Elizabeth called Lady over and stroked her lush blond fur. “When you were overseas, did anyone approach you or try to contact you? Someone who you might feel uncomfortable with?”
“Wow, that’s a loaded question,” Abigail replied. “I’ve met hundreds of people—foreign dignitaries, soldiers, women and children who need my support, hostile dictators and hostile men who don’t think I need to dabble in their business. I’ve been to schools and missions and palaces.”
“I know it’s impossible to go through that long line of people right now,” Elizabeth replied, her dark eyes vivid underneath her gamine haircut. “But talking about things can help you dredge up memories and that can help us and you, too.” She slanted her head. “It’ll help take your mind off your grief and...well...it’ll make you feel productive.”
Abigail gave that some thought. Elizabeth was right. Abigail was used to taking action, to fighting the good fight for causes she supported and believed in. What better way to honor her father and to help the Capitol K-9 team bring these murderers to justice?
“Ask me some more questions,” she said to Elizabeth. “I might be of some help after all.”
SIX
At around dawn, Dylan went to relieve Elizabeth. She opened the door and put a finger to her lips. “Abigail finally went to sleep about an hour ago.”
“Tough night,” he whispered, wondering how Abigail would be in the morning. She’d had too many shocks too close together. “Go and get some rest and I’ll catch you later.”
Elizabeth silently alerted Lady that their shift was over. “Oh, we had a good talk earlier.”
Surprised, Dylan lifted his chin. “About what?”
“Everything,” Elizabeth said. “I tried to draw her out and see if she remembered anyone who might seem threatening or...creepy.”
“And?”
“She thought of one man in England. A diplomat visiting from a small Middle Eastern country. She’d met him before that at her father’s embassy, too.” Elizabeth gave him a name and Dylan typed it into his notes. “He sent her a sympathy note two days after her father was killed and asked to speak to her as soon as possible.”
“That would have been about two weeks ago then,” Dylan said. “Red tape caused the funeral arrangements to be delayed.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, and he’s also made some comments on her blog over the past couple of years. Nothing threatening but he seems to be an admirer.”
Or he could be pretending to be an admirer. “Got it. So the girl talk paid off.”
“In more ways than one,” Elizabeth retorted with a snarky grin.
“Want to share?”
“No. Some things need to stay between us girls.”
Dylan had to wonder what else Abigail had told Elizabeth. He should have known his engaging and animated colleague would be able to converse with Abigail better than he could.
But then, Elizabeth didn’t have an extreme crush on the woman.
There, he’d finally admitted it. After a little over twenty-four intense hours with Abigail Wheaton, Dylan’s whole perspective on dating and having a personal life had shifted off its high horse and taken a tumble down to earth.
This woman might be worth getting to know. An unbelievable revelation since he’d sworn off any kind of relationship because his work had caused his last one to crash and burn.
Or maybe it hadn’t been his work. Maybe he’d loved and lost while the woman who’d walked away hadn’t loved him enough. Accepting that was a revelation in itself.
Accepting that gave him the courage to try again. Getting to know Abigail made him consider his preconceived ideas.
But he had to fight against that for now.
He had a sworn duty to protect her, to keep her from being killed inside her own home. In fact, he had decided that moving her might make things worse at this point.
And that was why he was so surprised when Abigail marched out of her bedroom fully dressed and glowing with energy.
Then she said, “I’ve decided you’re right and we should go back to Washington, Officer Ralsey. I want to see and be seen and I want to meet with as many people as I can. My father would expect me to carry on and he’d also want me to be brave. I won’t let whoever is doing this make me cower in darkness.”
Dylan shook his head and ignored the floral smell of her perfume and her misguided sense of duty. “No, that is not a good idea, considering—”
“Considering that my assistant is now dead and that my father died at the hands of some sort of extremist group? I beg to differ.”
“And why would you want to expose yourself that way after what you just said?”
She touched at her upswept hair and came to stand in front of him, her green eyes now blazing with purpose. “To draw out a killer, of course.”
* * *
Dylan shook his head so fast, Tico swung around toward him in a spin. “That’s not how this works.”
“I know how things work,” she retorted. Then she picked up the house phone and called for coffee for two.
Was she back in the game or pretending away her grief? She’d either try to bury all of that emotion and cause herself even more pain, or she’d spin out of control and have a meltdown. Either one could be dangerous for her.
“Listen, Abigail, I’ve thought things over and I don’t think we can risk moving you right now.”
She stopped in her pacing to stare at him. “But you said we’d go back to DC today. That this place was too vulnerable. And since I was shot at and...CiCi is now dead, I have to agree with that assessment.”
He moved closer so he could look into her eyes and make her understand. “Someone is out there in those woods watching our every move. If we load you into a vehicle, they will follow us or possibly ambush us. It’s too risky.”
“So I’m a prisoner in my own home?”
“No. You need to stay out of sight for a while.”
“Even in Washington?”
“Until we can figure out how to get you to Washington,” he said.
She put her hands on her hips, the black dress she wore falling in graceful folds from her waist to her knees. “Then let’s figure it out. I mentioned a diplomat to Elizabeth during our chat session in the wee hours this morning. Omar Dibianu. He seems honest and he’s a decent man but...I’ve always felt a bit odd around him.”
Dylan noted that. “Yes. She briefed me on him. I plan to do a search and see what we come up with.”
“That’s all well and good,” Abigail said, her dainty teardrop pearl earrings dancing around the swoop of her long, side-swept auburn bangs. “But...he’s attending a function this weekend at the home of my father’s attorney and he expects to see me there. Mr. Benison has invited me to this soiree and...I’d like to go.”
Dylan could almost see the inner workings of her beautiful brain in her forest green eyes. “I don’t think—”
“Look, Mr. Dibianu knows me. He trusts me but I don’t trust him. He seemed a bit too keen on asking me questions about my father’s whereabouts during our visit to London a few weeks ago.” She shrugged. “I don’t know but I got the distinct feeling Mr. Dibianu was watching me during one of the dinners we attended.”
Dylan pushed away the stab of jealousy that image solicited. He had no right to be jealous of anyone who might be interested in this woman. And he needed to stay on track here because someone watching her could mean more than a passing interest. It could mean her life.
Keep the subject safe.
At all costs.
“You don’t have to attend this function so soon after all of this. Abigail, you don’t need to prove anything to me or anyone in Washington. You only need to rest and let us do what we need to do to keep you safe.”
She whirled, the soft smil
e and confident stance gone now. “Don’t you understand I have to do something, help in some way, to find out who is doing this? Who killed my father? Why? Who came here to my home and managed to shoot CiCi right under my nose? It isn’t right, Dylan. And I’m helpless to do anything but sit here and wait?”
He moved toward her but she turned away.
“You’re not helpless,” he said, wishing he could say more. “We’re closing in on this new sleeper cell that’s taking responsibility for the car bomb that killed your father and we’re combing these woods day and night so hopefully, we’ll get a break soon.”
She turned back, her eyes brimming like twin pools of dark green water. “I’ll make a deal with you then. We have three days before the gala Saturday night in Washington. If you haven’t found any answers by then, I’ll attend the gala since Mr. Benison asked if I’d be up to attending in my father’s honor and because it gives me a perfect opportunity to speak with Omar Dibianu. I might be wrong about this man and his motives and I pray that I am. But I have to start somewhere.”
She brushed back her long bangs. “I’ll be fielding calls after word gets out that CiCi is dead. I have to be able to function without caving. I won’t sit back and wait to be killed in my own home, and staying busy with a normal routine will help me to focus and be more alert.”
She was right. He wanted to end this but Dylan knew more danger would be coming. He thought about everything that had happened so far. He did want to move her and get her back to a more populated area but these people might be ruthless enough to harm a mansion full of movers and shakers in order to get to her.
“What if we’re putting others in danger by letting you attend this function?”
“I’ll go in ‘dark,’ as all you gung ho people like to say. You can smuggle me in and...since it’s in Washington and several politicians will be guests, I’m sure the place will be heavily guarded anyway. If we sense any danger, you can whisk me away immediately.”
Dylan thought over all the worst-case scenarios and then he thought about being able to get closer to someone who might be a suspect. It could be a good lead. Or it could turn into a disaster.
“I tell you what,” he finally said. “I’ll have to clear this with my superiors but while we’re here for the next few days, you could answer the responses on your blog, provided my techs can monitor and trace anyone who comments.”
At her surprised glance, he added, “It’s worth a try since we might pick up a pattern or a clue. And if we haven’t made headway by Saturday, you can attend the event. Did you already RSVP?”
She nodded. “CiCi had done that on my behalf, yes. Before...before I lost my father. He and I were going to attend together once he came home for Christmas.”
Dylan moved close to her and said, “Well, don’t change that plus-one.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, holding her hands in front of her.
“I mean, if you go I’ll be right there by your side. I’ll be attending as your date that night.”
SEVEN
Abigail sat staring at her laptop. Tico lay near her feet, her constant companion these days.
She was in a small sitting room near her father’s wing of the house. This had been her mother’s favorite room since it was in the middle of everything. Near the kitchen but close to Abigail’s dad’s office, too. Her mother had often taken care of her own schedule from the antique writing desk in this room while her father worked next door in his office.
Abigail remembered running back and forth between the two of them, happy and loved and so naive. Those special memories pierced her now with a bittersweet sharpness that made her catch her breath.
She was all grown up and all alone.
She couldn’t bear to go into her office and even if she could, it had been cordoned off with crime scene tape.
Each time she thought about how CiCi had died, a chill went down Abigail’s backbone. She needed to decide what to do about her father’s things and what to do about his office...and her own. Could she ever work in there again?
She’d change this long, sunny room into a new office.
Or she’d shut down this house and move somewhere else. Once this was over, of course. She would never sell this place but she didn’t have to stay here. She could buy a townhouse in the city or anywhere she wanted for that matter.
But she had a lot to do before she made any rash decisions. Right now, she was going over the comments from her recent blog post. Dylan had coached her on what to say and how to handle any threatening comments.
Don’t engage. Keep the conversation flowing and stay on task. If you get into an argument with anyone, they might do more than leave comments on your blog. Or they might figure out we’re trying to track them.
Abigail didn’t intend to argue with anyone. She’d never done that on her blog anyway.
She’d talked about losing her father and she’d thanked everyone for their condolences. Such an outpouring of love and prayers had come her way and she was truly grateful for that.
She’d gone back over some of the highlights of his life—her parents’ happy marriage, their travels, his accomplishments within diplomatic circles. The Wheaton legacy had spanned centuries and now she was left to carry on that tradition.
If she could get through the next few weeks, she’d be okay. She’d find a way to continue her father’s work.
Abigail stood up and wished she could open the blinds. But Dylan had been very strict in warning her to be careful. He’d also cautioned her on how to handle the blog.
No mention of how your father died or that CiCi was shot in your home. As far as the rest of the world knows, you’re here in seclusion for the time being.
Seclusion. Abigail had always been an introvert with extrovert tendencies. She loved her alone time, the quiet time where she could reflect and write her posts on everything from homelessness to war to politics. But she also enjoyed being out with others, talking with people who wanted to make a difference in the lives of those less fortunate and sometimes talking to those who were suffering and in need of someone’s help.
She’d listen, respond, do her research and then she’d present her opinions on her blog. Right now, she wanted to scream and lament the unfairness of losing the people she loved the most. But she was a Wheaton. She had to be strong and carry on, no matter how much her heart was breaking.
So she paced the sitting room and enjoyed the shards of stubborn morning sunbeams that tried to break into her forced imprisonment, Tico’s trusting eyes following her every move.
She knew if she tried to exit this room, Tico would block the door and bark. For her protection, as Dylan always pointed out in his curt, no-nonsense way.
“At least you’re a good listener,” she told Tico.
Dylan had that same rare trait. He listened, his dark eyes holding hers, his very presence reassuring and calming.
The man was good at his job but he didn’t indulge in idle conversation.
Abigail wished she could talk to her father. About everything and about nothing. About Dylan and how each time he entered a room, her heart did a quick bump, bump, bump that excited her and confused her.
When her computer beeped, Abigail cleared her head and went to see if she had any new comments on her blog. What she saw there sent chills all over her body.
Wicked, worthless people go around telling lies.
—Proverbs 6:12.
The Bible verse was followed by a lone comment.
You are wicked and worthless. You will pay for your sins.
Abigail sat staring at the words, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. What had she done to garner such a harsh condemnation? Had this person killed her father and CiCi?
She picked up her cell and texted Dylan: Odd comment.
In about
a minute, she heard his footfalls on the old hardwood hallway floor. She’d learned to listen for his steps and that alone told her she was getting too involved with her protector.
“What do you have?” he asked without preamble, the intensity of his expression telling her this was serious. Tico’s ears lifted but Dylan didn’t greet his partner with the usual affection. He came around the desk.
She showed him the caustic comment.
Dylan read what was on the screen and then placed a call on his phone. “Fiona, are you looking at Abigail Wheaton’s website blog?” He nodded. “Good. Let me know what you find.”
He ended the call and turned to Abigail. “We should be able to find out where the comments originated from, hopefully without too much trouble.” Stopping to glance at the screen, he added, “Well, actually that depends on if he moves around a lot from one IP server to the next. That would mean he goes through a maze of proxy servers and then things get real tricky. Like hunting for one particular rat in New York City.”
“Amazing,” Abigail said, not sure if she was talking about modern technology or Dylan’s need to track a killer.
“This could give us a break in the case,” he said, rubbing a hand down his spiky hair. “It’s a start, anyway.”
Abigail saw the fatigue in his eyes, but he smelled fresh and he was wearing a clean white shirt and dark trousers. He must have finally slept a little and then cleaned up.
Nicely.
“Can it be that easy?” she asked to distract herself.
“It’s never easy,” he replied, his gaze drifting over her like a warm wind. “We have to keep at it.”
“I still want to attend the event this weekend,” she said, her tone daring him to dispute that notion.
“But we got a hit on the blog,” he reminded her. “That was the deal.”
“The two might not be connected,” she countered.
“Abigail—”
“Let’s consider all of our options after you hear back,” she replied, glad to be in control again.
Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas: Protecting VirginiaGuarding Abigail Page 13