by Gayle Wilson
“Then God help us all,” Bingham said, “if any of what you just said is true of this one.”
Eleven
The police cruiser had followed Jenna back to her apartment. Although she doubted it had been part of their instructions, the two young cops had even come inside with her. They’d walked through the rooms, opening closet and shower doors and checking under the bed.
The precautions should have made her feel safe. Instead, as soon as she’d watched them get back into their car, it made her realize exactly how alone and defenseless she was.
Despite the fact that Sean had admitted to Bingham that he believed the call he’d received this afternoon was a result of the killer having seen him with Jenna, the detective hadn’t been willing to assign three shifts of officers to her protection. Not when every available person was needed in the now desperate search for Carol Cummings.
Jenna understood the logic of his decision. She even recognized, at least intellectually, the moral correctness of it. After all, there was no real evidence to back up Sean Murphy’s theory. The two words scrawled in the road dirt on the side of her car could have been written by anyone. And Sean’s claim that the only way the killer could have known he was in town was if he, too, had been following Jenna had not been convincing to Bingham.
Now, as the taillights of the patrol car disappeared down the sloping drive below her apartment, the fear she’d fought for three days lay like a weight in the bottom of her stomach. Unconsciously she wrapped her arms around her body in an attempt to regain the sense of security that had always been a part of her life.
She wondered if she would ever again feel completely safe. Certainly not until the killer was caught.
And based on law enforcement’s track record thus far, Sean Murphy seemed to represent the best chance of that happening.
Was he somewhere out there in the darkness? Watching her apartment, perhaps from the one he’d just rented?
Her eyes focused on the lighted windows of the complex below, the lives of its inhabitants shielded by drawn blinds and curtains. The black SUV she’d come to know so well wasn’t in the lineup of automobiles parked in front of them.
Although Sean hadn’t agreed to the deal she’d offered, that didn’t mean he wasn’t maintaining his surveillance. As far as she knew, she still represented his best opportunity to find the man who’d murdered Makaela. And despite the fact that she’d gone to the police to complain about what he’d been doing, she would feel enormously better right now if she could be absolutely certain he hadn’t given up on that.
Sighing, she reached up and pulled the drapes across her windows, shutting out the night. Then she walked across the living room to turn on the lamp beside the couch.
The newspapers she’d perused so carefully yesterday were still stacked on the coffee table. She bundled them up and headed toward the kitchen and the tall metal garbage can that sat beside the back door. When she had dumped them inside, she checked the dead bolt and the chain. Both were fastened.
Tomorrow she would call and see how quickly she could get a security system installed. Even if no one knew right now how the killer approached his victims, she needed to establish some kind of sanctuary, somewhere she could feel safe. Other than her office, this was where she spent the majority of her time.
She turned away from the door to face the empty kitchen. She should eat something, but the thought of food was slightly nauseating.
Anxiety, she conceded, which wouldn’t be helped by an empty stomach. Especially since she’d skipped breakfast and grabbed a candy bar out of the machine in lieu of lunch.
Tiredly she pushed her hair away from her face with the spread fingers of both hands, trying to formulate a plan that would make the endless hours of the night manageable. Something she could get through with her sanity intact.
First she should fix something to eat that wouldn’t literally make her sick. Watch the news while she ate it. Then take a long, hot bath and a couple of aspirin and find something in her to-be-read pile that would take her mind off the events of the day.
She walked over to the side-by-side refrigerator and opened the freezer half. Although it was well stocked with microwave dinners, there was nothing there that looked remotely appetizing.
Closing the door, she opened the refrigerator side. The first things she spotted were a couple of foil-wrapped baked potatoes she’d brought home from the local seafood place where she and her parents had had dinner Monday night. They had been leaving the following morning for a ten-day cruise and had wanted to say goodbye.
After briefly considering the time span between then and now, she began laying items out on the counter—one of the potatoes, a package of shredded cheese, a jar of bacon bits and the sour cream. At some point in the process the thought of a hot, twice-baked potato became appetizing. Until she turned back to the shelves to locate the butter.
Next to its glass dish sat a small white box. A thin red ribbon, the width used to trim lingerie or baby clothes, was tied in a simple bow on top.
Although the package appeared innocuous enough—innocent, even—there was nothing about it that was the least bit familiar. She knew she hadn’t put what looked like a gift into her refrigerator.
She reached for it and then hesitated, her hand hovering in front of the box. She tried to think if this could be something her mother had had with her on Tuesday that had somehow gotten included in the sack with the baked potatoes.
Potatoes Jenna had taken out and set on this shelf herself. And she damn well knew she hadn’t put that box beside them.
Maybe it was a present. Something her mom had intended as a surprise?
Except her parents hadn’t come back to her apartment that evening. Her mother had been in a hurry to get home.
So who had put this box here? And when?
After the confrontation with Sean Murphy last night, she’d been so angry that the thought of cooking hadn’t entered her head. She’d eaten ice cream straight from the container, standing over the sink while she finished it off.
She couldn’t remember opening the fridge at all except to take the fudge ripple out of the freezer side. Then, after tossing and turning most of the night, she’d overslept, so that she hadn’t had time for her usual minimal breakfast.
Actually, the last time she could swear she’d opened the refrigerator side of the unit was Monday night when she’d stuck those two potatoes inside. Four days ago. And as far as she knew, no one else had been inside the apartment in that time.
As far as she knew…
She took a step back, leaving the door open. Again she crossed her arms over her chest, as she considered the box.
It was obviously gift wrapped, only there was no occasion to celebrate. None that she was aware of.
Sean’s idea of a practical joke? If so, to what purpose? If he wanted to prove to her that someone could enter her apartment—
The resident manager had a key. Was it possible someone had asked him to deliver this?
And put it into her refrigerator?
Hardly a request a normal person would consider granting. And Jerry Rogers was as normal as they came.
Her mother was the only other person who had a key. Before she opened that box, she was at least going to check with her mom to see if she left it. If she hadn’t, then she was going to call Lieutenant Bingham and demand that he get someone over here, no matter how busy they were.
And I’m sure he’ll consider the fact that there’s a box tied in red ribbon in your fridge far more important than Carol Cummings’s life.
She turned toward the phone, only to realize that if she did call her mother, what it would entail. She would either not understand why Jenna was making such a big deal out of this, or worse, if Jenna explained what that was going on, she and her dad would be on the next plane home. They’d probably demand that she move back home, at least until this was all over.
Which, as unbelievable as it seemed, sounded incredibly appeali
ng right now.
If you were fifteen.
Which she wasn’t. She was a grown woman. A professional therapist with a Ph.D. in psychology. Someone who should know how to deal with anxiety and fear.
She wasn’t going to become one of the idiot females who, according to the cops who had checked out her apartment, were flooding the hotline to report that the killer had taken their cat to torture. Or that he parked every night at the end of their street and if the cops would just come out and pick him up—
That kind of panic-induced fear gave the bastard the feelings of power and control he craved. Power over the citizens of an entire city, who were seeing bogeymen everywhere.
Just like you.
It’s a box, for God’s sake. And despite your not being able to figure out how it got here, there’s probably a perfectly rational explanation for it.
Gingerly, as if she expected the thing to explode, Jenna reached in and picked it up, holding it with her thumb and middle finger. She was surprised at how light the thing was.
Empty? Anything was possible, although the idea of someone taking the trouble to break into her apartment and put an empty box, wrapped as a gift, into her refrigerator was more bizarre than someone choosing this way to give her a gift.
She set the package on the kitchen counter. Only then did she realize she shouldn’t have touched it at all. Not without gloves.
The idea that this might somehow be connected to the murders was a thought she’d deliberately tried to push to the back of her mind. Now it was like the proverbial elephant in the living room.
If she acknowledged that this might be evidence in the investigation, she would have to acknowledge the possibility that the killer was the one who put it there.
Which would mean that he had been here, inside her apartment.
It was a thought that terrified her, despite the search the two cops had mounted before they’d left. She closed her eyes, taking a breath to try to steady her racing heart.
She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to open the damn box. She didn’t want to know what was inside.
Yet, not to open it would make her the same kind of person she’d just ridiculed. The kind who imagined a murderer lurking around every corner.
Except if you were a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in this town right now, that probably wasn’t a bad supposition. Especially if someone who claims to know the killer “intimately” believes you are his next victim.
According to him, Sean Murphy was the expert. The one who’d talked to the people on the national task force and studied all the material available. The one who claimed he wanted to catch his sister’s murderer, no matter what it took.
Then why the hell wouldn’t he be interested in this?
Without allowing herself time to reason her way out of the impulse, she walked back into the living room and picked up the phone. She punched up the caller ID list, looking for the number from which Sean had called her two nights ago.
It was the fourth one on the list, right after two calls from her mother and one from Paul, which had come in just a little while before she’d gotten home tonight. He hadn’t left a message, but she would call him back, anyway. He was probably wondering how the interview with the police had gone.
With Sean’s number highlighted, she punched Redial, waiting through four long rings before he answered. She was a little surprised at how familiar his voice seemed. Familiar and comforting. Unbelievably comforting right now, considering the terms on which they’d parted.
“Someone left a box in my refrigerator.”
Five or six seconds of silence ticked by before he asked the obvious question. “What kind of box?”
His tone sounded conversational. At least it contained none of the near-hysteria that had gripped her.
The fact that it didn’t helped her gather some composure. She didn’t intend to let him know how badly this had shaken her.
Not unless he makes me beg for his help.
“White. Small. Tied with a red satin ribbon.”
Another silence, this one perhaps even longer than the first. “How small?”
“Maybe…two by three inches. Maybe less. It looks like the kind of box department stores put jewelry in.”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer.” There had been no attempt to lighten his tone, despite the fact that the words would seem to call for that.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Sean made no pretense of not understanding. “Call the police.”
“And what if it’s a present from my mother? A chocolate-dipped strawberry or something.”
“Do you think that’s what it is?”
She had never really believed, not even when she’d been frantically searching for an explanation—any explanation other than the one she couldn’t bear to face—that her mother had put this package there without telling her about it. “No.”
Let him draw his own conclusions, she thought. If he were as dedicated to tracking down his sister’s killer as he’d claimed, then surely it would be to his advantage to check this out. If he didn’t—
“You touch it?”
Sean’s question interrupted her attempt to justify her belief that he’d come over here. Surely he wouldn’t let his obvious anger over her offer of money keep him from wanting to investigate something that might be tied to Makaela’s death.
“Only to take it out of the fridge. I know now that I shouldn’t have, but…I kept thinking there had to be some logical explanation.”
“You come up with one?”
“If I had, believe me, I wouldn’t be calling you.”
“Back door. Five minutes.”
The line went dead, abruptly enough that she blinked at the sound of the dial tone. Apparently when Sean Murphy decided something, he didn’t waste any time in putting that decision into action.
Sergeant Murphy, she amended, remembering what Bingham had called him.
It made sense that he wouldn’t be an officer. Not with that oversize chip on his shoulder about his background.
Despite that, she wasn’t surprised that he was accustomed to command. She would be willing to bet he was tough as nails with the men who served under him. And that they respected him for it.
She put the phone down before she walked across to make sure, for the third time, that the dead bolt on the front door was thrown. Then she headed back to the kitchen to wait for the man who had promised, against her expectations of his refusal, to help her.
Twelve
One of the dumber stunts he’d ever pulled, Sean acknowledged as he made his way through the shadows at the back of the units situated on the crest of Red Mountain.
These apartments, including Jenna’s, were not only the largest and most luxurious within the prestigious complex, they occupied the premier location as well, a spectacular view of the city spread out in front of them. Positioned as they were, however, their back patios edged a steep and rocky incline, meaning there wasn’t a lot of room to maneuver covertly.
All it would take would be for someone to look out as he crossed beneath a back deck or for some dog to raise the alarm. Given the state of hysteria rampant among the occupants of the area, someone might very well shoot first and ask questions later. After all, this was a state known for its high percentage of gun ownership.
The trek would be worth the risk if it kept the man he believed would even now be watching Jenna’s apartment from spotting him. Maybe worrying about that was a case of trying to close the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he had no other choice. Not if he were to have any chance of taking the killer unaware.
And he was still convinced Jenna Kincaid represented the best way to do that. If the box she’d called him about was connected to the murders—as far-fetched as that seemed—then he’d have proof beyond any shadow of doubt that he was right.
In that case, the moral dilemma would be in deciding whether or not to send her straight to Bingham with whatever the ki
ller had left. If he did, the detective would know she was being stalked. There would be no more arguments from the police about not having enough manpower to offer her protection.
And if they do, you lose your best chance of catching Makaela’s killer.
He closed his mind to the implications, concentrating on making it to Jenna’s apartment with enough stealth to escape detection. Even if no one took a potshot at him, they still might pick up the phone and dial 911. Although a resident might normally be hesitant to make that call, he would bet no one would think twice about doing it tonight.
Since the back doors weren’t marked, at least not in any way he could see, he’d begun counting from the end apartment. If he made a mistake and knocked on the wrong door, he’d probably give someone a heart attack. Considering the terrain, it was doubtful the inhabitants of these particular luxury units ever had back-door visitors.
Hoping he’d counted right, he crossed the neat brick patio behind what he believed was A-12. Wrought-iron furniture, in some kind of aged-metal finish, had been set among carefully landscaped terraces. A fountain and the small pond it fed were empty in a concession to the cold. The rest of the year they would provide a soothing backdrop to a peaceful retreat.
Almost unconsciously he compared this to the backyard of the rental house where he lived. Its trampled patch of yard contained a secondhand swing set and a turtle sandbox. If he had needed anything else to remind him of the gap between Jenna Kincaid’s life and his…
And why the hell would you even be thinking about that?
Angry for allowing himself to be sidetracked—even momentarily—from what he’d come down here to do, he rapped once on the solid wood of her back door. Before he could bring his hand back to strike again, it opened.