01 Only Fear

by Anne Marie Becker

  “No. The other perpetrator is locked away.”

  “For good, if I have anything to say about it,” Damian bit out. “Maggie was the victim of a stalker. She’s a strong woman, but she’s become a bit of a recluse since a patient of hers attacked her a year ago.” His gray eyes flashed molten silver, revealing more emotion than he probably intended. “The woman was brutal to Maggie.”

  “A woman?” Ethan echoed in disbelief.

  “Her name is Deborah Frame, and she was obsessed. Someone close to Maggie died because of it, which is why Noah is on this case. He worked the prior homicide, so I called him. I figured Maggie would be more comfortable with someone she knows and trusts.”

  The victim of two different stalkers? Ethan felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. What were the chances and why had they targeted her? Was she one of those old women people thought they could take advantage of? It didn’t really matter. Apparently, he was in charge of making sure the second stalker didn’t get to her like the first had.

  An image of a child angel with brown eyes and blond hair arose, but he quickly closed it off in a corner of his mind before it threatened his confidence. Or his sanity. After all, he was no longer Secret Service, guarding the Vice President’s family. Not that Dr. Levine’s life would be any less valuable to him, but he’d learned from mistakes at the highest level. He wouldn’t be making them again.

  “How can I help?” Becca asked the group, pulling Ethan out of his thoughts. He frowned at her, but she was ignoring him. She had been looking for a way to get her feet wet in the field for weeks, now that her training period was over.

  “You can back up Ethan.”

  “Sir,” Ethan protested. Becca was too young, too fragile. Too blond-haired and brown-eyed, the voice in his head said. Too innocent.

  “She has to gain experience somewhere.” Damian’s tone brooked no argument.

  “Besides,” Becca said, practically bubbling over in her excitement, “with my communications background, I can fit in at the radio station, and I’m young enough to pass as a student on campus.”

  “We all have things to do.” In clear dismissal, Damian rose. “Noah will keep us apprised of the police investigation, and vice versa. Lorena, I’d like you to review the evidence in the Fearmonger cases, as well as the file on Dr. Levine’s previous stalker, Deborah Frame. Noah will help you gain access to that information. Becca and Ethan, you have your assignments.” The eyes he turned on Ethan were somber, his face lined with fatigue. “Protect Maggie. She’s important to me.”

  Becca and Ethan hung back as the others left the conference room.

  “Important?” Becca whispered in awe, echoing Damian’s words. “I didn’t think he’d let anyone become important to him.”

  Ethan had been thinking the same thing. “It had to happen sometime, didn’t it? He’s been alone for a long time.”

  Becca mulled that over for a minute before looking up with a smile. “My first case, and it will be important to Mr. Manchester. It’s the perfect chance to prove myself to him.”

  Ethan’s face went hard. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’re still wet behind the ears. What are you, twenty?”

  The always-smiling pixie scowled. “You know I’m twenty-five. And I’ve been trained in self-defense, handling a suspect and use of weapons.”

  So she’d been training with SSAM’s resident experts. That was one for the pro column. But the con column was still much longer.

  “The real world is a whole other story. If we’re dealing with a serial killer here, you’d better bring your A-game at all times. No getting so starstruck by Dr. Levine or Damian Manchester that you lose focus. And, most important, no disobeying my orders.”

  Becca snapped to attention, clicking the heels of her Mary Janes together as she saluted him. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “This isn’t the friggin’ Navy, Tinker Bell.” Ethan swiped his folder from the table and stalked from the room.

  “What do you want me to do first?” She followed him into his office and stood at his desk, awaiting instructions.

  “Call Dr. Levine. Find out if she’s home and tell her to stay put, that I’m coming over. I assume Damian told her SSAM would be involved.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  He spared her a glance. “Change into less conspicuous clothing.”

  “Say no more.”

  He had to give her credit, she didn’t even pout about it. Maybe she was ready for the field. He pinched the bridge of his nose as his headache suddenly reappeared, full force. Hell, nobody was ready for the field. Too much real world could kill a person.

  Maggie pushed her wobbly shopping cart with a little more force than was necessary. Her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth together. She wasn’t just mad. She’d moved beyond mad and into full-out fury. Someone had invaded her home.

  No, not someone. Some thing. Some monster.

  The anger kept the panic at bay, but not always. When she’d first called Damian Manchester—the first person she could think of who would have a clue how to deal with something like this—her chest had been aching so badly she had to force herself to draw a breath so she could speak.

  And thank God Damian had answered her early-morning call for help. Otherwise, she’d probably still be slumped against her living room wall, holding poor Sigmund in a headlock.

  Damian had kept her on the line while he called the police for her, asking specifically for Detective Crandall. She knew Noah. He’d been the detective in charge when Brad had been murdered.

  And she so did not want to think about that right now. Not unless she wanted to end up curled up in a ball on the floor of the household products aisle, waiting for her heart to stop pushing out of her chest and her breathing to return to normal.

  It had been sometime after dawn, as she sat at her dining room table and watched Noah and his partner, Maria Santos, along with a team of Chicago Police Department crime-scene technicians, comb her home for clues, that fear had shifted into anger. This creep wanted her to feel fear. Well, to hell with that. She chose anger.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Maggie turned to find a young woman eyeing her with concern. “I’m sorry?”

  The woman was dressed in the forest-green apron that marked her as an employee of the grocery store. She gestured to the wall of cleaning products that Maggie had been staring at, probably for several long minutes. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  Peace of mind? Security? Sanity?

  A super-mega-strength padlock for every door and window in the house?

  A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to escape. Maggie cleared her throat instead. “Bleach, I think. Whatever will take blood stains off of walls.”

  The woman paled, her dark hair standing out all the more against her white skin. “Um,” was all she could manage, glancing behind her for help.

  Maggie shook her head at herself. She was obviously exhausted and not thinking clearly. And not fit to be out in public, apparently. “Thank you, but I think I can manage on my own.”

  With a smile of relief, the employee scurried away.

  Way to go, Maggie mocked herself, selecting a bleach cleanser from the shelf. She’d feel better after some physical exertion. And after she cleaned the mess from her walls. Noah had given her permission to do so. The criminalists had gathered all they could from the scene.

  Rubber gloves. Sponges. A sturdy bucket. Hell, what else would she need? She threw in an assortment of other products. She’d probably end up repainting the whole room, anyway. In the meantime, scrubbing would do her some good.

  Putting Owen away for a long, long time would do her better.

  Maggie took out her cell phone as she headed to the checkout lane.

  She felt a stab of guilt as she dialed David’s number. It should have been her parents she called, and a lot sooner than this. But what could she say? Gee, Mom and Dad, looks like I picked up another fan along the way. Yea
h, he might be dangerous, but what are the chances of losing two people you love to stalkers?

  They would descend on her like a giant bubble force field and try to protect her. And they’d probably get hurt. Like Brad had.

  The reality was they were all powerless. It was best to keep them far away.

  “Yo,” a sleepy voice answered. It was close to noon, but David kept late hours. Maybe he’d managed to meet up with Sharon after all.

  “Sorry to wake you.”

  “Doc?” The crisp rustle of sheets followed. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you should hear this from me first.”

  “You’re not quitting, are you?” Alarm tinged David’s voice. He was clearly awake now.

  “No.” Not yet, anyway. She’d taken the teaching position and the talk show job to start a new life. Theoretically, she was supposed to have gotten away from the clients who might, say, turn to stalking their therapists. Clients like Deborah.

  “No, I’m not quitting. But something happened last night. You may hear about it and I didn’t want you to worry.” Maggie smiled at the cashier as she accepted her change.

  “Hear about what?” David asked through the phone at her ear. “What happened?”

  “My place was broken into and vandalized.” She pushed her cart through the sliding glass doors and out into the bright sunshine. Surely the sun shouldn’t be shining so brightly on a day like today. She squinted as she fumbled in her purse for her sunglasses. It was then that she noticed her hands were shaking, which made her all the angrier.

  “Oh, my God. Were you there? Are you okay?”

  “No.” To both questions. “But there’s more. Owen is responsible.”

  “What?” David’s response was almost a shout. “How do you know?”

  “I’ll explain later. Or the police will. I just wanted you to know that I got a call from a woman named Becca Haney. She’s from a place called the Society for the Study of the Aberrant Mind, and she’s going to be helping with the case. She’ll probably be coming by the station this afternoon to check things out there.”

  “Check what things out?”

  Feeling a trickle of sweat slide between her shoulder blades from the oppressive heat, Maggie began loading things into her car. Her eyes scanned the parking lot. Was Owen watching her even now? He must have been observing her habits for some time. Anyone could guess she’d hidden a spare key under a rock near her back porch, when she’d foolishly thought the alarm system would be enough of a deterrent to break-ins. But he’d discovered her security code. How he’d accomplished that was still a mystery, unless he’d guessed she used the digits of the date of Brad’s death. “Security. And maybe whether Owen’s calls are traceable.”

  “They’re not. All I know is they’re local.” There was a pause. “Wait. Security? They’re worried about Owen coming to the station? And what? Mowing us down in a spray of bullets?” David was probably pacing by now, fumbling for a cigarette or shoving the fingers of his free hand through his short hair.

  A spray of bullets? The scenario wasn’t unthinkable, but she doubted it was Owen’s style.

  “Jesus, Doc,” David breathed.

  “Yeah, I know.” She shoved her cart in line with the other empty ones in the corral and climbed into her car. Drew a breath and blew it out. “Just be careful, okay.”

  “Yeah. Shit. Yeah, you, too. So, you’ll be in tonight?”

  “Yes.” Unless Owen had other plans for her.

  Chapter Three

  As Becca headed off to the campus building that housed WGLU to analyze possible security issues, Ethan drove to Dr. Levine’s home to do the same. The home was a tidy one-story ranch-style house in Wilmette, a five-minute drive from the university. Walking up the path to the door, he noted that a small patch of grass, not thick and lush, but mostly green and well maintained despite Chicago’s current heat wave, surrounded the house. A terracotta pot full of cheery red geraniums greeted him on the front porch.

  And pumping ’80s rock music made the door vibrate under his knuckles when he knocked. The volume, set to teeth-rattling, actually lent some relief to the throbbing of his head. Or maybe his headache was simply outwailed by the guitar solo.

  Who was this woman—psychiatrist, professor and radio talk-show host—who listened to angry rock bands from decades past? And not as many decades past as Ethan would have thought. Folksy ’60s music would have been more in line with his image of the good doctor.

  He tried the doorbell, but didn’t hear it chime over the music. Perhaps it was broken. When nobody answered, he stepped off the porch and peeked in the front window. Bingo. The living room. Large red letters were emblazoned across otherwise pristine cream-colored walls, just like in the photographs he’d seen that morning.

  His attention was swiftly captured by a sight that had the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile of masculine appreciation. A woman in gray jogging shorts and a white tank top that hugged her soft feminine curves bent over to dip a sponge into the bucket at her feet. Yellow rubber gloves encased her hands to her elbows. Steam drifted to meet her face, where moist tendrils had clasped onto her forehead and neck. The sides of her dark red hair had been tucked up under a triangular kerchief, but the rest hung in waves down her back to her shoulder blades.

  Dr. Levine hadn’t wasted any time hiring someone to perform the unpleasant task of scrubbing the blood from her walls. And a beautiful someone, at that.

  Uncomfortable that he was basically spying on the woman, Ethan took a step back and was about to return to the porch when the woman turned. A nearby oscillating fan rotated her way and she shifted to expose more of her face and neck to the airflow. In profile, the woman’s features were that of a statue of a Greek goddess, and probably would have had the same alabaster tone had her cheeks not been tinged dark pink from both the heat of the day and the steam from the bucket. His lips twitched as she stopped scrubbing a moment to play air guitar. Wide, full lips moved to the lyrics as the guitarist’s solo ended and the lead singer picked up again. He choked on his smile as her hips shook to the beat.

  Rousing himself to action as the song ended and another began, he went back to the door and pounded harder, using the side of his fist. A moment later, the music was turned down and the woman’s muffled voice called through the door. “Who is it?” Firm, but wary.

  “Ethan Townsend. I’m here to talk to Dr. Levine.”

  A series of beeps sounded, disarming the alarm system. A bolt slid open and the door swung inward. Her golden-brown gaze slid over him in careful study.

  His earlier attraction cooled like a hot stone dropping into a bucket of cool water as irritation took over. She was the maid, not security for the Queen of England, for Christ’s sake. His annoyance grew under her overt perusal, but he bit back the smart remark that rose to his lips. Instead, he treated her to his own careful study. Tit for tat.

  The heat of the water and her activity had pinkened not just her face, but her neck, chest and upper arms, which glistened with perspiration. A droplet slid from her collarbone down her chest, disappearing beneath the edge of her tank top between what appeared to be ample and nicely formed breasts. Quickly lifting his gaze, he was equally enchanted by a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

  “Do you have some credentials on you?” she asked when his eyes finally met hers. A spark of something flickered in their liquid honey depths—amusement? Attraction? He wasn’t sure.

  “Credentials?” He barked out a short laugh. Where was Dr. Levine? Hadn’t Becca called ahead? He could usually count on her, but…

  She began closing the door on him, and his hand shot out to stop it, even as his mind registered disbelief. She was going to dismiss him. And why did that irritate him? He should be applauding this woman’s caution after what had happened in this home.

  “Wait a minute. I have creds.” One hand reached into the front pocket of his jeans as the other remained on the door, his anger building at the wo
man’s nerve. He slipped the SSAM identification badge through the small opening in the doorway. “I’m an agent from the Society for the Study of the Aberrant Mind. I’m here to help. Dr. Levine should be expecting me. I realize she’s had a difficult time, but if I could just talk to her…”

  Her surprise evident, the woman looked up from her examination of the identification Ethan had presented. As her smile slowly widened, Ethan’s chest squeezed tighter and his breath caught. That reaction, and the way her eyes suddenly glinted like red topaz, threw him off guard.

  She pulled the door open wider, moving aside to grant him entrance. “Come in.”

  He noted the keypad for the security system on the wall, and the location of windows and doors in the front rooms as he followed her to the rear of the house and the dining room-kitchen combo. A hallway led to what he assumed was the garage, and he noted another alarm keypad farther down on that wall. She sank down in a chair, waving a hand toward another to suggest he do the same as she resumed her evaluation of him. He got the feeling he came up lacking, and felt absurdly defensive. He didn’t owe this woman anything.

  “You’re the security specialist?”

  “Yes,” he said, no longer trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “Look, is Dr. Levine here? I really need to go over some things. After what happened last night, I’d think she’d want to start as soon as possible.”

  Her eyes clouded. “Yes, she does.”

  Ethan scowled as suspicion gnawed at him. It couldn’t be. This woman had to be in her early thirties. Surely she wasn’t Dr. Margaret Levine. Margarets were aunts and mothers and grandmothers. Nuns. Old ladies with multiple cats. Weren’t they? As if in response to his unspoken questions, a loud purring came from the floor where a well-fed orange cat wove between the woman’s legs.

  “You’re Margaret Levine, the psychiatrist?”

  She picked up the cat, effectively placing him as a physical barrier between them. Ethan wasn’t the only one who could be defensive.

  “I am.”

  That voice. When she dropped it just a bit, so it sounded huskier—sexier—than it had when she first opened the door, he recognized it. He should have noticed before, but he hadn’t been looking for it. He’d let his expectations color his perception. And that had been damn sloppy of him.