The Enemy We Know

by Donna White Glaser

  “Why do you think this might be connected to the murders?” No greeting, no small talk, no lead up to the question. Just “wham-bam, answer the question, ma’am.”

  “It seems like too much of a coincidence. Nobody else has been having problems with clients, at least that I’ve heard. I guess you should check with Marshall.”

  “I will. Anything you’re leaving out?”

  Like the Amazing Disappearing/Reappearing (and currently missing) Murder Weapon? “My cat is missing.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t seem ready to put out a kitty version of BOLO. His deceptively languid gaze roved over me, watching not only my face, but my hands and feet, too. While we can train ourselves to offer blank features, jittery feet and clenched hands often give us away. I deliberately relaxed, breathing deep and concentrating on thoughts of warm, yellow sunshine and happy laughter, soft, placid muscles and innocence. It was a nice rest.

  He didn’t buy it but couldn’t prove anything. Yet.

  Grunting, Blodgett heaved himself up. At the door, he went the opposite direction, walking down the hall, peering in each office. Without a word, he continued to the emergency exit, which Wayne had bolted through running from the police. Blodgett opened it, scrutinizing the back alley from the doorway. Shutting the door, he checked the lock, then walked back to Regina’s office, where the intruder had presumably broken in. Sooty, grimy-looking fingerprint powder covered the sill and desk top, the tech having finished long ago. Careful not to lean against it, Blodgett peered out the window.

  “You’ll want to have them vacuum real good first to clean that up,” he mentioned. “Then use ‘Scrubby Bubbles’ or whatever that stuff is called.”

  “I’ll tell them. What are you looking for?” I pointed at the window.

  He shrugged, walking away. He paused at Marshall’s office. It, too, had been trashed. Marshall had tossed his jacket over the back of his chair and stood cradling a stack of books, searching for a flat surface on which to deposit them. He turned as if sensing the detective, a polite smile on his face. He nodded for Blodgett to enter, and for a moment, as his eyes brushed over me, his smile warmed. Blodgett’s hypervigilant gaze took in the tableau, eyes traveling back and forth between my boss and me, but made no comment.

  I blushed, making matters worse.

  As Blodgett shut the door behind him, I booked it for the front. Lisa was muttering to herself, trying to realign one of the desk drawers into the groove that would allow it to slide in and out.

  “Did you find your magazine yet?” I asked.

  The drawer fell, nearly severing her toes, and she kicked it viciously. Coming eye to eye, she said, “No. But I will.”

  I had no doubt.

  Still wondering what Blodgett had been looking for, I walked out to the parking lot to look at the window the intruder had used. Most of the clinic windows were easily visible from the lot, except for Regina’s. A scraggily, overgrown bush obscured two-thirds of the window, making it the best choice if someone wanted access. I tried picturing Marshall crawling through the opening, but I got distracted by the image of his cute butt hanging half-in, half-out of the window. And why would he have bothered getting in that way when he had keys to the clinic.

  On second thought, I realized that fact couldn’t exonerate Marshall since, besides Lisa, he was the only one who had keys. If it was either one of them—and I honestly couldn’t see Lisa wreaking the kind of havoc that had been inflicted on her precious filing system—he or she would have had to break in or risk pointing an accusatory finger directly at himself. Or herself, I supposed.

  Ultimately, I had no one to blame, but myself. Somebody had to have noticed my compulsive trips to the file room. Somebody close by had been watching, aware of my distress and the reason for it, knowing my obsession was connected to Wayne’s murder. More specifically, to the horrific package sent to me.

  He liked to show off, this Shakespeare-stalker did. And, like Siggy proudly dropping his dead mouse on my pillow, he liked to bequeath his trophies to me. If he’d just wanted attention, he could have sent his souvenirs to the media or even to the police.

  So why me? Continuing to mull this over, I returned to the file room, no longer expecting to find the knife. Whoever the stalker was wouldn’t want to take the chance that I’d turn it in to the police, which was by far the smartest thing I could have done. And, conversely, the stupidest thing I hadn’t.

  At the end of the day, I crawled in my car, slinging my purse on the passenger seat. I’d found two blank forms that may have been part of those I’d used as filler in the Harmon file. I could think of no other reason for them to have been part of the mound of paper. But so far no file folder, no sonnet, and, certainly, no bloody knife.

  Too tired to be afraid, I leaned over and popped the glove box. Empty. I went home and walked the neighborhood.

  Over the next couple of days, order—and Lisa—slowly prevailed. Dress was casual and, aside from my own, moods lifted into almost a holiday spirit. Lisa’s radio became a source of hilarity as a “poltergeist” kept turning her classic rock station to wailing country western.

  Trying to rein in the compulsive behavior that had betrayed the knife’s hiding place, I only allowed myself to check the glove box twice a day—morning and night. Not that I had anything more to hide, but I’d be damned if I’d play puppet for him again. I varied my routine as much as possible, taking different routes to work, and carrying my pepper spray just hoping someone would give me an excuse. Even the thought that I was turning into Rhonda didn’t sway me.

  None of which mattered, since Shakespeare was probably signing my paychecks every week. It was the principle of the thing, I guess.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  As I made a pot of coffee early Wednesday morning, I heard a muffled thump against the front door. A sliding rustle followed.

  “Hello?” Grabbing my can of pepper spray, I put an eye to the peephole. Nothing. But the thump thumped again, then meowed.

  I flung the door open and was greeted by the pungent odor of cat crap and my slinky kitty. Scooping him up, we serenaded each other with a mishmash of cooing and purring. I kicked the door shut and hurried to set out fresh food and water.

  Siggy sniffed and deigned to take a few delicate nibbles, humoring me. Wherever he’d been for the last few days, he’d had food. I sat on the floor, grinning. With an unexpected tinkle, he jumped in my lap, rubbing his chin against mine. Kitty kisses. More strange tinkling sounds mixed with his rumbling purrs.

  “What is that, Sig? Whatcha got there?”

  Somewhere on his travels, he’d acquired some bling. I scratched under his chin and he rolled to his side. In an orgy of feel-good, he wrapped his paws around my hand, biting my finger lightly. Meanwhile, I unhooked the collar with my free hand.

  Except it wasn’t a collar. Silver links with dangling crescent moons and chunky stars, it looked more like a woman’s bracelet. My stomach rolled.

  “Where did you get this, big guy?”

  I fingered the charms. All but one were silver; the exception—neither a moon nor a star—was some kind of gold flower.

  Uneasiness brought me to my feet. I strode from window to window, checking the locks. I was going to be late for work, and I didn’t give a . . .

  Which reminded me. Grabbing a paper towel and can of rug cleaning foam, I ventured into the hall to deal with the downside of cat ownership.

  Finishing, I gathered the supplies in one hand, gingerly holding the icky wad of paper toweling in the other. My mind was busy trying to figure out how to manage the lock—teeth? feet?—while my eyes processed a different message.

  There’s a paper stuck to the door.

  Shit.

  Back inside, I unfolded the paper to the now familiar fourteen lines of scrawl.

  Let those who are in favour with their stars

  Of public honour and proud titles boast,

  Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars

  Unloo
k’d for joy in that I honour most.

  Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread

  But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,

  And in themselves their pride lies buried,

  For at a frown they in their glory did.

  The painful warrior famoused for fight,

  After a thousand victories once foiled,

  Is from the book of honour razed quite,

  And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:

  Then happy I, that love and am beloved,

  Where I may not remove nor be removed.

  They served the search warrants later that afternoon. After letting them in, my landlord called me at work. By the time I made it up to the front desk, an officer was standing there, holding an official looking document, asking for me. The warrant covered my apartment, my office and related common areas of the clinic, and my car. They were looking for “knives which may cause trauma or injury consistent with injuries observed on the victim(s).” Also included in the warrant were “firearms; magazines for firearms; DNA samples including but not limited to blood droplets, blood splatters, and blood smears; clothing which bears blood or bloodstains and other biological fluids.” There was more legal blah-blah-blah, but I skipped it. The black spots dancing in front of my eyes made reading difficult.

  I handed over my keys and sat on a chair with my head between my knees, a recent affectation of mine. Lisa directed the officer to my office, which had just begun to get reassembled. At least I didn’t have to be embarrassed in front of my clients. Marshall sat next to me, a sign of respect and solidarity that would have meant much more if I could be sure he wasn’t Shakespeare.

  Mary Kate showed up halfway through the exercise, looking haggard and disheveled from finals week. The unfolding drama sparked her up immensely, though, and she ran giddily from window to door to my office, giving verbal updates on everything the police did, touched, or looked at, as well as her interpretations of what they may or may not have been thinking. Most annoying.

  Marshall continued to sit beside me, at one point reaching over and taking my hand. He generated warmth, the slight calluses of his palm giving tactile proof of masculine strength and comfort. I let it be, just for a moment, allowing the illusion of compassion to carry me through the next few minutes. What could it hurt?

  However, Lisa and Mary Kate converging on us with her-and-her expressions of alertness for our joined hands gave me a good excuse for pulling away. I stood up as the two officers assigned to search my car entered the clinic. They were finished, looking every bit as frustrated as I felt, which pleased my inner brat.

  After a brief conference with the officer searching my office, they split up—one to the miniature staff lunch room, the other to the file room. My stomach clenched. If the knife were found, it would happen now.

  But it wasn’t. I finally accepted that the knife had indeed been the motive for the break-in, and worse, had been used to kill Robert. They didn’t find the sonnet, either and, of course, didn’t know enough to be looking for the Harmon file. So far, I was in the clear.

  An hour and a half later, the cop who had originally served me the warrant approached. He had my car keys and a pile of forms to sign—receipts—which I did without bothering to read through them. This gave Lisa fits, but by now I had a migraine and decided jail would be kind of peaceful in comparison. Safer, too.

  “Are they still going through my place?” I gathered enough energy to ask.

  “They just finished up, ma’am. A receipt for all properties removed will be left with your landlord.”

  “Was Detective Blodgett there?” For some reason, I cared more about his presence than whether they were carting away my set of steak knives. Probably because I knew the only blood they’d find on the utensils would be bovine. But more importantly, and not just because he had the power to toss me in jail, I didn’t want Blodgett to think I was a murderer. Freud would say it was a father-figure thing, but my head hurt too much for self-analysis. Freud could kiss my butt, and I’m sure he’d have had something to say about that phrase, too.

  Meanwhile, the cop either didn’t care or wasn’t listening, because he gathered up the forms and left.

  It was only 2:30, but I turned to Marshall. “I’m going home. I need to see what they did.”

  “Do you want me to drive you?” His eyes, so darkly mysterious, hinted at nothing but compassion. I didn’t trust it. I couldn’t.

  “No. I can manage.” Marshall looked as though he wanted to argue. Not wanting to raise his suspicions, I added, truthfully, “I just need to be alone.”

  He nodded in understanding. Just behind him, Mary Kate shifted from foot to foot like a toddler doing the pee-pee dance. I could tell she was dying to commiserate with me, eager for a blow-by-blow of the intrusion. I couldn’t deal with it.

  “Bye, Mary Kate. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye-bye. I’ll call you tonight!”

  My phone would be off the hook. Rather than argue, I grimaced a smile, and left.

  My car felt violated, my apartment more so. Siggy was hiding and not even an open can of tuna fish could cajole him out from under the bed. Wide, “this wasn’t what I signed up for” kitty eyes stared at me from the darkest, dust-woofiest corner. I eyed the dark, cozy space wistfully, but forced myself back into the living room. Evidence of government-sanctioned intruders was everywhere. Even objects not included in the search had been moved, disarranged, giving my home an unsettling sense of being slightly off-kilter. It felt like a stage set of my apartment, familiar but wrong and disorienting. I scanned the receipts that my landlord had left on the coffee table.

  The bastards had taken Anna. And my stainless steel Ginsu knives.

  Just before I’d gotten sober, I’d found myself at a point of despair so intense that I literally could not continue life as I was then living it. The pain of being me reached a pinnacle, a Mount Everest of misery, and I just didn’t have enough resources to get back from the precipice in one piece. Life was unendurable. My choice was to kill myself—and I took comfort in plotting various methods for that, considerately choosing those that would cause the least amount of clean up for whomever found me—or change. I didn’t know how that would work, but I knew of AA, of course. I figured “what the hell, I could always kill myself later.”

  I was at that point again.

  Back anything up into a corner and it’ll turn savage. Knowing it faces certain death, it turns to face it. It might die in the fight, but chunks of its attacker will go, too—a better than nothing proposition. Shakespeare blowing my head off and cutting me up into itty-bitty pieces was suddenly more tolerable than living like this. Therefore, I no longer had to be afraid of facing the stalker, of tracking him down. Not only that, but prison came in a distant third in the fear ranking.

  So I needed a plan. Marshall recognized that I had pulled back from the emotional attraction tugging between us, but he hopefully assumed it was a reaction to recent events. If I was going to be in a position to investigate, I’d have to send out some wily, feminine signals that I was back in the game.

  That was doable.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Casual dress and a warm, end-of-April break in the weather helped with my femme fatale mission. I let my hair hang free, pulling on a tight denim skirt with a light, equally tight, V-necked coral-colored sweater. Just to seal the deal, I splashed a little come-find-me Chanel down the V. Not exactly “office harlot,” but a far cry from my usual conservative attire.

  Bob liked it.

  Marshall had insisted on a doctor’s excuse, and Bob either ran out of bribe money or had a relatively honest doctor because he was back spreading sunshine Thursday morning. The rest of us had gotten our own offices back into shape and were concentrating on the mammoth task of sorting the alphabetized stacks of paperwork in the lobby and file room. I had staked a claim on the latter, although I no longer expected to find the knife.

  Aside from my swe
ater, there was no reason for Bob to visit the file room every twenty minutes, but Lisa started timing his appearances, and that was the average. Odds were cast on his visit per minute ratio, bets laid, and Carol won a six-dollar pot at the end of the day. Helped make up for her Mall of America trip.

  Thankfully, given my goal, Marshall’s reaction was just as potent, at least to my eyes. And Lisa’s. And Carol’s. Mary Kate just looked puzzled by the whole thing. Bob was too busy looking at my chest.

  Marshall’s eyes, on the other hand, traveled. Equal opportunity orbs, were Marshall’s eyes. He came in later than usual, wearing snug, faded jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, smelling fresh and woodsy. He was even a little scruffy in that highly lickable kind of way. At the sight of him, efficient Lisa dropped an armful of files that she’d just sorted and didn’t even cuss. It was that worth it.

  As I stood in the doorway laughing at the spectacle, his attention pinpointed on me like a heat-seeking missile. Eyebrows raised, he slowly did the head-toe-head scan, then swallowed and looked away. I felt a little drooly myself.

  Trying to restore an appearance of nonchalance, Marshall asked Lisa if he had any messages. Unfortunately, he’d already asked that and stood holding four pink message slips in his hand. Lisa reached over and tapped them gently.

  Without another word, he took off down the hall, manfully ignoring the chorus of giggles in his wake. He was made of sterner stuff than Bob, however. He lasted thirty minutes before he ventured back.

  I needed to wear this sweater more often.

  About 11:30, Lisa took off for the office supply store, leaving Mary Kate alone in the front office. The others were either puttering around in their individual offices or taking a break in the kitchenette. Bob had just brought a file to me (he seemed to be bringing them one at a time) and reluctantly departed from my chest. Marshall must have figured the coast was clear.