remember the good things?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t quite as smooth a transition as I made it sound. I had moments of clarity. Moments of resentment. I was angry and sad. A hundred other things, too.”

  “A hundred other completely understandable things,” Nadine replied.

  “Definitely,” Anderson agreed. “And I couldn’t do it alone. I spent eight months working with the counselor at my high school. A summer in group. Then I saw someone casually off and on all the way into adulthood.”

  “I’ve never been all that good at discussing my feelings.”

  “You do all right.”

  “You’re easy to talk to.”

  “That whole Mr. Nice Guy thing works in my favor sometimes.”

  “Damaged hero doesn’t hurt, either.”

  “Healed hero,” he corrected with a wink. “Wanna do some more hands-on?”

  “I’m assuming you mean with the pictures.” In spite of her dry tone, a blush crept up her cheeks.

  “For the short term.” He started to reach for the keyboard again, then thought better of it and stopped.

  “What?” Nadine said immediately.

  “I’m not really a short-term kinda guy.”

  “I sort of figured that out already.”

  He shrugged. “I just think it’s important to put it on the table.”

  The pink in her cheeks became crimson. “We only met a little over a week ago. And most of that week, I resented you.”

  “I know. But I also know when something’s worth it. I’m not going to be another Grant. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t want something committed from you. I’m after forever, Nadine. And even though I’m not in a giant hurry to get there, I am going to pursue it.” He shrugged again, a little embarrassed at the passion in the admission, then made himself add, “So if you’re not after the same thing, you’d better tell me now.”

  Her mouth worked silently for a second before she breathed out. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Not as in okay, that’s not what I want.”

  “You do want it?”

  She met his eyes. “I do. And it scares the hell out of me, so don’t expect me to jump up and down with joy about it.”

  Anderson felt a sloppy grin split his face. “Good enough.”

  She offered him an eye roll, but her mouth was twitching, too. “Pictures?”

  “Yep.”

  He dragged the computer a little closer, his smile fading as he switched from the close-up of Garibaldi’s car to the list of files.

  “These dates...” he said. “I think they correspond to crimes.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He pointed at one, his voice roughening. “This first one is the day my dad died.” He lifted his finger and indicated the last file in the row. “And this is the day of the Main Street bombing.”

  A heavy silence hung in the air for several long moments before Nadine finally broke it. “If you don’t want to open them, then don’t.”

  “It’s not a matter of wanting to or not wanting to. I have to. We have to. Or we won’t know why Garibaldi is willing to kill to get this USB stick.” When he tried to move to follow through, though, his hand froze.

  A heartbeat later, Nadine’s slim fingers slid past his. “Let me.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she tapped through, Anderson let himself close his eyes for a second. What had the photographer recorded on the day of the explosion in Freemont? How bad would it be?

  And how much will it hurt?

  Nadine’s voice brought him back to the moment, and her words managed to anchor him. “It’s all right to look, Anderson. I promise.”

  He opened his eyes and—trusting that she was telling the truth—he peered down at the screen. The shots were grainy. Though the car was slightly different from the one from the previous set of photographs, it was similar enough that he knew it just had to be an earlier model, serving the same purpose.

  “Another of Garibaldi’s vehicles,” he stated.

  “Yes. The quality is terrible, but I think my dad took these pictures. I remember when he got the camera phone. It was a pretty big deal at the time.”

  She clicked a few times, and it was obvious to Anderson that the shots were taken outside the Freemont City Police Station. He’d spent enough time there to recognize it from any angle, even as badly pixelated as the photos were. Thankfully, the shots were just of the car and the street. No bomb. No aftermath. The very last one in the group, though, made him pause.

  “Is that a person?” He pointed to a blurred corner at the bottom of the screen.

  Nadine leaned forward. “I think so. Garibaldi?”

  “Possibly. Maybe even likely. I’ll get Harley to see about enhancing the image.”

  “Should I move to the next files?”

  “Please.”

  They moved through the next few sets quickly. They were all similar. A car, presumably driven by Nadine’s father and ridden in by Jesse Garibaldi, sat outside varying p
laces. A couple were identifiable as businesses. Some were residences. Others could’ve been either.

  “Did my dad document every single place he drove Garibaldi?” Nadine asked after a few minutes of flicking through the pictures.

  “Looks like he did a lot of the time,” Anderson replied. “Maybe not literally every time. Maybe only when he thought something illegal was happening.”

  “Why?”

  “Insurance.”

  “You mean blackmail.”

  “Working for a man like that...you probably never know whether or not it’s safe to turn your back.”

  Nadine’s gaze flicked from him to the computer, then back again. “That was a decade and a half ago. Garibaldi would’ve been barely more than a kid when he set off the bomb in Freemont.”

  Anderson nodded. “But your dad knew him before that. Your brother told my partner that before your dad drove for Jesse, he drove for the senior Garibaldi.”

  “You think he saw something dangerous in him that long ago?”

  “He must’ve.” He clicked through a few more of the files—it was the same, though the pictures grew a little clearer as the dates moved up. “I’ll have Harley plug in these dates and see if he can line them up with anything else. You want to go over all of them now?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I like to be thorough. But I have to admit that I’m also in the mood for room service and a hot shower. Harley’s far more efficient at computer stuff. He’s got algorithms for everything. Location. Facial recognition. You name it.”

  “Sounds handy.”

  “Very. Harley’s got a degree in fine arts and he’s a whiz on the keyboard. Those two things make him pretty damned indispensable.”

  “Oh.”

  Nadine’s eyes were fixed on the screen, her lower lip tugged between her teeth, and Anderson realized she wasn’t really listening.

  “Nadine?”

  “What about the last file?” she asked.

  Anderson followed her stare. “You sure you want to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me? Or you?”

  “You.”

  He reached over and clicked open the file. The first few pictures were just like the others. The paint-marked car, this time parked on Main Street in Whispering Woods. There were some still shots of the buildings along the strip of road. Then things changed. The exterior photos gave way to interior ones. They were dark. Blurred. Like the person taking them was trying to capture everything without exposing himself.

  Anderson clicked a few more times, and the pictures changed again. Still not much to be said for the quality, which was frustrating, but a few details became evident. The room was big and lined with tall, narrow shelves. The ground seemed to be made of hard-packed dirt. He had no idea what he was looking at, so he clicked again. What he saw next made him frown. In the new shot, two people stood at a table. Even with the poor lighting it was easy to make out that their clothing was something out the ordinary.

  “Those look like hazmat suits,” Nadine stated.

  He couldn’t disagree with the observation. Each of the figures in the photo was covered head to toe. Jumpsuits and gloves. Face masks and hoods. The kind of things that belonged in a science lab.

  Curiosity made him move to the next picture. It only got more puzzling. The figures in the picture held a wide piece of...something between them.

  “What is it?” he wondered aloud.

  “I think it might be a canvas,” Nadine replied.

  “Canvas?”

  “The kind you use for painting. In fact, it might actually be a painting. It doesn’t look blank. And I—” She stopped, her face pinching.

  “What?”

  “Art.”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t know. I ran into a woman in the pie place today. She owns an art shop, and she mentioned that Garibaldi has her stock some high-end pieces. Does that seem like too much of a coincidence?”

  “Damn right it does.”

  “You’re agreeing,” she said, bringing her fingers up to his furrowed brow. “But you’re also frowning so hard that it looks like it hurts.”

  “Just seems odd.”

  “What does? That Garibaldi would be involved in some kind of art crime?”

  “Hardly in line with bombings and murder.”

  “Maybe he branched out.”

  “Maybe,” he said doubtfully.

  She picked up on skepticism right away. “But you don’t think so.”

  “Can’t say that I do. Art theft. Art forgery. They’re a little more specialized than I’d expect from a guy like Garibaldi. He’s got his fingers in his share of crime pies, but this seems—I dunno—outside the frame.” He smiled. “Pardon the pun.”

  She shot him an eye roll, then asked, “So if these pictures aren’t about something directly art related, then what are they about?”

  “Not sure. Something we’re missing. Or haven’t found yet. But there’re still a few more pictures.”

  He reached out and clicked again. The next few shots were similar to the previous, each one showing the next piece of action. The suited-up men lifting the unframed painting higher. Then moving it across the room and finally sliding it into a narrow shelf.

  Anderson squinted, trying to discern exactly what it was he was looking at. After a second, though, he didn’t have to.

  “That’s it,” said Nadine, her voice soft.

  “That’s what?”

  “The room where the bomb went off and killed my dad.”

  Chapter 12

  The second the words left Nadine’s mouth, Anderson started to shift the laptop screen away from her. She immediately shot out her hand to stop him. Inside, she was shaking. Her heart was shuddering faster than a hummingbird’s wings. She could feel her nerves vibrating. Her stomach churned, her lungs hummed. But somehow, she managed to stay outwardly calm. Like the inner turmoil provided just enough chaos that her hands and mouth could manage without anything more.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “If you don’t remember it, how can you be sure that it’s the same spot?” Anderson replied with a stubborn, worried edge to his voice.

  “The date is right. The first pictures are outside the spot where the explosion happened. I’m sure.”

  “Then let me look through the rest of the photos first.”

  “I don’t need a filter. My dad took these pictures, and he somehow managed to export them from his phone before he died. Whatever’s on here could put Garibaldi away.”

  “That doesn’t obligate you to look.”

  “Isn’t that what I told you a minute ago?”

  “Yeah, it is. But—”

  “No. No buts. I want to see the rest. I need to. Just like you needed to look at the ones from the day your dad died.”

  “You don’t know what’s on there.”

  “Exactly.” She met his gaze unblinkingly. “This might be the closest I ever come to accessing those lost memories. Please. Let me look.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it and blew out a sigh from between his lips. But he also relented, turning the computer toward her once more.

  “I’m ready for this,” she said aloud, more to herself than to Anderson.

  He answered anyway. “And if it turns out you’re not ready...I’ve got you.”

  With a grateful nod, Nadine clicked the mouse. What she saw made her frown. The angle of the shot was off. Crooked.

  No, she decided after a second. Not just crooked. Sideways.

  She tipped her head to the side, trying to see properly. And when she did, she swallowed.

  “That’s us.” The words came out in a whisper.

  Anderson leaned closer, peering down at the screen. “Us who?”

  “Me and
Tyler.”

  With a few quick clicks, she rotated the photo so that it faced the right way. A few more adjustments, and she’d cropped and enlarged one corner of the picture. It was a little blurry, but it was easy enough to draw a conclusion about what was happening. Her brother stood just in front of her, one arm stretched out to hold her back. Nadine’s blond hair stood out like a lightning bolt. Her arms were out, too, seeming to be grasping for some invisible object just out of reach. Her eyes were fixed ahead, fear evident even with the poor quality of the shot.

  Though her face was directed toward the camera, Nadine had no recollection of the photo being taken. Was it because she actually hadn’t known her father held the phone, or because it was another thing she’d forgotten? Thinking about it made her heart hammer impossibly harder.

  “You still okay?” Anderson’s arm accompanied his words, slinging around her waist and drawing her a little closer.

  “Fine,” she said, then thought better of the automatic affirmation and shook her head instead. “I just don’t remember it, and it’s disorienting.”

  “Hard to be missing a chunk of time like that.”

  “So hard. Especially at the beginning.”

  “You can still stop looking through them.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “You wanna talk about what you do remember? Might help.”

  “Ten years ago, I woke up in the hospital in Freemont,” she said. “And the doctors kept asking me that same thing. What did I remember? They figured I’d banged my head and blacked out. But when I talked about my brother and Whispering Woods, they backed off. It took me a while to get all the pieces.”

  “And when you did?”

  “It was all wrong. They told me the car had hit a telephone pole. That my dad had been driving and he’d died on impact. Some Good Samaritan dragged me out and called 911. It was a lie, of course. I knew that I got into the car with Tyler two hundred miles away. The last conversation we had is still clear in my mind. We’d been searching for my dad for two days, and all of a sudden my brother had a lead through Garibaldi. Garibaldi knew where my dad was.” She tapped the mouse and brought it back to the original picture, then pointed. “I’m a hundred percent sure this is the cellar under Main Street. I might not actually remember getting there, but Tyler told me later that it’s where he and I were headed.”