She almost smiled. Almost.
AT 1600, CHARLIE INSISTEDon leaving the apartment.
She had the gala shots sitting on a drive that needed to get to Morty's office. Deliverables didn't wait, even when someone was shredding your life's work and leaving it on your doorstep.
"I can take the drive myself," I said.
"Morty's my editor, not yours. He'll want to review the shots with me. Besides." She grabbed her jacket. "I've been staring at screens for eight hours. If I don't move, I'll start climbing walls. Literally."
I believed her. I'd watched her pace three times in the last hour, energy coiling tighter with nowhere to go.
We took my SUV. The afternoon was gray and cold, February in Cupid City, the river fog already creeping up the streets. She sat in the passenger seat scrolling through the shots on her camera, selecting the strongest frames. Jaw set, posture straight, no trace of the woman who'd been sorting through confetti six hours ago. If I hadn't been there for both versions, I wouldn't have believed they were the same person.
Morty's office took twenty minutes. I waited in the SUV, engine running, eyes on the entrance of Giovanni's Pizza and the staircase above it. She came out carrying a check and complaining about Morty's feedback.
"He wants more Tully. The man's a senator with a mistress, how much more does he need?"
"That's between you and your editorial standards."
"My editorial standards are impeccable. Morty's are driven by clicks and spite."
The drive back took us east on Market, through the tail end of rush hour. Traffic was heavy but moving. I had the route mapped: left on Fourth, right on River Road, straight shot back to her building. Routine.
The car came out of nowhere.
A dark sedan, midsize, tinted windows, ran the red light at Fourth and Market and clipped the SUV hard on the passengerside. Metal shrieked. The impact slammed Charlie against her seatbelt and threw my hands off the wheel for a half-second before I corrected, fighting the skid, tires screaming on wet pavement.
The sedan didn't stop. It accelerated through the intersection, rear tires fishtailing, and was two blocks ahead before I got the SUV straight.
Charlie was braced against the dashboard, breathing hard. "What the hell —"
I was already reading the plate. Partial: first three characters, maybe four. I burned them into memory and grabbed my phone.
"Cass. Sideswipe on Market and Fourth. Dark sedan, midsize, tinted windows. Partial plate: Kilo-Bravo-Seven-Four, first four characters. Hit Charlie's side. Ran the light, made contact, kept going."
"Intentional?"
"The hit was on her side." I looked at Charlie. She was pale, one hand gripping the door handle, the other pressed against her ribs where the seatbelt had caught. "Could be road rage. Could be targeted. The approach angle and acceleration pattern say targeted."
"Get her home. Stay locked in."
"Are you hurt?"
"No." She released the door handle. Her fingers were white. "Ribs are sore. Seatbelt did its job." She stared at the road ahead, then back at the intersection where it had happened. "That wasn't an accident."
"No."
"Should we call the police?"
"Your call. But think about what happens if we do."
She was quiet for a moment. "Cops hate Cupid Confidential. They've threatened to investigate our methods twice. If I walkinto a precinct, they'll ask how I got those photos, and then I'll be the one answering questions."
"There's another angle. Feds are circling Kiser. If this connects to a bigger operation, involving local PD could tip someone off or get buried by corruption."
"So what do we do?"
"We let Heartline gather evidence. Build the full picture. When we have enough, we hand it all to the feds as a package: the threats, the shredded photos, the plate, whatever turns up on the money trail. One shot, done right."
