The Raven Master. Diana Whitney

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      Prologue

      Los Angeles, 2006

      The police station smelled of sweat and stale coffee. It sounded like the bargain basement of a New York department store. And with the outdated central air-conditioning in desperate need of repair, it was hotter than the depths of hell.

      Unruffled, photojournalist Shannon Hunt fanned her face with a discarded file folder and wondered how many stories could be ferreted out of this room by a canny fly-on-the-wall reporter. Dozens, she imagined, possibly more.

      The amusement that tugged on her lips blossomed into a smile when Carmela Holden, a captain in Vice for thirty-plus years, strode through the door and barked her name.

      “My office.” She glared at the desk sergeant. “No interruptions.”

      Inside, Holden rounded her desk. “Dye your hair,” she said without preface.

      Shannon’s brows went up. “Excuse me?”

      The captain stared hard. “Dye it, cut it, buy a pair of glasses, sell your house.”

      “Condo. And again, excuse me?”

      “Frankie Maco got twelve years in San Quentin.”

      “I know. I testified at the trial.”

      “Testified and were threatened.”

      “Very subtly, Captain, by a nephew who was high at the time.”

      “You didn’t notice Frankie grinning like a Cheshire cat in the background?”

      “What I saw was a grimace, probably of pain over his nephew’s pathetic demeanor.”

      “A threat’s a threat, to my mind. And twelve years doesn’t cut it for me. I wanted twenty-five. He deserved that for the cocaine in his storehouse alone.”

      Shannon knew where this was going. She’d worked at a high-profile L.A. newsmagazine for the past eighteen months, had, in fact, contributed a good portion of the photo and video evidence that had set Frankie up. “Come on, Captain…” she began, but Holden slapped her palms on the desk.

      “No, you come on, Hunt. I have a daughter who reminds me so much of you it’s almost scary. All you’ve got on her is ten years, a skull as thick as granite and the tenacity of her boyfriend’s bull terrier.”

      Shannon crossed to the desk, planted her palms on it and met the woman’s stare. “Flattery won’t work, Carmela. I’d look ridiculous as a brunette, and I’ve done my homework. Frankie Maco’s not a killer.”

      “That you know of.”

      “He’s also not overly powerful beyond the city limits.”

      “That you know of.”

      “What I know is that he has a totally screwed-up family and a handful of street connections.”

      “Lots of screwed-up family and many street connections.”

      “He also has enemies and rivals and an arthritic mother he’s taken care of for the past fifteen years.”

      “People around him have been known to disappear.”

      “And more than one of them has turned up again.”

      “Doesn’t account for the dozen who haven’t.” Smoldering, Holden hit a key on her computer, swiveled the monitor. “I’ve got a new name for you, as well as a revamped portfolio and an altered family history. No more army brat. You’ll be Darcy Nolan, only child of Boston real estate agents Ann and Jerry Nolan. Your parents retired five years ago, died within eight months of each other. You’ve got an Irish-Swedish background, so go red with the hair and wear green contacts. I can have a job lined up for you in a day. Anywhere but here.”

      Shannon continued to stare, but there was no malice in it. How could she dislike a woman who had her safety at heart? “Your daughter’s going to rebel, Holden.”

      “I’ll deal with that if and when.”

      “I don’t want to—”

      “Think about it.” The captain pinned her hand before she could draw away. “Really think about who and what Frankie Maco is. How he operates.”

      Shannon regarded her trapped fingers, then narrowed her eyes on the woman’s face. “All right, I’ll think. I’ll even research his extended family. But I won’t,” she said with the barest trace of humor, “dye my hair. I’m a blonde and I’m staying that way.”

      “Best I could have hoped for.” Releasing her, the captain shut off her monitor. “Watch your back, Hunt.”

      SHE WISHED HOLDEN hadn’t said that because she’d been feeling twitchy ever since the trial ended. No, before that, actually. Facts were facts, however, and no one in or out of his organization had ever accused Frankie Maco of murder.

      Of course, there was always that first time. And what Maco couldn’t do from behind bars, his son, siblings or grandchildren might.

      Shannon glanced in the rearview mirror. There was no one behind her on the exit ramp, no one trailing her along the dark street, and no one lying in wait when she reached her Tujunga Canyon home. She was letting Holden’s fears get to her. And СКАЧАТЬ