High-Risk Investigation. Jane M. Choate
“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.”