Face of Danger
R
OXANNE
S
T
. C
LAIRE
ACE OF
D
ANGER
NEW YORK BOSTON
For the survivors.
You know who you are.
Every book is a joint effort and, once again, I’ve had an embarrassment of riches when it comes to people willing to help. In particular, there are a few standouts who deserve praise on the page:
Barbie Furtado, beta reader and dear friend, who deserves far more credit than this simple acknowledgment. She read the manuscript as many times as I wrote it (we lost count), sacrificed hours of sleep so that I could wake to a lengthy critique, and gave of herself on a personal level to be sure I had some very important facts straight. She even made it six thousand miles from Fortaleza to Florida to hand deliver her love and support. Thank you, CD.
EMT John Johnson of the Atlanta area, for emergency medical support (on the facts, not the author), the lovely ladies of Windwalker Real Estate in Nantucket, Mass., who provided in-depth information about their glorious island, publicist Sharon Newcomb of Ocean Spray who offered assistance on the cranberry bogs, former FBI
agent James Vatter, who is just an all-around priceless law enforcement resource, and Rossella Re, my Italian language specialist. Any errors are mine, not theirs.
My right hand and left, Kristen Painter and Louisa Edwards, who read snippets, brainstorm plot twists, open wine bottles, and generally perform the BFF task with style and substance. The über-talented ladies of Murder She Writes, as well, provide daily support, advice, ideas, and a safe place to rant, making it impossible to do my job without them. A special shout-out to Allison Brennan, always the voice of reason in a sea of crazy, and Kresley Cole, who just plain rocks.
My publishing team: Executive Editor Amy Pierpont, Editorial Assistant Lauren Plude, and the legions of brilliant professionals at Grand Central/Forever who guided this manuscript from concept to completion. And Robin Rue, literary agent without equal, who does everything she’s supposed to do (and more) with grace, humor, and patience.
And, as always, my loving husband, Rich, creator of Uncle Nino’s Comforting Cacciatore, and my dream-come-true kids, Dante and Mia, who teach me more about life than I could ever teach them. I fluff you all.
Second Oscar Winner’s Death Fuels Conspiracy: Coincidence, Curse, or Red Carpet Killer?
Los Angeles, California, April 18
T
he body of Oscar-winning actress Isobel DeSoto, 36, was found in her Malibu Canyon home early this morning by her housekeeper. Sources close to the investigation say numerous prescription medications were found at the scene.
The actress was last seen leaving the Hollywood Hills home of director Angus Gaites, where she attended a dinner party given in honor of her recent Academy Award for Best Actress for her role as a young widow in the film
The Devil’s Compass,
directed by Gaites. Ms. DeSoto’s death is fueling a groundswell of Internet and media speculation regarding the untimely deaths of two consecutive winners of the Best Actress Oscar. One year ago, just weeks after winning the Academy Award for her leading role as Madame de Pompadour in the blockbuster film
Hall of Mirrors,
actress Adrienne Dwight lost control of
her car and careened over a Los Angeles hillside to what has been officially called an accidental death.
Assistant Director Joseph Gagliardi, head of the Criminal Programs Division of the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office, has confirmed that the investigation is being turned over to the FBI, indicating that authorities think these deaths could be the act of a serial killer.
When asked about the reaction of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, President Gilbert Gordon confirmed that nothing about the Oscar tradition would change. However, a source within the Academy added that “if there’s a Red Carpet Killer, then next year’s nominees may very well be hoping to lose.”
T
he Bunker Hill Bridge cast a long shadow over the sea of slate gray concrete bowls and ramps, the whine of traffic competing with the constant whirl of BMX and skate wheels on concrete. It was music to Vivi Angelino’s ears.
Trotting down the hill from one of the viewing areas, she scooped up a discarded napkin that had blown from the refreshment stand and popped it into the trash. Charles River Skate Park was her baby, and even the smallest piece of trash marred its perfection.
Switching her board from one hand to the other, she paused at the bottom of the half-pipe to watch as some kid attempted a five-forty McTwist. A thrum of empathetic exhilaration pulsed through her as the skater sailed into the air and spun gracefully into the move.
Vivi had yet to land the five-forty, but when she did it would be here, at the Boston park she’d spent every spare minute raising money and corralling support to build.
The McTwister wiped out right in front of her with a slam and a loud “Sonofabitch!”
Vivi walked over to help the kid up, offering knuckles to the failed skater. “You’ll get it.”
“Damn right I will,” he said, popping up even though his butt had to burn. “The McTwist is better than sex.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, half to herself as she checked out the top of the ramp. “Haven’t tried it yet.”
The cement reflected silver white in the rare winter sunshine, a gift on a Sunday in February, when the weather gods usually tortured Boston with snow.
The pipe was crowded, so she decided to cruise the park some more and give herself mental back pats for the all the hard volunteer work she’d done. All the years of trips to City Hall, all the presentations to council members, all the free time she’d sacrificed had been worth it to give the skaters of Boston a home for their passion. These kids, city rats most of them, had no idea how to rally politicians and city leaders to get what they wanted. But Vivi was older—though no less passionate about her pastime—and remembered how frustrating it could be to be a teenager with no voice.
So she’d been their voice, and this glorious jigsaw of concrete and grass was the result. She eyed the strategically placed viewing areas where parents and partners, newbs and wannabes looked out over the courses and—
shit
. Her heart dropped like a longboard on the eight-foot ramp.
“What the hell is
he
doing here?”
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton Lang stood with strong hands gripping the rail, broad shoulders tensed in determination, his relentless gaze sweeping over
the ramps like a deadly sniper intent on finding his next victim.
Lang was the very last person she’d ever expect to see at Charles River Skate Park.
He’d only make fun of it. Tease her for being a little old for a skateboard.
Not that his opinion mattered. He was a client of her security and investigation firm, and this was a nonworking Sunday morning. Who cared if he saw her hanging at the park she had built?
She did. She cared too freaking much about everything that concerned Colt Lang. And that was her problem. Her dirty little secret problem.
So what the hell was this uptight white-bread FBI agent doing on her sacrosanct skate park grounds, wrecking her perfectly awesome Sunday morning? How could he have found her here?
And now he would see her with three inches of hair standing on end from her last trip down the vert pipe, her face damp with sweat, her clothes hanging off her like she’d grabbed them from her bedroom floor and stepped in without even glancing in the mirror. Because, well, she had.
But it doesn’t matter, right, Viviana? He’s just a client.
Right.
She stole another look, and saw him take his phone out of his pocket.
Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her—he’d have to have a really excellent eye to pick her up in this sea of skaters, every single one wearing the same uniform of baggy top and cargo pants, sunglasses, and helmet.
Inside the pocket of her cargo pants, her phone rang. Damn. He was
calling
her.
She turned, trying to use her board to shield herself as she slipped the phone out, hoping he wasn’t scanning the crowd to spot anyone answering a cell phone at that moment. It would be so like him to use that sneaky tactic to find her.
“Yeah?” The word sounded as on edge as he made her feel.
“Yeah?” His baritone tickled her ear. “That’s how you answer the phone?”
“Oh, so
sorry
, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of Proper Phone Etiquette and Manners. Let’s have a do-over.” She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Mr. Lang. Viviana Angelino at your service—despite the fact that it is Sunday morning and I am not anywhere near the Guardian Angelinos office. How can I help you?”
He laughed, a mix of a grunt and a low catch in his throat, hating, absolutely
hating
, that the sound sent a little jolt right down to her toes.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Goddamn him. “What are you talking about?”
“I think I see you, but I need you to turn around.”
“You see me? I’m in church right now, so I seriously doubt that you see me.”
“Church? Right. You’re worshipping at the altar of Airwalk.”
How’d he know that brand? And what made her think she could lie to him?
“Turn around, Vivi.” He said her name just the way she liked it: Vee-vee. He drew out those twin syllables and made those long e’s sound… sexy.
Still, she refused to move. “Just tell me what you want, Lang.” She’d long ago dispensed with his unwieldy title, since she got it wrong most of the time anyway. He’d told
her it was proper to call an ASAC “Mr. Lang” but she’d dropped the “Mr.” after their first case together. And he didn’t seem to care.
“I want you to turn around.”
“Do you have a job for the Guardian Angelinos?” she asked.
“No.”
The single syllable, invasive, and, oh Lord,
sexy
, punched her gut. “Do you need a report on the assignment that Zach is currently working on?”
“No.”
“Do you have a big fat check to give me for all the consulting work we do on behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“No.”
“Then go away and I’ll see you at our scheduled meeting Monday at eleven o’clock.”
A hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump.
“No.” He tightened his grip and eased her around. “Turn around.”
She felt the heat of his body behind her, his presence so strong it made her go weak behind the knee pads.
“Damn you, Lang.” She pivoted, her gaze landing on the Izod logo on his chest, his jacket hanging open to confirm what she already suspected. He was a nerd who wore collared pullovers. And they fit like a dream.
With one finger, he gently tapped the brim of her helmet. “This is very cute, Angelino.”
