An Eye for Danger (13 page)

"Hmph, a photographer without a camera." He slurped his soda. "No family. You?"

I turned back to the TV, as if the sports channel captured my interest. A beat later, an olive hit my leg. My sharp look Sam's way didn't amount to his apologizing.

"Asked if you had any family," he said. "Anyone who might call besides Howard."

Shaking my head, I looked out the window at my family: the lamp-lights of strangers in the right building, the dinners of strangers in the left. Folks who kept me company day in, day out. Even from their distances. The untouchable world beyond my fluffy bed and doggie play-dates and menacing detectives.

"Leave it," I snapped as Max sniffed the olive.

I pinched the oily dot off the wood floor and carried it to the bathroom. When I'd ordered Greek food for Sam on the office phone line, I'd stared at Stone's business card, then turned the card face down. Maybe I'd made the wrong choice after all.

Returning, I found Max curled at Sam's feet, licking his lips as he waited for another morsel.
Beggar
. Sam shrugged and fed him a bite of pita. We were both impenetrable fortresses, except to Max.

"Now here's a real David and Goliath match," said Sam, pointing to the TV, where "Washington State vs. USC" ran across the bottom of the screen, as a band blared the USC fight song that all other schools hated. My alma mater and Sam's were usually the underdog teams in the Pac-12.

"That's funny. Stone used that word at the park."

"Repeat that." Sam paused the game and pinned me with his stare, his ample shoulders stiffening to a solid T, resembling the armored quarterbacks on TV.

"Stone called Troy a Goliath. I used the word 'bear' but it's all the same."

"When?" he snapped.

"At the murder scene. Right before some nut-job took me hostage."

The muscles in Sam's face lost their fight against gravity. Mine was a cheap dig. Frowning, he pushed play and refocused on the game. Or at least stared at it. His Cougars were down 32 to zilch, so Sam had reason to look pained.

"There's always next year," I said, tossing a pillow at him, a swift revenge for the olive. I just missed his plate of food and staining more linen. "Or next week. You play Cal then, so you can whomp our butts and laugh at me to your heart's content." Little did he know that I was an avid Pac-12 fan. My grandfather was a Cal man who'd indoctrinated me at a young age.

Sam's silence held. Behind him, wind thudded the windows like giant fists, and I realized how impenetrable I'd become to human company, how icy I could be myself.

"You asked what I shoot." I waited for his attention, then nodded to buildings across the street. "I shoot cities. Skyscapes like that, or street shots of people doing boring, normal things."

He squinted at the view, and I wondered if he saw what I saw: concrete monsters rising into the gray, a million shards of glass scratching the sky, their wrath ready to rain down.

"Nice gig," he said. "Sounds pretty harmless."

"Usually." I laughed, thinking of the third-world countries I'd barely escaped. "Every assignment is an adventure, a series of stories waiting to be told. Each shot is unique, real just for that one second, then the shutter closes and—" I snapped my fingers. "It's gone."

"Digital or film girl?"

"Digital mostly. Some medium format work on film. Spent my college years in a darkroom, so I like to print my own shots, control contrast, blur, focus. Mostly black and white these days. Sometimes sepia, when I'm in a good mood. But mostly I'm on assignment."

"You should show me your portfolio." Again he slurped his soda.

I shrugged. My photos weren't allowed in my apartment.

"You seem pretty intense about your work. Bet your stuff hangs in galleries."

I lifted a shoulder. I'd never tell him which galleries or when my shows ran.

"Not interested, I see." He pushed 'play' on the game, and I made my way back to my sofa. A football flew, uniforms scattered, a man leapt off the ground, then froze. Having paused the game, Sam leaned forward, another teetering pita with hummus in his hand. "So why don't you want to look at them? Your photos, I mean."

Feeling the pressure of Sam's undue interest, his indelible patience, I faltered, words slipping from my grasp like the sweaty olive jumping from my fingers into the toilet. Maybe Sam's interest in me was professional, maybe defensive, as in "know your enemy." He certainly felt less corrosive than Stone. By a hair. Maybe playing along would clarify his intentions.

"Hmph," he sounded when I failed to reply.

"They're not real," I said as a beef kabob met Sam's lips. "My photos. They're like looking into the past. And I only want to see what's real, what's alive, today."

He chewed the meat slow as a cow on cud. Then he nodded. "Photos are dead. I get it."

I winced and sank into my sofa corner, a new pressure tapping my chest.

Sam pushed play. Another run, another penalty flag, another replay of that damned USC fight song. My head was spinning.

The match soon ended, a shut-out game to add to Sam's grumpy demeanor. I started cleaning up, withdrawing his plate and the spanakopita carton. Sam stopped me and drew his finger inside the container, cutting a line through the remaining white sauce. Smile lines stole the tension from his brow as he sucked the sauce from his finger. "Mmm."

"I know," I said, echoing his smile. "They make the best tzatziki sauce in town. Lots of fresh dill and cucumber. Their stews are even better. And the lemon soup... God, I could drink it for breakfast. Tomorrow, we can order the chicken—" I bit my tongue, looked away. The words jumbled to a stop in my head like a car crash. This wasn't a play date, I reminded myself.

"You love food. That's a plus." Sam set his greasy napkin in my hand. "And yet she doesn't cook, Max. Curious."

I stared at his dirty napkin, wondering when I'd become the maid in my own home. "Out of the habit, I guess." I scurried to the kitchen, pretending not to hear his 'if you say so' quip, and dumped the first load of garbage.

"So, who was it?" he asked on my return trip.

"The cook in my family? Definitely my aunt. She threw a lot of dinner parties when I was young. I trained professionally, but didn't finish. The camera's my frying pan, photography being my first love."

"No, I mean who died. That's the only reason people shut down this hard. Unless you were in nine-eleven, but I don't think so. I know what that looks like. And you ain't it."

CHAPTER 10

"You're shaking," said Sam, his flat voice not sounding nearly as concerned as when Stone had spoken those same words. "Maybe you need one of those pills you palmed earlier."

My mouth dropped open. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I withdrew the Oxycodone and threw it at his chest.

"Don't mind if I do." He plucked the pill from his chest and sucked it down with the last of his soda. "You could've slipped it into my drink. Once I'm down, you can finally play that recording I've been waiting for you to hand over. Pretty distracting helping that old lady upstairs. Guess you forgot about the device. Or maybe you planned to give the recorder to that Prick who walked you home."

So he'd been watching me from the window. Watching, spying, snooping. Without hesitating, I set the recorder on the nightstand next to his gun. Not playing the recording was my mistake. Now I'd never know what I'd risked my life for, but hiding away to hear his secrets seemed ignoble at best, especially if this was an official investigation. Still, I wouldn't tolerate being labeled a traitor.

He rotated the device in his palm, eyeing me. "You didn't play the recording." His brows shot up. A laugh, then an incredulous smile. "Wow, you really didn't play it. Lady, I don't know what planet you're from, but in my world—"

"There's a safe in my office." I waved toward the hall. "You can set the combination yourself, if that gives you peace. Lord knows you wouldn't want us dishonest people messing with your stuff." I grabbed the last of the food bags and retreated to the kitchen, where I sorted trash into recyclables and compost, anything to stay busy while I didn't have a peaceful home to retreat to. The man irked me senseless.

From the other room, I could hear the evening news spouting that murder rates had fallen to an all-new low. "Yeah, right, lady. Lower than where, D.C.?" Sam's cynicism echoed my own.

I leaned in the doorway, studying his every response, all two of them: cold stare and squinting disdain. Our local news anchor appeared, her brunette hair swept up in that Sarah Palin style, her face mimicking a look of dread as she elevated her voice for the next story. "Police officials have confirmed the apartment fire in Spanish Harlem was definitely the work of the East Harlem Arsonists."

Sam's Adam's apple bobbed, a fear response I'd seen on soldiers in battle. I handed him one of the two gin-and-tonics I'd whipped up for my nerves and noticed the gun and recorder were gone from the nightstand.

The anchor continued. "Firefighters found the remains of three bodies in the apartment. They have yet to be identified, but officials confirmed two men and one woman were discovered in the basement."

Sam's face washed white. "That wasn't the plan," he murmured.

"Four warehouses and three buildings have been hit in the last three months," she said. "All seven structures were thought to be vacant, but authorities say squatters may account for today's deaths, as the location had been known to attract prostitution, drug dealers, and vagrants."

"That wasn't the fucking plan." Sam was practically pulling out his hair. I stepped back.

The anchor leaned in. "Police reported that one of the three suspects they pursued into Central Park was shot dead. Authorities are withholding the identity of that man and the circumstances of the shooting. NYPD is asking the public for leads regarding the other two suspects. In related news..."

I was stumped why they hadn't shown the sketch artist's drawing of Sam. Then I noted Sam's eyes widening, and I turned to see what captured his focus.

My own image smiled back at me. My old byline photo, the one Luke had taken while I got dressed for work one morning. I'd pulled my safari hat over my face, so only one eye and a half-smile were visible. Even then I lived in semi-disguise.

The anchor announced with false excitement, "Local photographer Julie Larson was held at gunpoint in north Central Park by a man police identified as one of the suspects in the East Harlem Arsonists case."

As the anchor woman blabbed about my abduction, scenes from Central Park flashed on the TV, including the taped-off area with the pile of leaves. Police had clearly removed the body before the camera gave further insult. "Authorities say Larson survived the attack thanks to her dog, who bit the assailant, causing him to flee."

Sam and I looked at Max. His ears flattened.

"Always a cover story," Sam said, as a photo took over the screen, an image of the Twin Towers after 9/11 that I barely recognized from my own portfolio.

"Turn the channel," I said, but Sam swept me aside to watch.

"Larson, thirty-four, became a local hero when she documented New York's rebuilding of the Twin Towers site, focusing on the city's effort to recapture its spirit in the wake of the devastating nine-eleven terrorist attack."

"Turn it off," I snapped.

The woman wouldn't stop talking. "Her photo book,
Still Standing
, won local, national, and international awards, though Larson refused to appear at awards events and donated all proceeds to nine-eleven victims' funds." Then a photograph appeared of me leaning over a boy, a 9/11 victim burned and bandaged from the waist down. My hand remembered his little fingers gripping, then loosening on my cuff. The images of children were always the worst. They left you barren of hope.

"Three years ago," said the anchor, "Larson survived a car accident that claimed the life of her boyfriend, software engineer Luke—"

"Turn it off. Now." I grabbed for the remote.

"Okay, okay." Sam held his glass high to avoid my spilling his drink and clicked off the TV. "Calm down."

"You just lightened New York's population by three people, so don't tell me to calm down." I paced, unable to look at him again. Oddly enough, I believed Sam didn't know about the bodies. But he now knew one more truth about me than was safe.

Sam sighed. "Look, we both need to chill out, get our heads together."

"
We
are not partners." I pointed at him to underscore my message.
You're on your own.

"Christ, just give me a minute to think." Sam flipped on the stereo, like this was any time for music, forcing a wall between us. I resented the distance. As if I hadn't been constructing the same wall.

A country guitar plucked a familiar riff as Johnny Cash started singing "Get Rhythm." The music eased my tension a fraction, evoking memories of days when laughter and dancing filled the apartment instead of murdering arsonist detectives. Safe, normal days when kisses flowed freely and nobody wanted to hurt each other.

I hugged a throw pillow and sank into the sofa's warmth. I could feel Sam watching. I told myself I didn't care. He'd discover the truth eventually, if he was any good. Stone had.

The song ended prematurely. I looked up. Sam was playing with the remote. He'd forwarded the tracks, probably assuming the song had been too much for me. Now a piano began the rising notes of a love song I refused to remember.

Already I was at his side, fumbling for the remote in the duvet folds. "No, no, no."

Sam's drink sloshed onto his belly. "What the hell."

I grabbed the remote, hit Forward. Another awful song. "Damn it." Then another. I couldn't escape the music, the memories, the possessed stereo. Finally I hit Power and the stereo light faded to dark. "Don't change it. Ever." My panting rose over the silence. "Don't ever change anything in this room. Just stop touching my stuff."

Without a word, Sam slid a cocktail my way. But I was shaking too hard to accept.

"Go on, take it," he said. "You need it more than I do."