by Ryan, Jenna
Flawless.
Something that spoke of what Darcy would soon be.
Dead.
DARCY SPENT HER FIRST morning back at work feeling very, very good, a little feline and completely rejuvenated.
Atlantic City had been a revelation. Not so much in the beginning, but in the end a delightful detour from her day-to-day life.
Making love with Marlowe had stunned her. It had truly been an eye-opening experience. The question was, did she want her eyes open, or would it be wiser all around if she simply closed them again, and with them her heart?
Because he’d touched something inside her. And once touched, it would be difficult to backtrack. It might be impossible.
One thing was certain—the heat and humidity in Philadelphia hadn’t diminished in her absence. Neither had the frenetic pace at the magazine.
Elaine ambushed her as she returned from lunch. “I need the piece on Congressman Budder.”
At Darcy’s abstract response, a hand came out to snag her arm. “What was that? Fobbing me off’s not an answer.” She gave a firm yank. “At your most preoccupied, you don’t fob. So now I’m doubly curious. What happened in Atlantic City?”
Darcy smiled. “It had its moments. Some of them were spectacular. Others I could have lived without.” Pushing through her office door, she took a look around and stopped dead still.
“Someone’s been here.”
“Yes, you, all morning,” said Elaine from behind her.
“I went out for lunch. That’s thirty minutes of me not here.”
“You and everyone else on this level. Except me.”
Darcy circled her desk. Something about the configuration on top felt wrong. “Where was Trace?” she asked.
“In the art department all morning. I’ve spoken to him three times in the past hour, and God knows how many times over the past few days.”
“Oh? He calls you when he’s off the clock?”
“He’s brownnosing, darling, trying to scoop some story about a mobster, I think. Yes, I know, he can’t string two sentences together, but a scoop’s a scoop. Besides, he’s afraid I’ll can him if my assistant quits.” Pivoting, she trailed Darcy into the adjoining office and back. “What is it that has you peering into every nook and cranny of this office?”
“My stapler’s been moved.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t give me that look. I admit it’s anal, but my stapler always sits next to my out-box, never my in-box.”
“That’s not anal, kiddo, that’s borderline OCD.”
“I’m not obsessive or compulsive. I’m organized. Keyboard’s wrong, too,” she noted thoughtfully.
“Maybe someone from downstairs came in looking for something. You weren’t here, so he or she did a quick paw-through before he or she left.”
“Maybe.” Moving the mouse, Darcy started to open a drawer. But the picture that materialized on the computer monitor froze her fingers. “Better make that maybe a no.”
“What? Why?” Elaine scooted around the side. “Has someone…?” She leaned forward, adjusted her glasses. “What is that?”
Darcy didn’t need to get closer. The image was frighteningly clear.
“It’s a headstone, Elaine. A grave marker.” Her gaze fixed on the gruesome granite face, and more specifically on the five words carved there in bold, black letters. Simple, chilling words that read:
IN MEMORY OF
SHANNON HUNT
“I KNOW, I KNOW. I’m twenty minutes late, and Captain Bligh’s on the warpath.” Val groped his way into the detectives’ room. “No lectures. My head’ll blow at the first cross word.”
Marlowe directed a faint grin into the file he was scanning. “You’re in luck, Detective Reade. Blydon’s tearing one of your lieutenants apart for screwing up an unwarranted search.”
“There, you see? I’m not the only one who gets it wrong.” Leaving his sunglasses in place, Val took a tentative sip of his take-out coffee. “What’s that you’re reading, and should I know about it?”
“I accessed more files from the disk I downloaded in Lugo’s motel room. Nothing that connects so far, but you might see something I’m missing.”
“Doubt it.” Val drank, raised his glasses, winced. “Man, that’s bright.” He dropped them back down. “How was Atlantic City? In a nonprofessional capacity, that is. I already know about the abduction part.”
Marlowe made one last scan of the file. “None of your business.” He picked up his own coffee. “I ran into a brunette in Records. She asked me if you were back from your Jersey Shore weekend yet.”
His friend frowned. “Why’d she ask you about me?”
“Saw us together, I imagine.” A brow went up. “Jersey Shore, Val?”
“New York, New Jersey, she got it wrong is all. She’s hell on wheels on a computer, not so strong on memory.” He moved a shoulder, changed the subject. “I put out feelers for Nelda Hickey’s son. If he’s got a gig in this city, he’s playing it under another name. Makes my job a thousand times harder, but I’ll stay on it.”
“He’s into smack, right? Do you have anyone who knows the street suppliers?”
“Two. Not sure how reliable they are. You?”
“I might know someone.” Marlowe’s gaze traveled to the window, but returned when he heard a wolf whistle and glimpsed blond hair.
With a quick smile for the suspect in cuffs who’d emitted it, Darcy sidestepped a blood-smeared female and two detectives who suddenly looked a lot less bored with life.
She had that effect, Marlowe conceded. Earlier tonight, when he’d been thinking about Ferris wheels, he’d brought Darcy to mind before the usual screams and sirens.
Burying that, he stood from the corner of Val’s desk. Her body language and facial expression were at odds, and not in a good way.
With Val on his heels, he started across the room. “What is it?” He couldn’t see any marks, nothing to indicate she’d been in a struggle.
She handed him a sheet of paper. “This was on my computer when I got back from lunch.”
Marlowe’s stomach muscles clenched as he read the words, but he schooled his features and kept his expression neutral.
Val took the opposite tack, yanking off his sunglasses and staring red-eyed at the printout. “Well, hell, that’s not good.”
Marlowe glanced at her. “E-mail?”
“No, someone set up a file and left it for me to find.” At his speculative look, she spread her fingers. “I don’t know if it was Trace or not. It’s possible. He’s at the magazine today. But if it was him, he’s gone from calculated risk taker to moron in a very short time. Elaine’s all over him about this, so much so that I didn’t have the heart to tell her about our encounter in Atlantic City.”
“What encounter?” Val asked, looking a bit perkier.
“Grogan showed up.” Marlowe reread the words. “Did you touch the keypad?”
“No, but it won’t matter,” she said. “Whoever did this more than likely wore gloves.”
“We’ll dust for prints anyway.” Val pressed on a nerve in his neck. “I’ll take a patrol over right now, question the staff.”
“It was lunchtime,” she told him. “Picture rats on a sinking ship. Anyone who hangs around risks having Elaine drop extra chores on their already overburdened shoulders.” She tapped Marlowe’s forearm with a contemplative fingernail. “Come to think of it, though, Trace didn’t go out for lunch. Not that that’s unusual, because as we all know, he loves to lurk.”
Val snorted. “I’ll make a point of having a chat with him.”
“With what’s left of him,” Darcy corrected. “Elaine’s not feeling merciful. And since I’m bound to be next on her interrogation list, I’m in no hurry to get back. It says Shannon Hunt on the headstone,” she reminded Val. “I go by Darcy Nolan. Not that it makes much difference at this point. She’s been suspicious for a while.”
Marlowe studied the printout, noted two black lines r
unning across the bottom of the grave marker.
While Val braved his captain’s office, Marlowe perched again on the desk and, bringing Darcy to his side, showed her the paper. “You’re twenty-twenty. Are those words?”
Turning the printout this way and that, she finally shook her head. “I think they’re ink smears.”
“In case they aren’t, let’s take a quick drive by your office.”
“You’re not thinking that’s a signature, are you? I mean, whoever this guy is, and insane though he might be, he’s not wacko enough to sign his name.”
“All things being equal, I agree.” Marlowe gave her a hard kiss before taking her hand and standing. “But things might not be equal anymore.”
“Which means?”
“It’s possible he wants you to know who he is.”
OF ALL THE THINGS MARLOWE could have said, a homicidal nutcase wanting her to know his identity was hardly the most encouraging.
However, from a psychological standpoint, it made sense.
Several aborted murder attempts later, frustration must be setting in. She should be dead. All should have been revealed. Satisfaction should rule.
Instead, she’d evaded death and escaped. A happy ending from her perspective, somewhat less fulfilling from his.
“I feel like I’m foundering without Vince and Frankie to pin this on.” Darcy used her ID card at the rear entrance of the building. “It’s me,” she called to a passing guard.
He gave her a thumbs-up and vanished. At Marlowe’s amused look, she poked his stomach.
“Yes, former lieutenant, I sneak in the back way from time to time. You’re not here to judge. This is about smudges and headstones and who besides the Macos might know about Shannon.”
“Grogan has access to a mountain of information.”
“None of which would connect Shannon to Darcy. But I say again, Trace isn’t above eavesdropping, so, yes, he could know the truth.” She snared his arm and turned right. “We’ll take the service elevator. It opens one short corridor from my office.” She noticed his smile as they entered the car. “That’s an intriguing expression you have on your gorgeous face. Are you wondering if I found out after some wild office Christmas party?”
“No, I’m wondering if you ever went out with Vince Maco.”
“Ah, well.” Unprepared for that, she pushed the button.
“Yes, or no?”
“No. I had dinner with him once, but…”
“Sounds like a yes to me.”
Sounded like irritation to her. Fortunately, patience was one of her stronger points. “It’s a no, Marlowe. Vince knew I wanted a story. He asked me out. I assumed he meant out where I could interview him. But being Vince and having an ego the size of a Boeing 747, substitute the word intimate for interview. He took me to his uncle’s upscale Malibu restaurant.”
“Tito Garcia’s?”
“That’s the one. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I went with it.”
“Then used your wiles on him.”
“You make me sound like Eve shoving an apple in Adam’s mouth. I got him talking.”
“And drunk?”
She stepped out of the elevator into the corridor. “You’re not inspiring me to finish this story.”
“Okay, Vince talked.” Marlowe’s dark brow went up. “And then?”
“Nothing. He’d been too well trained by Frankie to let anything slip. We finished our meal, and we left.”
“That’s it?”
Darcy ignored the doubt in his tone. “That’s it,” she said. But then she thought it through and sighed. “Almost. He called me again. And again. He said I affected him like no other woman ever had. Personally, I think he just hated being refused.” With a quick sideways glance, she crossed to her office door. “It took a while, but he got the message.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. Where did this even come from?”
He turned her toward the desk. “I’ll let you know after we enhance the picture.”
“Marlowe, Vince isn’t in love with me. He never was. He simply doesn’t like the word no.”
“Uh-huh.” Already working, Marlowe enlarged the image once, and again. “Come here, Darcy.” He pulled her down next to him. “Tell me what you see.”
“A very big headstone with a very creepy message on it.”
“Go lower.”
She honed in, could almost make something out of what had initially appeared to be two squiggly lines. “Can you enlarge it any more?”
He zoomed in on the area and was able to focus on the smudges.
Except they weren’t smudges anymore. They were words—reedy, miniature, and terrifying.
Darcy wanted to jerk away, but morbid fascination kept her riveted as the words glared up at her.
THE TRUTH IS CARVED IN
STONE
She reread the lines three times. Each time, she felt the knots in her stomach grow tighter.
“Stone.” Staring at her, Marlowe said the last thing she wanted to hear. “You used that surname when you did the weather in Oregon, right?”
The knots tightened. “You have an excellent memory. Now tell me what you think it means—beyond the obvious fact that whoever left this and knows I was Shannon Hunt also appears to know I was Shannon Stone.”
Marlowe worked the image, pulling the entire marker back into the frame. “It either means someone’s done his homework on you or…”
“What? He’s playing games with my head before he kills me? Wonderful. Mission accomplished.”
“You’re reacting, Darcy, not looking.”
“Of course I’m reacting.” But she looked again. “Shannon Hunt, Shannon Stone…” Then, as if a giant hand had wrapped itself around her vocal cords, she trailed off. “Oh, hell.” She traced the barely visible line with her eyes. “That’s carved right into the headstone, isn’t it?”
“I’d say.”
A feather tipped with ice skimmed along her spine as she finally recognized the line that ran up, down and around the marker for what it was.
A heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Obsession…
Is that what was fuelling this nightmare? Not a grudge, but someone who’d seen her on the West Coast and had possibly stalked her there? Someone who, with Umer Lugo’s help, had tracked her to Philadelphia?
Darcy had done enough stories on the subject to understand the MO. Obsessed individual stalks object of desire. Stalking leads to eventual disillusionment, disillusionment to death.
Apparently the person after her had reached the fatal fourth stage.
Three and a half hours at the police station didn’t clarify a thing. By 7:00 p.m. her head was muddier than ever and her nerves were tight enough to snap.
It helped a little when Val suggested the three of them brainstorm over appetizers at a South Philly club. It didn’t help that a pitcher of beer materialized on the table thirty seconds after they arrived.
“Interesting crowd.” Darcy set her chin on the back of her linked fingers and looked around. “Do you make a habit of mingling with the criminal element? I’ve seen money and small packages change hands three times, and we’ve only been here a minute.”
“I’m hoping to meet an informant,” Val told her. “That’s a lot of what this place is about. Look on the bright side, Darcy. Being in a den of thieves will keep your mind off the bigger picture.”
“Yes, I’ll let you know how that works out. Where’s Marlowe?”
“I saw him following someone into the alley.” He picked up the pitcher. “Only the best on tap.”
“Keep the criminal customer satisfied, huh?”
“Cop customers, too. I count ten in the vicinity.”
“So I should feel really safe here.”
“Well, they’re mostly undercover, hooking up with sources, playing a role. Stakes are often high. You can’t count on too much support.”
“And the fear comes crashing back in.
”
Val poured a full mug, but to her relief drank sparingly. “Talk to me about your past, Darcy. Guys you might have brushed off without realizing it.”
“Val, if I didn’t realize it, I can’t tell you about them, can I?”
“Nelda Hickey’s son.”
“Never met him.”
“You saw the picture I found.”
“But he was in full Ozzy Osbourne makeup.”
“Good point. Constantine Lyons?”
“Again, never met him. Or his son, or his grandsons.”
“Three grandsons.”
“The oldest races cars. The second’s had some legal problems. The third—no idea.”
“Marlowe came up with a few things while you were talking to Blydon.”
“Wonderful. Tell me number three’s an obsessed killer, and we’re set.”
“That’d be too easy. Truth is, young Lyons works for Granddad’s corporation. Ditto troubled middle brother, whose legal problems range from numerous DUIs to smashing up a couple of Grandpa’s Jags.”
“I see bad attitude there, not potential stalker. What about their father, Constantine’s son?”
“He was your typical child of privilege, educated in England. He maintains a low profile within the corporation, but then they all do that. We couldn’t determine where any of them are based at the moment, so tracking them’s a challenge.”
“You could talk to Constantine. You know where he is.”
“We’re working on that. Next up, R.J. Wilkie. Any common threads?”
“One brief meeting, then snap, he was gone. Wife, kids, friends were all stunned.”
“What about his coworkers?”
“Their reactions varied. Most of them were shocked. A few suggested another woman. One said he was—”
“Abducted by aliens,” a familiar voice inserted.
It seemed to Darcy that Marlowe appeared out of thin air. Although in a place where the shadows outnumbered the tables, that probably wasn’t saying much.
“We’re rerunning the short list of stalker suspects.” Val took a longer drink this time. “In other words, we’re chasing our tails. Any luck on your end?”
“I talked to Comet. Remains to be seen what develops there.” Elbows propped, Marlowe pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.