Headline: Murder. Maggie K. Black
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get her advice, nothing more. This wasn’t an interview. This was just coffee. Still, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that driving up to meet Daniel wasn’t really the same as slipping off to the courts in the middle of the day without telling Vince, the unsettled feeling inside her wasn’t convinced.
The thin rural road snaked past abandoned barns and ramshackle buildings, ragged from years of neglect. Broken windows peeked out from empty farmhouses. An empty strip mall loomed on her left, surrounded by a crude chained-metal barrier fence.
It was practically a ghost town.
“I can’t tell if we’re lost or not.” Ricky glanced at his cell phone. “I’ve got no signal now.”
They probably had another half hour before the sun began to set. Without streetlights there was no telling how dark this road would get. Then she saw a red-and-white awning ahead on her left next to a faded sign offering gas. A sigh of relief left her lungs.
“I think that’s it.” A bright green pickup truck sat on the edge of the gravel parking lot. There was fresh glass in the back window and bullet holes in the tailgate. “Actually, if you could pull just past the lot and park down the road a bit, that would be great.”
Ricky did so. “Everything okay?”
“Absolutely. Daniel just seemed really hesitant about whatever he wants to talk to me about. He must have stressed three times that this was going to be nothing more than a casual chat over coffee, and that this needed to be private. So I don’t want to spook him by showing up with a photographer, even if you’re mostly just here as a friend.”
“Got it.” Ricky grinned. “Actually, would you be okay if I drove back down the road a bit and tried to find a cell phone signal? I’d like to call my folks. They live about half an hour north of where we turned off the highway. If that megastorm hits early, we might be able to crash there tonight instead of driving back into the city.”
Dark clouds had already started to gather at the horizon. If the storm really was as bad as forecasters feared, the road back to Toronto might even flood. Might make sense to drive north and wait until the roads reopened. But the worst of the rain wasn’t supposed to hit until well after midnight. Surely they’d be back home long before then.
“Sure, just don’t be gone too long.”
“I won’t. Just going to drive back to the creepy clown motel. Shouldn’t take me more than thirty minutes. Forty tops.”
“Sounds good.” She got out of the car and walked toward the truck stop. Humid air tickled her skin. Bells clanged gently as she stepped through the doorway. Daniel was sitting at a table by the window. He looked up and gave her a slight wave. An unexpected shiver ran down her arms. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this nervous about meeting someone for coffee.
Get hold of yourself, Olivia. This isn’t really “meeting a guy for coffee.” It’s hardly a date. He’s a potential story source and witness to a murder.
She smiled professionally and started toward him, memorizing him down to every last detail. He had broad shoulders and strong arms. His plaid shirt was faded and the top two buttons were open. Dark eyes like mocha gazed straight into hers, with a look that was friendly yet also determined not to let her too deeply inside. He was unconventionally good-looking, with the air of a man who was used to keeping secrets.
Who are you, Daniel Ash? And how are you connected to Brian Leslie’s murder?
“Olivia! Hi!” He stood. He was taller than she’d realized. At least six foot four. Maybe taller. His hand reached for hers. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, properly.”
His smile was warm. Unexpectedly, she could feel a genuine smile tugging at the corner of her own lips, too. “It’s honestly really nice to meet you, too.”
They shook hands. His grip was surprisingly gentle. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m just fine. Thanks to you.” She felt herself blush. “You saved my life.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I was there.”
Yes, but why had he been there in that parking garage?
They sat. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. How could she simply press him for information knowing that the last time she’d seen him, he’d cradled her into his arms and carried her to safety? Yet how could she feel this close to a man she knew practically nothing about? Come on, Olivia. Think like a reporter. “Well, I’m glad you knew what to do. The whole thing was like something out of a nightmare. Am I right in remembering you said you were a bodyguard?”
He nodded. “I used to be, yes.”
“So you’re a fighter, then?”
He laughed, a warm chuckle that seemed to roll off his shoulders. “I’m anything but. When you’re a head taller than most people, with muscle to match, you learn it doesn’t take a lot to hurt them, even without meaning to. The way I saw it, my job was to de-escalate violence and get my clients away from bad situations, not escalate trouble. So I’d use force, obviously, but only wisely and only when needed. Other bodyguards used to joke that I didn’t actually need weapons, I just needed to stand there and look imposing. Used to call me the gentle giant.”
“No weapons, huh?” Her gaze dropped to his muscular arms, now resting on the table. There was so much she wanted to know. “So you’re not into guns?”
He frowned. “I don’t have a license to carry a handgun or anything like that, if that’s what you’re asking. I do own a shotgun, though. But just for hunting birds.”
He looked bothered by the question for some reason. She changed the topic back to the safer territory. “How long were you overseas?”
“Oh, years.” He ran one hand through his hair. “When I was still in high school, I got a security job for a company here. By the time I was twenty-one the boss was taking me with him on business. I was always pretty tall and I used to have a full beard, too, so I guess I looked pretty scary. Then I got hired by a personal security company overseas. Mostly I’d escort foreign businesspeople around and keep them out of trouble.”
“That’s amazing.” Fragments of him speeding through the smoke-filled garage flickered in the back of her mind. “Did you ever escort any journalists?”
“A few. Mostly in and out of war zones.”
Wow. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “It’s only really dangerous if the person you’re protecting doesn’t follow directions. When someone’s protecting you it’s vital you’re able to do what you’re told without argument. The last thing you want is someone freaking out and running off madly. I mean, sometimes running is what keeps you alive. But sometimes running can get you killed, if you run in the wrong direction. A lot of the time, I had to subtly alert people of danger without causing them to panic, or even ask questions.”
She leaned forward. “Can you give me an example?”
“Of how I’d warn someone of danger?” he asked. “Okay, your initials are OB, right? Say we were together and I spotted something. I might tap out your initials in Morse code on a surface, or even on your arm.”
His fingers hovered over her wrist for a moment, like he was about to tap lightly on her skin. Then he pulled back and tapped the table beside it—one long beat, three short, three long. She watched his fingers as they moved.
“I can’t imagine why you’d ever give up that life to come back to Canada.”
She looked up. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Sadness maybe? Regret?
Then he blinked again, the unguarded flash of emotion was gone and only the politeness of an acquaintance remained. “Carpentry has always been a passion of mine, too. So I was happy to