Face of Danger (5 page)

Of course, the promotion to SAC was secondary, but he’d never let Gagliardi know that. He’d never let anyone know that.

“All right, sir,” he said as he reached a deserted area of the lot, not far from where he’d parked. “How can I help you?”

“We’re on a conference call, Mr. Lang,” he said, which explained the “Mr. Lang.” “Let me introduce to you Special Agent Thomas Tuttle.”

The first twinge of worry started. Why would there be two guys calling about a job offer?

“Hello, Special Agent Tuttle,” he said automatically, keeping the question out of his voice.

“Tom’s currently heading a task force investigating the deaths of two actresses and the possibility of a serial killer targeting Oscar-winning movie stars.”

Something inside him slipped, disappointment wending down to his gut. The hope that this was a call regarding a promotion to the L.A. office faded, replaced by the memory of his conversation with Vivi about the so-called Red Carpet Killer.

Why were they calling him? Had something happened to Vivi? A knot formed in his gut as he answered. “I’m vaguely familiar with the task force, sir,” he said.

“Well, you’re about to get a hell of a lot more famil
iar with it, since tonight’s winner is going to land in your jurisdiction on Tuesday morning.”

He frowned into the phone. “Tonight’s winner?” The Oscars would be awarded later that evening—even a casual observer like Colt knew that. The knot grew tighter. If Gagliardi knew the winner already, there was a damn good reason why. “There’s evidence to suggest the first two deaths were linked?” he asked.

“There is,” he said. “I’ll let Tom tell you the details before we brief you on the responsibilities regarding this case.”

It was a case now, not speculation, not a task force. And, damn, he hadn’t heard a word from Vivi other than superficial texts all week.

“My forensic specialists have uncovered a connection between two pieces of evidence that the LAPD investigators missed when they analyzed the crime scenes,” Agent Tuttle said, the slightest tone of wry condescension in his voice. Of course the LAPD screwed up. Of course the FBI fixed it. “Human hair not belonging to either victim was found at both crime scenes. Most likely from a wig or hair extensions.”

Interesting, except for the fact that every actress in Hollywood wore fake hair. Still, Colt listened as Tuttle continued.

“A long brown hair was found in Adrienne Dwight’s wrecked car, not matching her DNA or the DNA of any friends, staffers, or co-workers who had reportedly been in her car. Final analysis showed that the hair had come from a wig or extensions, which, considering her occupation, isn’t a surprise. One year later, another human hair from a wig, a different color, was also found near the body of Isobel DeSoto.”

“The consensus by the LAPD was that both these women constantly changed wigs and had hair extensions,” Gagliardi chimed in. “And they were around people who did the same. And after reading the evidence, I can see why hairs that didn’t match the victim didn’t generate more attention in the LAPD. But our lab guys discovered two very interesting things.”

“
Very
interesting,” Tom noted. “Both human hairs, which, by the way, are commonly used for wigs and extensions, had been affixed using a protein called keratin. First, super-expensive star-quality extensions don’t use keratin; there are better glues. Second, Isobel DeSoto was allergic to keratin, so the wig or extension the hair came from definitely wasn’t hers.”

He followed what they were establishing: The same type of hair extension, if not the same person, might have been present at both scenes. “Still not a stretch in Hollywood, the land of hair extensions,” Colt said. “Could be from anyone who’d visited one of the victims or ridden in the car of the other or worked at a car wash, for that matter.”

“True, but these two hairs were coated in an unusual phenol formaldehyde glue that is used only on wigs from India.”

Big country. Big wig industry, too. “The only way it matters is if you can prove the two hairs at two different crime scenes may have come from the same person wearing the same wig,” Lang said.

“Or two different wigs both purchased from the same, rather obscure, Indian manufacturer,” Gagliardi replied. “We don’t have this confirmed yet, but we believe it’s possible that both wigs were made by the same
company, one of the few still using this glue with a certain dye combination. We’re analyzing the dye, which might tell us a lot, including the manufacturer. If we get that, we’re sending someone to India for access to the sales files.”

“Until then?” he asked.

“We have a Best Actress winner to protect,” Tuttle said.

Vivi’s face flashed in his head, not an unusual occurrence. Except that this time she was posing as a movie star.

“The accounting firm tallying the Oscar votes released the winner’s name to the task force. So we know who is going to win, and where she’s going to be for the next month. It appears she’s headed to her place on Nantucket Island, and we want an agent with her twenty-four/seven, on alert for anything out of the ordinary.”

What was ordinary where a movie star was concerned? At least he hoped it was a movie star, and not—

No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Oh, hell, she might.

Wait, he didn’t know the name of the winner yet. They could be talking about Kimberly Horne or Colleen True or—he couldn’t remember any other names except Cara Ferrari. If someone else won, Vivi’s involvement would be a moot point.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Praying to hear any name other than—

“Cara Ferrari.”

Damn. A bad, bad feeling crawled up his spine. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “But she doesn’t know, so all five of them had to give us an itinerary of where they were
planning to spend the next several weeks. She’s going to be in your backyard.”

Well, in Nantucket, off the coast of Cape Cod. Not exactly downtown Boston, but still within his jurisdiction. “So the actresses believe the serial-killer theory?” he asked.

“Who knows what they believe. Four of them were cooperative when told about the new evidence,” Tom told him. “Unfortunately, the least cooperative is Ferrari, who insists she has private security that far exceeds the capabilities of the FBI and doesn’t want any agents on site.”

It couldn’t be the Guardian Angelinos. Surely an actress like Cara Ferrari would demand the largest, most well-established private security firm in the world. Why would she go with a scrappy skater who had no experience and a harebrained idea to be a decoy based on a vague resemblance?

He wanted to relax, and would have if he didn’t know Vivi Angelino, human tornado.

“Colt, I want the best there is in the Boston office on this,” Gagliardi said. “And, frankly, after our conversations and my review of your files and records, I think that’s you.”

“Thank you, sir.” He wanted Gagliardi to think he was the best, but not because he wanted a job babysitting a movie star—or her body double.

“And, to be perfectly honest, this is a high-profile situation, with a lot of media breathing down our neck. If something happens to her and the FBI isn’t at least visible on site, we’ll get hammered in the press. I’d like to consider it a final test, if you know what I mean. A job in L.A.
means enormous work in the media spotlight. I’d like to see how you handle this.”

Son of a bitch. This was part of his job interview. “I understand, sir.” But that knot in his gut was growing into a bowling ball of worry. The job could get extremely complicated if…“What security firm is Ms. Ferrari using?”

“She won’t say,” Tuttle said. “Called it a potential leak for us to know. Claimed her nondisclosures are airtight and she doesn’t have to tell us anything. I hate to tell you, she’s a classic diva bitch.”

When, exactly, was the last time he heard from Vivi?

“You can handle that, Colt,” Gagliardi said with a subtle laugh. “It’ll be a good opportunity for you to learn the mind-set of the women in L.A. You’ll need that information when you get out here. Assuming, of course, you get the job.”

Dangle a carrot much? “I understand,” he repeated. “Let me clear my calendar and straighten up my case files and arrange to get to Nantucket.”

“Oh, we’ll get you to Nantucket,” Gagliardi assured him. “That’s part of the whole operation. Your travel arrangements will be e-mailed shortly.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for the vote of confidence.” However qualified it might be.

“I’m happy you’re there to handle this,” Gagliardi said. “And grateful for the chance to see you in action.”

In other words, Screw up and you lose the promotion.

“Although once you’re an SAC, you can happily kiss the field good-bye,” Gagliardi added.

“I know that.” He didn’t really want to kiss the field good-bye; he wanted to kiss Boston good-bye. And now
he had one last test before he could do that. One that damn well better not involve Vivi Angelino. “Thank you, sir.”

As soon as he signed off, he scrolled through his phone to find the thread of texts from Vivi. The last one was on Thursday, and then it was just to answer a quick question, her response vague—and distant.

If she got the job with Ferrari, wouldn’t she have told him, even just to gloat?

He touched her name and typed:
Where are you? Need to talk to you.
He obviously couldn’t tell her that Cara Ferrari would win tonight, but he had to know where she was.

While he waited for a response he looked out over the rolling hills at the Sunday golfers, expecting some sort of memory jab of Jennifer in khaki golf pants and a pink button-down.

But all he could visualize right then was Vivi, with her funky hair and vibrant features, her body-skimming unisex tops and her weird checkered sneakers. Skateboarding, not golfing.

It would take some expertise to turn her into a movie star.

He could hear her voice. “C’mon, Lang, it’s the oldest form of security in the world…. Bait the killer with a decoy….”

The vibration of his cell phone jerked him out of the thought he didn’t want to have anyway.

Did you need me for something, Agent Colton Cautious Lang?

Yeah, hell if he’d ever admit it to her. But right now, he needed her to tell him exactly where she was, without giving away the confidential information he had. No easy task with her investigator’s nose for anything suspicious.

Just want to be sure you’re not doing anything you shouldn’t be doing
, he wrote. He avoided adding
anything like trading places with Cara Ferrari.

Waiting for her response, he strolled in the direction of the golf course, but only to tell his golfing buddies that an emergency case had come up and he’d have to take a rain check on the game.

They weren’t happy. But not as unhappy as he was every time he checked his phone for an answer or sent another
What are you doing?
text to Vivi.

Finally, the phone vibrated.

Just doing what I always do on a Sunday, Lang. What are you doing?

What did she always do on a Sunday? Skateboarded in a park and went out to Sudbury to her family’s house for dinner.

Golfing
, he wrote.

Oooh. Super fun!

He laughed, imagining the tease in her tone, the light in her eyes. What if she took some crazy risk and someone snuffed that light out? An old familiar band tightened a little around his chest. Stuff like that happened. To women with less of a wild streak than Vivi.

Still, it was too early to tell her anything and if he pushed, she’d guess. She was so smart. And capable. And cute, damn it.

He wrote:
You watching the Oscars tonight?

Her response was lightning fast.
Of course!

Did you sell that cockamamie idea to the new client?
He hit Send with a little too much force, like he could make her answer. With a resounding “No.”

Cockamamie!

What the hell did that mean? Before he asked, she wrote again.

Gotta run, Lang. Nice to know you miss me. See you soon.

Maybe
, he typed, then deleted the word. He had a better plan.