by Irene Hannon
21
“I’ll hold until she gets to her car.” Nick angled his cell away from his mouth and spoke to the agent at the console in the surveillance van. “Continue monitoring until further notice. I want all contingencies covered on the off chance we have another Elaine Peterson situation.”
As the man nodded, Luke ended his call to Kristin and slid his phone back onto his belt. He’d have preferred to extend their conversation—but not in front of an audience.
“Everything okay with Ms. Dane?” Nick tossed the question over his shoulder.
“Yes. She was glad to take a bow and move off stage.”
“I don’t blame her.” Nick spoke again into his cell. “Glad to hear it . . . Yeah, that works. Let me know what you find out and keep us apprised. I’m also available to tag team this, since we’re done here . . . got it.” He ended the call.
“Was the plate covered with mud again?”
“No.”
“That makes it easier.”
“We were due for a break.” Nick rose. “You want to discuss next steps over a breakfast sandwich at McArthur’s? The bowl of cereal I had this morning is long gone.”
“Sure. My bagel feels like ancient history too.”
Fifteen minutes later, seated in a corner of the busy bakery that offered a clear view of the entrance and dining room, Nick added some Tabasco to an egg, cheese, and bacon concoction that was stuffed with chili sauce and pickled jalapenos.
Luke’s tongue burned just looking at the thing.
“What?” Nick continued dousing the sandwich with Tabasco.
“I’m trying to decide whether I should put the fire department on standby.”
“Very funny.” He set the bottle back on the table. “I happen to like hot and spicy.”
“I do too—within reason. What you’re doing is way outside those boundaries.”
“And that”—he indicated Luke’s standard ham-and-egg selection—“is boring.”
“Nothing at McArthur’s is boring.”
“I’ll concede that point.” He picked up a stray jalapeno and popped it in his mouth. “Neither is this case.”
“Agreed.” He surveyed the dining room. The only other occupant at this mid-morning hour was an older man reading the daily paper while he enjoyed a sweet roll and coffee. Nevertheless, Luke lowered his voice. “To be honest, I’m not liking where we are.”
“I’m not either. After our brains tanked last night, I was hoping one of us would come up with a plan by this morning to flush out our subject.”
“I wonder if Mark had any ideas.”
“Negative. I talked to him earlier. Our guy has insulated himself well. Getting to him is going to be a serious challenge.”
No kidding.
Barring a serious slip on his end or a brilliant idea on theirs about how to draw him into the open, they were at a stalemate.
“So all we can do after today is sit around and wait for him to contact Bishara.” Luke forked a piece of egg that had escaped from his sandwich.
“Yes—but that may not help much, either. Unless we happen to have people nearby, he’ll be long gone before we can move in. I don’t want to start hauling in the peripheral players until we’ve exhausted every other—” He pulled out his phone, checked the screen, and put it to his ear. “Bradley . . . Yes . . . Got it. I’m on the way.” He ended the call. “You up for some surveillance work?”
“Yes.”
Nick finished his sandwich in two huge bites and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “Today’s retriever appears to be following a similar winding path and making stops. There’s a whole contingent of agents assigned to this, but they could use us in the rotation.”
“Let’s go.” He wadded up his napkin.
As they stood, a familiar man with light brown hair came into the bakery. He glanced their way . . . did a double take . . . hesitated . . . then walked toward them.
“Do you know him?” Nick spoke quietly, his gaze glued to the approaching man.
“He has an insurance office two doors from WorldCraft. I met him the day Kristin discovered her clerk’s body.”
“I’m going to stay here and make a call while you talk to him.”
Luke met the man halfway across the dining area.
“Detective Carter, right?” Doud stopped in front of him, flicking Nick a quick look.
“Yes. Good morning, Mr. Doud.”
“I’m flattered you remembered my name. In your line of work, you must meet dozens of people a week. A colleague from County?” He inclined his head toward Nick.
“No. Different branch of law enforcement.”
“Ah. Are you working a case together?”
“Comparing notes over breakfast.”
“It can’t hurt to have extra brainpower on challenging cases—like the murder at WorldCraft. What a terrible tragedy. And poor Kristin. I can’t imagine what a shock it must have been to discover the body.” He shook his head, twin grooves denting his brow. “I haven’t heard any updates recently. I hope you’re continuing to work on it.”
“It’s an ongoing investigation.” Luke pulled out his keys, hoping the guy took the hint.
He did.
“Glad to hear it. I’ll let you be on your way.” He retreated toward the counter.
Nick met up with him at the door, but they didn’t speak again until they were outside.
“Did he have anything helpful to offer on the WorldCraft murder during the initial investigation?” Nick surveyed the fair-trade goods shop, half a block down on the other side of the street.
“No. He was in Chicago at the time of death established by the ME. His only involvement was giving Kristin a place to hang out away from the media until I got there.”
“He sounded concerned about her during your chat. Is he a rival for the lady’s affections?” One side of Nick’s mouth quirked up.
He could evade the question . . . but there was no reason to pretend he wasn’t interested in Kristin. And Nick was astute enough to see through him if he did.
“I thought that might be the case at the beginning. Not anymore. But I’m in a holding pattern until this is over.”
“Then let’s hope we wrap this up ASAP.” Nick picked up his pace.
Luke did too.
But he had a sinking feeling that unless they got a break soon, the mystery of the monastery might forever remain unsolved.
Especially if Amir somehow got wind of the fact they were on to him and simply melted away.
The car came out of nowhere.
Or more likely, he was distracted by his ringing cell phone and not paying attention to the road.
Whatever the case, by the time Yusef spotted the red four-door crossing the intersection, it was too late to do anything but jam his brake to the floor.
It wasn’t enough.
Tires screeching, he clipped the front fender of the other vehicle.
Hard.
Gripping the steering wheel, he held on tight as a bone-jarring thud rolled through him, accompanied by the dissonant sounds of crumpling metal and shattering glass.
The noise seemed to go on forever.
When at last the car stopped shuddering and the clamor subsided, he lowered his forehead to the steering wheel.
Could the timing of this car accident be any worse? Didn’t he have more than his fair share of worry already?
God, I’m beginning to feel like Job. Could you please—
A rap sounded on his window, and he jerked his head up.
The thirtysomething man on the other side, cell to his ear, frowned at him. “Are you okay?”
Yusef rolled the window down. “Yes. I think so.”
The guy held up his index finger and angled away. “I want to report an accident.”
Stomach churning, Yusef stayed where he was through the litany of answers the man provided to the 911 operator.
It was fortunate the other driver had placed the call and was supplying details, because
he had no idea what had happened. He’d been too busy fumbling for the phone, heart racing, expecting to hear Amir on the other end of the line.
But this pulse-jarring call, like all the others over the past week, hadn’t been from the man who controlled his son’s fate. Penny’s name had flashed on the screen.
Soon, though, the instructions would come . . . and if that detective and FBI agent were as skilled as they appeared to be, they’d find this monster—and Touma would be rescued.
Thank God they’d pinpointed his son’s location. Knowing that soldiers were on alert to swoop in and rescue him as soon as they got the word was the one heartening—
“Did you know you ran a red light?” The guy from the other car swung back to him again, furrows still creasing his forehead, mouth tight.
He could understand the man’s reaction.
If someone had complicated his life by running into him, he’d be mad too.
“No. I’m sorry. I was distracted. Is anyone in your car hurt?”
“It’s just me, and I’m fine.” He grimaced at his mangled fender. “Unlike my car.”
“I’m sorry.” He repeated the lame apology—but what else was there to say?
Horns began to honk, adding to the headache forming behind Yusef’s eyes, and cars edged past, the occupants gaping at the damaged vehicles. In the background, the faint wail of a police siren added to the cacophony.
What a mess.
“Excuse me.” A middle-aged woman waved at the driver of the red car from the sidewalk. “I saw the accident. If you need a witness, I’ll be happy to give you my contact information.”
“Thanks.” The guy jogged over to talk to her.
Yusef almost called him back, told him not to bother. Witnesses weren’t necessary. He wasn’t going to dispute the man’s claim. How could he? He hadn’t even noticed the light at the intersection.
But summoning the man—or moving from behind the wheel—required too much effort.
However, after the police arrived, he was forced to dredge up the remnants of his energy and get out of his car.
Hard to do, when your stomach was on fire.
The officer squinted at him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Fine.” He leaned against the fender.
“Why don’t I call the paramedics, have them check you out?”
“No. I am upset. Nothing more.”
After giving him another skeptical scan, the officer began filling out the report.
Yusef remained propped against the fender while he and the other driver provided insurance cards, exchanged contact information, and determined his car was drivable. Only then was he able to get behind the wheel again.
As he prepared to pull back into traffic, he glanced in the rearview mirror while he readjusted it. Did a double take.
No wonder the cop had been concerned about him.
His complexion was pasty . . . and his hands were shaking.
He needed to go home and lie down.
Now.
Too bad it was the middle of the workday.
He put the car in gear, waited until there was a clear opening in the traffic, and carefully pulled out, pointing the car back toward the museum. The banking he’d planned to do could wait, and there was no need to stop for lunch. His appetite had vanished.
Besides, he’d better use the noon hour to alert his insurance rep to expect a call about some very expensive repairs.
The man wouldn’t be happy about such a large claim—but accidents happened, and he’d paid his premiums like clockwork.
There was one stop he had to make before he placed that call, though. The bottle of antacids in his office was empty, and he needed to tame the gnawing pain in his stomach that had worsened each day following Amir’s most recent call.
If all went as he hoped, though . . . if the authorities were able to end this travesty and rescue his son . . . maybe the pain would go away.
And if it didn’t—they had doctors in prisons.
The day was over . . . and none too soon.
Kristin flipped off the lights in the back room at WorldCraft, hoisted her purse onto her shoulder, and stepped outside.
Everything had been routine after the last two candles went out the door, but she was beat. A quiet dinner, a phone chat with Rick about the sets for Alice in Wonderland, and a restful sleep were her priorities for the remainder of the day.
As she walked toward her car, Ryan exited his office too.
He lifted a hand in greeting. “We must both be punching out at the same time for once.”
“I’m ready. I plan to go home, put my feet up, and chill.”
“Busy day?” He tested the knob on his door and strolled over.
“Not too bad.” She fished her keys out of her purse, keeping her tone conversational. “I’m just a little tired. The trip East was stressful, and I got behind on sleep while I was there. I’m still catching up.”
“I hear you. Stress can take a toll—and you do look tired. At least the news from Boston is positive. Now that your mom’s opened her eyes, I bet she’ll take a quantum leap forward.”
Kristin wrinkled her brow. “How did you know about that? I didn’t find out until last night, and I haven’t seen you all day.”
He shrugged. “You mentioned she was rousing from the coma when we spoke on Saturday. I assumed that meant she was becoming more aware of her surroundings—which is difficult to do if your eyes are closed.” He smiled.
That was true.
“Good point.” She massaged her temple.
He cocked his head. “Are you okay? You seem kind of . . . out of it.”
Did she?
Possible.
Between worry over her mom and the terrorist activity at the shop, clocking her usual eight hours of sleep had been difficult. The fatigue and strain could be catching up with her.
“It’s been a long couple of weeks.”
“You should go home and get some rest.” He started to turn away. Pivoted back. “By the way, I ran into that detective today who’s working Susan’s case. At McArthur’s.”
Luke had been within shouting distance and she’d missed him?
Drat.
“Did you talk to him?”
“For a minute. He was with another law enforcement guy. I wonder what they were doing there?”
She lifted one shoulder, pulling out the acting skills she’d packed away hours ago. “Having a snack?”
“I thought it might be related to the case and they’d stopped in to see you.”
“No. I haven’t had an update about Susan for weeks. As far as I know, they don’t have any significant new leads.”
“That’s too bad. No one should be able to get away with a crime like that. The detective did say it was an open case—but if TV crime shows have any basis in reality, it has to be growing cold by now.”
“I hope not.”
“Me too. Well, have a relaxing evening.” With a lift of his hand, he ambled to his car.
Kristin continued to her Sentra, the relief she’d felt after the last candles left the store evaporating.
Must be residual tension. She had been under considerable pressure, and her chat with Ryan hadn’t been their usual light fare about the weather or the Cardinals’ latest baseball win.
Brain injuries and murder weren’t the kinds of topics that left one feeling relaxed and carefree.
A few vehicles up, Ryan backed out of his parking spot, waved through the window, and disappeared down the alley.
After lifting her hand in response, she continued toward her car—with zero regrets about leaving her shop behind for the day.
Another unhappy fallout from all that had happened.
Her fingers tightened on the keys in her hand, the sharp edges digging into her palm.
Spending her days in WorldCraft had never been a burden. How could it be, when the work she did made a difference in the lives of people around the globe? Her little shop
might not change the world . . . or garner her a Nobel Peace Prize . . . but Mother Teresa had been right. Not everyone was able to do great things, but everyone could do small things with great love.
Now, however, the shop was more a source of heartache than happiness, tainted with death and terrorism.
It was almost as if evil had permeated the soul of the business she’d launched with such noble intentions.
She slid behind the wheel and slowly exhaled.
The whole thing was a nightmare.
But dwelling on the past wasn’t going to change it.
All she could do was pray for fortitude and hope the future held more good than bad.
Like a heaping dose of a certain tall, handsome detective who seemed destined to play a major role in her life.
She toyed with the zipper on her purse, battling the temptation to pull out her phone and call him.
Be strong, Kristin. He’s busy with the case, probably working ridiculous hours. It would be selfish to intrude on his time, distract him—even if he did say you could call day or night.
True.
Clamping her lips together, she backed out of her parking spot and aimed her car toward home.
Later, however . . . if she still felt uneasy and off-balance . . . she might give him a quick ring.
Because an infusion of the strength and competence he exuded would be the perfect antidote to the sudden, puzzling apprehension she couldn’t shake.
22
Okay, so he was breaking his rule about keeping his personal and professional lives separate during a case.
Sort of.
But Kristin’s part was finished . . . it had been a long, tiring, discouraging day . . . only an empty apartment was waiting for him . . . and he needed a pick-me-up.
So shoot him for making this quick detour.
Luke pressed Kristin’s bell and checked his watch. Nine o’clock wasn’t too late to come calling, was it?
Unless she was exhausted from all the trauma and had gone to bed early.
He frowned.
Maybe this hadn’t been his best idea after all.
What if she was annoyed to find him on her porch, and—
The knob turned.
Too late for second thoughts.
He opened his mouth to apologize for showing up late—but closed it after her expression of surprise morphed into a welcoming smile.