This sitting area was no standard office. It had long sofas, cocktail tables, a bar, a view. But no desk. No phone. No file cabinets or portfolios or Cosmo covers on the wall. And no Taylor Sly.
“You’re a reporter.”
Vivi pivoted at the sound of the voice behind her. “Yes, I am.”
Taylor Sly was like an exotic flower—pretty no matter where you put her, but in her element, surrounded by her natural environment, she was positively stunning, aged to perfection. “Well, you’re certainly no model.”
Vivi gave her a tight smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a reporter?”
“I didn’t think you’d talk to me.” Vivi reached into her pocket and produced a brand-new pair of workout gloves. “But I did bring these.”
“Thank you.” She took them and dropped them on a coffee table with indifference, her attention so riveted on Vivi that it was a little disconcerting. “Vivi Angelino.”
She said the name as if she knew it.
“That’s me.”
Smiling a little, she took a few steps, circling, but not predatory. Scrutinizing.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not here to get a modeling gig. I lied to get the meeting with you.”
Taylor paused, light dancing in eyes so blue-green they bordered on turquoise. “I like that,” she replied.
“You do?”
The smile broke wide, revealing perfect teeth. “I lied to get my first job,” she admitted. “Said I was sixteen. I was barely thirteen. I got it. Cover of Seventeen.”
Vivi’s eyes widened. “I guess the rest is history.”
“I guess it is.” She waved to a chair. “Sit down and tell me what was so important you lied to me to get in here.”
Vivi sat and Taylor took a chair directly across from her, silk pants rustling as she sat, a soft cinnamon scent all around her. Her face, backlit from the sun pouring in the windows, was a work of art. Almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones, luscious lips.
No wonder the woman sold a billion dollars’ worth of products and started her own modeling agency. Could she also be a madame? It seemed preposterous, but Vivi knew enough about people that she realized anything was possible. And Marc had been a helluva good FBI agent. If he said Taylor was running a prostitution ring, then she probably was.
“I’m not here as a reporter. I’m working as a private investigator.” The words felt oddly comfortable on Vivi’s tongue.
One perfectly arched brow notched north. “I assume this is about the Joshua Sterling murder?”
“Yes. My company is investigating it.”
“Do you have a card?”
Shit. “Actually, we’re new. We’re brand-new. We’re called the Guardian Angelinos, and I’m the vice president in charge of investigations.”
The other woman seemed intrigued. “You’re starting your own company. I love that. I’m so supportive of women-owned businesses.”
“I’m a co-owner, with my brother,” Vivi added. “He’s in charge of security and personal protection.”
“Excellent.” A sneaky smile broke across her face, her remarkable eyes dancing. “I’m all for using men for their brawn while we provide the brains.”
“He has brains, too,” she said defensively. “But my background is in investigation.”
“For the Boston Bullet,” Taylor said. At Vivi’s look, she added, “I did some homework before our meeting. You would, too, as any smart businesswoman would.” She settled in a little closer. “How can I help you, Vivi? Your business is just starting and you probably need a break.”
“We sure do.” Vivi relaxed, liking her more every second.
“You’re trying to solve Sterling’s murder.”
Vivi tilted her head. “I’m not trying to do the Boston PD’s job, Ms. Sly.”
“Taylor.”
“Taylor. I’m trying to help a client who is peripherally involved in the case.”
Her expression grew serious. “A suspect?”
“No.”
“A witness?”
“Just someone with a very strong interest in the case being solved.”
Taylor nodded, understanding that Vivi wasn’t going to give her more. “You know I was in the restaurant that night.”
“Yes, and I know you spoke with Mr. Sterling. How well did you know him?”
Something flickered in her eyes. “I knew him very well.”
“Then, my sympathies on the loss of… a friend?” She left it as a question, and Taylor didn’t answer. “Or was he a business associate?” Like one of her top johns?
“He was my lover.”
Vivi just stared at her, stunned speechless.
“And, yes, the police know this already. I’ve been interviewed extensively. I’m not going to hide the truth. We were in love, and he was planning to leave his wife for me.”
Vivi must have looked as gobsmacked as she felt. “And they know that, too?”
Taylor nodded once, a daring look in her eyes. “And they’ve cleared that little bitch.”
They’d cleared Sterling’s wife? A woman scorned? “Is it possible they’re just saying that while they amass evidence?” Vivi asked.
“What’s possible…” She shook her head, stopping herself from saying more.
“Taylor, please. Tell me. I can help.”
“Maybe you can,” she said, considering that. “Maybe a rogue investigator is just what this case needs because those fucking cops—excuse my language, but they are bastards. They don’t want to touch Devyn Sterling because she’s a Hewitt and they’re next to God in this town.”
Vivi knew that to be true. “Well, I don’t have any problems bringing down Hewitts or God, so tell me how I can help.”
“Well, frankly, I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t think she did it. I mean, obviously she didn’t do it. She was right in the middle of the dining room when it happened. But I don’t think she paid for the assassination either.”
“She certainly had a motive if you and her husband…”
“She doesn’t have the stomach for it,” Taylor continued. “But she has the genes.”
“The Hewitt genes?”
A slow smile threatened. “Darling, if I could tell you what I know, not only would you have the investigative scoop of the decade, also your little company would be turning business away.”
Tease. “How can I get you to tell me?”
Taylor just shook her head slowly, as if it could never happen. “I’m tempted, though, to help out a woman and take that—”
“Hey! Stop!” They both spun at the sound of Anthea’s outburst, but two men bolted into the room. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sly…” Anthea said on a sigh.
Taylor’s warmth disappeared, replaced by ice and fury. “I’m in the middle of an interview, Detective O’Hara. What do you need?”
Of course, Vivi thought. He was the lead detective on the case. She’d never been close enough at a press conference to get a good look. Nor had she ever seen the other cop with him.
“This is a search warrant,” O’Hara said. “And we’re about to use it.” His dark blue eyes sliced Taylor with malice and accusation.
“Get out, Detective O’Hara. I’ve given you all the statements I intend to without a lawyer present.” Taylor looked dismissively to the other man, sliding her hands into the pockets of her trousers in a gesture that seemed oddly masculine and wrong on someone so completely feminine. “Where is Detective Larkin?”
“Doing lineups,” O’Hara said. “And not here to protect you.”
Taylor shook her head. “No, you may not search.”
“Then you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice.” O’Hara’s lips curled. “It’s a start, Sly.”
She glanced at Vivi. “Fine. You win. You can search. Give me one minute to say good-bye to my newest model.”
O’Hara finally looked at Vivi and nodded. “Don’t count on too much work in the future, miss.”
Vivi said nothing,
but let Taylor guide her to the door. There, Taylor turned to Vivi and gave her a close and unexpected hug. So unexpected that it was momentarily awkward as they both went the same way, then Taylor quickly moved her head and placed her mouth near Vivi’s ear.
“Finn MacCauley,” she whispered. Then she pulled away and gave her a long, meaningful look. “I predict great success for you in this new endeavor,” she said. “Take every opportunity that comes your way.”
Vivi nodded, the words rolling around in her head as she let Anthea take her the rest of the way out, meeting Marc at the door, where two more detectives and two uniformed police officers waited.
“That was timely,” he said, walking out with Vivi. “Is she a suspect?”
Vivi waited until they were in the elevator, and even then she looked around for closed-circuit security cameras. “Yes,” she whispered. “I think she is.”
As the doors opened, they stepped out, then onto the street, the information she had nearly erupting from her mouth as she told him everything.
“His lover? And they’re not after the wife?”
“Precisely,” Vivi said, navigating the cobblestone with her heels. “But, Marc, that isn’t the most important thing she said. You’re not going to believe the name she whispered to me when I left.”
He looked at her, waiting.
“Finn MacCauley.”
His eyes popped. “The Irish mob gangster?”
“You know another Finn MacCauley?”
Marc shook his head in disbelief. “Vivi, that guy gets blamed for every murder in the city of Boston. He hasn’t come up for air in, like, twenty-five years, and I tend to think that’s because the rumor that he was whacked by his lieutenants and buried in the Central Artery during the Big Dig is true.”
“Isn’t he still on an FBI Most Wanted list?”
“He is, but only because they haven’t found his corpse. In ten years, he’ll be in his nineties and presumed dead.”
Vivi shrugged. “I think she was a very credible source.”
“Yeah, a madame running a prostitution ring who is openly admitting to an affair with the deceased and clearly the number-one suspect of the lead detective. She’s majorly credible.”
Vivi shot him a look. “I liked her.”
“Rule number one of investigations, little cousin. Liking someone doesn’t mean they’re honest.”
She considered that. “What’s rule number two?”
“When someone hands you a lead to a killer, you know, like whispers their name in your ear?” He put his arm around her and guided her toward the Starbucks on the corner. “They’re usually trying to put the blame on someone other than themselves.”
CHAPTER 13
Sam spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon up in her room. Zach didn’t really know exactly what she was doing, but it was clear she didn’t want it to involve him. So, he stayed on the first floor, waiting for Nino to arrive. He had a long conversation with Vivi about her visit to Taylor Sly, and even the news that the police seemed to be that much closer to finding the person who hired the killer—since obviously Taylor Sly didn’t pull the trigger herself—didn’t make Sam very talkative or sociable when he went upstairs to tell her.
Zach imagined the ordeal of the lineup had been tough on her, and while he killed time in the afternoon, he’d used her laptop to read up on the history of Billy Shawkins’s exoneration case, the Innocence Mission, and the extracurricular activities of one of their volunteers. One of their brilliant, beautiful, amazing volunteers.
All that did was ratchet up his respect for her, and remind Zach that a woman like Sammi needed her equal in life, a man as physically attractive as she was, as tremendously successful as he had no doubt she’d be, and more emotionally committed than he could ever be.
Not a shell who never really fit in anywhere, who had spent the better part of the last twenty years as the center of no one’s life, and who would go through the rest of his life laden with guilt for mistakes he shouldn’t have made.
She deserved a whole man, inside and out. He must have looked as miserable as that thought made him feel, because when he let Uncle Nino in and helped him with the grocery bags he carried, he got a loud tsk and shake of the head.
“What?” Zach asked.
“You’re miserable, ragazzino.”
“I’m hungry. What’re you making?”
Nino pulled a salami out of a plastic bag and stuck it in his hand. “Dinner’s later. Eat this now. Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Principal,” he said.
Nino looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“She’s not my girlfriend; she’s my principal, which is the technical term for the person being protected by a bodyguard.”
“Principal my ass. She’s your girlfriend, or oughta be.”
Zach smiled, settling in at the kitchen table to slice some salami and reggiano cheese while his great-uncle cooked, an activity so familiar, he didn’t even have to look at Nino. He knew what he was chopping by the sound of his knife and the smell of the room. Sage.
But the déjà vu was deeper, conjuring up an older memory. Naples. His mother. Little handpainted blue tiles on a backsplash and a dog they’d taken in as a stray and named Aldo. Which meant the old one.
God, he hadn’t thought about Aldo in a long time. When he’d been taken away, Vivi cried so hard she threw up, and Zach had to clean her. He was still mad about Aldo when they got to the States and couldn’t get a dog because Chessie was allergic to them.
“Did she find the killer in that lineup?” Nino asked, yanking him out of his unwanted memory.
“No, she’s pretty gun-shy about the whole thing.” He told Nino a sketchy version of the Billy Shawkins story. But his mind went back to Aldo. And that blue and white kitchen.
“Wonder what my mother would think of Sam?” he said, barely aware he had spoken out loud. But the clunk of Nino’s knife on a cutting board assured him he had.
“Your mother was an excellent judge of character. Headstrong as hell.”
“You didn’t really know her,” Zach replied.
“I met her a few times, and she’s my blood, so that makes her like me and I know me. A good judge of character.”
Zach took a bite of the hard cheese, the taste and smell like home. It made the memories even more poignant. “She must have been,” he said. “Because she loved the hell out of me.”
Nino turned, his dark eyes soft. “You have pain in your voice.”
“I have reggiano in my mouth,” he said, chewing at the same time. “No pain.”
“She didn’t love you.”
Zach froze midchew, and scowled. “Like hell she didn’t.”
“It went way past love, especially with you. She doted on you. The sun rose and set on you. You were her reason for breathing, working, waking, sleeping. She thought—”
Zach held up his salami-cutting knife. “I get the picture.”
“Do you?” Nino asked. “Do you, Zaccaria? Because I don’t think you’ve ever forgiven her for dying and leaving you without a personal fan club.”
He stared at the old man. “You been talking to Nicki? This is very deep shrink stuff that has no basis in reality.”
Nino just shook his head the way he did when words in any language failed him. “You can’t have yourself a girlfriend if you don’t love yourself. It’s just that simple.”
Zach put the salami next to the cheese and stood up and headed to the door. “Thanks for the snack, Nino. I’m going to check on—”
Sammi was standing in the living room, cell phone in hand, three feet away. Fuck. How much of that bull crap had she heard?
“We have to go somewhere,” she said.
“The police station again?”
“Revere. I have to see Billy.”
He gave her a questioning look, and she lifted the phone as if it held the explanation, but all he could read was Suffolk County Department of Parole.
“It’s
from Adam Bonner, his parole officer. He says that he’s having some issues with Billy’s work attendance, and he thinks I should talk to him.”
“In person? Can’t you call him?”
She gave her head a little shake, her eyes sad. “I want to see him, Zach. I need to see him. Obviously, I have to talk to him if he’s skipping work, which is so not like him. But, I don’t know, after today? This?” She jiggled the phone. “Was like a message from beyond. I really need to see him. I’d really rather go alone, but I know you’d never let me.”
“You got that right.” Anyway, it beat staying here and being psychoanalyzed by his great-uncle.
Nino promised he could let himself out and that the place would be secure, so they left through the back alley where Zach kept his car parked. Despite the afternoon traffic, he navigated the winding roads in the warehouse district of Revere easily, constantly on the watch for anyone following right up until they crossed a set of railroad tracks to the parking lot of a mammoth, windowless building bearing the sign North Side Paints.
“He usually comes out that side door over there,” Sam said, pointing to a set of double metal doors near a half-empty parking lot.
“You come here a lot?” he asked.
“When I can. He doesn’t have a car and has to take, like, three buses and the train to get home, so sometimes on my days off, I pick him up when his shift is over.” She glanced at the clock in the dash. “Which is in a few minutes.”
He parked where they could watch the entrance, scanning the area as he did.
“I saw a paint factory burn up in Pakistan a few years ago,” he said, studying the building. “Brutal fire and explosion. Of course, it was deliberately set, but the smell was unforgettable.”
“I didn’t know you were in Pakistan.”
Of course she didn’t. Because he had cut off all contact long before Pakistan.
“What did you do there?”
“I blew up that paint factory, among other things.”
She gasped softly. “You set the fire?”
“Not by myself.” He tapped the steering wheel, taking in the height and depth of this factory, mentally figuring how they’d have handled it. “But it was clean, I’ll say that. No one got hurt.”