by Mary Burton
Late calls never boded well. They always meant a crisis that pulled her away, and she’d already had a long enough day. She shouldn’t have gone to the church. But then she wasn’t one to quit on a promise.
A flipped switch and the call broadcasted over the speakers.
‘Hey, Aisha,’ Lindsay said. ‘Is everything all right?’
Aisha sighed. ‘The shelter is fine. Everyone is real nice.’
‘And the boys are settled in?’
‘Yes. We’re all in the same room. They like that.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Marcus called me again this evening on my cell phone. He keeps telling me how much he loves me.’
Lindsay’s expression tightened. ‘We’ve been through this before, Aisha. He wants to control you. What he feels for you isn’t healthy.’
‘I know, I know. And I told him I wouldn’t be coming back to him no matter what. And I meant that. I really did.’
‘Good girl.’
Lindsay and the Guardian spoke the two words in unison.
‘But he wants to see the boys. He says they’re his sons and he has a right to them. I don’t want to keep Damien and Jamal from their dad.’
‘The boys are afraid of him.’
‘He hasn’t hit them in a while.’
Lindsay gripped the telephone, struggling with her temper. The children always got to her. ‘He is talking about his rights as a father but you have rights, too, Aisha. You and the boys have the right to a safe home.’
‘I know, but …’
‘Have you called my friend at Legal Aid about the divorce and custody?’
‘Not yet.’
Lindsay pressed fingertips to her temple. ‘We’ve been through this before. Call the woman at Legal Aid whom I told you about. She’s very nice. She’ll tell you about your rights.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you going to call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. You’re doing a good job, Aisha. I’m proud of you.’
A sob escaped Aisha. ‘Are you really?’
‘I really am.’
‘Thanks.’
They talked a few more minutes about the legalities of divorce and custody before Lindsay hung up. The Guardian switched off the phone speaker.
Lindsay turned back toward the television and rubbed her temple. She scooped a handful of popcorn and took a bite. But she no longer seemed to enjoy her snack. Frowning, she tossed what remained in her hand back in the bowl.
Absentmindedly, she pushed away the bowl. She had a tendency not to eat when she was upset. And at the rate she was going, she was going to make herself sick.
Lindsay rose, then began to pace. She moved around her town house like a caged animal.
The Guardian touched the television screen and traced the profile of her face.
Harold’s death, the hand, even the note hadn’t been enough to assure her that she wasn’t alone in her Holy Cause. She needed to know she had an ally. She wasn’t alone.
But words didn’t matter to Lindsay. Only deeds mattered to her.
The real way to prove to Lindsay that she had a true friend now was to ferret out more Evil Ones. The more men who died now meant that many fewer battered wives whom Lindsay would have to care for.
As the bodies would begin to stack up, she would see the pattern. She would see that she had a true Guardian.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday, July 8, 12:00 A.M.
Kendall Shaw was pissed. She stopped the recording of her eleven o’clock news report and climbed down off the elliptical trainer she kept on the sun porch of her mother’s house.
The story she’d filed had been nothing short of lame. Murder in the city’s west end. Identity of victim. A brief recap of his career and murder stats in the metro area. Domestic violence. Ya, ya, ya.
It was all very bland, very ordinary, and not the kind of story that was going to get her to a bigger television market like L.A. or New York.
But her boss had given in to pressure from Dana Miller, the shelter’s board chair, and had ordered her not to mention Sanctuary or its location. For now, all stations were protecting the shelter’s identity. And unless something broke soon, Dana would see to it that the story faded away.
As Kendall had stood outside Sanctuary today, she had sensed she’d stumbled upon a big story. She’d wanted to linger and remain on hand with her cameraman, Mike. Something was going to break – she could feel it in her bones.
But the evening news producer had felt otherwise. He’d wanted film of a warehouse fire. She’d argued. He’d denied her request to stay and had pulled her cameraman.
Minutes after Mike had left and Kendall was packing up, Lindsay had run screaming out of the shelter. Her terrified screams had the cop in the patrol car scrambling toward her. Within minutes, the place was swarming with more cops.
Something big had happened in the shelter.
And if she’d had film, it was the kind of something that would get her a better job.
Mike did return, but by then it was too late. The cops didn’t release any details and she’d had to file her original story.
From her briefcase she pulled out a CD of the raw footage from this morning. She swapped it out for the other CD in the tray and hit ‘play.’
She fast-forwarded through the morning interviews with neighbors. The last interview of the morning was with Mrs Young, the neighbor across the street, who kept going on and on about how nice Lindsay’s yard was and how no one knew the house was a women’s shelter.
Blah, blah, blah.
Kendall slowed the tape to just before Mike had shut off his camera. This time she didn’t focus on Mrs Young but the background just to the right of the shelter.
A cat chasing a squirrel. Thunder clouds. And then in the bottom-right corner, the bumper of a van pulled into the frame. At the time, her back had been to the shelter and she’d been on the phone with her producer. She’d not noticed the driver. Hell, who ever noticed delivery guys?
Now as she reviewed the footage, she watched closely. The driver, head tucked low and a box of flowers in hand, got out of the van, ran up to the front porch, rang the bell, and set the box down. As the driver turned, the tape turned to static. Mike had switched off the camera.
‘Damn it!’ Kendall rewound the tape. She watched the footage again. Lindsay had returned to the shelter around two. She started screaming minutes later. Whatever had freaked Lindsay out had to be the box.
‘What the hell was it? What was sent to her?’
Kendall had good instincts and she had learned to listen to them. Whatever had gone on at the shelter today had to do with Lindsay. She couldn’t prove it, but she’d bet money that Harold had been killed for Lindsay.
She dashed upstairs to the stack of files in the corner of the living room. She kept all her interview notes filed away in case she ever needed to reference them again. Since she’d moved into the house last December, she’d not taken the time to put the notes away, convinced that she was here only temporarily.
Flipping through the manila folders, she pulled the file containing her article about Lindsay.
Scanning the pages, she read her notes from her late April interview. There seemed nothing out of the ordinary. She had notes on Lindsay’s day-to-day routine at the shelter. She had stats on domestic violence in the county and the country. All this was strictly background.
Kendall flipped to her notes on Lindsay’s past. She was a graduate of the University of California. She entered school at the age of nineteen and attended on a full scholarship and was an honor student. Lindsay worked for a landscape company to pay for living expenses. And she made it through in three years so that she graduated with her class. Originally she was from Ashland, a town in Hanover County, Virginia.
That notation had Kendall pausing. She’d forgotten Lindsay was a Virginian. Lindsay had only mentioned it in passing and had spoken of herself several times as a California girl.
Kendall dug her Blackberry out of her briefcase and looked up the number of the Herald Progress, the local paper that covered the town of Ashland and Hanover County.
Last year, she’d done a very nice piece on the Herald Progress’s anniversary celebration. The paper’s assistant editor had always said to call if she needed anything. Well, she needed a favor.
Unmindful of the time, she dialed his number.
The phone rang five times before a groggy male voice answered, ‘Hello.’
‘Barry. Kendall Shaw. I need a favor.’
‘Kendall?’ She heard fumbling with what must have been a light switch. ‘It’s midnight. Can’t this wait until the morning?’
‘Not really. And I’m sorry for the late time, but I’m working on a story. Can you do a search for me?’
‘Now?’ he groaned.
‘Yes.’
‘You are insane. I’m not digging up anything for you at this time of night.’
She rushed to say, ‘You said you owed me big for that piece I did on the paper’s anniversary.’
Grogginess mingled with irritation. ‘Kendall, it’s midnight.’
She twirled her finger in her hair as she paced. ‘Look, do this search for me and I’ll owe you.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Name your price.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Cover my book signing at the Book Nook next week?’
Kendall had received and read his press release on the signing of the self-published book of homespun stories. She’d tossed the release and hadn’t given it a second thought. Damn. ‘Deal. But I need my information now.’
‘I want to be on the morning news.’
‘I’ll make it happen.’
‘Swear.’
‘Swear.’
Barry chuckled. ‘What do you want?’
‘Anything and everything you have on Lindsay O’Neil. She would have lived in your area about eleven or twelve years ago.’
‘O’Neil. That name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘I wrote an article on her for Inside Richmond back in May. She’s about thirty. A very pretty blonde.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember her. That article caused a bit of a buzz up here.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think her name was O’Neil when she lived up this way. Anyway, a few of the old guys at the paper remember when she was tangled up in some murder.’
Kendall straightened. ‘What murder?’
‘I don’t remember.’
Impatient, she tapped her foot. ‘You’ve got to get me more information, Barry.’
‘I’ll see what I can dig up.’
Lindsay was the key to this story. ‘Do that.’
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, July 8, 5:05 A.M.
Jacob Warwick had loved the smell of a boxing gym since he was a kid. The leather. The sweat. The liniment. He also loved the rhythmic sound of gloves hitting the speed bag, the thump against the heavy bag, and the skipping rope scraping the floor.
All conjured feelings of home. Not so surprising since he’d grown up in Myers’s Gym.
He drove his fists into the punching bag suspended from the ceiling, savoring the burn in his muscles, the rapid pumping of his heart, and the sweat on his body. There wasn’t anyone else working out at this early hour. The gym didn’t officially open until six, but because Pete had given him a key he could come and go as he pleased. Often he boxed early.
By seven, the place would be full of men training and fighters sparring in the ring.
‘Let me adjust those laces for you,’ Pete Myers’s familiar rusty voice said behind him.
Jacob wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his glove. ‘What are you doing here this early? I’d have figured you wouldn’t get here for another hour.’
Pete flashed a grin. ‘Ah, you know me. I’m not much of a sleeper and I like it here better than at home.’ Barring a few extra gray hairs, the sixty-nine-year-old man looked exactly like he had the first day Jacob had met him twenty years ago. He stood a few inches under six feet, kept his body fit by sparring daily, and always wore a wide grin. ‘Let me see your glove. The laces look loose.’
The tension in Jacob’s body eased as he held out his gloved hands. ‘Thanks.’
When Jacob had first found Myers’s gym, he’d been twelve and his mother had been on a weeklong drunken binge. Angry and wanting to wreck something, Jacob had stolen a dozen eggs from the market and made a beeline for the gym, which was celebrating its grand opening. Jacob had covered the freshly painted exterior with yolk. It had been a real laugh until a pissed Myers had come looking for him. Jacob hadn’t figured the old man could run so damn fast or that he’d chase Jacob two blocks before catching him. The ex-boxer’s grip had been like iron.
Myers had dragged Jacob home, taken one look at Jacob’s drunken mother, and then called Social Services. Jacob’s mother hadn’t fought for her son, and within two weeks, Jacob was living in the small apartment above the gym with Pete. The two had clashed a lot in the beginning, but Pete had never given up on Jacob.
That was twenty years ago. And a day never passed when Jacob didn’t thank God for Pete. The old boxer had saved his life.
Pete tightened the laces. ‘So why are you here so early?’
‘I needed to break a sweat before work.’ Jacob hit the long punching bag hanging from the ceiling, testing the laces.
Pete got behind the bag and steadied it. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah. Kier and I have a homicide.’
‘Who died?’
‘Harold Turner. It was on the news last night.’
Pete snorted. ‘I saw that. Can’t say I’m too sorry. A dead attorney ain’t gonna make me miss sleep.’
Sweat dampened Jacob’s T-shirt as he pounded the bag. ‘Yeah, he wasn’t exactly a model citizen.’
‘You guys got a suspect?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You’re a smart kid. You’ll figure it out.’
Jacob hit the bag again. Normally, he didn’t talk about cases but Pete was family. ‘This case could be a little dicey. Kier’s wife is right in the middle of the investigation.’
‘Not good for Kier.’
‘Nothing is good when it comes to Kier. The guy is a disaster waiting to happen.’
Pete frowned. ‘Is he drinking again?’
‘No, so far I’ve not gotten a hint that he’s had a drop. But once a drunk always a drunk.’
‘Your partner ain’t your mother, kid. From what you’ve said over the last few months, Kier seems to be getting his shit together.’
‘We’ll see.’
Pete’s gaze grew serious. ‘So how long you going to make the guy jump through hoops before you cut him some slack?’
‘I’ll let you know when he reaches it.’
‘The department was smart to pair you up with Kier. You’ll keep him straight. He might even get you to lighten up.’
The old man’s confidence meant everything to Jacob. ‘I don’t want to baby-sit. And I sure as shit don’t need a friend. I want a partner I can count on.’
Pete nodded thoughtfully. ‘Until the guy screws up, cut him some slack.’
Jacob knew he couldn’t do that. ‘Sure.’
Pete understood some of his foster son’s scars ran deep. And he knew when to change the subject. ‘So when are you going to bring Sharon around the gym again? I liked her.’
A twinge of regret nagged Jacob. ‘Sharon and I are history.’
Pete shook his head. ‘Damn. The gal is built like a brick house and can cook. What the hell more do you want from a woman?’
‘Sharon was fine. It just didn’t work out.’
The old man swore. ‘Bachelorhood ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. A man should have a wife and children.’
<
br /> Imitating Pete’s raspy voice, Jacob said, ‘Dames are more trouble than they are worth. I do just fine by myself.’
Wrinkles deepened in Pete’s forehead as he smiled. ‘Don’t you want a family of your own, Mr Smart-mouth?’
‘No.’ Jacob hit the bag. Truthfully, the idea made him feel backed into a corner. ‘Besides, you never had a family.’
Pete shrugged. ‘Keeping you out of trouble wore me out.’
Jacob frowned. ‘Did you ever regret taking me in?’
The old man grinned and shook his head. ‘You drove me to the brink of insanity more times than I could count, but I was never sorry I took you in. I’m only sorry your mother never let me formally adopt you.’
Emotion tightened Jacob’s chest. He hit the bag harder.
‘If you don’t ease up on that bag, the bones in your hand are gonna look like Swiss cheese,’ Pete said.
‘I don’t want to ease up. It feels good to push myself.’
‘It’s not a matter of what you want, kid; it’s a matter of what you need. Lay off for today. You’ve done enough.’
Jacob stopped. His muscles ached with fatigue, just the way he liked it. But he always listened to Pete.
Pete grabbed a clean towel for Jacob and handed it to him.
‘Thanks.’
Pete started to unlace Jacob’s right glove. ‘So I guess you’ll be working this weekend?’
‘Depends on the case.’ Jacob wiped the sweat from his eyes. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I’m looking for a sparring partner for a fighter. I want to schedule a few friendly rounds on Saturday.’
‘I’d love to do it. I should know by late Thursday how the case is going.’
Pete nodded, satisfied. ‘Great. I knew I could count on you.’
Whoever said life was supposed to be easy?
The words Lindsay’s mother had spoken to her so often played in Lindsay’s head as she cradled a cup of coffee in her hands. She sat in an Adirondack chair on the back patio garden of her town house. The sun had crept up high in the sky but the air remained comfortable, thanks to yesterday’s storms, which had banished a lot of the humidity.
The rains had been a welcome respite from the July heat for her gardens, which covered most of her ten-by-twelve backyard. Her yard was separated from the others by a tall privacy fence that looked like all the others in the development. However, her yard was completely unlike the others, which were little more than patchy plots of grass.