“Phil—the owner—likes to keep it under wraps. He always says that if it caught on, he’d be busier than he wants.”
“He’s right.” She took another bite and sighed her pleasure.
“How’d you come to be named Scout?”
“My mother taught English at the university before she left to start writing. She did her dissertation on Harper Lee.”
“Got it. You’re named after the little girl in To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Right. Daddy wanted me to go by my grandmother’s name—Rachel—but Scout stuck.”
“It fits.”
She felt Nicco’s gaze on her, evaluating, like he was trying to decide whether or not to ask her something. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?”
She hesitated. Sharing a story before she had all the facts was trouble. More, it smacked of unprofessionalism.
“I’m not out to scoop you.”
“As if.” Scout did some evaluating of her own. Could she trust him? She’d honed her people-reading skills over the last years, gauging motives and intent by paying attention to body language, facial expressions, and a host of other tells.
Frustration hardened the bodyguard’s sun-weathered face, but she didn’t detect any hint of deceit in him. His gaze met hers straight on with the precision of a laser. Nicco Santonni might try to steamroll over her, but he wouldn’t lie.
When the last fry was consumed and the chocolate shake and cookies only a memory, she gestured to a trash can that was only a few feet away. “You wanted to know why someone’s trying to kill me.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“It has to do with that.”
He followed her gaze. “Trash?”
“Trash. Or, if you want to be more precise, garbage.”
Twin furrows creased his brow before he nodded in understanding. “The garbage/sanitation industry. That’s why you were trying to get to Crane last night.”
“Nailed it. Crane’s a big name in the unions and I’m investigating union murders.” Honesty forced her to add, “Unofficially.”
“If it’s unofficial, why don’t you drop it? Whoever tried to kill you is playing for keeps.”
“So am I.” She swallowed back frustration at having someone tell her to drop the investigation. “Crane’s as slippery as they come. So far he’s blocked every effort I’ve made to talk with him.” She brought her fingers together, leaving only a tiny space between them. “I was this close last night to talking with him when...”
“Someone decided to use you for target practice.”
“Yeah. That. Thanks for the meal.” She stood. “If you don’t mind, I need to get my car and head back to work.”
“Sure.”
He helped her into the truck. At his touch, a zing of awareness raced through her.
Scout turned to him as he steered the truck back to the docks. Pulses of energy flared between the two of them as their gazes connected, jangling her senses. “Seriously, thank you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“Seriously, you’re welcome.”
Like most reporters, she was a quick study when it came to people. Nicco Santonni appealed to her on a gut-deep level, making her think of toughness and staying power. She made a decision. “If you have time, maybe you can follow me back to the office. There’s something I want to show you.”
* * *
At her office, Nicco read the letter, then reread it. His lips tightened with every word. No doubt about it, the lady was being threatened. He had no use for those who hid behind the cloak of anonymity. Cowards, the lot of them. “The creep went old school,” he said, gesturing to the words cut out from a magazine. “Cute.”
“Real cute.”
The hum of computers, the bustle of bodies on the move, and the scrape of chairs sliding across the linoleum floor filled the oversize room. Overlaying it was a sense of urgency, fed by caffeine and adrenaline. The atmosphere was one of purpose.
A television reporter had been embedded in Nicco’s last unit in Afghanistan. Against his better judgment, he’d fallen for her. In a big way. It had been a time of whispered exchanges, soft laughter, stolen kisses. They’d begun talking about the future. A home. Children. When an IED had exploded, killing her and two of his men, he’d nearly gone crazy with grief, blaming himself for failing to keep her safe. Shortly after that, he’d resigned his commission. How could he trust himself when he’d allowed the woman he loved to be killed?
Forcibly, he dragged his thoughts from the past. Scout had nothing to do with the incident that had cost the woman he’d loved her life. With that in mind, he turned his attention to how he could help. “Tell me about the other letters.”
“They weren’t bad,” she said, the reluctance in her tone telling him that there was more to come. “At least, not at first. More like a bully’s taunts.”
“Let me guess. They got worse.”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“How many more?”
“Five.” The reluctance grew more pronounced. She dug through a drawer and pulled out the other letters. Her hand shook as she gave them to him. Her flush revealed her embarrassment at the betraying tremor.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed. “You’re right to be scared. You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”
She thrust out her chin. “I’m not scared. And I don’t run.” Her chin hitched another notch, the defiant gesture drawing his attention to the resolute set of her shoulders, the graceful contour of her neck. From there, his gaze dropped to her small but capable hands, the nails unpolished, the fingers unadorned by rings.
With hair that appeared more red than gold in the daylight, a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles and fair skin, she should have looked delicate, soft even. Instead, there was an intensity to her that caused him to forget that she stood barely over five feet and probably didn’t weigh more than a buck five. The passion in her eyes when she talked about her work made her appear bigger than she was.
“I took this job to make a difference in the world. This story is personal, but nothing else has changed. I’m still trying to make a difference.”
Hadn’t he said the same thing when he’d enlisted and again when he’d joined the Rangers? That he wanted to make a difference? Maybe he and Scout were more alike than he’d thought. He regarded her with new insight, saw the truth and sincerity that shone from her eyes.
Her straightforward approach to life was refreshing, yet there was a wariness about her, as though she was on guard against some danger he hadn’t identified, one that superseded even the threats.
“No? Then you’re not as smart as you look.” She’d seemed plenty scared last night and again at the docks today, but he had sense enough to keep that observation to himself.
He’d never thought she’d turn her back on the story, but he’d wanted to get a read on her. The lady reporter had more than her share of guts if what he sensed about her was true.
“Let’s go back to the beginning. When did the letters start?”
“Six weeks ago.” Pensively, she pinched the skin between her brows. “I didn’t pay much attention when they first started coming. Getting nasty-grams is part of the job.”
He doubted she was aware of her fingers kneading the narrow space above her nose. “Around the same time you started poking around union murders?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think they’re connected to Crane and garbage?” He lifted a brow. “Dirty business.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
FOUR
Appreciating her, he returned the grin with one as fast as her own. “I try to be original.”
“Try harder.”
Okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total bore. Scout McAdams was quick-witted, with a tongue as sharp as the a
rticles she penned. That didn’t mean he was going to roll over on security matters, though.
“We need to establish some ground rules.”
“Good. I’ll let you know when I need you. Otherwise, stay out of my way.” She rose, obviously preparing to leave.
He rose as well. And towered over her. “Ms. McAdams, you’ve got it all wrong. I set the rules. You follow them. Got it?”
“Mr. Santonni, you’re the one who has it wrong,” she said, matching his annoyance. “I do as I please, and right now it pleases me to leave. I promised myself a run today. I’m not going to cancel it just because you’ve decided to hold onto my skirts.”
Obviously the lady had forgotten her fear of moments ago when she’d showed him the threatening letter. He didn’t want her to live in a state of perpetual panic, but a little healthy fear could be good.
“Fine. We’ll go together.”
If the mutinous glare she shot him was any indication, they were both in for a roller coaster of a ride.
“I either go with you or you don’t go at all.” He gave a hard smile. “And, just for the record, it’s been a long time since I held onto a woman’s skirts. Last time I remember doing it, I was around five years old and the woman was my mother.”
Unexpectedly, she smiled with such warmth that he came close to doing a double take. The smile turned him upside down. It was genuine and came really close to being sweet.
“You must love your mother a lot.” There was wistfulness in the words, a poignancy that reached down inside of him.
It was true. He loved his mother with all his heart. She’d put up with a lot from him. Not to mention his brother Sal, whom she claimed had turned her hair gray before she was thirty, and their three sisters. Rosa Santonni was a force to be reckoned with and made no apologies for it. “What makes you say that?”
“The way you said ‘my mother.’ There was so much love in the words.” Sadness edged her voice, and he knew she was thinking of her parents. His background check of Scout had turned up the information that her parents had been killed in a carjacking.
“It’s true. I love her a great deal. And she’d be the first to tell you that once I take a job, I don’t let go until it’s finished. The way I see it, you and I are just getting started. You’ve got some lowlife sending you threats. You need someone to keep you safe until he’s put in a cage.”
“And you think you’re that someone?” Sadness was replaced with tartness. The lady gave as good as she got.
“I was an Army Ranger.” For Nicco, that said it all.
He’d always wanted to be part of the kind of brotherhood Sal had found with Delta. At the same time, he’d wanted to make his mark in his own way. He’d found that with the Rangers. Their legendary courage, resourcefulness and integrity resonated within him, and he had dedicated himself to being worthy of that elite group.
He’d found what he was looking for. And more. The men he served with were the best of the best. They gave their all to their unit. Nicco had grown in unexpected ways, finally being assigned to command a unit of his own.
“Fair enough.”
She stood, crossed to the window and looked out, a slim figure silhouetted in the afternoon sun.
“I can’t stop doing my job just because of a couple threats. I was overreacting. I’ve had threats in the past. They never amounted to anything.”
“But there was something about this one,” he guessed, studying her, “that made you stop. Stop and wonder if there was more to it than just empty words.”
An unreadable expression crossed her face. “Maybe. For a minute. But I’ve had time to think it through. It’s just the usual, some coward who didn’t like something I wrote and decided he’d get cute with a pair of scissors and cut-out words.” Her shrug was casual to the extreme, but it didn’t quite mask the fear that flickered in her eyes.
Nicco was puzzled until he realized that she was trying to convince herself that she hadn’t been the target the night before, and that today’s near-miss at the docks had merely been an accident. He understood the need to rationalize away the incidents.
Despite her brave words, it was clear she believed she was in danger. It was equally clear she didn’t want his help.
Whether she wanted it or not, he planned on giving it. The lady was in over her head. From what he’d seen of the letters, they’d grown progressively more threatening. In his experience, people who sent threats like that didn’t suddenly back off.
He stood. “Let’s go. Until we find out who’s sending the letters, I’m your shadow.”
Annoyance narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need a shadow. Or a bodyguard.”
“Maybe not. But you’re stuck with me. Get used to it.”
* * *
With Nicco Santonni following her in his truck, Scout headed home and changed into sweats and sneakers.
Despite it being the middle of the workday, she needed a run to sweat out the fear and tension of the last twenty-four hours. Her editor didn’t demand that his people keep a time clock, only that they get their work done. He knew, as did everyone else at the paper, that Scout put in enough extra hours that there was never a question of her shirking her job.
Having a bodyguard tag along beside her wasn’t part of the plan, but she accepted that she wasn’t going to get rid of him. The part of her brain that wouldn’t tolerate a lie admitted that maybe she needed him.
She shot him a challenging look when she found him waiting for her. “You want to stick with me, fine. But I’m going for a run. Come or stay. Your choice.”
“I’ll try to keep up,” he said humbly.
Deciding that didn’t deserve a response—the man was clearly in top shape—she started out. She jogged past the strip mall that had stirred up controversy in her neighborhood when the zoning laws had been changed, past the bakery that made the chocolate-filled scones she was quickly becoming addicted to and past the library that had been a second home when she’d been a child.
He kept pace easily. Too easily. He was probably laughing silently at her.
Didn’t matter. She wasn’t out to impress anyone.
With every step, she felt the tension draining from her, even though she was pushing her body to its limit. The faster she ran, the more she felt her mind clearing. Two attempts on her life within a day’s time was daunting, but she refused to allow them to stop her from finding the truth behind her parents’ murders.
She knew the story her mother had been working on was at the root of everything, including the recent attacks on herself. The story, Georgette McAdams had once told Scout, would rip the city wide open when everything came out. “It’ll topple Savannah’s unions. Watch and see.”
Preoccupied with her own work, Scout hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Now she wished she had. Unfortunately, her mother’s prediction hadn’t come true. She was murdered only two weeks later.
Scout didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell her that she was trying to outrun the past. She ran every day, rain, shine, blistering heat or freezing cold. It didn’t matter. The slap of her sneakers against the pavement empowered her in a way little else could. She used the familiar rhythm to sort out her thoughts.
Her parents had raised her to be independent. Accepting that she needed help came at a cost. Though she prayed every day, both in gratitude and in seeking the Lord’s guidance, asking someone else for help grated against everything she was.
The soft material of her T-shirt blotted the sweat that ran down her neck and chest. She ran faster, determined to outrun the memories that chased her.
With her arms and legs pumping, she kept up a steady pace, her thoughts jogging along with her stride, taking her back to her first day at the paper over five years ago. She’d arrived with pie-in-the-sky dreams of being the best reporter to ever work at the city’s number one newspaper.
T
hose dreams were quickly knocked back to reality when she was assigned to the obits first, and then the classifieds. She’d refused to be discouraged and dug in with the same perseverance that had enabled her to complete a four-year degree in only three. The work was often mind-numbing, but she’d never lost track of her goal. From the first, she’d set her sights on the crime beat of the city section. No job was too little, too menial for her to do as she rose steadily in the ranks.
Her can-do attitude and consummate professionalism snagged the attention of one editor after another until she’d finally caught the eye of the publisher, Gerald Daniels. He was a hands-on owner who had taken an interest in her and encouraged her to bring stories to him when she felt she was on to something big.
Another mile and she’d be done. Five miles a day enabled her to indulge in the occasional scone and to keep the tension of the job at bay. She was in the best shape of her life—physically. Mentally was another matter.
Her emotions were all over the place. Look at how she’d reacted to Nicco Santonni. The attraction she felt for him gave her pause. After her engagement had ended, she’d made a point of keeping men at a distance. The last thing she needed was a man in her life, no matter how handsome.
Intensely aware of him at her side, she kept her gaze straight ahead, but it was impossible to ignore the steady rhythm of his stride.
Scout wasn’t sure why she’d asked him to look at the letters, aside from the gut feeling that he’d give her an honest opinion about them. He was a straight shooter, like his brother.
The chirp of her phone had her reaching for it. Her editor.
“Get to the courthouse steps. Patrice Newtown is giving a press conference in forty-five minutes about the charity ball.”
Scout nearly groaned. She was already weary of hearing about the ball which wasn’t even scheduled for another couple of weeks.
“I want direct quotes. Grab Tagg,” her editor added, naming the paper’s photographer.
“Yes, sir.” She made an abrupt turn, started back in the opposite direction.
Nicco turned to face her, running backward, never losing a step. “Finished already?”
High-Risk Investigation Page 4