Okay, so maybe she was teetering toward paranoia, but better paranoia than death. She opened her purse and pulled out the warm can of Diet Coke she kept inside. Popping the top, she enjoyed the psssffft that broke the silence of the room. She had just lifted the can to her mouth when Carver returned carrying a laptop.
He set the machine in front of her and said, “The footage is loaded. Just press Enter.”
Her heart fluttered as she set aside the Diet Coke. She fisted her hands once—to stop any tremors that might linger—and pressed the button. The video was so grainy that she couldn’t make out much on the screen. “Is this as good as it gets?” She frowned at the police chief.
Washington glanced at the screen and sighed. “I’m afraid so. Sometimes the cameras…”
“Do you mind?” Ozzie grabbed the machine from Samantha, turning it toward himself. “I can route this through my server back at the shop and use some software I created to clean up the image.”
“Suit yourself.” Washington shrugged.
Route it through his server? Use software he created?
She knew Ozzie was good with computers. Ten minutes in his company, and she had known he was a bit of a tech geek. And then a month ago, he had spent two full hours shopping with her for a new laptop when her old one finally gave up the ghost. He had pointed out the different bells and whistles of each machine. Once she picked one, they had gone to a coffee shop where he had patiently helped her install the software needed. So yeah. She knew the man was good with computers.
But by the sounds of things now and the sight of his fingers absolutely flying across the laptop’s keyboard, he wasn’t just good with computers, he was great. We’re talking the kind of guy who belongs in Silicon Valley running a multibillion-dollar tech company, not selling black-market weapons to Chicago South Side gangs.
“Done.” He turned the laptop around and slid it toward her. “Just press Enter.”
She did as instructed and blinked in amazement at the new and improved images sliding across the screen. There was no sound to accompany the footage, but she had no trouble making out the parking lot at Red Delilah’s biker bar. For a couple of seconds, the only things the video showed were a few cars driving by and her Mustang parked beneath the closest streetlight. Then, there she was.
She leaned forward and watched her video self dart from the mouth of the alley. Bile climbed up the back of her throat, the horror of the moment fresh once again. When she saw herself fumble the keys and drop to her knees, she nearly cried out her frustration.
Then, there was Ozzie running toward her with that awkward, limping gait. The gun in his hand was easy to see, and she was about to point at it and say, There! See? I told you so, when a dark shadow emerged from the alleyway. That shadow turned out to be a big, bearded biker. He seemed to hesitate when he saw Samantha pointing her Taser at Ozzie, then he darted up the street and out of the camera’s range. Christian arrived in the mouth of the alley a second later, a huge knife clutched in his hand—the same knife now gleaming on the table—just as her recorded self lit Ozzie up.
She winced and closed the laptop lid, having seen all she needed to see. The uncertainty she’d been toying with earlier rolled in like an undertow, pulling her down and away from the shores of her conviction.
She glanced at Ozzie, only to discover his expression was guarded. Gone was his smirk. His mouth was now set in a hard line, and she marveled at how his lips could appear simultaneously sensual and severe.
“I, uh, I may have rushed to judgment,” she admitted. The coals of embarrassment smoldering inside her were stoked into a flame when Christian snorted.
One eyebrow climbed Ozzie’s forehead to disappear into a shock of sand-colored hair. “Sweetheart…” His voice was low and liquid. It flowed over and around her until she felt as though it was just the two of them alone in the room. “I think you had judgment preprogrammed on your speed dial.”
Chapter 5
Careful what you wish for.
It was good advice. On the one hand, Ozzie was tickled pink that Samantha no longer thought he was trying to kill her. On the other hand, he would’ve done just about anything to smooth away the look of mortification that contorted her pretty face.
“I never saw him,” she said. The dry parts of her hair sprang out in loose coils, while the wet parts continued to lie lank against her skull. Her nose was auditioning to be the next standin for Rudolph—that would be the reindeer, not Valentino. And her damp sweater kept slipping off her shoulder to reveal the strap of that hot-pink bra. “No, wait. That’s not true. I saw him when I exited the parking garage at the Tribune Tower, but I never saw him before that. I swear it. I… Oh jeez!” She turned to Ozzie, a flush spreading over her cheeks. “I tased you!”
He rubbed his chest where the barbs had stuck in his skin. “Not something I’m likely to forget anytime soon.”
“I…” She blinked, then scowled. “But hang on a minute. You might not have been talking to me when you promised that bullet to the brain.” He was glad she left out the pissing part this time. “But you’re involved in something nefarious. Why else would you walk around with a piece in your pants? Come on, I watched Sons of Anarchy.”
“Well, to be clear, I don’t keep my piece in my pants.” He couldn’t help himself. “At least not the piece you’re talking about.” Her scowl deepened. So did her blush. “I keep it in a shoulder holster. My business isn’t exactly located in the nicest part of town, and ever since I left the navy, I feel naked without a sidearm. You get used to having that level of protection on you. It’s a psychological thing.”
At least those were the reasons he’d given the cops when they asked him about his Beretta. The same reasons Washington had backed up once he arrived at the station. But now, the confession sat like an aspirin on Ozzie’s tongue, chalky and sour.
One more lie in a long line of lies. One more betrayal.
Samantha searched his face for a time, and he could see her wanting to believe him. The moment she did, the moment doubt gave way to faith, ranked right up there as one of the worst of his life. And that was saying something. He wasn’t quite sure what. But something. Maybe that he was sick and tired of lying to her? Sick and tired of hiding from her?
If that was the case, he was in some seriously deep shit.
“So now that we have that cleared up,” Washington said, “how about you tell us about your meeting with Marcel Monroe this morning.” Washington had been born and raised in Chi-Town, but he tended toward a Dixieland drawl. “Specifically what he said to make you believe the boys and girls at BKI would want to kill him…and you.”