“I wish I could,” he says, dropping down beside me.
The truth is, I am scared. But I don’t want to show it. I know Damien will feel responsible. He’s not, of course. That honor belongs to whatever psychopathic bitch—because I am just certain it’s a woman—has decided to paint a bull’s-eye on my size eight ass.
“Maybe it’s Carmela,” I say.
“Not her style,” Damien says, then adds, “but I have my people looking anyway.”
“You’ve been keeping me out of the loop.” I’m not accusing, simply stating a fact. And to be honest, I haven’t really wanted to think about it. But I no longer have the cushion of the Atlantic Ocean and all of Western Europe and the entire staff at the Kempinski to separate me from reality. Now, I know that whoever is harassing me is here to stay, and if I don’t focus on it—if I don’t wonder and think and watch my own back—then I’m no better than those idiot girls in movies who go up the stairs in scary houses, even though they know damn well the killer is waiting for them.
This is reality, I think. And whether I like it or not, it’s forcing its way into our lives.
“I didn’t see the point of burying you in this crap if we didn’t know anything.”
I cock my head. “You’re protecting me again.”
“I am,” he says. “And as I believe I already explained in rather intimate detail, I don’t intend to stop. Do you have a problem with that, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Only if you’re keeping me out of the loop to do it,” I say. “So what haven’t you told me?”
“Not much,” he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice that stems from that simple fact.
“Start with the painting. Have you learned anything about who leaked the story that I’m the model? Or that you paid me so much? Because that first letter came about that time, so I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume it’s the same person.”
“I happen to agree with you,” he says. “And the short answer is no, we haven’t found anyone.”
“And the longer answer?”
“Will have to wait.” He points to the broken window and the two men who are passing in front of it. “My team.”
We meet them at the door, but they choose not to come in until after the police arrive. Instead, they go back outside to canvass the area, pull the feed from the newly installed camera, and do whatever it is security guys do when they’re on the case.
“The longer answer?” I press as soon as they’re gone.
“We have a few leads. Arnold—he’s the investigator I keep on retainer—recently got copies of some security footage from an ATM on Fairfax.”
I shake my head, clueless.
“That ATM happens to be across the street from a coffee bar where our intrepid reporter has a habit of meeting with his sources.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed. Damien had identified the original reporter who broadcast the story a while back, but the reporter had refused to reveal his source.
“It’s going to take a while. The camera’s focus is concentrated on a certain perimeter. But Arnold thinks he has a way to pop the focus on the background activity.”
“That will take time,” I agree. “Especially since we don’t know what day he might have met with the source.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Damien says. “But we have a rough time frame, and at the very least he can start pulling prints and getting them to me. With luck, there will be someone I recognize.”
“Shouldn’t I look, too?”
“You should,” he says. “But the odds are good that whoever is doing this is trying to get to me. I have Ryan’s team investigating the players in a few particularly contentious deals I have brewing,” he adds, referring to his security guys.
“Distract you by harassing your girlfriend, and maybe you won’t be such a hard-ass in negotiations?”