Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  If these were the worst of my injuries, though, I couldn’t complain.

  “Ms. Smith?”

  I flinched at the male voice that came from my left. I looked up to see a lean, forty-something man standing next to me. His face was serious and tired, but his green eyes were warm.

  A quick scan of his attire told me he wasn’t a member of the police force or the medical personnel. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a threadbare brown suit jacket. Beneath the jacket was a bulge that suspiciously resembled a gun.

  My eyes darted to the ambulance and police cars, but no one seemed alarmed by his presence. He must have noticed my wariness, because he peeled his jacket aside slowly with two fingers and showed me the badge attached to his belt.

  “I’m Detective Richard Marx.” He had a slow, gentle voice with a touch of Southern. He certainly hadn’t grown up here.

  I hoped he didn’t expect a badge to make me like him more, because it didn’t. But it did settle some of the anxiety in my stomach.

  “Holly,” I corrected. I hated to be addressed as Ms. Smith.

  “How are you doin’?”

  “I’ve had worse days,” I answered with a shrug.

  The detective blinked, clearly unsure how to take my response. Ha. I’d stumped a seasoned detective in four words. That had to be some kind of record. He looked as if he wanted to ask for an explanation, but he didn’t.

  “Did you find my camera?” I asked, hopeful. I doubted I could afford to repair the lens right now, but that would be better than having to replace the entire camera.

  “We did.” He gestured to the curb. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  I hesitated at the thought of him sitting next to me, but it was public property and I couldn’t really tell him to go find his own curb to sit on. I scooted over, allowing for about five feet of space between us.

  The barely perceptible arch of his eyebrow told me the amount of space I deliberately put between us was not lost on him, but he chose not to comment. He was careful not to invade that space as he sat down.

  “Is my camera okay?”

  “For the most part. The lens is damaged, but the memory card and display are intact. I skimmed through a few of the photos. One of them seems a little out of place. Would you mind explainin’ it to me?”

  Realizing that some stranger was snooping through the photos on my camera made me cranky. Other than my bracelet, my camera was the only material possession I treasured. If they had asked, I might have given them the memory card. But they hadn’t asked.

  “I want my camera back,” I said, and I couldn’t completely keep the irritation from my voice.

  “It’s evidence.”

  “Why?”

  “Accordin’ to the statement you gave the officer first on scene, you struck one of your attackers with it . . . in the face. Broke his nose.” He flipped absently through the notepad in his hands but didn’t appear to read it.

  “Why does that matter?”

  He drew in a careful breath before saying, “Because he’s dead.”

  The news hit me like a punch to the stomach, and my voice came out breathless. “What?”

  Detective Marx raised a hand to calm me. “Don’t worry. You didn’t kill him with the camera.”

  I slumped forward in relief. Regardless of what the man’s intentions had been, I hadn’t wanted to kill him. “How did he die?”

  “Throat was cut,” he answered calmly. I imagined he saw a great many awful things in his line of work, but the dispassionate calm in his voice as he spoke about someone’s murder was a bit . . . disconcerting.

  “Someone slit his throat?”

  “Seems that way.”

  I swallowed the bile that brushed the back of my tongue.

  “I need you to tell me about the last time you saw or heard from him.”

  I thought back on the events of the night. I had been so busy trying to stay ahead of the Whistling Man that the dark-eyed man’s absence hadn’t even registered. “He was . . . pretty far off, I guess. The last time I saw him was when I hit him.”

  Detective Marx jotted down my answers. “And when was that?”

  “About . . . 5:10 or so. I already told all this to the other cop. The short guy who looks like a Keebler Elf.”

  His lips curved into a small smile. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear your description of him. And I understand that you already spoke with him, but I need to hear the details for myself, if you don’t mind.”

  I did mind. I was exhausted and sore, and I just wanted to go home and take a shower. I glanced in the direction of home and fear clenched low in my stomach. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get there; I usually walked, but . . . what if he was still out there? What if he came after me again while I was walking home? I didn’t have money for a cab.

  Detective Marx asked me a question, but I was too distracted to catch anything more than the tail end of it. “After that?”

  I dragged my gaze away from the sidewalk and blinked at him. “What?”

  His gaze flicked toward the sidewalk I’d been staring at and then back at me. “The man who died. You said the last time you saw him was around 5:10. Did you hear him at all after that?”

  “Oh, um . . .” I looked down and rubbed at the dirt on my fingers. “Just once.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “He took my phone, and I don’t have a watch.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was taunting the man who was chasing me, asking if . . . if I was too much for him to handle.”

  I looked over to find the detective assessing me with cautious interest. “I have to be honest, Ms. Smith—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Holly,” he amended. “I’m not sure I quite understand how you got away. The man we found was pretty fit, and the second man you described”—he considered his words carefully—”well, he sounds formidable.” He met my gaze, and I saw the uncertainty and doubt in his eyes. “You’re, what, five-foot, hundred pounds?”

  “Five-two and hundred and fifteen.”

  He lifted a skeptical eyebrow, and I wondered if he could tell that I was rounding up on the inches. If he could, he chose not to comment. “Okay, but my point is, it’s unusual for someone of your . . . size . . . to be able to defend herself against two well-developed males. So what I’m wonderin’ is, did you have help?”

  I frowned. “I already told the police. Riley.”

  “Right. The dog.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t suppose you know what happened to this dog?”

  “No,” I admitted, as I tugged the blanket the paramedics had given me tighter around my shoulders. The owner had called the police despite my objections and then gone in search of his dog when he didn’t come back, and neither of them had returned.

  Detective Marx grunted thoughtfully. “I’m thinkin’ you had help of a human persuasion, and I’m wonderin’ if they might have been carryin’ a knife.”

  I gaped at him in disbelief. “You think a friend of mine slit that man’s throat?”

  “Well, he did have ill intentions toward you.”

  I almost choked. Ill intentions. Well, that was one way to put it. “My only friend is about four feet tall,” I snapped. “So, unless he willingly got on his knees in front of her or suffered from a sudden case of dwarfism, she didn’t slit his throat.”

  “It’s just a workin’ theory,” he explained.

  “Well, it’s not working very well. Find another one.” I stood and stripped out of the warm blanket. The cold night air passed straight through my layered shirts. I held out the blanket to the detective, and he took it reluctantly as he stood with me.

  “Look, Ms. Holly, I’m not the enemy. I’m just tryin’ to put the pieces together.” His warm eyes implored me to understand. “I know you had a rough night and I promise I’m not tryin’ to make it worse.”

  I folded my arms over my chest and willed my body not
to shiver from the cold. I would feel ridiculous if I asked for the blanket back.

  Detective Marx sighed at my stony expression and draped the blanket over one arm. “We’re not gettin’ off to a good start.”

  “That could be because you’re accusing my friend of murder.”

  “I didn’t say the killer was your friend.”

  “I’m guessing—and this is just a theory—that he was involved in some other criminal activities. Maybe it was an associate of his who killed him. Maybe he forgot to pay his drug dealer.”

  “Those are all possibilities, but I have to investigate every angle,” he explained calmly. His calmness grated on my frayed nerves. “I know this is an inconvenience, but a man is dead, Ms. Smith.” I parted my lips to snap at him, but he quickly corrected himself. “Holly.”

  He tapped his pen against his notebook as he watched me, like a person waiting patiently for an icicle to thaw. I glared at him.

  “You’re angry,” he said.

  “You’re intuitive.” My tone was frosty. Anger was more bearable than fear or pain, and I savored the warmth it lent me.

  Detective Marx smiled slightly. “You don’t much like cops, do you, Ms. Holly?” He studied my face, and I suddenly felt like he was trying to pick through my brain for answers like my state-assigned therapists used to do. He was trying to puzzle me out. Well, I wished him luck with that. I hadn’t even figured me out. “Judgin’ by the way you’re lookin’ at me, I’m guessin’ you had some bad experiences with law enforcement.”

  “I’m not a criminal.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” he replied patiently. “I realize that just because somebody’s a cop, it doesn’t mean they’re a good person. It also doesn’t mean they’re automatically trustworthy.” He’d nailed that one. “I don’t expect you to trust me right away. That’s somethin’ that should be earned. But I am askin’ you to give me a chance to earn it. Let me help you.”

  I curled my toes under my feet as the cold from the pavement leached into my boots. I knew I was being unfair to him. He wasn’t one of the officers who had helped to wreck my childhood. I closed my eyes and sighed. “No one I know did this.”

  “Okay.”

  I looked at him in surprise.

  He smiled. “I’m not a disagreeable know-it-all. I can listen.” He offered me the blanket as he said gently, “I do have a few more questions, though, and then I’ll have someone take you home.”

  I stared at the blanket as stubborn refusal warred with the desperate need to be warm. I’d begun to shiver. I accepted the blanket begrudgingly and wrapped it around my back. “I don’t know what more I can tell you.” I plunked back down on the curb.

  The detective crouched beside me, and I drew my knees to my chest beneath the blanket to put some space between us. “For starters, I’d like you to tell me about the photo.”

  “It was just . . .” I trailed off when I saw two men carrying a stretcher out of the park. A black body-shaped bag was belted to the gurney, and I watched them load the body into the back of a van.

  The detective had told me the dark-eyed man was dead—murdered—but somehow seeing the body bag made it that much more shocking.

  “Ms. Holly.”

  I watched the van drive away, and somewhere in the back of my mind between the confusion and anxiety, I was grateful the man was dead. If someone hadn’t slit his throat, I couldn’t help but wonder if . . .

  I swallowed uneasily and pushed those thoughts away. A man was dead, and I had no right to be relieved about that. Human life was precious.

  “Ms. Holly,” Detective Marx said again, drawing me out of my thoughts. He cocked his head to meet my eyes, and his expression was patient and understanding despite how easily distracted I was. “I know you have a lot on your mind, and you’re probably not quite sure how to feel about the fact that one of your attackers is dead, but that means you don’t have to worry about him anymore. And I will do everythin’ in my power to find his friend. Everythin’ will be okay.”

  I shifted uncomfortably under his sympathetic gaze. “Do you know who they are?”

  He considered me for a moment and then nodded. “The deceased is Jimmy. We’ve had a few complaints about him loiterin’ in the park harassin’ people for the past few months. A few women have mentioned that he made them uncomfortable, but if he ever crossed that line, no one has come forward.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Given your description of him, I have an idea who he might be. He . . . has a history.” He sank a lot of meaning into that word, and I shuddered inwardly.

  Detective Marx tapped his pen on the notepad as he continued, “Now, I’m gonna say this knowin’ full well from our brief interlude that you are—as people call it these days—independent and you’ll do what you want. But until we catch the other man who assaulted you, don’t walk around the city alone. And for the love of all things holy, don’t go near the park.”

  That was going to put a real cramp in my photography. I needed to call that couple and let them know we would have to reschedule their photos. Except . . . I no longer had a phone to call them with . . . or a camera. I released a frustrated sigh.

  “Can you tell me about the photo?” Detective Marx requested.

  “I noticed a shadow in the background of every photo I took this afternoon. Nearly an hour’s worth of pictures, and someone stood there in the background the entire time, watching.”

  “What happened when you noticed this person? Did they leave?”

  “I decided to ask them what they were doing if they were still hanging around, but they left before I even noticed them in the pictures. I thought maybe they were spying on one of my clients, so I took a picture of the evidence just in case something happened.”

  Detective Marx’s eyes squinted. “You thought somebody might be spyin’ on your clients and you thought it was a good idea to approach that person alone?”

  I’d known it was a dumb idea when I did it, but I glared at him anyway. I was really trying to be courteous with him, but I had a serious urge to flick him in his squinty eyeball. “What do the footprints matter to you anyway?”

  “Because it was the last picture you took before bein’ assaulted,” he pointed out.

  “Maybe I like shoes,” I countered, but he didn’t look amused.

  “I might have dismissed the boot prints until you told me that man stood there and watched you with that couple for an hour. Shortly after they leave, you’re attacked, and some mysterious individual slits your attacker’s throat? I might just be tired, Ms. Holly, but that doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.”

  I shifted uneasily. I didn’t like the direction his theory was taking.

  “Do you have any more memory cards at home or your place of business?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, unsure of where he was headed. I kept a small memory card for each of my customers in case they needed duplicates or replacements.

  “I would like you to go through them and see if you notice any more mysterious shadows in the background. If this person was just loiterin’ or watchin’ your current clients, then he won’t be there.”

  “And what will that prove?” I asked.

  “If he’s present in the older photos, it will prove he has another interest entirely,” he replied. “So will you look and get back to me?” He pulled a card from his pocket with his name and number on it and handed it to me. I decided not to point out that I no longer had a phone to call him with even if I found something.

  “Sure.”

  “Just one more question and then we’ll call it a night,” Detective Marx said. “Has there been anyone in your life recently—intimate partners, acquaintances, clients—who’ve made you uneasy? Anythin’ that might have set off warnin’ bells?”

  I considered the question carefully. His phrasing gave me a bit of wiggle room to answer without having to lie or give away any of my secrets. “There was an ex-boyfriend who followed one of my clients
to her photo shoot about three months ago. I think she had a restraining order against him.” Not that it had done her much good.

  “Did you have any interaction with this man?”

  I shrugged. “I told him to leave.”

  “And how did he react?”

  I thought back on that afternoon for the exact conversation, and then decided I really didn’t want to repeat the words he’d used. “He creatively told me to mind my own business.”

  “Did he threaten you in any way?”

  “Not really. He seemed more interested in patching things up with his ex-girlfriend.”

  Detective Marx scribbled on his notepad. I leaned over to peek at his notes and scrunched my nose. I was pretty sure he’d written: popsicle possessed ex-boyfriend of Clint. Best guess: possible obsessed ex-boyfriend of Client?

  “Do you . . .” The detective paused when he noticed me studying his notes. He smiled and said, “I know. I’m a terrible writer. My ex-wife calls it chicken scratch.”

  “I think I’ve seen chickens do better.”

  His smiled broadened. “Of that I have no doubt. Do you happen to remember the name of this client or her ex-boyfriend?”

  “Helen. I don’t remember her last name. I can check my files.”

  “All right then. Let’s get you home.” He stood and offered his hand to me, but I declined help to my feet. “Officer,” he called, and a young woman hurried over.

  “Detective,” she chirped. She was a slender woman in her thirties with blond hair tucked up beneath her hat.

  “Could you see that this young lady gets home safely?”

  “Of course.”

  Detective Marx flipped his notebook closed and slid it into an inside pocket of his suit jacket along with his pen. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Holly.” He gave me a tired, warm smile before heading back to his car.

  I stood slowly and remembered I had a question. “Detective.”

  He stopped and turned to face me, giving me his full attention.

  “You said he might have another interest entirely. If he’s not watching my clients, what’s your theory?”

  His expression turned grim. “That he was watchin’ you, Ms. Holly.”