Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  In this case, there shouldn’t be any issue. Exigent circumstances would allow them to do a quick walk-through of the house and look for contact information.

  But he wanted someone else on hand who would verify they’d restricted their search to the bare necessity.

  Gabe Ramirez emerged from the patrol car and walked toward him, veering around the paramedics as they continued down the front walk toward the ambulance.

  “What’s up?”

  Clark briefed him. “Let’s keep it simple and straightforward. We’ll stick together and tackle a room at a time.”

  “Works for me.”

  They began in the bedroom. But after a quick pass through drawers and closets yielded nothing, they moved on to the kitchen.

  Also a bust.

  “Let’s try the spare bedroom, then the living room.” Clark took the lead down the hall.

  “You notice something kind of weird about this house?” Ramirez fell in behind him.

  “Like what?”

  “Everything is super organized. There isn’t even a junk drawer in the kitchen.”

  Clark snorted. “Just because some people’s homes are less than orderly—not mentioning any names here—that doesn’t mean everyone’s is.”

  “Very funny. You try containing clutter in a household with five kids under the age of twelve.”

  “No thanks.”

  “You know . . . you don’t have to come to dinner anymore if the bedlam at our place is too much for you.”

  “For your wife’s cooking, I can live with a little chaos. Her tamales are to die for. And she’s great with the kids. If patience is a virtue, she’s the poster child.”

  “No kidding. I married a saint. And that’s another odd thing about this place. There’s nothing personal anywhere. Not a single family photo.”

  Clark entered the pristine back bedroom and motioned for his colleague to take the far side while he concentrated on the area near the door. “Her neighbor said she doesn’t have any family.”

  “Yeah, but unless she was an orphan, she must have had one in the past. Parents, aunts, uncles, cousins. There isn’t a single picture in this house.”

  Now that he mentioned it . . .

  “I’ll grant you that’s a bit unusual.” He began pulling out the drawers in the dresser.

  Every one was empty—but the woman did live alone, and she obviously didn’t accumulate many odds and ends that required storage.

  “Was she ever married?” Ramirez opened the closet door, and Clark gave the space a quick inspection.

  Empty too.

  “Yes. According to the neighbor, she’s a widow.”

  “Then why aren’t there any photos of her husband around the place?”

  “Maybe they remind her of her loss and make her sad.”

  “Maybe.” Ramirez didn’t seem convinced. “You want to try the living room?”

  “Yeah. There’s nothing in here that will help us.”

  As they retraced their steps down the hall, his colleague bent near the spot where the woman had fallen and retrieved a key from the floor. “What’s this for?”

  “No idea. I noticed it earlier but didn’t bother to pick it up.”

  Ramirez set it on a credenza. “Let’s check out the living room.”

  They worked the space, each taking half again.

  Nothing useful surfaced.

  “I don’t get this.” Clark fisted his hands on his hips. “No address book, no names, no legal documents—nothing.”

  “Like I said . . . weird.” Ramirez motioned toward the door near the hall. “That must lead to the basement. You want to rummage around down there?”

  “We could do a quick pass—but if it’s like the rest of the house, it’ll be a dead end.”

  He descended to the mostly unfinished space. Other than a washer and dryer, the lower level was empty except for the usual heating and air conditioning equipment.

  “There may be contact information in there.” Ramirez motioned toward a drywalled area in the far corner. “Some people keep records in filing cabinets in their basement.”

  “Why would she do that? The unused bedroom and empty closet upstairs could accommodate that kind of storage.”

  “You have any other ideas? There’s nowhere else to look.”

  “True.” He crossed the concrete floor. Twisted the knob on the door to the space.

  Locked.

  “Huh.” Ramirez moved beside him. “Could be she keeps her valuables in there.”

  “How many valuables could a woman living in a neighborhood like this have?”

  “You might be surprised. Ever hear of a book called The Millionaire Next Door?”

  “No.”

  “My sister told me about it. The premise is that most millionaires in this country are simple, hardworking people who’ve saved their money, invested well, and lead a modest, unpretentious life. People like your next door neighbor.” He shrugged. “Just saying.”

  “That doesn’t help us find any contact information for Olivia Macie.”

  “It could be in here.” Ramirez tapped the door. “But I don’t want to break in without an okay from Sarge.”

  Except . . .

  “We may not have to.” Clark headed back to the stairs. “That key we found on the floor? It’s possible she was holding it when she went down. And she was close to the basement door.”

  “Worth a try.”

  Clark took the steps two at a time, retrieved the key, and rejoined Ramirez.

  His DIY colleague was down on his haunches, examining the base of the uprights. “You know . . . on a first pass, this room appears to be thrown together—but that’s deceptive. The construction is solid, and the door is steel.”

  “Which would support your theory that she stores valuables in here.” Clark fitted the key in the lock and turned it. “Let’s see if that includes emergency contact information.”

  He twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

  Ramirez followed him into the room. Stopped. “Whoa. I didn’t expect this.”

  No kidding.

  Clark walked over to the desk. Gave it a scan. Blinked. Repeated the process.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Ramirez spoke from behind him.

  “Yeah.” Clark pulled out his radio. “And this is way beyond our pay grade. We’re handing it off to the higher-ups. Now. Let’s get out of here.”

  Ramirez didn’t argue.

  And as they ascended the stairs . . . as he connected with headquarters . . . as he gave the closed door to Olivia Macie’s basement room a final perusal, Clark expelled a breath.

  A millionaire living next door was one thing.

  But he’d be willing to bet no one in this quiet suburban neighborhood had a clue what was going on in the cellar of the amiable older woman who baked them cookies and shared their cul-de-sac.

  “How did we manage to pull two back-to-back homicides?” Brent stripped off his latex gloves and tossed them in a trash can outside the upscale house that had become a crime scene.

  “Rookies tend to get the weekend and late-night assignments.” Colin dispatched his gloves too.

  “That explains my presence—not yours.”

  “They pair novices with experienced detectives. That would be me.” His colleague gave him a one-sided grin. “Since we worked the scene last night together, I’m assuming the powers that be decided to team us up for this one too.”

  “Sorry to ruin your Saturday.”

  “No sweat. It’s not the first weekend I’ve worked, and it won’t be the last. I’m sure this wasn’t in your plans, either.”

  Far from it.

  Brent glanced at his watch. Ten-fifty.

  He should be with Eve right now at her speaking gig.

  Colin studied him. “Big plans this morning?”

  “I had a run scheduled with a buddy—and I was also supposed to go with Eve to a speaking engagement today. She’s the keynote—”

 
His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Skimmed the screen. “Sarge.”

  “Checking up on us. Want a water?” Colin motioned toward a cooler someone had brought to the scene of what they were beginning to think was a murder/suicide instead of a double homicide.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Brent put the cell to his ear. “Lange.”

  “You guys at a stopping point at the scene?”

  Typical Sarge. No greeting, just straight to business.

  “No. We have two or three more hours of processing—minimum.”

  Sarge grunted. “I was afraid of that. I’m sending in replacements. I need you and Colin elsewhere.”

  Brent frowned. He might be new to the ranks, but as far as he knew, pulling detectives off a scene not long after they’d been assigned wasn’t standard protocol.

  “What’s up?”

  “We had a trauma call this morning for Eve Reilly’s neighbor. Apparent stroke. But the responding officers found more than a medical emergency after they started looking for next-of-kin contact information.”

  As Sarge filled him in, Brent understood why he was being tapped for this assignment. And by the time the rapid-fire download wound down, his nerves were wound up.

  Tight.

  “I’m sending Colin with you. He has experience that may be useful. Your replacements should be there in the next few minutes. As soon as you bring them up to speed, head over to Olivia Macie’s. Assess the situation and let me know if I should start the gears grinding for a warrant.”

  “Roger.”

  Brent slid the phone back onto his belt and joined Colin.

  The other detective handed him a water. “What’s up?”

  “We’re being reassigned.”

  Colin’s eyebrows peaked. “In the middle of a scene investigation?”

  “Yeah.”

  As he briefed him, his associate’s demeanor grew more and more serious. “I’m not liking the sound of this.”

  “Neither am I. The proximity and access are suspicious.” He motioned to the street in front, where another detective was pulling up. “Our first replacement is here. Let’s bring him up to speed and get out of here.”

  “I’m with you.”

  Before the new arrival was barely out of his car, they’d cornered him.

  Ten minutes later, Brent was jogging to his vehicle.

  Maybe the equipment and material the officers had found in Olivia’s house wasn’t as serious as the men suspected. Both were recent academy graduates. It was possible they were reading too much into what they’d seen.

  That’s why Sarge was sending him and Colin over there to evaluate the situation.

  But if the officers weren’t overreacting . . . if there was a darker side to the sweet older woman Eve had risked her life to protect the day of the bomb scare . . . they had to figure out how and why she was involved in the efforts to silence the woman who was fast staking a claim to his heart.

  And since Olivia wasn’t able to talk to them, they’d have to hope the clues they needed to piece together this puzzle would be waiting for them inside the small house she called home.

  Organizations that planned private events in public places were asking for trouble.

  But it made this job easier.

  Buzz drove past the lot at the back entrance to the park, near the small museum, and gave it a sweep. The spots were already filling up—but most of the 250 or so official attendees were probably parked near the main entrance on the other side of the park.

  His group, however, was gathering back here. Dan had said that as many as two or three hundred like-minded souls could show up.

  He continued down the road to the small upscale mall a mile away, where parking was plentiful. After slipping on his shades and helmet, he slid out of the car and reached into the backseat to retrieve the small saddlebag containing his black slacks, black hoodie, and scarf.

  As he removed his bike from the rack on the back of his car, he gave the parking lot a casual perusal.

  No one was paying any attention to him.

  And why should they? This mall was on a popular biking route, and the Starbucks a few doors down was a favorite spot to take a break and rehydrate. In his cycling gear, he was just another weekend warrior.

  Buzz took off down the two-lane road, back toward the park. As the bike trail began to parallel the road, he zipped over to it and continued toward the spot in the wooded section he’d found last week during his scouting trip. The small, densely shrubbed area was a perfect place to hide his bike and don the black pants and hoodie over his biking gear.

  And after his job was finished, all he had to do was wend his way back here and become a biker again. With the massive congestion in the park on Saturdays—weddings, family reunions, picnics, joggers, bikers, equestrians, the activities at the rec center . . . not to mention the chaos he’d soon cause—he should have no problem melting into the melee and slipping away.

  Still, despite all the careful planning, it would be a relief to have this over. The job had to be done—and it was an honor to be trusted with the task—but crossing a major moral line like this was a bit . . . unnerving.

  Even if it was necessary for the cause.

  He pulled on his hoodie, shoved the scarf into his slacks, and quashed the tiny trace of doubt niggling at his conscience. This mission required his full focus.

  Squaring his shoulders, he jogged down the path toward the parking lot where everyone had been instructed to gather.

  As he emerged from the woods, he gave the area a slow survey. It wasn’t hard to pick out the Antifa folks. They were all dressed like him. In black. Not the most common color choice for a day in the park when temperatures were expected to approach eighty—but it was a free country.

  Or so the other side said.

  At least there was no law against black clothing. Yet.

  Brown tones were also in evidence—thanks to the large police presence.

  A typical intimidation tactic.

  Settling his shades more firmly on his nose, Buzz strolled over to a small group of black-clad people congregated on the asphalt.

  His people.

  While he didn’t know their names, they were all fighting for the same cause.

  They welcomed him as he drew close, and he blended into the group as one of the guys began giving them a rundown on the plan for the day and passed out a few signs emblazoned with the slogan “Down With Government Oppression.”

  Similar small groups were coalescing elsewhere in the lot, forcing the cops to spread out in order to keep tabs on everyone.

  Smart tactic.

  Plus, while large gatherings required a permit, small clusters were legal. That’s why they weren’t going to join together until the speeches began and they were ready to do what they’d come to do.

  Demonstrate and disrupt.

  Or that’s what most of these people were here to do.

  His assignment, however, was much, much bigger—but only he and Dan knew about that.

  Buzz touched the bulge in his pocket where his Glock rested, loaded and ready to do its job. As he was ready to do his.

  “—the ten-minute mark, we’ll start marching toward the stage and chanting. Keep the volume loud, to drown out the speaker. And stay bunched together. We want a large block of black to heighten the impact.”

  Buzz tuned back in to the guy issuing quiet instructions to the small huddle of people around him.

  “As we get close to the stage, one lucky person in each group gets to hurl one of these.” He pulled out a smoke cartridge and discreetly displayed it. “This will emit smoke for three minutes and add to the impact without causing any harm. Do I have a volunteer?”

  A woman stepped forward, and he passed the cartridge to her, keeping it out of sight of the cops. She tucked it under her hoodie.

  “When I raise my hand, let it fly. Everyone put your hoods up before we leave here, and cover the bottom of your faces with your scarves. Got it?�
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  At the nods of assent, Buzz exhaled. Everything was playing out just as Dan had said in the instructions he’d picked up, right down to the smoke that would intensify the confusion as the shots rang out—and make it more difficult to locate their source.

  While Antifa’s loose conglomeration of independent groups lacked a central authority, a few people—like Dan—had their finger on the pulse of the movement and knew how to rally the different factions when a statement needed to be made.

  Today they were going to make a big one.

  Far bigger than anyone here but him realized.

  And it would happen in—Buzz twisted his wrist—one hour and thirty-five minutes. During the march and chant their temporary leader had mentioned. In all that noise and confusion, he should have ample opportunity to slip on his latex gloves as they got close to Eve Reilly—and if the Antifa people were loud enough, his several back-to-back shots wouldn’t even register at first.

  The instant he fired his last round, he’d drop the gun, dive into the throng, and escape through the bedlam as first responders rushed the stage and the Antifa people scattered.

  As soon as he was safe in the woods, the lighter in his pocket would melt the gloves. Back at his bike, it wouldn’t take more than forty-five seconds to shed his black attire, stow it in the saddlebag, and continue his ride—in the opposite direction of all the excitement. The clothes could be disposed of in the dumpster behind the mall.

  He had it all planned, down to the tiniest detail—and his dry runs had been flawless.

  Given all his preparation, the real deal shouldn’t be any different.

  And after all was said and done, there would be one less high-profile person undermining their cause.

  It was a brilliant plan—with him as the linchpin.

  A surge of pride swept over him, and his resolve hardened. He would do this, and do it well.

  Best of all, he would walk away, ready to continue the fight. The police may have identified Eve Reilly’s harasser sooner than expected, jeopardizing the cover they’d counted on to mask Antifa involvement, but Dan had a plan to deflect suspicion to Jackson. Had said so in their last text exchange.

  There was nothing to worry about as long as he did his part.