1st Shock (Schock Sisters Mystery Series)

by Misty Evans

  "Haley!"

  The flame inside finally ignites and the initial paralyzing shock melts away. I'm on the move, heading straight to Emily.

  "What is it?"

  Haley's voice is breathy, rushed. I scoop up the soft, honey blond wig sitting on the floor and point to the harsh platinum one on Emily's head.

  "What happened here?" My voice is clipped, teetering on the edge of control.

  I should check that, but...no. Haley's been an employee long enough to know I don't like my work touched. At all.

  She's also aware of my obsession—yes, I'll admit it—with Emily. The fact that someone has come in here, into my space, and touched her drives me nearly insane.

  Has she not suffered enough? Murdered, left in the cold like trash for years and now this?

  Haley's mouth opens, forming a silent oh. "I...I don't know. It's the first I'm seeing it."

  Resisting the urge to touch the ugly platinum wig, I set the honey blond on my work table, push past Haley and head to Charlie's office. "Was Jack the only one in there?"

  Haley follows me, her long legs easily keeping pace. "As far as I know. I got here at eight forty-five and the alarm was still on."

  "What time did Jack arrive?"

  "Um, around ten-thirty, I think. You don't believe he...?"

  She thinks? Excellent.

  I flip the light on in Charlie's office and note my twitching hands. The rage is streaming now, all that roiling emotion flooding my brain. I remind myself to stay calm. To focus. Whoever touched Emily, I'll get the bastard.

  I know this because we have 24/7 video surveillance.

  "It couldn't have been Jack," Haley says. "Why would he do that?"

  "I don't think it is."

  "Then who?"

  "I don't know, but we're about to find out."

  I roll Charlie's chair to the credenza along the far wall and sit while waiting for her desktop for the security system to boot up.

  After logging in, a few keystrokes bring me to this morning's videos. I find the one for the hallway camera and click on it. A second later, a color image pops up, the timestamp showing 12:00:01.

  Thinking logically, if someone had broken in, the alarm would’ve sounded. Plus, Haley just told me she'd disarmed it when she arrived. Somewhere between then and now, someone screwed with my Emily.

  I select the small circle on the video bar until it reaches 8:43:00. I slow my clicking down, moving at one minute intervals until I get to 10:30:00. No Jack.

  Click, click, click.

  Click.

  I keep going. Another ten and there's Haley, hustling to the back where she pauses, obviously asking who it is. Good girl. She opens the door and our delivery man enters with two boxes he sets in my office. Haley signs for it, points to the reception area and Jack nods. He watches for a second as she jogs away from him, her ankles wobbling on her high-heels. Haley disappears from view and Jack exits, returning a minute later with two more boxes.

  Then he's gone. 10:46:35.

  And the door is unlocked.

  I click another dozen or so times, searching for anyone else who may have entered.

  Bingo. 10:51:13.

  The back door comes open. A man in jeans, a black sweatshirt, a black baseball cap and one of those reflective vests utility workers are required to wear stands in the doorway, peering straight ahead. I zoom in as tight as the system will allow and see the chin-length platinum blond hairs that hangs below his cap.

  A rush of adrenaline explodes, rushing straight down my neck and firing another burst of anger over the invasion of my space. I lock my teeth together. Bastard.

  His head is dipped and there's a logo on the cap, but I can't make it out. That'll be a job for Charlie or Matt. They have techie contacts that might be able to get a tighter zoom. For now, it's above my pay grade.

  He lingers for a second, then another. Waiting, I presume, to see if someone might appear to question him.

  Behind me, Haley gasps.

  I've pretty much forgotten she's there and I peer up at her.

  "Oh, my God," she says. "I'm so sorry."

  I pause the video. She's sorry? She could’ve been murdered and she's apologizing to me.

  "Don't you dare apologize. I'm just glad you're all right. Do you want to watch this? Maybe you shouldn't."

  "Oh, I'm watching. That way if I see the fucker, I can kick him in the balls."

  Ha. I like her spunk. She reminds me of my sister.

  I click once more and the video rolls. "All right then."

  Our intruder moves through the hallway, his steps light but quick. The conference room door is closed, but he pauses. He keeps his head low with the bill of his cap hiding his features as he presses his ear against it. Then he spots the next door—my studio—open and peels away. In three strides, he reaches my office and peeps in, sees the space empty, then enters.

  At this moment, while I watch some stranger invade my sanctuary, I regret the war I waged when Charlie suggested security cameras for each office. I threw every ounce of my being into the argument. I'm an artist, I told her. I can't work with cameras spying.

  Now I wish I'd let my security conscious sister have her way.

  Haley and I sit quietly. What is there to say when a strange man creeps around two doors from where she fields calls?

  I look at her and my gaze locks on her blond hair and the long column of her neck. The weight of a full-on body slam hits me. This could have been so much worse. I could’ve returned to find our assistant with her throat slashed clear to the bone.

  "Jesus," I finally say.

  "It's crazy," she replies. "This guy has the nerve to just walk in."

  I shake my head and refrain from telling her he could be a serial killer. Because, really? Why else would he be in my studio putting a blond wig on Emily right after we determined we have a serial killer with an obsession for blondes?

  Less than a minute later, the camera catches the bill of the cap as the man pokes his head out. I am frozen, my gaze glued to the screen as more of him is revealed. Slowly, an inch at a time, his entire head, the one suddenly lacking blond hair, comes into view. He keeps his chin dipped, obscuring his face, but from this angle, I can't see any hair.

  He once again checks the length of the hall—all clear—and steps from my office. He moves casually, as if he didn't just invade my personal space and defile my work.

  Seconds later, he makes his exit and my rage spews again. Not only has he touched Emily, he came insanely close to Haley, our young, very pretty, and very blond assistant.

  10

  Charlie

  I'm interviewing Yvonne Wagner, Juanita's biological mother, when I get a 911 text from Meg.

  We had a break in. I think the killer knows we're looking for him.

  She sent a photo, and I stare in confusion at the wig on the skull. I have to read the message three times before it sinks in.

  ...killer knows we're looking for him.

  Holy crap.

  "Is everything okay?" Yvonne is in her early sixties, her dishwater blond hair hiding the gray strands, her plump face showing very few wrinkles for her age. She insists she is Juanita's mother, and that the father was Polish.

  "Fine." I fake a smile, trying to figure out how to excuse myself without blowing this meeting.

  Yvonne's baby was illegitimate, and the father, Roland Kolosky, wasn't cut out for domestic life with a wife and child. He was in the Army and stationed overseas constantly—he was told about the pregnancy and wanted her to end it. She refused, but her parents forced her to give the baby up for adoption.

  Apparently her aunt and uncle's hotel secretly catered to young, unwed mothers in the 1970s. Without saying it, Yvonne has hinted at the fact the mothers often turned over their babies to her aunt and uncle for private adoptions.

  Private, illegal adoptions. There were two others who gave birth the same night, if her memory serves. All three were giving their babies up. What are the odds Juanit
a was switched with another baby that night?

  Juanita should have her DNA tests back by now, but I haven't heard from her. The records of her birth are sketchy, and if there's no physical link, it solves this mystery while opening another—who are her real biological parents?

  I thank Yvonne and rise, not finishing the tea she made for me. "I'm sorry, but something's come up. I have to run. Have you ever taken a DNA test?"

  "Juanita wants me to," she says, "but I haven't yet. It's so..." She gives a shudder and plays with her cup.

  "They're easy and quick. Would you be willing if I bring it by and walk you through it?"

  She shrugs. "I know she's mine, so I'm not sure what it’ll prove."

  Surely after meeting Juanita this woman can see her genes aren’t European Caucasian. People see what they want, I guess. Perhaps after finding her daughter—at least who she thinks is hers–after all these years, she's afraid of losing her again. "I'll be by tomorrow with a kit."

  I say a hasty goodbye and text Meg that I’m on my way. Be there shortly.

  Except I find JJ in Yvonne’s driveway, leaning on my car. “What are you doing here?”

  His arms are crossed, his suit jacket bunching around his broad shoulders. “Juanita told me you’d be here, and I was in the neighborhood.”

  Right. He’s six miles from his office, in a rundown suburb. I give him my resting bitch face. “I don’t have time to chat.” I shoo him away. “Meg needs me.”

  “My attorney is two blocks over,” he says, sounding a touch cheeky as he proves he’s telling some version of the truth. His fingers skim my arm. “He has news.”

  Lawyer. Divorce. My breath hitches, partly from his touch and because I once more feel hope.

  Some of my friends have been through divorce proceedings that were strung out over a year or more. I know they take time and can be gut-wrenchingly painful. JJ’s wife is a high-profile entertainment lawyer who doesn’t want to give up her influential husband. That their divorce has topped the two-year mark shouldn’t surprise me, but it still bugs the shit out of me. I want him for myself, dammit. “That’s great.” I reach for the car door. “I have to go.”

  He opens it for me before I can do it and helps me inside. He leans on the frame and says, “Can I call you later?”

  I smell his intoxicating aftershave and see those baby blues—frank, with a touch of yearning in them. He’s asking permission for once, instead of just doing whatever he wants. I want to grab him and hug him. Reassure him his lawyer has the news we’ve both been waiting for. “Good luck with the meeting,” is all I say instead before forcing him out of the way as I shut the door.

  He stands there for a moment, staring at me. I can’t go anywhere until he moves his big SUV, so I hurriedly shoot off texts to Matt and a couple other beefy guys I know with IQs higher than mine—Justice "Grey" Greystone and Mitch Monroe.

  I should mention to JJ about Meg’s visitor, about the fear jabbing me under my breastbone, but I don’t. Selfish me, I want him to go to that damn meeting. I want him to call me later and tell me Carlena Gage Carrington has signed the papers.

  For now, I let him go and hope my other texts are answered. If a killer did pay us a visit, I'm going to need the other men in my life on board.

  I don't make it home until after nine, having set up a whole new security system at the office. To be honest, calming Meg down took more effort than installing the cameras and motion sensors on all the doors and windows.

  Hopefully, I impressed upon Haley the importance of never leaving the back door unsupervised. Especially now.

  Grey and I went through all the footage and he's having his tech expert, Teeg, see if he can get a hit off our intruder's face, body shape, gait, or the logo on the cap. The blond wig on the skull is a blatant message if I've ever seen one. Matt is taking it to the FBI lab to have it tested to see if there are any cases using the same hair.

  The biggest thing bothering me is how this guy—our suspected serial killer—found out we're investigating these cold cases. The request I put in to the various local police departments—did someone leak it? Or perhaps from the prison? Is this a killer employed by a law-enforcement agency?

  The thought sends shivers over my skin.

  I'm seconds from climbing into a warm bath and working through several possibilities when the doorbell rings. Meg doesn't use it or knock—she simply uses her key. Maybe it's Matt or Grey with some news.

  Throwing on my robe, I check my phone and the app connected to the new front door camera. All I see is a hulking mass of a man with his head down, but I know that build, that brand of suit.

  I rush to the door, tying the sash on the way. I'm annoyed and weirdly pleased when I find JJ on the doorstep looking like a million bucks.

  A tired million bucks, but still sexy as hell, a five o'clock shadow heavy along his jawline. His big hands hold takeout bags. "I just heard about the break-in." He scans me from head to toe—checking that I'm in one piece or taking stock of my lack of clothing? —before coming back to meet my eyes. "Are you okay?"

  I tighten the sash and realize it only serves to emphasize my suddenly perky nipples. Traitors.

  That's what he does to me—instant insanity. My body betrays me even as my heart retreats. "Technically, it wasn't a break-in, the guy walked through the unlocked back door. I wasn't there when it happened, so yes, I'm fine, and no, I'm not up for company. I'll call you tomorrow."

  Unless he has the news I’ve been waiting to hear…

  He doesn’t say anything, and I start to close the door feeling my hopes crashing down—if she’d signed, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me—and he strong-arms it. His look turns wounded. "You should have called me today."

  She definitely did not sign the papers. "Everything's under control." I hope.

  "You're dealing with a serial killer. He knows you're on his trail now and wants to play games with you and Meg. This is serious, Charlie."

  "You think I don't know that?" I snort my frustration, not just at JJ, at the whole damn situation. "I installed an upgraded office security system, reprimanded our poor receptionist, interrogated the UPS guy, and have friends trying to match our visitor with known criminals in the area. Meanwhile, I've also added extra security around the duplex and tried to talk Meg into moving in with Mom and Dad until this blows over."

  "Bet that went well." A small smile. He tips his chin to the other side of the duplex. "She's okay?"

  "She's pissed and ready to go on a rampage, she just doesn't have a target."

  "Can I see the video?"

  "Why? Because you have ESP and will be able to figure out what the rest of us can't?"

  Another wounded look. "Let me help. I brought dinner. I know you haven't eaten."

  He knows me too well. My stomach growls as if on cue—another traitor. A part of me urges me to let him in, to show him the video, the photos I pulled from it, and to put him on follow-up duty with the police departments I contacted two days ago about the cold cases. Someone had to have leaked the info, alerting our killer.

  But in reality, my body wants to invite him inside for ulterior purposes. It's been too long since our night together.

  And it's not just my body that misses him.

  I miss him. All of me.

  Don't go there.

  One of the things that's gotten me this far in life is selective risky behavior. It sounds counterproductive, and with my need for order and rules, it sometimes is. What I've found through the years is there are calculated risks worth taking, and those are what put me ahead of the class more times than not. I like to blame it on Meg's influence–she runs on emotion and that's always trouble. Truth is, I could stand to get out of my brain and trust my emotions more.

  JJ is one big, fat, calculated risk. “How did the meeting go?”

  His smile is tired. He knows what I’m referring to. “We’re making progress.”

  The last bit of my hope dies.

  My brain and heart
feel torn to pieces, probably because there is no happy ending for us.

  Unfortunately, that doesn't stop me from opening the door and letting him in.

  I sense the conqueror in him doing a fist pump, the faintest hint of smugness in his smile.

  "Don't get cocky. I have a lot of work to do tonight and, you're right, I haven't eaten. Pull out plates while I get dressed and pour me a glass of wine. My laptop is on the dining room table. The video is on there."

  I plan to head to the bedroom to get dressed, but before I get two steps from the counter, he grabs my arm and draws me close. His arms go around me, and he pulls me into a tight hug.

  It's suffocating and annoying, and oddly reassuring at the same time. I'm tired, freaked out a killer strolled into our offices in the middle of the day, and racking my brain to figure out how he knows we're investigating him. All that stops at the feel of JJ's arms around me.

  His breath is warm on the top my head. "God, I'm glad you're okay."

  My arms encircle his waist of their own accord to reassure him, my body melting into his bigger one. His expensive cologne is wearing off, but I can still find hints of sandalwood, mint, and cedar.

  For me, that adds up to power and safety. Two of my favorite aphrodisiacs. I could stay like this in his arms, listening to his strong, solid heartbeat forever.

  Nope.

  Forever is not in the cards. I push away, and he reluctantly lets me go. "I've got to get dressed."

  His hands hold onto mine as I try to make my escape. One finger slides over my pink topaz ring, wiggling it. "Not on my account."

  There's something in his eyes, and it flips the switch. Just boom. Heat roars through me, and in less than a heartbeat, I’m in his arms again, his hands undoing the belt around my waist and opening the robe. Our mouths find each other, tongues dancing. My fingers grip the lapels of his shirt and the next thing I know, I hear buttons smacking into the counter, onto the tile floor. Pop, pop, pop. I free his muscled chest and press myself against that steady heartbeat once more.