“Yes.” His eyes narrowed, and his body tensed as he leaned toward me.
“This may not be connected, but the more I think about it, the more it’s giving me the chills. The note wasn’t signed—not really.”
“Was it signed with a letter, or an initial?”
“It didn’t look like anything at the time. It just looked like, you know, a smudge or something. Never mind. Let’s just drop it.”
“Humor me, Josie. What did the note say?” He leaned back on the counter, arms folded.
“Something to the tune of ‘Merry Christmas, Chief. Enjoy the holiday season.’”
“That’s not ringing any alarm bells for me.”
“That’s not all. On the back of the card, he wrote a little New Year’s inscription.” The pounding in my temples was no longer dull. I grabbed my purse off the counter and rummaged around until I found a bottle of aspirin. I poured three into my hand. “Give me a refill, would you, please?”
We both watched the clear liquid as he poured it from the sleek water bottle. He put the bottle down, handed my glass back to me, and looked at me so hard I turned my eyes away from his.
“What did it say?”
I gulped down the aspirin. “All the best in the New Year. Live each day like it might be your last.”
“Where is it?”
“In my office.” My breath came fast and shallow. I grabbed the counter edge to steady myself.
“That didn’t strike you as odd until now?”
“No, I honestly kind of liked it. I thought it was from a country-western song when I read it. I didn’t take it as a threat.”
Nick’s eyes were angry slits. His voice had taken on a dangerous tone. “Yeah. None of his vics did.”
My Christmas card admission cast a somber note over our evening. In spite of the delicious food and all I had to be grateful for, I couldn’t keep myself from veering down the Nomad brick road. Nick was no better. He showed me the mug shots of Mr. Terry, but I didn’t recognize him. So that part didn’t seem to match the Mentor Sister case. After dispatching a team of agents to my office to enter the card into evidence, Nick was pacing my living room.
My nerves jumped into overdrive. “So, what now? What are you doing about this guy?”
“Take it easy. He’s behind bars, remember? No threat there. My biggest worry with this case is on the evidence front. I spent an hour questioning him myself the other day, and I’m telling you, I think he’s good for it. I can feel it, but we can’t prove it. Yet. We will though.”
“Well, now, I’m suddenly interested in your babysitting commission. It’ll give me pleasure to get this sick psycho to the church on time.”
“Oh, no. That deal’s off.”
“It most certainly is not!” My voice rose an octave or two. “Now I care about this—a lot—and Gino will too. I guarantee you that.”
“We want to keep this one under wraps—ship and flip him over the holidays, fly under the media radar in case anyone connects the dots. I figured you could use the distraction of guarding the transport bus. But we need to rethink that now.”
His tone was crisp. I frowned. “What, now that the guy could be a real threat, you want a real cop on escort duty? Nice, Nick. Real nice.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s not like we’ll be driving the bus. He’ll be in cuffs and have like four armed guards on him in an armored vehicle, right?”
“Something like that.”
“And, if I know you, you’ve probably already lined up Gino to be my driver.”
“Maybe.”
“Which would mean I’d be getting a trip to town on the state’s dime, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
“This job’s a piece of cake. Why wouldn’t I jump at it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re human, and you’re not half as tough as you’d like the world to believe. This guy could be hard core. And you could be next on his list. I can’t risk that. It’s too close to home. You can sit this one out.” Nick’s voice resonated with concern.
“I’ve been sitting out way too much, for way too long, and look where it’s gotten me. What’s the big deal? Gino and me, sitting in a van, trailing the big, bad, stupidly expensive Illinois Department of Corrections super bus. What could be safer than being with Gino in a van over a holiday weekend? And besides, it’s not like I’ve got any big plans at the moment.”
“You got me there. I’m out of objections. But I will say this, if anything pops on this case, and this guy starts looking better as our unsub, all bets are off. We’ll start with sending your card to the lab. See if it starts singing.”
“I can get behind that.”
“All right then. Let’s have some dessert and talk about something more pleasant—like your divorce.”
I’d spent the next few days out of the office, tending to my wounded pride, canceling the timeshare in Maui, hanging with Jim, Donna, and Nick, and going back and forth from the gym to the local stable where I boarded my horse. By the time Friday rolled around, I was more than ready for a change of scenery.
Nick propped me up with strong coffee and visions of spending a day with Gino, and I got on the road before 6:00 a.m., to beat rush hour on my way south to Springfield. Hot coffee, talk radio, and two books on tape kept me company as I drove my chief of police squad car. After a while, the hypnotizing effect of the familiar drive took hold. Roadside markers rolled by in slow motion, relentless in the monotony of yet another trip down Highway 55. Mile after mile of flat, barren landscape napped on the side of the road, fully clothed in winter with the promise of slick roads wrapped in short, dark days.
I reviewed the events of the past week in vivid detail, frame by agonizing frame. As the jagged scenes lingered and endlessly dull scenery blurred past, my eyelids grew heavy, and I caught myself nodding off for a second. I needed to take a little break, so I hit buttons intermittently to haul the power windows up and down.
The chilly air revived me, and I caught the flash of a green-and-white road sign just in time to read the name of the sleepy little bedroom community: Dellesville. Not where I was pulling off, no matter how tired I was. Until the sign informed me it was another forty-eight miles between Dellesville and the next exit.
The exit ramp appeared on my right. I jerked the steering wheel without letting up on the gas, semi-mindful of the cars and trucks behind me, and was rewarded with angry looks and a little horn honking as I careened up the ramp.
I came to an abrupt stop at the intersection. To my right was a strip mall. A full-service gas station boasting of diesel fuel, Wisconsin brats, and showers by the hour flanked the mini-mall. I turned left instead, drawn to the red-and-white awning of a decent fast-food restaurant. I was momentarily hypnotized by the hazy dream of a large turtle sundae with salted pecans.
I eased into a spot adjacent to the handicapped parking near the restaurant door. William Green’s name flashed up on my car monitor half a second before the phone rang. I answered it mid ring.
“What’s up, William?” Phone manners tended to evaporate the minute Samantha’s social worker called.
“Hello, Jo. Everything’s fine with Samantha, so please put your mind at ease.” The tension in his voice belied his command to relax.
“But?”
“But, there’s something I just want to run by you.” His baritone voice rose an octave.
“Go on.” I straightened in my seat.
“Samantha’s foster parents have noticed a woman in the neighborhood. She’s not exactly menacing, but there’s something off about her.”
“Go on.” My hand brushed my weapon. It remained at the ready, tucked away in my shoulder harness.
“Evidently, this woman has been hanging around the playground in a park up the street. At first she said she was a nanny, so no one thought twice about it... until yesterday afternoon. Four of the five sets of parents who regularly s
ee each other at the playground met at the same coffee shop and started comparing stories.” Paper rustled quietly, as though he was reading his notes.
“And?” My brows furrowed hard enough to form permanent wrinkles on the spot.
“And the phrase, ‘I thought she was theirs,’ came out of all four couples when it was reported later. Along with, ‘She seemed innocent enough.’” It sounded like he was tapping his pen against the desk. William was a retired cop. His do-unto-others core couldn’t retire, so he had returned to school for a degree in social work the day after he left the force. My hero.
“I still hear a ‘but.’ Why did the parents report her?” My spidey senses were on high alert.
“She was asking about Samantha. At least, we think she was asking about Samantha.” He paused.
My heart stopped beating, and a cold stillness enveloped me. “She was asking what about Samantha? Did she use her actual name? Did she know who Sam was? How do you know it was Sam she was interested in?”
“We’re not positive. She told two sets of neighbors she was a nanny for the Stevens family, one street over. She asked about the Christmas pageant. Said she loved the little donkey and thought she’d steal the show. But she also talked about the kids playing Mary and Joseph. So, it really could be any of them.” His voice thinned out, and I struggled to hear him.
Samantha was playing a wise man in the pageant, so maybe this was nothing. “So why the call?”
“Doesn’t matter which one she was interested in, Chief. The Stevens don’t have a nanny.”
“That just rang the creep-o-meter at seven bells.” I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning from pink to white.
“Yeah, I thought so too. Could be she’s just a real pageant aficionada.”
“Yeah. Could be.”
“Could be just another one of your garden variety nut jobs too.” William-the-cop was in full force.
“Could be.”
“But, just in case, I did take the liberty of asking some old pals to run the descriptions I got of the mystery woman, but we hit nothing but brick walls and dead ends.” William had been an excellent cop.
“So, for now, we don’t know what we don’t know. And we live with the ambiguity. And pay for some off-duty pals to watch my little girl every time she leaves the house. Definitely during all rehearsals and performances of the pageant. At the very least.” Since I couldn’t be there, I wanted fierce warriors with modern weapons surrounding my girl at all times. I wanted the impossible: I wanted her to stay one-hundred percent safe.
“I say we just hang tight and circle the wagons for now. Keeping an eye out is a good idea, but paying some off-duty cops to pack a little heat seems kinda—”
“Kinda like what you’d be doing if you were in my position?” Hot lava rushed through me, pushing its way up my back and into my throat.
“Maybe. Maybe it’s a lot like what I’d be doing. Maybe it’s overkill by two paranoid cops. I don’t know. I just wanted you to know everything I know and now you do. A word of advice?”
“From you, William? Any time, any place.” I opened up my palms, flexing my fingers.
“I don’t like the way this sounds any more than you do. But we’ve done all we can, and now that I’ve flattened you with all the bad news, here’s some great news. Samantha’s currently with her foster family on a one-day skiing vacation far, far from here. And you and me and Mitch are the only ones having this conversation. So you’ve got some room to take a breath. Get some relief from all this stuff you’ve had piling up on those shoulders of yours and live a little.” William had made the switch from cop back to social worker in less than ten seconds.
“All right, William, I hear you.”
“Please take care of yourself in the middle of this mess. You know the score—deep breaths, good thoughts, and the occasional ice-cream sundae. Whatever it takes to stay relaxed in the midst of the storms of life, right?” The warmth behind his words calmed me down like a hug.
I looked up at the fast-food place where I’d parked and smiled. “William, I’m going to take this as a sign from God. I’m staring at a poster of ice-cream cones.”
He laughed. “Well, then, go with God, Chief. I think my work is done here.”
“I think so, too. Thanks, William. I’ll be in touch.”
A quick call to some good officers who could stand to earn some money from private security took care of my worries about Samantha when she got home from skiing. When I slid out of the squad car, my reflection in the full-length windows gave me pause. Dress blues were a social requirement for state events, and I’d worn mine for the trip down. I cut quite a striking figure as I shut the car door, even with bloodshot eyes. I unbuttoned my jacket, put my hand on my hip, admiring the way my belt nipped in my waist. A middle-aged couple beat me to the door just as I walked up the ramp, and the man held the door open for both his wife and me.
“Women and officers first,” he said as he openly admired my service weapon. “Nice piece there, ma’am.”
The wife jabbed an elbow into her husband’s thick waist as he whistled his approval, rolling her eyes at him and offering an apology to me all at once.
I smiled without breaking my gait. “Thanks. Came with the jacket.”
I stepped past them into another line and ordered an extra-large turtle sundae with a large diet cola chaser. I strode to one of the small plastic tables, stiff muscles protesting with each step. I rarely wore my shoulder holster. Besides being too warm under jackets—to the point of ruining some of my favorite silk blouses—it rubbed against my ribcage, sometimes making me sore for days. What I was thinking earlier this morning when I put the whole package together? That was just it. I wasn’t thinking. I was living moment-to-moment, and it was rubbing me raw in ways I’d never experienced before.
Another uncomfortable spot in my jacket erupted as I waited for my sundae and I snagged a rolled-up magazine out of an inside pocket. I’d jammed it into my jacket on my way out of the house, fully intending to unroll it and stick it into one of the longer, zippered compartments of my briefcase as soon as I got into the car... almost three hours ago.
I placed the magazine on the tabletop and smoothed it out, nearly salivating at the thought of reading its glossy pages. An acne-laden, carrot-topped boy of about fifteen walked up to my table. I offered him my red-and-white number and he stood before me trembling, the tray he held between his scrawny arms shaking. Poor kid. My cop uniform must have scared him.
I stuck the number on his tray and picked up my sundae and soda. The gangly boy backed into his retreat before I removed my hand from his tray, all the while staring at my ribcage. I really should’ve locked my weapon in the trunk before hitting the road today.
It was legal for me to travel armed, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable, and I was sick and tired of being uncomfortable. I shoveled the first of many giant spoonfuls of ice cream, chocolate sauce, and salted pecans into my mouth, waiting for the hit of euphoria to sink in.
Even though it was winter, the cold dessert warmed me from the inside out as I browsed through the magazine spreads of the latest fashions. The extra endorphins flooding my brain eased the tension, but I was hyper-aware of the sharp discomfort of the gun digging into my ribs. Looking around the restaurant, I pulled the pistol out of my holster and placed it between two magazine pages. Sweet relief washed over me, and I finished my treat in companionable silence with my fellow patrons.
Could have been they weren’t used to seeing women eating ice cream for breakfast.
The last forty-five minutes of my journey to Springfield flew by. I blasted rock music from the 1970s all the way to The Royal Plaza.
The rest of the day fell in line with my early morning start. Gino’s smile floated before my eyes like a precious gem. We hadn’t really talked since our rather chilly-ending dinner, and I was eager to clear the air between us. His van sat in the first row as I pulled into the hotel’s expansive parking lot. Gino was out of th
e car before I even had mine in park next to his. His broad smile felt like home, and he shook his head and deepened his smile as I drew near enough for a quick hug.
“Hey, G! I thought I’d be riding with you on this crummy job.” I pulled back from him, straightening my jacket and repositioning my briefcase strap on my shoulder. A large man wearing a hoodie stood behind Gino, arms crossed. I jabbed my head in his direction. “This guy taking my cruiser back home?”
Gino nodded.
I handed Gino the keys. “You vet him?”
Gino nodded again. “Por supuesto. Crummy? This no is crummy job, m’hija. This is a dream job. Traveling behind a beautiful coach—fully armored and fully loaded—with you at my side. Carrying a pig’s pig to a destination he does not wish to see. What could be better than this?”
“The bus one of yours, then?”
“M’hija, they are mostly all mine in this state. And in the next two states.”
In addition to designing handcuffs, zip ties, and most other criminal restraint items my own station stocked, Gino’s design talents bled over into vehicles and security systems. His products were in high demand before they left the drawing board. The armored bus transporting Cal “Nomad” Terry was one of Gino’s latest designs, and I couldn’t wait to see it rolling down the highway sporting its first dangerous, yet well-contained, criminal.
“Our ride is parked just outside the capitol building. I go to bring it up for us, and you will meet me in front of the steps.” Gino’s vibrancy eclipsed his free-style grammar.
“C’mon, cut me some slack, G. How about we meet a block up, in front of the coffee shop?”
“Can I not entice you with an organic smoothie instead? As I have so often stated, you and coffee have become overly entwined.”
“Coffee would be lovely. How about we meet in front of our little shop in five?” Triumphant for the moment, I turned on my heel and walked off before he could object again. A favorite little boutique was on the way, and it ought to be just opening up. If I hurried, I could take a quick tour through its wall of purses.
Cleansed by Death Page 10
