Doyle handed him the mug. “Thanks. I take mine black.”
“Naturally.” He grinned as he left the room. Almost every law enforcement man who’d done any stakeouts took their coffee black.
As he stood at the coffee maker, measuring scoops of coffee for a full pot a few minutes later, he heard soft footsteps behind him. “Pop’s in the fridge. Doyle keeps the diet stuff for Sami.”
The fridge opened and closed. The metal tab on the can snapped open. Silence. Then a satisfying, “Ah.”
Pouring water into the coffee maker, he lifted the corner of his mouth. He liked how she didn’t need to fill every second with endless chatter. Her movements were precise, even when she was wielding her camera. About the only time he’d seen her discombobulated was climbing out of the taxi at the wedding and when her home exploded.
Right now, he knew she was watching him, her brain formulating the right question to ask. No small talk. Not for Syd.
“Whoever is behind this must have some powerful connections,” she finally said. “They traced my computer IP account to my home. They sent someone to not only destroy my computer and whatever incriminating evidence was on it, but to make it look like an accident.”
Slowly, he turned, and leaned back against the counter. “It would appear that way.”
“Given the amount of money Ian owes his bookie, you think he emailed photos to someone to blackmail them for money, don’t you?” she asked, a bleakness in her eyes.
Damn, he hated her brother. To have someone love you so much and stomp all over them? If Sydney wasn’t in danger, he’d let the guy get what he deserved.
“Scenario fits.”
She shook her head, the tendrils of blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail bouncing with the effort. “I’d hoped he’d finally gotten himself together, knowing that I had nothing to give him. But he took everything from me, trying to solve his own problem.” She took another drink of her pop. “It’s such a shame. He wasn’t this selfish before Dad died. I guess losing him was just too much for my brother.”
“Don’t,” Frank said, pushing himself from the counter and closing the space between them in a few steps. He grabbed her by the elbows, forcing her to look up at him. “Don’t make excuses for him. This doesn’t have a damn thing to do with your father’s death. It has to do with a desperate man who doesn’t care who he hurts. Plain and simple.”
“You don’t know that. Trauma like that can makes people self-centered, interested in protecting themselves from further hurt. It leaves them scarred.”
“Bullshit.”
Fire lit her purple eyes. “And what makes you an expert on how people deal with loss?”
“You,” he said, softening his grip on her.
She blinked, some of her ire easing with her surprise. “Me?”
“You lost your father, too. Yet, you’ve managed to build a successful career, owned your own home, made friends like Abby and Jontae. I wouldn’t say the loss scarred you.”
She laid one hand on his chest. “It made me afraid.”
What was she talking about? The woman had more backbone than most anyone he’d ever known.
“Afraid of what?”
A long moment passed as she stared into his eyes, almost as if trying to see into his soul. “Of being left behind.”
He started to pull her closer. Then his phone buzzed in his hip pocket.
“Dammit.” He released his hold on her and pulled the phone out to see who the caller was.
His boss.
Shit.
“I have to take this,” he said, willing her to understand that he’d much rather hold her and that he wasn’t planning on leaving her.
“It’s okay. I think I’ll go down and develop those pictures anyway.”
She took the pop and headed from the room.
Swallowing the urge to curse, he hit the answer button on his phone.
“Yes, sir?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The door opened, letting grey light into the dark bar.
A short, bearded man with a beat-up denim jacket and trucker’s cap entered and took one of the empty barstools nearest the door.
Ian let out the breath he’d been holding. Staring over the rim of his beer mug, he focused on the entrance across the room from his booth against the wall. It was closest to the back entrance, in case he needed a hasty exit. He doubted anyone other than Bobby Two-toes was really looking for him. Certainly not the congressman’s goons. Obviously, the congressman had sent someone after the person who sent him the email by following the IP address on the image and email he’d sent. It wasn’t his fault they’d assumed it was Sydney. Though he couldn’t help being glad they had. As long as they were on her trail, he was safely in the shadows.
No, he’d learned to be cautious in new surroundings during his years of working news stories in some of the most dangerous places and the dark corners of cities all around the world. Columbus was no exception. A simple drink in a dive could end up in a bar fight gone bad in a heartbeat.
He’d spent two hours in the library branch, rerouting his second email. This one containing a second image of the girl in the rug. The message also told the congressman he’d need five hundred thousand dollars to get the flash drive with the images. If he didn’t comply, he was going to send both images, along with others, connecting the congressman and the murdered intern to every news agency in the country.
Drinking the last of his beer, he signaled the lone cocktail waitress for another.
The extra night was on purpose. Not because he thought the politician needed the time to get the money transferred. No, he knew the congressman would send his hit team out to the spot where they’d dumped the girl’s body and move it.
Ian chuckled as he took the new mug from the woman who’d seen better days.
It really was too funny. All they’d find was an empty spot where they’d left the girl. Only he knew where she was now.
* * * * *
“You want to tell me why the Chief of Detectives of the Columbus Police Department is looking for you?” Dan Robertson practically growled into Castello’s ear.
Shit.
“Because I was one of the last people their detective spoke to yesterday.” Frank kept his voice as neutral and non-threatening or sarcastic as possible. Don’t tease a wounded animal. Another one of his grandfather’s sayings he’d taken to heart.
“Why would that be? All your cases are being handled here, and you’re still on freaking sick leave. At least, you’re supposed to be.” A silent pause. “Unless of course, you went against orders and are helping another agency on an undercover assignment in your spare time.”
All-too-aware of their last conversation that unsanctioned operations with other law enforcement teams, aka the Edgars, could put his job in jeopardy, Frank rubbed the back of his neck. What he said next would affect his career.
“I’m not working with any other agency, sir.” Best to keep it professional, until his boss’ ire cooled a bit. “A friend of mine’s house was torched two nights ago.”
“The explosion down in the Italian Village area?”
“Yes. She was with me, and we spoke to the detective about the case.”
“Any idea why the detective ended up dead in his car trunk up in Westerville?”
“Because someone is trying to kill my friend.”
“Dammit, Castello. Getting information from you is like pulling hens’ teeth.”
He refrained from telling him hens didn’t have teeth. “Sir. She’s in trouble. That’s all I can tell you, because right now that’s about all I know.”
He’d left the part out about getting hit by a car trying to protect her.
“And you’re treating her like one of your witnesses,” Dan said.
Well, not exactly. He didn’t sleep with his witnesses.
“Yes, sir.”
Another long, long pause.
“Okay. Anything you need from this end?”
> “Time.”
“It’s a homicide, Frank. Of a police officer. They’re wanting blood. Anyone’s. Even a fellow law officer’s.”
“I know that, Dan. I also know that someone with long arms, deep pockets, and probably military connections is behind this.”
“Are you telling me you have a conspiracy going on?”
“In theory, but things are starting to fall into place.”
“I can’t hold back the police investigation. Not this time.”
“But you can act as a go-between.”
“What do you have in mind?” Dan’s curious. That was a good thing. Might be the thing that saves my career.
“Arrange a meeting,” Frank glanced at his watch. “Tonight. Me and the lead homicide detective. I’ll give him everything I know. But make it someplace out of the way.”
“Will do.” Another pause. “And Frank?”
“Sir?”
“We’re seriously going to have to talk when this is done.”
The phone died in his ear.
Shit. He might’ve appeased Dan’s anger a little, but he had a serious feeling he was inches from finding himself canned.
“Castello, you might want to come in here.” Doyle’s voice sounded in the room.
The man must have intercoms in every corner of the place.
“On my way.” Whatever the older man had found, it didn’t sound like it was good news.
Walking into the command center, he stared at the grotesque image on the huge monitor screen to Doyle’s right.
“What the hell is that?”
“That’s what I found in the email message posted by Sydney’s brother.”
Frank let out a low whistle, moving closer. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. A dead woman. Looks like she’s in the woods and wrapped up in something thick, maybe a rug inside a trash bag. Whatever your young woman’s brother is involved in, it just got very messy.”
Poor Sydney.
Sydney.
Sydney’s downstairs, developing pictures.
“Shit.” He bolted out of the room as fast as his two bum legs would move, heading to the basement and Doyle’s darkroom.
“Syd!” he called, as he took the steps two at a time. “Sydney, stop what you’re doing!”
He slammed open the darkroom door, hoping he’d destroy whatever she was working on. She didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to know her brother was involved in a murder.
Slowly, she turned towards him, her eyes huge with shock, tears on her cheeks. Devastation riding her stiff shoulders.
He was too late.
“Frank,” she whispered and his heart ripped open.
In two strides he was at her side, scooping her into his arms and holding her tight, willing some of his strength into her desperately still body.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
“He…” She gave a hitched gasp. “Ian watched…he photographed…”
“I know. I’m sorry you have to see it.”
“A murder. A young woman. Shot.”
The last word didn’t make sense. The image in the picture Doyle found hadn’t shown anything more than a dead woman. He pulled back to look down into Sydney’s face.
“How do you know she was shot?”
“The pictures.” She pointed at the pictures hanging up on the wire strung across one side of the darkroom. “Ian photographed the whole thing through her window,” she said, her voice rising with righteous indignation. “He sat across the street and took pictures while a young woman lost her life.”
He let go of Sydney to move closer to the pictures. She was right. It was an image-by-image recording of the girl being shot by a man, then two more men rolling the girl up in a rug—probably the one visible in the color picture upstairs. These were all in black and white.
Then the images changed.
“Looks like Ian moved closer,” he said, pointing to the first one in a new series.
“Yes. My dear, self-centered bastard of a brother got close enough to capture the faces of the men who’d shot her. He made sure to show them putting the bundle in their SUV. And then, instead of calling the police or someone to stop them, maybe help her, Ian took the time to get a clear shot of their license plate.” She poked her finger at the final image. “Instead of trying to get her help or bring her killers to justice, he hid behind a camera, took these pictures, and I’ll bet you that’s how he plans to earn the money to pay old Bobby Two-toes. Blackmail.”
That she’d come to the logical conclusion didn’t surprise Frank. Sydney was smart.
No. It was the heat in her voice. Finally, her brother had done something to anger her. She could tolerate his indifference to her, his callous using of her for his own needs. What she couldn’t tolerate was him using someone else’s tragedy for his own gain.
“What we need to do,” she said, pulling down the pictures and making a pile of them, “is find out who this poor girl is and let her poor family know what’s happened to her. And we need to find these men and bring them to justice.”
In a matter of minutes, she’d gone from fragile waif reeling in a shocking revelation about someone she knew, to strong Amazon princess, hell-bent on avenging another woman’s death.
His Syd was magnificent.
And she might not know it yet, but she was definitely his.
The corner of Frank’s lip lifted.
“What?” she asked, turning all that beautiful anger on him. “You think this is funny?”
“Not in the least.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then why the smirk?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Preferably when he had her naked and tucked up close to him. “Right now, you’re right. We need to figure out who this woman is, and why someone wanted her dead.”
* * * * *
“You have to do something!”
The panic in the middle-aged man pacing on the other side of his desk grated on his nerves like someone nervously tearing a Styrofoam cup into pieces.
“Calm down, Morris. Sit down and tell me what has happened now?”
“I got a second email. You told me you’d take care of it. That there’d be no more trouble.” The other man flopped down in the leather chair, his head in his hands. “I never should have gotten involved with you.”
Ah, the publically respected congressman was quickly looking for someone to blame for his mistakes. Typical politician.
“You were more than happy to dip your cock into the barely legal little intern, Morris. No one forced you to do that.”
“You told me you’d protect me if I continued my relationship with the girl. I didn’t know you were going to kill her!”
Of course he didn’t. He hadn’t gotten to be the head of an international crime consortium by letting anyone know of all his plans.
“Reply to the email that you’ll need a little more time to get the money together. Did your blackmailer set a place for the exchange?” He needed time for Geist to take out the Peele woman and her protector before the deadline. If not, he’d have to have his other team in place to handle all the loose ends at once.
“No, he said he’d be in contact later with details.” Blanton looked at his very expensive Rolex.
“I expect it will be in your home state somewhere.” Given Geist had said that was where Sydney Peele and her marshal were hiding. Too conspicuous for them to fly to D.C. to pick up their money. Of course, he hadn’t informed Blanton who the blackmailer was. Another secret he planned to keep close to the vest. “Tell him you’ll have the money in two days. We’ll use my jet out of my private hangar to fly there, that way security won’t be scanning your bags.”
Blanton’s gaze shot to his. Fear and surprise filled the man’s nearly weepy blue eyes. “You’re coming with me?”
He studied the Congressman, sizing up just how he was going to end his tenure. “Yes, you can leave your security detail at home. After we take care of this blackma
iler, all your troubles will be over.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I’ve been running the picture in the face recognition program,” Doyle said, as they entered his command center once more.
Sydney narrowed her eyes, moving closer to the computer screen. The image was a color picture of a woman, pale as a sheet of paper, blood on her face. Her dark hair in wild disarray hid half of her face, and she seemed to be wrapped in a thick material, which was in turn wrapped in what appeared to be a black trash bag.
“Oh, my God, is that her?” The same sick feeling she’d had down in Doyle’s darkroom settled over her.
“This is the image I found in your cloud files,” Doyle said.
Something touched the back of her thighs. She turned to see one of the roller chairs behind her, Castello holding the seat back. He didn’t command her to sit, but his face said she should. Clutching the photos to her chest, she didn’t argue.
“This was taken with a digital camera,” she said, pointing to the image, focusing on the style of the image and the background, not the poor woman in it. Her anger from earlier flared to life. “My bastard brother used both his film camera and his digital to record her death. Couldn’t be bothered to stop the killers or at the least call the police as it was happening. Nope. But let’s be sure to get really good photos to use for his own needs.”
She didn’t try to hide her disgust.
Big, warm hands settled on her shoulders, calming some of her rage. Not all of it, just enough that she could focus. She peered over her shoulder at Frank, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes bright with his own anger. She had to wonder if gripping her shoulders was as much to dampen his need to strangle her brother as it did hers?
“I know it’s gruesome to look at, but do you know who she is?” Doyle asked her, drawing her attention to the problem at hand—the murdered girl.
Once more, she stared at the image on the huge monitor. Slowly, she shook her head. “She’s not anyone I know personally. She might be an acquaintance of Ian’s, but I know so little of his life. Hell, let’s just admit it. I don’t know my brother at all, much less any women he might’ve been involved with.”
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