Exposed (20 page)

A jogger in a yellow raincoat ran past on the other side of the street, in front of another Victorian. This one seemed to be in the middle of its restoration, the brickwork half done. On a sunny day, it was probably crawling with construction workers. Not today.

She heard Frank’s voice in the kitchen. It sounded like he was talking to someone.

Might as well face his laughter.

She grabbed her camera and headed towards the kitchen.

“Did you find out the name of the bookie?” Frank asked whoever was on the other side of the phone. He gave her a little nod then went back to studying the photos on the computer as he talked. “Bobby Two-toes? That can’t be the guy’s name.” He gave her half a smile and wink.

She smiled back. The name was ridiculous and sounded like it came right out of seventies’ mafia movie.

“Okay. So how much does he owe Two-toes?” He whistled, his gaze locking on hers once more.

Ian.
He was talking about Ian. Someone had tracked down her brother’s bookie, and by Castello’s reaction, Ian was truly in over his head this time.

Setting the camera on the table, she opened the back and took out the roll of film. She reached into the side pouch of her camera bag, pulled out the empty tub she’d put there for easy retrieval and slipped the used film inside. Then she opened the pocket inside her case to slip the tub in with the other used ones from her trip. When she reached for the unused tubs at the bottom of the case, she paused.

“Huh,” she muttered, pulling out four tubs and setting them on the table, then counting the ones in the used pouch. There were three.

“Hold on,” Frank said to whoever was on the phone. “What’s wrong?”

She glanced over to find him completely focused on her. “Um, I have one extra tub of film.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I always load up six for any photo shoot, that way I know if I’ve left one somewhere.” She pointed to the ones on the table. “Here’s three from the used bag, but instead of three unused ones that I keep loose in my bag, I have four.”

“Doyle, I’ll call you back,” he said, setting his phone on the counter and fixing that intense, steady gaze on her. “Are those all unused?”

“Should be. I put the unused ones in the bottom of the bag and the used ones in the pouch, to keep them separate and to let me know if I’m close to running out.”

“A place for everything—”

“—and everything in its place,” she finished the old adage for him.

“So someone put in an extra one?”

“Yes. It’s the only explanation.”

“Anyone have access to the bag while you were out of town?”

“No. I keep it with me all the time.”

“Really?” he asked, with that damn brow arched in disbelief.

She knew he was referring to the wedding. “Yes. I keep it with me all the time, except for when some arrogant marshal holds it for ransom so I’ll ride in his car.”

The corner of his mouth lifted for a moment, then his free hand landed on hers. “Was your brother alone with the bag?”

“No. I was already packing it when he came in…” she hesitated.

“What?”

Her heart sank and she leaned both her elbows on the counter to hold herself up. “It was on the bed, open, when I went into my bathroom for my travel kit. When I came out, he was playing with my cameras. They were still on the bed waiting for me to pack them. The bag was right beside him.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Open them,” Frank said, every nerve on alert.

Sydney reached for the first tub.

He grabbed her hand. “Wait.”

“What?” she asked, those eyes of hers as big as saucers again.

Even though he’d opened all her film tubs the night before when he inspected her bag, he had to wonder if any of them might be something fake. He picked up the tub and shook it. It made a dull thud. “Does that sound right?”

“Yes. Surely you don’t think he put something other than film in one?”

The incredulousness on her face tore at his heart. She still believed her brother wouldn’t put her in danger. Even before the conversation with her friend Jontae, he knew the guy wouldn’t hesitate to put his sister at risk, that he had no one’s well-being but his own at heart. He’d like to shove his fist down the son-of-a-bitch’s throat.

Without answering her question, because the fact that he was even shaking the film tubs told her he didn’t trust her brother, he shook the other three. The resounding thud from each brought a smile to her face.

“See? If Ian did put one of these in my case, it only contains film. Nothing dangerous,” she said, opening the first one and dumping a roll of film in her hand. “See the tab of film sticking out the edge? It means it was unused.”

“I know.”

“You do? Don’t you hate photography?” She blinked, and the urge to kiss her ran through him.

“Paparazzi photographers. Doesn’t mean I’ve never used a thirty-five millimeter camera before.” He picked up the next tub and handed it to her.

She opened it and it was unused, too. Same thing for the third.

Finally, she opened the last container and dumped the roll onto the table. It had been used.

“Well, damn,” she muttered.

“And you’re sure it’s not one of yours? Maybe one you forgot about from another shoot?”

“I’m as meticulous with my film and cameras as you are with…” she glanced around them, “your kitchen. I’m telling you this doesn’t belong to me.”

That sold him.

“Okay. What do you need to develop this?”

“A darkroom. Why?”

“Someone, and based on what you’ve said it’s a good bet it was your brother, left this film here,” he said, holding the roll up between them. “And ever since someone has been trying to kill you. That makes me think we ought to see what’s on this, don’t you?”

“I see your point,” she agreed.

He was already hitting dial on his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. Know anywhere with a darkroom we can use?”

“Got one in my basement,” the gravelly voice on the other end said.

“Of course you do.” Jake’s former partner Doyle was proving to be a one-man private IT department. “We’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said and hung up.

“Be where?” Sydney asked.

“A friend’s house. Get your shoes and everything you think you’ll need,” he said, slipping the used tub of film into his pants pocket. As she ran up the stairs, he started putting her camera bag back together, exactly the way she had it—exactly as he had the first night.

* * * * *

The cell phone lay on the table, tempting him.

After the phone message yesterday morning from Sydney telling him her house had blown up, Ian knew he was in trouble. Immediately he’d disabled the phone, the battery lying beside it.

How had they found him so fast?

When he sent the email to the Congressman he’d taken precautions. Using the tricks he’d learned from a black-hat hacker a few years back, he’d bounced the signal off several cell towers, overseas sites, and three satellites. It should’ve been enough to hide the point of origin.

Not if the feds were involved.
They had all kinds of ways of finding people, even in other countries. He’d learned that on his first trip into the Middle East.

But that made no sense. The Congressman wouldn’t want anyone to know he was involved in the killing of his intern. So him involving anyone even remotely connected to the federal law enforcement agencies would put his political, if not his personal, life in jeopardy.

Ian paced the small trailer’s space from the kitchen area to the bed and back, all thirty-five feet. He’d found Sydney’s stash of cash in her closet—she’d always hidden it in a boot, even as a kid—and used it to rent a small, nondescript trailer on the outskirts of town. The park’s owner liked the two month’s rent up front and hadn’t asked any questions, didn’t even ask for ID.

Another thing he’d learned in his travels. Anonymity could be bought in certain places. The spots where danger lurked and poverty strived. Not even his bookie or his enforcers would look for him here.

But he had more pressing problems now. What if it wasn’t the Congressman who’d tracked him down? What if it was the hit man he’d sent after the girl?

Think, Peele. What to do now?

Sending another email would let them know he meant business. But he’d have to be smarter. A public computer would do the trick. One at the library. He’d still bounce it around a bit.

The library would require ID to use the computer.

Luckily, he was always prepared. He grabbed his backpack and pulled out the small packet in the bottom. His second identity. A passport, bank account and fake driver’s license.

He read the name with a smile.

Sydney Peele
.

* * * * *

“By the way,” Frank said, turning off High Street onto Arcadia Avenue in Clintonville, a small section of Columbus north of the Ohio State University, where Doyle lived. “I meant to tell you Jontae sent the text that she arrived safe and sound last night.”

“Can’t imagine why you forgot,” Sydney said.

Glancing over, he saw her smiling as she stared out the window at the rainy neighborhood passing by. His mouth twitched as he refocused on driving past the three-story brick building built in the early part of the twentieth century that used to be North High School, and turned up Calumet. “Yeah, I had something else on my mind.”

They drove in silence a few moments until he was on Doyle’s street.

“About last night—” he started.

“Don’t,” she interrupted. The word like a smack.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t explain, don’t apologize, don’t try to define it,” she said, her body going so tense he could feel it on his side of the car. “We had sex. Good. Hard. Mind-blowing sex.”

“And?” He held his breath waiting for the next volley. They were fighting, and he didn’t even know how it started.

“And nothing.”

Nothing?
She didn’t want to talk about what happened between them? Didn’t want to analyze it? Wanted to act like the best sex he could ever remember having was…nothing?

He pulled over to the side of the road and parked. Before she could gather up her bags, he was on the other side of the car. He opened the door and drew her up to stand beside him. Slightly behind her to protect her from an attack from behind, he escorted her to the porch out of the pouring rain, one hand holding her by the elbow.

Under the cover of Doyle’s front porch roof, Frank pulled Sydney to face him.

“You’re wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” She blinked, as if truly not understanding what he was talking about.

“Last night.” Releasing his hold on her arm, he cupped her face between his hands. “It wasn’t nothing.”

Without waiting for a reply, he covered her mouth with his. The surprised gasp she made gave him full access to her mouth. Like an invading army he swept in. Using his hands to tilt her head slightly, he set about erasing any doubt about his feelings for her. If she assumed last night was a one-time thing, she was sorely mistaken and he meant to clear it up for her. No questions.

“You coming in, Marshal, or just want to give my neighbors something to remember you by?” a gravelly voice said, breaking the haze that had come over him.

Frank ended the kiss, but kept his hands on Sydney’s flushed face. “This isn’t over,” he whispered before releasing her. He stepped back and ushered her inside Doyle’s home.

“Sydney, this is Bill Doyle, a friend of Jake and Sami. Doyle, this is Sydney Peele,” he said, once they were safely inside and Doyle had locked the two deadbolts.

“Glad to meet you, Miss Peele,” Dole said, shaking her offered hand. “Let’s go back to my office and away from any prying eyes from the street.”

Turning, he headed down the hallway, a herky-jerky movement to his gait. Frank remembered Jake telling him that his old partner had broken a hip when he’d been hit by a car, and that was why he’d had to leave the police force. After yesterday’s incident with only the corner of a moving vehicle, he imagined how hard the car must’ve been going that put that limp in the older man’s hip.

They entered what would’ve been a family room in anyone else’s house. Instead of comfortable couches and an entertainment center, two large desks with what looked like forty-two-inch computer monitors sitting on them that would give any gamer nerd a hard-on took up most of the room. A third desk with a smaller screen sat perpendicular to the other desks. Printers, shredders, and a police scanner sat on a countertop-covered set of filing cabinets beneath a large window that overlooked the driveway. Finally, two overstuffed chairs with ottomans and a couple of leather rolling chairs filled in the space.

“Office? This looks more like a command center,” Frank said, walking around the room to check out all the high-quality electronics. “You got a forensics lab hidden in the basement?”

“No, I hire out for that information.”

“What exactly do you do, Mr. Doyle?” Sydney asked, standing in the middle of the room, taking it all in.

“Please, just Doyle will do,” he said, pulling out one of the rolling office chairs for her before sitting in the other. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’m a retired cop, working private investigations now.”

“I asked him to look into your brother’s background and finances, as well as yours,” Frank said, bracing himself for her wrath. It was a practical move on his part, especially given the threats to her life, but he knew she didn’t like the invasion. He had to admit that he could see her point and understand her ire.

She cast him a narrow-eyed glance, her lips pressed in one thin line, but surprised him when she didn’t comment, only shifted her attention back to the older man. “And what did you learn about us, Doyle?”

“You are exactly what you see. Fiscally sound. Small savings account, a budding four-oh-one account. You had a home.” He paused a moment. “I’m very sorry it was destroyed.”

Sydney gave him a small nod and the whisper of a smile, the kind you give when someone is being kind as they rip the scab off a tender cut. Frank resisted the urge to pull her out of the chair and into his arms.