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  He slipped his car keys into her hand. “You drive.”

  “Me? You’re actually going to let me drive the official FBI car?”

  He almost laughed at her reaction. “Yes. If there’s any civilian I’d trust with getting it home in one piece, it would be you.”

  She grinned again. This one more cocky than teasing. “I did get us out of some tight situations when we first met.”

  “Saved my ass more than once, as I recall.” He pulled her in tighter for another kiss.

  “And a fine ass it is,” she said, gripping one cheek.

  He laughed and pulled away.

  She was still grinning in the driver’s seat when he climbed in the passenger side. “And why the special chance to drive this souped-up baby?”

  “Because I have some phone calls to make.” He pulled out his phone as she backed out of the drive. Scrolling through the contacts, he landed on the one he should know by heart and pushed dial.

  It took a few rings before a gruff voice answered. “This better be good, rookie, the Cavs are on the cusp of winning over the Bulls.”

  Jake couldn’t help the grin, the old man had always had a love-hate relationship with the Cleveland basketball team. “Doyle, I’m going to need some help. Off the books.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Castello hauled in all of Sydney’s bags, locked the deadbolts on the kitchen door, and set the alarm. No one was going in or out of here tonight that he didn’t know about. Especially his guest.

  Leaving the bags in the kitchen, he went upstairs to check on Sydney. Curled on her side, sound asleep.

  Good. He didn’t want her coming downstairs until he was finished.

  Back in the kitchen, he set her travel bag and camera case on the table, poured himself a little of the bourbon, and sat down. Staring at the bags, he slowly sipped from the crystal tumbler.

  What he was about to do was a complete invasion of Sydney’s privacy. Jake was right, though. Despite Abigail and Luke’s history with her, they really didn’t know much about her. While Doyle did some new-age electronic investigation into her and her brother, he was about to go old school to see what he could learn.

  Quietly, he unzipped the camera bag first. The inside was fairly organized. Two cameras—one digital, the other an old-fashioned manual thirty-five millimeter camera. Four kinds of lenses, extra batteries and seven sim cards for the digital camera, a charger and some small tubs of old-fashioned film.

  Pulling out each item, he carefully set them on the table. A zippered plastic bag was in the inside side compartment. In it were tubs of film. He opened each tub of film to be sure that was all there was inside them then felt all along the inside of the case. Drug mules and smugglers were good at hiding items in the linings of bags, preventing the most cursory look by overtaxed customs officials from finding them. In the bottom of the bag he found loose tubs of film. Unlike the ones in the zip-lock bag, all but one of these were unused.

  Nothing in this bag.

  Carefully, he replaced each item exactly where he’d found them, resisting the urge to put the one used one from the loose tubs into the zip-lock bag. For some reason she’d left it separate. He didn’t know if she had a routine in packing her case, but he wasn’t taking any chances of her discovering he’d been inspecting it.

  Next came the carry-on travel bag.

  This one wasn’t quite as organized. There was the small, clear bag of three-ounce bottles of liquids required by the airport security. He opened and sniffed them. One smelled like lemons, the thicker one had some sort of tropical floral scent, and the third was thick and smelled like a hand lotion.

  He pulled out the clothes. A neatly folded, old sweatshirt with a faded Ohio State logo. No tag on it, but it was big enough to fit two of Sydney inside. A man’s size perhaps? Interesting. Unfolding it, he found two pairs of panties, a bra and two pairs of socks—all in white—and a pair of grey cotton shorts.

  Smart girl. If her luggage got lost, she’d still have clean underwear and her sleep clothes with her.

  Beneath the clothes he found her laptop. He pulled it out and set it aside to look at last.

  Next came an open bag of cheese-filled pretzels and a half-eaten, extra-large, candy-cookie combo. An empty water bottle. A brush. A comb. Two fashion magazines, probably research for her work. He flipped through them to see if she’d hidden anything in the pages, but the only thing that flew out were coupons to sign up for subscriptions. Tucked to the side, standing up on end, was a book. He pulled it out.

  A Highlander For Christmas by Sandy Blair.

  He smiled. Syd liked romance novels. By the cover on it, she liked hunky men in kilts, too.

  Again, he flipped the pages and nothing fell out. As with the camera case, he checked the sides to be sure she wasn’t hiding something under the lining. Nothing.

  He put everything back inside as he found it, layer by layer, until it was time for the laptop. Flipping the top open, he was surprised not to see a code prompt to unlock the screen. He shook his head. Syd, Syd, Syd, not very good security. At some point he was going to have to talk to her about that. But it reassured him that she wasn’t hiding anything dangerous on the computer. He opened up the browsing history.

  Flights to Vermont. Car rentals. Social media sites. Recipes for martinis. Interesting, but nothing really damning.

  Then he accessed her email. Again, no password.

  Yeah, he was crossing the line major-league, but he’d learned long ago that the more you knew about a potential victim, witness, or suspect, the better you could protect or apprehend them. In his line of work, surprises were never a good thing.

  Most of this seemed to be either on-line shopping ads or business related to her work.

  Satisfied there was nothing obvious for him to learn from the computer—of course she could always have some hidden files that he wasn’t capable of finding, but he doubted it—he closed the laptop and slipped it back in her bag. The clothes and travel bottles went in last, just as he’d found them, and he zipped the bag back up.

  Repeating the effort with the bigger bag, he was surprised to find it more of a mish-mash of half-folded clothes that seemed to be hastily tossed inside, including the work-hiking boots she’d had on when she arrived in the taxi. Again, nothing hidden in the linings. The garment bag was the easiest. It contained one light purple dress on a hanger, and another empty hanger, probably for the little silky thing she was currently sleeping in.

  Finally, he put her handbag on the table in front of him.

  Her purse. The holy grail of women’s privacy. No man entered here without express permission of the woman in his life. Not if he wanted to keep his fingers attached and his woman happy.

  Opening it, he studied the contents carefully. From what he could see there wasn’t a whole lot of organization to this bag. Her wallet took up most of the space. A soft case holding those aviator sunglasses she’d been wearing earlier. Reaching in, he removed both items. The wallet contained a checkbook—all new checks—credit and debit cards. Sixty-four dollars. Receipts.

  He set them to the side and reached in again. Next came a phone charger. He laid it on the table next to her phone he’d found in his front seat. A small tube of glossy lip stuff. Three pens. Two of those nylon hair tie things. A brush. Small bottle of Ibuprophen. Some unlabeled sealed packets containing what looked like cotton tipped swabs with plastic attached. Wonder what those are?

  Airline seat assignment tickets. He checked the dates. They confirmed her story about leaving last week and flying in today. Clipped to them was the bill from a lodge in Vermont. Again, the dates jived with her story.

  Whatever happened to Sydney’s house tonight, she wasn’t in town to cause it.

  Once he had everything re-packed, he carried the bags up to the guest bedroom and set them inside the room just to the side of the door. Going back to the hall closet, he pulled out a set of towels and took them down to set on the dresser so she wouldn’t have to look
for them when she got up.

  Before he closed the door, he stared at the bed once more. All that blonde hair had come out of the bun she’d been wearing and fell across her face and pillow like some wild bird’s nest. She’d shifted in her sleep, this time towards the middle, with the extra pillow pulled in tight, one foot dangling out of the covers.

  Syd was a pillow hugger.

  For a brief moment he wondered what it would be like to have her wrap those arms and legs around him in the middle of the night.

  What the hell? The last thing he needed to do was think of Sydney Peele in any non-professional way. Hell, the woman was a photographer. Nothing but trouble. Hadn’t tonight confirmed that?

  Quickly he closed the door and headed back downstairs to get the gun he’d left on the living room table. Normally, he’d lock it in the gun safe at home, but again his gut told him he’d best keep it handy.

  * * * * *

  “Did you take care of it?” The deep, unemotional voice asked.

  Geist drew in a deep breath, the scent of burning wood filling the air around him. Seated two blocks from the smoldering wreck of the house, he could enjoy his work from here. “The computer went up in flames, along with the house, and any film that might’ve been in the darkroom.”

  “And the blackmailer?”

  The question triggered his jaw to clench. “The owner wasn’t home.”

  “Then your job isn’t finished.”

  There was a pause. He imagined the old man dragging in a lungful of smoke from the big Cuban cigar he always had in his hand. Clenching the steering wheel and relaxing several times, Geist forced himself to remain as silent as his employer on the other end of the phone.

  “I made it perfectly clear I want no loose ends.”

  Another pause.

  “Do not become one.”

  And with that threat, the phone went dead in his ear.

  Failure. Failure. Failure.

  Breathe.

  One, two.

  Exhale.

  One, two.

  Again.

  Click-click. Click-click.

  The locks on the door.

  Click-click. Click-click.

  Stop it. You’re in control.

  He gripped both hands on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to reach for the door lock again. Dammit, he hadn’t failed. He’d set up his plan and was following it step-by-step to the end.

  The first phase was complete. The most important part. Erase all computer images, the hard drive they were on, and keep them from becoming public record. The bomb he’d placed had obliterated them so that no geeky tech could manage to retrieve them. The fire? A red herring to keep the authorities from looking past the chemicals in the darkroom as the accelerants or cause of the fire.

  Phase two was dealing with the photographer.

  Scrolling through his phone apps, he pulled up the video from earlier in the evening. Thanks to the invention of smartphones and social media, he could video the crowd without looking out of place. There’d been probably three dozen people out on the sidewalk with their cameras.

  He opened the video and fast-forwarded it until the blonde came into the picture, screaming and trying to push her way through the firemen blocking her path. She was the owner of the house, Sydney Peele. It was her IP that the email and sample picture came from. His prey.

  He’d been too far away to see where the big man in the tuxedo had taken her when he scooped her up in his arms.

  Slowly he smiled, tracing his finger over the image of the woman’s face.

  Not to worry.

  She’d be back. How could she not? The devastation he’d wrought to her home would draw her like flies to a dead body.

  Then he’d be able to complete his task. The old man would be happy.

  * * * * *

  Slowly, Sydney came awake. The smell of bacon and coffee coaxing her from the grey fog of sleep.

  She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Almost noon.

  At least she knew where she was this time. Earlier in the night, she’d woken up to pee only to find herself in a strange bed, in a strange house, still wearing the lace-and-silk shift dress she’d donned for Abby’s wedding.

  Then everything that happened earlier in the night came rushing back at her like a locomotive she couldn’t escape. Through tears and on shaking limbs she’d made it to the bathroom attached to the bedroom. After emptying her bladder, she shimmied out of the expensive dress Liv Cartwright, the designer she’d been shooting for in Vermont, had insisted on giving her to wear at the wedding. She’d told Liv she couldn’t accept something so expensive, but Liv insisted, saying after she’d forced her to spend a week in near cave-man conditions, it was the least she could do.

  Sydney had carefully laid the dress on the chair near the door. Grabbing her travel bag from where someone, probably the marshal, had left all her things, she’d donned her sleep clothes, before crawling back into the warm bed.

  Now she was awake and the stark truth of reality smacked her like a wet towel after gym class.

  She was homeless.

  Rolling over, she stared out the window into the blue sky, tears welling in her eyes. Not just homeless. Everything was gone. Everything. Her mother’s quilt. The pictures of her life. Her main computer with all her work files. The stuffed dog her grandfather gave her when she was five. The antique bed she’d inherited from her great aunt. The apple tree photo above her bed.

  Everything was gone.

  A sob escaped her, then another one. Tears poured over her cheeks. She let them flow. It was silly to grieve for things. She knew it, but they weren’t just things. They were memories. Connections to those she’d lost, the family she’d once had. Now all that was left was the camera from her father and Ian.

  Ian.

  Where was he? The fireman said they hadn’t found a victim inside the house. What if they’d been wrong?

  Dashing at the tears, she shoved the covers aside and jumped out of bed. She needed her phone. She glanced at her travel bags, each lined up side by side, the garment bag she’d carried Liv’s dress in draped over the top. Her handbag was missing.

  When was the last time she’d had it?

  At the fire. She’d tried to call Ian and only gotten his voice mail. Had she left it at the fire? She’d been holding her phone and staring at the flames rise in the dark sky. Then her home suddenly exploded. The next thing she remembered was Castello putting her in his car. He’d carried her. He’d buckled the seat belt around her.

  Shaking her head, she headed downstairs. Her life was falling apart, and the marshal had taken the time to buckle her seat belt. She was still pondering that when she stepped into the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Barefoot, dressed in a faded red-and-grey T-shirt and cargo shorts, Castello stood at the six-burner stainless steel stove…flipping pancakes? His hair was slightly rumpled and he hadn’t shaved yet, but damn, she’d considered him sexy last night in a tuxedo. A man making breakfast right out of bed? Now that was sexy.

  “Are you expecting company?” she asked.

  “Just us. Why?”

  “Between what happened last night and the bourbon you put in my tea, I don’t think I can eat much this morning.”

  “You might surprise yourself. Besides breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Coffee’s over there,” he said, nodding to his right without turning to look at her. “Tea’s in the cupboard above, if you prefer. Hot water will take a few minutes.”

  “Do you have any pop?”

  That got him to turn and look at her.

  He gave her a once-over look from top to bottom—his intensely dark gaze heating her more than a hot beverage ever would—then went back to the pancakes. “Coke or Pepsi?”

  “Coke.”

  “Regular or diet?”

  “Diet.”

  “Fridge.”

  Strange, but she was getting rather used to his clipped conversation style. It was
precise and to the point. It also required little effort and fewer details. Right now, she didn’t think she could take any more questions about last night. Her emotions were still too raw. Then there was the whole sitting in his lap thing.

  Warmth and security.

  Okay, that’s somewhere she didn’t need to let her mind or body go right now.

  Shoving the memories into the back of her subconscious, she snagged a cold can of pop from the supply of both brands he had stashed in the bottom door of the refrigerator, popped the top and took a long drink. Eyes closed, she enjoyed the cold liquid fizzing its way down her throat to her empty stomach. She could almost feel the caffeine instantly hit her system, even though she knew it would probably take longer.

  “Ahh,” she said with great reverence.

  “So, you’re a pop drinker?”

  His deep voice had her eyes popping open, and she couldn’t help the smile. “Yep. It’s my caffeine of choice.”

  “No coffee?” he asked, as he cracked eggs into a bowl.

  “Nope. Gives me panic attacks.”

  “Tea?”

  “Sometimes, in winter, but not first thing in the morning.”

  He nodded and began briskly beating the eggs with a fork.

  As she took a second drink, she studied the kitchen. Recently remodeled, everything about it spoke of Craftsman style. The recessed, paneled cabinet doors in a dark cherry wood begged to have her run her fingers over the smooth surfaces. The backsplash was done in a roughened stone tile, and even the hardwood floors looked like they’d been milled back at the turn of the last century. The nearly pristine counters had only a few things sitting on them—the coffee maker, a toaster and an electric wine bottle opener, and next to the stove, a plate of cooked bacon and another stacked with pancakes.

  On the granite topped island in the middle of the room was the only out of place item. His phone.

  Phone.

  “You don’t happen to know where my purse is, do you?” she asked, setting her pop can on the island.

  “Chair in my office. Front of the house. Room on the right,” he said, setting two plates and silverware on the island. Then went back to scrambling the eggs in the hot pan. “Phone’s on my desk, charging.”