I realize that if the diver had successfully held me down, all the camera would have captured is my body floating back up to the surface, face-down. It would have looked like I cramped up and drowned. No one would have known I’d been murdered.
I watch myself struggle and fight below the water, just a dark blur in a haze of bubbles. Without realizing it, I’m holding my breath.
Cal tenses up next to me, and I hear Dante give out an angry grunt. I know they feel as helpless as I do, watching what already took place, powerless to do anything about it.
When my figure pops back to the surface again, I take a deep breath in the stifling space of the security room. I watch little Riona haul herself out of the pool and flee to the stairs.
Having failed to murder me, the diver abandons subterfuge. He pulls himself out of the pool as well, burdened by his oxygen tank, and unable to use his right arm to its fullest extent, because of the hairpin buried in his trapezoid muscle. I can’t see the hairpin on the video screen, but I can see the stiffness of that arm, and the way the diver favors his left instead.
Ronald gives a little yelp at the sight of the diver. He hadn’t realized until that moment what he was watching.
“Who the bloody hell is that?” he cries.
We all ignore Ronald. We’re watching the diver strip off his flippers. He doesn’t seem interested in chasing me. Instead, he picks up my cell phone off the lounge chair and carries it away with him.
Only once he’s gone can I breathe freely again.
“Rewind the tape,” Cal says. “I want to see when he got in the pool.”
Ronald scrolls back and forth over the feed several times. We can’t see the diver entering the swimming pool.
“Wait,” Dante grunts, pointing with his thick finger at the screen. “What’s that?”
He’s pointing to a moment thirty minutes before I entered the pool. No figure is caught on camera. But I see ripples running outward across the water from the lower left corner of the screen.
“He got in the pool right then,” Dante says.
“He stayed offscreen.” Callum frowns. “He knew how to avoid the camera.”
“Is that the only way up to the roof?” Dante asks Ronald, pointing to the main entryway.
“No.” Ronald shakes his head. “There’s a maintenance elevator on the other side. You can’t see it on camera. I told them we really should have two per floor, pointing in both directions—”
“Who has access to the maintenance elevator?” Cal interrupts.
“Just the doormen and the building superintendent,” Ronald says. “But none of us would be putting on scuba suits and attacking residents!”
He puffs up indignantly, like Cal was suggesting Ronald himself might have been the one hiding in the pool.
“Give me that video,” Cal says.
“What?” Ronald sputters. “I have to report this, I—”
“You’re not telling anyone about this,” Dante growls. “Give us a copy of the video, then delete it.”
“I can’t do that! I could lose my job!”
“Ronald,” I interject, using my most reasonable tone. “I was almost murdered in the pool, because an unknown person gained access to your building. If anything’s going to make you lose your job, it’s the lawsuit I’ll file against you, the property management company, and the owners of this building, if you don’t give me that video right now.”
Ronald swallows hard. “Well . . . uh . . . when you put it that way . . . ”
He sends a copy of the footage to Callum via email, then deletes an hour of video out of the database.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “Now keep your mouth shut about this, and you’ll see evidence of my continued gratitude in your Christmas bonus.”
We leave Ronald alone in the security booth.
“You’d better come back to my place tonight,” Cal says. “Or to Mom and Dad’s.”
I don’t love either of those options. Cal has a brand-new baby. While I appreciate my one-and-only nephew on an intellectual level, I’d like to preserve our relationship by not being woken up ten times in the night by his yelling.
My parents’ house is barely more appealing. I just moved out on my own—I don’t want to be back in my old room, especially not with my mother and father fussing over me in the wake of the failed drowning.
“I think I’ll stay at a hotel,” I tell him.
“Someone should keep an eye on you,” Dante grunts.
I know that’s his way of offering to do the job. But Dante has a kid now, too, and a fiancée—he and Simone are getting married in just a couple of weeks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Don’t check in under your real name,” Cal says.
“I know.” I roll my eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
“This is serious,” Cal says, fixing me with his cool blue stare. “Whoever that fucker was, he’s a professional. He planned this out ahead of time. He knew the building. The security system. He knew your schedule—when you get off work, and when you swim laps at night. He went out of his way to make this look like an accident. That’s top-tier hitman shit. Whoever hired him for the job isn’t fucking around.”
“I know,” I say again, with less sarcasm. “Trust me, I’m taking this seriously.”
I remember the water closing over my head, and those iron arms dragging me down.
“We need someone to keep watch on you until we figure out who did this,” Dante says.
I frown at him. “Who are you talking about, exactly?”
“A professional,” Dante says.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You better not mean who I think you’re talking about . . . ”
“I called him on the drive over. He’s flying back stateside tonight.”
“DANTE!” I shout, thoroughly annoyed.
“He’s good,” Dante says. “Very, very good.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. Especially not him.” I curl up my lip in distaste. I met Raylan Boone once before, and I wasn’t impressed. His cocky country-boy schtick is the last thing I need right now.
“Who is he?” Cal asks curiously.
“We were in Iraq together,” Dante says. “He helped me save Simone.”
“What’s he done to offend you, sis?” Cal asks, failing to hide his smirk.
“I don’t want somebody following me around,” I say coldly. “Especially not someone . . . chatty.”
Cal and Dante don’t even try not to laugh.
“Only you would prefer potential assassination to someone trying to ‘chat’ with you,” Cal snorts.
“He’s the best man I know,” Dante tells me seriously. “He’ll take care of you, Riona.”
I know Dante means well, but I can’t help scowling.
I don’t want anybody taking care of me.
4
Raylan
Dante drives me over to Riona’s law firm on East Wacker. He warned me that the Irish princess wasn’t exactly keen on having me as her bodyguard, but I was hoping we could get off on a slightly better footing than last time.