by Green, Stacy
“Why are you still with her?” Emilie burst out. “How could you love someone so nasty and calculating?”
“It’s complicated. And familiar. She does her thing, I do mine. Easier that way.”
“Easier than a divorce settlement, you mean.”
“That too.”
An awkward silence followed until Sam spoke again. “Listen, my office number is still the same, kid. You change your mind about that security or need anything, please call.”
“Vi still your secretary?” Emilie remembered the cranky, middle-aged woman who pissed Claire off every time her mother called Sam at work. Emilie had secretly enjoyed seeing her mother rebuffed by Vi.
“Yeah. Don’t worry; she won’t say anything to Claire. Vi still hates her.”
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“Emilie—”
“Listen, I have to go.” The dam in her throat was nearing its breaking point. “Thank you for calling, really. It was good to hear from you.”
“You too, kid. Please take care of yourself. Watch your back and carry mace.”
“I will. Goodbye.”
She pressed the red ‘end’ button and covered her face with the pillow. Maybe if she drowned out the sobs, her breakdown wouldn’t count.
* * * *
Nathan flashed his badge and stepped under the yellow crime tape. WestOne Bank was still sealed off, and Metro had placed officers at its front door to ward off would-be crime solvers and nosy civilians.
Little had changed. The broken glass had been swept into the corner and bullets had been retrieved from the drywall for ballistics testing, leaving the wall pockmarked with holes. Adam’s blood had been cleaned, but the stain remained. Crime scene tape was a puddle on the floor at the basement’s entrance.
Nathan went down the stairs and into the storage room. The air still smelled stale, but the stench of mildew was less overwhelming. A tall, lithe woman stood near the broken door peering into the exposed hole in the earth.
“Agent Ronson?”
She turned, hand on her chest. “Madigan, you creep like a damned cat.”
“SWAT training.” He grinned. “How’ve you been?”
Nathan’s first experience with Sia Ronson had been a year ago when she tracked a child prostitution ring in central Las Vegas. Ronson enlisted the help of SWAT to apprehend the suspects. Her skills as an agent and her devotion to the suffering children had impressed Nathan.
“Good. Heard you were the star here the other day.”
“What?”
“Your boss said you figured out the partner’s motives before anyone else.”
“Guy still got away.”
“He’s smart.” Ronson motioned to the tunnel. “Thanks for meeting me here. Sergeant Johnson said you were the one to guide me through this mess.”
“Sure. But plenty of officers have been down here.”
“None with your observation skills. I’ve seen you work, Madigan. You’re talented. Walk me through this place. Give me your first impressions from that night, thoughts on the perp, whatever comes to mind. Right now, you and Davis know more about him than anyone else.”
“Has she remembered anything more?” Nathan knew he was probably breaking protocol, but he had to ask. Emilie’s frightened face remained foremost in his thoughts since watching her lose control at the station.
Ronson narrowed her eyes, gauging his interest. “That’s right, you were at the station when she had a flashback the other day. Not much. Thinks the partner knows about her past.”
“She mentioned that. It’s definitely possible.
“I agree.
“Did she tell you about her parents?”
“Not in any detail. You probably know as much as I do.” Ronson cocked her head toward the tunnel. “Ready?”
An orange extension cord led to the shop light hanging from one of the redwood posts.
“Watch yourself.” Nathan led the way inside. “Don’t get your heels stuck in the dirt.”
“I’m going to call that chivalrous instead of sexist.” She slipped on a pair of running shoes. “I came prepared.”
“Just be careful.” Nathan looked around the walls. “Looks like the light got rid of most of the critters, anyway.”
“Was that your first impression? The bugs?”
“My first impression was ‘What the hell?’”
“And then?”
“Then a sinking feeling I wasn’t going to like what we found. That this guy wasn’t an amateur.”
“You think he’s done this before?”
“Don’t you?”
“Absolutely. But so far, I can’t find any similar crimes within a three-state radius.”
“They’re out there.” Nathan brushed a dangling cobweb out of the way. “No newbie pulls this off.”
“So he runs in here and blocks the door with a piece of wood he’s previously placed. Then he enters–”
Ronson whistled as they rounded the corner into the circular room with the distilling machine. Another makeshift light gave the room a dim glow. “That’s kind of awesome. Wonder how many gangsters sat in that very chair?”
“Maybe Bugsy himself,” Nathan teased. He pointed to the smaller tunnel where a blue tarp had been laid down. “This is as far as I’ve gone.”
Ronson turned on her tactical light and knelt down on the tarp. “Good thing I wore pants today.” She shimmied her narrow body into the hole.
She emerged minutes later and dusted the dirt off her clothes and hair. “The pipe with the hatch doesn’t look much bigger than this tunnel. I can’t believe the city didn’t notice the hatch when they decided to reuse the pipe for the storm drain system.” She focused her light on Nathan’s face. “You game?”
“To go into the pipe?
“I want to follow his trail.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“I said I wanted your opinion, didn’t I? Besides, I shouldn’t go alone. Capable female I may be, I’m not stupid.”
“Where’s your partner?” Nathan smirked. “Too dirty down here for Avery?”
Ronson’s mouth twitched. “Following a lead.”
“Interesting how fast Emilie’s medical history appeared in the paper, isn’t it?”
“We may have a leak.” Ronson spoke through tight lips. “I’m looking into it.”
“You don’t need to look far. We both know someone close to the case who’s own personal gain comes first.”
“Trust me. If I can prove Avery’s leaking information, I’ll have his ass.” Ronson pointed to the tunnel. “Dig in.”
Nathan dug out his own flashlight and crawled into the tunnel. “I don’t even know if I’ll fit through here.”
He stretched out his arms, dug his elbows into the tarp-covered dirt, and slithered slowly through the earth. His shoulders caught on the sharp edges above and snagged his T-shirt. When he reached the sewer pipe with the rusted, open hatch, there was no choice but to crawl in face first.
He shined his light into the hatch. The pipe was empty, but the soft trickling of water warned Nathan he was about to get wet.
He grabbed the outside of the hatch and pulled, easing his head into the pipe. His hands were next. Nathan grimaced as his skin touched the cold water. He regained his footing, but the pipe was so shallow he had to crouch down several inches.
“I’m in the pipe,” he called to Ronson. “Come on.”
She crawled inside. “It took you more than five minutes to make it here. No way it took the partner that long. Granted, he’s traveled the route before, but he’s definitely lankier.”
They traipsed through the pipe until they reached a fork. To the right was a manhole that led to the surface, while the left drain continued into the storm drain system.
They followed the second pipe about fifty feet until it opened into a large culvert. There, the tunnels began to branch out giving them three choices of direction.
Ronson looked at her watch. “Five minutes. That�
��s ten minutes total, and I didn’t count the time in the tunnel before the distilling room.”
“He had that long. Four or five minutes before SWAT established contact with Emilie and then at least another five before the guys breached the door.”
“Then he disappeared into one of these mazes.”
“And he’s gone.”
“Not gone,” Ronson said. “Hiding. Waiting. Watching. He’s not through yet. His prize is still out there.”
* * * *
Emilie stared at the newspaper clipping she’d found stuffed in with her mail. The elevator doors opened and closed, jarring her. It was the same article Ronson had shown her at the station.
Her mind whirled as she wandered into the hall. How had the clipping gotten into her mailbox? Surely the Taker hadn’t…no, he wouldn’t. Too risky. She’d hung up on the reporter and hadn’t answered any more calls. Was this her childish way of getting revenge on Emilie?
She unlocked her apartment door, ignored Otis’s greeting, and read the article’s final sentences out loud. “Only one thing is certain: the Taker is somewhere in the city, no doubt watching and waiting. Will he strike again?”
Pain shot through her temple. Suddenly Emilie was back in the bank lobby, trying in vain to ignore Taker’s odd stream of dialogue:
“The past has always fascinated me.” His face hovered over her left shoulder. “When I was a small child, I spent hours exploring the countryside. History was everywhere: the aged buildings, abandoned houses, the people’s stories. I wanted to learn everything I could. Understanding the past is the only way to accept who we are as individuals and as a culture. So many lessons from our ancestors can be applied to our own lives, and in some cases, the road ahead has already been paved. We just have to find it. Do you understand, Miss Emilie?”
Her knees ached as she fell to the hardwood floor.
He moved in front of her as he spoke, each slow breath magnified by the filter of the black facemask. “The past is an important part of life, isn’t it? Our past can affect us forever. A split-second decision can change everything.”
She stared into his dark eyes. Framed with thick, black lashes and a smattering of fine wrinkles, they were too beautiful to belong to someone like him. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Miss Emilie? Isn’t there a single moment from your past that defines you?”
A hand rubbed her back. “Emilie, are you okay? It’s me, Sarah.”
Emilie summoned her strength and rolled over. She forced herself to open her eyes. Color flooded her vision. Jeremy’s wife knelt over her, put together as always, in a red sundress. Her thick, honey-blond hair flowed around her shoulders like a halo.
“He’s been here,” Emilie said. “The Taker, he left this for me.” She thrust the clipping at her friend. “He’s been here.”
Chapter Thirteen
Emilie rummaged through her mix and match glasses until she located the delicate, crystal wine goblets she’d managed to procure in the divorce. Evan had laid claim to any material item of worth, but she hid the goblets at the bottom of her closet, buried under a pile of old clothes.
She clutched a glass of Merlot and padded across the gleaming floor. Emilie sank into her dusty-blue, overstuffed chair. She burrowed into the chair’s plush microfiber and knocked back a healthy gulp of wine.
“Are you sure?” Sarah sat down on the matching sofa and crossed her long legs. Emilie had always been envious of them. “The cops have been chasing this bastard for five days. You really think he’s going to walk into a building loaded with security cameras and leave a love letter? And what’s this ‘Taker’ crap?”
“Read the clipping. It’s all in there. That stupid reporter came up with the name. I called him Creepy Guy before but I guess the Taker stuck in my head.”
“When did this article run?”
“The day after it happened.”
Sarah spread out the crumpled clipping on the glass coffee table. “Jesus. Your mother’s a bigger bitch than I thought. How nice of her to divulge your life’s story.”
“She didn’t tell it all. Just the parts that made her look like a victim. She didn’t dare mention the real reason I left.”
Of course not—the truth would threaten Claire’s precious social status. Her mother’s high-society friends didn’t want to know about the skeletons in Claire’s closet. That would mean they were associating with the worst sort of person. Better to turn the other cheek and assume everything was Emilie’s fault, just as they had when the scandal of her dating Evan broke. Claire had been the victim, embarrassed by her slutty daughter. As punishment, her friends had made sure their kids didn’t socialize with Emilie.
“What is the real reason?” Sarah asked.
“You and Jeremy both know I discovered something terrible. It’s in the past, and that’s where it’s going to stay.” Emilie took another gulp of wine.
Sarah shook her head but didn’t argue. “I see the reporter found out about your visit to the psych ward. You okay with that?”
“Does it matter? My mother already made me look like a teenage whore.” Her vision blurred as she stared at the newspaper. She wished it would disappear. “I still don’t see how the Taker could have left this.”
“Me either, but who else would do such a thing? And someone got it into the mailbox.”
Exhaustion overwhelmed Emilie. She drained her glass. “I’m so damned tired, Sarah. I have awful dreams, even when I’m awake.”
“Is that what happened back there?”
“I had a flashback of something the Taker said in the bank.” Emilie leaned forward in the chair. “He talked about the past affecting us forever. I don’t know where, but I’ve heard that before. And I’m sure this man knows about my past. He knows too much.”
“Like what?”
Emilie recounted the Taker’s comments about the innocence of children, his observation that she knew about burdens, and the exact words she’d just remembered. “And what about the Blake poem? No one knew about that. The FBI thinks I’m projecting, but I know in my gut he’s talking about me specifically.”
Sarah’s violet eyes were wide with fear. “Em, if this guy does know these things, how long has he been stalking you? You didn’t recognize him, did you?”
“Something about him seemed familiar, but nothing specific. Just a vague notion.”
“You’ve got to call Agent Ronson now and tell her everything.”
Ronson showed up half an hour later with Avery on her heels.
“Has anyone else touched the clipping?”
“Just Sarah and me.” Emilie motioned to her friend. Avery’s eyes swept over Sarah’s voluptuous frame. Emilie cleared her throat, and his gaze snapped to hers. Avery had the balls to smirk.
Ronson looked up from the clipping. “Vance’s wife?”
Sarah extended her hand. “Yes.”
“Have you seen anyone suspicious today?” Ronson asked.
“No one, but I just got back from vacation this morning. I found Emilie with the clipping.”
“It was in your mailbox?” Ronson turned back to Emilie.
“Yes.”
“Could anyone else have a copy of your key?
“I’ve got the only one.”
Avery stepped forward, determined to get in on the interview. His pasty forehead glistened with sweat and his tie looked too tight. He addressed his questions to Sarah. “This building has an alarm, correct?”
“Not the lobby.” Sarah took a step back from the detective to stand next to Emilie. “You have to be buzzed into the individual units.”
“Forensics is on their way,” Ronson said. “We’ll bag the clipping and dust for fingerprints, but it’s unlikely we’ll find any.”
“I’ll talk to the mail carrier and get the footage from the security cameras,” Avery said.
“How is she supposed to feel safe in her home with stuff like this happening?” Sarah demanded.
“Don’t get too excited about this,” R
onson said. “Someone as organized as the Taker wouldn’t make such a brazen attempt. I’d guess it’s just some asshole messing with you, but we might be able to get some more information.”
“I remembered something when I found the article.”
Ronson listened carefully to the details. Avery took notes, but Emilie doubted they made much sense. The prick couldn’t keep his eyes off Sarah.
“Now that’s interesting,” Ronson said. “It definitely reaffirms he’s intelligent and thinks highly of himself. And the fact he called you ‘Miss Emilie’ also displays politeness, something you already mentioned.”
“So what now?”
“Let’s see what the techs find. We’ll let you know if anything comes out of the security cameras or from the mail carrier.”
“In the meantime, keep up with the security measures. Don’t go anywhere alone,” Avery said.
“I won’t.” She didn’t bother to hide her distain.
“Despite what Officer Madigan may have led you to believe, Ms. Davis, I am a competent detective. I wouldn’t be working your case if I wasn’t.”
“Nathan didn’t say anything negative about you, no matter how much I tried to bait him.” Emilie bristled. “I came to those conclusions on my own.”
“Very well. We’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”
Emilie locked the door behind the cops and turned to Sarah. “What an asshole.”
* * * *
Early morning raids were a lesson in stamina and patience. SWAT hit its first target around four a.m. and the rest of the morning was controlled chaos as the team moved from location to location. Nathan usually reveled in ferreting drug dealers out of their hideouts, but he was so tired he couldn’t get any satisfaction out of the seven suspects SWAT had arrested. He’d nearly fallen asleep in the shower after the team had returned to the precinct, and barely remembered getting dressed.
“Shirt’s on backwards,” Chris said.
“Fuck it.” Nathan slammed his locker shut and sat down on the steel bench to put his shoes on.
“You look like shit, man.”