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that perhaps she did take the relic?” Eastwood was barely able to contain a snarl. “And perhaps killed the home owner when he discovered she was a thief, and then dreamed up this entire nonsensical story because she knew that you, as her future brother-in-law, would believe her?”
    “No,” Paavo said pointedly. “I would not consider such a scenario credible.”
    Eastwood’s face reddened. “I’ve been told that you were my best inspector, Smith. I’m sorry to see that you’re allowing your personal life to get in the way of this investigation. It makes me think I’m making a mistake in allowing you to continue with this case.”
    Paavo’s gaze never wavered. “I can handle it.”
    Eastwood’s face betrayed his suspicions. “Can you?”
    To that, Paavo turned and walked out the door.

Chapter 7
    Paavo was with her. Angie rested her head on his shoulder and flung her arm across his chest. He gazed down at her, his face, his sensitive mouth, near hers. She snuggled closer. “I want . . . ” she whispered lovingly. “I want . . . ”
    “Whatever it is, li’l lady,” a man with a southern accent said. “I’m sure as hell the one to give it to you.”
    Angie opened her eyes to find her head on a stranger’s shoulder. Abruptly, she scrambled upright. “Excuse me.”
    The big man grinned. “Anytime.”
    She faced forward in the narrow airplane seat, her face on fire. She sat near the tail, center section, three seats in from the aisle. Her sister had gotten the last first-class seat and wasn’t about to give it up to spend ten hours worth of quality time with Angie.
    As a result, some of the most disgusting hours of Angie’s life had been spent crammed between two gargantuan men who’d grown increasingly smelly as the hours on the hot and stuffy plane crept by. One had fallen asleep and slumped in his chair so that he flopped halfway onto her seat. No wonder her head ended up on his shoulder. The other stayed awake all night long and played video games on a Game Boy. He kept the sound on, low enough that only he—and she—could hear it. She was sure she’d pow! whap! and oomph! him before the flight ever touched down.
    Earlier, she had used the air phone to call Paavo’s house, not his cell, and had to admit to being relieved when he didn’t pick up. The more she thought about it, the more worried she became about leaving the country with Cat. They never should have done it. She had visions of the Italian police, wearing highly polished black boots and high-crowned caps with shiny black visors, waiting for them as they stepped off the plane to whisk them away to some dank dungeon for questioning.
    Unfortunately, the more she thought about it, the more she suspected Rocco was a murderer. Why else was he seen running from the house almost immediately after the gun had been fired, and carrying the chain of St. Peter? Cat had to realize that as well, only refused to admit it. Angie wondered if her sister was having some obscure denial syndrome so she wouldn’t have to face up to the inherent danger of what she was doing.
    Angie couldn’t help but suspect that the chain wasn’t nearly as worthless as Cat thought. Men had killed for a lot less than an artifact believed to be “priceless.” Especially since the chain was thought to have been missing, and someone—presumably Rocco—had called Cat’s office manager, pretended he was Marcello, and accused her of stealing it.
    The logic of that made no sense, however. Why would Rocco complain about someone stealing the chain if he were stealing it himself? And if not Rocco, who had it been?
    All she knew was that the situation Cat was heading into was very likely a lot more dangerous than her sister imagined, and she couldn’t let Cat face it alone.
    She was glad she didn’t have to attempt to explain her actions to Paavo. She wasn’t sure she could, except that Cat was her sister, and despite Cat’s brave and annoyingly obnoxious front,