Page 94 of Snaring Emberly
One glance over my shoulder tells me Tony is still following. I round another corner, cut across the lawn, and jog down the paved pathway that leads toward the pool. It’s about that time I realize I could have cut through the house like Roman did last night, but I shake off that thought. My nerves are still frazzled.
When I’m halfway across the pool, I turn around to find Tony standing at the edge of the patio, not venturing any closer. That’s what he and Dominic did when Cesare used the pool house as his playroom.
I push open the door, stride through my studio, and into the bedroom, where I change into my apron and make two important decisions.
One, I will finish Roman’s portrait.
Two, I will give Roman my complete trust.
THIRTY-TWO
ROMAN
I glare down at the dead cop’s corpse. Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating his pale features. He was too young to get mixed up in whatever corrupt bullshit Jim Callahan was peddling, and now he’s paid the price.
Two officers on my payroll stand at either side, staring down at their fallen colleague.
“You recognize him?” I ask.
“I don’t know his name,” Barzelli says, “But he’s definitely a new recruit I used to see around the precinct. Always trying to kiss Callahan’s ass.”
“And the tattoo?” I gesture toward the skull and crossbones on his chest.
“Callahan has this way of attracting weak-minded sycophants. Maybe it’s a hero-worship thing.”
I nod. “Was he sent to murder my special guest?”
Rizzo, Barzelli’s partner, shakes his head. “From what I overheard, they wanted her alive.”
“Yeah,” Barzelli says, sounding bitter. “Also, nobody’s noticed an increasing number of whores dying of convenient overdoses. If I were to guess, I’d say Callahan also got to the coroner.”
“Thanks.” I flick my head toward the door, gesturing for them to leave, where Gil hands each of them a thick roll of notes.
“Anytime, boss,” they chorus.
Someone else escorts them out through a side door, and I pick up the computer tablet I’ll need for my next interrogation. As Gil and I walk in lockstep down to the basement, my jaw clenches, and my veins fill with fire at the prospect of losing Emberly.
If I hadn’t worn the bulletproof undershirt, I would have lain on that stage bleeding to death, while that scrawny bastard transported her through the gates and into the sadistic arms of Jim Callahan.
I shake off the thought, remembering already having locked down the estate. My men were searching all the vehicles. We would have found Emberly in the back of the van, but in what state?
Downstairs, in the first of a series of soundproofed rooms, I find Oscar Lotti, the proprietor of the catering company I hired. He’s on his knees with an iron collar around his neck connected to the wall.
Lotti gazes up at me through bloodshot eyes. He’s a heavy-set man in his sixties with closely cropped hair who used to be close acquaintances with Dad. That counts for nothing, since his dearest friend stabbed the entire family in the back.
“R-Roman, please,” he rasps. “You’ve got to believe me. I had nothing to do with the shooting.”
“I believe you.”
The tension in his features morphs into shock. “You do? Then why am I here?”
“One of the staff you brought in was an undercover cop.”
His jaw drops. “No.”
“How long was he working with your firm?”
Lotti’s brow pinches. “The event was too short notice for my regular workers. I had to hire temp staff?—”