“Yeah. I got released this morning.”
She didn’t respond, couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I wanted to thank you for the help with Ed Goldman and everything.”
“Sure. You’re welcome.”
There was a pause. “J, can I see you when this is over?”
Her pulse danced beneath her ribs with the instantaneous thrill of being wanted. Her body was quick to forget the heartache. She cleared her throat. “I don’t think so, Tim.”
“How about the phone? Can I call you?”
It was a bad idea.
“Please. Just once in a while?”
“I guess. I can’t promise I’ll answer,” she added truthfully.
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”
There was a pause. “You’re welcome” didn’t sound right.
“I’ll talk to you soon, then.”
“Bye, Tim.”
“Bye, J.”
As she hung up, nostalgia caught in her throat.
She stood and found her cigarettes, lit one. The smoking didn’t help. Trying to distract herself, she logged on to the computer to catch up with the cases the online group was working. A few others were logged in, and the group spent an hour corresponding about the case in Chicago. When they were done, Mary Dodgson, a forensic psychology professor, IM’d her privately to ask about Natasha.
JVail How’d you hear about that one?
The screen remained blank for almost thirty seconds. Jamie assumed Mary had walked away from her screen. Then another message appeared.
MDod What do you mean?? We got the update from you this morning.
Her pulse beat an erratic rhythm.
JVail I wasn’t on this morning.
Jamie watched the cursor blink on the screen. Waited for a response. Nothing came. She heard the ping of a new e-mail and changed screens. When she saw Mary’s e-mail address, she opened the letter.
The e-mail simply listed a Chicago phone number.
Her pulse humming, Jamie dialed the number from her cell.
“Jamie?” Mary asked.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“We were on for more than an hour this morning. Are you okay?”
“It wasn’t me, Mary. I’ve been out most of the day. Didn’t log on until just now.”
Mary paused. “Someone have access to your computer?”
Jamie thought about Tony. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t know anything about Natasha. “What time?”
“About ten a.m. Chicago.”
That was eight o’clock in California. It couldn’t have been Tony. At eight o’clock, they were both asleep.
“What’s your password?”
“My pass—”
“I mean, is it easy to guess?”
She didn’t think it had to be safeguarded. It wasn’t bank information. It was a damn chat group. Fear danced up her spine. “It’s my birthday.”
“Birthdays are easy to get.”
“Christ.”
“It makes sense now,” Mary commented.
“What does?”
“You—or whoever was pretending to be you—asked some pretty basic MO questions. I wondered if you were trying to get a fresh perspective. I commented on it, and you responded that you’d had a long night.”
Jamie considered that. “But whoever used my ID has to be on the list, right?”
“Not necessarily.”
“How else would someone know about it?”
“That’s the scary part.”
Jamie’s throat tightened. “What do you mean?”
“You ever Googled yourself?”
“What? No.”
“Are you online right now?” Mary asked.
“Yeah.”
“Go to Google and type in your name.”
Jamie launched a new screen and navigated to Google, entered her own name. “I get about forty-seven thousand responses.”
“Sorry. Put quotes around it.”
Jamie did it. “Forty-nine.” She scanned the first one. “San Francisco Sex Crimes Inspector Jamie Vail.” She clicked on the link. The San Francisco Chronicle website came up and she read a brief article about the hearing on one of her more recent cases.
“You there?” Mary asked.
“Yeah. I found me. It’s an article on a case.”
“Keep scrolling.”
“What am I looking for?” She scanned the next few links—all newspaper articles—then clicked to the next page.
“You’ll find it, but basically, the bulletin board we use is public. That means anyone can apply to join. They have to come through the moderator to get in. That’s how we keep out the unwanted element, limit it to police officers and forensic folks.”
Jamie listened, scanning the list. So far, only one link didn’t refer to her.
“But, the main page lists who’s online at any one time. So, if you signed up with your name, anyone who Googles you will find it there.”
Just then, Jamie saw her full name next to the screen ID “JVail.” She hit the link, watched as the login page for their chat group came up. “It takes them right to the chat group’s login screen.”
“Right. It gives them your ID and if they’ve got the password, they’re in.”
A dead weight sank in her gut. “I made it too easy.” Thoughts trampled across her mind. “Mary, you were probably talking to her killer.”
The line was silent for several seconds. When Mary spoke, her voice was nearly a whisper. “I thought about that. It’s why I had you call.”
He’d been there. There had to be something she could use. “Is there an abstract for the session?”
“No. I’m the one who usually logs the sessions, but I didn’t. The conversation was sort of roundabout and off topic. I’ll e-mail the others and ask if anyone else logged it.”
Christ, had Natasha’s killer been online using Jamie’s ID? She tightened a fist. But why her—why not Hailey? Maybe they had searched Hailey Wyatt too. Maybe the chat group was the opening they found. “Did anything stand out?”
Mary paused. “I was trying to think. A lot of it was what we’d read. Whoever was using your ID did mention she was promiscuous. Oh, jeez—how could I forget?”
Jamie felt herself tense. “What?”
“He said that she’d slept with your husband.”
Jamie didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry,” Mary added.
She started to say that it was okay, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. “He’s my ex now.”
Mary gave her a moment, then said, “You should consider that, Jamie. Who knew about that incident? Sounds like someone within the department.”
Jamie nodded, dread pooling in her limbs. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Have you brought in a suspect? He said you’d been looking at a cop.”
She thought about Scott Scanlan. He was someone to consider. “What did he say about that?”
“Just that you’d pulled in one suspect who you held, but who didn’t look good for it.” She stopped. “You thinking it might be him?”
“I don’t think so.” Tim had only been released tonight. He wouldn’t have access from the city jail.
Mary seemed to consider this. “He didn’t let on any real emotion about the suspect. That’s why I didn’t really consider it out of character for you, except for a few questions about who the group would recommend looking at based on the scene.”
Jamie considered Marchek. Tim’s arrest had made the news, but would he have access to the fact that Natasha had slept with Tim while Tim and Jamie were married? It seemed far-fetched, but not impossible.
Mary interrupted her thoughts. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll dig up what I can remember and e-mail it to you.”
“Thanks, Mary.”
“And change that password.”
“I’m doing it now.”
After hanging up, Jamie changed her passwords on the chat group and her personal e-mail. She h
ad no way of knowing if someone was in her e-mail and the realization was terrifying. She left a message for Hailey and lit a cigarette. She was tired, but she couldn’t imagine going to bed. Couldn’t fall asleep now. Not with the notion that someone had gotten access to her personal information.
What else did he have?
Just how close was he?
Jamie shivered and stubbed out her cigarette. Forcing herself up, she checked the doors and windows.
As she mounted the stairs toward her bedroom, Jamie had the haunting sense that someone was watching her.
More than ever, she wished Tony would come home.
Chapter 22
Jamie had finally drifted into sleep when something woke her. Startled, she sat up in bed. Her heart clashed in her chest. Her head pounded. She yanked the robe off the chair and pulled it over her shoulders, crept to the window and looked out, saw nothing. She turned her ear to the door. Was it inside?
She glanced back outside as a shadow crossed the grass. Adrenaline burned in her gut. Tony?
Tightening the tie on her white, terry cloth robe over the T-shirt and sweats she slept in, Jamie stepped into a pair of suede moccasins, pulled her holster off the back of the bedroom door, and started downstairs. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. Some sort of a cross between Martha Stewart and Annie Oakley.
She drew her gun, flicked the safety off. Gripping it in her right hand, she held it barrel down, her finger off the trigger. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned off the inside lights and stared out the dining room window into the backyard. The shadow was gone. She flicked on the outside lights, wishing she’d spent the money to have them upgraded to motion sensing. With a quick breath, she opened the back door, gun in front of her.
She heard Barney’s claws click on the stairs, and soon, he was beside her.
“Nice of you to wake up,” she whispered as he growled into the dark. “Be my guest.”
Barney didn’t move.
Jamie stepped out onto the small back deck and surveyed the yard. She was almost never out back. What little grass there once was had been displaced by the weeds. Like the tougher gang marking its territory, the weeds had won.
A lone tree stood in one corner—a maple, she guessed, though she’d never been good at that kind of thing. Bushes dotted the yard like green islands about to be washed over by a sea of brown weeds. The little potting shed was partially drowned by the weeds around it. Its green, corrugated roof was dark with leaves and dirt.
Nothing flowered. Even with all the rain, the green was limited to a few bushes and the tree. It was a sad yard. She turned back inside and saw the same thing. Weeds outside and inside a sea of brown boxes littered the rooms. Jesus, how pathetic. Barney moaned as though understanding, and she patted his head.
She had locked the back door when she heard the sharp ping of glass breaking on the front porch. A man howled. She ran across the house, peering out into the dimly lit front. Through the small window beside the front door, she saw Tony on his knees. He lifted a piece of crooked glass toward his lips.
Jamie holstered her gun and yanked the door open. “What the hell are you doing?”
His tongue out, he poured brown liquid into his mouth.
She grabbed the piece from his hand, skimming it across the insides of her knuckles. She dropped the glass as blood pooled in her hand. “Shit.”
Tony reached for another piece, but Jamie grabbed his arm, smearing his skin with her blood.
The smell of whiskey was overwhelming, and she was both nauseated and desperate all at once.
Tony twisted his arm away, but she tugged back harder. “Stop it. Jesus Christ, Tony. Fucking stop it!”
He looked up at her, green eyes bloodshot. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes. She clutched his arm, dragged him toward her. Blood dripped down her white robe. She ignored it, holding Tony. His arm felt spindly in her grasp. As he turned back to the broken glass, she noticed the way the light cast shadows in his cheekbones. Jesus, he was thin.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer. He glanced down at the broken bottle with longing.
She kicked the glass off the porch.
Tony stood motionless, watching the last bits of Jack Daniel’s spill onto the dirt.
Shaking, Jamie went inside, leaving the door open. Tears burned her eyes. Damn it. At the sink, she ran her hands under the water, waiting for her pulse to slow. The water stung the wound.
Tony staggered into the kitchen and leaned into a barstool.
She shut off the water, but didn’t face him. “I always felt like it was my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” he mumbled.
She went to him. Now or never.
She had to get it out.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“We have to, Tony.”
“Please don’t do this now,” he pleaded. “Not now.”
But Jamie didn’t stop. “I always blamed myself, Tony. I should’ve stopped him. I always thought he was creepy.”
Tony roared and pushed away, stumbling across the living room. He stopped awkwardly, trying to stand still.
“I always hesitated around him. But that day, when we were in the back, when he locked that door—” She shuddered, imagining the man who had worked in the small corner grocery store. Tall and thin, he stood partially stooped over, as though always eyeing the floor for a nickel someone had dropped.
Tony swayed unsteadily in place. He held a palm out to her as though he could stop the words from hitting his ears.
“He was so different from our dads. So quiet and round. Soft,” she said.
Tony looked like he might be sick.
“He always paid more attention to you. He always asked which candy you liked best. He always let you choose. And then, he started getting those Topps baseball cards you liked.” The day was etched in her brain.
The man had told Tony that he had some extra packs of cards in the back. He’d locked up the store.
Why did he have to do that?
She had wondered then, if he was going into the storeroom. The glare he had given her as she eyed the door.
Jamie had hesitated, but Tony had gone ahead. “No big deal,” Tony said. Jamie had followed.
The musty smell of the room, the damp floor. They were crystal clear to her, even now. Rows of boxes piled up against the walls, threatening to fall. The room was a maze of cardboard and steel shelves. Cold and scary. “I thought he was coming for me,” she told Tony. “I was sure of it.”
He crossed to her, shoved her. “No.”
She grabbed on to him, but he drove his fingertips into her sternum. She bit back a cry of pain, but didn’t let go.
She clutched his arm, forced him to face her.
She kept her voice low. “I thought he was going to rape me, Tony.”
Tony shook his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks, eyes pleading with her to stop.
She didn’t let go. She couldn’t now. “I never thought it would be you.”
Tony reared his head, a painful cry exploding from his throat as he dropped to his knees. “God, no. Jamie. Why?”
She fell too, tucked her head into his shoulder as he gripped her. Beyond the pain, she felt herself let go.
All those years ago.
All those years of hiding it, of pretending it hadn’t happened—of Pat and her father ignoring signs—their refusal to go to the store, Tony’s nightmares, their failing grades in school, their insistence on sleeping in the same room.
“I don’t know, Tony. I’m so sorry.”
“God,” he choked, sobbing.
They stayed there, embraced until she felt the rocking of his chest still. Even then she didn’t loosen her grip, didn’t wipe her own tears. She let them remain where they’d fallen, long overdue.
Tony sniffled loudly. “Look at me. My damn nose is running like a faucet.”
She touched her head t
o his. She handed him the tissue and rose from the couch. “I’ll get us some water.”
“And something for my head, if you’ve got it.”
Jamie found the bottle of Advil and filled two water glasses.
As she shut the water off, she noticed the stains on her robe. Most were the bright red of blood, but one was a tiny patch of brown. The water had stopped, but she heard it rushing in her ears as she lifted the robe and smelled the stain.
She inhaled the unmistakable scent of whiskey. She touched the liquid with her finger and brought it to her mouth.
Her tongue reached out for it, and the two almost met.
Barney nudged her leg, nosing her.
The liquid was moist on her skin.
Before she could think more about it, she turned the water on high and washed the whiskey from her finger.
She slid the holster off her shoulders and hung it on a cabinet knob. She shook the robe off. Bunching it into a ball, she threw it in the sink and let the water drench it. Washing away any trace of whiskey, any risk of her reaching out to it.
Barney walked to the back door and whined. She let him out, and turned.
She handed Tony a glass and the Advil. He struggled to get the bottle open, so she took it back, shook three orange disks into his palm.
“I want to stop, you know,” he said, swirling the water in his glass.
“I know. It sucks. Quitting sucks.”
“Way to sell it,” Tony said.
“But you have to quit.”
The humor drained from his face, and he nodded solemnly.
Blinking, she brushed the tears off her cheeks and turned for the back door to get Barney. She couldn’t bear to discuss it now—not the alcohol and definitely not everything else.
As she touched the doorknob, Tony spoke. “I killed him.”
In his voice, she heard the slightest lilt of her father’s voice. A bit of slurred brogue that came out of Mick and Tony, only when they drank. As though the genes they’d gotten from Pat had included some deep assimilation between alcohol and the accent. She thought of her father—where he was, when they’d last spoken, what he thought of her, what he’d ever thought of her. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.
“I can’t get it out of my head,” he continued.
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 16