by Jordan Dane
“Go on.”
“The letters started coming after Ethan and Olivia began dating, maybe three months into their relationship. Normally, that wouldn’t have pointed to her, but there were things that were mentioned in these letters that reminded me of her. Phrases I’d heard her use. And there were details in these letters that only an insider to Ethan’s world would know.”
When she opened the file, he stopped her.
“Don’t touch them,” he demanded. “I’m sure your prints are all over these by now, but our lab will want to process the paper for evidence.” He pulled on his latex gloves and laid out the letters on Rachel’s desk. “Now show me what you’re talking about.”
Rachel did her best to stay focused, but he could tell she was uncomfortable showing the letters to him. He didn’t blame her. Cronan was shocked at how graphic and violent the letters were. No doubt, the suggestive language had been directed at Ethan. Rachel pointed out what lines were about his bedroom, things only a lover would have known. He had to take her word for the phrases she thought were from Olivia, although she admitted that in hindsight she had her misgivings now.
“There’s an underlying hostility when you get past the sexual content of these letters. We’ll have our experts look these over for a profile,” Cronan told her. “From what I’ve read about the crime, there are several types of stalkers. The rejected stalker and the predatory one wouldn’t write to communicate their intentions. They don’t alert their victims in advance.”
“That’s a frightening thought,” the publicist said. “What about the other types? Do these letters fit another profile?”
“I’m no expert, but some of these phrases might be classified as an intimacy seeker.” He pointed to the lines that had stood out in his mind and read them aloud. “Like this one. ‘You are my gift. Mine alone.’ Or this line. ‘Why do you give yourself to others when you have me?’”
“With you reading them aloud, I got chills.” Rachel rubbed her arms and stared down at the letters.
“An intimacy seeker may start out by not identifying who they are, but eventually they may reveal themselves,” he said. “They can’t bear to remain anonymous for long. They want the victim to know who they are.”
Cronan had picked out those lines on purpose—and not only because they indicated a stalker who sought closeness with the victim. In his mind, the lines didn’t fit when it came to Olivia. If she were abusing Ethan behind his back or in front of him for that matter, why would she demand his full attention? She had his complete devotion.
He definitely found Rachel’s motives toward Olivia interesting. Maybe the publicist only saw what she wanted to see—or needed to see. If Ethan were more than a client, she would have thought of Olivia as a rival, one she didn’t have any respect for.
“Did you ever confront Olivia about these letters?” Angel asked.
“Yeah, and she laughed me off, saying I was being overprotective and paranoid. But after our talk, Ethan told me a mystery photographer had been taking photos of him when he didn’t expect it. With Olivia’s money, she could afford to hire someone like that.” Rachel shook her head. “Guess that sounds pretty paranoid, huh?”
Before they could answer, she said, “Look, all I wanted was to stop her, I swear. She wasn’t good for Ethan, but I never would have hurt her. Even if I was capable of strangling her with my bare hands, I wouldn’t have done that to him.”
“So you’re saying that your sense of right and wrong is based on who you like?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Guess I better watch my back.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. But in your case, watching your back can’t hurt.”
“You have anyone else who can back up your version of the truth? Maybe one of her friends?” Cronan wasn’t sure he bought into Rachel’s song and dance as he gathered the letters and returned them to the file to take back to the station.
“Sorry. I can’t tell you about her friends.” She shrugged. “But I will tell you this. Olivia got off on Ethan’s blindness. She played all sweet and nice to his face, but behind his back was another story. I used to watch her, sometimes from a distance. Believe me. I know she loved playing tricks on him. I even saw her move his furniture once. She made him fall, out of pure meanness.”
“Did you ever tell Ethan that?” Angel asked.
Rachel heaved a sigh.
“I tried more than once. But telling him Olivia had been using him, when he loved her so much, I hated that. They even broke up for a while because of my interference. I thought they were over, but I was wrong. Eventually he convinced me I’d been mistaken and for his sake, I backed off, at least from bringing it up again.”
“I bet you resented having to back down, especially if Olivia didn’t quit harassing your client,” Cronan said as he sat next to Angel.
“She didn’t quit her abuse.” Rachel tensed her jaw and stared out her window for a long moment before she said, “I’ll admit that I hated her for it, but not enough to hurt Ethan again. I was afraid my interference would drive a deeper wedge between us.”
“That only means you had to get smarter about confronting her, so your client wouldn’t know you were still on to his girl.” Cronan wasn’t buying her change in heart. A woman like Rachel wouldn’t have let Olivia get the best of her without digging in.
“Why didn’t you tell us you called Olivia on the day she was killed?” Angel asked. “Tell us about that call.”
“I don’t remember. It might have been to tell her about the dinner reservations I had made for Ethan. I can’t recall.”
Angel shook her head.
“The day we first met Ethan, and you were in the kitchen making coffee with my partner, your client told me he’d been the one to call Olivia about dinner, not you.” Angel cocked her head. “Again, you’re acting like you’ve got something to hide. Where were you on the night Olivia was killed?”
“I was working, most nights until nine or so. You can ask the night security guard downstairs when he comes on duty. He usually escorts me to the parking lot.”
“What’s his name?”
Rachel gave a first name only and a vague description of the guard. Cronan hadn’t missed the fact that she’d used the word ‘usually’ when she talked about her routine for leaving the office and she hadn’t been very definitive on the time. He’d have to make sure the security guard had not only escorted Rachel to her vehicle, but he also paid attention to the time he walked her from the building. That kind of detail would be a real crapshoot.
From his experience, a routine practice got jumbled up in a witness’s memory. If a security guard walked her most nights, would he actually remember a specific night and made a note of the time? He wasn’t sure how reliable the security guard would be unless he found another way to verify her story, like security surveillance footage.
But she still could have slipped out to commit the murder and returned without being noticed. A guard who knew her everyday routine would assume she never strayed from it and he might be tempted to back up her story. An attractive woman had that kind of effect on men.
“So try again,” Angel said. “You talked to Olivia for five minutes on the night she was killed. Fill in the gaps. And this time, cut the bull.”
“I had called to make sure Olivia would be at the restaurant on time. We had words and she laughed at my meddling. She thought my concern for Ethan was pathetic. After her typical abuse, she assured me that she’d be there, but when I called Ethan at the restaurant around nine, he told me she never showed. That infuriated me, so I called her again, to give her a piece of my mind. Only this time she didn’t answer. I let it ring a few times and hung up. I refused to leave that bitch a message she could gloat over.”
Rachel wasn’t done. She kicked back her chair and walked toward her window with her arms crossed, seething.
“I figured she was with Bryce or some other loser. That bitch had lied to me. She probably never intended to show, especially after sh
e heard how much I wanted her there, for his sake. She had the nerve to make fun of me on top of it,” she said. “Ethan…he was always forgiving her, but I can’t blame him. He’s got a good heart, and she made sure he never saw what she did to him. Olivia got really good at making me look bad.”
Rachel grew very quiet, and he noticed in the reflection off the window that she was crying. When she wiped a tear from her cheek, Cronan had all the proof he needed to know Rachel had fallen hard for her client.
“But I guess in the end, Ethan was right,” she admitted.
“What are you talking about?” Cronan slouched back in his chair.
“I had Claire retrieve Ethan’s mail from the post office. He got another letter today. From the stalker.” Rachel turned to face them, shaking. “Olivia couldn’t have been the one stalking him. Now I’m really worried. For Ethan.”
***
Ethan’s last rehearsal before a performance normally calmed him, but not today. He felt restless and unsettled. He had spent the last few hours alone in his sound proof studio, a special chamber he had built for his home that prevented his neighbors from being disturbed by his odd hours when he felt the urge to play. The room was a vacuum of solitude. Nothing could be heard outside the confines of his studio. When he opened the seal of his sound proofed door—cradling his precious Stradivarius—the noise of the outside world rushed in.
A familiar ring got his attention first.
His answering machine had a special ringer that let him know he had messages, and he’d heard it loud and clear. He made his way to the phone and punched the button to retrieve the calls. He had two calls from his agent. The man was good at his job and thorough, but his last few calls had crossed the line into personal ground that made it hard for Ethan to return his calls.
The last call had come from a neighbor. He had a package delivered in error that had been addressed to him. Ethan found it odd that the man didn’t rectify the problem through the building manager to avoid dealing with it himself, but since his neighbor told him that he lived one door down, it would be simple enough to pick it up on his own. Besides, he was curious how the neighbor had gotten his private home phone number to make the call. He wanted to know who would have sent a package to his home. The delivery must have been from someone he knew. Only friends and close acquaintances knew his home address. He had a post office box for everything else.
But when he heard the second call, it got his attention. It was from Bryce Peterson. His longtime friend had left a message.
‘I just heard about Olivia. I’m sorry, man. I’d like to come over. Call me.’
Bryce sounded edgy and strung out. Ethan had heard that in his voice before. He returned the call right away, but had to leave a message.
“Hey Bryce. I got your call. Come on over and let yourself in. You’ve got a key. I don’t have any plans, but with my performance tomorrow, I can’t make it a late one. See you soon.” Before he hung up, he added, “Oh, and please don’t talk to any reporters. They’re camped out front. Come in the back way, like Rachel taught you. I don’t want anyone to know who’s coming to see me.”
After he hung up, he thought about his friend. He’d already sent Bryce tickets and backstage passes by courier, but it sounded from his message that he wanted to talk about Olivia. With the chaos backstage after a performance, they wouldn’t have any alone time. He had planned for a quiet evening tonight, but his plans had suddenly changed.
“That damned package,” he muttered, not feeling the least bit social.
He only hoped his neighbor wouldn’t want to chat. Ethan checked his watch to make sure he’d have time to pick up the delivery before Bryce came over. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation. After Bryce’s call, his thoughts had turned to—
“Ah, Livie. Why did you…?” He heaved a deep sigh before he grabbed his cane and headed out the door.
***
After Tim McFarland heard the knock, he peeked through the peephole of his front door and grinned. Nervous energy swept through him when he saw who stood outside his door. Wasting no time, he looked in the mirror hanging on a wall near the door and brushed a hand through his short dark hair before he realized what he was doing.
“He’s blind, dim wit. He won’t care what you look like,” he chastised with a smile after one last look in the mirror. “I’d say that’s a good thing.”
He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before he unlocked his deadbolt, but the sight of Ethan Chandler standing on his threshold stole his breath. The guy was too beautiful for words and seeing him up close always made him jittery like a dumbstruck boy with his first man crush. Ethan wore his wavy dark hair a little long, and it curled at the nape of his neck. He looked great in faded jeans and a blue cashmere sweater. His sleeves were pulled up to the elbow to show his muscular forearms, and the v-neck of his sweater was low enough to show the curves of his broad chest. Ethan Chandler was appealing in every way.
“Sorry to bother you, but I believe you left a message on my phone that you had a package for me?” Ethan said with his white cane in hand.
Yeah, I’ve got a package for you. It’s got your name written all over it, Tim thought.
“Just curious, but how did you get my number?”
When Ethan asked that question, Tim stammered, “Uh, I don’t remember, exactly. Is that important?”
“Guess not. Sorry.” His good-looking neighbor smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan Chandler.”
“Yes, believe me. I know who you are.” He grasped his hand. “I’m Tim McFarland, your neighbor. Please come in. We met once or twice before, but I doubt you’d remember.”
When Ethan only smiled and didn’t bother to correct his assumption, Tim shrugged and backed away from the door to let his guest into his home. He was disappointed the violinist hadn’t remembered him, but he found it hard to contain his excitement nonetheless. His heart was on full throttle, and he felt weak in the knees. He couldn’t stop staring at the younger man. This was the first time since Tim had moved in two years ago, that he’d been alone with Ethan Chandler in the flesh—and behind closed doors—his.
“Three yards straight ahead, and you’ll be in my living room.” He shut his front door and locked it. “Here, let me help.”
Indulging himself, Tim breathed in Ethan’s cologne. When he grabbed his arm to usher the young man to his sofa, Ethan surprised him and reached for his elbow instead.
“Works best if I can hang on to you. Please…lead the way.” Ethan stared straight ahead with his dark gorgeous eyes and stood a foot taller than him.
“By all means, go ahead and grab. I’m all yours.” Tim grinned and dared to fan his face with a hand, knowing his gesture wouldn’t be seen.
His living room was filled with bright light streaming in from the windows and the vivid colors of the décor made the room cheery, but Ethan would have no real appreciation for his efforts. Heaven forbid, if he were an utter slob, it wouldn’t matter to a blind man.
Feeling wicked—and perhaps a little devilish for the snub of not remembering him—Tim made a gutsy move and decided to entertain his guest in a very special room. When he walked across the floor and opened a door adjacent to his living room, Ethan had noticed.
“I thought we were in your living room. What’s this room?”
He felt Ethan’s body tense as the young man held out his arm, unsure where he was being taken. But Tim patted him on the shoulder to reassure him.
“It’s a hobby room that I find more comfortable for entertaining.” Before Ethan asked questions, Tim distracted him with a change in subject. “Can I get you a drink? I’ve got an excellent Merlot or perhaps you’d care for Macallan single malt Scotch. It’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too.” His guest smiled.
Yes, I know, he wanted to say.
“I really should be going,” Ethan insisted. “I’ve got—”
“No, please…please stay, at least for a few minutes.
I insist. Now what can I get you to drink?”
“Ah, scotch on the rocks sounds good. A short one please,” Ethan told him. “You said this is your hobby room. What are your interests?”
Tim helped him sit down after escorting him to a sofa on the far wall of the dimly lit room. With Ethan asking about his favorite pastime, the hair on Tim’s neck prickled. Before he answered, he turned to look at Ethan sitting in his special room. The blind musician clutched his white cane and stared straight ahead, waiting for his reply.
“Oh, I’m a—”
Tim was breathless, seeing his guest poised in front of a wall of photos—his personal collection. Every photo was of Ethan Chandler, from candid snapshots taken on the street to performance photos. The entire room had been filled with concert programs, professional headshots, newspaper clippings, and music CDs. He even had items that he’d picked from Ethan’s garbage when he had become obsessed with what he loved to eat and drink.
Every face was Ethan’s. His smiles and moods were captured in every shot. Tim’s favorite moments were frozen in time for only his enjoyment. That’s what Tim saw when he turned back toward his guest. Seeing the real Ethan amidst his obsessive indulgence had made the years of his devotion complete. Everything had come full circle. Ethan was finally here.
“I’m a photographer, of sorts. Only a hobby,” Tim said.
“What do you like to photograph?”
Tim found it hard not to burst into giddy laughter. The adrenaline rush of having the target of his obsession sitting in the very room he’d created for him had made him dizzy with excitement.
“I take pictures of…things I love.” Tim grinned. “I’ll be back with your Scotch. While you’re waiting, I’ll put on some music. You should recognize it.”
He knew it had been over the top to play Ethan’s latest CD, but he wanted to let the young man know that he was an avid fan and bought his music. After making a mad dash for his kitchen, Tim poured him a stiff drink. When he looked in his fridge—filled with contents that would have reminded Ethan of his own refrigerator if he could see—Tim quickly threw together a plate of the musician’s favorites. He took great care in placing the food on the plate and making a presentation of it. He knew Ethan wouldn’t see it, but that didn’t matter. He did it because he wanted to make the moment perfect.