by Dee Davis
“Because someone tampered with his car. And since I'm a mechanic, it seemed a reasonable assumption. Especially when you add in the fact that I was already under suspicion. One of the pictures you took of Lydia Wallace had me in it, too.”
Sara frowned, forcing her thoughts away from Eric. “What?”
Jack stared down at his hands, his expression inscrutable.“I was there that day. I was worried about you going down there on your own.”
“So you followed me?” Her head was spinning, the information coming too fast to process properly. “Why didn't you just tell me?”
“Because I knew you'd be mad.”
“I might have been. But it would have kept you from looking suspicious to the police. Anyway, you said that Eric doesn't suspect you anymore. So that's the end of it, right?”
He shook his head, still not meeting her gaze. “There's more. It's just that I don't know how to start.”
She reached for his hand. “Just say it.”
He looked up at her then, his eyes dark with worry. “I lied to you, Sara. I had good reasons, or at least I thought I did. But now, under the circumstances, you need to know the truth.”
Confusion washed through her, coupled with alarm, the little voice in her head screaming a warning. “What circumstances?”
Jack blew out a long breath, regret mixed with anguish coloring his expression. “I told you that Eric's car had been tampered with.”
“Is there something more?” She gripped his hand, holding on for dear life. “Did something else happen to Eric?” The last came out low, almost a hiss, her throat tightening with fear.
“Nothing happened, Sara. He's fine. This is about Tom and Charlie.”
She sat back, struggling for breath, confusion replacing fear. “I don't understand.”
“When you asked me to look at Tom's car, I told you I didn't find anything. But the truth is I did find something.”
She hadn't thought she had any emotion left, not after all she'd just been through, but she was wrong. Jack's words were like a sucker punch. Blood pounded in her ears.
“Is everything okay over there?” She'd forgotten about Officer Jenkins. Forgotten about everything but Jack's announcement.
She struggled for control, then forced a nod. “We're fine. Just talking about Molly.” The lie was unnecessary, but she couldn't bring herself to put the other into words. She returned her attention to Jack, her mind still spinning. “What did you find?”
“The front bleeder valve was open. I thought I'd done it, that the accident was my fault.” He shook his head, tears glistening in his eyes. “I couldn't stand the idea of your knowing, so I lied.”
She nodded, as if it made sense. But of course it didn't. It couldn't. Jack had killed Tom and Charlie? The idea seemed preposterous. As if she'd fallen down the rabbit hole—everything turned inside out.
“So why are you telling me now?” She pulled her hand away, not wanting him to touch her, wanting more than anything to put distance between them, to take away some of the pain slicing through her.
“Because I think you could be in danger. Look, the bleeder valves on Eric's car were tampered with, too. The same as Tom's. And while I certainly could have been responsible for Tom's accident, I've never been near Eric's car. According to Haskins, nobody has. Don't you see, Sara? Until I saw the evidence, I would have sworn Tom's car was in top shape. I'm a good mechanic and I'm careful.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Jack.” She wasn't sure if she was talking about the accident or the lie. Both, probably. And she wasn't sure how she felt about either. There was simply too much to deal with.
“Yes, but I didn't make a mistake. That's the point. Someone deliberately tampered with both cars.” He reached for her, but she pulled back, ignoring the resulting pain that flashed in his eyes. “I was wrong not to tell you, Sara, and I'm sorry. But what's important right now is that you understand that if I'm right, and Tom's accident is related to Eric's, then someone out there wants to hurt you.”
Suddenly everything seemed clear, the emotions making way for the harsh light of reality. “Tom and Charlie were murdered.” The words came out on a breath of air, as if by whispering, she could keep them from being true.
Jack nodded, his gaze locking with hers. “I'm sorry, Sara.”
She chewed on her upper lip, trying to keep from crying. Tears wouldn't do anyone any good. Not Molly. Not her husband or her son. Not Eric. She needed to be strong. To face all of it head-on.
Starting with Jack.
She swallowed, realizing she felt numb, her thoughts cascading through her with the velocity of a pinball, the information coming faster than she could possibly process. “I don't know what to say.”
“Don't say anything. Just take care of yourself. And remember I did what I did in part because I didn't want you hurt any more than you already were.”
“Jack, I think you should leave,” Eric said, striding into the room, his silvery eyes flat and cold.
Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Eric's expression brooked no disagreement. Jack nodded, then shifted so that his gaze met Sara's. “I'd never do anything purposefully to hurt you. You've got to believe that.”
Sara shook her head, ignoring the plea in his eyes. “Please. Just go.” He stood for a moment, devastation etched across his face, then turned to walk from the room.
She tried to get up but her knees refused the order, buckling instead. There was simply too much happening. And everything was coming so fast. In two strides, Eric was beside her, his strong arms closing around her, his strength her undoing.
The tears came with the force of a hurricane. And she let them come, crying for Molly, for Jack, for Tom, for Charlie, for all that she'd lost. And Eric held her. His hands stroked her hair, her back, comforting with just a touch—his body shielding her, keeping her safe from harm.
At least for the moment.
Chapter 22
“I'm sorry,” Sara said, her words muffled against his chest. “I don't usually lose it like this. It's just that so much has happened.”
“It's okay.” He stroked the soft silk of her hair, wishing there was something he could do or say to make it easier for her, something that would simply make it all go away. But of course there wasn't. “Considering everything that's happened, I'd say you're doing remarkably well.”
She pulled away from him, brushing ineffectually at her tears, her somber gaze colliding with his. “Is what Jack said true? Were Charlie and Tom's deaths intentional?”
“I don't know for certain. There isn't any evidence. Jack destroyed what he found. But I believe the bleeder valves were tampered with. There's no reason for Jack to have admitted he found them if it weren't true.”
“You don't suspect him anymore.”
“Not at the moment. But until we figure this out, everyone stays on the list.”
“And you? Is it true that someone tried to kill you?”
He thought about lying, but knew he couldn't. She deserved the truth. “It looks that way. Someone definitely tampered with the valves on my car.”
“So it's my fault?” Her eyes were still awash with tears.
“Of course not. We can't even say for certain that the two incidents' commonalities are anything other than circumstantial. Jack shouldn't have told you. Not here. Not like this.”
She nodded, walking over to the window, watching the traffic below. “But he did. And now I can't get it out of my mind.”
He came to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “If there's a connection, we'll find it. And in the meantime, I'll be here to watch over you.”
She turned to face him, her gaze locking with his. “And who's going to watch out for you?”
He smoothed her hair. “I'll be fine.”
She reached up to touch his face, the simple gesture more telling than any words, then, with a sigh, she turned back to the window. “Did you find anything at Molly's house?”
“Some fibers. A pattern of
events. Not much else. There were loads of fingerprints, but nothing, at least on the surface, that looks like a direct link to the killer. We'll know more after they've examined the evidence more closely.”
“So the truth is you really don't have any idea who's behind all of this.”
He wanted to tell her they had something. That they were going to nail the man. But they didn't. “We have bits and pieces, but nothing conclusive. This guy is playing a game, and it's up to me to try and figure out the rules. Hopefully, then, I'll be able to identify a suspect.”
“But he's calling me.” The words were low, almost inaudible, as if saying them out loud was more than she could handle.
“I know. And if there was a way I could get to him, stop him, believe me I would …”
“You're doing the best you can.” She turned to face him. “I know that. It's just that suddenly it's gotten a lot more personal.”
He led her over to a chair, straddling the seat next to hers. “Maybe more than you know. Tony found a pattern in your previous calls. A relation to the Sinatra killer. The calls start just after a murder, cluster there, then taper off until there's another one.”
She frowned, saying nothing, fear cresting in her eyes.
“And in addition, there's the fact that the two calls we could trace came from phone booths within a couple of blocks of the respective murder sites.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I wasn't sure there was a correlation, but now with the latest call, I don't think there's any doubt.”
“So why is he calling me?”
“I don't know. I wish to hell I did.” He blew out a breath, feelings of inadequacy threatening to overwhelm him. But he knew from long experience that emotion was a detective's greatest enemy. It clouded judgment and colored the facts. With a grimace, he ruthlessly pushed his feelings aside. The important thing now was to concentrate on protecting Sara. Until the killer was found, nothing else mattered. “Look, I know you told me about the call at Molly's. But I want to hear about it again. All the details. You think you're up to it?”
She nodded. “There really isn't much to tell. I was driving home from the interview with Amanda Moore and her daughter.”
“The call came in on your cell phone?” He frowned, his senses on alert.
“Yes.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Yeah.” She frowned. “But I don't see.”
“The number should be registered on the phone.”
“Oh, God.” She fumbled with her bag, extracting the phone and handing it to him. “I never even thought…”
“It's all right. You were thinking about Molly.” He hit a couple of buttons and then studied the tiny LCD screen.
“Is it there?”
“There's a number, yes.” He held it out for her to see. “Do you recognize it.”
She stared at the number, eyes narrowed in concentration and then shook her head regretfully. “I don't recognize it.”
“It's okay.” He reached over to touch her hand. “I'd have been surprised if it was familiar. I'll have it traced when I get back to the department. So where were you exactly when the phone rang?”
She frowned, concentrating on remembering. “Lamar and Guadalupe. Where the two roads come together. I'd stopped at a light. When the phone rang, I answered. But all I heard was the music.”
“Sinatra.”
“Yes. A song called ‘I've Got My Eyes on You.’ I recognized it because Tom used to play it a lot.”
“We found the same song at Molly's.”
“Oh, God.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, sucking in an audible breath. “So you think he was there? At her house?”
“It's possible, but I don't think so. The timing isn't right.”
“Either way it was like the guy was there in the car with me. And before I could disconnect, he talked to me.”
He reached over for her hand. “Anything you recognized in the voice?”
She shook her head. “It was tinny. Like he was using something to disguise it. And he only said the one thing.”
“That Molly was dead.”
“Yes. Only she wasn't.” Her eyes met his, her gaze questioning. “How come he didn't know she was still alive?”
“We think he left her to bleed out. He probably thought she was dead, or damn close to it. But he underestimated Molly. She managed to crawl to the phone. Maybe even used it. We're trying to confirm it now.”
“Wasn't there a recording? Can't they tell if it's Molly?”
“Yeah, but the recording isn't clear. And it's hard to identify the voice.”
“So someone could have been disguising their voice?”
“Or Molly could have been having difficulty speaking.
There was blood on the phone, so the odds are on Molly, but there's no way to know for sure until she wakes up.”
“And if she doesn't?” Sara eyes brimmed with tears again.
“She will.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “I'm just sorry I couldn't be here earlier.”
“It's okay. You needed to be there—at Molly's. And Officer Jenkins has been great.”
“He's been assigned to watch over you. That way when I can't be with you, I won't have to worry that you're on your own.”
“I'd rather it was you.” Again the words came out on a whisper, this time tentative, as if she wasn't certain of their reception.
In an instant he was on his feet, pulling her into his arms. “I want it to be me, too.”
“But you were gone this morning.” Her eyes searched his, the hurt reflected there shooting through him like an arrow.
“I left a note—and coffee.” It seemed pathetic now that he'd said it.
She frowned, nervously twisting her wedding band. The gesture more telling than words. “There wasn't a note.”
“I left it by the coffee pot,” he said.
“It doesn't matter.” Except that it did. A lot. It was there on her face.
“Of course it does. I should have woken you. It's just that you looked so peaceful. And,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I'm not very good at the whole relationship thing.”
“I understand.” She nodded, staring at the floor in obvious discomfort.
“No.” He lifted her chin, his gaze meeting hers. “You don't understand. It's not that I wanted to avoid talking to you. It's that I was afraid that you wouldn't feel the same way that I did about what happened last night. It's so easy to make promises in the night. But by light of day, I thought you might have regrets. And I guess I just didn't want to face that.”
They stood for a moment, their gazes locked, and Eric was afraid to breathe. He wasn't good at expressing his feelings, and he hated to take the risk, but Sara was important, and he wanted to get it right.
Her smile was slow, but genuine, and his heart threatened to break out of his chest. She lifted a hand, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “No regrets, Eric. None at all.”
He bent to kiss her, the touch of her lips against his sending spirals of heat coursing through him. There was passion in the touch, but something else as well, a feeling of serenity, of peace. And that was something Eric hadn't felt in a hell of a long time.
And he'd be damned before he'd let someone take it away from him.
“Still no luck on clarifying the voice.” Tony walked into the conference room, waving a folder. “But at least we can be certain it came from Molly's house.”
Eric looked up from the report he'd been reading, the table was littered with them. Every scrap of information they had on the case contained within these four walls. Forensics, rap sheets, notes, everything. And he'd read them all at least fifteen times, all without anything new. “My bet's on Molly.”
Tony nodded. “Or the killer, which doesn't make a lick of sense.”
“Like any of it does?” His question was rhetorical and Tony underscored the fact by ignoring it. “What about Sara's call?”
“The number's registered to a throwaway.” Tony perched on the side of the table. “No way to find the owner, but the fact that he called with news of Molly goes a long way to solidifying a link between Sara and the killer. Anything else come out of your talk with her?”
“Nothing.” And everything. But the personal part was going to stay just that. “The salient point seems to be that the guy talked. And since this is the first time, assuming he's the one who made the other calls, the big question is why now?He's been content to hold his tongue this long, so what's changed?”
“His level of anger, maybe,” Tony mused. “Forensics confirmed that the flowers we found at Molly's were the same variety as the ones Sara received. And since we know Molly threw Sara's flowers away, there could be a connection. Sara spurns flowers. Molly throws them away. Killer feels rejected, partially blames Molly, and takes his anger out on the messenger in a very literal way.”
“Yeah, that's what scares the hell out of me. If the victims here really were surrogates, and if Sara is the real deal, rejection is a surefire way to get him to up the ante. If he can't have her, no one can.” Eric sighed. “But unfortunately, even with what we've got, motive is still just supposition. We can't read his mind, no matter how many profilers we talk to.”
“So we chip away at the facts.” Tony shrugged. “You talked about the change in pattern based on time of kill, but there's more to it than that. The pattern for Sara's caller shifted as well. Up until now, all of her calls have come at night. This one, conveniently, came during the day, following right on the heals of the attempted murder— on her cell phone.”
“From an untraceable phone.” Eric sat up, his beleaguered brain trying to assimilate the new information.
“No one said the man was stupid.” Tony shrugged. “Just for the hell of it, I took the liberty of checking her home phone. No calls there that can't be identified. Which means that the caller not only knew her cell number, he knew she wasn't going to be home. And that means he's close enough to keep tabs on her.”
“Jenkins hasn't reported anything unusual. Although considering we're not sure what we're looking for, it's not out of the question for him to have missed something.” Eric stood up, rubbing the small of his back. “Hell, I feel like he's jerking me around by the balls.”