Chapter 7 #3
He started the car and drove in silence until he pulled into the small airport where David had arranged a helicopter to take them to Boston.
He stopped the car and hung onto the steering wheel, giving his hands something to do so he wouldn’t reach out and touch her—or hang onto her to keep her there.
The small terminal building was straight ahead.
The place where he’d first glimpsed her, had their first testy exchange. He knew then she was trouble.
“I’m going.”
“The rental car is in my name.” Dane faced her. She wasn’t scowling. Damn.
“I’ll take care of it.” They exchanged one of those frozen looks for a very long tense second—the kind where a world of things he wanted to say flashed through his mind, but he was too stubborn or cowardly or sane to say any of them.
He should be going with her. Too many things could go wrong with only one person on the job.
Someone could be staking out Whitaker’s place.
Hell, that’s what he’d do if he were Whitaker and wanted to get some revenge.
He’d be in disguise and staying away from his own house except to watch it or have someone watch it.
He didn’t waste the words on her. He was her partner. Not her lover.
Shana looked away first and got out of the car.
She closed the door behind her and stood for a beat.
He didn’t move. He didn’t want the kind of good-bye he didn’t deserve.
Shana gave him her scowl then, turned and walked away with a fling of her hand over her head that looked more like a blow-off than a wave.
He watched her walk away, her spine stiff, at a haughty pace that spoke volumes about where he stood. Right where he deserved.
He got back to the beach shack and beeped the horn as he pulled in the driveway—three quick bursts followed by a pause and one more as agreed. Most of his neighbors were either working or gone from the island for the season. A few retirees. If he were lucky, they’d be hard of hearing.
Dane had Acer call Fred Bryant, Sebastian Whitaker’s father-in-law, owner and CEO of Bryant Enterprises, his former client.
“Put him on speaker.”
Acer did and started by warning Bryant about the sniper.
“Are you serious?”
“As death,” Dane said. “We’re sending an investigator, Shana George, to talk to your daughter Fiona. Will she be cooperative?”
There was a pause and then Fred Bryant said in a pained voice, “I only wish I knew. I don’t see her much, but I do send her checks regularly.”
Acer and Dane looked at each other.
“I don’t suppose you know what her current relationship is with her husband? Whether she’s kept in touch?” Dane asked because it had to be done. The man would feel a lot worse if his daughter ended up a victim.
“Yes, she’s kept in touch with that lowlife. I’ll never understand why. I believe she has seen him.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll have to pardon my unprofessional animosity.”
“What makes you think she’s seen him?” Dane ignored the man’s apology. Fred could have all the animosity he wanted as long as he answered the questions straight.
“Because I saw him—only once and that was by accident—driving by the house real slow. I live next door to my daughter.”
Dane looked at Acer and frowned but listened as Fred continued.
“I was coming back from the office and didn’t park in the garage because it was a beautiful day.
He—Sebastian—was driving a rental car. I called security from the company and had them send someone over to the house after that, but luckily it’s been a boring job for the guy since then.
I have pretty good security at the house—at both our houses. Whether Fiona likes it or not.”
Dane looked at Acer. Acer nodded.
“I installed it years ago. But it should still be okay,” Acer said.
Dane said, “Keep it armed at all times. Call this number if you see anything. Talk to your daughter. Make her understand how important it is to be cautious.”
“She’s been visiting him. She hasn’t been talking to me and she certainly doesn’t listen to me anymore.” The man snorted. “If ever. At least not since she met Sebastian Whitaker.” The rasp of despair in his voice came through the phone line like a grasping claw.
* * *
Running across the tarmac, Shana headed around the terminal building toward the copter.
She glanced back. There was a crowd of people either boarding a plane or getting off or waiting to greet arriving passengers.
Ducking low as she reached the area covered by the spinning blades, she caught sight of someone really tall and skinny on the periphery of the crowd.
She stared at the man, but couldn’t determine if he was their sniper. It was too far away to tell.
After she took her seat on the copter she thought of calling Dane but it was too loud to talk to him. She figured she’d call him later to have him check it out.
Shana called David first when she got to Boston. She told herself it was for no other reason than that he would have the latest intel on Whitaker. Not that she was reluctant to talk to Dane. Why would she be?
Because it was so goddamn painful to hear the indifference, feigned or not, after they’d spent the night they’d had together. She knew this would happen. She had to deal with it. She would deal with it. But not right this minute.
“I heard from your partner. He’s called ahead to set up your interview with Fiona Whitaker, or at least attempted to.
It appears she’s estranged from her father, Acer’s former client.
You’ll have to call her directly.” David gave her the woman’s number.
“Acer took the liberty of tracking her typical comings and goings and it appears she has a regular beauty salon appointment this morning on Newbury Street at eleven a.m. You can make it there in time if you’re quick. ”
She’d been quick enough to be pulling up to the curb two blocks past the salon at ten past eleven.
She waited a few minutes in the car, looking around for surveillance.
If it weren’t for the fact that the car was an obvious rental, she’d blend right in on this street filled with boutiques and salons.
She spotted a possible fed outpost across the street a few cars down.
A bland sedan with a guy reading a paper.
She’d assume it was FBI until she learned otherwise.
She had her favorite gun, a Century Arms CZ 82 18mm holstered and her Scotland Yard creds in her bag.
Luckily the bag was chic enough for this place.
A slim Chanel bag she’d purchased for the sting operation over the summer barely fit the small gun.
The minute Shana got out of the car and stepped onto the wide sidewalk with no one mirroring her door slam on the other side of the car, she felt alone, without Dane, her partner.
And it didn’t feel good. She felt like she was walking with one shoe off, limping along, not fully protected.
Vulnerable. Get over it, girlie. She’d been without him before and she’d be without him again.
Adjusting her sunglasses, which strictly speaking weren’t necessary this afternoon except for effect, she squared her shoulders and sauntered forward in her best haughty Newbury Street form.
Pushing through the heavy glass and chrome door, she lowered the temperature of her gaze around at the women scattered around either waiting or being waited on or doing the waiting on.
The smell of perfumed chemicals filled her nostrils, but she kept the overpowering smell from affecting her facade.
The oversized chrome reception desk was straight ahead and she glided forward until she stood front and center.
With her sunglasses still in place, she looked over the receptionist’s head around as much of the inside of the salon as she could see from there—which wasn’t much.
“May I help you? Do you have an appointment?” the woman with a black, slicked-back ponytail and too much makeup for daywear asked her.
“I don’t have an appointment, but you can certainly help me.
I’m here to see Fiona Whitaker. I understand she has an appointment at eleven a.m. I was counting on speaking to her about something very important.
” Shana added a conspiratorial tone to her overly confident ice-queen look.
It never failed to make a subject feel privileged to cooperate and do cartwheels to help her.
“What was your name?” The receptionist stared at her from eyes that looked stretched to an uncomfortable slant then added, “You look familiar—do I know you?”
Shana lifted a brow. “I don’t see how you possibly could.
” She paused a beat and furrowed her brow.
“Unless—do you follow surfing? There was the surfing competition on the Vineyard over the summer.” She waved a hand.
Shana didn’t want to give away her cop status and she hated making up fake names on the spot.
The receptionist scrunched her eyes as if she needed glasses but refused to wear them. “I don’t think that’s it. It’s your accent—”
“Were you going to show me in to speak with Fiona Whitaker?” Shana prompted.
The receptionist popped up from her chair. “Follow me. She’s finished with her shampoo by now.” She crooked her hand and stood.
“Good onya,” Shana said. She thought she saw a faint crease, where laugh lines had been stretched to oblivion, that could have been a smile from the receptionist.
They walked past the reception area and through the main salon, four heels clicking on what looked to Shana’s untrained eye like marble tile. She’d give one of her brothers for a marble tile floor. A picture of Dane’s scuffed wood kitchen floor popped into her head. She banished it immediately.
Ms. Receptionist stopped, pivoted and stretched out a buffed red-polish-tipped hand indicating a woman sitting in a salon chair with wet mid-length hair in a reddish shade of brown.