Shiver of Fear, Page 3

  A picture of Devyn taken seventeen years ago. Why would Sharon have that?

  A hundred answers clobbered her brain, all dizzying in their possibilities. But only one electrified her. Her birth mother had been keeping track of her.

  Her birth mother cared.

  Was that possible?

  She had to know. The burn intensified until she could taste the metallic, bitter flavor of need in her mouth. She had to know why Sharon had that picture. And she had to warn Sharon that her home was under surveillance and that she was in danger.

  But how?

  Trembling, she followed the darkened street back to the curvy Carolina roads. Finding Dr. Sharon Greenberg had just gone from an impulse to a mission. Belfast.

  Fortunately, she’d brought her passport.

  CHAPTER 2

  The offices of the fledgling security and investigation firm sat directly above a lingerie store on Newbury Street, giving Marc Rossi one more reason to like his new job.

  He loitered at the window of Silk, drinking in the display of autumn gold thongs and russet front-clasp brassieres. While he briefly imagined the pleasure of putting them on—and taking them off—the right woman, he answered his vibrating cell phone without looking at caller ID.

  He knew who it was anyway.

  “I see you staring at the unmentionables, Marc.”

  Inching back, he grinned up at the bay window that protruded from the second floor and saw his cousin looking down at him with an amused expression on her devilish features.

  “You can mention them, Vivi. I just don’t remember my father’s offices having such excellent downstairs neighbors.”

  “That’s because Silk was a Chinese laundry when Uncle Jim used this suite. But I’m thinking we can add a tagline to the Guardian Angelinos Web site: ‘We’re just above the underwear’.”

  Marc laughed. “I like it.” He pulled open the glass door that led to a small entryway, throwing one more wistful smile at the lace-covered entrance to Silk before heading upstairs. Like so many buildings in Boston’s Back Bay, offices and apartments were stacked above high-end retailers, accessible by steep, narrow staircases or rickety elevators. “And it’ll make Christmas shopping so much easier for me,” he added.

  “I wear a small. Bottom and top, sadly.”

  He took the stairs two at a time. “I wasn’t thinking about you, little cousin.”

  “I’ve no doubt your shopping list is long and heavily weighted to the Silk customer,” she countered. “But no lingering in lingerie. We have ten minutes until your FBI buddy shows up, and I want to have our act together to meet a potential new client.”

  “Will do, boss.” He ended the call as he reached the top landing and continued down a familiar hallway to the suite of offices where his father had practiced law for almost twenty years before becoming a judge. But Jim Rossi had kept the lease on this prime Back Bay real estate and had generously offered the unoccupied offices to house the company Marc’s cousins had just started.

  The faint scent of cleaning solution and paint wafted into the hall, because the official move had taken place just this past weekend. Marc had been unable to leave his weapons shop to help, but he’d successfully trained a few managers, which left him free to make the leap from small-business owner back to the life he missed and loved—not the life of FBI agent that he’d once enjoyed, but that of consultant.

  The brother and sister team of Vivi and Zach Angelino had planned a venture that was very appealing to him. When they asked him to consult for the Guardian Angelinos, he went all in, and proved his enthusiasm by bringing the company its first official new business lead.

  He opened the door, and the smell of fresh paint grew stronger, along with the colors. The walls were deep purple and gold, showcasing the ultrahip reception chairs and the glass desk.

  “Good-bye, Rossi Law and hello, Guardian Angelinos,” he said with a soft laugh.

  “You like?” Vivi spun around from the bay window, her smile as cheery as the September sun that backlit her, her dark eyes glittering like the diamond stud in her nose. “Because Zach hates it.”

  Marc shook his head, chuckling. “Your brother is a killjoy.”

  “I am not.” Zach Angelino’s distinctive baritone rolled out from the back offices. “I let her go with the ridiculous name, didn’t I? Do I have to like the… the…”

  “Jewel tones?” Vivi supplied as she waved Marc toward the rest of the suite. “He’s full of it. He loves the Guardian Angelinos. Makes him feel so important to have the name on the door.”

  “I love the concept,” Zach corrected as they entered his office. “I still think the name is… regrettable.”

  “How’d you get the office with the better view?” Marc glanced around at his father’s former law office, the wall of windows overlooking the bustle of chic Back Bay.

  “I’m one minute older,” Zach said, grinning at Vivi from behind a cheap fiberboard desk placed in the very spot where James Rossi’s antique oak monster lived before it became a permanent resident of the family’s Sudbury basement.

  “And he got the high-end guest chairs,” Vivi said, indicating two folding director’s chairs with the Ford logo on the back. “They came free with the company Expedition, and I blew the furniture budget on the reception. First impressions and all.”

  Mark dropped into one of the wobbly chairs. “Don’t make excuses. You two have done an amazing job already.”

  Zach snorted. “We need more clients, but we’re getting there.” For the first time since he got back from Iraq, Zach seemed completely comfortable in his own skin—as scarred as that skin might be. It wasn’t just his role as CEO of a new company, either. Marc knew exactly what—or rather who—made his cousin look so content.

  “How’s Samantha?” Marc asked.

  Although his missing left eye was covered with a simple leather patch, Zach’s happiness was still easy to read. “One week into law school, and she’s killin’ it already. We’re looking for a bigger place than her apartment in Somerville.”

  “What’s that I hear?” Vivi asked, curling her lithe little frame into the other chair and cupping a hand at her ear. “Why, it’s the sound of bells. Wedding bells.”

  “Seriously?” Marc turned to Zach and knew instantly that this wasn’t Vivi’s usual hyperbole.

  Zach lifted a casual shoulder, but his smile was anything but nonchalant. Something twisted in Marc’s gut. Envy? Impossible. He couldn’t love his cousin more or want to head back into marriage less. “When?” he asked.

  “June, assuming this business takes off the way my sister believes it will.”

  “And that’s where you come in,” Vivi said, her hand on Marc’s arm.

  “Best man?”

  “Best consultant,” she said. “Please tell me this FBI gig is really going to happen. We need cash so badly.”

  “Assuming Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton Lang shows up here in the next few minutes, I think it is. And, trust me, if this goes well, the bureau is always on the lookout for outside help on special projects. Colt could be your biggest client.”

  “Our biggest client,” Zach corrected, pointing at Marc. “Vivi and I need you as a regular on the payroll, Marc, not just brought in here and there. As long as you understand that payroll is slim for now.”

  Marc shrugged. “I know what it is, and you know how much I would rather do work in security and investigations than own a gun shop.”

  “You should be solving crimes and taking down bad guys, Marc,” Vivi said. “Not selling Glocks and Walthers so someone else can do the job.”

  Vivi and Zach, raised with the Rossi family since the two of them were orphaned at age ten in Italy and sent to the States to live with relatives, knew Marc as well as any of his siblings. They’d all been there for Marc when his seemingly perfect marriage to a seemingly perfect woman turned out to be anything but perfect, and trust had cost him the job he loved almost as much as he loved her. They knew how much h
e missed that job. But not that woman.

  “I’m here for the long haul,” he assured them. “Not for the slender paycheck.”

  The squeak of the front office door ended the conversation. Vivi popped up so fast she almost toppled the flimsy chair. “To the conference room, gentlemen. Let’s try to look official. This is a client.”

  The two men shared a look, and Zach pointed to his sister’s trademark cargo pants and tank top, a sweatshirt tied around her narrow waist. “We’ll follow your lead, Vice President in Charge of Investigations Angelino.”

  She flipped him the bird and disappeared to greet the guest.

  Zach stood but Marc didn’t, still eyeing his cousin. “You sure?” he asked simply.

  “There are no words for how sure I am,” he said, obviously knowing what Marc was referring to. “Just ’cause you’re jaded doesn’t mean the rest of the world is.”

  Marc stifled a soft hoot. “Says the guy who invented jaded.”

  “I’m unjaded now, thanks to Sam.”

  “The love of a good woman and all?” Marc rose to follow him.

  “You don’t need to be so bitter.”

  “Who’s bitter? I’m a realist.”

  Zach laughed. “You’ve never been a realist, Marc. You’re a perfectionist, and that’s fine in business, but as long as you’re looking for perfection, you’ll only be disappointed.”

  He didn’t agree, but just followed Zach into the hall.

  “Your marriage didn’t work out. Mine will,” Zach said confidently. “And, anyway, you picked the wrong person first time around.”

  “First?” Marc snorted at the optimism. “As if there’d be a second.”

  “A second what?” From behind them came the calm and authoritative voice of ASAC Colton Lang, which was familiar to Marc since they’d worked together a few times when he was still with the bureau.

  Marc ignored the question and exchanged greetings while they all moved into the conference room, where Vivi’s decorating hadn’t yet started. The bookshelves were still stocked with legal tomes, and the long mahogany table that seated a dozen or so still seemed stodgy and old school compared to the colorful ambience of the reception area.

  Short-haired, conservative, suit-and-tie man Colton Lang fit right in.

  “I’m here because you all did a masterful job of finding Joshua Sterling’s killers,” he said without preamble, standing at the head of the table, his gaze moving from one to the other. “I know you took a bullet in the process, Ms. Angelino,” he added to Vivi. “How are you feeling?”

  Vivi smiled proudly, her hand moving to her stomach. “I’m back on my skateboard,” she said with a laugh. “So looks like everything’s normal.”

  Colt covered a rare smile with a single nod. “Glad to hear it. As you know, the bureau wasn’t really involved with that case, but we are appreciative of your success.”

  “Maybe you should have been involved,” Zach said dryly. “Since the Boston police had a vested interest in not solving it.”

  Colt acknowledged the understatement with another tip of his chin. “If you hadn’t led us to the dirty cop who was working with Joshua Sterling’s mistress, we might have fallen for their scheme to pin the murder on Finn MacCauley. It would have been an easy mistake for us to make, since, as you know, he’s a fugitive who remains on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.”

  “I really hope you’re here to give us the job of finding him,” Vivi added, leaning forward with a sparkle in her eyes. “Because we could do that.”

  Colt held her gaze for a minute, assessing her with a fraction of surprise that made Marc suppress a smile. Vivi was constantly being misjudged, thanks to her funky style and choice of skateboard as a means of transportation. But being underestimated and sometimes dismissed as too young or too frivolous had helped Vivi crack some of the toughest stories when she was a journalist. As an investigator, he suspected that vibe would be her most powerful secret weapon.

  “I’m not here to ask you to find Finn MacCauley,” Colt said.

  “Still, we could.”

  He gave in to a smile. “While I admire your spirit, Ms. Angelino, I have to let you know that unearthing an ancient fugitive isn’t really a high priority for the bureau.”

  Marc choked. “Any man on the Most Wanted list is a high priority, Colt. Who are you kidding?”

  “I don’t kid. For one thing, he’s been missing for almost three decades, there’s doubts he’s still alive, and he hasn’t been linked to a new crime since 1983.”

  “He’s linked to enough old ones,” Marc said.

  “You were still in the FBI post-nine-eleven,” Colt replied. “You know what happened to our priorities. Terrorism is job number one, two, three, and four now. Finding a man who was involved with mobs that don’t even exist anymore, especially since more than a few people believe his body was buried under the Central Artery when they started the Big Dig, is not on my to-do list. Finding him is as low on the crime totem pole as stopping the sales of knockoff designer handbags.”

  “Then why are you here?” Marc asked.

  “To find his daughter.” Colt pulled out a color photo and placed it on the table, and Marc instantly recognized Devyn Hewitt Sterling, the widow of Joshua Sterling and, for a very brief time, a person of interest in that murder.

  “I thought she was cleared of any suspicion in her husband’s death,” Marc said.

  “She’s not guilty of anything,” Colt assured him.

  “Except being stupid.” Marc eyed the picture of the widowed socialite with striking cheekbones and sky-blue eyes. “If she hadn’t told her ambitious husband that her biological father was a wanted criminal, Joshua Sterling might still be alive.” Although she was probably better off without him.

  “I don’t think she’s stupid,” Colt said thoughtfully. “And that’s why we need somebody very smart for the job of finding her.”

  “What did she do?” Vivi asked.

  “Nothing,” Colt replied, settling into his seat. “Right now she’s traveling, in Belfast as far as we can tell, and I’d like you to track her down and bring that trip to an end.”

  “Why?” All three of them asked the question at the same time.

  Colt reacted with raised eyebrows, hesitating. “You don’t need to know that.”

  This time, he got three silent stares.

  “You really don’t,” he said firmly. “The job is simple. Find her and convince her to leave the country, preferably to come back to the States, but frankly that’s not important. Just get her out of Belfast without raising her suspicions about who you are or who you are working for. Just somehow get her out of there.”

  “Why don’t you just apprehend her?” Vivi asked, but Marc already knew the question was moot. It didn’t take all of his twelve years as an FBI agent to know they weren’t getting the whole story. And since Colton Lang had a reputation as a hardass rule follower, he suspected they might never get it.

  “She hasn’t committed a crime,” Colt said.

  Vivi looked at her brother, then Marc, clearly not ready to accept this level of information. She opened her mouth to object, but Colt cut off her question before it was asked.

  “Do you want the assignment or not?”

  She closed her mouth.

  Zach put a hand over hers. “Sometimes it’s going to work this way,” he said quietly. After his years in the army, Zach understood that missions could be carried out without everyone knowing the full reasoning behind the strategy.

  “What kind of support will we have from the bureau?” Marc asked.

  “None.” Colt leveled his gaze with the single-word response. “And you’ll have no contact with the bureau except for me. No negotiating on that.”

  Vivi blew out a breath, but Zach waved away her frustration again. “Let’s talk fees.”

  “When Devyn Sterling is out of Belfast, preferably out of Northern Ireland completely.”

  “What?” Vivi almost jumped out of her seat. “Y
ou want us to take this on contingency? An assignment that’s practically a black hole of information?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “If you are official FBI consultants, then I have to show casework, and I’m afraid we don’t have time for that. You need to leave immediately, tomorrow if not sooner.”

  Marc turned the photo of Devyn around to look at it, studying the coolness in her gaze, the distance in her expression. Like she was dead cold on the inside. Why did the FBI want this widow out of Belfast?

  He had a very strong suspicion that he was too smart to voice.

  “Give us an hour to discuss it,” Marc said. “And during that hour, arrange a retainer check for expenses. I’m certain you can do that without getting tied up in red tape.”

  Colt nodded to the concession, sliding the pertinent files toward him. “I’ll be back before noon. Please have a decision for me by then.” He glanced at Vivi and Zach. “I can show myself out.”

  He left and none of them said a word until the door to the reception area closed behind him.

  And then they all talked at the same time, Rossi-Angelino style.

  “Contingency!”

  “He’s holding back.”

  “We need this job.” Zach took the lead, holding up his hand. “We need this job,” he repeated to be sure he was heard over the others. “Even if it’s contingency,” he said to Vivi. “And even if he’s not telling us everything. We know enough to at least attempt to do what he wants. That’s the assignment and that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Spoken like a true Army Ranger,” Vivi said, pushing back from the table. “But not the CEO of a company.”

  “Hang on, Vivi,” Marc said. “Zach’s right—we don’t have to know everything, and we do need this assignment. If my gut is right, this has to do with finding Finn MacCauley, and there’s no way he’s going to trust an unproven operation like ours with that information.”

  She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Then let’s get proven. Let’s find him.”

  Zach snorted softly. “We’re good, Vivi, but we aren’t quite equipped to go after a fugitive who’s eluded the FBI for thirty years. We prove ourselves by working with him, not against him, and by taking it one step at a time. Marc goes to Ireland, finds this woman, convinces her to leave Belfast with him.”