Face of Danger (32 page)

A stalker. A fan. One of Roman’s killers. It didn’t matter. Her stomach clenched in fear and sickness. Shaking, she looped her bag over her arm and shot up, practically running for the bathroom. She’d stay there the rest of the trip if she had to. She wouldn’t get off the ferry then. She’d just take it back to the Vineyard and come up with another idea.

Dragging open the heavy bathroom door, she threw herself inside, then leaned on the cold steel of the door. A woman was in one of the stalls, so Cara just dropped back and closed her eyes.

On the other side of the stall door, she heard the clicking of someone pressing phone buttons. Her gaze dropped down to the shoes, gorgeous Coach sneakers. They looked exactly like hers, even had the little black smudge—

Holy shit, they
were
hers.

Soundlessly, she opened the next stall door and slipped in, stepped up on the toilet, and looked over the top.

Marissa Hunter was sitting on the toilet, texting.

Closing her mouth to keep from gasping, Cara squinted at the phone screen, catching some words.

Meeting Pakpao’s replacement.

This time she couldn’t hide the gasp, and Marissa jerked up with one of her own.

Marissa.
In a stall. Talking about…
Sunisa Pakpao?
The floor rolled under her and she had to grab the top of the stall to keep from falling, losing her footing anyway and stumbling to the floor.

“Cara!”

“Marissa.”

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. The toilet flushed. The sound of her career, her life, the people she once trusted. And yet she couldn’t move. She had surprise on her side and she used it, stepping into the bathroom to face her assistant.

Marissa opened the stall door, blinked once, and at least had the decency to blush. “What are you doing here, Cara?” she asked.

“No, that’s my question.”
And why are you texting Roman Emmanuel?

“I couldn’t let you come alone.” She dropped her phone in a bag and stepped out. “I was worried about you, Cara. Even with this disguise.” She waved at the cap and sunglasses that covered makeup-free eyes and the baggy clothes. “Someone is bound to recognize you. And, really, you can’t forget that there could be a killer out there.”

There was. About twenty feet away. But the real threat was right in front of her. “Who were you talking to?”

“My agency. The employment agency that you used to find me.”

Pakpao had the made-up title of director of something at RE Global, but Cara hadn’t used them to hire Marissa Hunter. “Why? Are you looking for a new position?”

“I’m… yes, Cara. I am. I’m sick of your sister’s snide comments regardless of what a good job I do for you.” She walked to the sink and turned on the water.

Why was she lying? “Marissa, you were texting Roman Emmanuel, weren’t you?”

“He owns the employment agency.” She started to wash her hands. “The old agency was bought by one called RE Global.”

It was possible. It was actually remotely possible. Maybe Roman had bought some little employment agency to gain more access to Cara. “Why would you talk to the owner?”

“Because my employment with you is very high level, and important to him.”

The lying bitch. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’m leaving because… of Joellen. I don’t like her. I’m not going to let her ruin my life.”

A bolt of anger rocked her so hard she almost raised her hand and slapped the woman. “What does he pay you to do?”

“Nothing, Cara. They got a commission when you hired me.”

She removed her hands from the sink, shook them, and reached for a paper towel.

“Does he pay you to spy on me?”

She didn’t answer, calmly drying her hands, then reaching in her purse again.

“Does he?”

Still no answer. Nausea threatened one more time, enough to make Cara close her eyes, and when she opened them Marissa’s horribly homely face stared expressionless, a small pistol in her hand.

Cara pressed into the door, vaguely aware that danger lurked on the other side. Which was worse? One of Roman’s pawns ready to kill for him or a stranger who may or may not be a copycat killer?

She leveled her most imperious look at Marissa. “Put that away.”

“Yes, he pays me to spy on you. He paid me to get on this ferry so he doesn’t have to see you when you land. He pays me for a lot of things, Cara. I help him run that business. And we need to get rid of you. Frankly, that’s been my job all along, but when the possibility of you winning an Oscar made it easier to get away with, well…”

Cara put her hand on the door, giving Marissa her haughtiest look. “You don’t have the nerve to kill me,” she said, delivering the line like a camera was right in her face. “You think you do because Roman makes you think you can do anything.”

The color in her cheeks deepened, confirming that Cara had hit the mark.

“Trust me, I fucked the man plenty,” Cara continued, an idea forming. Maybe she could make Marissa realize that Roman was using her, make Marissa hate him and turn on him. Maybe she could make Marissa kill him when they got to Nantucket! Perfect.

“He has a way of making you feel like you’re the only woman in the world, doesn’t he?”

Marissa took a slow, steadying breath, her nostrils fluttering.

“Did he tell you how he’d take care of you? And your family?”

A vein in her throat pulsed, but Marissa didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

“I know what Roman Emmanuel can do for a woman who needs help,” she said softly, remembering how she and her sister had returned to the bog house and found a “squatter” at the bog—and that man turned out to be generous, caring, so wonderful she’d turned half the property over to him. “I know how he makes you feel in bed, too. Like a sex queen.”

“I don’t have sex with him,” she said. Maybe she didn’t, Cara thought. Maybe she was too ugly even for Roman’s indiscriminate dick. Then she had some other weakness.

“You want to be a movie star, rich, famous, what?”

Marissa looked disgusted. “Hardly.”

Family. It must be family. “He’s helping you with something, isn’t he? What is it, Marissa? A sick parent? A dying kid? Roman feeds off the desperation of others.”

“My sister… is in a hospital.”

“Oh, of course.” Confident she was safe now, Cara leaned forward and gave a knowing smile. “Sisters are his specialty, you know. Mine’s a murderer, our mother is a recluse, and I needed help for them, so he took care of it. Small price to pay for peace of mind, isn’t it? I gave him land, you give him… what? Information on me?”

“Yes.”

Cara frowned, thinking about the events of the past few days. “Then why send someone to kill my decoy?” she asked. “Didn’t you tell Roman it wasn’t me?”

“There was a slight miscommunication.”

Just as she’d thought: an amateur. “Did you try to put the hair dryer in the tub, too?” She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. She was a try-hard, uncreative Red Carpet Killer. Roman had really lowered his standards.

“Put the gun down, Marissa. I need your help.”

She didn’t lower the weapon. “To do what?”

“Kill Roman Emmanuel.”

“No.” The bellow of the ferry horn burst through the loudspeakers, making Cara jump, and Marissa pull the trigger.

The sound of the shot covered by the horn, Cara stumbled backward, even though the actual impact seemed eerily soft in her sleeve. Then searing, hot, vicious pain shot through her arm.

The world spun, taking her with it. “Marissa…” Cara’s voice sounded distant already.

Just as she started to slump, Marissa grabbed her under her arms.

“You’re making a mistake,” Cara said.

“I know. I missed.” She yanked Cara toward the stall. “He’ll hate that.”

Cara started to fight, but Marissa put the gun to her temple and forced her into the stall, kicking the toilet seat down and throwing Cara onto it. Then she stepped back and aimed.

“No—” Cara tried to lunge, but Marissa stepped back, looking up at the loudspeaker.

“Come on!”

Once again, the ferry whistle wailed long and loud, and Marissa fired. Cara opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out, the bullet hitting her in the shoulder this time.

As the blood and hope drained out of her, Cara’s head fell back. Marissa positioned her against the toilet tank, lifting her feet off the ground. Vaguely, Cara knew what she was doing. Hide the victim in the stall, to be found… sometime. Later today, tomorrow?

And Marissa? Maybe she’d meet Roman at the dock. Get on the same ferry back to the Vineyard. He’d find her, figure out how to make it look like suicide. That’s what he’d do.

From under shuttered eyes, she watched Marissa lock the door, then crawl underneath the stall and disappear.

The door opened and closed, the whistle wailed again, and blood oozed from Cara’s wounds.

She tried to move, tried to open her mouth, tried to do anything, but she was just lifeless. Except for the bile that rose in her throat, and this time she couldn’t fight he nausea. Her body’s instinct won and she dropped her head and vomited.

In the distance, she heard the door open.
Please, please, help me.

“Ew, gross, Mom. Someone’s puking in there. I’ll wait till we get off.”

And the door closed.

So this was it. Cara Ferrari, Oscar-winning actress. A victim of betrayal, not a Red Carpet—the headlines formed in her mind’s eye, swimming around, gurgling.

No, that was the sound of her blood pouring out of her body.

“Cara.” A man’s voice. Dark. Low. Distant. She opened her eyes to see booted feet, faded jeans.

Blue Eyes was on the other side of the stall.

Not exactly the help she was hoping for.

His hands gripped the bottom of the door, his head appeared, he pulled himself in, no doubt determined to finish the job Marissa was too lame to do right.

“You’re too late,” she rasped, then the set went black.

V
ivi cruised the street, negotiating a two-foot strip of concrete that ran alongside the cobblestones. The freedom from that ridiculous hair was so delicious she almost laughed, but the chilly sea air on her skin and the importance of her mission wiped away any humor.

She balanced and weaved with skill and ease, as at home on a skateboard as she once had been holding a ballet barre. For her, this was just a different kind of dancing.

She spotted Emmanuel and decided to go for the ultimate test. She’d cruise right by, slowly enough that he’d at least have to glance at her. He’d notice her crazy hair, maybe the nose piercing if he looked closely, and, based on the looks she was getting from most of the men she passed, he’d check out the miniskirt. But if there was so much as a spark of recognition or even surprise, she’d take off and come up with another plan.

She gave the Plan B board a rueful glance and kicked harder.

When she was about twenty feet from the sidewalk table where Emmanuel sat sipping coffee, a stocky black man approached his table and sat down. Instantly, they were deep in conversation.

Pakpao’s replacement. She had to get something incriminating.

She got a little closer, hoping he wouldn’t even notice her if he was talking. She tapped her foot on the ground, slowing the board as Emmanuel placed the file folder from the bank on the table. A handoff? Then what should she do? Follow the new guy or the target? In her hand, her cell vibrated just as she reached the tables.

Emmanuel didn’t even notice her; his attention was riveted on the other man. She paused two tables away from them and read her text.

How close can you get? Listen and record conv.

She smiled and thumbed back.
Illegal wiretapping. I like it.

The table next to them needed to be bussed, but another was empty and not so far away that she couldn’t inch to the right and hear them. She slipped into the seat, her back to Emmanuel, the other man to her left, the dirty table between them.

She was close enough to pick up snippets when no cars were driving by. She cocked her head to the side and pretended to dial her phone, but hit the voice-memo-recording feature instead.

And then had a brilliant idea. She pretended to talk on the phone in rusty but still passable Italian.

“Pronto! Che bello sentirti! Come va?”
If, by any chance, either one spoke Italian, all she’d said was hello and how are you.

At the foreign words, both men casually glanced over, but she looked straight ahead and smiled, pretending to be a tourist on the phone. Her Italian was pretty limited and she could dig for better conversation ideas, but she didn’t want to think.

She wanted to hear. And record. And have them think the only person who could hear them didn’t speak English. Staying quiet, as though she were entranced in her own conversation, she repositioned herself, ostensibly to get the board out of the open, but really just getting closer, the wind cooperating by sending words her way.

“I can do it,” the man said. “But it’s a risk.”

“Life’s a risk, Mr. Sutton,” Emmanuel shot back. “The payout is better that way.”

The payout for what?

But the second ferry whistle blew, just loud enough to obliterate the next exchange.

Casually, she crossed her legs, resting her bare foot on the Alien Workshop sticker on the top of the board. Mr. Sutton threw a funny glance at her bare foot, then inched closer to Emmanuel and lowered his voice, denying her the chance to pick up a word. She used the excuse to say a few words in Italian then listen for Emmanuel’s answer.

“Can I get you something?”

The appearance of a waitress startled Vivi and she almost answered in English. Just as the first word started to tumble out, she shook her head and gave the blank stare of a foreigner. “Espresso?” she asked, hoping the crossover word would be all she needed.

“One shot or two?”

She lifted a shoulder, offered a smile.
“
Niente inglese
.” No English.
“Solo un espresso.”

The waitress nodded. “I’ll get you a single, then.”

Vivi smiled just as Emmanuel opened the file, the very same one she’d been taking pictures of in the bank. What was in there but legal deeds?