Of course, the promotion to SAC was secondary, but he’d never let Gagliardi know that. He’d never let anyone know that.
“All right, sir,” he said as he reached a deserted area of the lot, not far from where he’d parked. “How can I help you?”
“We’re on a conference call, Mr. Lang,” he said, which explained the “Mr. Lang.” “Let me introduce to you Special Agent Thomas Tuttle.”
The first twinge of worry started. Why would there be two guys calling about a job offer?
“Hello, Special Agent Tuttle,” he said automatically, keeping the question out of his voice.
“Tom’s currently heading a task force investigating the deaths of two actresses and the possibility of a serial killer targeting Oscar-winning movie stars.”
Something inside him slipped, disappointment wending down to his gut. The hope that this was a call regarding a promotion to the L.A. office faded, replaced by the memory of his conversation with Vivi about the so-called Red Carpet Killer.
Why were they calling him? Had something happened to Vivi? A knot formed in his gut as he answered. “I’m vaguely familiar with the task force, sir,” he said.
“Well, you’re about to get a hell of a lot more familiar with it, since tonight’s winner is going to land in your jurisdiction on Tuesday morning.”
He frowned into the phone. “Tonight’s winner?” The Oscars would be awarded later that evening—even a casual observer like Colt knew that. The knot grew tighter. If Gagliardi knew the winner already, there was a damn good reason why. “There’s evidence to suggest the first two deaths were linked?” he asked.
“There is,” he said. “I’ll let Tom tell you the details before we brief you on the responsibilities regarding this case.”
It was a case now, not speculation, not a task force. And, damn, he hadn’t heard a word from Vivi other than superficial texts all week.
“My forensic specialists have uncovered a connection between two pieces of evidence that the LAPD investigators missed when they analyzed the crime scenes,” Agent Tuttle said, the slightest tone of wry condescension in his voice. Of course the LAPD screwed up. Of course the FBI fixed it. “Human hair not belonging to either victim was found at both crime scenes. Most likely from a wig or hair extensions.”
Interesting, except for the fact that every actress in Hollywood wore fake hair. Still, Colt listened as Tuttle continued.
“A long brown hair was found in Adrienne Dwight’s wrecked car, not matching her DNA or the DNA of any friends, staffers, or co-workers who had reportedly been in her car. Final analysis showed that the hair had come from a wig or extensions, which, considering her occupation, isn’t a surprise. One year later, another human hair from a wig, a different color, was also found near the body of Isobel DeSoto.”
“The consensus by the LAPD was that both these women constantly changed wigs and had hair extensions,” Gagliardi chimed in. “And they were around people who did the same. And after reading the evidence, I can see why hairs that didn’t match the victim didn’t generate more attention in the LAPD. But our lab guys discovered two very interesting things.”
“Very interesting,” Tom noted. “Both human hairs, which, by the way, are commonly used for wigs and extensions, had been affixed using a protein called keratin. First, super-expensive star-quality extensions don’t use keratin; there are better glues. Second, Isobel DeSoto was allergic to keratin, so the wig or extension the hair came from definitely wasn’t hers.”
He followed what they were establishing: The same type of hair extension, if not the same person, might have been present at both scenes. “Still not a stretch in Hollywood, the land of hair extensions,” Colt said. “Could be from anyone who’d visited one of the victims or ridden in the car of the other or worked at a car wash, for that matter.”
“True, but these two hairs were coated in an unusual phenol formaldehyde glue that is used only on wigs from India.”
Big country. Big wig industry, too. “The only way it matters is if you can prove the two hairs at two different crime scenes may have come from the same person wearing the same wig,” Lang said.
“Or two different wigs both purchased from the same, rather obscure, Indian manufacturer,” Gagliardi replied. “We don’t have this confirmed yet, but we believe it’s possible that both wigs were made by the same company, one of the few still using this glue with a certain dye combination. We’re analyzing the dye, which might tell us a lot, including the manufacturer. If we get that, we’re sending someone to India for access to the sales files.”
“Until then?” he asked.
“We have a Best Actress winner to protect,” Tuttle said.
Vivi’s face flashed in his head, not an unusual occurrence. Except that this time she was posing as a movie star.
“The accounting firm tallying the Oscar votes released the winner’s name to the task force. So we know who is going to win, and where she’s going to be for the next month. It appears she’s headed to her place on Nantucket Island, and we want an agent with her twenty-four/seven, on alert for anything out of the ordinary.”
What was ordinary where a movie star was concerned? At least he hoped it was a movie star, and not—
No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Oh, hell, she might.
Wait, he didn’t know the name of the winner yet. They could be talking about Kimberly Horne or Colleen True or—he couldn’t remember any other names except Cara Ferrari. If someone else won, Vivi’s involvement would be a moot point.
“Who’s the lucky girl?” Praying to hear any name other than—
“Cara Ferrari.”
Damn. A bad, bad feeling crawled up his spine. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “But she doesn’t know, so all five of them had to give us an itinerary of where they were planning to spend the next several weeks. She’s going to be in your backyard.”
Well, in Nantucket, off the coast of Cape Cod. Not exactly downtown Boston, but still within his jurisdiction. “So the actresses believe the serial-killer theory?” he asked.
“Who knows what they believe. Four of them were cooperative when told about the new evidence,” Tom told him. “Unfortunately, the least cooperative is Ferrari, who insists she has private security that far exceeds the capabilities of the FBI and doesn’t want any agents on site.”
It couldn’t be the Guardian Angelinos. Surely an actress like Cara Ferrari would demand the largest, most well-established private security firm in the world. Why would she go with a scrappy skater who had no experience and a harebrained idea to be a decoy based on a vague resemblance?
He wanted to relax, and would have if he didn’t know Vivi Angelino, human tornado.
“Colt, I want the best there is in the Boston office on this,” Gagliardi said. “And, frankly, after our conversations and my review of your files and records, I think that’s you.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wanted Gagliardi to think he was the best, but not because he wanted a job babysitting a movie star—or her body double.
“And, to be perfectly honest, this is a high-profile situation, with a lot of media breathing down our neck. If something happens to her and the FBI isn’t at least visible on site, we’ll get hammered in the press. I’d like to consider it a final test, if you know what I mean. A job in L.A. means enormous work in the media spotlight. I’d like to see how you handle this.”
Son of a bitch. This was part of his job interview. “I understand, sir.” But that knot in his gut was growing into a bowling ball of worry. The job could get extremely complicated if…“What security firm is Ms. Ferrari using?”
“She won’t say,” Tuttle said. “Called it a potential leak for us to know. Claimed her nondisclosures are airtight and she doesn’t have to tell us anything. I hate to tell you, she’s a classic diva bitch.”
When, exactly, was the last time he heard from Vivi?
“You can handle that, Colt,” Gagliardi said with a subtle laugh. “It’l
l be a good opportunity for you to learn the mind-set of the women in L.A. You’ll need that information when you get out here. Assuming, of course, you get the job.”
Dangle a carrot much? “I understand,” he repeated. “Let me clear my calendar and straighten up my case files and arrange to get to Nantucket.”
“Oh, we’ll get you to Nantucket,” Gagliardi assured him. “That’s part of the whole operation. Your travel arrangements will be e-mailed shortly.”
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for the vote of confidence.” However qualified it might be.
“I’m happy you’re there to handle this,” Gagliardi said. “And grateful for the chance to see you in action.”
In other words, Screw up and you lose the promotion.
“Although once you’re an SAC, you can happily kiss the field good-bye,” Gagliardi added.
“I know that.” He didn’t really want to kiss the field good-bye; he wanted to kiss Boston good-bye. And now he had one last test before he could do that. One that damn well better not involve Vivi Angelino. “Thank you, sir.”
As soon as he signed off, he scrolled through his phone to find the thread of texts from Vivi. The last one was on Thursday, and then it was just to answer a quick question, her response vague—and distant.
If she got the job with Ferrari, wouldn’t she have told him, even just to gloat?
He touched her name and typed: Where are you? Need to talk to you. He obviously couldn’t tell her that Cara Ferrari would win tonight, but he had to know where she was.
While he waited for a response he looked out over the rolling hills at the Sunday golfers, expecting some sort of memory jab of Jennifer in khaki golf pants and a pink button-down.
But all he could visualize right then was Vivi, with her funky hair and vibrant features, her body-skimming unisex tops and her weird checkered sneakers. Skateboarding, not golfing.
It would take some expertise to turn her into a movie star.
He could hear her voice. “C’mon, Lang, it’s the oldest form of security in the world…. Bait the killer with a decoy….”
The vibration of his cell phone jerked him out of the thought he didn’t want to have anyway.
Did you need me for something, Agent Colton Cautious Lang?
Yeah, hell if he’d ever admit it to her. But right now, he needed her to tell him exactly where she was, without giving away the confidential information he had. No easy task with her investigator’s nose for anything suspicious.
Just want to be sure you’re not doing anything you shouldn’t be doing, he wrote. He avoided adding anything like trading places with Cara Ferrari.
Waiting for her response, he strolled in the direction of the golf course, but only to tell his golfing buddies that an emergency case had come up and he’d have to take a rain check on the game.
They weren’t happy. But not as unhappy as he was every time he checked his phone for an answer or sent another What are you doing? text to Vivi.
Finally, the phone vibrated.
Just doing what I always do on a Sunday, Lang. What are you doing?
What did she always do on a Sunday? Skateboarded in a park and went out to Sudbury to her family’s house for dinner.
Golfing, he wrote.
Oooh. Super fun!
He laughed, imagining the tease in her tone, the light in her eyes. What if she took some crazy risk and someone snuffed that light out? An old familiar band tightened a little around his chest. Stuff like that happened. To women with less of a wild streak than Vivi.
Still, it was too early to tell her anything and if he pushed, she’d guess. She was so smart. And capable. And cute, damn it.
He wrote: You watching the Oscars tonight?
Her response was lightning fast. Of course!
Did you sell that cockamamie idea to the new client? He hit Send with a little too much force, like he could make her answer. With a resounding “No.”
Cockamamie!
What the hell did that mean? Before he asked, she wrote again.
Gotta run, Lang. Nice to know you miss me. See you soon.
Maybe, he typed, then deleted the word. He had a better plan.
CHAPTER 3
I have to tell you something, Vivi.” Cara Ferrari leaned across the open space of the limousine, the fiber-optic light casting a blue glow on her pale skin.
“What is it?”
“I’m scared.” Her voice cracked with admission as she closed eyes unadorned by anything but purple circles of sleeplessness, magnified because her long hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail.
She’d been silent since they’d climbed into the limo together in the garage of Cara’s Brentwood home. A second limo followed, carrying the rest of the entourage. That included Bridget, the stylist who’d taken such great pains to turn Vivi into a carbon copy of Cara Ferrari; Marissa, the assistant; and a publicist named Leon who followed Cara everywhere. A third vehicle was full of bodyguards.
Only Joellen Mugg joined Vivi and Cara in the limousine, the quintessential hanger-on sister who, as Bridget had warned, seemed to spend the days and nights in a constant state of pretty much toasted. She appeared to be languishing there now, curled into a corner with earbuds in place, an iPod in her hand, eyes closed. She still used the less glamorous last name the two of them had been born with, and she still called Cara by her birth name, Karen.
They looked nothing alike, but Joellen used every opportunity to say the words “my sister” when talking about Cara. But mostly she hid behind a bottle and an iPod, and Vivi had tried to avoid her as much as possible.
“Don’t be scared,” Vivi replied to Cara’s admission. “We have a plan, and it’s a good one. You’re safe.”
Cara looked doubtful, more vulnerable than Vivi had seen her in the past week. “What about you?”
“I’m a professional,” Vivi said. “We’ll be sealed up in Nantucket, making just enough appearances for the paps to believe it’s you.”
“What if the… killer shows up?”
She sincerely doubted one would, but for a million smackeroos, she wanted Cara to believe she was getting her money’s worth. “We’ll catch him,” Vivi assured her with a smile.
“About our plan…” Cara said, one hand on Stella, who flattened her length against Cara’s thigh and rested her snout on her lap. Her other hand still held the gold statuette. It had to be hot from almost twenty-four hours of nonstop handling. Cara had yet to put that sucker down since it had been handed to her onstage.
“What about the plan?” Vivi asked.
“I’m changing it.”
Vivi remained still, despite the full-body discomfort caused by the extensions pricking at her hair, the false eyelashes pinching her lids, the stilettos squashing her toes, and, now, the sixth sense that she wasn’t going to like this change in plans.
The plan called for Vivi’s trial run as Cara to be the most difficult test of all: getting through the gauntlet of paparazzi and fans, encircled by bodyguards and the pack of people in the other car. Cara would blend in as just another in the group, while all eyes would be on Vivi, still dressed in the last outfit Cara had worn for interviews, including a hat worn in the movie, complete with netting covering her face. And, of course, she’d be waving the Oscar for all the world to see.
Then they’d all fly to Nantucket together on a Gulfstream G650, a brand-new private jet Cara had rented for an entire month. After landing on the island, Cara would take some of her entourage to a safe house that the Guardian Angelinos had already found and rented, while others would stay with Vivi to ensure the trick worked.
“There’s nothing wrong with our plan,” Vivi said. “You’re just nervous.”
Cara looked out the window as they pulled into the traffic of the Burbank airport. “Damn right I am. One of the people in that pack of paps could be him. Bullets could fly.”
“You’ll be well protected in the middle of the circle, and it’s not far from the VIP limo parking to t
he private planes. I’ve checked all this already, here and in Nantucket.” Vivi leaned forward and Stella snarled. “Trust me, Cara. We can do this.”
Cara shook her head, her eyes filling. “I’m scared.”
“You’ve been out all day doing interviews. That didn’t scare you.”
“All in protected environments.” She nestled next to the dog. “I’m not getting out of this limo.”
Vivi leaned back, practically tasting the other woman’s fear. She knew fear, knew the desire to hide from a threat. “Fine. We’ll stay in L.A. This same plan can work from your house in Brentwood. There’s no reason for you to fly to Nantucket. You can change your mind and go home right now.”
“No, I can’t. But I’m not going to Nantucket.”
“Then we’ll—”
“You are.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“I need to know where you are.”
“Why?” Cara shot back. “You actually don’t need to know. It’s safer that way.”
Safer for Cara? Maybe, maybe not. Vivi should know where her client is at all times. “Look, you have to trust me. I need to know where you are.”
“You’ll have Marissa’s number.” She held out the Oscar to Vivi. “When you get to Nantucket, give this to Mercedes. She’s my housekeeper. She knows you’re coming in my place.”
Vivi took the Oscar; she didn’t like this plan. Cara was supposed to be close by, not at some undisclosed location. “The Guardian Angelinos have arranged a completely safe place for you to stay,” Vivi said.
“Of course you have to take Stella.”
She hadn’t even heard Vivi. Instead, Cara’s focus was on the dog as she closed her hand around Stella’s belly, lifting the tiny body and kissing her head. “Be careful not to let her run too much. She was the runt of the litter, born with a funky foot. Weren’t you, baby?” She cradled the dog’s left front paw. “But you’re perfect to me. You be a good girl, little one. I’ll get you back soon.”
Face of Danger Page 4