by Jan Coffey
Opening the front door of her condo was a struggle, but she managed to turn the knob, lock it from the inside and step outside. A soft misty rain had started falling, and she cursed herself for not grabbing a raincoat or an umbrella. Her hair would be frizzed out so bad she’d look like the bride of Frankenstein, she thought.
“Too late,” she whispered, closing the door and turning away from it.
She stopped short. Lyden was back. As she stared at his car next to hers, Debbie felt a lump the size of a fist form in her throat. The books almost slid from her arm.
“Everything’s okay,” she told herself, glancing over at his front door. There was no sign of him there. “Just act normal.”
She hoisted everything up and started across the road. For a moment, Debbie felt slightly dizzy, and she forced herself to breathe. Before she’d gotten halfway to her car, though, the uneasiness she was feeling got to her. Involuntarily, she looked over her shoulder at his unit. Debbie’s heart stopped.
He was in the second-story window, watching her.
The car keys fell from her fingers, making a jangling noise as they hit the pavement. As she leaned over quickly to pick them up, the canvas bag slipped from her shoulder, causing everything else in her arms to avalanche onto the ground.
She glanced up at Lyden’s window again. She was certain that he was smiling.
“Freak,” she muttered nervously as the rain started falling harder.
Out of the corner of her eye, Debbie saw Mr. Romero’s car pull out of its parking space a little too fast. Great, she thought. She didn’t trust the old man’s vision on perfectly sunny days. She was crouched in the middle of the road, trying to pick everything up as quickly as she could. One of the water bottles had gotten out of the bag and was rolling away.
Debbie turned her head for only an instant, but before she could look back, she heard the screech of spinning tires. Her knees locked and she stared in disbelief as the Cadillac roared toward her.
She didn’t even have time to scream.
Twenty-Seven
“Nothing happened,” Jeremy Simpson said, trailing Liz into the small office at the Eatopia Café. “Something’s not right.” “What were you expecting to happen?” she asked, glad that the lunch rush had come and gone. Sharon could handle the counter and any stragglers who might walk in looking for something to eat.
“Something. I don’t know. Is this today’s mail?” He reached for the bundle of mail sitting on the corner of the desk. “Anything for Emily?”
Liz slapped away at the detective’s hand. “I have to go through it first. Oddly enough, some of this might be mine.”
She picked up the pile and started thumbing through the collection of bills and catalogues.
“You know,” she said, looking up at him. “Maybe whatever you did, however you set it up, looked too fake.”
“I had someone from the department come out of Emily’s house and get into my pickup. We drove around slow enough that someone on a bicycle could have followed us. But nothing happened.”
Liz shook her head and dropped the mail back on the desk. “This guy knows what my sister looks like.”
“The officer I used is a very good look-alike. She even wore some of Emily’s clothes. From a distance, I think we could have fooled even you.”
“No chance,” Liz said. “But even if you did a great job with that, there’s still the possibility that maybe he’s not local, or that he has a real day job, or maybe he knows you’re a cop. Maybe that intimidated him.”
Jeremy shook his head and came around and sat on the corner of the desk, facing her. Liz found herself trapped by the detective’s long legs. She leaned back against the wall.
“What did you want him to do?” she asked. “Start following you? Show up wherever you two went for lunch? Sit at the next table and ask to borrow the ketchup?”
Jeremy’s eyes studied her for a couple of seconds. “Promise to keep a secret?”
Liz didn’t know why her heart skipped a couple of beats. She gave a quick nod.
“Your sister has already cracked this case wide-open.”
“What do you mean?”
“Emily figured out that Ben’s accident yesterday was caused by a computer virus infecting the electronic controls in his car. Everyone from the FBI to Homeland Security is involved now.”
“My God,” she breathed.
“And that’s not all,” Jeremy went on. “They’ve confirmed that the same thing caused the high school principal’s accident, last week.”
“What are you saying?” Liz asked worriedly.
“Last Monday, Conor inadvertently blamed Peterson online for Emily running late. Minutes later, the Petersons’ accident happens. Then, on Saturday, Ben and Emily are at the racetrack, looking like an item.”
“Are you saying the stalker is using a virus?”
“I’m not saying anything yet. It’s all speculation. But this guy knew about Peterson’s accident. He mailed Emily the write-up from the paper. He also knew about Ben’s accident before any of the names were published. Also, when I went through the box of stuff I picked up last night, there was another newspaper clipping sent to her about an accident in Miami.”
“I remember Emily telling me about that one,” Liz told him. “Jay Sparks, the Internet millionaire. She told me she’d been bragging about the poor guy on her online class the week before. Something about him having both brains and brawn when it came to business.”
“Our guy mailed her the newspaper article right after the accident.”
“I know.” Liz crossed her arms. “She showed it to me and we talked about it. Both of us assumed it was harmless. One of her students, knowing of her interest in Sparks, was letting Emily know about the accident.”
“Well, guess what, Sparks’s car was infected with the same virus that she found in Ben’s Aston and in the Petersons’ car. I think the purpose of mailing the clipping was to brag about his capabilities. This was his handiwork, and he was starting to drop hints to her about it.”
“So Emily’s stalker is causing accidents to impress her?” Liz asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what his motivation is at this point. All I’m saying is that it looks to me like it’s all connected. The two people we’re looking for might just be one and the same person.”
Liz was no computer expert, but hanging around Emily for the past few years, she’d heard too many stories to doubt something like this was possible.
“Assuming you’re right,” she said tensely, “what are you trying to do? Get him irritated enough to cause another accident?”
He shrugged. “I need proof. Another step that links everything together. What I have so far is worth squat in establishing a connection.”
Liz didn’t like it. From the bits and pieces of the reports she’d heard, Jay Sparks was going to be in a wheelchair for quite some time. The three other people she knew who were involved in these accidents were all in the hospital. There was still no guarantee that Jill Peterson would ever come out of her coma. What Jeremy planned to do was too dangerous. Liz crossed her arms, her back stiffening.
“I think you’re nuts,” she exploded. “Never mind you getting into an accident and breaking every bone in your body, or even getting yourself killed, have you thought about the possibility of innocent people getting killed?”
“Of course I’ve thought about it,” Jeremy said, his face grave. “That’s exactly the reason why we have to find a way to stop him.”
“And you think that by making yourself a target, you can?”
“Yes,” Jeremy said earnestly. “If I can prove that this is the work of one person, then all the powers that be will be monitoring Emily’s online class tonight. Everyone attending will be traced.
We can narrow the field of suspects to a couple hundred.”
“Why not make the assumption and do the same thing anyway.”
He shook his head slowly from side to side. �
��I need proof to convince them. And I want you to help me.”
“Me?” Liz asked surprised. “What can I do?”
He motioned with his head toward the computer. “Send me a love note using Emily’s e-mail account. Make it hot enough that the son of a bitch burns with jealousy.”
The room was too small. There was not enough air circulating. Liz didn’t like the way Jeremy was looking at her. Or maybe she liked it too much and was afraid to admit it to herself.
“If your department has an Emily look-alike, then you must have some expert at…at this kind of thing.”
“I don’t know anyone that could hold a candle to you, Liz. As far as I’m concerned, you’re as hot as they come.” He reached over and caressed her cheek, shocking her. “I don’t believe it. You’re blushing.”
She pushed his hand away, forced herself to stand tall and face him. “This is ridiculous! What happens if a bunch of nursery school kids step in front of your car when you lose control?”
“I just put my pickup in the garage for some modifications. I can stop the vehicle when he takes charge.”
There was no point in Liz asking how, for it would be an understatement to say she was mechanically challenged. Still, worry kept gnawing a hole in her stomach.
“Liz, I’m asking you to do this.”
She could act tough, but Liz knew she had very little willpower when it came to Jeremy. “I’ll help you…but under protest. I still don’t believe your idea is going to work.”
He straightened up, too. “We won’t know until we try, will we?”
“One thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I told you last night. We’ve been there, done that. I have no plans of going around again,” she said roughly. “I’m only doing this for Emily.”
Twenty-Eight
She was truly a sight for sore eyes.
“You look much better than yesterday,” Emily told him, hovering near the door.
She looked damn good, standing there. Too far away, though.
Ben sat in a faux-leather chair by the window. His arm was in a sling, but the nurses had disconnected the IV, and he was enjoying the freedom of not being confined to bed.
“I can’t say the same thing about you,” Ben growled, despite the fact that he was at that same moment admiring the soft white sweater and black jeans that fit her like a glove. “You look exhausted. You should have gone home first and taken a nap.”
“I’m okay.” She ran a hand through her hair. Strands of dark silk ran in every direction, giving her a mussed and very sexy look. “Things are happening fast, and my mind is racing. Even if I wanted to, I doubt I could sleep.”
Ben knew what she meant, but there were dark circles under her eyes and she looked pale to him. He gestured to a straight chair next to him and was glad when she dropped her bag on the bed and joined him.
“Any late-breaking news?”
“We still don’t have anything confirmed from the first accident twenty-one months ago. All the other cars match exactly, though.”
“Almost two years. That’s a long time. It would be a wonder if they could even put their hands on the internals of that car.”
“I’m glad someone with more authority than me is chasing it down.” She stifled a yawn and pulled up one leg, looking amazingly comfortable in that chair.
He would have preferred to pull her into his chair with him.
“You’ve made it pretty damn easy for them. Once they find the internals, they’ll know exactly what to look for.”
Emily shrugged. “The trouble is that not a single board we’ve looked at, aside from the accident vehicles, has shown any sign of this virus. I’m sure it must be in others, though.”
“So it only becomes visible after an accident,” Ben said thoughtfully. “And obviously it’s only viable in cars that use the drive-by-wire technology. Newer cars.”
She nodded. “So far, we’re doing okay with diagnosis after the fact, but terrible with any plan for prevention.”
“Hey, this search has just started. Think of how many millions of printed circuit boards are involved.” He bumped her knee with his. “What you’ve accomplished in less than twenty-four hours is unbelievable.”
“I haven’t been doing it alone,” Emily corrected.
Ben had been on the phone with Adam the minute he’d gotten out of post-op. He knew everything that had taken place at the lab. He was told of Emily’s persistent drive to get results. He also knew that the FBI was establishing an operations field headquarters in Wickfield, and it wasn’t just because of the two accidents that had taken place there. They recognized what a valuable resource Emily Doyle was.
“I knew you were a genius. Adam tells me that everyone else—from the Homeland Security czar on down—knows it, too.”
She shook her head modestly. “This is what I do for a living. What I’ve been trained to do. The one who needs to be congratulated is you. You and your stubbornness about getting me involved.”
“So totaling my Aston wasn’t too much?”
“Maybe a tad.” She smiled. “When are they releasing you?”
“If I have my way, this afternoon.” He had the urge to touch her, and she was sitting next to his good side. Ben let his fingers brush against the sleeve of her sweater. It was soft, the way he’d imagined it.
“And if you don’t have your way?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t that be better? You’re a lot closer to the action here than you would be at your parents’ house.”
He laughed. “My parents? I’m not going back to their place. Hey, I love my mother, but she’d suffocate me.”
He reached for her fingers and was encouraged when she didn’t withdraw. “When I’m released, I’m going to Wickfield…to the inn.”
She looked at him with concern. “Are you well enough for that?”
“Absolutely. The only thing I have to do is convince my doctor of it.” Her hand was warm, and she had long, delicate fingers, like a pianist. Ben found himself tracing their length, testing the softness of her skin. “The side effects of the local anesthesia they gave me is their only concern, because of the bump I took on the head. They think someone should keep track of me for the next twenty-four hours.”
“How would you arrange that, staying at the inn?”
“It’ll be tough. But I’m working on it.”
“How?” she asked suspiciously.
Ben entwined their fingers. “I’m working on an invitation.”
“An invitation?” she repeated, obviously fighting back a smile.
“Yeah, to a friend’s place.”
“And that would be in Wickfield?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah.”
“Detective Simpson’s?”
Ben gave a fake shudder. “I’ve met the guy a few times, but I don’t think we’re that close.”
“You must be bunking in with Adam. He’s staying at the same inn.”
Ben saw the spark of mischief in the depths of her dark eyes. “My mother’s house would be better. Try again.”
“Let me see. Would I happen to know this friend?”
“Very well.”
“Hmm. You haven’t been hitting on my sister, Liz?”
“No,” he growled. “The person I’m working on is someone I work with now. She has a house in Wickfield. I’ve stayed at her place before.”
Emily laughed and Ben liked the sound of it. “Let me think who that could be.”
Ben leaned toward her, looking into her sparkling eyes. “I’m imposing, aren’t I?”
She shook her head. They were close enough that Ben knew he could lean forward just a couple of inches and be tasting those lips. He was tempted, but the sound of nurses in the hall made Emily draw back in her chair.
“Say, I have an idea,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “How would you like to stay at my house…with Conor and me?”
“On top of all your other talents, you�
��re a mind reader, Ms. Doyle. But I’ll have to think about it.”
Twenty-Nine
She was pronounced dead at the scene.
Lyden decided he was doing an excellent job handling the situation, all things considered. Not that he had any regrets. He certainly felt no sympathy for her. He’d enjoyed using her sexually, but she’d overstepped her bounds.
“Really tragic,” he said in a low voice to the police officer taking information. They were standing in the open doorway of his condo. Both paused to watch the ambulance drive away with Debbie’s body. An earlier emergency vehicle had taken Mr. Romero away to the hospital, his nearly hysterical wife riding in the back with him.
The old man had been experiencing sharp chest pains following the accident. A tow truck was on the scene before the EMTs, and they’d needed to lift the Caddy to get her body out from under it. A shattered headlight and a small ding on the bumper were the only damage, but the air bag had deployed, so the Caddy was getting towed.
“What exactly did you see?” the officer asked, turning back to Lyden.
“Not much.” He shook his head. “I’d just gotten home for lunch. I wasn’t feeling good this morning. I had to get back, though, so I was racing around upstairs trying to get few things done. I only get an hour for lunch.”
“You were the one who called 911.”
“Yeah.”
“But you didn’t see the accident?”
“I heard the screech of rubber and then…like, glass exploding.” He shook his head. “By the time I got to the window, Debbie was already under the tires—pinned under the car. That’s when I called for help.”
The communication device attached to the officer’s shoulder crackled to life, and the policeman excused himself for a minute to talk to the dispatcher.