High-Risk Investigation

TWO

Scout woke up sick to her stomach. Her skin was clammy, her heart racing as though she’d just finished a marathon. Invisible hands tightened around her throat, constricting her ability to breathe. Salt rimmed her skin where she’d sweated through her nightshirt.

Gently, she massaged her neck, trying to loosen the bands that were closing in with every second and prevent an attack that would leave her gasping for air. The effort to breathe had turned her mouth cottony, and she swallowed in a vain attempt to rid herself of the dryness.

She’d thrashed through the night, unable to suck in sufficient air, gasping hoarsely as she fought off unseen assailants. In the end, the bad guys won.

They always did.

Not last night, she thought. The good guys, in the form of one very appealing man, had saved the day. Nicco Santonni. She tasted the words on her lips, found them intriguing and surprisingly sweet.

Enough. She had a job to do, one which didn’t include mooning over last night’s rescuer, no matter how ruggedly handsome he was.

Not even the memory of the good-looking man, however, could banish the aftereffects of the nightmare, including the sensation that she was choking. She swallowed harshly in an attempt to combat it.

It had been a month since she’d had the nightmare but it had returned last night. With a vengeance. Bitter bile rose in her throat. She willed it down.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

She repeated the breathing exercises, slowly inhaling and exhaling, until she could feel the terrifying panic subside. You’re okay. Her therapist’s voice slid into her mind.

I’m okay. She repeated the words until she started to believe them.

Scout turned to her side where she could gaze at the picture of her parents and herself on the day of her graduation from college. We were all so happy. Four years after the picture had been taken, her world had shattered into pieces and she was left alone.

The memory of the night her parents had been murdered a scant year ago pierced her heart, a lethally-tipped arrow that never failed to hit its mark. Someday, maybe, the pain would lessen, but it remained as poisonous as ever. She squeezed back tears of frustration and anger.

When was she going to be able to put the attack behind her, those toxic reminders that she wasn’t normal? They had burrowed under her skin and into her heart with a tenacity that wouldn’t be shaken. She’d dealt with them before. She’d do it again, but, oh, how she wished she didn’t have to.

Prayer was her first and best defense. Lord, I need Your help. I can’t do it on my own. I know that You and You alone have the power to heal me. I give myself into Your hands.

Within seconds, His love washed over her, and the panic slowly edged away. The Lord had not yet banished the nightmares, but He had given her the precious gift of peace when the memories threatened to overwhelm her.

Gratitude for His goodness filled her, replacing the pain with an acceptance that He worked on His timetable, not hers. Impatient by nature, she needed the occasional reminder of His eternal plan and His wisdom.

When the worst of the nausea was under control, she started to get up. Stopped. Big mistake.

She hurt all over. Being thrown to the floor by a drop-dead-gorgeous man may make for good fiction, but the reality was less fun than what romance novels made it out to be. Maybe the pain would take her mind off the nightmare and the memories it had engendered.

She took a minute, another, before trying to move again. Cautiously, she pushed herself into a sitting position, paused, lifted one leg over the side of the bed, then the other.

When the room stopped spinning, she stood. Assessed. So far, so good. Every fiber of her body ached, but at least she was moving. Sort of. She hobbled to the full-length mirror attached to the back of her bedroom door and surveyed herself.

Her second mistake of the morning.

Bruises bloomed along her shoulders and arms. Angry red now, they’d soon turn blue and purple, then a sickly green and finally a putrid yellow. It could have been worse. She could have a bullet lodged in her shoulder. Or her heart.

Thanks to the quick actions of Nicco Santonni, she was in one piece. More or less.

Her sense of humor got a toehold, nudging a smile out of hiding. Maybe she’d put in for medical leave. At least it would get her out of covering the month of events leading up to the huge ball where Patrice Newtown, the undisputed queen of Savannah society, would present the mayor with a check large enough to build a new shelter for the city’s homeless.

For reasons of her own, Newtown had requested that Scout be assigned to cover a bunch of boring social events. The order had come from the big man himself, Gerald Daniels, the paper’s publisher.

Scout was fighting her way onto the paper’s crime beat one column inch at a time, and, because of a whim of one of the city’s so-called benefactors, she was now relegated once more to the society page. She had as much interest in society doings as she did in learning how to peel an artichoke. Who cared which designer created the dress the mayor’s wife wore to the country club dance or what entrée was served with what wine?

Gingerly, she made her way to the shower, where the hot water temporarily soothed her aches and pains and allowed her to forget, for a few minutes at least, the reason for them. Though she normally skipped makeup, she applied a light dusting of blush and mascara and dabbed concealer beneath her eyes. A critical look at herself in the mirror confirmed what she already knew. She couldn’t erase the shadows under her eyes or the tiny tension lines that bracketed her mouth.

She braced her hands on the bathroom counter, then dropped her gaze to her splayed fingers, staring at them as though they held the secrets to all the world’s questions, but there were no answers there. Within a half hour, she was dressed and out the door, albeit at a slower pace than normal.

After graduating from college and starting at the paper, she promised herself she’d search for the truth. Finding that truth, wherever it lay, had been her compass for the last five years. That quest had taken on special significance with the murder of her parents a year ago. She’d vowed then to find the truth behind the murders and bring down those responsible.

At the office, she did a fast read of her emails, deleted most of them and prepared to write the piece on last night’s gala while the events were still fresh in her mind. Not the warm-fuzzy piece Newtown had probably expected, but, hey, publicity was publicity. Then she planned on tracking down Leonard Crane.

She tuned out the chatter of computers, the good-natured ribbing that went on between colleagues, and the constant grumbling about the swill that passed for coffee and concentrated on writing the piece. An hour later, she read it, decided it would do and pushed the Send key.

“McAdams, special delivery.” The office gofer handed her a large envelope with no return address. Cold brushed the back of her neck as she noted that it was identical to the other letters.

“Thanks.” Scout signed for it, slit open the envelope and looked at the message composed with words cut from a magazine and pasted on a sheet of cheap paper. Another threat. Okay. She’d dealt with threats ever since she’d earned her first byline in the paper’s city section.

This was no different.

She read the words aloud, testing them. “Mind your own business. Or we’ll mind it for you.” She pinched her lips together even as she shook her head, as though the slight movement would dispel the unwanted picture the letter etched in her mind.

Scout prided herself on her independence and self-reliance, but right now she wished she had someone to stand with her.

She’d thought she’d found that with her ex-fiancé, Bradley Middleton, but, after wooing her and even asking her to marry him, he’d left her. The experience had soured her on men for the moment. Maybe forever.

Forget Bradley and concentrate on the letter. Only, she didn’t want to think about the letters she’d received over the last month. She had never been one to stick her head in the sand, so why was she doing just that with the letters that were coming with increasing regularity? Nothing she’d done lately was like her, including wasting time thinking about Nicco Santonni.

Now that she wasn’t so shaken from nearly getting killed, she’d put it together. Nicco Santonni. Brother to Sal Santonni, her best friend Olivia’s husband.

It didn’t take much to call up a picture of her rescuer in her mind. Inky black hair a little too long for current fashion, ebony eyes hooded beneath slashing brows and sharply angled cheekbones made for an arresting face. Add to that a body that looked like it was forged from steel and you had a man whom any woman would stop and give a second...or third glance to.

She forced her thoughts away from the handsome Nicco Santonni to her self-imposed mission. Digging into union murders meant investigating the unions themselves. When her mother had begun research for her exposé of Savannah’s labor unions, she’d told Scout that graft was most often the cause of murder in unions. Ironically, that same research had resulted in the murder of both of Scout’s parents.

Six weeks ago, Scout had started going through her parents’ papers. She should have done it months earlier, but after her release from the hospital, she’d been too bogged down in grief and pain to look through their belongings. She’d started with her father’s notes for the university physics classes he taught. The clutter triggered a memory of his self-deprecatory comparison to Disney’s absentminded professor. He was a brilliant lecturer but chronically disorganized in his paperwork.

With a sigh, she’d turned her attention to her mother’s research for her latest true-crime book. It was among those notes that Scout had found information about Leonard Crane and her mother’s belief that he was involved with union murders.

For the last six weeks, Scout had been digging for proof behind her mother’s suspicions. Not for the first time, she wished she had plunged into the investigation earlier.

She’d healed from her bullet wound far more quickly than she had the crippling pain of acknowledging that her parents had been taken from her through a hideous act of violence. After leaving the hospital, she’d wandered around in a daze for months. It was only recently that she’d been able to set aside her grief to fix her attention on finding the truth.

She wadded the paper into a ball and then executed a perfect three-pointer into the trash can. Upon reflection, she stood, walked to the trash can, and retrieved the paper.

Why had this threat turned her into a Nervous Nellie? Scout forced a laugh over her uncharacteristic fears. That wasn’t who she was.

Her hometown was a beautiful city, steeped in history and tradition, but it wasn’t without its faults. She had seen firsthand the ugliness that lay beneath the beauty, the violence that destroyed lives and occasionally even took them.

The crumpled paper in her hand yanked her back to the present.

Meticulously, she smoothed the creases from the paper, and glanced at the message once more. Scout didn’t intend on giving up her investigation. Some accused her of being stubborn. She preferred to see it as determination, the same determination that had fueled her ambition to expose the dark secrets of the city since the night she’d lost her parents.

The aftereffects of the nightmare dogged her throughout the day, following her around like a shadow. Much as she tried to shake the feelings, they clung to her like a burr.

After prayer, work was her antidote against the pain.

When her cell phone chirped, she glanced at the number, saw it was blocked. More than once she’d received blocked calls which had ended up giving her valuable information. She picked it up, heard a mechanically altered voice.

“If you want to get the goods on Crane, be at the docks at three fifteen.” The voice went on to give directions as to where she should stand if she wanted to see Crane taking a bribe.

Common sense told her to ignore the tip, which could be a setup, but she couldn’t. She wished she had someone who’d go with her, and her thoughts took her back to Nicco Santonni.

Unwillingly, she acknowledged that he had stirred something in her, an attraction she hadn’t felt in too long, not since her fiancé, a reporter at a local TV station, had dumped her.

Impatient with herself, she pushed Bradley out of her thoughts. She’d already wasted enough time and tears on him. She had more important things to think about.

Like who wanted her dead.

* * *

A relief agent had taken over the detail last night when Scout McAdams had left the ballroom. Though Nicco was primary in the protection unit, no one operative could effectively guard a client twenty-four seven. Usually operatives worked in threes, eight hours on, sixteen off. Because Olivia had asked for Nicco specifically, he’d opted for twelve-hour shifts.

He’d clocked seven hours sack time and had spent the other five finishing the paperwork for which his boss and friend Shelley Judd was a stickler.

“Trying to get on my good side?” Shelley asked when he turned in the expense report she’d been nagging him about for the last two days.

Since S&J had opened an office in Savannah last year, Shelley spent a couple of days there every month. With the arrival of baby Chloe, Shelley didn’t get out in the field as often as she’d like, but she still knew every operation and every assignment.

Nicco smiled at the picture of his hard-hitting boss in her role as mother. Shelley Rabb Judd and brother Jake Rabb, co-founders of S&J, had never known a loving mother’s care. Nicco knew she gave her child everything she’d been denied, most of all love.

The once efficiently streamlined office now resembled a nursery with a bassinet and other baby items spilling over the space. Six-month-old Chloe had definitely made her appearance known.

“Always.” He bent to brush a kiss over the downy hair of the baby nestled at Shelley’s shoulder. “Motherhood suits you.”

Dimples peeked out in her pixie face. “I’m operating on three hours’ sleep. My shirt has spit-up on it. I haven’t had a decent haircut or a manicure since before Chloe was born. And I couldn’t be happier.”

“I’m glad. For you and for Caleb.”

Shelley and ex-Delta Caleb Judd had endured more than their share of hardship, but they had come out the other side stronger and more in love than ever. Nicco knew a moment of envy for what they shared.

“Thanks. When it happens for you, you’ll think you’ve been hit by a semi and then you’ll wonder how you lived without that special someone in your life for as long as you did.”

Nicco summoned a smile he was far from feeling. He’d already met the special someone Shelley spoke of and she’d died. Happily-ever-after wasn’t in the future for him. Not any longer.

Unwilling to prolong that topic, he turned the subject to his current assignment. As Shelley was friends with Scout, he knew his boss would have a special interest in the job. He filled her in on the little he knew so far.

“I know Scout’s in good hands,” Shelley said. “I also know she won’t make it easy for you to protect her.”

“I’ll make it work.”

“You always do.”

“Got to go.” He pecked Shelley’s cheek.

He had just enough time for a visit to the police station before he was back on duty. At the station, he asked for Detective Wagner and was directed to a cubbyhole of an office.

Upon seeing Nicco, Wagner stood, held out his hand. “Santonni.”

The men shook hands briefly.

“I stopped by to see if you’d learned anything from the weapon from last night,” Nicco said.

“Not from the weapon itself, but ballistics traced the trajectory of the shot and found that it was sighted on Ms. McAdams. If you hadn’t pushed her to the floor...” The detective let the rest of the sentence go unfinished.

They spent a few more minutes kicking around theories before Nicco checked his watch. He had to be back on duty in less than thirty minutes. “Thanks. If you find out anything, I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“Same goes.”

He met another S&J operative outside Scout’s office for the handoff. The agent looked over Nicco’s shoulder. “She’s heading this way.”

Scout paused, lifting her head as though sensing something. Fortunately, Nicco knew how to blend in with a crowd, and she didn’t make him.

He’d seen Scout McAdams in a dark pantsuit when he’d followed her to the courthouse where she’d gone to cover a story two days ago. Last night, he’d seen her in an evening gown. But this was the first time he’d seen her in jeans and a white T-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

She looked smaller, somehow, and younger. More fragile. He doubted she’d appreciate the description. Everything he’d learned about the reporter told him that she was independent to a fault and prided herself on being able to handle anything.

Look at how she’d reacted last night: she hadn’t fallen apart when shot at, and, in fact, had tried to comfort others. The lady was pure steel, but that didn’t mean she was invincible. He settled down to the routine of making himself invisible.

The trick was to not try too hard. Fortunately, Nicco had had years of experience blending into the background, first in the mountain villages of Afghanistan for the Rangers, and now in the far more civilized streets of his hometown.

He’d protect her, whether she knew it or not.

* * *

She was being followed.

Scout felt it as surely as she felt the early afternoon sun warm the back of her neck. She didn’t turn around to see who was tailing her. Instead of heading directly to her car as she’d intended, she walked to a coffee shop, deliberately taking her time. Every few minutes, she paused, pretending to gaze into a window. No one jumped into a doorway or suddenly pulled out a newspaper to cover his face.

At the coffee shop, she ordered her coffee, black. Fancy coffee drinks baffled her. If all you wanted was a shot of sugar, there were easier—and cheaper—ways to get it. She nursed the coffee as she made her way to her car. After she climbed inside, she took advantage of adjusting her rearview mirror to scan the sidewalk behind her.

Had she imagined it? She couldn’t detect anyone tailing her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was under surveillance.

She was new to the cloak-and-dagger business. Okay. Play it cool. She kept an eye out as she drove to the docks. Either her tail was really good, or he’d peeled off.

At the docks, she parked her car and walked to the spot the caller had told her was the best vantage point to witness the goings-on of the dock in question. A quick glance around told her that she was not alone. She glanced up at workmen on scaffolding above her hiding spot as they struggled to balance a replacement panel to a warehouse that looked like it should have been condemned during the Carter administration.

The clanging of steel beams grated along her nerves; the smell—a brew of garbage and fish—had her taking shallow breaths through her mouth.

Scout remained where she was and hoped the men didn’t spot her. The grumbling and muttering coming from them told her they were fully occupied with their task and not at all concerned with her.

Still, she didn’t like the vibe she was getting. An anonymous call that Leonard Crane would be at a certain dock receiving a payoff was too good to pass up.

The docks were controlled by the mob. Organized crime had its hand in everything that passed in and out of Savannah’s port, one of the busiest in the United States. No one moved anything without it being approved by the mob bosses.

City fathers made noises about cleaning up the docks and surrounding area. Speeches were given. Raids were staged. And nothing changed. Those in charge maintained that they had done everything possible to end the corruption. And those who had their nose to the street, as Scout did, knew differently. The mob had infiltrated every area of government, from the mayor’s office to the police, making any effort to wipe out the corruption impossible.

Crane didn’t arrive at the time she’d been given. She wasn’t surprised. If he was connected to the murders, he’d be understandably cautious. The pep talk delivered, she should have felt better, but the uneasiness persisted.

The hair at the nape of her neck hackled. Warily, she looked about but didn’t see anything to cause the sensation. Despite that, she couldn’t shake the inkling of danger. Over the years, she’d learned to pay attention to such impressions.

The clank of metal against metal ratcheted up the tension building inside her as though she had a crank attached to her, tightening every nerve notch by notch.

Crane and another man showed up at that moment. From their angry gestures, they appeared to be arguing.

Abruptly, the men stopped talking and now seemed to be waiting. If she could only get closer...but she didn’t want to give away her location. A big part of a reporter’s work involved waiting and watching. In many ways, it was like a cop’s job. She had friends on the force who reported that boredom was often more deadly than any threat of gunfire.

A rumbling sound alerted her. Before she could move, muscular arms pushed her aside, and a large body fell on top of her, shielding her.

The scaffolding she’d noted earlier tumbled to the ground. If she’d been where she was only a moment ago, she’d have been crushed beneath its weight. Shock rendered her unable to function. Her mouth went dry, her limbs stiff. She couldn’t make her legs work.

Strong hands reached down to pull her to her feet. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Nicco Santonni. “You saved my life. Again.”

THREE

Nicco called the police and asked for Wagner, though he didn’t expect the detective to find anything more than he had.

Within ten minutes, Wagner showed up. After examining the scene, he shook his head. “You were right. Nothing to indicate it was anything but an accident. But you don’t think so.” He didn’t make it a question, and Nicco didn’t treat it as such.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said. “First, she’s targeted last night, then a pile of scaffolding barely misses her today. You do the math.”

“I get what you’re saying, but there’s no proof that today was anything more than an accident.” Wagner held up a hand to forestall Nicco’s objections. He turned to Scout. “What do you have to say about it, Ms. McAdams?”

“I...I don’t know.” Her eyes remained cool, her expression neutral, but Nicco noted the clenching and unclenching of her hands. Fear always found an outlet, as did adrenaline.

He felt it coursing through his bloodstream as well, his heartbeat at double-time as he processed the near miss.

“What were you doing here?” Wagner asked.

“I received a tip.”

“Care to share?”

She shook her head. “Reporter’s privilege.”

Wagner scowled but didn’t press the matter. “If you—either of you—think of anything, you know where to find me.” After slanting one last glance at Scout, he took off.

Nicco was more concerned about Scout than he’d let on. Though the day was unseasonably hot, even for a Georgia summer, she shivered. Reaction. The lady had nearly been reduced to a bug-splat on the ground beneath thousands of pounds of processed wood and metal. That came on the heels of last night’s shooting. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She brushed herself off. He watched as she pulled herself together, her shoulders squaring as though bracing for another blow. “Did you tail me here?”