Authors: Karen Rose
‘And I’ll get started with the Bureau’s trafficking team. Call me when Marcus sends you the video files and the list of threats.’
‘As soon as they hit my inbox. See you in the office.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday, August 4, 4.35
A.M.
‘Motherfucker,’ Marcus muttered as he eased his body into the chair behind his desk, glad that it was too early for anyone else to be in the office yet. The paper had gone to press at two
A.M.
, which meant that Diesel and Cal were home snoring, and Gayle and the rest of the day shift wouldn’t be in till nine.
His staff would fret, especially Gayle, his office manager. She’d been his mother’s social secretary when Marcus was born, then later she’d become his nanny – his and his brothers’ and sister’s. She’d retired from her nanny position when Mikhail, the youngest, had hit middle school, coming to work for Marcus at the paper. But her retirement from nanny-hood never really took. Gayle tended to hover, more so even than his mother.
Both women had been driving him crazy, watching him like a hawk ever since he’d been released from the hospital nine months ago. They’d do so again when the story broke. Mentally he prepared for the hovering to commence.
He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the laptop he used for confidential matters. If there was anything on the Tala video – for example, the fact that he’d had another gun whose serial number had been filed off – he’d save the original on this laptop, then send a modified version to the cops.
He hadn’t minded turning the Sig backup over to Scarlett this morning. It was so new he’d only fired it at the range, so even if they ran it through Ballistics, they’d come up with nothing. He didn’t even mind if she knew he’d had another gun. But he had no intention of handing over his PK380. He’d had the gun for too many years. Besides, though he didn’t think a ballistics check would turn up anything incriminating, he was taking no chances.
If he had to turn over a PK380, he had several others, most of which were properly registered. He’d give her one of those.
Marcus believed in keeping his privacy. Which was why he actually had several ‘confidential’ laptops. No one laptop held all the data on any given project, so if one happened to fall into the wrong hands, the project would be only partially compromised. And because none of his confidential laptops were listed as company assets, they couldn’t be subpoenaed should he or his staff ever draw the attention of law enforcement.
Like he had this morning.
It wasn’t supposed to have gone down like that. He was supposed to have handed Tala over to Scarlett Bishop and walked away, having done a good deed. Instead . . .
His hands stilled on the keyboard. Instead, an innocent young woman was dead and he had plunked himself on the cops’ radar, front and center.
Why did you come back?
Scarlett had asked. Why had he? Why hadn’t he gotten away while the getting was good?
I couldn’t leave her alone in the dark.
No, he couldn’t have. Even if it meant having the cops on his tail for a while. That Scarlett Bishop was one of those cops would be either boon or bane. Time would tell. Either way, he’d handle it.
So handle it. Give her the files you promised so that she can do her job.
The video of Tala would be more valuable to Scarlett’s investigation than the threat list, so he connected the laptop to the hard drive he’d stored in the back of his Subaru, hoping he hadn’t moved out of range during the events of the night. The camera hidden in the bill of his cap transmitted about five hundred feet, but Marcus had run around the block looking for the shooter. He found the file and clicked it open, crossing his fingers. Hopefully the camera had captured something worthwhile, something he hadn’t seen with his eyes.
‘What a fucking waste,’ he muttered in the quiet of his office as he stared grimly at Tala’s terrified face on his laptop screen, knowing that in a few seconds he’d see her die. He listened once again as she worried about her family.
He heard himself demand who she was afraid of. Heard her whispered reply: ‘The man. His wife. They own us.’
And then – a split second before he heard the shot – he saw it. A flicker in her eyes. Terrified recognition.
Not only had she seen who shot her,
she’d known the shooter
.
‘Sonofabitch,’ he snarled, ignoring the short stab of pain in his back as he leaned forward too quickly, his gaze locked on the screen.
Please, please, let the camera have gotten something.
The video lurched, the camera on the bill of the ball cap sweeping across the bricks of the alley in a blur as Marcus had spun to see behind him. When the picture refocused, the entrance to the alley was empty, just as he remembered. He’d begun running then, the camera jumping all over the place as he looked for the gunman – or woman – but when he got to the end of the alley, the shooter was gone.
The camera spun again as he’d turned back to see Tala lying on the asphalt, her polo shirt already soaked with blood.
‘Sonofa
fucking
bitch.’ The oath cracked out of the speaker as he watched himself run back to start first aid. ‘
Tala!
’
Marcus sat back with a sigh. The camera had picked up nothing more than his eyes had. The video would be of no use to Scarlett Bishop.
Still, he rewound and watched again, this time focusing on Tala’s mouth, turning up the volume at the point where he’d started first aid, hoping the camera’s microphone had picked up more words than those he’d relayed to the police.
But once again, there was nothing new. Tala hadn’t said anything else, at least not loudly enough to be recorded. He disconnected the hard drive from his confidential laptop, hooked it up to his official, on-the-books office computer, and sent the video files to Scarlett Bishop as he’d promised.
He glanced at the clock. Plenty of time before Gayle arrived. He needed to check the list of threats she’d been compiling for the past few years. He didn’t believe there was any chance that he’d been the target, but if Gayle found him looking at the list, she’d know something was up. More importantly, if he was still here when she arrived, she’d take one look at him and know he’d been hurt. She’d make a fuss and then the whole staff would be in his business. Worse still, she would tell his mother.
He’d always trusted Gayle to keep his secrets and she’d never betrayed him, not even once in all the years he’d known her. And he’d asked her to keep some very big secrets. But she’d made it clear from the beginning that his physical health was one area that she would not keep from his mother.
Marcus wasn’t sure his mother could stand the shock of hearing he’d been shot again. She seemed to be holding on by the slimmest of threads since Mikhail’s murder. Hell, even his sister Audrey had been minding her Ps and Qs. She hadn’t been arrested once in nine months.
Marcus would not be the one to upset the family apple cart. Not right now. He needed a few hours’ sleep, a hot shower, and an ice pack for his back before he let any of them see him. But he’d promised Scarlett Bishop the list of threats, and Marcus O’Bannion kept his promises.
Once he’d sent her the list, he’d focus on the story. He’d give it to Stone. His brother was currently between the assignments he did for the magazine he worked for – probably because he didn’t want to leave the country while their mother was still so fragile. Whatever Stone’s reasons for remaining local, he was available to write the story of Tala’s murder.
And importantly, Stone was one of the few people Marcus trusted with all of the details. He’d make sure that Stone omitted the facts that Scarlett had requested, but his brother was a hell of an investigator. Marcus had a better chance of finding Tala’s family with Stone’s help.
He picked up his phone and speed-dialed Stone’s cell. Not surprisingly, Stone answered on the first ring. His brother didn’t sleep any more than Marcus did.
‘What’s up?’ Stone asked, the television in the background going mute.
‘I have a story I need you to cover.’
‘Where? When?’
‘Now. Here in the office. On your way, can you stop by my place and pick me up some clean clothes?’ He didn’t want to be seen going into his apartment wearing bloody jeans. ‘And walk BB for me?’ He shifted, the bruise on his back a reminder. ‘And get the Kevlar vest from my bureau drawer. Should be second from the bottom.’
Stone was quiet for a moment. ‘Um . . . why?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’ He brought up the threat list on his computer and sighed. ‘You should wear a vest too. Just to be safe.’
Another pause. ‘Safe from what?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ he repeated. ‘Thanks,’ he added, and hung up before Stone could ask any more questions.
Marcus skimmed Gayle’s list, his eyes going a little blurry, his lack of sleep starting to catch up with him.
Coffee, stat.
His brain needed to be alert so that he could catch all the threats he didn’t want Scarlett or Deacon to see. If they saw certain information on this list, the two were smart enough to put two and two together and realize he was doing far more than reporting the news. He didn’t want to leave any breadcrumbs leading back to him or his core staff, the handful of men and women he’d trusted enough to bring into his real business – the real reason he’d kept this newspaper alive for years after it should have died a natural death like most other city dailies across the country.
He had a feeling Scarlett would respect his real business on a conceptual level. She might not agree with his tactics, however, and her disapproval could risk the livelihood – and the freedom – of the people who trusted him as much as he trusted them.
Unfortunately, not one of those trusted people was here to make the damn coffee. He pushed to his feet to make it himself, so that he could focus on keeping his promises.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 4.45
A.M.
That Marcus had another gun was a given in Scarlett’s mind, and the fact of it had gnawed at her all the way home from the crime scene. He’d handed over his knife and his backup pistol, but not his main gun. What else was he hiding? And why?
He makes his living with the news.
That explained it all. The press was made up of a bunch of slippery weasels, lying as easily as they breathed, always angling for the big story. She’d never met a newsman or woman who cared who they hurt. Still, she found herself hoping that Marcus was different. That he was the hero she wanted him to be.
You’re setting yourself up for a major disappointment.
More than likely he would run Tala’s story, then go on to the next, never looking back.
Scarlett downshifted as she turned on to the narrow road that ended in front of her house, creating a T with her own street. The downside of living at the top of one of the city’s steepest hills was that skilled driving and a four-wheel-drive vehicle were required to make it to the top during the winter. But snow and ice were months away and her little Audi, while rather elderly, was more than ready to take on the climb.
On those rare blizzardy days, she drove her ancient Land Cruiser. Twenty-five years old and affectionately called the Tank by her and her brothers, it had been bequeathed to Scarlett by their late Grandpa Al. Too big to fit in her garage, it sat in her driveway most of the year, unused. It was a pain in the ass to park anywhere in the city and gas mileage was practically zero, but it had plowed straight through six-foot drifts in the past and Scarlett planned to keep it for another twenty-five years. Being unaffected by even the worst weather left her free to fully enjoy the benefits of living at the top of the hill – the most obvious being the killer views of both the city and the river from her upstairs windows.
That those upstairs windows enabled her to see anyone approaching by car or foot was an advantage that hadn’t originally attracted her to the house but that had become something on which she relied. Being able to identify who’d come calling gave her time to transform herself into whichever Scarlett Bishop she needed to be by the time she answered the door – calm, loving, patient Scarlett-Anne for her mother, professional, not-about-to-lose-it Detective Bishop for her father, just-one-of-the-guys Scar for her brothers, or let’s-drink-wine-and-gossip Scarlett for any of the very small circle of girlfriends she’d trusted with her address.
Her mother, of course, presented the most critical challenge. Scarlett had to find a way to hide the aggression and violence that churned within her, shoving it down deep so that she could maintain the calm, collected persona she’d adopted for her mom for nearly a decade. Seeing who her daughter had truly become would break her mother’s heart, and Scarlett would walk over hot coals before she allowed that to happen. Jackie Bishop had suffered enough loss already. Scarlett would be damned before she added to her mother’s pain.
Greeting her father required the same burying of her aggression and rage, but for a very different reason. Her dad, a decorated Cincinnati PD cop, would report her state of mind to her superiors, getting her grounded so fast her head would spin. It would kill him to do it, but he would without hesitation.
To protect me from myself. Because I’m not strong enough for the job
. Her father had once said that she wasn’t tough enough to survive the stresses of the police force. That she was too emotional, her heart too tender.