'He's listed as the paper's publisher,' she said. 'The Ledger used to be second in town, after the Enquirer, but he's built up the readership substantially since he took over five years ago, when he came back from Iraq. Yet I've never seen his name as a byline. He's not one of the reporters going out and pestering people for a story.'

Deacon tilted his head. 'So you've checked him out pretty thoroughly, huh?'

Scarlett felt her cheeks heat. 'Yes, last year when we were looking at the O'Bannions as suspects.' Nine months ago, when they'd been trying to catch a killer. Marcus had saved a girl's life and Scarlett had desperately wanted to believe him to be the good guy he appeared. 'I wanted to know what kind of man he was.'

'And?'

'I think he's basically good, but the media do disrupt lives while they're getting the story. And rarely do they care.'

Deacon was watching her too closely, with that look in his eye that meant he was seeing far more than she wanted him to see. 'That sounds like the voice of experience talking.'

'It is.' And it would be a shame Scarlett would carry for the rest of her life. 'I had a friend back in college who died because a reporter broke a story that should have been dealt with privately. He got the big byline and my friend got a pretty angel to stand over her grave.'

'You blame the reporter for her death?'

'Partially, yes.' And partially Scarlett blamed herself. 'But ultimately I blame the sick, sadistic sonofabitch who murdered her.'

'Oh. I thought you meant she'd committed suicide.'

'No. She was killed by her ex-boyfriend, but she might have survived had that damned reporter kept his mouth shut.' And you too, Scarlett. She'd trusted that damned reporter, told him things far better left unsaid. Because I was a million kinds of stupid. 'I've wanted to see her killer pay for more than ten years, but I have to admit there were times I wanted to make the reporter pay too. His callous disregard for the consequences of his actions led to the death of an innocent woman.'

'You don't want to believe that Marcus is that kind of journalist.'

No, she didn't want to, but she wouldn't trust so blindly. Never again. Of course the proof would be in the article he printed about Tala's murder. He had the power to withhold the facts the police wouldn't have told the public. She knew his paper had cooperated in the past, but she'd never interacted with Marcus directly. 'Like I said before, Marcus isn't credited as a reporter with his paper. He owns the paper and is listed as the publisher. That opens the field to anyone impacted by any story he allowed to be printed. He is responsible for the actions of the reporters on his staff who break stories that make people unhappy.'

'So our suspect list could be anyone who blames any reporter Marcus has ever employed. That could be a big list. Luckily he keeps track of the specific threats.'

'True, but I don't think he wanted to admit that the threats to his life were credible to us or to himself. Yet his mother made him promise to wear Kevlar, so they must have been credible to her. Which means his family or at least his mother knows about them too.'

'I agree. So if the killer was someone Marcus pissed off through his paper, then Marcus was the target and Tala was simply collateral damage.'

Scarlett turned, her gaze dropping to the asphalt where Tala had bled out. 'But my gut tells me this is more about Tala than Marcus. She asked him to meet her here. She was shot first. And the killer doubled back to make sure she was dead. It's more probable that Tala was the target and Marcus was collateral damage. Or a loose end. In which case, all we have to go on is her body, her first name, her last words, a shell casing, the general vicinity of where she lived, and the name of a poodle with a diamond-studded collar.'

'And the fact that a man and his wife "owned" her,' Deacon said grimly.

Scarlett considered it. 'We've closed cases starting with far less. If we're dealing with human trafficking, we'll need your Bureau contacts.' Deacon was officially on loan from the FBI to Cincinnati PD's Major Case Enforcement Squad, but he'd integrated into the group so completely that most days she forgot he was still a federal agent.

He nodded. 'I'll check with my SAC and find out who's trafficking people in this area.'

'I'll get a cleaned-up copy of Tala's face and a photo of the dog from Marcus's video files once he sends them to us. We'll start canvassing the area around the park where she and Marcus met, see if anyone remembers seeing her.'

'If she mainly walked the dog at night, that could be a problem.'

'Or a blessing. She'll be more memorable. We can also check with the area vets. A fancy dog like that will have been well cared for.'

'What about eyewitnesses on this block?'

'The dealers and hookers may have seen something, but they all scattered before I got here.' Scarlett checked her watch. 'It'll be sunrise soon, so none of them will be back till sundown tonight. Tommy and Edna may have seen something. They knew the shooting had happened in this alley. They didn't mention seeing anyone fleeing, but I didn't stick around long enough to ask that question.'

'Tommy and Edna?'

'The homeless man and woman sitting on the stoop three blocks up. I've known them for years. I'll ask them on my way out. I'll tackle ID-ing the girl as soon as I get to the office.'

'And I'll get started with the Bureau's trafficking team. Call me when Marcus sends you the video files and the list of threats.'

'As soon as they hit my inbox. See you in the office.'

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday, August 4, 4.35 A.M.

'Motherfucker,' Marcus muttered as he eased his body into the chair behind his desk, glad that it was too early for anyone else to be in the office yet. The paper had gone to press at two A.M., which meant that Diesel and Cal were home snoring, and Gayle and the rest of the day shift wouldn't be in till nine.

His staff would fret, especially Gayle, his office manager. She'd been his mother's social secretary when Marcus was born, then later she'd become his nanny his and his brothers' and sister's. She'd retired from her nanny position when Mikhail, the youngest, had hit middle school, coming to work for Marcus at the paper. But her retirement from nanny-hood never really took. Gayle tended to hover, more so even than his mother.

Both women had been driving him crazy, watching him like a hawk ever since he'd been released from the hospital nine months ago. They'd do so again when the story broke. Mentally he prepared for the hovering to commence.

He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the laptop he used for confidential matters. If there was anything on the Tala video for example, the fact that he'd had another gun whose serial number had been filed off he'd save the original on this laptop, then send a modified version to the cops.

He hadn't minded turning the Sig backup over to Scarlett this morning. It was so new he'd only fired it at the range, so even if they ran it through Ballistics, they'd come up with nothing. He didn't even mind if she knew he'd had another gun. But he had no intention of handing over his PK380. He'd had the gun for too many years. Besides, though he didn't think a ballistics check would turn up anything incriminating, he was taking no chances.

If he had to turn over a PK380, he had several others, most of which were properly registered. He'd give her one of those.

Marcus believed in keeping his privacy. Which was why he actually had several 'confidential' laptops. No one laptop held all the data on any given project, so if one happened to fall into the wrong hands, the project would be only partially compromised. And because none of his confidential laptops were listed as company assets, they couldn't be subpoenaed should he or his staff ever draw the attention of law enforcement.

Like he had this morning.

It wasn't supposed to have gone down like that. He was supposed to have handed Tala over to Scarlett Bishop and walked away, having done a good deed. Instead . . .

His hands stilled on the keyboard. Instead, an innocent young woman was dead and he had plunked himself on the cops' radar, front and center.

Why did you come back? Scarlett had asked. Why had he? Why hadn't he gotten away while the getting was good?

I couldn't leave her alone in the dark. No, he couldn't have. Even if it meant having the cops on his tail for a while. That Scarlett Bishop was one of those cops would be either boon or bane. Time would tell. Either way, he'd handle it.

So handle it. Give her the files you promised so that she can do her job.

The video of Tala would be more valuable to Scarlett's investigation than the threat list, so he connected the laptop to the hard drive he'd stored in the back of his Subaru, hoping he hadn't moved out of range during the events of the night. The camera hidden in the bill of his cap transmitted about five hundred feet, but Marcus had run around the block looking for the shooter. He found the file and clicked it open, crossing his fingers. Hopefully the camera had captured something worthwhile, something he hadn't seen with his eyes.

'What a fucking waste,' he muttered in the quiet of his office as he stared grimly at Tala's terrified face on his laptop screen, knowing that in a few seconds he'd see her die. He listened once again as she worried about her family.

He heard himself demand who she was afraid of. Heard her whispered reply: 'The man. His wife. They own us.'

And then a split second before he heard the shot he saw it. A flicker in her eyes. Terrified recognition.

Not only had she seen who shot her, she'd known the shooter.

'Sonofabitch,' he snarled, ignoring the short stab of pain in his back as he leaned forward too quickly, his gaze locked on the screen. Please, please, let the camera have gotten something.

The video lurched, the camera on the bill of the ball cap sweeping across the bricks of the alley in a blur as Marcus had spun to see behind him. When the picture refocused, the entrance to the alley was empty, just as he remembered. He'd begun running then, the camera jumping all over the place as he looked for the gunman or woman but when he got to the end of the alley, the shooter was gone.

The camera spun again as he'd turned back to see Tala lying on the asphalt, her polo shirt already soaked with blood.

'Sonofafuckingbitch.' The oath cracked out of the speaker as he watched himself run back to start first aid. 'Tala!'

Marcus sat back with a sigh. The camera had picked up nothing more than his eyes had. The video would be of no use to Scarlett Bishop.

Still, he rewound and watched again, this time focusing on Tala's mouth, turning up the volume at the point where he'd started first aid, hoping the camera's microphone had picked up more words than those he'd relayed to the police.

But once again, there was nothing new. Tala hadn't said anything else, at least not loudly enough to be recorded. He disconnected the hard drive from his confidential laptop, hooked it up to his official, on-the-books office computer, and sent the video files to Scarlett Bishop as he'd promised.

He glanced at the clock. Plenty of time before Gayle arrived. He needed to check the list of threats she'd been compiling for the past few years. He didn't believe there was any chance that he'd been the target, but if Gayle found him looking at the list, she'd know something was up. More importantly, if he was still here when she arrived, she'd take one look at him and know he'd been hurt. She'd make a fuss and then the whole staff would be in his business. Worse still, she would tell his mother.

He'd always trusted Gayle to keep his secrets and she'd never betrayed him, not even once in all the years he'd known her. And he'd asked her to keep some very big secrets. But she'd made it clear from the beginning that his physical health was one area that she would not keep from his mother.

Marcus wasn't sure his mother could stand the shock of hearing he'd been shot again. She seemed to be holding on by the slimmest of threads since Mikhail's murder. Hell, even his sister Audrey had been minding her Ps and Qs. She hadn't been arrested once in nine months.

Marcus would not be the one to upset the family apple cart. Not right now. He needed a few hours' sleep, a hot shower, and an ice pack for his back before he let any of them see him. But he'd promised Scarlett Bishop the list of threats, and Marcus O'Bannion kept his promises.

Once he'd sent her the list, he'd focus on the story. He'd give it to Stone. His brother was currently between the assignments he did for the magazine he worked for probably because he didn't want to leave the country while their mother was still so fragile. Whatever Stone's reasons for remaining local, he was available to write the story of Tala's murder.

And importantly, Stone was one of the few people Marcus trusted with all of the details. He'd make sure that Stone omitted the facts that Scarlett had requested, but his brother was a hell of an investigator. Marcus had a better chance of finding Tala's family with Stone's help.

He picked up his phone and speed-dialed Stone's cell. Not surprisingly, Stone answered on the first ring. His brother didn't sleep any more than Marcus did.

'What's up?' Stone asked, the television in the background going mute.

'I have a story I need you to cover.'

'Where? When?'

'Now. Here in the office. On your way, can you stop by my place and pick me up some clean clothes?' He didn't want to be seen going into his apartment wearing bloody jeans. 'And walk BB for me?' He shifted, the bruise on his back a reminder. 'And get the Kevlar vest from my bureau drawer. Should be second from the bottom.'

Stone was quiet for a moment. 'Um . . . why?'

'I'll tell you when you get here.' He brought up the threat list on his computer and sighed. 'You should wear a vest too. Just to be safe.'

Another pause. 'Safe from what?'

'I'll tell you when you get here,' he repeated. 'Thanks,' he added, and hung up before Stone could ask any more questions.

Marcus skimmed Gayle's list, his eyes going a little blurry, his lack of sleep starting to catch up with him. Coffee, stat. His brain needed to be alert so that he could catch all the threats he didn't want Scarlett or Deacon to see. If they saw certain information on this list, the two were smart enough to put two and two together and realize he was doing far more than reporting the news. He didn't want to leave any breadcrumbs leading back to him or his core staff, the handful of men and women he'd trusted enough to bring into his real business the real reason he'd kept this newspaper alive for years after it should have died a natural death like most other city dailies across the country.

He had a feeling Scarlett would respect his real business on a conceptual level. She might not agree with his tactics, however, and her disapproval could risk the livelihood and the freedom of the people who trusted him as much as he trusted them.

Unfortunately, not one of those trusted people was here to make the damn coffee. He pushed to his feet to make it himself, so that he could focus on keeping his promises.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 4.45 A.M.

That Marcus had another gun was a given in Scarlett's mind, and the fact of it had gnawed at her all the way home from the crime scene. He'd handed over his knife and his backup pistol, but not his main gun. What else was he hiding? And why?

He makes his living with the news. That explained it all. The press was made up of a bunch of slippery weasels, lying as easily as they breathed, always angling for the big story. She'd never met a newsman or woman who cared who they hurt. Still, she found herself hoping that Marcus was different. That he was the hero she wanted him to be.

You're setting yourself up for a major disappointment. More than likely he would run Tala's story, then go on to the next, never looking back.

Scarlett downshifted as she turned on to the narrow road that ended in front of her house, creating a T with her own street. The downside of living at the top of one of the city's steepest hills was that skilled driving and a four-wheel-drive vehicle were required to make it to the top during the winter. But snow and ice were months away and her little Audi, while rather elderly, was more than ready to take on the climb.

On those rare blizzardy days, she drove her ancient Land Cruiser. Twenty-five years old and affectionately called the Tank by her and her brothers, it had been bequeathed to Scarlett by their late Grandpa Al. Too big to fit in her garage, it sat in her driveway most of the year, unused. It was a pain in the ass to park anywhere in the city and gas mileage was practically zero, but it had plowed straight through six-foot drifts in the past and Scarlett planned to keep it for another twenty-five years. Being unaffected by even the worst weather left her free to fully enjoy the benefits of living at the top of the hill the most obvious being the killer views of both the city and the river from her upstairs windows.

That those upstairs windows enabled her to see anyone approaching by car or foot was an advantage that hadn't originally attracted her to the house but that had become something on which she relied. Being able to identify who'd come calling gave her time to transform herself into whichever Scarlett Bishop she needed to be by the time she answered the door calm, loving, patient Scarlett-Anne for her mother, professional, not-about-to-lose-it Detective Bishop for her father, just-one-of-the-guys Scar for her brothers, or let's-drink-wine-and-gossip Scarlett for any of the very small circle of girlfriends she'd trusted with her address.

Her mother, of course, presented the most critical challenge. Scarlett had to find a way to hide the aggression and violence that churned within her, shoving it down deep so that she could maintain the calm, collected persona she'd adopted for her mom for nearly a decade. Seeing who her daughter had truly become would break her mother's heart, and Scarlett would walk over hot coals before she allowed that to happen. Jackie Bishop had suffered enough loss already. Scarlett would be damned before she added to her mother's pain.

Greeting her father required the same burying of her aggression and rage, but for a very different reason. Her dad, a decorated Cincinnati PD cop, would report her state of mind to her superiors, getting her grounded so fast her head would spin. It would kill him to do it, but he would without hesitation. To protect me from myself. Because I'm not strong enough for the job. Her father had once said that she wasn't tough enough to survive the stresses of the police force. That she was too emotional, her heart too tender.

So she'd spent the last ten years proving him wrong.

Only to realize that he was right. She was too emotional. She'd been too angry for too long. She was a powder keg ready to blow, a danger to herself and others. Which made her unfit to serve. She knew this, but she didn't know any other life. So she protected the one she'd built.

Unfortunately her entire family was very perceptive, so Scarlett had spent the last ten years hiding her true self without completely disengaging. It was an exhausting tightrope to walk. But her brother Phin had broken relations with them all, and it was killing her parents, so Scarlett walked the line.

She was a good daughter. A good sister. The favorite auntie. She was even relearning to be a good friend.

Deacon's sister, Dani, and his fiancee, Faith, had drawn Scarlett in to their circle of friends. Dani was a doctor and Faith a psychologist, and both women saw too much. Spending time with them would have been threatening enough, but their circle also included Meredith Fallon, another shrink one of the most perceptive Scarlett had ever known.

Girls' nights were difficult, because they required Scarlett to share confidences and have actual fun while keeping up her guard. Her fledgling friendships with these women often felt like a minefield, but she had not been able to make herself back away. It had been ten long years since she'd had a true friend. Her heart seemed to soak it up, like rain falling on parched earth. She had a sudden urge to call them now and tell them that Marcus had called her tonight.

But I won't, of course. She'd kept her obsession with Marcus O'Bannion to herself for nine long months. That he'd called tonight meant nothing without that context. It only means something if he's been obsessing about me too. That the thought made her heart beat faster was pathetic. If he'd been interested, he would have done something about it. He would have called.

But he did call.