Especially now, as he stood hawklike in the back of the room. There were a few other investigators, and a woman named Dr. Irene Gettleberg, who Sam strongly suspected was a psychologist.
Were they trying to break her? Trip her up?
Intimidate, impeach, and provide incentive to lie?
Sam took a deep breath and nodded to Detective Larkin. “I’m ready,” she said, staring at the glass, knowing what happened next. The lights on the other side came up quickly, glaring down on six men who stood against a wall with long black lines marking their height.
They looked straight ahead, cocky, worried, bored, and maybe… guilty.
They all had dark hair, but two she could knock out immediately. The killer’s hair was short, and those two couldn’t have grown that much hair in a week.
Unless the killer wore a wig.
She swallowed, but that just moved the lump from her throat to her chest.
“Start on the left,” Detective Larkin said, coming close to her. “Take your time and look at every detail of their faces. You said the man seemed tall. That one on the left is over six feet. Is that tall to you?”
“Detective, don’t make suggestions.” Dr. Gettleberg’s admonition was firm. “This needs to hold up in court.”
Especially since a sharp defense attorney would rip Sam’s testimony into tiny shreds and sprinkle it like confetti over the jury. Wouldn’t that be a fun day in court?
“I need each one of them to turn to their right,” Sam said, sliding her gaze over their faces. “I only saw his profile.”
After a minute, they did, although Sam didn’t hear the instruction being given.
The two with the long hair, both tall, had smooth skin. Could someone fake those pockmarks she’d seen? A really good makeup artist, like a movie-quality artist, yes. But the bulb in the wine cellar had caught the shadow of the blemished skin, and the shape had been like a three-quarter crescent moon. She was certain of that.
She eliminated one and three, and turned her attention to the four other men. The second one was a little short. Although, she’d been crouching behind the wine racks, and maybe that distorted her perception of height. The fourth and fifth men definitely had big enough noses and short enough hair, and one had a bit of a beard covering what might be pockmarked cheeks.
Could she ask for him to shave?
“A front view again?” Detective Larkin asked.
“No, wait.” She squinted at the man with the beard. There was something slouchy and thin about him. The killer hadn’t been husky, but he’d been… elegant. He wore a dark jacket and looked as if he could have been any of the patrons of Paupiette’s. This guy was too… sloppy.
But maybe that was an act. A professional killer—and assassin—surely had some performance skills. Had the man who killed Sterling been adopting that posture as part of an act? Had he worn fake hair, fake blemishes?
Doubt chewed at her insides. She blew out a breath and closed her eyes, trying to clean the visual slate. What else had she seen of him that night?
His hands.
“You need to think, Sam,” Detective Larkin said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Try to remember.”
“Please,” Sam whispered. “I’m trying.”
She eyed them all again. If she picked the one who was a plant to make her look like a fool, some people in that room might be very happy.
“She’s trying,” O’Hara said from the back. “She better do more than try.”
She ignored him and thought about the hand that held that gun. He’d hidden it under his jacket, right hand on the gun, back against the wall, left cheek facing her. When he pulled the gun out, did she see a ring? A mole? A mark?
Or was she looking at Sterling at that very moment? His shocked face, the way his eyes burst open when he’d been shot?
Her gaze landed on the sixth man. As tall as the first, with the right kind of hair, and rough skin. Had that skin just looked pockmarked in the shadows of the cellar? Had his nose been that flat at the top? Weren’t his ears a little bigger?
He could be the man. He could be. That, right there, could be the very man who put a bullet in Joshua Sterling… or it might not.
The last thing she wanted was to even cast a shadow on the wrong man. Look what she’d done to Billy Shawkins. A fine sheen of perspiration tingled on her neck and down her spine.
She’d put the wrong man in prison once before.
“I don’t see him.”
Somehow, she knew from the moment she’d walked into the police station that would be her response. She’d never accuse another man, ever. That killer who had her face on tape should rest easy; he had the best witness possible. An uncertain one.
“You’re sure?” Larkin sounded devastated.
That was just the problem. She wasn’t sure of anything. “I can’t positively identify any of these men.”
Which meant she wasn’t any closer to safety, security, or a normal life.
Behind her, O’Hara yanked the door open, not even sparing her a word. Dr. Gettleberg looked hard at her, then made a note on a clipboard.
“You don’t have a suspect, do you?” Sam asked.
Larkin didn’t answer.
“This was a test of me, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not true,” Larkin answered.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You should believe me. And you will when you step outside. We have more restaurant employees and Paupiette’s patrons coming in today to look at the very same lineup, to see if they remember any of these men as patrons that night. You, of course, are first, as the eyewitness.”
“Really? Are those people here now?” Suddenly, she wanted to see some coworkers—alive and safe. “Because, Detective Larkin, if the person who killed Sterling also killed Teddy Brindell because he knows there’s a witness, don’t you think everyone who worked there should be warned?”
He gave her a patronizing pat. “Mr. Brindell’s death is unrelated, Sam. He had collected a lot of cash, and he was rolled, plain and simple. Looking for any other connection, well, you just aren’t going to find one. Believe me, we’ve thought through every angle.”
“But just in case, don’t you think the other employees should know—”
“Please…” He leaned in to underscore the next sentence. “No one knows you witnessed the murder. We have to keep it that way.”
Well, someone knew.
“All of these employees think you found Sterling’s body. Don’t let the truth out or we lose all our leverage.”
She wasn’t entirely sure she followed that reasoning, but he indicated for her to go out and down a corridor, ending the conversation. Rene’s was the first familiar face she saw, and despite her general dislike of the sommelier, a wave of comfort rolled over her. They were all in this together.
“Rene,” she called, aware of the sharp look from Detective Larkin.
“Hello, Sam.” He reached out for her, uncharacteristically warm, but it felt perfectly normal. They hugged quickly and pulled back. “Did you hear about Teddy?” he asked immediately.
She nodded. “So sad.”
“Were you…” He put his hand up to shade his eyes and mime “looking” at the lineup.
“Let’s go.” O’Hara appeared out of nowhere, giving Rene a nudge. “Detective Larkin will walk you out, Ms. Fairchild. And remember…” He pointed a finger at her face. “We want to know where you are. All the time. I mean every single minute.”
“He’s exaggerating,” Larkin said, guiding her away, speaking very softly. “But don’t lose touch. And do not tell anyone that you’re a witness, Sam. No one. Not even someone you think you trust. Because, right now, you can’t trust anybody.”
“But he knows,” she said.
“Who knows?”
“The man who did it and has the tape.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “We still don’t know if that tape worked or if he even looked at it. He might have thrown it in th
e river to get rid of what might be incriminating evidence.”
“Just catch him,” she said. “So I can sleep again.”
“That’s what we intend to do.”
As the elevator doors opened to the main floor, she scanned the people and cops milling about, looking for Zach. Her gaze falling on the metal detectors. Had he gotten in by leaving the weapon in the car? Or was he still outside where she’d left him?
The need to see him hit her hard, surprising her with its impact. Not just because she felt safe with him, but because she needed to see him. It made no sense, but nothing about Zach Angelino did.
“Sam? Is that you?”
She turned at the sound of a man’s voice, skimming the crowd for someone tall, dark, and dangerous, but landing on medium, pale, and pleasant. It took a second to place him, and longer to remember his name. But she did, just as he reached her, with his hands outstretched.
“How are you, Larry?”
The fact that she remembered the name of the man she’d chatted with at the bar just moments before her life took its latest turn surprised her. And it made his smile even wider. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. I heard you quit after the incident.”
“I did,” she admitted. “It was just too…”
“I know.” He squeezed her hands and inched closer. “I can’t believe there’s a lineup. It’s so old-school. I feel like I’m in an episode of Hill Street Blues.”
She didn’t laugh, unable to share just how horrible the situation was for her. “Yeah, I know,” she said weakly.
“No, you don’t,” he replied. “You probably don’t even know what Hill Street Blues is; you’re that much younger than I am. But I’m going to ask anyway. Could we have a cup of coffee later? I should be done with the lineup in a little while, and…” His voice trailed off, no doubt reading her expression.
“I can’t, Larry. I have to go, so maybe another time.”
“Can there be another time?” he asked, his expression serious. “I’d really like to take you out, if you’re free. Are you?”
Her smile was tight. Was she free, or had she already been captured by Zach Angelino? Would she ever give any man a chance, even a nice, boring guy like this? Especially a nice, boring guy like this. “Not exactly, no. I mean—”
“I’m not married,” he assured her. “I make a good living, I have no serious baggage, and… wait for it now… I can cook.”
She laughed, surprised by the wit she hadn’t even noticed when they met that night in Paupiette’s bar. “That’s quite a résumé, but as long as this is going on…” She waved around as though the entire police station encompassed this. “I’m just kind of preoccupied.”
“How are you preoccupied? I thought you quit.”
Larkin’s warning rang in her ear. “It’s just got me in a funny place, you know?”
“I know.” He gave her wistful smile. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“Maybe,” she said, without much promise.
With an awkward good-bye, he headed away. She went in the opposite direction and spotted Zach on the other side of the lobby, his uneven gaze targeted on her. Just the sight of him—the long black hair, the leather patch, the badass T-shirt, the unshaven stubble—sent a thrill from her heart to her toes.
Larry didn’t stand a chance against him. No man did.
Zach approached her slowly, with determination in his step and a half smile that almost killed her.
“So who’s the guy with the rug?”
She laughed softly. “Really? That was a toupee?” Poor Larry, he really was older than she thought.
“A good one, but, yeah. You give him your number?”
“You sound jealous.”
He put his arm around her. “He was drooling.”
“You were watching?”
“That’s my job.”
He guided her toward the door, a strong arm protectively on her back, his job being the only reason she let herself be this close to him. Because she had to remember the lesson of the lineup room: Her judgment sucked.
CHAPTER 12
Well, if you and your FBI buddies are right, then prostitution pays.”
Vivi paused at the icy expanse of white marble floor in the Clarendon, the whole complex so new she could practically smell the sawdust of the last few condos being loaded with luxury.
“We’re right, and it does,” Marc replied.
“Then why didn’t you nail her?”
“She’s got friends in high places, that’s why. What I’d love to know is what you think she’s going to tell you that she hasn’t told the cops.” Marc gave her a sideways glance. “Especially dressed like that.”
She purposely clicked her stacked heels on the marble, smiling smugly as she smoothed her hands over skin-tight, body-hugging pencil jeans and a T-shirt that barely covered her midriff.
“This is black tie for me, baby,” she said, grinning up at him. “Plus, I’m here for a modeling gig. Those chicks don’t wear business suits. No need to give Ms. Sly any reason to change her mind about me and my cover girl potential.” She hesitated near the bank of elevators, looking around and seeing no one who was a candidate for Anthea, Ms. Taylor Sly’s personal assistant at the modeling agency called On The Sly.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, indicating a white leather bench. “We can’t get up there on our own.”
“I could.”
“I’m sure you could.” As they sat, she gave his leg a sisterly squeeze. “That’s why you’re going to make such a fabulous Guardian Angelino.”
Marc’s dark eyes were serious. “I won’t lie to you, Vivi. I love the idea. I miss the game in a big way.”
“Ever think about going back to the FBI?”
He just shook his head. “Too many burned bridges. Too much crappy history.”
“You might have to do undercover assignments again if you work for us.”
“Not one that would compromise my relationship with my wife,” he said.
“Ah, you say that as if there might be another someday.”
“One can hope. But, seriously, I like the company concept, Vivi. I think you have the brains and nerve to pull this off.”
“And I have the brother and cousins. I’m not cocky enough to think I could do this job alone. I need Zach, I need you, I need Chessie. Hell, I need Uncle Nino to cook for me.”
“You might even need JP.”
She held up a hand. “Not if it costs me Zach. You saw those two yesterday. Some things never change.”
Marc shook his head. “I think JP’s trying, I do. He can be an arrogant asshole; I’m the first to admit that. He thinks he knows everything and has to control stuff. And, God knows, when Zach was going through his wild phase—”
“Which was basically from eleven until he joined the military,” she interjected.
“Yeah, JP had enough of him. But, damn, we’re adults now. I want Zach to see the benefits of family. Even if he doesn’t think the Rossis are his.”
Vivi leaned back, her eyes on the elevator doors, her brain on her wounded, scarred brother. “Maybe Sam’ll help him.”
“Maybe,” Marc said. “If she’s a miracle worker.”
The doors opened and both of them stared at the nine-foot-tall drink of chocolate milk with stick-straight ebony hair and a tight white miniskirt that ended well above midthigh. She sauntered out, golden eyes on Marc.
“I’m going to bet my Eric Clapton–autographed Fender that’s Anthea,” Vivi whispered out of the side of her mouth.
“Yep. Gold standard call girl,” Marc replied.
“Ms. Angelino?” The woman glided over to them, her gaze staying on Marc, giving a slow appraisal. “I’m Anthea Newcomb, Ms. Sly’s assistant.” She smiled slowly at Marc. “She only mentioned one candidate. But do you have your book with you, sir? I’m sure she’d be interested in you.”
“I’m sure she would, too,” he said with a playful smile. “But I’m not in her business.”
/>
“He’s with me,” Vivi said. “I promise he doesn’t bite.”
“Well, I do,” he admitted. “But only if you ask.”
In the elevator, Anthea threw Marc a few more lusty glances, and totally ignored Vivi. Good thing she really didn’t want a modeling job; she’d have been crushed.
“So how long have you worked for On The Sly?” Vivi asked.
“I’m employee number one,” Anthea said in a rich voice. “So, a long time.”
The doors opened to the twenty-seventh-floor lobby, a miniature version of the one below. A concierge sat behind a desk, surrounded by soft uplighting and more gleaming marble.
Anthea nodded to him as they passed, heading down a wide hall to a set of beautifully carved mahogany doors. She used a handheld device to punch in some numbers and the doors unlocked with a soft click.
She opened them both at the same time, as though presenting Marc and Vivi to royalty. The front entrance was a massive circle, almost exclusively decorated in blinding white and cream except for a round center table with a floral arrangement half the size of the Public Garden. A few rooms jutted off at odd angles, but Anthea walked them to the right, to another bright, white living room with two full walls of glass looking out over Boston.
“Have a seat, sir. Ms. Angelino, come with me.”
They shared one quick look, Marc quirking his brow in something like a warning; then Vivi followed Anthea back through the entryway to another suite of rooms. Everything was so bright and light and white, it was like the home of an angel. And huge. She had no doubt this was two condos turned into one, and had to be at least six or seven thousand square feet.
Running a modeling agency would surely pay well, but not this well. Ms. Sly definitely had another source of income. At another set of double doors, painted white, Anthea reached forward, opened them, and stepped back.
“This is Ms. Sly’s office,” she said. “Where’s your book, Ms. Angelino?”
“I didn’t bring one.” Vivi ignored the surprised response, turning her attention to the floor-to-ceiling view of downtown Boston, looking all the way out to the Citgo sign.