“Well, we have to seriously consider everyone. Whoever you put on this list we will question, if we can find them. But your list should consist only of those individuals who have reason to hold a grudge against you; a bad date, a bad relationship, a bad business deal, anyone who might want to get back at you for a real or imagined wrong against them.”
Daina frowned as she listened to him, as she considered the task he’d set before her. “When do you want this by?”
“As soon as you can. The faster we get it, the faster we can get to work on it.”
“And you’re saying my ex is cleared?” She wondered why she felt the need to clarify the matter.
“Well, we haven’t taken her off our list completely. Even though she has an alibi and it checks out, she’ll remain under consideration, simply because of your relationship.”
His words caused Daina to feel a sudden and distinct discomfort, but she said nothing. And then another thought occurred. “What about this third party you mentioned? How did they get this letter? How do they fit in? Or do they?”
The detective shifted slightly. “We’re not...entirely clear on that. We’re looking into it.”
She eyed him keenly for a couple of moments. She badly wanted to ask more questions in the same vein, but knew she would just get shut down. That he did refuse to talk about it told her there was more to it than someone simply finding a letter, delivering it, and wanting to remain anonymous. She was no dummy. This individual’s privacy was being protected for a reason. But she could no more guess the reason than she could their identity. And so she let it drop. “Okay, well, is there anything else?”
He shook his head. “Once the arrangements have been made, I’ll get back to you with the details. It’ll take about an hour.”
“Okay, fine, whatever. I’ll be here.” She knew she sounded dismissive, but she didn’t care. Her head felt like it was going to explode. She needed to get her thoughts and feelings in order. It felt as if her life was spinning out of control, and she wanted him gone so she could deal with it in private.
He must have sensed her need, because his expression softened. “I know it’s a lot to deal with. I’m sorry.”
And that was all it took. As Daina gave him a cursory nod and he turned to go, her throat constricted and her sinuses burned. And as he left the room and the door closed after him, she could hold it in no longer. She started to cry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By the time Emma got home, there was already a team assembling to investigate the grounds, the building and her own apartment. She parked on the street behind the cruisers and approached on foot a group of four officers who’d obviously been awaiting her arrival. Once introductions were made, she proceeded up the front walk to give them access to the building. She showed them where she’d found the letter, answered a few questions regarding the layout of the building and its tenants, and then took them up to her own apartment. There, she unlocked her door and stepped aside. The officers entered, sidearms drawn, joined by Detective James’ partner, Detective Cameron, while she waited in the hall, her own weapon in hand.
A few minutes later she was assured her apartment was empty and secure. She thanked them, and confirmed that nothing had been moved or removed, that everything was as it should be. She set about making a pot of coffee. The team would dust for fingerprints in the lobby wherever they deemed relevant, and would question as many people in the building as they could. She could not possibly sleep before that was complete. She could, however, take a shower and enjoy a cup of coffee, and she set about doing just that.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and refreshed, in khakis and a black tank top, she sat at her dining room table reading the newspaper and drinking her coffee. She felt neither tense nor troubled. She let the team do their job, secure in the knowledge that she, at least, was not in any danger provided she not involve herself further in anything to do with Daina Buchanan.
By the time eight o’clock rolled around, the team was wrapping up. The building and grounds were secure, and no one in the building had seen anyone suspicious hanging around. When Detective Cameron asked if she wanted a car left behind for surveillance, she declined, citing the obvious fact that whoever had gained entry could probably do so again with little trouble. She told him she had no intention of further involving herself in any aspect of the Buchanan case. Also, she was currently armed and could take care of herself should the need arise. Cameron departed, taking the rest of the team with him.
With a semblance of peace restored to her home and her psyche, Emma, now starting to feel the weight of exhaustion dragging her down, drained off the last of her coffee. She reached for her gun on the dining table, removing the weapon from its holster and hefting its familiar weight. She doubted she’d have any real need of it, but still she was comforted by its presence. She removed the magazine to ensure it was full, snapped it back in place with a neat little snick.
The phone rang, and in the silence of the apartment it startled her.
She glanced at the clock on the microwave. It read 8:15. Who the hell is calling me at quarter after eight in the morning?
She crossed the room and glanced at the caller ID; it only read Unknown Name, Unknown Number. She considered briefly not answering, then remembered how Daina’s mother had called out of the blue the other day. She picked up the receiver.
“You just couldn’t keep your goddamned nose out of it, could you?” demanded a harsh, unfamiliar male voice.
Emma’s immediate reaction was cold shock. Her mouth dropped open, her heart slammed in her chest, and she almost lost her grip on the phone. She gripped it convulsively, and clamped her jaw shut with an audible click.
“You just had to go to the cops, didn’t you?” continued the caller. “Well, guess what? Now you’re both dead. I warned you, you didn’t listen. The minute she’s out of that hospital, she’s done. And so are you. Count on it.”
The line went dead before she could even think of a response. “Shit!” she snapped, as she stared at the handset, and then gave in to her frustration by slamming it back into its charger.
“He’s watching me,” she muttered, with a certain amount of incredulity. “The son of a bitch is watching me.”
She didn’t even bother going to the patio doors to look out. She hadn’t seen him earlier. She sure as hell wouldn’t see him now. She looked down at the gun in her hand, mind racing as she went over his words, then made a decision. She grabbed up the phone and punched in the sergeant’s number.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Sarge, it’s Emma. He just called me. The guy who’s doing this, the one who’s after her, he just called me.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He knew I was home, he knew when it was safe to call, and he knew I brought the letter in to you. He’s watching me, Sarge.”
“What did he say? Tell me.” Michaels was all business, crisp and sharp.
Emma quickly repeated what she’d been told, finishing with, “He ended by saying ‘Count on it.’”
After a pause, Michaels asked, “Are you okay, Emma?”
She took a couple of moments to take stock of herself. “Yes, I’m okay,” she replied, and she was. A little wired, perhaps, but otherwise okay. She realized that in her agitation she was tapping her gun against her outer thigh. She carefully placed the weapon on the coffee table, then straightened and sighed with frustration.
“I’m sending a car over,” the sergeant began, “we can at least—”
“No,” Emma interrupted, “I am not—”
“Emma—”
“No, Sarge,” she cut him off again, more emphatically this time. “It won’t make any difference. There was a whole team here and he just waited until they were gone. He’ll just watch, like he has been, and wait for an opportunity.”
“Did he say anything about what he plans to do?”
“What, you mean other than kill the two of us?”
“Okay, I know, I’m s
orry,” Michaels responded immediately. “I just don’t like the thought of one of my best officers being the target of a madman.”
“Well, I don’t like it, either. But I refuse to run or hide like a scared rabbit.”
“Okay, I hear that. So what do you want to do?”
Emma considered carefully and then, with a shake of her head, said, “Honestly, what I think needs to be done—and you might not like this, I’m not even sure I like it—but I think I should meet with Daina Buchanan. I think we need to compare some notes.”
There was silence on the other end, and then, “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“Doesn’t it make sense to you?”
“Well, sure, I suppose—”
“Look, I’m speaking more in terms of expediency here,” she explained. “I don’t know what she knows, I don’t know what she’s been told, I don’t know if she’s been told anything. But she’s not the only one involved in this now. She needs to know that, if anything.”
“And you think you should be the one to tell her?”
“Well, if not that, then I should at least be there. But yes, my preference is to speak with her alone. In terms of comfort levels, hers and mine, I think it might work best that way.” What she was proposing might not be a good idea at all, but it felt right, and she would rather trust that, than the protocol that would suggest her idea was too unorthodox to implement.
Again there was silence from the sergeant’s end, and she waited patiently for his response.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll allow it. But,” he added quickly, “you don’t go anywhere until I’ve sent a couple of units to check out your immediate area. Is that clear? You don’t step foot outside your apartment until they give you the all clear. Now, when did you have in mind to go and see her?”
“Uh,” Emma blinked and raised her eyebrows. “As soon as I get the all clear?”
Michaels made a sound that could have been a chuckle. “Right. Well, shouldn’t you get some sleep?”
“I honestly don’t think I can sleep, Sarge.”
“Okay, I get that.” Then he said, “I think you might want to consider one more thing, Emma.”
“What’s that?”
“Relocating. At least for a while. You’re a sitting duck there. We both know it. And I don’t like it.”
“And where would I go?” she asked, with a certain level of tension.
“Well, my suggestion would be one of our safe houses. You’d be under constant surveillance, nobody could sneak up on you, but you’d still have freedom to move around and not feel like a prisoner. What do you think?”
Emma was only vaguely familiar with the concept of the safe houses. She knew they existed, but that was all she knew.
“No one’s ever gained access to a safe house,” Michaels went on. “I’d feel better knowing you were there. And I think you would, too.”
Emma pressed her lips together momentarily, and then said, “You’ve got a good point. Let me think about it.”
“Well, don’t take too long. If you go, I want you there by the end of the day. Now let me get those units on their way to you. Hang tight, okay?”
“Not going anywhere, Sarge. I promise.”
Emma was again left holding a dead phone to her ear. She dropped it unceremoniously back into its charger, picked up her gun once more and strode across the living room to the patio doors. Being on the second floor, she rarely closed her blinds. But her apartment faced east and when she worked a night shift she usually closed the blinds before she left so she wouldn’t have to deal with the bright early morning sun after a long night’s work. She sidled up to the far left side of the doors, and with the muzzle of her gun, eased aside the blinds a fraction.
There was her Pathfinder, just where she’d left it. There were no other vehicles in evidence that she could see from her narrow field of vision. She shifted slightly to get a better view of the rest of the tree-lined street, but from what she could see, it was deserted. Which wasn’t unusual. Emma had specifically chosen the neighborhood because it was so quiet. Her apartment faced a park, which took up the whole block. On her side was her building and one other with a swimming pool and playground between the two. On each side were three houses. Behind the buildings were the parking lots and past them, a ten-foot wide strip of lawn which ended at a sound wall bordering Carmichael Drive, a main thoroughfare.
She glanced left and right again, leaning forward, and bumped her forehead against the glass door. She jerked back and made a sound of annoyance in her throat. “Oh, fuck it,” she muttered.
She pushed the blinds aside to unlock the glass doors. Sliding them open, followed by the screen door, she carefully stepped out onto her balcony. Above her was another balcony and below, a patio, but nothing on either side. She had a clear view and there was nothing and no one to be seen. She realized she was making herself a perfect target by standing out on her balcony, but the alternative was to cower in her apartment, and she wasn’t about to do that. Besides, there really wasn’t anywhere anyone could hide. From where she stood, she could see clearly in three directions and there was nothing out of the ordinary.
She was nowhere near tired now, and had no intention of going back into her apartment. She glanced back to where she kept lawn chairs stacked against the wall. She grabbed one, unfolded it and sat down. Gun resting in her lap, she stared out through the wrought- iron railing enclosing her balcony and waited for whomever it was the sergeant had sent.
***
Twenty-five minutes later, she stood in the lobby of her building, speaking to Michaels and the officers who’d just performed a sweep of the area.
Emma had been surprised to see Michaels, but somewhat relieved. Much as she resented what was happening, and much as she might not want to admit it, she was very troubled by what was going on. And she was grateful for any show of support. Michaels had explained to her that he wanted to ensure she was okay and the current situation stable before heading over to the hospital to see that Daina Buchanan was made aware of the latest development. He’d already doubled security there. And he’d gotten in touch with Detective James and the rest of the investigative team to update them.
Now, he met her eyes as he said, “I’m leaving a unit behind, whether you want it or not. There’s no way I’m leaving you unprotected. Just humor me, okay?”
She eyed him thoughtfully. An idea was formulating, and she dropped her chin slightly as her eyes skated off to the right, unseeing. The idea took root and bloomed in the space of a couple of seconds, and she brought her gaze up to his once more. “I’ll humor you, if you’ll humor me.”
“Tell me.”
“I want to go with you, now, to the hospital. I want to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“You know why,” she told him bluntly. “It has to happen sooner or later.” She shrugged. “I just think sooner is better.”
Michaels glanced around the lobby, obviously giving her request the consideration it deserved. He sighed heavily. “Okay. Okay, you’re probably right. If you’re comfortable with it, it’s your call.”
Emma didn’t think they could afford to waste very much more time because of a delicate situation. If she wasn’t comfortable with it now, she’d just have to become so. She couldn’t see any other options.
“You follow me in your car,” he said. He then instructed two of the officers to follow in one cruiser behind Emma on the drive to the hospital. The other two officers he stationed at either entrance of the apartment until Emma returned. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Daina’s crying jag didn’t last long. It hurt too much. As soon as she started to sob, her body protested of its own accord, reminding her that such exertions were not currently factory recommended. She’d been about to bring her hands up to cover her face, but instead slammed them down to grip the arms of the chair.
“Jesus Christ,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes
shut as the pain ripped through her for the second time in less than an hour.
Her knuckles whitened and she could feel the edges of the metal armrests digging into her palms. Her muscles spasmed as she fought against the emotional tide that threatened to swamp her, creating even more pain. Eventually she was able to control the sobs, but she couldn’t stop the flow of scalding tears. She cried out of a sense of confusion, she cried out of fear and anger, she cried out of a combination of despair and denial. She cried out of frustration and she cried from the pain of her injuries. But mainly, she cried because she hadn’t yet. And she was overdue. She hung her head and the tears fell like rain into her lap, but the only sound that escaped her was that of her own ragged breath, hissing in and out of her open mouth.
The emotional storm passed; her pulse thudded dully in her ears as she blearily stared ahead at nothing. She sniffed a couple of times and brought the heels of her hands up to rub her eyes. She wiped the tears from her face with quick, almost angry swipes, sniffed again, and then carefully got to her feet. Grabbing the untouched coffee from her breakfast tray, she limped her way over to the window.
The view from the window was of the parking lot and the busy street beyond. It was mindless and soothing in a way, and for a short while all she did was stare at it and sip at her tepid coffee. She felt drained and hollow, but as the minutes passed, she felt a calm steal over her and infuse her. Expelling one last shaky breath, she tossed aside the blinders she’d knowingly or unknowingly kept in place for so many years, and took a long, hard look at her life as it now was.
Her career was on hold, she had come to accept that. She needed to heal and that would take as long as it took. The doctors had estimated an almost complete recovery by mid-September. It was now only mid-July. If breaking down and throwing a temper tantrum at this point would accomplish anything, she probably would have done so. But there was nothing she could do. She wasn’t happy about it, but she accepted it. She could still sing and play guitar, of that she was sure. So her career might be on hold for a while, but it wasn’t dead in the water.
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