Now would be a good time for him to take a few candid shots of his own. Though he wasn’t the official photographer, the pictures helped him in writing up the gushy junk his editor wanted. Once he’d saved the day when the real photographer’s equipment had been stolen along with all the wedding pictures. If one of his photos was actually used, it meant more money in his pocket.
He recognized Mrs. Shipley speaking to her daughter. Ah. A lovely candid mother-and-daughter moment. Daughter, wearing a more demure outfit than her bridesmaids—the skirt was Prada and maybe the top, too—and the mother conservatively attired in St. John Knits.
Barry held his breath, took the photo, then exhaled. He recognized fashion designers now. No real man should be able to do that.
Barry snapped more pictures—gotta love digital cameras—then looked around for the groom’s family. Still none present, as far as Barry could see.
Paula and the secretary, both talking on cell phones, hurried down the center aisle. From the side entrance, the Whitfield florist began bringing in the now-assembled candelabra. Finally, some action.
Barry zoomed in on the face of the tough, serious-looking groom and a no-neck guy who looked like a bodyguard. Generally, the reactions of men as they’re confronted with wedding excess were always good for a laugh and blackmail-quality photos. But the expression of this groom and the man standing next to him was lethally cold—and aimed right at Barry.
Something told Barry to keep taking pictures even as the two men turned away.
And then someone told him to stop.
“Sir.”
The man without a neck thrust a hand over the lens. He’d moved fast for such a big guy. “You’ll have to come with me, sir. We are not allowing photographs.”
“Back off, fella, I’m the press.”
Barry carefully set his camera out of reach and dug for his press card—the real one. He had a feeling this guy knew the difference.
Mr. No Neck studied the ID card, then grinned, revealing gold-framed front teeth. “Lifestyle? You mean parties and clothes and girlie stuff?” And Barry had to endure The Look, the one that questioned his manhood.
“It’s a living.” He accompanied this with a category-one smile—the bland, I’m-just-doing-my-job kind.
No Neck spoke into his watch, or something that resembled a watch, as he pressed his ear. In the meantime, Barry palmed a blank photo disk, just in case.
“You can stay, but no pictures and give me the disk.” No Neck extended a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.
“Aw, come on. Give me a break. The paper didn’t send a photographer with me.”
No Neck gestured to the balcony. “He’s the photographer.”
Barry hesitated just long enough to make it believable, fiddled with his camera and handed No Neck the empty disk he’d palmed earlier.
“Thank you, sir.” The man hulked down the aisle and stationed himself near the side entrance, hands in the classic fig-leaf stance.
Okay, this was getting interesting. That was more than annoyance he’d seen on the groom’s face. There was a reason he didn’t want to be photographed and there was a reason the groom and this guy had taken positions from which they could survey the entire sanctuary while leaving their backs protected.
Barry’s reporter’s instinct kicked in. He wanted to know those reasons.
While everyone milled around waiting for the missing matron of honor and cast anxious glances at the double doors behind him, Barry got on the Internet with his laptop to check out the groom’s background. He still had some active accounts at sites not publicly available, thanks to connections he’d made and kept.
Smiling to himself, Barry clicked through the information he found. According to what he read, Augustus Hargrove, he of the threatening stare and suspicious friend, had a background as pure as the driven snow. Not so much as a parking ticket showed up. Right. The guy had to have drifted somewhere. Barry knew his type and his type always had an excess of testosterone that leaked out in a bar fight or something similar.
The man was apparently a “security specialist” for pity’s sake. Everyone knew that was just code for ex-military or ex-secret agent. Really, once spies retired, what else could they do?
Hargrove Security Systems was a relatively new business, so what had Augustus Hargrove been up to before that?
The guy’s background had been whitewashed. Very nice job. The problem was that it was too nice. It didn’t fit a man who could look so threatening in a church.
Barry dug around some more. Any story he uncovered that was connected with this wedding was playing by the rules as far as he was concerned. The managing editor couldn’t expect him to just ignore a hunch, could he?
How had Little Miss Party Girl hooked up with the guy?
Barry started in on Sally Shipley’s movements for the past year, oblivious to when the wedding rehearsal began, coming up for air only when people passed him on their way out of the church.
Great. He’d pay for that later. But right now, he wanted to ask the groom some questions. So where was the groom? He hadn’t been with the bride and her friends as they’d passed by. Barry packed up his laptop and strode toward the front of the church.
He was supposed to be concentrating on the bride, her bridesmaids and this afternoon’s trip to the spa. Barry didn’t want to miss the trip to the spa. That’s where most of the society reporters went wrong. The gossip factor was incredible once women got together with mud, or whatever it was, on their faces. Although he would never admit it, Barry booked manicures for himself to gain entry. Usually just a nail buffing, but being around had paid off big-time more than once.
However, today, he was more interested in the groom. Too bad he couldn’t be in two places at the same time.
In the church foyer, he spotted a cluster of men listening to Paula give them some kind of instructions. Though Augustus Hargrove wasn’t among them, Barry edged toward the men. As soon as Paula turned her attention to the bridesmaids, Barry began his usual interview patter along with the ceremonial flashing of the ID.
“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press. Do you have time to answer a few questions?” He spoke to the group at large and waited for someone to answer him.
Someone did. “Tee time is in a half hour, man.”
“This won’t take long.” Barry took down their names and learned that they were all related to the bride. “And where is the groom?” Barry kept his smile casual and friendly.
“Gus is out front.”
Okay. Paula began herding everyone outside, so Barry followed. Two stretch limos waited next to the curb. Barry knew one of the drivers, but not the other. Quickly introducing himself, he made a note of the new guy’s name while the bridal party headed toward the white limo and the groom’s party piled into the black stretch Lincoln Navigator—an SUV on steroids.
And behind that was an unmarked white van, prickling with antenna. Augustus stood next to it and as Barry
