by Peggy Jaeger
Ky nodded. “So the only thing you knew about the older man was you liked the expression on his face?”
“Yes.”
“You had no idea who he was?”
“No. I still don’t. All I know is he and two other men were gunned down on a New York City street. And because of some quirk of nature, I was there when it happened.”
Ky waited a beat. “What made you continue taking pictures after the shooting started? Most people ran for cover, got out of harm’s way. You stayed where you were and continued to photograph what was happening. I have to ask myself why.”
Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not a news reporter or a photojournalist. You don’t work for any national news publications. You own your own business, work for yourself. What were you hoping to gain from continuing to shoot?”
Gemma shot up, the chair falling to the floor behind her with a resounding thwack. “Your implication is insulting. You think I continued filming for some dark ulterior motive, don’t you? Like I wanted to sell the pictures or in some way benefit from them. That’s not only insulting, it’s disgusting.”
“I don’t think I said anything along those lines.”
“Your veiled wording implies otherwise. For your bigoted information, my brother-in-law is in private security. I’ve assisted him a few times with surveillance photography, even helped his partner in various filming techniques when he’s gone undercover. I’m not a paparazzo, Agent”—she flipped her hand in the air in lieu of addressing him by name—“looking for my next big photographic score. I’m a professional photographer, and I reacted as one today. I kept shooting because I could. I didn’t think I was in any danger. The van was speeding away from me, not toward me.”
Ky looked across the table at her, weighing her words. “For the record, again, it’s Pappandreous, and I never assumed you were anything other than what you’ve stated, Miss Laine. I simply need to make sure you had no prior knowledge of the men who were gunned down today.”
“I don’t know them from Adam.” Her voice dropped a notch as her gaze bore into his.
Ky wanted to believe her, but a cautious regard for human nature had always served him well.
“Do you recognize the name Mario Calafano?”
Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze never leaving his. “It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure. Why?”
Instead of answering he asked, “How about Jackson Hunter or Paul Ingersall?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Ky nodded. Rising, he told her, “I think we’re finished for now, Miss Laine. We have your contact information. We’ll call when we’re done with the memory card.”
“I can’t have it now?”
The childlike whine in her husky voice reminded him of his nieces and nephews when they didn’t get their way or something they wanted.
“We haven’t finished with it yet. But I assure you, I’ll get it back to you.”
“When?”
“As I said, when we’re finished with it.”
“This blows.” She frowned and crossed her arms in front of her again, and this time her hands were fisted.
It wouldn’t have surprised him if she stomped her foot next. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his card. “These are my contact numbers. If you don’t hear from me in a few days, feel free to get in touch.”
“A few days?” she cried. “That’s a lifetime to someone on a publishing deadline. I have a lot of work on that card and it needs to be uploaded and edited.”
“A few days are all we need.”
She mumbled something he couldn’t hear and didn’t think he wanted to, figuring it was something derogatory about himself. Ky made arrangements for an agent to drive her home and then watched as she was escorted out of the office.
“Hell hath no fury.” Jon chuckled.
“The quote pertains to a woman scorned.”
“Scorned or not, she’s one seriously pissed, but fine-looking, female.”
Ky agreed, on both counts. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Gemma let herself into her condo, threw her keys down on the entrance table, toed off her shoes, and then plopped down onto her couch.
“Jerk.” She rubbed her tired eyes with the palms of her hands and dropped her chin to her chest. “Special Agent Jerk.”
Seething, she thought about all the great shots she’d gotten before the shooting. Pictures she now couldn’t work on. An entire day’s filming, shot. Literally. Shot to hell.
And there were some great images in the batch, too. The toddler twins running down the street with their parents laughingly chasing after them; the tiny, elderly lady carrying her equally frail Pomeranian; the Asian shopkeeper sweeping outside her grocery store, the e-cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.
All pictures she knew would be perfect for the book. Only now she had to wait for them to be returned. And if there was one thing Gemma Laine hated, it was waiting.
That, and arrogant Special Agents.
She blew out a breath, making her bangs dance up off her forehead. Since seven a.m., she’d been walking around Manhattan, looking for inspiration. She hadn’t stopped to eat or drink before the shooting, and waiting at FBI headquarters had chewed up another few hours with nothing in her system. A loud growl snarled up from her empty stomach and echoed in the apartment.
A quick inventory of the refrigerator reminded her she’d wanted to stop at the local grocery today when she’d finished working. All that stared back at her from the cool interior was a pint of skim milk, a few bottles of beer from the last time her sister and brother-in-law visited, and three eggs.
“Oh, well. An omelet it is.”
She put the frying pan her sister had given her for Christmas on the stovetop and turned the coil to medium heat. She’d never be the chef Kandy was, but she knew the basics for making a great breakfast. After whisking the eggs with some of the milk, she added a sprinkling of black pepper and nutmeg to the mix.
When the pan was the perfect temperature and she was about to pour in the eggs, the doorbell rang.
Since she lived in a doorman-controlled condo and all her family were well-known to the man on duty, she assumed it was one of them. Without looking through the peephole, she opened the door. Her smile died in an instant when a gun flashed in front of her face.
“Scream and I’ll shoot,” the man holding the gun said.
Gemma’s first instinct was to slam the door. She pulled back, using the door as armor and pushed. Her intruder pushed right back, knocking her to the floor when the force of the door smashed into her. Flat on her butt, she crab-crawled backward and tried to stand while the man flew into the apartment, banged the door shut, and was on her in a second.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her up by it.
Tears of pain sprang into her eyes. She ignored them, slipping into full defense mode. She flattened one of her hands over the one he had on her hair, pushed down, and twisted, turning to face him as she’d been taught to do. She knew if she stood she’d be taller than he was, so she stayed stooped. He was attempting to yank on her hair again, but Gemma pulled her other hand back and, opening the web between her thumb and index finger wide, shot her hand out like a snake, striking him with the V straight in the throat.
The hit had its intended effect. He let go of her hair and fell backward, one of his hands automatically going to his gullet. Gemma took a split second to stand tall, stepped one foot back, and then, raising her opposite leg, kicked him full force straight in the chest with the ball of her foot, knocking him back. The gun dropped from his hand and she ran to it, but he reached out and grabbed her leg, jerking her down hard to the floor. Gemma felt her knee splinter into the hardwood and she recoiled into a fetal position from the impact. With his advantage, the intruder jumped over her, grabbed the gun, and pointed it straight at her face again.
“Bitch! I should kill you now.” His breathing was labored, his neck bright red and raw from her strike, his voice raspy and raw like sandpaper gliding over fresh wood.
“What do you want?” The gun bobbed up and down in his hand as she stared down its barrel.
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“The camera you were using today.” His eyes flicked around the living room and then back to her, the gun still pointed straight at her face. “Where is it?” he repeated.
“I don’t have it. The police took it.” She rubbed her knee, gauging if she’d be able to stand. It wasn’t broken, but she’d landed hard.
“Try again. I watched you leave the FBI building. You had it in your hands. Now stop wasting my time and give it to me.”
Gemma quickly ran through all her options in her head. Her knee was pounding, he had a lethal weapon pointed at her face, and she was on the floor, on her butt. A very bad position to deal from. Her gaze swept from the gun to the man’s face, memorizing it, detail by detail.
“It’s in the kitchen,” she told him, rolling over and trying to rise up on her non-injured leg.
“Get it. Now.”
“My knee is blown,” she told him, standing upright on her good foot. “I can’t move fast.”
To prove her point she tried to walk and hobbled, almost going down to the floor again.
Her intruder swore. “Forget it. I’ll get it.” He turned his head, the gun still directed at her. “In here?”
“It’s on the table.”
He never moved from her sight as he went into the kitchen. Gemma took the few moments to think what to do.
With the camera in his hand, he popped the back open and asked, “Where’s the memory card?”
“The FBI took it.”
He swore again and threw the camera against the wall, smashing it. The anger on his face was murderous as he came toward her.
“You stupid bitch. You could have told me that instead of wasting my time.”
He lifted the gun to her eye level and, just as he pulled back on the trigger, Gemma went into action. Sidestepping backward on her uninjured leg, she brought the other one up to her chest and in one fluid, swift move, knocked the gun from his hand with the front of her foot. Pain recoiled all the way up her leg, but she ignored it. While the gun bounced across the floor, she spun and, using her injured leg again, struck three swift kicks to his temple, knocking him to the floor. The effect of the single-footed spin unbalanced her and made her fall flat on her backside again. Her recovery was swifter than his, though, and she shot up, jumped to the door on her good leg, and, throwing it open, screamed as loud as she could.
She fell into the hall. It was early evening, thankfully, and doors around her opened, quizzical heads popping out from the commotion of her shouting.
The intruder didn’t waste a second. He shot up and ran from the apartment, sprinting down the hallway, and toward the stairs.
Gemma, breathing hard and in serious pain, collapsed against the wall as her neighbors gathered around her.
