Before Mac could respond, Emily stepped forward and opened the door once again. “It’s time for you to leave.” When Martin opened his mouth to protest, Emily cut him off. “You’ve said enough for one day. Don’t make things any worse. Just leave.”
Mac wasn’t sure she realized she still had the knife in her hand, but as she shooed Martin out of the apartment, Martin carefully kept his front facing her, his eyes never leaving the blade.
She shut the door behind him and turned to face Mac, her eyes wide with regret. “I’m so sorry. He said he was your father, and I thought I should let him in. I had no idea…”
“It’s fine.”
Emily put the knife down on the console table by the front door. “No, I don’t think it is fine.” She paused, seemingly assessing Mac. “He was drunk, you know. I don’t think he meant half of what he said.”
Filled with bitterness, he knew it leaked out in his voice. “Oh, you don’t? I suppose you think with a few AA meetings, he’d be fucking father of the year.”
Emily shook her head. “Mac—”
“No, I know. That’s part of your job description. You have to see the best in people, have to believe that people can change.” He walked away from Emily and collapsed on the couch. “That’s what the social worker told my mother the first time he put her in the hospital—that maybe after rehab, things would get better, but you see this scar?” He pointed to the jagged line on his temple, and Emily sat down in the chair adjacent to him, her expression sorrowful. “This is from a beer bottle my father broke over my head…before he drank out of it, before he’d even had one drink. I was eight years old.”
Emily put a hand over her mouth, and her eyes grew wet with unshed tears.
He wasn’t surprised by her reaction. It had been horrible. The amount of force it took to break a bottle—it was shocking he hadn’t been more seriously hurt. “The man is just as mean sober as he is drunk, and I’m embarrassed to share fifty percent of my DNA with him.”
“You’re nothing like him, Mac,” she said, her voice raspy.
“I certainly hope not.” He stood up, preparing to go to his bedroom to finish getting dressed.
Emily stood too, laying a hand on his forearm. “Do you want to talk about what just happened?”
“What do you want me to do, Em? You want me to lay down on the couch and dredge up every disappointing memory of my father?” Unable to check his frustration, his volume rose. “You think that’s going to make it all better? You think that will give me back my childhood?”
She flinched at his raised voice.
He hated himself for taking his anger out on her and tried to gentle his tone. “I’m sorry. I just—” He had no explanations. No excuses for his behavior. “I’m going to get dressed. The shower’s all yours.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Emily walked into the office suite and three voices immediately stopped talking. Sandra, Nancy and Asha were gathered around the receptionist’s desk, engaging in some morning gossip, evidently not meant for her ears.
Trying not to feel hurt by the snub, she tacked on a friendly smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” came their unison response.
Sandra chewed her lower lip, her gaze darting back and forth between Emily and the door of Emily’s office.
Emily cocked her head to one side. “Is everything all right?”
Asha smiled, the overly cheerful smile of someone hiding something. “Yes, of course. How are you feeling today?”
Awful. Sleep-deprived. On edge. All thanks to her would-be stalker, and her mood had only worsened after the altercation with Mac’s father. She wanted so badly to be close to Mac, to scale the walls he’d built between them, but he would not be breached.
Deciding the question had been more rhetorical than an invitation to get into the melodrama of her life, Emily said, “I’m fine.”
Three sets of raised eyebrows begged her to say more, but she just didn’t have anything else she wanted to share.
“Well, I guess I’d better get ready for the day.” Nodding to her coworkers, Emily moved toward her office.
“Yes, and today will be a better day,” Asha said, in what Emily recognized as her trademark counselor voice.
Great. She was being treated with kid gloves. They’d probably been taking bets on how long it would be before Emily had some sort of stress-induced breakdown.
Whatever. She’d overcome far worse things in life. She would not let a little mess and some graffiti keep her down.
Stepping into her office, Emily almost backed out to make sure she was in the right room. Her workspace, demolished just yesterday, was back to its neat and tidy state. Her coffee table had been replaced, her potted plant replanted, and most importantly the graffiti-covered wall repainted a calming light blue.
She heard the girls approach behind her, giggling, excited about the surprise they’d apparently planned. “This is amazing. Did you guys do all of this yesterday afternoon?”
Sandra couldn’t contain her excitement. “Well, almost everything. Nancy donated the coffee table—”
“We weren’t using it. It was just sitting in my basement collecting dust.”
“—and we all pitched in with the cleaning and straightening, but the paint job…” Sandra’s smile widened. “That was courtesy of your big sexy cop.”
This was the part where she was supposed say something. But words escaped her.
“He’s the same guy from Starbucks, isn’t he? How is it that you know him now?” Sandra shook Emily’s shoulder playfully. “I want all the juicy details.”
“Mac did this?” Emily was stunned. And deeply touched.
“A painter arrived yesterday afternoon and said that an anonymous donor had paid him to repaint your wall,” Asha said.
“As if we would let someone into your office with a flimsy cover story like that after what’d happened? I don’t think so.” Sandra grinned. “I told him that we couldn’t allow him in without some assurances. And when he told me to get bent—he was getting paid whether I let him paint or not—I told him I’d give him an extra twenty for the name of the anonymous donor.”
“And he said it was Mac?” Emily tried not to place more meaning to the gesture than Mac had intended, but it was just so unbelievably thoughtful and so far above and beyond the call of duty. She couldn’t help but wonder if he cared for her more than even he was willing to admit.
“Yep.” Persistent as ever, Sandra returned to her quest for information. “So what’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing.” She met three skeptical gazes, the raised eyebrow trio back in action. “No, truly. He’s a good friend of my brother and he’s just trying to look out for me as a favor to Sean.” And she’d better continue reminding herself of that fact or she’d lose her heart completely.
She thanked the ladies once again for helping to put her office back together and settled in at her desk.
Though her computer tower was intact, her monitor had not been salvageable, and until a new one arrived, she would be doing her scheduling and case notes the old fashioned way.
She still had some time before her first client arrived, so she took out a pen and paper and tried to think of places that Carl might be hiding out. She’d talked to Detective Dorsey that morning when he’d called to tell her that no one had been found around her apartment. From that conversation, she’d also learned that Dorsey had checked Carl’s mother’s house and had gotten a list of his friends’ names from her. He’d tracked down each of them and questioned them about Carl’s whereabouts. So far, he’d turned up nothing but a disappointing series of dead ends.
She appreciated Dorsey’s efforts to keep her updated and wanted to contribute to the investigation in any way she could.
If only she had Carl’s file, things would be easier. She might have made notes about places Carl had frequented, people that he’d associated with, that would be extremely helpful to her now. But without the file, she’d have to rel
y on her memory, which was spotty at best.
She remembered Carl had participated in a few sessions of group therapy a few months ago. People often developed close relationships in therapy groups. Would Carl have gone to one of those group members for a place to lay low? It was a long shot—particularly given that Carl was a reluctant participant in all forms of counseling, whether it was group or individual. And from her perspective as the facilitator of the group, he hadn’t appeared to mesh well with the other members. But for now, it was her only and best idea.
She flipped through the files in her cabinet, looking for the folder she kept on her substance abuse group. Five people participated during the time that Carl had attended. She didn’t relish the thought of turning those names over to Detective Dorsey. None of the five people deserved to have it publicly broadcast they had attended group therapy—particularly since the group was for substance abusers. But perhaps she could question them herself. If she came up with any leads on Carl’s location, then—and only then—she would pass the information on to Dorsey. Otherwise, she would do her best to protect her clients’ privacy.
Her phone rang and seeing it was Nancy, she put it on speaker. “Hey, Emily. Your one o’clock appointment just called. He’s sick with the flu and canceled for this week.”
“Thank you, Nancy.”
“Also, don’t forget your two o’clock is vacationing in Hawaii.”
Emily smiled. “Nancy, are you telling me, I have a three hour lunch break today?”
“Looks that way.” Nancy chuckled. “Girl, after the day you had yesterday, you deserve it.”
“Thanks, Nancy.”
Emily’s mood lifted considerably. If she was lucky, she might be able to track down and interview her five group members during that time.
Just one small snag. Mac had insisted on dropping her off at work this morning and she was carless. She supposed she could ask questions by phone, but if Carl was hiding with one of her clients, she’d be much more likely to detect any nervousness in her interviewees with an in-person visit than a phone call.
Making her decision, she picked up her phone and dialed Sandra’s extension.
“Hey, what’s up?” Sandra’s voice sprang cheerfully over the line.
“Any chance I could borrow your car this afternoon?”
* * *
Mac took yet another swig of coffee. What the hell was he going to do if he had to piss soon? The closest thing to a bathroom he could see was an old oak tree ten yards from his car. Wouldn’t be too classy for a cop to get caught urinating in public, so he hoped his bladder held out.
He’d been camped outside Emily’s office, parked on a street perpendicular to her building, for the past four hours. He had a perfect line of sight to the front and side entrances and the entire parking lot. If Carl was going to target her at work, Mac would see him long before he even got into the building.
Despite the cool fall weather, the sun shone bright, warming the inside of his car and threatening to bring the sleep that had evaded him the night before. He smacked his cheeks several times, shook his head vigorously like a dog coming out of the lake, and looked around his car for something to engage his brain. He had a photo of Carl and a notepad with the make, model, and plate number of Carl’s car written on it, but as he’d already memorized that information, he had nothing to do to stay awake.
Shit. He really had to piss now. He judged the distance to the nearest park and tried to remember if it had public restrooms or even just a porta-john. He’d have to walk over there and find out. Grabbing the door handle, he froze. Emily was coming out of her office building.
She looked gorgeous in her silk blouse and black hip-hugging dress slacks, striding purposefully down the sidewalk. She was alone though, which was odd. If she was going to lunch, she’d have to drive with a friend.
Her gaze swung his way and he ducked down. He had a feeling Emily would not be pleased to know he’d taken up surveillance on her office. She already seemed uncomfortable about staying at his place and his having taken time off of work to be with her in the evenings. Better not push his luck.
He shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat—his bladder vehemently protesting this delay in relief—and hoped that his distance from her and the commonness of his SUV would help him evade her attention. From his crouching position, he watched her search the parking lot for a moment. After a few seconds, she lifted a set of keys into the air and pressed a button on the key fob. The lights flickered and the horn let out a short blast from a small red Toyota at the end of the parking lot.
Emily made a beeline for the Toyota and quickly put the car in gear. Mac started his SUV and prepared to follow her at a comfortable distance. But first, he waited to see if anyone else followed her.
She pulled into the street and all that tailed her was a whirl of dry autumn leaves. No movement. No other cars. No stalker.
Confident he was the only one going after her today, he hit the gas.
Driving past Northwestern University on Sheridan, the distance between his SUV and the Toyota lengthened and he groaned in frustration. He managed to follow her winding path to Sherman Avenue, but at the first light, Emily sailed through a yellow and Mac braked hard to avoid hitting pedestrians already spilling into the street. Tapping the steering wheel, he bit back a curse, watching a group of giggling sorority sisters—their relationship broadcast by the plaid Greek letters sewn across their t-shirts—saunter in front of his car.
Emily pulled over at the campus t-shirt store and he thanked his lucky streak that he hadn’t lost her after the Kappa Phi parade. Rather than closing the distance between them by crossing through the intersection, Mac pulled to the side of the road and watched Emily go into the store.
He could see her through the storefront’s big window having a short conversation with the cashier. Whatever it was she was asking for, the clerk appeared not to have it, as he was shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders—universal sign language for I have no friggin’ clue.
Maybe this was a tad neurotic—following Emily. It was obvious that nobody else was. And what were the odds that she would run into Carl—who was supposedly laying low—while she was running errands on her lunch hour? His bladder screamed at him to give up this self-assigned stakeout and find a place to piss—and find it fast. But the look of determination on Emily’s face when she exited the store told him that she was looking for something more than just a custom printed t-shirt. And it was that look that worried him.
Easing back into traffic, he tried to put his expanding bladder out of his mind and concentrated on keeping a conservative three-car separation between his SUV and the Toyota.
He followed her to three more completely unrelated businesses. First, she stopped at a bank, where she went inside to speak with the teller rather than making her transactions at the drive-thru ATM like every other tech savvy American. And that wasn’t the only thing that struck him as odd. She’d also gone into the bank without her purse and he was fairly certain she didn’t have any room in her form-fitting slacks for a wallet. Whatever Emily had done in the bank, it didn’t have anything to do with money.
Next, she stopped at Northwestern’s administration building. What business could she possibly have there? Again, she went in with nothing and less than five minutes later came out with nothing.
Growing more uneasy and perplexed with each stop, Mac followed her to a used car dealership, where he easily camouflaged his SUV by slipping into one of the many rows of vehicles. The dealership was made entirely of glass, making it easy for him to see what Emily was doing. Unfortunately, that didn’t help him figure out what she was up to.
She spoke with the receptionist who nodded to Emily before leaving her desk and bringing back a portly salesman. Emily and the salesman shook hands and engaged in a brief conversation, which ended exactly as her first conversation with the cashier had. The salesman shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and—if Mac’s lip-reading skills were
any good—said, “I really don’t know.”
She was looking for Carl. He knew it in his gut. Why was she doing this by herself? Why hadn’t she given these people’s names to Dorsey? But the real question was why hadn’t she asked him for help?
The answer was obvious. He’d been a complete ass to her both last night and this morning. He didn’t know how to apologize for what had happened the night before. How could he make her understand something he himself didn’t entirely comprehend? And as for the scene with his father—well, he knew what had happened there. He’d taken his anger at his father out on her and he owed her a serious apology. And he would figure out how to make it up to her. But later. At the moment, he needed to concentrate on keeping her in his sights. Something he feared was about to become a lot more difficult.
She turned into the drive of a west side apartment complex. Evanston didn’t have many truly bad neighborhoods, but ninety percent of whatever crime was happening in Evanston was happening in this area.
If she was going to talk to one of these residents it would be impossible to follow her into the building without her knowing. He considered revealing himself now and demanding that she let him go with her, but she was already upset with him—and rightfully so. He didn’t need to give her another reason to be ticked at him.
But more convincing than any other argument was the fact that he was, at this point, completely unable to stand. He had to piss so bad, he was fairly certain the pain in his back was an indication that the contents of his bladder were backing up into his kidneys. So, he settled for watching the building in the hopes that this interview would go just as the others and she would be back out in less than five minutes.
Ten excruciating minutes later, he was seriously second-guessing himself.
He had to go in after her.
Decision made, he grabbed his empty coffee cup, knowing that he would be useless unless he relieved himself. Mid-stream he noticed movement in his side-view mirror.
Shit. Rhonda Phillips, the complex’s worst busy body and frequent 9-1-1 caller, was hauling ass toward his car. He quickly removed his ball cap to cover his lap, knowing he didn’t have time to zip.
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