by Linda Turner
“Spoilsport.”
Her efforts to move him about as effective as a gnat’s, she dropped his hand and squared off in front of him like Sugar Ray Leonard. “Don’t make me get tough with you.”
“At last she’s going to get physical!” he teased, his eyes laughing at her. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
“Blake—”
When she used that tone, he knew she meant business. “Okay, okay. You win.” Though he was left with no choice but to back off, he had no intention of going far. Not until he had some answers. Reluctantly, he pushed himself to his feet. “Enjoy your victory, Jones. The next one may be a long time coming.”
Shooting one last, searching look at her desk, he turned away and gave every appearance of leaving as he headed for the exit. But just before he reached it, he glanced back over his shoulder and found Sabrina in a serious discussion with the detective, who was carefully examining a sheet of paper on her desk. That was all the opening Blake needed.
Stopping at the water fountain in the hall to talk to a pretty young copy girl who looked like she was hardly old enough to be out of high school, he shot her his most charming smile, pushed his cowboy hat up off his forehead, and prayed she hadn’t heard of him as he introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Blake Nickels. I came with Detective Kelly—”
Her blue eyes bright with shy interest, she said huskily, “I saw you when you came in. Are you a detective, too?”
“Not quite,” he hedged, and told himself it wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t actually misrepresented himself, which would have been unethical—he’d just let her jump to her own conclusions because he had no other choice. If he identified himself as a reporter with the Times, she and everyone else in the building would send him packing as fast as Sabrina had. Pulling out his notebook, he said, “I was hoping you could answer some questions for me.”
“About the note Sabrina got?”
“You know about it?”
“Oh, sure. The news went through the building like wildfire. The killer just walked in and left the note on her desk.”
In the process of reaching for the pen in his shirt pocket, Blake glanced up at her in surprise. “Someone saw him?”
She hesitated, then had the grace to blush. “Well, no, not exactly. But how else could it have gotten there if he didn’t deliver it in person? All the employees have been questioned, and no one knows a thing about it.”
She had a point, one that Blake didn’t like one little bit. Tanya Bishop’s killer was no stumbling novice. The man—he’d heard of no evidence that pointed to the sex of the murderer, but his gut was telling him it had to be a man—had been smart and cunning enough to surprise her, then kill her without leaving a single clue. Just the thought of him walking into the Daily Record and finding Sabrina’s desk without anyone being the wiser turned Blake’s blood cold. If the bastard could track her down so easily at work, what was to stop him from following her home?
His expression darkening at the thought, he said tersely, “That must have been a hell of a note, if he was willing to take that kind of risk to deliver it. Any idea what was in it? I haven’t seen it yet.”
The girl nodded, indignation sparkling in her blue eyes. “It was a bunch of garbage about women not knowing their place and taking jobs away from men. Supposedly, that’s why Tanya Bishop was killed. She was warned to stay home where she belonged and she laughed in the jerk’s face.”
His pen flying over the pages of his notebook in his own brand of shorthand, Blake took down every word and could already see the headlines. But the elation he should have felt at outsmarting Sabrina in her own backyard just wasn’t there. Not when she had drawn the attention of a murderer. He tried to tell himself that he would have been disturbed by the thought of any colleague receiving what sounded like a threatening note—it was nothing personal. But this felt distinctly, disturbingly, personal.
“Did I say something wrong? You look awful mad all of a sudden.”
Glancing up from his notes, he found the copy girl staring at him with a puzzled frown. “No,” he said quietly, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t come as easily as it usually did. “You didn’t say anything wrong. My mind just wandered for a second. Is that the gist of the note?”
She nodded. “Pretty much. Except that it was a warning to other professional women that the same thing could happen to them if they’re not careful.”
To Blake, that sounded more like a threat than a warning, one directed right at Sabrina. And if she didn’t have the sense to recognize that, she wasn’t as smart as he thought she was. Thanking the copy girl for her help, he returned to the city room to find Sabrina pounding out a story on her computer while Detective Kelly questioned the other Record staff members.
Crossing the room in four long strides, Blake came up behind her and boldly began to read the opening paragraph on her monitor. “That’d better not be what I think it is, Jones.”
Startled, she whirled in her chair, her hand flying to her throat. “Damn you, Nickels! You scared the stuffing out of me! What are you doing here? I thought I told you to leave.”
He grinned, but there was little humor in his eyes when he said, “Nobody scares me off a story that easy, honey, especially a shrimp like you.” Dropping with lazy grace into the chair positioned across from her desk, he nodded to her computer monitor, where the opening lines of her story were still clearly visible. “You’re not really going to print the contents of that note, are you?”
“Not print it?” she choked, swivelling the monitor so he could no longer see the screen. “Are you out of your mind? Of course I’m going to print it!”
“Don’t you think that’s a mistake? What if it’s bogus? You’ll come off looking like a fool.”
“I’d rather risk that than not let the professional women of this city know that there’s a psychopath out there with a vendetta against them. This man, whoever he is, doesn’t live in a vacuum, Blake. Somebody out there knows him, and when they read his note in the paper, they just might come forward. Anyway, the note’s not bogus. If you don’t believe me, ask Sam.”
Dammit, he didn’t have to ask Sam. He’d heard enough from the copy girl to know that she was right. And that’s what worried him. “Then that’s just one more reason not to print it,” he said stubbornly. “If the killer really wrote it, he didn’t send it to you because he wanted to be friends or give you the scoop of the century. It was a threat to you and every other career woman out there, and you’ll only encourage him if you print it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “You’re just ticked because I’ve got the inside track on the best story to hit this town in years. You know you’re going to lose our bet and it’s driving you up the wall.” Daring to smile at him, she goaded sweetly, “Better save your pennies, cowboy. You’re going to need them, and then some.”
Frustrated, his hands curling into fists to keep from reaching across her desk to shake the stuffing out of her, Blake couldn’t for the life of him understand why he was so burned. He didn’t want to see her or anyone else get hurt, but the lady meant nothing to him. Oh, he liked her well enough, but he’d always been a sap for smart, independent women. He liked bran, too, but he knew better than to overindulge. And Sabrina Jones was definitely an indulgence he wanted no part of, especially after Trina had made a fool out of him. He was concerned, just as he would be for any other woman who was standing on the edge of disaster and didn’t know it.
Still, she could obviously take care of herself. She might look as soft as a powder puff, but underneath that cloud of silky black curls and the soft blouses and skirts that emphasized her femininity was a woman who had a reputation for being tough when it came to her work. If she wasn’t worried about developing a tenuous relationship with the killer, why should he be?
Because two other career women had no doubt once thought they could take care of themselves, too. And now they were dead.
“This has nothing to do with the damn b
et,” he said curtly, pushing to his feet. “I was just concerned for your safety, but I guess that’s not my problem, is it?” Not waiting for an answer, he headed for the door.
He walked away from Sabrina because she hadn’t given much choice, but there was no way in hell he was walking away from the story, he decided as he pulled out of the Record’s parking lot a few minutes later. There was a reason the killer had sent it to Sabrina, and he meant to find out what it was—with or without her cooperation.
And there was no better place to start his investigation than with the lady herself. When she found out about it, she was going to be madder than a wet hen. Grinning at the thought, he stopped at a convenience store and borrowed a phone book to look up her address. Seconds later, he was headed for the near north side.
She lived off St. Mary’s Street in an older neighborhood that had once been quite nice but had declined as the city grew. Most of the homes were wood-framed, with wide porches, many of them sagging and sad-looking. More often than not, graffiti marked fences and walls, a by-product of the gangs that had taken over the area and claimed it as their own. It went without saying that crime was high.
There were pockets of hope, though, Blake noted. A cluster of homes here and there, even a whole block where homeowners were trying to reclaim their neighborhood. Here, the homes were painted and restored, the yards mowed. And it was here that Sabrina lived.
Parking at the curb in front of her house, Blake found himself smiling at the sight of it. Somehow, out of all the houses on the street, he would have known without asking that this one was Sabrina’s. The winding walk that led from the curb to her front porch was bracketed with flower beds that were bursting with wildflowers, and on the porch itself were bright pots of geraniums and begonias that were as thick as thieves. Every yard on the street seemed to have flower beds, but while the others were neatly trimmed and organized, Sabrina’s were wild and free and bold with color. Just like the woman herself, he thought with a frown. And it was that boldness that was going to get her into trouble if she wasn’t careful.
But that wasn’t why he was there, he reminded himself grimly. The killer had made Sabrina a part of his story when he’d delivered that note to her. Until the murderer was identified and caught, Sabrina was the only living tie to the man that anyone was aware of, and Blake meant to find out why. What it was about her that attracted the killer’s attention?
Studying the homes of her neighbors, he decided to check the one on the left, where there were two cars in the driveway. The old lady who answered the door was round and jolly, with a double chin and inquisitive blue eyes that twinkled behind the lenses of her glasses. Lifting a delicately arched brow at him, she said, “Yes? May I help you?”
“I certainly hope so, ma’am.” Introducing himself, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and showed her his credentials. “I’m Blake Nickels, with the Times. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Sabrina Jones?”
Alarmed, her easy smile faltered. “Why? Has something happened to her?”
“No, she’s fine,” Blake quickly assured her. “In fact, I just left her a few minutes ago at the Daily Record.” Knowing there was no way he was going to find anything out about Sabrina without her friends’ cooperation, he quickly told the older woman about the note. “The police are aware of the situation and are checking out the note in the hopes that it will lead them to Tanya Bishop’s murderer, but I’m more inclined to check out Sabrina. The killer didn’t just pick her name out of a hat. He chose her for a reason. I was hoping you or one of the other neighbors might be able to tell me why by giving me some information about her background.”
For a moment, Blake thought she was going to turn him down flat. Not committing herself one way or the other, she studied him through the screen door, then nodded as if coming to a silent decision and pushed open the door. “I’m Martha Anderson. Come on in. If Sabrina’s in trouble, I want to help.”
Blake only meant to ask her a few questions, but the old lady was obviously lonely and hungry for visitors. After settling him at her kitchen table, she fixed them each a glass of iced tea, then settled into the chair across from him, eager to talk.
“Sabrina’s such a wonderful girl,” she confided. “And everybody around here is just crazy about her. It’s such a shame about her husband—”
“Husband?” Blake echoed, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t know she was married.”
“She’s not…now,” Martha replied. “How that girl could be so smart and make such a huge mistake, God only knows. Anyone with eyes could see that Jeff Harper was about as wrong for her as a bad case of the flu, but she was infatuated and just threw caution to the wind. She’s like that, you know,” she added, leaning closer as if she was confiding a secret. “Impulsive. Lord, that girl’s impulsive! I swear she doesn’t have a self-protective bone in her body, but you won’t find a better friend or neighbor in this city. When I broke my hip last year, she was over here just about every evening to cook supper for me. And then when Louis— Louis Vanderbilt, he lives on the other side of Sabrina—had to have his dog put to sleep last summer, Sabrina went out and bought him another one. I cried myself, just seeing how moved he was.”
“What about this Jeff Harper character?” Blake asked with a frown. “Where’s he? And how does he feel about her dating again?”
“Well, that’s just it, dear,” the old lady replied. “She doesn’t date. Ever. As far as I’ve been able to tell, she hasn’t been out a single time since she and Jeff split. Not that he would care. He’s already remarried and got a baby on the way. As far as I know, Sabrina hasn’t seen him in over a year.”
Intrigued, Blake found that hard to believe. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Sabrina Jones was a beautiful woman with a sassy personality that any man with blood in his veins would find hard to resist. She had a job that took her all over the city and gave her plenty of opportunities to meet people. So what was wrong with the men in San Antonio? Were they blind, or what?
“So she doesn’t date and there’s no men in her life,” he said thoughtfully. That ruled out the possibility of the killer being someone she’d been involved with romantically. “What about enemies?”
“Enemies?” Martha laughed, her blue eyes fairly sparkling behind the lenses of her glasses. “You obviously don’t know Sabrina very well or you wouldn’t even ask that. She can be as nosy as an old woman when she’s after a story, but she’s just doing her job. Nobody holds it against her.”
Obviously extremely fond of Sabrina, she drew a tantalizing picture of her that Blake found thoroughly captivating. But she didn’t tell him anything that even hinted at why Tanya Bishop’s killer had turned his sights on Sabrina. Thanking the old lady for her help, he went looking for more answers from the other neighbors.
Since most of Sabrina’s neighbors were retired, he didn’t have any trouble finding someone to talk to. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the information he was hoping for. All of them knew and liked Sabrina and had their own stories to tell about her, but none could think of a single reason why a killer would send her a threatening note. Except for Louis Vanderbilt.
A quiet, unassuming man who was out walking the now-grown Labrador that Sabrina had given him as a puppy, he paled when he stopped to talk to Blake and was told about the note. “Sabrina did a special series last year about sexual discrimination in the workplace,” he said quietly. “It was excellent. In fact, I think she won several awards for it. But one of the editors at her own paper quit over allegations that she stirred up, and from what I heard from Sabrina, he vowed to get even. But that was months ago. Sabrina probably forgot all about him. Do you think he could be the one who sent her the note?”
Blake didn’t know, but it was definitely worth checking out and mentioning to the police. Feeling like he was finally getting somewhere, he quickly jotted down notes. “What was the man’s name? Do you have any idea what happened to him after he quit the Record?�
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A thin, balding man with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of ageless face that didn’t show the passage of time, Louis murmured to the Lab, who was impatient to resume his walk, and tried to remember. “It seems like it was Saunders or Sanders or something like that. Carl, I think. Yeah, that was it. Carl Sanders.”
Shaking his head, he whistled softly as the facts came rushing back to him. “He was a nasty sort. If I’m remembering correctly, he was arrested for punching his wife about a week after he lost his job. She later dropped the charges and he sort of faded from sight after that. Which isn’t surprising considering the fact that all the TV stations in town picked up the story,” he added. “After all the negative publicity, he’d have been lucky to get a job as a dogcatcher, which was no more than he deserved.”
“Did he ever contact Sabrina? Ever show up here at her home and harass her or send her any kind of threatening letters?”
Shocked, the older man said, “Oh, no! Not that I know of. Sabrina never mentioned any kind of letters, and I know for a fact that he never came around here. This is a very close-knit neighborhood, Mr. Nickels. We’re all friends and watch out for each other. Sabrina and only a handful of others work—the rest of us are retired—so there’s always someone home on the block. If Carl Sanders or anyone else had tried to get to Sabrina, you can bet one of us would have seen him.
“Of course,” he added with a rueful smile, “we can’t do much to protect her when she’s out on the streets. She does tend to take chances.”
Blake snorted at that, his lips twitching into a grin. “She’s a regular daredevil, Mr. Vanderbilt.” Holding out his hand, he said, “Thanks for the information. You’ve been a big help. If you remember anything else that might be important, would you give me a call at the Times? I’d really appreciate it.”
A twinkle glinting in his eye, the older man hesitated, then nodded as he returned the handshake. “Sabrina won’t like me helping the competition, but if it’ll help keep her safe, I’ll be glad to do it.” The Lab tugged on her leash again, and with a murmur of apology, the man continued his walk.