by LENA DIAZ,
“Not really.” He grimaced. “Don’t tell that to the media.”
“You know the FBI would be happy to help if you invite us.”
Hamilton raised a brow. “Does that include you?”
“No, I’m out of the serial-killer business, at least for now. Had my fill.”
“Can’t say that I blame you. I don’t have much of a stomach for it myself. Nasty business. So, what time did you say this MacGuffin meeting is?”
“Nine o’clock,” Pierce said.
Madison shoved her bagel back, tired of small talk. “Shouldn’t we get going? We don’t want to be late.”
Pierce reached for her hand beneath the table and squeezed. Apparently, that was his signal to be quiet. If his hand didn’t feel so good on hers, she’d let him know what she thought of his penchant for bossing her around. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around his. He glanced at her in surprise, but didn’t pull his hand back.
“We’ll make it in plenty of time,” he said. “It’s a two-minute walk from here.”
“As for time,” Hamilton said, “It would have been nice to have a little more notice myself. Like maybe when I’d questioned someone at the police station, they could have clued me in that they thought the shooter was their late husband miraculously come back to life.”
Madison opened her mouth to object, but promptly closed it when Pierce squeezed her hand again. He was probably right. Anything she had to say to Hamilton was only bound to get her in trouble.
“Madison knew her story was difficult to believe,” Pierce said. “She didn’t want to burden the police with it until she had some kind of proof. When Mr. MacGuffin called last night to say he might have seen her late husband, I decided it was time to fill you in on her suspicions.”
Looking somewhat mollified by Pierce’s diplomatic explanation, Hamilton nodded. “What exactly did MacGuffin tell you?”
“He said he was walking through the restaurant last night when he saw a man who fit Madison’s description of her late husband, right down to the unusual light blue eyes. The man was signing a credit card receipt and looked up just as Mr. MacGuffin was walking by. That’s when he noticed the eyes.”
“Did he talk to the guy, ask his name?”
“No,” Madison said, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Mr. MacGuffin said he was so surprised that he rushed back to his office to call me. He wrote down the date and table number so that he could pull the man’s credit card information from the cash register, but he got interrupted with some kind of problem at the restaurant before he could make the call. He forgot about it until he got home and pulled my number out of his pocket, and by then it was getting dark. He said he has problems seeing at night, so he wanted to wait until this morning to go back to the restaurant. He called me to make the appointment.”
She’d offered to go pick him up last night and drive him to the restaurant, rather than wait. But Mr. MacGuffin had politely refused, telling her he’d had a long day and was already settled in for the evening.
Hamilton took another long sip of his coffee. “Okay, let’s assume he can figure out which credit card receipt is for the guy he saw. You don’t actually think if your husband faked his death that he’d get credit in his real name, do you?”
“Of course not. But Pierce thinks we could get a judge to make the credit card company give us more information on the cardholder. It might be enough to figure out where Damon is.”
Pierce released her hand and Madison immediately missed the warmth of his touch.
“I doubt it would be that simple,” he said, “but at a minimum we could track his movements, see if there’s a pattern. We might find out where he’s living, if he isn’t paying his rent in cash. Finding him should be fairly easy, if he sticks to any patterns. Most people do.”
Hamilton was already shaking his head before Pierce finished his last sentence. “No judge is going to issue a warrant based on a widow’s belief that a man looks like her dead husband.” He wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. “Mrs. McKinley, believe me when I tell you that I completely understand how you could see someone and think he was your dead husband. I lost my wife to cancer a couple of years ago, and to this day I can still see a face in the crowd and swear she was my Amy.” His mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “But you and I both know that’s not possible. It’s just the mind playing tricks on us.”
Some of Madison’s irritation with him faded after hearing how his voice had softened when he said his late wife’s name. Still, it didn’t really change her situation. “Lieutenant, I can tell you loved your wife very much. And maybe that explains why you think you see her. But my case is different. I thought I loved my husband when we got married, but it quickly changed. I made a terrible mistake. And there is no part of me, none, that wants to see him again. I’m not imagining things. The man who’s stalking me, the man who shot Agent Buchanan, is my former husband. He murdered some other man and staged his death. I’m convinced of it.”
“Why?” Pierce asked. “Why are you convinced? Did something happen to make you think Damon wasn’t really dead back when the car accident happened?”
She cleared her throat and shoved her hair back behind her ears. “No, of course not. It’s just that, the man I’ve seen, reminds me so strongly of Damon.”
Pierce narrowed his eyes at her. She had the distinct impression he knew she’d just lied. She hated lying to him, but she couldn’t exactly tell an FBI agent that she’d shot her husband the night he’d died, and that since the autopsy didn’t find the bullet, she was worried the man in the car wasn’t him.
Oh, for a long time, she’d convinced herself he was dead, that the bullet must have remained inside the burned-out car, or the medical examiner missed it. But now she realized the real reason the medical examiner and police hadn’t found that bullet. The man who died in that car wasn’t Damon.
“Regardless.” Pierce turned back to Hamilton. “A judge wouldn’t need to know about Madison’s suspicions to sign a warrant to get the credit card information. All the judge would need to know is that we’re trying to find a man who shot a federal officer, and that two people—Madison and me—described the same man that Mr. MacGuffin described. That might be enough for a warrant.”
“Maybe,” Hamilton conceded. “Of course it all depends on whether Mr. MacGuffin was able to find that credit card receipt.” He took another sip of his coffee, and held it between his hands as if to warm them. “Let’s assume the stalker really is your husband, Mrs. McKinley. You said you’re from New York? That’s where you and your husband lived?”
“Yes, Manhattan.”
He nodded. “Did you have the house here when you were married?”
“No, my brother recently advised me to buy my house as an investment.”
“If it was an investment, why did you move in rather than rent it out?”
“I didn’t right away. I hired Mrs. Whitmire as a property manager to oversee the property. But then, you know all about that.”
Pierce leaned his forearms on the table. “Who is Mrs. Whitmire?”
“She’s a property manager. She hired a cleaning crew for me to clean the house once a week, and a landscaper to keep up the yard. Several weeks later, she called to ask me why I’d sent her a note canceling the company’s service. But I didn’t send a note. I flew to Savannah to see what was going on, and I filled out a police report. Someone forged that note.”
“You knew about this?” Pierce asked Hamilton.
“I found out after Mrs. McKinley made that first nine-one-one call. I personally questioned the property manager, to see if there was a connection. I couldn’t find any evidence to corroborate whether the note was real or a forgery. It was printed out, not handwritten. There wasn’t anything else I could do. And since no one had been hurt, I didn’t pursue it further.”
“I’ll talk to Mrs. Whitmire myself and make my own determination.”
“It was a forgery,” Madison insisted. “Why would I lie about something that
insignificant?”
Pierce put his hand on hers beneath the table again. She drew a deep breath and decided to let him have the lead in the conversation.
For now.
Hamilton crossed his arms and sat back. “The point I was making was that if Mrs. McKinley lived in New York, how would her husband know to go to Savannah if he was after her?”
“Good question, one I intend to answer.” Pierce pitched some money onto the table and stood. “But first, it’s time to go meet Mr. MacGuffin.”
“ARE YOU SURE Mr. MacGuffin meant nine a.m. and not p.m.?” Hamilton hugged his jacket against the wind and peeked into the front window of MacGuffin’s. His nose was bright red from their brief walk from the café. He kept stomping his feet to keep warm.
Madison couldn’t imagine what the man would do if he had to endure a real winter, like in New York.
“I’m sure.” Pierce knocked on the door again. “Someone’s inside. They’re coming to the door.”
Madison recognized the man she’d met earlier, Todd. He had a heavy ring of keys that jangled against the door as he unlocked the deadbolt. He pushed the door open and motioned them inside.
Lieutenant Hamilton was the first to enter. He moved away from the door opening and gave a dramatic shiver before plopping down in a chair at one of the round tables.
Madison shook her head and sat down in the chair farthest away from him.
Todd closed the door and introduced himself. “I’m sorry you wasted a trip out here. I didn’t have your number, Mrs. McKinley, so I couldn’t call to cancel.”
“Cancel? Is Mr. MacGuffin running late?” Pierce hadn’t bothered to sit like Hamilton and Madison. Instead, he’d moved to stand directly behind Madison’s chair.
“Mr. MacGuffin called me late last night,” Todd said. “He told me he’d made an appointment to speak to Mrs. McKinley this morning, but that he couldn’t make it. A family emergency came up and he won’t be back for about a week. He said to offer his apologies.”
“Did he say why he didn’t just call me back to tell me?” Madison asked.
“It was after midnight when he called me. He didn’t want to wake you. He had no such worries about waking me.” He covered his mouth and let out a huge yawn. “I was too tired last night to think straight and get your number to save you the trip this morning. Sorry.”
Lieutenant Hamilton rested his forearms on the table. “Did Mr. MacGuffin explain to you why he was meeting Mrs. McKinley in the first place?”
Todd rubbed his jaw, which was covered with whiskers. He obviously hadn’t shaved yet this morning. His T-shirt and jeans were wrinkled, as if he’d grabbed them off the floor in his hurry to make it to the restaurant to meet them.
“He did mention something about some man she was looking for, and that he’d thought he’d seen him, but that he wasn’t sure. I think he might have changed his mind after calling you.”
Hamilton let out a loud breath and pushed himself up from his chair. He gave Madison a long look before crossing over by her chair to face Pierce. “Next time, I’d appreciate it if you could wait until you’re sure you have something before calling. I’m happy to help, I really am, but I’m slammed right now. Without some hard evidence about who the shooter is, I’m pretty much done with this investigation.”
Madison started to rise, but Pierce’s hands were suddenly on the tops of her shoulders, keeping her in her seat.
“Sorry to have wasted your time, Lieutenant. Thanks for coming out,” Pierce said.
Hamilton nodded and headed out the door.
Pierce released Madison’s shoulders.
“What was that all about?” She shoved up out of her chair.
“Just keeping you safe.”
“Safe? From Lieutenant Hamilton?”
He gave her a droll look. “From yourself.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he’d already turned to speak to Todd.
“Are you certain it was your boss on the phone?” Pierce asked.
Todd looked surprised at the question. “I’ve been working for him for five years. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Did he sound like he was under duress?”
“If you’re asking if he sounded upset, yeah, sure. His granddaughter is in the hospital. That’s why he had to leave. So, yeah, he was upset, with good reason.” He lifted his ring of keys, making them jingle. “Sorry you wasted your time, but if there’s nothing else . . .”
Pierce pulled a business card out of the pocket of his suit and handed it to the other man. “When you hear from Mr. MacGuffin again, have him give me a call.”
Madison and Pierce walked down the sidewalk back toward the café. There were so many tourists out already that Pierce and Madison had to step off the sidewalk onto East River Street to get past them. The brick pavers were bumpy and uneven, which was aggravating Madison’s still healing sprained ankle.
“Ouch.” She grabbed for Pierce’s arm as her ankle twisted beneath her on a particularly uneven paver.
“I’ve got you.” He grabbed her around the waist.
“Hey lady, watch it.” A young man on a bicycle swerved to avoid Madison. He threw back a nasty insult and punctuated it with a hand gesture. He was still laughing when he turned down a side street.
“That kid’s mom must be so proud,” Madison said.
“I wouldn’t call him a kid. And his mother probably gave up trying to tell him what to do several years ago, about the time she kicked him out of the house.” He steadied her on her feet. “Are you okay?”
She gingerly tested her hurt ankle, and to her relief she was able to stand pain-free. “Yeah, thanks.” She laughed. “Aren’t we a pair? You with your bruised ribs, and me falling all over the place like a drunk.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “At least we—”
A scream filled the air. Pierce grabbed Madison and hauled her against his side.
“Where did it come from?” she asked.
“Up ahead, around the corner.”
Another scream, shouts. A wave of tourists began running down the block in the same direction where the biker had gone. Shouts of “call nine-one-one” sounded from up ahead.
Pierce tensed beside Madison. He put his hand on the small of her back. “How’s that ankle?”
“It’s fine. I just lost my balance. I know you want to help. Let’s go.” She took off at a jog, and he grabbed her hand, keeping her close as they both hurried to the end of the block.
They were forced to stop because of the wall of people crammed into the street. Sirens sounded in the distance.
Pierce, taller than most of those around them, craned his neck as he tried to see what everyone was looking at. When he turned back toward Madison, his entire body radiated tension. He urged her over to the wall of the building beside them. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, what did you see?”
But he was already pushing his way through the crowd. Red and blue lights flashed as a police car turned onto the other end of the street.
Madison gave up trying to see anything. But soon the crowd began to part and move back as one of the police officers who’d arrived worked to move people out of the way. “Unless you’re a witness, move along. Make room,” he barked.
People grumbled and complained but moved back.
The man directly in front of Madison stepped to the side, and she finally saw what everyone else was looking at.
Lying in the middle of the road, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, was the young man who’d cursed at Madison just moments before. His bike was discarded beside him and his sightless eyes stared up at the bright, sunny sky that he would never see again.
Madison gasped and clutched her throat.
Pierce was crouching next to the body, beside a police officer. From the gestures the officer was making, the two of them appeared to be discussing a white sheet of paper lying on the dead man’s stomach.
Madison clutched her throat and turned aw
ay. On the other side of the street, directly across from her, a familiar figure stood in the crowd. She couldn’t see his face. The hood of his denim jacket was pulled up over his head. But she knew who he was.
Damon.
Madison screamed Pierce’s name, and Damon disappeared back into the crowd. The people around her moved back, and suddenly Pierce was beside her, gripping her shoulders.
“Mads, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He ran his hands up and down the sleeves of her jacket, as if searching for injuries.
She shook her head and leaned to the side to try to see around him. She whipped her head back and forth, searching the crowd.
Pierce gave her a little shake. “What is it? Why did you scream?”
She swallowed past her thickness in her throat. “Damon, I saw Damon.”
PIERCE ENDED THE call and shoved his phone in the pocket of his suit jacket. The café he and Madison had been in an hour ago had been completely transformed into an impromptu police headquarters. Police officers stood around talking, or sitting at tables interviewing witnesses.
Not that there were any real witnesses. So far no one had stepped up to say they’d seen whoever killed the bicyclist.
Pierce rubbed Madison’s back in the chair next to him. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure. Quit worrying about me. What did Hamilton say?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect.”
“He thinks I imagined seeing Damon.”
“That sums it up. However, he does believe you saw the shooter. So he’s taking the statement you gave very seriously.”
“I know Damon is the shooter. Do you . . . think he killed that boy?”
“You saw a man fitting the description of the shooter, wearing the same denim jacket. But you didn’t see his face. You don’t know that it was Damon. Was there blood on his jacket?”
She crossed her arms. “Not that I saw, no.”
“That boy was stabbed, just like all the other ‘Simon says’ victims. The killer would have had blood on him.”
She blinked up at him. “What makes you think it was the ‘Simon says’ killer?”
He blew out a harsh breath. “Because he left the same kind of note he leaves on all his victims. Hamilton confirmed the wording and the writing are the same.”