Page 32 of Edge of Secrets

I dropped a few meters farther behind, keeping the pale flash of her dress in my field of vision. I’d charged out of there all fired up, ready to confront her face-to-face, right in the street, and demand to know—exactly, in every particular—what her fucking problem was. Then I got close enough to see that she was crying.

And I lost my nerve and hung back again.

Goddamn it. I should have known I’d pay in blood for anything that good.

So I went into surveillance mode. Emotions flat-lined. Attention locked on the target. Projecting a don’t-see-me vibe. I was nobody, just a faceless suit in a sea of suits. Though at this hour, there was no sea of suits on the streets. The suits were vegging in front of their TVs or packed into bars, managing their stress with excessive amounts of alcohol. Not a problem, though, since Nell wasn’t noticing me. She was stumbling along the sidewalk, hand over her mouth, clutching her purse. Attracting attention. A beautiful woman, sobbing right out on the street? Christ. She was making herself a target.

That made my emotional flat-line twitch, with guilt and anger. What the fuck? Why? What had I done, anyhow? I hadn’t intended any of this. The last thing I wanted was to hurt her feelings. All I’d done was make her come. So fucking shoot me, already.

Of course, seducing her hadn’t helped with her current off-the-charts stress level. But I hadn’t been able to stop myself. It just ... happened.

Now I was compounding my asshole status by stalking her. That was super intelligent. Yeah, just razor sharp.

But my feet didn’t hear the sarcasm, didn’t get the message. They just kept carrying me along, keeping her a safe thirty meters ahead. Watching that mane of springy black ringlets sway and swirl with every gust of wind.

Then I felt the tickle. Like the whispery brush of a cobweb breaking across my mind. An instinct that said, ‘something’s wrong with this picture.’

I looked closer. Since snapping into surveillance mode, part of my mind had been tracking not just her, but everything around her. That gray sweatshirt had been around for a while. Too long. Behind her, but not far enough behind. Gray sweatshirt, jeans. Long blond hair. Dirty white athletic shoes. Nell paused to wait for a light. The guy slowed and gazed into a cosmetics shop window. Yeah, right. Like that skank was interested in aromatherapy bath salts or orange blossom body butter.

I got in line at a streetside bank machine, watching out of the corner of my eye as the guy sauntered across the street and kept going, still in the same direction as Nell, staying parallel to her.

I flash-analyzed the data, tracking everything from the moment I’d given up confronting her. That guy had been in my field of vision the entire time. Might have been there since we walked out of the building. Might have been lying in wait.

Thirty-five downtown blocks. Too far to walk voluntarily, to not take a subway or a cab, to not have some other business or detour along the way. Nell crossed the street again. Gray Sweatshirt strolled after her. She disappeared into a big, brightly lit bookstore. The guy stopped, muttered into his collar, and followed her in.

A thread of ice congealed deep inside me. This guy was wired. He was reporting to someone, in real time. So this wasn’t some random sicko obsessed with Nell’s tits. This was a coordinated team of random sickos. A team meant organization, financing, an agenda. What the fuck was going on?

I eased to the back of the line for the bank machine again and waited, single-minded as a cat watching a mouse hole. Crunching data, speculating, presenting and rejecting hypotheses. It had to be the people who tried to get the sister.

Time warped. People swirled by like a sped-up film. I stood motionless in the middle of it, a laser-focused eye of contemplation. Just waiting.

Customers began trickling out. I glanced at my watch. The store was about to close. My adrenaline revved up as Nell stepped outside, swinging a plastic shopping bag in her hand. She looked around, like she was trying to get her bearings, then took off in the direction of the subway station.

Three seconds later, Gray Sweatshirt followed her out. I forced myself into a casual stride. No sprinting. No roar of primordial rage. My heart thudded. Blood roared in my head. I had to clamp down hard on the urge to leap on that piece-of-shit dickhead and take him apart, just for thinking about laying his hands on her.

I turned onto Lafayette and Gray Sweatshirt muttered into his collar again. Urgency pricked at me. Something was going down, and I was the only one around to stop it. Just me. One guy. I pulled out my cell and speed-dialed Gant.

“What is it?” Gant snarled, with his usual foul humor. “You again? Got any more unreasonable demands to make, Dunc?”

“Yeah. Remember the chick I’m obsessed with?”

“Yeah, the daughter of Lucia D’Onofrio. What about her?”

“I’m tailing her right now,” I said. “Stalking her, you might say.”

Gant hissed something obscene in Pushtu. “And you’re burdening me with this embarrassing, extremely personal information about yourself exactly why?”

“Because I’m not the only one who’s doing it,” I said.

Gant was gratifyingly speechless for a moment. “Come again?”

“She’s under surveillance,” I explained. “At least a two-man team. I’m a half a block behind the guy tailing her. We’re on Lafayette. Just past the Public Theater.”

“Holy fuck,” Gant muttered. “I’ll send someone.”

“Do it fast. They’re gearing up for something. I can feel it coming together.”

“Dunc? Do not engage.” He paused. “Did you hear me? Hello?”

---