by Irene Hannon
“You didn’t ask. I offered. If this continues to drag on, we’ll regroup and you can think about hiring Phoenix. But I don’t want you to break the bank until there’s no other option. Seem reasonable?”
“To me, yes. I’m not certain it’s a fair deal for you.”
“It’s more than fair. I’ll sleep sounder knowing I’ll have your back while you’re out and about. You’d actually be doing me a favor.” He flashed her a quick grin.
The corners of her lips rose. “When you put it like that . . .”
“Lock up. I’ll call you after the interview, assuming we can pull this off tonight. Otherwise, expect me bright and early tomorrow morning.”
She caught his gaze. Held it. “Thank you.”
His brown eyes warmed, like molten, rich chocolate. “It’s my pleasure.”
He hesitated for a moment—then took a step back, exited, and followed her walk to the street.
Eve closed the door but remained by the sidelight, watching as he circled the cul-de-sac and drove away. Only after his taillights disappeared did she wander back to the kitchen to face the task at the top of her priority list.
Calling her sisters.
She scrunched up her nose. This was not going to be fun.
Aside from the fact that she was worried about them, they were both going to morph into uber-protective mode and fixate on the danger to her. Cate would push her again to get a concealed carry permit, and Grace would feel compelled to make more long drives into town from her rural digs.
But she already had protection, in the form of a very competent, very handsome detective.
Nevertheless, this case needed to get solved fast so everyone could return to their normal life.
Eve unplugged her cell from the charging cord, sat back at the table, and sighed.
Normal.
That sure sounded appealing about now. Fake bombs and old scandals and slashed tires and threatening notes were the pits.
Yet as she speed-dialed Cate, she had a sinking feeling there was another chapter or two left to play out in the living nightmare that had become her life.
“Sorry for the Sunday night callout.” Brent locked his car as he joined Colin in front of the Allen house.
“Not a problem. Trish and I finished dinner while you ran to the office. Besides, she’s used to this drill.”
Brent pocketed his keys. Despite his usual walk-a-wide-circle-around-personal-territory philosophy with colleagues, this was too perfect an opportunity to pass up. “How does she handle the danger of your job?” He kept his tone casual.
“She prays a lot.” One side of Colin’s mouth rose.
The blow-off answer told him nothing. But that was what you got when you nosed into other people’s business.
“You ready to do this?” He nodded toward the house and took a step.
Colin grabbed his arm. “Hey.”
Brent turned back. His colleague’s humor had evaporated.
“I was more than half serious with that answer. Trish has always relied on prayer. But she also knows I never take unnecessary risks, and that I’m well trained and experienced at this job. She factors all that in. Does she still worry? Yes. On the flip side, I worry about her too. The school where she teaches is in a risky area. In the end, though, you have to let people do what they’re called to do and put the rest in God’s hands. Once you manage that, life is much less stressful.”
That was the longest speech Colin had ever made in his presence—and it seemed to come from the heart.
“Thank you.”
“Hey . . . anything to help smooth the path of romance.” He winked.
Brent wasn’t touching that comment. “You ready?”
“Yeah. But you may want to get rid of the blood.” Colin tapped the left side of his own jaw.
“I must have cut myself shaving at the office. I was in a hurry.” He fished out a handkerchief and scrubbed at the spot.
“I thought you kept an electric razor there.”
“I do.”
“In that case, how—”
“Don’t ask. Let’s do this.” He stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. No way was he admitting he’d been so distracted since getting Eve’s call almost three hours ago that he’d shaved against the grain.
In all his years of law enforcement, that had never, ever happened—and the significance wasn’t lost on him.
But he didn’t have time to deal with the implications.
A guy who appeared to be in his late thirties answered the door seconds after they pressed the bell.
“John Allen?” Brent held out his hand.
“Yes.”
He did the introductions. “Thanks for your call. Every lead is appreciated.”
“Happy to help.” He lowered his volume. “Jeremy knows you’re coming, and he’s pumped about the idea of meeting a real-life detective—or two.” He encompassed Colin with that comment.
Excellent.
A kid who was excited was more apt to offer useful information than one who was nervous.
“You didn’t tell him why we’re interested in the man he saw, did you?”
“No. I understood your rationale for wanting to get his input without referencing a particular case. Please . . . come in.” He pulled the door wide. “Jeremy and my wife are waiting for you in there.” He indicated an archway off the foyer.
Brent crossed to the threshold, Colin on his heels.
A thirtysomething woman rose from the sofa, and the young boy beside her leaped to his feet, eyes dancing with excitement.
Brent repeated the introductions, ending with the nine-year-old. He bent down and held out his hand. “Very nice to meet you, Jeremy.”
The boy shook his hand. Did the same with Colin.
“Why don’t we all sit?” John moved to the couch.
Brent took a seat beside the sofa, leaving Jeremy bookended by his parents. Colin claimed a side chair that would allow him to observe but was close enough for him to jump in if he chose.
“Jeremy, your mom told us you saw a man today who may be someone we want to question. Can you tell us why you noticed him?”
“Sure.” The boy proceeded to repeat the story his mother had relayed during the conference call she and her husband had placed to him two hours ago, ending with the comment about the man’s gait—a distinctive identifying characteristic that would be gold in any investigation . . . if it was accurate.
In this case it was, according to one of the detectives he’d spoken with who’d done a shift tailing Jackson. He was the only one who’d noted the very slight hitch in the man’s walk—making this kid more observant than most of the highly trained surveillance experts who’d been on the job.
And there was an explanation for Jackson’s gait.
After Jeremy’s mother had passed on her son’s observation, it hadn’t taken long to dig into Jackson’s background and discover a football injury to his ankle that had ended his high school varsity career but wasn’t otherwise debilitating.
“What did the man do that day after he left the FedEx box?” Brent kept his posture relaxed and open.
“He looked around—kinda like he was worried someone was watching him—then walked real fast back down the street, right past our car. But he didn’t see me, ’cause I was in the backseat. I thought it was weird he didn’t have a truck. I was gonna ask my mom when she got back, but she was talking on her phone and I forgot about it—until I saw the guy again. Did he do something bad?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Brent opened his small portfolio and extracted the five headshots he’d printed off—including one of Steve. He spread them on the coffee table. “Are any of these people the man you saw at the house that day, and in the parking lot this afternoon?”
The boy wiggled to the edge of the couch and gave the photos a fast sweep. “That one.” He pointed at Jackson’s photo.
Brent glanced at the boy’s mother.
“That’s th
e man we saw today,” she confirmed.
The boy leaned closer to study the image. “See how his eyebrows are kinda crooked? I noticed that about him too.” He leaned back again. “And I saw stuff that’s not in the picture. Like, the day he walked by the car, after he left the box? He was sweating real bad. And he kept scratching his arm. I thought he had a mosquito bite, but it was more than that ’cause he kept doing it.”
Brent looked at Colin. That was the same behavior they’d noticed while they’d questioned Jackson.
This was one perceptive kid.
“I think we can wrap up for today. Thank you for your time—and a special thanks to you, Jeremy. People like you help us do our jobs.” He took out three cards and handed one to each of the family members. “If we have any other questions, we’ll be in touch. And feel free to call if you remember anything else that could be useful.”
The boy fingered the card. “I never met a real-life detective before. Can I tell my friends about this?”
“Yes—but why don’t you wait until we close this case? For now, it’s best if only insiders know what’s going on, and we always ask our important sources to cooperate. Can you keep a secret?”
Jeremy’s chest puffed out. “Yeah. I’m good with secrets.”
“Perfect.” Brent rose, and Colin followed his lead.
They said their goodbyes at the door and retraced their steps down the walk.
“Sorry to pull you out on a Sunday night, but I wanted a second opinion on the boy’s credibility.” Brent dug out his keys.
“Very high, in my opinion. That is one sharp kid. He didn’t miss a trick. We could use more like him in our ranks.”
“That was my take too—and the timing of his sighting the day of the bomb threat coincides with Jackson’s lunch break.”
“So what’s next?”
“Another conversation with Jackson—and I’ll get a warrant for his arrest in the works. I’m also going to talk with any of his coworkers who were on the job the day of the bomb scare. It wouldn’t hurt to touch base with Candy, either. That guy has guilt written all over him.” Brent shifted into the shade.
“I agree. I’m sold that he’s our man for the fake bomb and tire-slashing incidents—but I’m still not convinced he’d have the resources to find the old dirt on Eve Reilly. I also doubt he had anything to do with today’s note. We know he couldn’t have delivered it personally, and I agree with you he isn’t the type to work with a partner on a scheme like this.”
“Which brings me back to the theory that someone is using all the threats against Eve as a cover for their own agenda.”
“I see where you’re coming from with that—but you realize it puts us back at square one. Makes this a whole new investigation.”
“Yeah.” Brent stopped by the hood of his car and shook his head. “And here I thought we were about to wrap this up.”
“You do have one advantage.”
“What?”
“This third party made a mistake. They didn’t know we had a suspect in our sights. If they had, they wouldn’t have sent that note. So they’ve outed themselves. It’s just a matter of figuring out their identity and their plan.”
“Right. Piece of cake.” Brent expelled a breath.
One side of Colin’s mouth twitched. “There is one other positive spin to this. You’ll have a war story about your first case no one will ever be able to match.”
“I’d give up bragging rights in a heartbeat to keep Eve safe.”
Colin’s momentary humor vanished. “I hear you. Been there, done that. I came within an inch of losing Trish during her case. Hang in. We’ll get this figured out. See you at the office tomorrow.” With a wave, he returned to his car.
Brent opened his door, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine.
First priority? Get an update on Jackson’s condition, see if he was able to handle an interview. With all the evidence they’d compiled, it was possible the man would cave.
A long shot, but it could happen.
Yet a huge question remained.
Who else was targeting Eve—and why?
Dan
Sun., Sept. 9, 8:35 p.m.
Ready to go. Pick up plans at place discussed.
Al
Sun., Sept. 9, 8:36 p.m.
2night?
Dan
Sun., Sept. 9, 8:36 p.m.
Yes.
Al
Sun., Sept. 9, 8:37 p.m.
Heading out now.
Dan
Sun., Sept. 9, 8:37 p.m.
Good luck—and ditch phone.
Al
Sun., Sept. 9, 8:38 p.m.
Will do. All power to everyone.
20
HE WASN’T GOING TO SHOW for their Monday lunch.
Biting back a curse, Carolyn watched the minute hand on her watch flick to 11:45, then finished off the glass of wine she’d ordered at the bar.
Doug must have been serious about that kiss-off text he’d sent her early this morning. But her placating follow-up note, her plea for one more lunch to talk through his decision, should have smoothed out the waters. It would have worked with any other man.
Yet the mentor on whom she’d pinned all her hopes hadn’t succumbed to her charm this go-round.
So much for all the groundwork she’d laid, the months she’d spent cultivating a relationship with the man she’d been certain would eventually open doors for her in radio.
But why had he walked away? How had her acting skills failed her?
She crossed her legs and watched the new arrivals push through the door, as an eager Doug used to do. Yes, she’d been a mite too aggressive when Eve’s spot had been in jeopardy, but they could have gotten past that.
There was more to this breakup than her faux pas.
She tapped her nails on the bar.
Maybe Doug still suspected her of inside knowledge about the on-air phone call Eve had received.
Maybe he even thought she was involved in the other incidents.
If he did, was he thinking about going to the authorities with his suspicions? Could that inclination be behind his sudden case of cold feet about their relationship?
“Would you like another glass of wine?” The bartender lifted her empty stem.
What she’d like and what she was going to have were two different things.
“No.” She dug out her wallet and set a ten on the counter. No more alcohol for her today. Her task this afternoon required a clear head.
Thank goodness she had an interview scheduled for that article on South Side carjackings and wasn’t expected back at the office. A quick phone call could delay the meeting for an hour and a half while she took care of other, more pressing personal business.
She left the restaurant, heading for her car rather than the office.
Eighteen minutes later, she pulled into her condo.
The material on Eve was well hidden, but the cops would tear the place apart if Doug managed to convince them she was a suspect and they secured a search warrant. Best to dispose of it ASAP. It had served its purpose—though the outcome hadn’t been close to what she’d envisioned.
Carolyn bolted the door behind her and hurried to the kitchen. Riffled through the boxed dinners stacked in her freezer. Pulled out the chicken tetrazzini.
After working her fingernail under the re-glued flap, she eased it open and removed the notes she’d stored inside, plus the contact information for the wife of the man who’d led Eve on. A real nutcase . . . but more than happy to dish about her husband’s wayward eye with a sympathetic listener during their “chance” meeting at a charitable event.
That was one of the beauties of being a reporter. You knew how to delve into people’s backgrounds, find connections, locate sources, search for dirt. And if you dug deep enough, you usually found it—or something that could be spun to suggest dirt.
Not that it had helped her in this case.
She tossed the empty package in her r
ecycle container and moved to her home office. One by one, she fed the sheets into her shredder.
That task completed, she dumped the minced remnants from the bin into a plastic grocery bag, tied the top, and retrieved her purse. All she had to do was dispose of this in a trash can at a fast-food place en route to her interview. The burner phone loaded with the voice-altering software had been discarded days ago. No one would ever be the wiser about the source of that call.
And after work tonight, she’d shift focus.
St. Louis had never been her first choice as a home base, but you went where the job openings were. With all the experience she’d gained here, however, she could ditch this town in a heartbeat. It wasn’t the best market for journalists anyway. Only her promising affiliation with Doug had kept her here.
But there were glitzier cities where she could thrive, bigger fish to cozy up to who could help boost her career to the next level. And her resume was going to be crossing their desks within forty-eight hours. She didn’t need Doug Whitney to pave the way, or Eve Reilly’s slot to open up, in order to get her chance.
All she needed was the right connection—and somewhere out there, he was waiting to fall under Carolyn Matthews’s spell.
The detective was here.
Meg scrambled to her feet as Brent Lange, accompanied by the colleague who’d come with him to their house, entered Steve’s hospital room. A shaft of midmorning light peeking through the canted blinds whited out her vision, and she shaded her eyes.
“Good morning.” After directing that greeting toward her, Detective Lange transferred his attention to her husband, who was propped up with several pillows while his cast-enclosed left ankle rested on another pillow, a white bandage covering the gash on his forehead.
Steve glowered at him. “What do you want now?”
“We have a few more questions.”
“I don’t feel like answering them.”
“Nevertheless, we intend to ask them. We can do that here, this morning—or we can reconvene at the station after you’re released this afternoon.”
“I’m not talking to you again until I get an attorney. This is harassment.”