Face of Danger (15 page)

“How do you think it would go over with your fans, Karen? That you were his right-hand girl, not to mention his mistress, completely aware of how boatloads of people were holed up and beaten, forced to live with no running water, drowning in their own excrement? How do you think it would fly on
E! News
that you stood beside him as he handpicked twelve-year-olds to be sex slaves, that you didn’t turn your head when he tortured them until—”

“Stop it!” Cara screamed, grabbing the paring knife she’d used to slice tomatoes and holding it out toward Joellen. “Shut up!”

Joellen just crossed her arms and gave her a cocky look. “Just remember, Karen, I have nothing to lose.”

The
bitch
. “You have a gravy train of money and coattails of fame to lose.”

“You can’t let the world know what you did, Cara.”

She lowered the knife and closed her eyes. “If he gets indicted, I might have to. And hope I’m one of those Teflon celebrities.”

“No one is that bulletproof, kiddo.”

She scraped the overcooked eggs into the sink. “I should never attempt cooking.”

“And I should never attempt sobriety.” Jo stood in front of the selection of booze bottles in the cabinet she’d just opened. “Crap vodka, but it’ll do the trick for a celebratory drink.” She splashed a glassful and held it up. “This’ll have to do.”

“Cheers,” Cara said dryly.

Joellen gulped, then slammed the glass down. “Maybe you should just give him what he wants, Cara, then he
will keep you out of it when he’s indicted. You know he’s going to be indicted. You could just be the innocent in all this, nothing more than the—”

“I’m not saving his ass. I’m saving mine.” Cara swallowed hard. “Just drink your vodka, Jo.”

“Like I need an invitation to do that.”

Uncle Nino had a name for people like Mercedes Graff. Several of them, actually. None very nice, Vivi thought with a smile she managed to hide. Mostly, Nino would probably just call the housekeeper
una tedesca
. A German. And, with Uncle Nino, the old-school Italian that he was, being
una tedesca
was not a compliment.

Mercedes perched on the edge of an uncomfortable beige sofa, her features as pinched and sharp as the decor of her simple quarters on the basement level. Cleaned within an inch of their lives, the rooms were not nearly as well appointed and luxurious as the rest of the house, lit by unnatural light without a single window anywhere. They were devoid of clutter, color, or personality, an eerie reflection of the chilly, humorless woman who lived in them.

The other agents had sequestered Mercedes after the shooting, and no one had yet asked her any questions to determine what, if anything, she knew about Sunisa Pakpao and how he’d gotten into the house.

Lang thought that bringing her up to speed, especially given the fact that she knew Vivi’s real identity, was their first order of business. No surprise, he took the lead as they entered her subterranean apartment, telling her that for Cara Ferrari’s safety, and the fact that they had nothing definitive on the killer other than a suspicious rap
sheet, the FBI had opted to keep Vivi undercover as a decoy for the actress.

All the while, Mercedes stayed on the edge of her seat—literally—and listened.

“I fully understand and will abide by this decision,” she said, her icy blue gaze on Lang.

“You don’t have a choice, Ms. Graff,” he said brusquely. “You will comply or you will be obstructing justice, requiring me to arrest you.”

Her face paled a shade and her eyes registered something more like fear than surprise. “And take me somewhere?”

“That’s the general course of action.”

“This is my home.”

“I understand that. But it’s also a crime scene.”

The light tap of dog feet on the stairs made her sit even straighter. “That dog is not allowed down here.”

But Stella apparently didn’t know that rule or was willing to break it just to get close to Lang, because she scampered in and sidled up to his leg. Lang absently rubbed her head, his attention on Mercedes. “As I was saying, ma’am, you need to answer my questions.”

“The animal needs sedatives,” Mercedes said, starting to stand. “Let me get her prescription.”

“No,” Lang said, shooting out a hand while Vivi got up to lead Stella out the door. “Ms. Graff, this is more important. Do you have any idea how the assailant entered the house?”

“None. Every door and window is locked and alarmed, and I change the code on a daily basis.”

“What is it today?” he challenged.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve turned it off to accommodate the foot traffic.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s a combination of numbers and letters that only I know.”

“And today it is…” he coaxed.

“615PTR.”

“And yesterday it was?”

“504QVM. Please don’t ask the day before.”

“Because you’ve forgotten it?”

“I know every number back two years, Mr. Lang. I have a photographic memory. I don’t want to bore you with nearly seven hundred numbers and letters and, beyond that, I can’t imagine the reason behind this line of questioning.” She crossed her hands on her lap. “What else do you want to know?”

“Does the name Sunisa Pakpao mean anything to you?” He spelled it to help her, but she registered no recognition. “Has he ever been here before?”

“No.” She shook her head. “The name means absolutely nothing.”

“Can you give me a list of people who visit this house on a regular basis? Specifically anyone who may have been here within the last two months?”

“If you want it printed out, please allow me to access my computer. Everyone is logged and photographed by the security cameras. Otherwise I’ll repeat it from memory. I can assure you there is no Mr. Pakpao on the list.”

Oh, yeah, definitely
una tedesca
. All precision, no passion.

“When did you turn off the alarm code today?”

“When Ms.”—she indicated Vivi with one pointed finger—“when she arrived.”

“I’d appreciate if you would just refer to her as you refer to Cara Ferrari,” he instructed.

She barely nodded. “I turned the alarm off when I received the call that you’d arrived at the front gates.”

“How long was it off?”

“A few seconds, until I knew the car had entered the garage. Then I escorted Ms.”—she nodded toward Vivi—“
her
upstairs and returned to the kitchen. I spoke to you and then I escorted Agent Iverson down the pass-through to the guesthouse, when we heard gunshots.”

“Why were you so anxious for Ms. Angelino to get in her room?”

“Because getting guests settled is what I do.”

He waited a beat, giving her a minute to elaborate, then, “You never went outside after you left her?”

“No.”

“Not for one minute, in the driveway, on the patio, anywhere you—”

“I never went back outside, Mr. Lang. Of
that
you can have no doubt.”

He and Vivi shared a quick look, both probably thinking the same thing.
Then what should we have doubt about?

“How about the night before? The day before? Was there ever another point in time when the house alarm was turned off and someone might have gotten in?”

“Not to my knowledge, but I suggest you contact the security company. They log every time the alarm is armed and disabled. With the packs of photographers and media gathering around the property, I’ve been quite vigilant.”

“Except for the few minutes after we arrived, when you were not vigilant.”

She just stared at him.

“How many staff members does Ms. Ferrari employ at this house?” he asked.

“Just me.”

“No landscapers? Pool service? Additional cleaning assistance? Handymen? Any service personnel, like plumbers or air-conditioning repair?”

“I have all of those individuals logged, Mr. Lang,” she said. “But I run this household. I do all the cooking, cleaning, and general maintenance. Yes, there is a landscaper, but he hasn’t been here in over a week, as we don’t require any daily or weekly upkeep in the winter and spring months.”

“How often are you gone, leaving the house unattended?”

“I am never gone and the house is never unattended.”

Lang looked surprised. “Never?”

“Never.”

“You don’t go shopping, to the movies, to church?”

She leaned forward to make her point. “I do not leave this house, Mr. Lang. Ever.”

“Why not?”

She just stared right back at him, stone silent.

“Is that your choice, Ms. Graff?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I’m not… held against my will.”

Vivi could see where he was going, and she didn’t agree with the line of questioning, but before he could fire off the next question, his phone rang and he excused himself and took the call outside.

Thank God. Now Vivi could have some time to try this interview her way. Because Lang was getting nowhere.

She stepped away from the counter that separated
the kitchen from the living area, slowly approaching Mercedes.

“You must be shell-shocked,” she said as she got close enough to connect but not to invade the obviously self-protective woman’s personal space. “In the space of an hour, your beautiful home has been wrecked and invaded, turned inside out, and packed with strangers.” Because, clearly, she felt it was her home. Enough that she never left. “And your boss’s life has been threatened.”

Mercedes lifted a bony shoulder. “When Ms. Ferrari is home, there is constant chaos. I’m no stranger to upheaval.”

“Upheaval is one thing,” Vivi agreed. “But having an intruder shot in the master bath is something else.”

“It’s all upheaval.”

Vivi eased into the chair Lang had been in but sat back, curling her legs under her. “Hard to imagine how someone could get into this place with all the security and your supervision.”

“Yes, it is.”

She needed to try another tactic. “Let me ask you something, Mercedes.” She got a quick look of surprise, probably for using the woman’s given name, but Vivi powered on. “If you didn’t know about the switch, how long would it have taken you to realize I’m not Cara?”

“Me? A second. Most people? Quite a bit longer.”

“So you know her that well.”

She almost smiled, or certainly the closest thing Vivi had seen so far. “I’ve known her since she was a child, so, yes, I know her well.”

Vivi blinked at her, digesting this new information. “And now you work for her?”

“I don’t call it work, miss.” She finally stood, her knees creaking a little. “She’s given me a place to live, right here on the island where I’ve spent every year of my life, and, as you can see, it’s quite beautiful. I really don’t think of my life as a job, but more of a reward for… for all I’ve done for her.”

“I had no idea you were that close to her—and Joellen, too, I imagine.”

She nearly bristled. “Yes, I practically raised them both.”

She had? “What about their parents?”

The older woman drew in a slow breath, making her long, thin nostrils quiver. “Both dead, many years now. Mr. Mugg was in an accident on the bog, where he worked. Mrs. Mugg passed from cancer when the girls were in their teens.”

Vivi’s heart folded a little. She shared the same history: a father killed when she was young, a mother taken by cancer. “And you raised them?”

“There was no one else, and I already worked on the bog.”

Vivi frowned. “What bog?”

“The cranberry bog the Muggs owned, right here on this property. It’s abandoned now.”

“They lived in this house?”

She almost laughed. “No, in the bog house at the edge of the property. Karen—er, Cara—built this when she became successful. I’ve lived here since the day it was completed.”

“Always down here?” In a tomb?

She got up and walked to the kitchenette, rounding the counter to stand at the sink, staring at the wall where
anywhere else there would be a window. “These are my quarters. I’m not a member of the family.”

“How was it you practically raised them?”

She shook excess water from her hands then opened a crisp, clean dish towel to dry them. “Their mother worked as a secretary in town. I watched the girls when they came home from school from the time they were kindergarten age.”

She smoothed the towel on the countertop, folding it with military precision. “Are you finished interviewing me, Ms. Angelino? I have a house full of people who are no doubt going to be hungry.”

“I’m not interviewing you,” Vivi denied. “I’m fascinated by the history. I knew Cara was born and raised in Nantucket, but didn’t realize it was on this land, or on a cranberry bog.”

“You’re interviewing me. I’m not stupid.”

Lang opened the door, cutting off the next question. “I need you to come with me,” he said to Vivi. “And, Ms. Graff? One of my agents will be in here shortly to continue our interview.”

“He or she can continue it upstairs,” she said, brushing by Vivi and Lang to the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She marched up the stairs and left them staring at the open door.

Lang blew out a breath. “She’s tight-lipped.”

“Not at all.”

“No? So what did you find out that I didn’t?”

“Plenty. For one thing, she’s known Cara since she was a child, and practically raised her.”

He frowned. “That doesn’t tell us how someone got into this house.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But I usually find that when
you discover the personal angle behind relationships, you get answers to questions you never thought to ask.”

“Still doesn’t tell us where the security breach is.”

“But it tells us a lot about the gatekeeper.”

Lang put his hand on her back and guided her to the door. “I don’t know about her history with Cara, but I thank God she’s an organizational fanatic who keeps track of everyone who has ever entered the house.”

“And an agoraphobic,” Vivi added.

“Did she tell you that?”

Vivi gestured toward the tomblike rooms. “Does she have to? She never leaves the house, lives in a hole, and reeks of OCD.”

He fought a smile. “So you’re a profiler, too.”

She merely shrugged, not sure if his look was teasing or admiration. “She has a lot of emotional ties with Cara. A lot of history and, in my investigative experience, that can really affect a case.”