Ten minutes later, we pulled up to the Storm River Police Station. The building didn’t look like the police stations back in Yerba, which had been cement buildings with bars over the windows. This place looked like an oversized beach house with its dormers and hurricane shutters.
Then again, this whole town needed to keep up appearances if it was going to remain a playground for rich politicians.
This cleaning crew worked in the evenings when the majority of law enforcement wasn’t at the station. I was instructed to be invisible while inside. They’d been hired because the language barrier offered a certain level of privacy. And since sensitive information could be left out in the open or discussed among them, discretion was priority.
But, since I secretly spoke English, eavesdropping would be easy for me.
I needed to locate Detective Hunter’s desk and see if I could find any information pertaining to the case there. And, as a backup, I could snoop into his files—but Oscar would deny any plausibility if I was caught.
The thought was not comforting.
Rosa doled out instructions. The woman was matronly, and I hadn’t seen her smile once. She obviously ran a tight ship. As she should.
She tossed an apron at me, and I pulled it on. I squinted when I read the words across the front. The Happy Hispanic? Really?
“¡Tú! Limpia los baños.”
Rosa had just assigned me to the bathrooms. Bathrooms? That wasn’t going to work, though. No way would I get close to that detective’s desk if I was cleaning the bathroom.
I needed to fix this.
As the rest of the crew disappeared inside, I turned to Rosa and squirmed in front of the building, trying to think quickly. The fact of the matter was that I was a terrible liar.
Finally, I told her I couldn’t breathe chemicals in confined spaces. I told her cystic fibrosis, a lung disease, ran in my family. The words were true, even though I didn’t have the disease.
God, forgive me. On second thought, I didn’t deserve forgiveness right now. Help me live with myself.
Even that request didn’t seem fair for me to ask.
I held my breath as I waited for Rosa’s response.
Unsmiling, Rosa narrowed her eyes and finally told me to mop the floors instead.
Perfect.
I grabbed a mop from her and pushed away my shame as I entered the station.
As I slung my mop on the floor, my gaze stopped at a poster on the bulletin board. It was an image of a faceless man—one of those outlines with a question mark where features should be.
“That’s the Beltway Killer,” someone said beside me.
I glanced up and saw an officer. He was on the younger side with a baby face and neat blond hair. He smiled, and I immediately knew he was an extrovert and a talker. Body Language 101.
I remembered I wasn’t supposed to understand English. Instead, I smiled and nodded. “Sí.”
The language barrier didn’t seem to deter him. “I sure do hope we find him. He’s a nasty one. Killed four women already.”
Four women? It seemed like I had heard something about this guy, some murmurings around town. I tried my best to avoid watching the news, but it was hard to avoid talk of this crime.
“I never thought a serial killer would hit this area.” The man shook his head as he stared at the wanted poster.
I glanced at the man’s name badge.
Bradford.
Seemed like an easy enough name to remember.
I continued mopping, trying to be polite but productive.
It never hurts to let the cops think you’re their friend. Oscar’s words echoed in my head. It was one thing to clean this place, but it was a whole different story to use someone. I wouldn’t take it that far.
“I really could use that reward,” Bradford continued. “One hundred thousand. Not bad, right?”
One hundred thousand? That wasn’t bad at all. I could pay for my sister’s surgery with money like that.
I put the idea out of my mind. No way was I capable of tracking down a serial killer. I should really track down Sarah Vance’s killer before trying to tackle a case that big.
Still, my gaze scanned the words there.
The text read: Beltway Killer. Believed to be a man in late twenties/early thirties. Caucasian. 5'10". Dark hair.
At the bottom, in large print, it read, “Tips leading to the arrest could result in 100K reward.”
Forget about it, Elliot.
I shoved the idea to the back of my mind. This wasn’t the time to fantasize about being a great detective. I was more of the administrative type—not a field worker. My mom and dad had always driven home that point.
When I’d wanted to be on student government, they’d convinced me to be a campaign manager instead. When I’d thought about studying law, they’d convinced me to work as chief of staff for a politician. When I’d considered traveling abroad to help those less fortunate, they’d encouraged me to volunteer for my mom’s mission instead. I guess they didn’t want me to be an overachiever.
Bradford’s radio crackled, and the man wandered away from me.
I released my breath.
Thank goodness. He’d been making me nervous.
I glanced across an open space dotted with multiple desks—the next place I needed to clean and my target area. I couldn’t help but notice that the workspaces weren’t evenly arranged, and I resisted the urge to nudge the desks into proper, symmetrical areas.
Things like this drove me crazy. What else drove me crazy? Pictures that were crooked. Flowers that weren’t planted evenly apart. Couches that weren’t parallel with the wall.
My dad had called it spatial intelligence. Said I had an excellent eye for detail. He’d encouraged me to use those traits behind the scenes to help keep less organized people in line.
I glanced around again. Only two people sat in their work areas right now. I assumed the majority of detectives worked the day shift. Of those who were working right now, no doubt most were on the streets instead of behind their desks.
I continued to drag my mop along the vinyl floor. As I did, I scanned the different nameplates. There was only one that I needed to find.
A quiver of anxiety rushed through me. Or was that excitement? Maybe it was both.
There had to be at least twenty desks in here. It would take a while to find what I was looking for.
I’d already scanned eight of them. I hadn’t seen the detective’s name.
Two men occupied the desks on the other side of the room. It would be trickier to find anything there. But I would try.
Blend in, Elliot. Be invisible.
I continued to mop around three more desks until my eyes fell on the words I’d been waiting to read.
Dylan Hunter.
This was his desk. Finally.
I glanced around to see if anybody was watching me. One cop was on his phone, and the other stared at a computer screen. My coworkers were wiping down windows on the other side of the room. The rest of the crew must be working in the bathrooms or in the lobby area.
My heart pounded out of control as I gripped the wooden handle. Could I really do this?
I swallowed hard. My nerves were getting the best of me. Almost like this wasn’t meant to be.
With a mop still in one hand, I glanced around the room again to make sure no one was watching.
They weren’t.
I looked down at the desk.
The space was neat. A mug proclaiming World’s Best Cup of Coffee was full of pens and pencils. A calendar lay across the middle. A computer stood guard in the corner. A picture of a man with his arm around a woman with mountains stretching behind them was taped to the monitor.
Then there was the three-tiered metal rack with files.
My heart beat even faster. One of those files could be exactly what I was looking for.
I moved my mop a few more times to make it look like I was cleaning in case anybody saw me. As I did, my eyes scanned
the words on the file tabs.
The first simply said Mackenzie. The second said Roster. Then there was the third one.
Vance.
That was it. What I was looking for. But how was I going to get that file out and open it without anyone seeing me?
I wasn’t sure, but there had to be a way.
I glanced around once more. Still, no one was looking at me. I hadn’t realized how invisible the cleaning crew could be. In some ways, maybe this was the perfect disguise to get information.
Maybe if I could just grab that file and pull it out onto the desk. I could open it and look inside to see exactly what kind of dirt this detective—the incompetent one, as Oscar had said—had dug up on our client.
But as I reached for the file, I heard a footstep behind me.
I froze, knowing I’d been caught red-handed.
Chapter Four
I grabbed the mop with both of my hands and twirled around.
To my surprise, a startlingly handsome man stared back at me.
He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes matched the shirt and were framed by thick lashes. His hair was dark blond, thick, and combed away from his face. He reminded me a touch of that actor who’d played Captain America. I didn’t know his name, but my sister had been swooning over him a few weeks ago.
I went back to his eyes again. Not only was the coloring startling, but so was the depth I saw there. They seemed to penetrate into me even though the man didn’t say a word.
At least he didn’t say a word . . . initially.
“Can I help you?” He stared at me.
“Hola, señor,” I started before spouting off more in rapid-fire Spanish.
You scared me to death. I didn’t even hear you coming.
He shifted. “What? Uh . . . Que?”
Don’t blow it. You’re part American but don’t show it. Otherwise, the detective will know it.
I licked my lips and prayed that understanding hadn’t lit in my gaze. “No . . . speak . . . inglés.”
He squinted in confusion before nodding. He motioned to the area beside him.
“If you don’t mind, work over there.” He pointed to indicate where I should go—far away from his desk.
Smart man.
I stared at him another moment, not because I didn’t understand what he was saying, but because he was so incredibly handsome.
“Clean?” I moved the mop to demonstrate. “There?”
He nodded slowly. “Sí. Thank you. Gracias.”
My heart pounded out of control as I moved away from his desk.
I had been close. So, so close to finding out that information.
And so close to being caught.
Oscar was not going to be happy. But I had done my best, especially considering I was untrained, reluctant, and slightly offended to be thrust into this position because of my skin color. Despite those things, a surge of satisfaction rose in me.
For the first time in a long time, I felt strangely alive.
I glanced back at Detective Hunter. He’d settled at his desk and pulled out a file. It appeared he’d probably be there for the rest of the night.
As he glanced back at me, I quickly looked away.
Maybe I would have better luck next time.
If there was a next time.
I didn’t finish with my cleaning job until after midnight. And I was exhausted.
Before this, I’d been employed by a large corporation where I sat in a five-story office building in a little cubicle and answered phone calls all day. It was a twenty-minute drive from my house—on a good day.
I’d only worked there two months. Misery was the word best to describe it. The pay had been okay, but I’d hated it so I’d had to weigh my options.
When I saw the job opening for Driscoll and Associates, I had applied.
Now here I was.
As I climbed into my car and drove away, I realized that I hadn’t felt this energized in a very long time. Which made no sense. I was a rule follower. An administrator. A behind-the-scenes person.
In a world where people liked to be in the spotlight, I was meant to be in the background, reading books, organizing things, and making other people look good.
So why had going undercover felt so invigorating?
I wasn’t sure.
I drove away from the apartment complex and headed back toward my house.
My mom wanted to stay close to DC because that’s where the best medical care was for my sister. However, the prices of living away from DC were much easier to handle. Since we were near the water, the salt air also helped my sister’s breathing.
I, for one, missed my home country. I missed their tasty bananas. The fresh papayas. Their rich coffee. The sunshine. The fresh air.
The community.
The Festival of the Chicken.
Sergio.
Only two blocks from home, my car sputtered.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Not again.
I knew what was coming. Smoke drifted from the hood again. My car lurched and jerked.
And then the engine died.
Thankfully, I was able to pull over to the side of the road first.
I climbed out and popped the hood. All the components blended together as I stared at the engine and various tubes.
The man who’d helped me earlier today had made the repair look so easy. But looking at all the mechanisms inside my car, I had no idea how to fix this. As soon as I got home, I was going to have to Google some tips and hope that I found some answers. I couldn’t afford to pay a mechanic.
I let out a long breath and glanced down the dark sidewalk stretching in front of me. There were cracks there—and plenty of them. Grass sprang up from brokenness. Potholes littered the road, and weathered fences lined most of the area.
It wouldn’t be that bad to walk home, even if it was pitch-black outside.
Right?
Our home was eight blocks away from the quaint downtown area along the river. The neighborhood where my house stood had yet to be revamped like most of the other areas had been. My mom, sister, and I were renting a house, and the owner was holding out, refusing to let anyone buy the property. I’d heard he had several offers from people who wanted to flip it and revitalize the area, taking it from ordinary into prestigious.
In some ways, I was thankful. I liked this little house with its aged wood floors and years of history etched into the scrapes and nicks. But this older area with its original cottages was also where most of the so-called local riffraff in the area chose to live. It was the only affordable housing in a community taken over by the rich.
As I walked along the cracked sidewalk with my Clorox-scented hands shoved down into the pockets of my khakis, I heard something behind me and paused.
My muscles tightened as I glanced over my shoulder.
Was somebody behind me? I’d had this feeling on the way to work, right before my car broke down. Maybe I hadn’t been imagining things.
I looked back.
Maybe I was hearing things.
My dad always told me I had great instincts, though. If my dad was right, that meant that somebody was close. I needed to take that seriously.
I thought about the man who’d helped me on the side of the road today. I thought about the word he’d muttered as he walked away. Mantente alerta.
That was no coincidence. It couldn’t be.
Was he somehow connected with my time in Yerba?
I heard the noise again. A footstep. Behind me.
My first inclination was to slow down, to see who it might be.
But I couldn’t afford that luxury. If someone was behind me, I needed to run like I’d otherwise be done.
I quickened my steps. I wasn’t ready to sprint yet. But I would, if necessary.
Another footstep sounded.
Sweat spread across my brow. Why would someone be following me?
None of the scenarios that played out in my mind w
ere what I wanted to envision.
What if it was the Beltway Killer? I fit his victims’ profile. I was a woman in my twenties.
No, why would the Beltway Killer be coming after me? I’d simply seen that poster earlier, and now my mind was playing tricks on me, making me paranoid.
As the footsteps grew closer, I knew I had to act. I had to leave. And fast.
I broke out into a run.
I spotted my house up ahead. The little one-story bungalow that I had called home for the past three months. A rusty chain-link fence surrounded it. Right now, it just seemed like another obstacle separating me from safety.
I reached the flimsy barrier and fumbled with the latch. Finally, the gate opened, and I ran up the sidewalk to my front door. I almost dropped the keys, but I caught them.
Somehow, I unlocked my door. As soon as I was inside, I slammed it shut and hit all the locks. Then I peered out the window.
The shadow was there.
On the edge of the property.
I couldn’t see a face. All I could see was a hazy image.
Someone had been following me. I had no doubt about that.
But as quickly as I’d seen him, he disappeared. He walked away.
I released my breath.
Until I heard a footstep behind me.
Chapter Five
“Elliot? What are you doing?”
I twirled around and saw my mother standing there, pulling her house robe closer around her. She’d obviously been trying to sleep. I say trying because I knew she never fully went to sleep until both of her daughters were home—we were all adjusting to life without Dad. Life on our own.
“My car broke down so I had to walk the rest of the way home,” I quickly explained.
My mom’s eyebrows shoved together. She looked younger than her fifty-two years and had been mistaken for my older sister on more than one occasion. I’d inherited my boyish figure from her, but my dark hair was from my dad.
Mom had light honey-blonde hair that she usually kept pulled back in a ponytail. The fine lines on her face hadn’t appeared until two months ago when my father had been taken away entirely too soon.
The Art of Eavesdropping Page 3
