“I’ll be right over. Don’t panic.”
“There’s an FBI guy to see you,” her boss announced from the cubicle’s doorway just as she hung up the phone.
She shoved the advertising flyer back in her purse and turned to face him. What did an FBI agent want with her? Did he know something about the relationship between her and the victim? How could he? Then why was the agent here?
“A Special Agent Dunning.” He stared at her over the top of horn-rimmed glasses. “Are you in trouble, Ms. Martin? You know this accounting firm doesn’t tolerate improprieties.”
“I know.” She stood and smoothed her black skirt while cursing the fact that her boss had delivered the message. Wasn’t Dunning the guy Brian argued with the night before?
“Good. He’s waiting for you in the reception area.” Her boss looked at his watch. “Take your break now, but don’t be long. Time’s money.”
Sucking in a breath, she exited her workspace, and marched through the maze of cubicles to where the agent stood.
“Good day, Miss Martin, I’m Special Agent Dunning from the FBI.” He flashed his official badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She nodded, trying to maintain a business-like demeanor, while wondering what the FBI wanted with her. He was dressed in a dark suit and starched white shirt. Both his clothes and his expression were formidable.
The receptionist eyed the man with great interest. Soon the whole office would know about the Fed who’d come to talk to her. She didn’t need that kind of notoriety.
“Let’s go down to the lobby,” he said, glaring pointedly at the overly curious woman behind the reception desk. They rode the crowded elevator in silence. Upon reaching the atrium lobby, he directed her to a group of leather couches at the far end.
She walked across the marble floor, her heart rate increasing with each step. She hadn’t done anything wrong so why did she feel guilty? Sitting down opposite him, she avoided making eye contact at first. Instead, she studied the office workers scurrying into the lobby through the glass revolving doors. A phone rang at the nearby security desk and distant elevator bells clanged. Realizing lack of eye contact might imply guilt, she finally forced herself to look into the man’s ice blue eyes.
Just before the special agent began firing off questions, another man in a similar dark suit and white shirt appeared and stood nearby. Although he didn’t introduce himself, she presumed he was Dunning’s partner.
“What’s your connection to the youngster abducted in San Diego and the nursery rhyme kidnapper?” Dunning asked, his expression revealing nothing.
“What do you mean, ‘my connection’?” The question unnerved her. Was this man accusing her of something, or did he know her secret? Welcome relief filled her when she saw Brian come in from the exterior courtyard. Happy to see him, she waved.
He hurried across the lobby. “I came as fast as I could. Let’s see the second note.” He frowned at Dunning. “Why are you bothering Angie?”
“What’s this about another note, Murphy? The bureau disapproves of people withholding evidence,” he shot back, not bothering to answer the question.
“I wasn’t withholding anything, Mr. Dunning,” Angie said, not liking the man’s implication. “I didn’t realize I’d received another note until I found it in my purse a short time ago.”
“It’s Special Agent Dunning, Ms. Martin. When do you think he put this note in your purse?”
“Probably on the Strip last night before we ran into you.”
“I’ll need the details.”
She filled him in on what she knew.
“And where is this note now?”
“In my purse upstairs.”
He frowned. “More evidence contaminated. Refresh my memory about your involvement in the previous nursery rhyme case, Ms. Martin.”
“You have the files, Dunning. You know exactly what her involvement was,” Brian said coming to her defense. “She’s a psychic who worked with the San Diego police to help solve several missing persons’ cases. Then they called on her to help with the Tucker kidnapping.”
“Don’t give me all the credit, Brian. With my limited visions, Agent Dunning, I provided a few signposts. It’s the police who connected my information with facts they’d already gathered. Good police work solved those first missing persons cases, not me.”
“It’s always good investigative work that gets the job done,” Dunning replied. “Not hocus pocus from someone claiming to see things.”
She wasn’t surprised at the man’s skepticism. Many law enforcement people didn’t believe in psychics. However, that didn’t prevent her growing dislike of the man.
“Your so-called psychic ability didn’t work in the Tucker case, did it, Ms. Martin?”
“No.”
“We were close to finding Tucker’s boy,” Brian said, coming to her defense.
“But we didn’t in time,” she conceded. She’d always feel the pain of that truth. However, the special agent didn’t need to throw salt in a wound that refused to heal.
“We won’t be needing you on this one, Ms. Martin. You’re not to get involved. Understand?”
“In other words stay out of your way,” she replied. The fierce intensity in his blue eyes told her she should agree with him, but she wouldn’t.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Brian announced. “More forward-thinking law enforcement people utilize psychics.”
Dunning glared at him. “I don’t believe in psychic mumbo jumbo. I handle all my cases by the book.”
“And don’t I know that?” Brian spat back.
“Stay out of my way, Murphy. The only information you print on this case is what our public information officer provides. Is that understood?”
“I’ll write what I want to. As far as I know, freedom of the press still exists.”
“Agent Dunning,” Angie announced, fuming over the man’s dictatorial attitude. “How do we stay out of your case when the kidnapper delivers the clues to us personally?”
“Just why is he coming to you, Ms. Martin? He didn’t do that in the last case, did he?”
“No. I don’t know why I’m being targeted this time,” she replied. Why did everything sound like an accusation?
“It’s imperative you handle any clues you receive as little as possible. When you get one call me. We’ll pick it up. Don’t tamper with any more of the evidence.”
She bristled. “I didn’t tamper with evidence, Agent Dunning.”
“It’s Special Agent Dunning. Let the pros take care of it from now on, Ms. Martin. It’s for your own good.”
She hated when people told her something was for her own good. It meant it was for their good, not hers.
“Remember, we’re the ones in charge. Stay out of our way and we’ll nail the bastard.”
“Isn’t finding the child more important than collaring the bad guy?” Brian asked.
“How we handle this case is none of your business, Murphy.”
“It is if I think it is. And you can’t make me stay away from the case.”
“I will if I need to. You could be arrested for interfering in a federal case,” the special agent pointed out. “I’ll be walking Ms. Martin back to her office now to pick up the note.” It was obvious that he didn’t want Brian tagging along.
Brian glared at him, then looked at Angie. “We need to talk.”
“Not now,” she replied.
She followed the man to the elevator. His partner remained in the lobby talking on his cell phone. As soon as they boarded, Dunning pushed the close-door button effectively cutting off anyone else from riding the elevator with them. Then he dropped a bombshell.
“I know that your real name is Angela Parducci Martinelli.”
She stared at him in shock. No one had called her by that in a long time. “How do you know that?”
“I do thorough background checks on anyone I’m going to interview. How’s Tony doing these days?”
He smiled. “Tony and I went to the same college, belonged to the same fraternity.”
“I see,” she managed to stutter. Tony never mentioned Dunning’s name, but that didn’t surprise her. She really knew very little about her ex-husband.
“We keep in touch. I heard about the divorce.”
She didn’t reply. How much did he know about the divorce? She doubted her ex ever divulged her side of the story. “The next time you contact him, please don’t mention that you’ve seen me.”
“Divorces can be messy.”
“You could say that.” And what else did the man’s research reveal? How far into her past did he delve?
When they arrived at her floor, she retrieved her purse and brought it to the reception area. Fortunately, the nosy receptionist was away from her desk. Reaching in his suit pocket, Dunning pulled out plastic gloves, put them on, and placed the note in a small evidence bag. Without saying another word, he took off the gloves, shoved them in his coat pocket, and left.
As if her life wasn’t complicated enough. Could she trust the man not to tell her ex-husband her whereabouts? She doubted it. Did she need to run again? She hoped not. Unwelcome memories and fears surfaced. Would she ever escape her ex?
****
Looking out the condo’s window, Brian saw the summer desert storm’s approach. Late afternoon clouds billowed up over the nearby mountains. Beginning as innocent puffy white cumulus shapes, they quickly shot skyward into a mass of thunderheads. Then the clouds flattened out turning from gray to ominous black. Soon the rain would come in buckets, the air rumble with thunder, and the wind gust. The potted palms on the condo’s deck started to whip around as the storm approached.
Sitting at the table in front of the floor-to-ceiling living room window, he turned his attention back to his computer screen. In his gut, he knew the article was good. He read through the story again. He needed to capture the step-by-step process of finding the child. Readers needed to feel the anguish of a distraught mother coming to Vegas to wait for her daughter’s return, and the frustration of a psychic afraid to help that mother because she feared failure. This piece did that. So why couldn’t he file it, send off the e-mail?
He knew why, Angie. She’d asked him not to write about her ever again, but how could he avoid mentioning her? As a psychic she was an integral part of the story. He admired what she could do and wanted to tell the world about it. How could he know she shied away from publicity? After the San Diego article, she’d told him he’d betrayed her, but he didn’t look at it that way.
He again reached for his computer mouse. With so many abductions out there, it was important to keep this story alive. He couldn’t let people forget there was a missing child in danger. He had to make Angie see that she added the human interest element to the story that made people read it. Clicking the button, he sent the story off and powered down his laptop satisfied with the work accomplished. He glanced out the condo window. The menacing clouds moved across the valley obscuring the sun. Large raindrops splashed on the balcony floor and thunder rattled the windows.
He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could catch Angie before she left work. Over drinks and dinner he’d tell her about his latest article.
****
He paced back and forth in front of the bank of elevators leading to her office. The upper-floor elevators ended at the lobby level. She’d need to disembark here to catch the elevator to the parking garage. When he spotted her, he smiled. Just seeing her lifted his spirits and made his heart beat a little faster. Even before that shared kiss he’d been interested in her.
“I told you I don’t want to talk,” she announced when she saw him. She moved toward an open elevator door leading to the garage.
“Wait,” he called out. This wasn’t how he wanted her to react upon seeing him.
Other workers swarmed around her and entered the elevator car. With a loud ding, the door slid closed before she could get in. She headed for another elevator.
“Angie, please wait.”
She stopped, turned, and let out a huge sigh. “What do you want?”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, going over and pressing the elevator button before she could.
“I can manage on my own. Don’t bird dog me,” she protested.
“My car’s parked in your garage.” He felt it wasn’t safe for her to wander through the garage alone with the kidnapper possibly lurking nearby.
“Suit yourself.” She entered the elevator car and pressed the floor number.
The sound of their footsteps echoed through the hot garage. Several car engines roared to life a few rows over. When she unlocked and opened her car door, a sweet, sickening scent wafted out. “Yuck,” she mumbled. “What’s that smell?”
He pushed her aside and peered in. “What the hell?”
Looking over his shoulder, she muttered, “Oh, my God!” Dozens of dead roses lay scattered across the front seat of her car and spilled onto the floor in a limp brown collection of flowers that produced a nauseous stench in the summer heat.
He scanned the garage, but saw no one nearby. In the distance, an elevator door slid open and someone in a wheelchair disappeared inside.
“There’s a note,” she said, her voice a shaky whisper.
Dragging his handkerchief out of his pants pocket, he reached in and took it from the seat. It read, “Isn’t the smell of death wonderful?”
Chapter Six
Monday night/Tuesday morning
“How did he get into my car?” she stammered, fear filling her words. “I never leave it unlocked.”
He hated the hysteria creeping into her voice. Hated that someone resorted to such sick methods of intimidation. He surveyed the car. “There’s no sign of forced entry.”
She stared at the flowers, her face filled with dismay. “He’s never done anything like this before. A flurry of threatening notes, but never something like this.”
“His M.O. is changing. We don’t know what he might do.”
“He’s becoming more brazen. Why?”
“He’s trying to frighten you.” Brian fought the urge to reach out and comfort her.
“Well, it’s working.” She sucked in a breath.
“If you’re scared, your visions could be suppressed. You won’t be able to figure out his clues.”
“What clues? I’ve been bombarded with harassing notes but few clues.” Panic crept into her voice. “Monday’s nearly over. Friday is the seventh day and we have nothing.”
“Have you experienced more visions?”
“Just one, an explosion.”
“What?”
She told him how the erupting volcano on Saturday night had triggered the vision of an explosion. “I don’t know what it means. I pray it isn’t connected with the little girl.”
“You can’t let him upset you. That’s what he wants.”
“But he already has, dammit.”
A nearby car door slammed. She jumped. He scanned the garage and stepped closer to shield her, protect her.
“He’s been near me more than once, but I haven’t sensed his evil presence. Last time I did.”
“Don’t be discouraged. Give your psychic abilities a chance.”
“What psychic abilities?”
“You’re afraid of failing, aren’t you?” Memories of his own previous failure haunted him.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Watching her worry increase as she studied the dead flowers, he wanted to give her encouragement, hope. He gently took her elbow and guided her away from the open car door. “I believe in you. You can play his game with your own deck of cards. Use your psychic talent to stack the deck in your favor.”
“How? I’m not connecting with him, seeing glimpses into his mind, visualizing the world through his eyes. In the Tucker case, those glimpses were unsettling but useful. This time I don’t even know when he’s standing right n
ext to me.”
“His brazenness could get him caught,” Brian pointed out. The garage echoed with the squeal of car tires as someone peeled out of a nearby parking space. He moved closer to Angie and studied the car as it roared past.
“I doubt it,” she argued, her eyes following the retreating car.
“The man is blocking his thoughts this time, preventing you from reading them.”
“Can someone do that?”
“I’ve heard some people are capable of mind control, particularly those trained in the martial arts.”
“And how am I supposed to work around that?” she asked, frustration filling her voice.
“There has to be a chink in his armor. He can’t practice mind control all the time.”
“Shit! There’s no way I’m stacking the deck against him. He’s got the upper hand, making me powerless.”
He studied her, a question nagging at his reporter’s instincts. Why did she appear more emotional about this victim than the last one? Was it because she hadn’t been able to help save Tucker’s boy, or was it something else?
“Do we need to call Dunning and report this?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
With no cell reception in the garage, he needed to go outside to make the call. Worried about her safety, he wanted her to go with him but she refused. Silently cursing her stubbornness, he quickly made the call and returned to her. She stood by the open car door clutching a dead rose in her hand, her face pale, her eyes closed.
He’d seen her receive visions before and knew she’d just experienced one. “Angie?” he said softly. “What did you see?”
She opened her eyes, stared for a moment at the flower then dropped it. Dried petals broke from the stem and scattered. “A grave,” she whispered.
“What?”
“I’ve seen a grave.” She looked at him. “A small mound of dirt. A child’s grave with dead roses scattered across it.”
He thought of another grave, his own son’s, covered with fresh flowers. He gritted his teeth, fighting off long-suppressed emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. God, he hated when the memories flooded back. Memories he’d worked hard to compartmentalize with everything else in his life he wanted to forget. Was Joe right? Was returning to Vegas a mistake?
One Week To Live Page 5