by Linda Howard
There was dead silence for a moment; then Roger said, “You’re shitting me.” He sounded as appalled as Sam felt.
“We excluded the female employees from the NCIC search. We hog-tied ourselves. We have to go through their files, too.”
“You’re telling me a woman—” Roger fell silent, and Sam knew he was thinking of the things that had been done to Marci’s body, and Luna’s. “Jesus.”
“Now we know why Luna opened her door. It didn’t make sense that she would. But she was on guard against a man, not a woman.” That feeling of having missed something was growing stronger.
A woman. Think of a blond woman. Immediately he flashed to Marci’s funeral, and the tall blond woman who had broken down and wept in Cheryl’s arms. A drama queen, T.J. had said, but Jaine had a different take on it: The wheel’s still going around, but her hamster’s dead. She thought the woman had a loose screw, that there was something wrong there. Damn it! She had even mentioned her when he asked about employees who had experienced difficulty getting along with others at work.
T.J. had said something else, something that hadn’t clicked at the time: the woman was in her department, human resources. The woman had access to everything, all the information in all the files, including private phone numbers and the names and addresses of relatives to call in case of an emergency.
That was it. That was what had been nagging at him. Laurence Strawn had specifically told him the personnel files weren’t on computers with Internet connections; it was impossible to hack into them. Whoever had called T.J.’s cell phone number had gotten it from her file, but that file, without specific authorization, was accessible only to those in H.R.
What was her name? What was her damn name?
He reached for the phone to call Jaine, but the name popped into his head before he could dial Shelley’s number: Street. Leah Street.
He dialed Bernsen instead. “Leah Street,” he rasped when Roger answered. “She’s the one who was crying all over Marci’s sister at the funeral.”
“The blonde,” Roger said. “Shit! She fit the profile, too.”
Right down to the ground, Sam thought. The nervousness, the excessive emotion, the inability to stay in the background.
“I’ve got the file here,” Roger said. “There are several complaints about her attitude. She didn’t get along with people. God, this is classic. We’ll bring her in for questioning, see what we can shake loose.”
“She’ll be at work,” Sam said, and alarm clawed his gut. “T.J. went to work today. They’re in the same department, Human Resources.”
“Get on the phone to T.J.,” Roger said. “I’m on my way.”
Sam quickly looked up the number at Hammerstead. An automated answering message picked up on the first ring, and he ground his teeth. He had to listen until the recording gave the appropriate extension for Human Resources, which took valuable time. Damn it! Why didn’t companies use real people to answer the phone? Messages were cheaper, but in an emergency the delay could cause real trouble.
Finally the recorded message gave the extension he wanted, and he punched it in. A harried voice picked up on the fourth ring. “Human Resources, Fallon speaking.”
“T.J. Yother, please.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Yother has stepped out of the office.”
“How long has she been gone?” he asked sharply.
Fallon wasn’t a pushover. “Who is this?” she asked just as sharply.
“Detective Donovan. It’s important I find her. Listen to me: is Leah Street there?”
“Why, no.” “allon’s tone had changed. She was a lot more coopertive now. “She and T.J. left together about half an how ago, I guess. The phones have been ringing like crazy and with both of them gone we’ve been short-handed. They—”
Sam interrupted, “If T.J. returns, tell her to call me immediately, Detective Sam Donovan.” He gave the number. He thought about alerting Fallon to the situation but quickly decided against it; if Leah hadn’t bolted, he didn’t want to alarm her. “Can you switch me to Mr. Strawn’s office?” Only Laurence Strawn had the authority to do what he wanted.
“Yes—sure. Of course.” She paused. “Do you want me to?”
Sam closed his eyes and bit back a raw curse. “Yes, please.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
A series of electronic tones sounded in his ear, then the smooth voice of Mr. Strawn’s executive secretary. Sam cut into her practiced welcoming spiel. “This is Detective Donovan. Is Mr. Strawn available? It’s an emergency.”
The two words “detective” and “emergency” got him put through immediately to Strawn. Quickly Sam outlined the situation. “Call the gate and don’t let anyone leave, and start searching for T.J. Check every broom closet and bathroom stall. Don’t confront Ms. Street, but don’t let her leave. Detective Bernsen is on the way.”
“Hold on,” Strawn said. “I’ll call the gate right now.”
He was back on the line in about thirty seconds. “Ms. Street left the premises about twenty minutes ago.”
“Was T.J. with her?”
“No. The guard said she was alone.”
“Then find T.J.,” Sam said urgently. He simultaneously wrote a note and signaled Wayne Satran. Wayne took the note, read it, and jumped into action. “She’s somewhere in the building, and maybe she’s still alive.” Maybe. Marci had been dead from the first hammer blow. Luna hadn’t died immediately, but she had also suffered head trauma so severe she died before she could completely bleed out from the stab wounds. The M.E. estimated, based purely on his personal experience, that she had lived, maybe, a couple of minutes after the initial attack. The attacks were vicious and overwhelming.
“Should I be discreet about it?” Strawn asked.
“At this point, finding her fast is what’s most important. Leah Street has already escaped. Alert everyone in the building to assist in the search. When you find her, if she’s alive, do whatever you can to help her. If she’s dead, try to preserve the scene. Emergency personnel are on the way.” That was what Wayne had been doing, getting the wheels rolling. Law enforcement officers from several different jurisdictions were converging on Hammerstead, as well as medics and evidence techs.
“We’ll find her,” Laurence Strawn said quietly.
Sam’s instinct, as a cop, was to go to the scene. He stayed where he was, knowing he could do more good right there.
Leah Street’s file was on Roger’s desk. Sam called the Sterling Heights P.D. and got the detective who answered to look in the file and give him Leah’s home address and phone number, plus her social security number.
After a minute the detective picked up the phone and said, “I don’t find a Leah Street. ‘There’s a ‘Corin Lee Street,’ but no ‘Leah.’”
Corin Lee? Jesus. Sam rubbed his forehead, trying not to wonder what in hell that meant. Was Leah a man or a woman? The names were too similar for coincidence.
“Is Corin Street a man or a woman?” he asked.
“Let me see.” A pause. “Here it is. Female.”
Maybe, Sam thought. “Okay, thanks. That’s the one I want.” The detective read off the information Sam had requested. He copied it down, accessed the motor vehicle department and got her license plate number and description of the car.
He then had a BOLO—“be on the lookout”—issued for the car. He didn’t know if she was armed; so far, she hadn’t used a firearm, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have one, and she might well have a knife with her. She was unstable as hell, like nitroglycerin; she had to be approached with caution.
Where had she gone? Home? Only a real looney-tunes would—but Leah Street was a real looney-tunes. He got officers en route to her house.
While he was getting everything in motion, he tried not to think about T.J. Had they found her yet? Were they too late?
How much time had lapsed? He checked his watch; ten minutes since he had talked to Strawn, so that was thirty minutes since Leah had left Hamm
erstead. She could hit the interstate highway system and in half an hour could be anywhere in the Detroit area, or have crossed over into Windsor, Canada. That would be great; they already had four or five jurisdictions involved, so why not bring in another nation?
He thought about calling Jaine, but decided to wait. He didn’t know anything definite about T.J. and couldn’t put her through the ordeal of waiting to hear, not so soon after Luna.
Thank God Jaine was at Shelley’s house. She wasn’t alone, and she was safe, because Leah didn’t know who Shelley was or where she lived—
Unless Jaine had listed Shelley as her “contact in case of emergency.”
Because he and Roger had divided the personnel files alphabetically, with Sam taking the top half of the stack of printed sheets and Roger the bottom half, Roger had Leah Street’s file—and he had Jaine’s. There were more Bs than any other letter of the alphabet, and he hurriedly riffled through the stack. When he found Jaine’s file, he jerked the pages out and quickly scanned them.
Shelley was listed.
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He didn’t bother with a land line; he dialed Shelley’s number on his cell phone and was running when he went out the door.
The reporters had done some investigating and tracked down Shelley, looking for Jaine. The constantly ringing phone got on their nerves so much that Shelley had finally turned it off, and they went out on the patio in back to sit by the pool. Sam had been so insistent that Jaine keep her cell phone with her that she took it outside with her and laid it beside her hip on the cushion of the teak chaise.
A large umbrella was angled overhead to block the sun, and Jaine dozed a little while Shelley read. The house was blessedly quiet; knowing Jaine’s nerves were raw, Shelley had sent Nicholas to a friend’s house to play, and Stefanie had gone to the mall with her friends. A CD of classical piano pieces was playing softly in the background, and Jaine felt her headache finally begin to recede, like a wave pulling back from the shore.
She couldn’t think any more about Marci and Luna, not right now. Her mind and emotions were exhausted. In her lightly dozing state, she thought about Sam, and what a rock he was. Was it only three weeks ago she had thought he was the blight of the neighborhood? So much had happened that she had lost her perspective of time; it seemed as if she had known him for months.
They had been lovers for almost a week, and in another few weeks they would be married. She couldn’t believe she was making such an important move so hastily, but it felt right. Sam felt right, as if they were interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She hadn’t rushed into anything with her other three fiancés, and look how well those engagements had turned out. This time she was just going to do it. To hell with caution; she was going to marry Sam Donovan.
There was so much to do, so many details to handle. Thank God for Shelley, because she was in charge of all the tactical problems, such as location and food, music, flowers, invitations, large awnings for shade and shelter. Never shy, Shelley had already talked to Sam’s mother and oldest sister, Doro, and involved them in the preparations. Jaine was a little chagrined to realize she hadn’t yet met any of Sam’s family, but with Marci’s death and funeral, and now Luna, she hadn’t had the opportunity. She was just happy Sam had thought to tell his folks before Shelley called, or it would have been an even bigger shock.
The doorbell chimed softly in the background, pulling her from her drifting thoughts. She sighed as she glanced over at Shelley, who wasn’t moving. “Aren’t you going to see who’s at the door?”
“No way. It’s probably just a reporter.”
“It might be Sam.”
“Sam would have called—Oh, right. I turned off the phones. Damn it,” Shelley griped, putting her book facedown on the table between the two chaises. “I’m getting into a really good part. Just once I’d like to read a book without being interrupted. If it isn’t the kids, it’s the telephone. If it isn’t the telephone, it’s the doorbell. Wait until you and Sam have kids,” she warned as she opened the glass patio door and stepped inside.
Sam alternated between cussing and praying as he wove between cars, his dash light flashing. There was no answer at Shelley’s. He had left a message on the answering machine, but where could they be? Jaine wouldn’t have gone anywhere without calling him, not under the current circumstances. He had never before in his life been so terrified. He had patrol cars on the way to Shelley’s house, but, God, what if it was already too late?
He remembered Jaine’s cell phone. Driving with one hand, the gas pedal pressed to the floorboard, he glanced at his phone and pressed Jaine’s speed-dial number. Then he waited for the connection to be made, and he prayed some more.
The patio gate rattled. The privacy fence around the pool was eight feet high, constructed of wooden slats in a solid lattice weave, but the gate was made of wrought-iron bars. Startled, Jaine sat up and glanced over.
“Jaine!”
It was Leah Street, of all people. She looked frantic, and with one hand she rattled the gate again as if she could shake it open.
“Leah! What’s wrong? Is it T.J.?” Jaine bolted from the chaise and ran toward the gate. Her heart almost leaped from her chest, so strong was the panic that seized her.
Leah blinked, as if Jaine’s question surprised her. Her strangely intent gaze locked on Jaine. “Yes, it’s T.J.,” she said, and shook the gate one more time. “Open the gate.”
“What’s happened? Is she all right?” Jaine skidded to a halt in front of the gate and reached to open it, then realized she didn’t have a key to the lock.
“Open the gate,” Leah repeated.
“I can’t, I don’t have the key! I’ll get Shelley—” Jaine was almost weeping in terror as she turned away, but Leah reached through the gate and grabbed her arm.
“Hey!” Startled out of her panic, Jaine jerked free and whirled to stare at Leah. “What the hell—”
The words died in her throat. Leah’s outstretched hand had blood on it, and two of her fingernails were broken. The woman pressed closer to the gate, and Jaine saw more red splotches on the baggy skirt.
Instinct had Jaine backing up a step.
“Open the goddamn gate!” Leah shrieked, shaking the gate with her left hand as if she were a crazed chimpanzee on the inside of a cage. Her feathery blond hair flew around her face.
Jaine stared at the blood, and the blond hair. She saw the weird glitter in Leah’s eyes, the twisted expression on her face, and everything inside her went cold. “You murdering bitch,” she half-whispered.
Leah was as quick as a striking snake. She whipped her right arm away from her side and thrust it through the bars of the gate, swinging something at Jaine’s head. Jaine lurched backward and lost her balance, stumbling several more steps before falling. She twisted to the side as she fell, landing on her hip. Driven by adrenaline, she bounced to her feet before she felt any pain from the jarring impact.
Leah swung again. It was a tire tool, Jaine saw. She backed farther away from the gate and screamed, “Shelley! Call the police! Hurry!”
On the chaise, her cell phone began to ring. Involuntarily she glanced toward it, just as Leah, on a surge of insane strength, began beating the gate with the tire tool. The metal rang under the force of the blows, and the lock gave way.
Leah shoved the gate open, an unholy expression twisting her face as she stepped inside. “You’re a whore,” she rasped, raising the tire tool. “You’re a lewd, vulgar whore, and you don’t deserve to live.”
Not daring to take her gaze off Leah, even for a second, Jaine inched to the side, trying to get at least a chair between them. She knew what the blood on Leah’s hands and clothing meant, knew that T.J. was dead, too. All of them were gone, now. All of her friends. This insane bitch had killed them.
She had backed up too much. She was almost on the edge of the pool. Quickly she adjusted her direction, angling away from the pool.
Shelley stepped out of the house, he
r face white and her eyes wide. She carried one of Nicholas’s hockey sticks. “I called the police,” she said, her voice shaking as she stared at Leah like a mongoose watching a cobra.
And like a cobra, Leah’s attention swung to Shelley.
No, Jaine thought, the word like a faint whisper in her mind. Not Shelley, too.
“No!” The roar burst out of her throat, and she literally felt herself expanding as a wildfire of rage burst through her, as if her skin couldn’t contain it. A red mist swam in front of her eyes, and her vision narrowed, focused until she saw only Leah. She wasn’t aware of lunging forward, but Leah wheeled back to face her, tire tool raised.
Shelley swung the hockey stick, momentarily distracting Jaine. The thick wood hit Leah on the shoulder, and she screamed in rage, but didn’t drop the tire tool. Instead she swung it in a broad, sideways arc that caught Shelley across the rib cage. Shelley screamed in pain and folded forward. Leah raised the heavy iron to hit Shelley on the back of the head, and Jaine crashed into her, all the force of her fury lending her strength.
Leah was taller, heavier. She gave way under Jaine’s assault, banging Jane’s back with the tire tool, but Jaine was too close for her to get in an effective blow. Leah stiffened and recovered her balance, and thrust Jaine away. She raised her weapon again and took two quick steps toward Jaine.
Shelley straightened, holding her ribs, her face suffused with rage. She lunged forward, too, and the three of them staggered back under her momentum.
Jaine’s left foot slipped off the edge of the pool, and like dominoes, all three of them plunged into the water.
Tangled together, struggling, they went to the bottom. Leah still gripped the tire tool, but the water impeded her swings and she couldn’t get any force behind them. She twisted wildly, trying to break free.
Jaine hadn’t had time to gulp in air before she went under. Her lungs burned, her chest convulsing, as she fought not to inhale water. She wrenched away and lunged for the surface, dragging in huge breaths of air as soon as her face was clear. She choked and sputtered, and looked wildly around.