Headline: Murder

The security guard took her belongings from him. “What’s your connection to her?”

I’m her bodyguard.

The answer he’d have given in his former life flew through his brain automatically and he just barely caught himself before it left his mouth. “Absolutely none. I just happened to be there when the bomb exploded and saw she needed help.” His eyes glanced toward the emergency room door. He couldn’t see where she’d gone. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay and give my statement here. Just in case she needs anything. Or at least stay until you’re able to reach her emergency medical contact, so she’s not alone.”

He had no real reason to stay. Yet something inside was urging him not to go.

“Sir?” The officer’s tone was definitely a little sharper now. He took another step toward Daniel. “I think you’d better come with me.”

* * *

Words swam in a jumble of black-and-white on Olivia’s computer screen. A pencil spun between her fingers. It had been two days since Brian Leslie had been murdered and her memory of the event was still nothing but an incoherent mess of disjointed images. She leaned back in her chair and listened to the clack of her colleagues’ fingers hitting keyboards. It was Friday afternoon and she seemed to be the only one blinking bleary-eyed at a story that wouldn’t come together. She added a few more pencil lines to the sketch in her small pocket-size notebook.

A blank oval face, like a black fencing mask, stared back at her through a haze of charcoal smoke swirls.

“Hey, can I borrow that a second?” Ricky rolled his office chair across the alcove from his desk to hers. “I want to check it against something I saw online.”

“Help yourself.” She shrugged. “It’s all I can remember of the killers. But it’s not much to go on.”

The young photographer picked up the notepad and rolled back to his computer. “I never knew you could sketch like this. Why aren’t you in the graphics department?”

She shrugged. “I really enjoy writing.” And editing, graphic design, ad layout and photography. Over the past few years she’d settled into a pretty comfortable role at the newspaper as a “bit of everything” journalist who could write one day, edit the next and field a decent classified ad page in between. But being good at a little bit of everything wasn’t the same as proving to Vince that she belonged on his new, smaller team.

Last summer, Vince had gotten into a major battle of wills with Torchlight’s former publisher when they’d tried to force him to fire crime reporter Jack Brooks over his investigation into the Raincoat Killer. So Vince had bought out the newspaper and turned it into a scrappy independent. Which was actually awesome, except that he’d warned them it would mean cutting staff. Now was no time to have a mind full of smoke and haze.

Her temples ached. If she closed her eyes, she could almost recapture the memory of the man who’d saved her—dark eyes, a voice as deep and soothing as a morning cup of coffee, chestnut hair curling ever so slightly at the nape of his neck. Daniel. But then she’d blink and he’d be gone again.

“Hey, Olivia? Come look at this.”

She slid her chair over. It was an internet web page. Three crude figures in black fatigues and featureless fencing-style masks stood in the center of the screen under the words The Faceless Crew.

The sudden reminder of how terrified she’d been sent adrenaline coursing through her. “What is this?”

“It’s a fragment of a website that was shut down a few weeks ago.” Ricky ran one hand through his shaggy hair. “Remember that car bombing in Vancouver last June that turned out to be some turf war between small-scale rival gangs? These guys tried to take responsibility for it and a few other car fires, too. They posted some stuff on various hate websites, trying to get attention as some kind of homegrown terrorist group for hire. No one took them seriously.”

She vaguely remembered Ricky bringing it up at a news meeting weeks ago. Vince had said no hard facts equaled no story and that the paper wasn’t in the business of chasing ghosts. But it seemed these men weren’t ghosts anymore. “Can you print it for me?”

“Yup, and look here.” He zoomed in. “I was able to recover some text, too.”

She read out loud, “‘The Faceless Crew are a gang of three killers. Rake is the strategist and leader. Brute is the weapons expert and, ah...assassin. Shorty is the explosives expert.’” She looked up. “They misspelled assassin. Looks to me like three brash, delusional kids who watched too many action films and decided to go start their own gang.”

“You can see why no one took them seriously.”

Right up until the moment they planted a bomb in the court garage and killed a man. Then again, an alarming number of gang-related murders, and even terrorist attacks, were committed by angry, mentally unstable young men whom no one took seriously at first.

They walked over to the shared printer and waited for the page to come through.

“Is it possible someone got them to murder Brian Leslie?” Ricky asked.

“I don’t know.” She ran both hands through her hair, then twisted it into a knot at the back of her neck. “Brian owed his crew a lot of money. They hadn’t been paid in weeks. He’d skimmed money off their checks. He had them working off the books without them knowing it, which meant they can’t even claim unemployment now. So I can imagine a lot of people wanted to hurt him. But there are far easier ways to get justice than hire contract killers with gang ties.”

The paper inched its way out of the printer. “What happens to the company now that he’s dead?”

“It’s a family business, started by Brian’s father. The only remaining member of the Leslie family is Brian’s niece, Sarah. But she’s just a teenager and can’t inherit anything until she turns eighteen sometime this fall.” It was any guess how she’d handle the mess her uncle left behind. “I’m just sorry I lost the camera. If I still had it, we’d have photographic proof that these were the guys. But it wasn’t in my bag at the hospital, so I can only guess it’s now buried in rubble. You want to come with me to talk to Vince?”

Ricky shook his head. “No. Just try to talk him into keeping me on staff if this turns into something.”

Torchlight’s editorial pool shared the large top floor of a converted Toronto townhouse. She climbed down the steep stairs to the second floor, went down the hall and knocked twice on the editor’s door.

“Come in.” Somehow Vince’s salt-and-pepper hair seemed even grayer than usual. His tweed jacket was pushed up over his elbows. She laid the printout on his desk. He leaned on his desk with both hands and stared down at it. “What am I looking at?”

“Something Ricky found online.” She took a deep breath. “I think this might be who I saw kill Brian Leslie.”

“I seem to remember Ricky showing me this printout before.” Blue eyes glanced up under bushy eyebrows. “You already know what I’m going to say about it, don’t you?”

Yup. Theories were for the writers’ meetings. Facts were what got printed in the paper.

“I know we can’t just print that these three random men might have been involved in this murder without something solid behind it.” Reporter Thinks She Kind of Remembers Seeing Three Masked Men Who Could Be the So-Called Faceless Crew was hardly a headline she’d put on the cover of the paper, either. “But I’ll get something solid. I’ve put in calls to the police, Sarah Leslie and the crown attorney’s office. I’m just waiting for someone to call me back.”

Not to mention, she’d also tried calling her older sister. Chloe was a detective in Northern Ontario. While this was hardly her jurisdiction, her sister had an incredibly practical way of looking at things that Olivia found both infuriating and helpful. Besides, it was always wonderful to hear her voice. But Chloe hadn’t called her back, either.

“Well, I’ve never seen police and the courts put such a tight lid on a story.” Vince sighed like an ancient freight train billowing steam. “And every news outlet in the country will be after an interview with Sarah.”

“Yes, but not every news outlet has a reporter who was there in the garage when her uncle died.”

“Oh, you don’t need to remind me.” A reluctant half smile crossed the newshound’s lips. “You should probably be thankful I didn’t fire you over that.”

A flush rose to her cheeks.

“Any progress tracking down the other witness?” he asked.

“Daniel? No, but I’m pretty sure he said something about being a carpenter.” And also a bodyguard. Her memories of him were so larger-than-life it was hard to know if they were all real. “But his truck was pretty distinctive. I thought that if I went around visiting some construction sites, I might find someone who knows who he is.”

“From now on, I want you to limit your pursuit of this story to email and telephone.” Vince crossed his arms. “This whole Faceless thing looks more like urban legend than fact, but anyone capable of murdering a man and blowing up his car inside a government building is more than capable of taking out a lone reporter. We can all sit down as a writing team next week, talk it through together and decide how to proceed. There might be other tacks we can take on this.”

Her heart sank. “You mean, there might be other reporters you could put on this story.”

“We’re a family here, Olivia.” Vince frowned. “You know that. As an editor, it’s my prerogative to assign stories however I think will serve the paper best. Jack is our crime reporter. He’s got expertise in things like this. True, he’s off on a book tour right now, but he’ll still be able to take lead on this one remotely.”

She looked down at the ground. Just because Vince liked to say the staff were family didn’t mean it was accurate. Everyone was loyal to the paper, but it wasn’t the only loyalty everyone had. Jack had his book tour. Their sports reporter Luke was working freelance from new digs up north after having reconnected with his former sweetheart. Everyone was keeping an eye out for other opportunities to pay the bills. She came to work every day expecting to be told to pack her metaphorical suitcase. What good was a family if some people just left to chase their own dreams—and others were kicked out?

Her cell phone started to ring. She glanced at the number but didn’t recognize it.

“I’ll let you get that.” Vince leaned back. Worry filled his gaze. “Monday, I want you and I to sit down and talk through your future with the paper. I’m sorry, I know you really want to move to writing full-time. I’m just not sure that’s where your talents are best suited.”

“Got it. Thanks.” She nodded numbly.

How on earth am I going to change his mind over the course of a weekend?

She went out into the hall and closed the editor’s door behind her. Thankfully, the caller hadn’t given up. “Hello?”

“Hello, Olivia?” The voice was deep and soothing, yet somehow it still managed to send shivers running down her spine. “This is Daniel Ash, the man from the parking garage.”

Her breath caught in her chest. Daniel?

For a moment, she nearly ran back into Vince’s office to put the call on speakerphone.

If only he hadn’t just said he was thinking of assigning the story to someone else and that she didn’t belong in the writing pool.

“Daniel! Hi! Hang on.” She glanced over her shoulder and then slipped down another flight of stairs. In a moment, she was outside in the muggy August heat. She leaned back against the brick. “It’s...it’s really great to hear from you. How did you find me?”

“Your name and newspaper were on your press badge. I found your cell number on the newspaper website. You’re a reporter, right?”

She glanced at the windowsill above. “I am.”

At least until Monday.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Is there any chance you could you meet me for coffee? I’m looking for advice about talking to the press...and you’re the only reporter I know.”

“Sure. Of course.” She pressed her lips together and hoped she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. “About what kind of story?”

She heard Daniel take in a long breath and let it out slowly.

“It’s about Brian Leslie’s murder.”

THREE

Heat shimmered off the highway like a mirage. The weather report had predicted dangerous thunderstorms all weekend. Olivia glanced at her cell phone. It had been about an hour and a half since she and Ricky had left Toronto and started north, and her cell phone signal was down to just one bar. A rundown motel and camping trailer park loomed ahead. A giant tattered clown sign told them to take the next exit for their fairground.

She shivered. “I think we turn here.”

They pulled off the rural highway onto a smaller country road. When Daniel had told her that he’d be at his house in the country until some time next week, she’d decided it was better to offer to drive up there to meet him right away, instead of telling him she might be unemployed by the time he came back to the city.

When she’d told Ricky, he’d immediately offered to drive up with her, even though she suspected he might have blown off a weekend assignment from Vince to help her. An uneasy feeling was fluttering in her chest. She hadn’t told Vince about the call from Daniel or that she was going to meet him. But Daniel had stressed he just wanted to meet for coffee to get her advice, nothing more. This wasn’t an interview. This was just coffee. Still, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that driving up to meet Daniel wasn’t really the same as slipping off to the courts in the middle of the day without telling Vince, the unsettled feeling inside her wasn’t convinced.

The thin rural road snaked past abandoned barns and ramshackle buildings, ragged from years of neglect. Broken windows peeked out from empty farmhouses. An empty strip mall loomed on her left, surrounded by a crude chained-metal barrier fence.

It was practically a ghost town.

“I can’t tell if we’re lost or not.” Ricky glanced at his cell phone. “I’ve got no signal now.”

They probably had another half hour before the sun began to set. Without streetlights there was no telling how dark this road would get. Then she saw a red-and-white awning ahead on her left next to a faded sign offering gas. A sigh of relief left her lungs.

“I think that’s it.” A bright green pickup truck sat on the edge of the gravel parking lot. There was fresh glass in the back window and bullet holes in the tailgate. “Actually, if you could pull just past the lot and park down the road a bit, that would be great.”

Ricky did so. “Everything okay?”

“Absolutely. Daniel just seemed really hesitant about whatever he wants to talk to me about. He must have stressed three times that this was going to be nothing more than a casual chat over coffee, and that this needed to be private. So I don’t want to spook him by showing up with a photographer, even if you’re mostly just here as a friend.”

“Got it.” Ricky grinned. “Actually, would you be okay if I drove back down the road a bit and tried to find a cell phone signal? I’d like to call my folks. They live about half an hour north of where we turned off the highway. If that megastorm hits early, we might be able to crash there tonight instead of driving back into the city.”

Dark clouds had already started to gather at the horizon. If the storm really was as bad as forecasters feared, the road back to Toronto might even flood. Might make sense to drive north and wait until the roads reopened. But the worst of the rain wasn’t supposed to hit until well after midnight. Surely they’d be back home long before then.

“Sure, just don’t be gone too long.”

“I won’t. Just going to drive back to the creepy clown motel. Shouldn’t take me more than thirty minutes. Forty tops.”

“Sounds good.” She got out of the car and walked toward the truck stop. Humid air tickled her skin. Bells clanged gently as she stepped through the doorway. Daniel was sitting at a table by the window. He looked up and gave her a slight wave. An unexpected shiver ran down her arms. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this nervous about meeting someone for coffee.

Get hold of yourself, Olivia. This isn’t really “meeting a guy for coffee.” It’s hardly a date. He’s a potential story source and witness to a murder.

She smiled professionally and started toward him, memorizing him down to every last detail. He had broad shoulders and strong arms. His plaid shirt was faded and the top two buttons were open. Dark eyes like mocha gazed straight into hers, with a look that was friendly yet also determined not to let her too deeply inside. He was unconventionally good-looking, with the air of a man who was used to keeping secrets.

Who are you, Daniel Ash? And how are you connected to Brian Leslie’s murder?

“Olivia! Hi!” He stood. He was taller than she’d realized. At least six foot four. Maybe taller. His hand reached for hers. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, properly.”

His smile was warm. Unexpectedly, she could feel a genuine smile tugging at the corner of her own lips, too. “It’s honestly really nice to meet you, too.”

They shook hands. His grip was surprisingly gentle. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m just fine. Thanks to you.” She felt herself blush. “You saved my life.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I was there.”

Yes, but why had he been there in that parking garage?

They sat. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. How could she simply press him for information knowing that the last time she’d seen him, he’d cradled her into his arms and carried her to safety? Yet how could she feel this close to a man she knew practically nothing about? Come on, Olivia. Think like a reporter. “Well, I’m glad you knew what to do. The whole thing was like something out of a nightmare. Am I right in remembering you said you were a bodyguard?”

He nodded. “I used to be, yes.”

“So you’re a fighter, then?”

He laughed, a warm chuckle that seemed to roll off his shoulders. “I’m anything but. When you’re a head taller than most people, with muscle to match, you learn it doesn’t take a lot to hurt them, even without meaning to. The way I saw it, my job was to de-escalate violence and get my clients away from bad situations, not escalate trouble. So I’d use force, obviously, but only wisely and only when needed. Other bodyguards used to joke that I didn’t actually need weapons, I just needed to stand there and look imposing. Used to call me the gentle giant.”

“No weapons, huh?” Her gaze dropped to his muscular arms, now resting on the table. There was so much she wanted to know. “So you’re not into guns?”

He frowned. “I don’t have a license to carry a handgun or anything like that, if that’s what you’re asking. I do own a shotgun, though. But just for hunting birds.”

He looked bothered by the question for some reason. She changed the topic back to the safer territory. “How long were you overseas?”

“Oh, years.” He ran one hand through his hair. “When I was still in high school, I got a security job for a company here. By the time I was twenty-one the boss was taking me with him on business. I was always pretty tall and I used to have a full beard, too, so I guess I looked pretty scary. Then I got hired by a personal security company overseas. Mostly I’d escort foreign businesspeople around and keep them out of trouble.”

“That’s amazing.” Fragments of him speeding through the smoke-filled garage flickered in the back of her mind. “Did you ever escort any journalists?”

“A few. Mostly in and out of war zones.”

Wow. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “It’s only really dangerous if the person you’re protecting doesn’t follow directions. When someone’s protecting you it’s vital you’re able to do what you’re told without argument. The last thing you want is someone freaking out and running off madly. I mean, sometimes running is what keeps you alive. But sometimes running can get you killed, if you run in the wrong direction. A lot of the time, I had to subtly alert people of danger without causing them to panic, or even ask questions.”

She leaned forward. “Can you give me an example?”

“Of how I’d warn someone of danger?” he asked. “Okay, your initials are OB, right? Say we were together and I spotted something. I might tap out your initials in Morse code on a surface, or even on your arm.”

His fingers hovered over her wrist for a moment, like he was about to tap lightly on her skin. Then he pulled back and tapped the table beside it—one long beat, three short, three long. She watched his fingers as they moved.

“I can’t imagine why you’d ever give up that life to come back to Canada.”

She looked up. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Sadness maybe? Regret?

Then he blinked again, the unguarded flash of emotion was gone and only the politeness of an acquaintance remained. “Carpentry has always been a passion of mine, too. So I was happy to be able to pick up a hammer again. Being back gave me a chance to rebuild an old house that a relative left me, not far from here.”

None of which even began to answer her question. A waitress dropped two menus on the table then left without so much as a nod. Over half the items were crossed off. Another long pause spread out between them. Whatever Daniel had wanted to talk to her about, he wasn’t in a hurry to bring it up and he’d sounded so hesitant on the phone she hated the idea of pushing him. As much as she suspected she’d probably quite enjoy just listening to his stories for hours, they were hardly here for small talk. Ricky’s printout of the Faceless Crew website was folded inside her notepad. She slid it out onto the table but didn’t unfold it.

There really was no easy way to ask this. “Were you working for Leslie Construction, then? Either as a carpenter or as some kind of security?”

He sat up straight. Not surprising, considering she’d basically just asked if Brian had stolen from him or if the man had been killed on his watch. Or both.

“No.” He shook his head, as if the question surprised him. “No, not at all. I mean, I did a handful of shifts for Leslie, here and there, a few years back when I needed a bit of extra money. Mostly I’m an independent contractor.”

Now they were both surprised. “Then, why were you in the garage during the trial?”

“I was hoping to have the chance to have a quick word with Brian in private.”

Her eyebrows rose. “About what?”

“A personal matter.” His mouth set in a grim line, as though she was stepping over the line of whatever he was willing to let her know. He leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What do you know about the Leslie family?”

There was an edge to his voice. It was as if he was testing her in some way she couldn’t put a finger on.

She flipped her small notepad open, even though she knew what her notes said without even having to glance. “I know that Leslie Construction was started by Brian Leslie’s father sometime in the early seventies. When he died, the company passed down to Brian and his sister, Mona. Mona had a reputation of being quite the party girl and got arrested on a handful of drinking and drug-related charges. But the crew generally liked her. They weren’t so fond of Brian, who took over full ownership of the company when Mona died about four years ago.”

The look of Daniel’s face was serious, focused and inscrutable.

She kept going. “Brian had a gambling problem and tried to both cheat on his taxes and steal from his employees. But he wasn’t very good at it and got caught. The court changed its mind about prosecuting him before the trial even started. We saw him get murdered. Now Brian is dead, the company is in shambles and will be passed down to his teenage niece, Sarah.” She leaned back. “Now here I am talking to you.” And you won’t tell me why.