Line Of Sight. Rachel Caine
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and was about to hang up when she hesitated. “Kayla? Is Jazz okay? Physically?”
“As far as I can tell.” Her friend’s voice was tight. “I want to take her to the hospital. Just to be sure.”
It was what Katie would have advised, but she was glad she didn’t have to. Kayla had enough on her mind.
“Do that. I’m on my way,” she promised and flipped the phone closed.
The paramedic, frowning, rushed into the silence. “Agent, you can’t go anywhere before those ribs are X-rayed,” he said. “They might be broken.”
“They’re not broken,” she said and pulled on her jacket after tucking the FBI identification flap back into its Velcro pocket. “You got forms for me to sign? Because you have one minute to get them in front of me before I’m gone.”
She didn’t wait for him; he could damn well catch up. She strode off, looking for Evangelista, and found him talking with two other agents. They all nodded to her.
“I need a minute,” she said. Evangelista gave the other two a crisp dismissal and turned to her with his full attention. “Two girls have been abducted in Phoenix. One other girl got away, she’s the kid of a friend of mine. I need some personal time, okay? E-mail the paperwork to my Web account. I’ll get it completed tonight.”
“Katie, you sure that’s a good idea? You took a couple of hard hits. Paramedics released you?”
“Sure.” She lied like the professional she was. “Good to go?”
“Can I stop you?” He shrugged. “I’ll need you to make yourself available tomorrow sometime for a recorded statement. If you need me to make a call to the Phoenix field office, let me know.”
He extended his hand. She shook it briskly, not letting the pain in her ribs show. “No heroics, Rush,” he reminded her.
“No, sir. No heroics.”
That was it. He turned away and was immediately lost in the wash of detail and documentation that was the bane of every investigator’s existence.
“Sign here,” said the paramedic, appearing at her shoulder with a metal clipboard and pen. He pointed to a line, and she scribbled her name. “Agent, seriously, get yourself checked out wherever you’re going. Those ribs don’t look good.”
“I’m fine,” she said, and remembered to smile at him. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“My job.” He nodded. No smile back. She supposed she was screwing up his ability to do his work. It occurred to her, a little late, that he was pretty cute—her type, too, with big dark eyes and nice shoulders. Ah well. She didn’t have time for romance, anyway. She never did.
She retrieved her car, parked three blocks away, and drove to the airport without stopping for anything.
Chapter 2
The girl leaning over the table was wearing the tiniest orange bikini he’d ever seen. Stefan was a connoisseur of bikinis—some people watched birds or butterflies; he watched girls in outrageously small scraps of fabric. Today was a spectacular day for it, in fact—a cloudless deep-blue sky, a cool ocean breeze, a bright summer sun. Venice Beach at its finest, and the girls were in full bloom.
Life, he reflected, was very good to him. A great profession, a great place to live, stimulation of all kinds. Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all.
He didn’t look at the deck of cards he was shuffling, just smiled at the girl in the orange bikini and the other girls crowded around his table. An invisibly fast motion of his little finger, and a card slid out of the deck he was manipulating and spun across the smooth marble surface of the café table toward the orange bikini. The girl squealed in excitement, grabbed the card and held it up for the admiring oohs and aahs of her friends. Four friends, to be exact, and every one a sculpted marvel. Not natural, of course. Venice Beach had more girls with breast implants than it did grains of sand on the beach, or at least it seemed that way these days. Not that Stefan minded, really. Nature was wonderful, but the human race had always been inclined to decorate.
And these girls…well, they were very, very decorative.
He gave them a charming smile, and they all smiled back, crowding closer. His hands were still moving on their own, shuffling, fanning, dazzling. It was a nervous habit now, something he did without even thinking about it. Illusion wasn’t his main source of income, but it was his passion, and it kept him on the streets, where he belonged.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing!” the girl in the orange bikini—Heather?—said, and showed him the queen of hearts he’d flipped her. “Stefan, do it again! Please?”
“Put it back in the deck. Anywhere.” He didn’t look, and his hands never stopped. She slid the card in, and he did the trick again, faster this time. The cool slap of the cards on his fingers was soothing. Relaxing. It was a kind of meditation for him, card tricks, and of course, it got the girls to lean closer. That was never a bad thing.
When the queen of hearts spun out this time, flipping in midair to land faceup, they all squealed. He followed it with the rest of the suit, in order, never looking down. It was his own trick, invented on long, lonely nights when he hadn’t felt like company. He didn’t sleep much, never had. He’d been up at dawn this morning, down on the beach with a cup of Starbucks’ finest, watching the sun gild the waves in rolling gold.
“Wow,” Heather breathed and looked up, delight shining in her eyes. That was what he loved about magic…. It really did magical things, even if it was only illusion. It made people feel a sense of wonder, and that could never be underestimated. “Stefan, you are amazing!”
He winked at her. “Better save your praise. We just met. I could get better, you know.”
They all laughed, breathless and excited. He couldn’t understand what his attraction was for women; he couldn’t really see it when he looked in the mirror. He was a collection of flaws: not tall enough, a little broad in the shoulders, gypsy-dark skin at least three shades off the golden glow that Californians seemed to crave. His hair curled, and he’d given up styling it; it just cascaded wild and black around his face and down past his collar. His nose was too large, his eyes so dark brown they looked black. No, he was hardly the California ideal, and he was overdressed for the nearly naked dress code of Venice Beach in loose low-slung jeans and a roomy black cotton shirt over a red sleeveless undershirt.
And yet, he was surrounded by girls so hot that he was surprised the wooden floor didn’t catch fire around them. Ah well. His cross to bear, he supposed.
Heather slid onto the bench beside him, and a girl in a blue thong bikini slipped in on the other side. “Ladies,” he said. “Are you trying to distract me? Or learn my secrets? I promise, there’s nothing up my sleeves.”
Heather leaned over, and her tongue touched his earlobe, a gentle wet caress that made him pause in his shuffling and close his eyes to control a deep, satisfying shudder. Oh, yes. He liked Venice Beach. “How about here?” she asked, and her hand moved on his leg under the table.
“Naughty,” he said, and actually jumped when the girl on his other side moved, too. “Okay, that’s—naughtier.”
They giggled. Stefan started shuffling again, fumbling one or two cards, trying to think how to get himself out of this gracefully. Or at least how to retain as much of his mystery and dignity as possible while succumbing. After all, if it was beyond his control, who could blame him….
Over one of the girls’ bronzed shoulders a TV was soundlessly playing on a twenty-four-hour news channel. He fixed on it, trying to take his mind off the girls while still enjoying what they were doing, and read the text crawling at the bottom of the screen. BREAKING NEWS, it read. DUAL ABDUCTION IN PHOENIX…
It hit him in a rush of light and color and sickening sensation. Cold. Cold metal floor. Vibrations. Light leaking in through tinted, curtained windows. Fingers