by LENA DIAZ,
No matter how tight and dark it was.
“No problem.” She struggled to sound nonchalant. “I understand you were just trying to protect me. And of course it makes sense for you to stay in this room with me. After all, you are my babysitter.”
He frowned and looked as though he wanted to argue, but she grabbed her suitcase and swept past him.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
* * *
AFTER SPENDING ALL DAY and all night cooped up in the motel room, Darby was more than ready to go somewhere else, anywhere else. Still, the police station wouldn’t have been her first choice. But Rafe wanted her to meet with the sketch artist this morning.
The sprawling complex off U.S. 1 that housed the police department was almost a second home for Darby. She’d been in the driver’s license office next door a couple of times. She’d been at the courthouse as an expert witness too many times to count. And she was often in the police station to be interviewed by the detectives, including Rafe.
But she’d never been in the police station as a witness to a crime, until today.
The sketch artist sat across from Darby now. Sandy seemed nice enough, but Darby still couldn’t relax. The idea of trying to describe a man who’d tried to kill her, and was still out there somewhere, had her clutching her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. The confidence she normally felt deserted her. “The nose is wrong, but I can’t figure out why.”
Sandy picked up her eraser and rubbed it across the drawing, leaving a white open area on the page where the nose used to be. “Take all the time you need.”
“His nose looked a lot like mine,” Rafe said from the doorway. “Except it was slightly crooked at the end, if that helps.” He was holding a large, brown paper sack and a cardboard drink carrier with three cups. He set them on the desk. “The guys finally brought subs. Sorry it took so long to get lunch.”
Sandy watched him closely, studying his face as her pencil moved across the pad of paper on her lap. She sketched in a new nose on the drawing, then held it up for Darby’s inspection. “Better?”
A chill swept through Darby. Until now, the sketch hadn’t seemed like a real person’s likeness. But now, looking at that familiar face, all the fear and helplessness she’d felt in the boat, the marsh, the hospital, came crashing back.
Her throat was too tight to speak, so she gave a small nod.
A thoughtful look crossed Rafe’s face. As if coming to a decision, he pulled one of the sandwiches out of the bag and held it out to Sandy. “Would you mind eating somewhere else? I’d like a few moments alone with Dr. Steele.”
“No problem, Detective Morgan. I could use a break anyway.” Sandy rose from the chair behind the desk, leaving her pad and pencil. She grabbed her soda and sandwich. “I’ll be back in, what, half an hour?”
“That’ll work,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Thanks for lunch.” She raised the sub in salute and left the office.
Rafe closed the door behind her, moved one of the sandwiches to the edge of the desk so Darby could reach it and sat down across from her. “I ordered you a diet soda. Forgot to ask what you wanted to drink, but I figured diet was safe. My sisters love the stuff so I took the chance you might, too.”
She smiled her thanks and scooted her chair closer so she could use the desk as a table. They ate in silence, and it wasn’t until she finished her sub that she realized she’d practically inhaled her food.
Rafe’s blue eyes lit with amusement, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Don’t be embarrassed. Your manners were impeccable.” He laughed when she scowled at him. “You had to be hungry. You haven’t eaten since we ordered room service around this time yesterday.”
She wiped her mouth and set her napkin down. “What about you?” She waved at his half-eaten sandwich, which he hadn’t touched in several minutes. “Aren’t you hungry? Are you feeling okay? The concussion—”
“The concussion is not an issue. I don’t even have a headache anymore. Besides, I snacked earlier on some vending machine food.”
She tossed her sandwich wrapper in the garbage can. “Were you able to find anything out about the investigation? Are there any leads?”
“I’ll answer that in a minute. First, you have something important to take care of.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket and held it out to her.
“What’s this for?” she asked, hesitantly taking the phone.
“With everything happening so fast, I didn’t think to offer earlier.”
“Offer what?”
“To let you call your family. They have to be worried about you. Even though your name wasn’t released to the press, the location of the warehouse bombing was. And your family has to be worried that your office was just across the street, especially since they haven’t heard from you.” He stood. “Is ten minutes enough time?”
He was halfway to the door when she called out to him. “Wait, I don’t... I don’t need ten minutes. I don’t even need one. But...thanks. Really, I appreciate it.”
A look of understanding crossed his face as he took the phone and sat down again. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t have a family. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”
“No, I...ah, have a family. I just don’t...” She awkwardly cleared her throat. “You said you were going to tell me about the investigation.”
He studied her, looking thoughtful.
She tried to sit still without squirming under his scrutiny. Her family situation was complicated, and not something she wanted to discuss, especially with Rafe Morgan.
“Actually,” he said, “I want your help on another part of the investigation, aside from the sketch.”
Darby let out a relieved breath.
Rafe pulled his chair around the side of the desk next to hers and rested his forearms on his knees. “The fingerprints from the hospital confirm that Daniels and Buresh were both attacked by the same perp.”
She frowned. “Did you think there was more than one?”
“We can’t make assumptions. That’s when mistakes happen. Unfortunately, the fingerprints didn’t come up in our local database or in the FBI database. That means our perpetrator hasn’t been in the system before. So, we’re no closer to knowing who he is. But if we can get a list of suspects together, we’ll be able to exclude based on those prints.” He shrugged. “It’s a start.”
“You said you thought I could help. How?”
“You’re the common link. The bomber sent the first envelope to you. And then he left an envelope at the scene with your picture in it, when he abducted you.”
She blinked at the reminder and tightened her hands on the arms of the chair. “Go on.”
He studied her for a moment, as if to decide whether she was going to fall apart or not. “Since he doesn’t know where you are,” he continued, “we believe he’ll move on to another victim soon. When he does, I’d like to be ahead of the game, with a list of potential suspects. That’s where you come in. There has to be a connection between you and the bomber. Is there anyone you’ve had an argument with recently, someone who might think of you as their enemy?”
“Honestly, there are probably a lot of people who think of me as their enemy.”
His brows rose.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “I told you I get a few threats every year. I’m a psychologist, and an expert witness. Both of those roles pit me against plenty of people, from clients’ families who don’t think I did enough to help their loved ones, to families of victims in court cases where I testified on behalf of the accused. It’s a long list. The best thing to do is to get my laptop from my office. All of my active cases are on there. And my backup external drive has older cases. I need my computer anyway, so I can review the appointments that have to be canceled, and arrange referrals for my clients until I can return to work.”
Some of his earlier enthusiasm waned. “Just how long a list are we talking about?”
“I�
�ve been a practicing psychologist for six years, worked with hundreds of clients.”
“Our bomber is angry,” Rafe said. “Something happened recently to set him off. I’m assuming the bomber and your kidnapper are the same person for now, so let’s limit our search to males only. And let’s focus on the past six months. How many cases then?”
“I disagree with your timeline assumption. People can hold grudges for a long time. Sometimes, the anger builds over time rather than diminishes. Especially if someone is mentally unbalanced.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’d say our bomber is definitely unbalanced, or he wouldn’t be running around trying to kill people.” His jaw tightened. “But of course, that doesn’t mean he’s legally insane and can get off without doing time for murder once we do catch him.”
She sighed and chose to ignore his unsubtle barb, his implication that she might jump on his statement and use it to get the bomber a lighter sentence. “I’m just saying that if you focus on the past six months, you might rule out someone who feels he was wronged much longer ago than that, maybe years. But until now he either didn’t have a plan or the means to execute his plan, or something happened recently to trigger his behavior.”
He cocked his head, looking thoughtful. “Let’s assume we go back twelve months. How many clients are we talking about then?”
She shrugged. “I’ve personally treated dozens of clients in the past year. Add in the court cases where I’ve consulted and testified, both here and in neighboring cities like Jacksonville, maybe a hundred. And of course you’d have to consider the family members as potential suspects, too.”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s better than what I had before, which was absolutely nothing. Let’s go find Sandy and finish that sketch. Then you can give me your keys and I’ll get that laptop and hard drive from your office.”
“You aren’t going to my office without me. And you aren’t looking at my files without a court order.”
“Are you seriously going to force me to subpoena your files? That’s a huge waste of time.”
“I could lose my license. I have to respect my clients’ privacy.”
He shook his head, not looking happy. “Fine, I’ll have one of the guys get a court order. In the meantime, I’m still going to be the one to go get your files for you—even if I’m not looking at them yet. There’s a guy out there trying to kill you. You aren’t going anywhere near your house or your office until we catch him. You can wait here while I go.”
“It’s not that simple. I’ll need my appointment book, my files on other psychologists so I can work on referrals, my notes from recent meetings and therapy sessions that haven’t been put into the computer yet. There’s no way I’ll be able to explain where all of that is, or exactly what to look for.”
“What about your receptionist, Mindy?”
“Assistant, not receptionist.”
He raised a brow and waited for her answer.
She chewed her bottom lip as she thought about what she would need. “Okay, that will work. I’ll ask her to go by my house and get some of my notes in my home office, too. It might take a few hours for her to pull everything together.”
He looked at his watch and stood. “We can’t stay here much longer. Someone is bound to see my truck and assume you’re here with me.”
“What do you mean? Our names weren’t in the paper. And wouldn’t the bomber think I’m still at the hospital? That’s why we left while it was still dark yesterday morning.”
He gave her a droll look. “How long have you lived in St. Augustine?”
“All my life. Why?”
“Me, too, so we both know how small towns work. The bombing, the boat crash, the search for the gunman in the marsh, Daniels’s murder—it’s all over the news. By now, someone at the hospital has pieced it together, that you and I were the ones the gunman was after. They’ve told a friend, who told another friend, and so on. It’s only a matter of time until the reporters hear our names and go on the hunt. We need to get out of here, get new transportation and find a new place to stay before some overzealous reporter leads the killer straight to you.”
* * *
AFTER FINISHING WITH the sketch artist, Darby and Rafe were about to leave the police station when a man stepped in front of the door, blocking their way.
Jake. Again.
“Move,” Rafe said. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time. What the hell was that all about at the hospital? You almost ran me down.”
“I might ask you the same thing. Why were you hunting for Darby and me with a gun?”
Jake’s brows rose. “Hunting? I went to the hospital to see you. When the power went out, I figured you might be in trouble. So I went up the back stairs to try to find you. And protect you.” His face twisted with anger. “Is that what you thought? That I was trying to kill you? Are you really that stupid?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes at his former friend. “Are you stupid enough to think I’d believe you went to the hospital to visit me? Especially after holding your gun on me before those SWAT guys showed up?”
Jake’s hands tightened into fists. “Maybe I was being a jerk in the stairwell, but I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. I didn’t say I went to the hospital to visit you. I said I went to see you, to discuss the evidence I collected in the warehouse. To brainstorm about the case that I’m trying to solve.” He added a few choice swearwords, letting Rafe know exactly what he thought of his suspicions.
“Uh, Rafe. Everyone’s watching us.” Darby put her hand on his arm.
Sure enough, everyone in the lobby was watching them. A couple of uniformed officers looked ready to step in, if necessary. Hell, if he and Jake came to blows right now they’d both end up in the tank, meaning Darby would have to rely on someone else for guard duty.
Since he didn’t trust anyone but himself to look after her, he forced himself to calm down. He drew a deep breath.
“Get out of my way, Jake.”
Jake shook his head. “Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to help. You can’t go out this way.” He pointed through the glass doors to the parking lot. “The St. Augustine Record has a reporter sitting in a silver Ford Taurus parked right beside your flashy truck.”
Rafe stepped to the side, shading his eyes against the sun reflecting through the glass. Sure enough, there was someone sitting in a Taurus beside his truck, a Taurus he recognized as belonging to one of the Record’s reporters—Robert Ellington.
He gave Jake a terse nod. “Thanks. I was going to swap my ‘flashy truck’ with someone else’s vehicle. I’ll just call and have him pick me up here instead.”
“Take mine. I’ll drive yours.” Jake held up a set of keys.
Ignoring the keys, Rafe waited for the sarcastic comment he knew would come next.
Jake’s face turned a dull shade of red. “Look, there’s no angle here. Yesterday morning I was trying to flag you down to trade cars at the hospital, but you practically ran me over. I just want to make sure Dr. Steele gets out of here safely, without some reporter following her.”
Wait for it. Wait for it...
“Besides, you suck at protecting people. You need all the help you can get.”
“Keep your keys.” He shoved Jake out of the way and pulled Darby through the door after him.
As they neared his truck, he pressed the clicker and unlocked the doors. He hurried to the driver’s side, picked Darby up and practically threw her inside, slamming the door closed behind her. Darby’s eyes widened when he pulled out a pocketknife and turned back to the car beside them.
The reporter was just getting out of his car when Rafe stabbed one of the rear tires. The reporter ran behind his car, his mouth dropping open like a widemouthed bass.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that.”
“I just did, Bobby.” Rafe couldn’t resist baiting the other man, knowing he preferred to be called Robert. He grabbe
d the man’s camera, holding it above the shorter man’s head, out of reach. He took out the memory card and the battery, tossing them through the open window into the back floorboard of the Taurus, then throwing the camera onto the passenger seat.
Bobby’s face turned bright red. “You won’t get away with this, Morgan. I have my rights.”
Leaning in through the open window, Rafe took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the shrubs a few feet away. “Dr. Steele has the right to be safe. That trumps the first amendment any day. Besides, I’m not stopping you. I’m just delaying you. Bill the station for the tire.”
He yanked his truck door open and hopped inside.
Darby glared at him. “Don’t you think you overreacted just a bit?” she accused.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
Memories of the brutal home invasion, the senseless loss of his wife and the press’s intrusion into his private life had his jaw clenching. Ellington had been the worst of all the reporters, splashing the story in the newspaper long after other news outlets had let the story die a natural death. Ellington was the one who kept digging, looking for a motive.
He was the one who found out about the adultery.
That was the first, and only, time Rafe had ever lost his temper with a civilian. Ellington had spent a week in the hospital. Rafe had spent an entire month on unpaid suspension.
He twisted the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. “Let’s just say, he and I have a history.”
Chapter Seven
Darby quietly watched Rafe as he drove them down a residential street into the heart of St. Augustine’s historic district, a neighborhood of wooden two-story houses shaded by centuries-old live oak trees. He’d told her they were going to exchange his truck for another vehicle, but that’s about all he’d said to her since they’d left the police station.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked.
“Talk about what?” He put the blinker on, and slowed to turn down another street, edging around a group of teenagers standing near the end of a driveway.
