The Kill Radius

by Nichole Christoff

  Marc said, “I think your clothes are ringing.”

  The unfamiliar tone sounded again, way too close and much too loud. I dug the new phone Laura had sent me from my jeans pocket. Corinne’s number lit up the caller ID.

  “Jamie? Is Ray with you?”

  My friend’s voice was breathy and tremulous and I didn’t like that.

  “No. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. At least, I hope it’s nothing.”

  All kinds of fear crowded into my mind. “Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

  “No, no. It’s…Jamie, that man you mentioned. That Eddie Jepson. He wasn’t a client, was he? You and Ray busted him, didn’t you? Well, I think he’s here. I think he’s trying to break into the house!”

  “Call nine-one-one.”

  Marc’s steady hand closed over my shoulder.

  And that’s when I realized I was shaking.

  “Where are you now, Corinne?”

  “I’m upstairs, in the bedroom. I turned off the lights and I’m trying to see him from the window—”

  “Listen to me. Don’t take chances. This guy is dangerous.”

  Marc’s car keys jingled in the dark. He clasped my palm in his. He drew me from the doorway and together we ran through the slowing rain toward his car.

  Through the phone pressed to my ear, Corinne said, “I tried to call Bran. I thought Ray would be with him—”

  “Hang up and call nine-one-one right now,” I ordered. “I’m on my way.”

  Marc exceeded every speed limit between the Back Bay and Ray’s bungalow. And when we turned onto Ray’s street, Marc doused the rental car’s lights. We cruised slowly, scanning neighboring yards for any sign of movement. Eddie could’ve decamped after Corinne spotted him. Or he could’ve been lying low behind somebody’s rhododendron or SUV, watching for a second chance to do whatever he’d intended in the first place.

  Marc coasted to a stop at the edge of Ray’s yard and cut the engine.

  “Don’t be a hero,” he warned me. “You see that guy, you yell for me.”

  I didn’t waste time arguing. In a heartbeat, we were both out of the car, jogging silently toward the house. We stuck to the shadow of the oak trees and the fringe of pines that marked one property from another.

  With our eyes and ears open, we circled wide. Nothing moved in the underbrush. And nothing resembled a bag or a box that could contain a second bomb.

  Corinne had had the sense to douse every lamp in the house and to turn on the porch light. Its amber glow spilled down the front steps and was a deterrent in and of itself. In the inky blackness of the backyard, however, when I cut between the house and detached garage, broken glass crunched under my boot.

  Instantly, I froze. Eddie must’ve smashed the fixture illuminating the path from the garage to the bungalow. He would’ve wanted to creep across the deck and approach the kitchen doors in the dark, only Corinne had put the kibosh on his entering the house.

  So where was he?

  Dread drove me to retrace my steps. I dropped flat to the side of the garage, held my breath, and counted to ten. No sounds drifted from inside, and outside, only the breeze sighed through the trees above me.

  Still, something about the smashed light fixture niggled me.

  Ray’s garage was double wide, built to accommodate two cars, a workbench with its requisite tools, and a lawnmower big enough to handle the football field at Ole Miss. No windows decorated the overhead door, so no prowler could peer in and, by the absence of a car, determine that the homeowner was away. But the side door was another story.

  The two-over-two windowpanes would be a cinch to shatter, except I found them intact. The daisy-dotted curtain stalwartly continued to keep prying eyes from looking in. Corinne had chosen that fabric, stitched the curtain herself, and hung it to replace an old burlap bag Ray had used as a drape. It still did a fine job after all these years, and I could see nothing of the garage’s interior when I pressed my face to the glass. But that didn’t mean Eddie wasn’t hiding inside.

  I grasped the doorknob. Heavy and cold in my hand, it was an old iron thing, left over from the prewar era. Below it, the original keyhole to the ancient mortise lock was nothing more than a dark blot. Years ago, Ray had installed a modern deadbolt above the knob. It might be locked or it might not—and there was only one way to tell.

  I tried to turn the knob. It should’ve spun on its spindle even if the deadbolt mounted above it was engaged. But it didn’t budge.

  I dropped to one knee and strained to see through the old keyhole in the weak starlight. Pitch black met my eye. I rose to my feet, tried the knob again, and this time I applied my shoulder to the door’s stile. Still, the knob steadfastly refused to turn. And I told myself that if I couldn’t get in, Eddie Jepson hadn’t.

  Reluctantly, I turned my back on the garage, made a complete circuit of the house. Finding nothing suspicious, I ducked behind a bank of azaleas to wait and to watch. At any moment, I expected half a dozen police cruisers to arrive with sirens screaming. With that much manpower on the street, Eddie might bolt. And if he did, I’d be on him like a bad rash.

  But the neighborhood remained eerily quiet. I began to wonder whether Corinne had called the police at all. And then I wondered whether she was okay—or whether something awful had happened to her in her own bedroom while I’d been prowling around outside.

  Sick with worry, I wouldn’t let myself run for the house. Instead, I walked, stepping quickly in and out of deep shadows that could shield me if Eddie were waiting to pounce. Every neuron in the base of my brain screamed at me to get a move on as I trotted up the wide front steps. But I kept calm. I pulled out my cellphone and methodically punched up Corinne’s number.

  She answered on the first ring. “Jamie?”

  “I’m standing on your porch,” I told her. “Let me in.”

  From inside the house, I heard the creak of a stair and the turn of the lock. Corinne threw the door wide. She stood in the foyer trembling, but besides being scared, she was quite all right.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she confessed, and flung her arms around my neck in a pregnant lady’s version of a big bear hug. “It was silly to call you, I know, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “It wasn’t silly,” I chided her. “Especially if you saw someone trying to break in. If you saw Eddie Jepson—”

  A footfall behind me had me whirling around, ready to protect and defend.

  But it was only Marc, stepping slowly into the spill of the porch light with his hands in plain sight.

  “You must be Adam,” Corinne burbled.

  She rushed from the safety of the entranceway and hugged him, too.

  Marc froze in his tracks. For one awkward moment, his black eyes met mine—and I read longing in them. In a blink, however, the emotion was gone and Marc came to life again, patting Corinne haphazardly on the back.

  “Um, Corinne?” I said. “This is a friend of mine. His name is Marc.”

  “Oh.” She let Marc go, tried a smile on for size. “Well, any friend of Jamie’s is a friend of mine.”

  Marc murmured something polite.

  And I felt my face flash red hot.

  “We should go inside,” I said.

  “That’s a good idea,” Marc agreed.

  He offered to check the windows throughout the house, and without waiting for Corinne to grant permission, I took him up on it. Corinne and I retreated to the kitchen, where I wanted to examine the lock on the French doors. Eddie hadn’t smashed a pane there and he hadn’t jimmied the deadbolt. Likewise, the rods securing the secondary door hadn’t been forced from the threshold or lintel. Through the glass, I could see scratches in the exterior woodwork surrounding the cylinder collar. They could’ve been the result of a sloppy pick job. Or they could’ve been created anytime Ray had tried to insert his key after coming home late in the dark.

  In either case, I didn’t like those odds. I grabbed my phone and fired up the browser. T
he major news outlets hadn’t announced Eddie’s arrest, though they reported that five more raids had taken place in Jackson, Mississippi, and around the country. If I wanted to know whether Eddie was still loose, I needed someone with an insider’s information. In short, I needed Barrett.

  I didn’t want to worry him. That might be a woman’s proclivity. But worried soldiers could get hurt or worse, and that was a reality.

  I didn’t want to waste the resources of Callahan’s task force, either. Sure as shootin’, they’d swarm this neighborhood if Barrett caught on to my circumstances. Still, the thought that the riverboat bomber had come to visit Corinne and Ray made me carefully compose a text message.

  I fired it off before I could change my mind:

  HOW ARE YOU?

  KEEP CAREFUL.

  GOT EDDIE IN CUSTODY?

  If Barrett was with Callahan’s team in Jackson, or if he was sitting in as they questioned suspects, it could take all night for him to reply, but the second I slid my phone into my blazer pocket, it jangled with that unfamiliar ring.

  “What’s wrong?” Barrett asked when I answered.

  “What makes you think—”

  “I got your text and I read between the lines.”

  Of course he had. Because Barrett was a professional investigator. And I was fumbling for facts in the dark.

  “I’m at Ray’s,” I admitted. “Corinne was here alone, saw a guy trying to break-and-enter.”

  “And she IDed him as Eddie Jepson?”

  “Slow down, soldier. I’m just looking into every possibility.”

  “Well, he’s not in federal custody. He could’ve skipped town, or he could be—”

  “He’s not here,” I said with conviction.

  Across the kitchen, Corinne fiddled with her own phone. She must’ve finally reached Ray, because she retreated to a far corner. I could hear her quietly trying to convince him everything was all right. Ray, however, was the kind of man who’d want to make that determination for himself. I figured he’d come flying in at any moment, and when he did, he’d hound me for any deductions I’d made.

  “I should go,” I told Barrett. And clutching the phone a little closer, I whispered, “Be careful out there, all right?”

  He sighed and it didn’t sound so much like exasperation as exhaustion. He’d been on his feet for thirty-six hours now. And it had to be killing him that he was no closer to Damon’s murderer.

  He said, “Some weekend I’m showing you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll make up for it later.” And that, on my part, was a promise.

  I shoved my cell into my pocket just as Corinne laid hers on the countertop.

  “Ray will be here soon,” she confirmed. She rubbed her belly as if soothing the baby she carried—or as if soothing her own nerves. “I was watching one of those cooking shows, you know? It made me want a snack. I popped in here during a commercial break, didn’t even bother with the light. And that’s when I heard scratching, like a raccoon at the back door. I looked over and saw a guy through the glass. When he saw me, he took off.”

  “Was he forty-five or so? Dressed like he forgot where he’d parked his yacht? And did he have dark hair parted down the middle?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Well, how would you describe him?”

  “I don’t know. Average, I guess. Average height. Average build.” Corinne’s face clouded and I feared she might cry.

  “Okay, okay. I’ve just got one more question before Ray gets here, Corinne.”

  “Anything.”

  “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?”

  “Because.” A pink flush rushed into Corinne’s cheeks. “Bran asked me not to.”

  Chapter 15

  If Bran Laurent had waltzed into Corinne’s kitchen at that moment, I would’ve throttled him.

  But he wasn’t here and we wouldn’t get anywhere if I took my anger out on Corinne.

  Willing myself calm, I said, “I think you’d better tell me why Bran didn’t want you to call the police.”

  Corinne opened her mouth, and I hoped she had a hell of an answer on her tongue. But I didn’t get to hear it, because Marc returned. He arrowed across the kitchen, slid behind the breakfast table to peer through the slats in the blinds.

  He said, “Company’s coming.”

  I joined him, looked past his broad shoulder.

  A dark green Ford Explorer roared up the drive.

  “It’s Ray,” I said.

  Ray rushed from his truck, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Corinne met him at the door. With tears in her eyes, she threw herself into his open arms, and no matter what she had going on with Bran, I couldn’t doubt that she loved Ray.

  “It’s okay,” she mumbled. “The baby and I are okay.”

  “If that bastard had done anything to you—”

  “Shh. It’s all okay.”

  They cuddled and cooed and Marc nudged me, inclined his head toward the hallway in a not-so-subtle hint that we should probably leave the lovebirds alone. He was right, and I should’ve made myself scarce at that point. Scarcity, however, wouldn’t get to the bottom of this Eddie and Bran business.

  “Hey, Ray,” I said, louder and snappier than was strictly necessary. “Any idea why Eddie Jepson would want to get into your house so badly?”

  Ray didn’t answer me. He ushered Corinne to a chair at the table. And that’s when he noticed Marc.

  “You must be Jamie’s soldier,” Ray said.

  “No,” Marc replied. “I’m her DEA agent.”

  I could hear the wheels whir in Ray’s brain as the two men shook hands. And I could see the judgment in Ray’s eyes when he turned to look at me. Mortification made me want to sink through the floor, so I grabbed hold of my anger and held on to it with both hands.

  “If you guys are done with the meet-and-greet, maybe we can get back to basics. Ray, what was Eddie Jepson doing here tonight?”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. I don’t know it was Eddie and neither do you.”

  “Really?” I folded my arms across my chest. “Do you get a lot of ex-cons dropping by the house?”

  “Last Tuesday,” Corinne said, “a man followed me through the farmers’ market. Thursday, a gray Chrysler tried to tail me when I drove out to my mother’s.”

  Shocked, I blinked from Ray to Corinne and back again. The info didn’t exactly appear to be news to him. His jaw flexed like he was chewing glass, even if all the color had fled from his face.

  I myself felt a little weak in the knees. I sank into the Windsor chair across from Corinne. “Who’s doing this to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Bran and I are on it,” Ray stated.

  But I wasn’t so sure about that.

  Especially since Bran hadn’t wanted Corinne to call 911.

  From his vantage point at the window, Marc said, “We’re about to have a full house, babe.”

  I turned in my chair, saw a familiar Dodge Ram rolling down the drive. My heart leapt to my throat. Callahan and her vans weren’t right behind Barrett’s truck, however, so I took that as a good sign.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I left the kitchen, followed the wedge of light pouring across the deck, and thundered down the steps to meet Barrett as he climbed from his truck. Despite the cold and damp, he’d shed the windbreaker he’d worn at Shirley Smith’s apartment complex and he’d shoved the sleeves of his henley halfway up his muscular forearms. His Kevlar vest was gone, but his M9 wasn’t. The weapon still rode his hip. All in all, he was a sight for sore eyes—but I wasn’t entirely sure he was happy to see me.

  Without so much as a hello, Barrett asked, “Any sign of Eddie?”

  “Still none. What’re you doing here?”

  “Coffee break,” he deadpanned.

  I shook my head. “This is a waste of your time. Corinne admitted some creeps have been trying to scare her. I doubt Eddie’s one of the
m—”

  “You’re never a waste of my time,” Barrett said.

  “But the task force—”

  “Right now, April’s waking up a federal judge to sign another stack of search warrants. Jamie, her agency’s using the attack on the Lady Luck as an excuse to order raids on every group of malcontented, militia-minded—”

  Barrett halted like a fox sensing a wolf in his territory. He glared toward Ray’s house. I turned to follow his line of sight—and saw Marc sauntering toward us.

  “Tell me he’s here for a DEA investigation,” Barrett growled.

  “Well—”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Adam Barrett.” Marc joined our little tête-à-tête. “I see you’re working late.”

  “And I see you’re hardly working,” Barrett returned.

  “Yeah.” Marc grinned. “Some guys have all the luck.”

  Barrett opened his mouth to spell out exactly what kind of guy he thought Marc was, but I stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

  “Come inside,” I said. “Meet Ray and Corinne.”

  “Is she all right?” Barrett asked, and his concern warmed my soul.

  “She was so scared, she wanted to call the police. But Ray’s partner, Bran, asked her not to.”

  “Asked her?” Marc said. “Or told her?”

  I shrugged. “Since we’re talking about a pregnant woman’s safety, I’m not sure I see a difference at this point.”

  Barrett scowled. “What does Ray have to say about that?”

  “I’m not sure he knows,” I confessed. “But he will, because I intend to tell him.”

  We returned to the house. Corinne entered full mama mode when I introduced Barrett to her. She wanted to make sandwiches for all of us, or at least feed us coffee and crumb cake. Maybe she felt embarrassed her panicked phone call had summoned all these law enforcement types to her kitchen after all. Or maybe she needed to keep busy to burn off the fear still inside her. In any case, she fluttered from counter to cabinet to coffeemaker, chatting all the while with Barrett and Marc.