by Mary Burton
“What’s a fight going to cost you?”
She held up the glass, turning it, watching the water weep down the sides of the glass. “More than I have.”
“Freedom is a good thing, Deidre, and not to be taken lightly. As much as my first reaction is to fight, I know that surviving is best. Maybe it’s better to walk away.”
Deidre sipped her water, wondering how much it would take to wash down the bitterness. “Yeah. I suppose.” Walking away wasn’t her style.
“How about dinner tomorrow? We can meet at that burger place that serves those million-calorie burgers. Maybe we can even split a milkshake.”
Laughing, Deidre rolled her neck from side to side. She didn’t want to like Leah, but she did. “I’d like that.”
“Are you okay for now?”
“I’m fine. I’m always fine. And touching base with you helped.”
“My ear is here for the bending. Always.”
Deidre heard the conviction underscoring Leah’s words. “Thanks, Leah. Text you a time and place tomorrow?”
“Perfect.”
She ended the call and strolled across the living room toward the overstuffed couch in her den. She’d moved into the place a couple of weeks before, finally deciding to give up the rented hotel suite for a more permanent address. Walking away from a marriage with no possessions and no money made furnishing the place tough, so she’d opted for a partially furnished place. Already she looked forward to the day when she could decorate the place with her own stuff. Other than her clothes, computer, and a few kitchen necessities, nothing here belonged to her.
She took another big sip of water. The price of freedom.
A clang of the trash cans outside had her turning back to the French doors that led out onto a patio. The heavy sheers over the windowpanes blocked out most of the backyard view of the woods. She rose, set down her glass, and removed her gun from her purse. She edged toward the doors, checking her watch. As she reached for the door handle, she spotted the note taped to the outside windowpane. Written in a thick magic marker, the note simply read, I see you.
As she glared at the note, a quick test of the door handle found it locked. Quickly, she unlocked the door, snatched the note, and relocked it. She studied the lined yellow paper. I see you.
“Where?” Her first thought was Tyler. This felt like more of his bullshit. “Damn you.”
She crumpled the note in her hand and turned away from the door, moving back toward her purse. She set her sidearm down, grabbed her cell phone again, and dialed his number. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, the call went to his voice mail. “This is Deputy Tyler Radcliff. Leave a message.”
A litany of oaths crossed her mind as she looked at the crumpled note. There’d be no proving he left it there, but she recognized his handwriting. She could run fingerprints. His might appear. But he was clever and would argue she’d stolen the legal pad he always kept on his desk. A frame-up, he’d say.
She swallowed the oaths and ended the call, tossing the phone onto the table as she shoved the note in her pants pocket. They were scheduled to meet with the judge on Tuesday, and she didn’t need to hear her voice ranting to his voice mail on the phone. And in two days all her troubles would be gone.
“I’ll put the screws to you in court.” A second phone in her purse dinged, signaling a text. It was the burn phone she’d purchased with cash a few weeks before.
I’M HERE.
Tyler quickly forgotten, she put down her personal cell. Her heart rate jumped. All this time and planning and he was here. This time, if he wanted his money or more information, he’d have to face her. So close to taking the bait. So close to ending this nightmare.
WHERE?
OUTSIDE.
NOW? WE MEET TOMORROW.
I WANT TO MEET NOW. IMPORTANT.
Sliding her shoes on and with gun in hand, she moved toward the back door. This wasn’t the endgame she’d imagined, but it would work. She’d dealt with her share of bad guys in her ten years with the Nashville Police Department. An expert shot, she wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger.
The heating system hummed as it blew a fresh burst of warm air from the floorboards. Deidre paused in the hallway, steady, listening and waiting. Adrenaline raced through her. “We’re a little old for games, don’t you think?”
Again, her answer was the steady hum of the furnace. Slowly, she lowered her weapon and released the breath she’d been holding.
In the kitchen, she flipped on all the lights and searched the nearly bare space. No kitchen table, no canisters on the polished granite countertops, no pictures on the walls. The two glasses and bowls she’d left in the sink last night remained.
Her fingers hesitated over the dead bolt as she thought through what she was going to say. She’d made promises of more money. More information. Just get in my car.
Out the back door, the cold stung her face and hands and cut through her silk blouse. Shivering, she looked to the small patch of grass that ringed the back row of town houses. Her small yard backed up to thick dark woods that stood silent. Moonlight caught the bare branches and remnants of snow still clustered on the frozen ground. Her breath froze into white puffs as she searched for any sign of movement. One minute. Two. Three. Nothing.
He wasn’t here. He was screwing with her. Typical.
She retreated back inside to the warmth and closed the door behind her. She clicked the dead bolt in place. Safe. Secure.
And still her nerves hummed with worry.
The burn phone buzzed in her pocket, signaling a text. She hurried toward the phone and saw the message from the unknown caller.
I’M HERE!
Eyes narrowing, she held her gun as she reread the message. Had he taken the bait? Had he returned?
She typed back, WHERE?
OUTSIDE. NEAR THE WOODS.
Frowning, she typed, I DIDN’T SEE YOU.
LOOK AGAIN.
She held her gun, eyes on the back door, confident she had the upper hand. Come to me, baby, come to me.
Her phone buzzed. EMERGENCY!
As she lowered her head to text back, quick, determined footsteps moved across the carpeted hallway behind her and into the kitchen. The first knife slashed into her back shoulder blade. She’d been playing chess and her opponent had mated her with one swift blow. As she whirled, he stabbed her again in the shoulder, and she dropped her gun and the burn phone. A man stood in the center of her kitchen dressed in a lightweight hazmat suit. Protective goggles covered his eyes. The fingers of his right hand gripped the handle of a seven-inch knife. She didn’t need to see his face to make an ID.
Staggering, she clutched her arm close to her body. “You planned this.”
“For weeks.”
“Why?”
“You started it. I’m finishing it.”
For a big man, he lunged fast, slicing the knife across her neck, destroying her vocal cords and spraying blood on the white walls. Falling to her knees, her hands went to her neck. Warm blood oozed between her fingers. She searched for the burn phone and spotted it by the stove.
She collapsed, her shoulder hitting the floor, and rolled on her back. Her killer’s eyes danced with satisfaction.
Deidre struggled to keep her mind clear, knowing she had only seconds. If she could just reach the gun . . .
As if reading her thoughts, her killer shook his head and kicked the gun across the floor. “You’ll never reach it. Too bad.”
Her vision blurred.
“Windows, Deidre. You should always check your windows.”
As the blade sliced at her arms, she raised her hands. Grab the knife. Grab the knife. The blade cut across her palm.
The next strike hit her torso. Adrenaline faded, giving free rein to the pain, which pinched and burned every fiber and sinew in her body. The knife blade kept jabbing, cutting, slicing.
Finally, the cutting stopped. Liquid life drained as quickly as an open tap, while her blurred gaze focused
on him picking up the burn phone. This morning she’d thought she’d tamed her past and would soon control it completely. She hadn’t. It had caught up to her.
He stood over her, his blood pumping in his veins as hers pooled around his feet. Weeks of planning, and in less than two minutes it was over. Adrenaline surged, but he dreaded the inevitable crash.
Kneeling, he touched her face, smoothing his gloved fingertips over pale parted lips. “You always underestimated me, babe. Always.”
He reached in her pocket and pulled out the crumpled note. With one final glance at Deidre, he rose and left through the back door. He made his way into the woods and, under the moonless sky, stripped off his blood-soaked suit and gloves and shoved them all in a trash bag he’d stashed earlier. The cops would be hard-pressed to find any clues linking him to this.
The cops would spend days chasing their tails looking for Deidre Jones’s killer, and by the time they were finished, he’d have finished his mission and killed Leah Carson.
Leah’s phone was ringing when she turned from the stove and the omelet she was cooking. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she lowered the heat on the burner and answered without glancing at the console. Remembering her conversation with Deidre fifteen minutes earlier, she just assumed it was her friend. “Hello?”
“Leah Carson?”
“That’s right.” Her voice snapped with impatience. “Who is this?”
“This is First National Bank Credit Card Services. We have some questions about your account.”
“Okay.”
After they asked for the appropriate identifying information, the operator asked, “We’re seeing expenses that show you’re in Madrid, Spain?”
She turned down the burner. “Excuse me?”
“We have charges that show you were in Madrid yesterday and London the day before that. Did you make those charges?”
“No, I didn’t.” Immediately, her thoughts tripped back to when and where she’d used her credit card. She fished her card out of her wallet. “What card number are you referring to?”
The operator rattled off the number that matched her card perfectly. “Is that the correct number?”
“Yes, it is.” She pressed the back of her hand to her head. “So what do we do now?”
“We’ve closed the card and issued you a new one. It should arrive at your home in five business days.”
She thought through the days. “That’s the week after next.”
“Yes, ma’am. We suggest you use any backup cards you have.”
She blew out a breath. She didn’t have a backup card. Damn. “Okay. I’ll deal. But I just swiped the card at the grocery store today. That’s a legit expense.” She spent the next five minutes going through the charges and confirming and disavowing them. “Thanks for calling.”
She hung up the phone and pressed her fingertips to her eyes. She checked her wallet and counted thirty-nine dollars in cash. If she brown-bagged it this week and watched her gas mileage, she might not have to go to the bank for cash until the end of the week.
Leah fumbled through her purse and pulled out her journal. She opened the well-worn book and smoothed the newest page flat before carefully documenting the call: the time and details of the incident. Pen poised over the page, she reread the entries of the day, fearing she’d find a pattern.
Keys. Man in the woods. And now the credit card.
Most people wouldn’t have paid much notice to any of these incidents. Keys went missing all the time. Men were allowed in public parks. And a hacked credit card was a terrible annoyance but, in the end, wouldn’t cost her a dime.
She stared at the list and absently raised her fingertips to the scar along her collarbone. These are just three very random events. Stuff happens to regular people. Don’t need to freak out. One. Two. Three. I don’t need to freak.
She moved toward the front door and clicked the lock back and forth until she was certain it was secure. She moved from window to window, checking the locks. Finally satisfied the place was safe, she released the breath she’d been holding and whispered, “I don’t need to freak.”
The mantra would have calmed any normal, rational woman.
Normal. Rational. Woman.
Philip’s knife blade had left scars, worries, and a stupid journal filled with nonsensical entries.
Chapter Six
Monday, January 16, 10:20 A.M.
The air cut and bit as Alex got out of his SUV and stared at the flashing blue lights of the cop cars ringed in the cul-de-sac of the town house community. He burrowed gloved hands in his coat pockets and moved across the yard, wondering why his brother had summoned him to another crime scene in less than forty-eight hours.
He nodded to a couple of uniformed officers who scowled and folded their arms over their chests. Irritated by the childish behavior, he didn’t ask for approval as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. Without thinking, he swapped the warm leather gloves for black plastic ones. Pausing at the threshold, he noticed that the front door lock had not been pried open, nor did there seem to be any other signs of forced entry.
As he stepped forward, a uniformed officer blocked his path. The tall man’s frame was well muscled like that of a much younger man, but it was his well-worn eyes and lined mouth that gave him away as a couple of decades older.
“Orders are not to let anyone inside,” the officer said.
Alex looked up, knowing his gaze reflected restrained annoyance. “Detective Deke Morgan sent for me. I’m Agent Alex Morgan.”
The officer shifted his stance and met Alex’s gaze. “I got orders to keep everyone out but essential personnel.”
“You telling me I’ve got to call Detective Morgan and have him come out here? He called me.” This bullshit was getting old.
The lines in the officer’s face deepened with defiance but he had the sense to step aside.
Alex brushed past him, tired and more annoyed than usual. He’d spent most of the night reading through Deidre Jones’s case files. So far, no red flags. She was one hell of a cop.
Instead of quizzing the officer about the victim’s identity, he opted to wait for Deke’s explanation. He paused in the entryway and noted that the victim had left a purse on a long slim table. Beside the purse sat a ring of keys. Above the table hung a mirror, clean and sparkling and perfectly aligned. Whatever had happened to her, it hadn’t been here.
Alex’s gaze settled on the picture of two young girls, who were clearly sisters. Smiling, arms wrapped around each other, the girls appeared to be separated in age by about ten years. The older sister had dark brown hair and wore hoop earrings and a peasant top and the younger one sported a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and a gap-toothed smile.
Beside the first picture was another one of a group of people. Six men and one woman clustered around the courthouse sign. All were grinning. He remembered the picture. The task force had caught a major cocaine dealer who’d later been sentenced to life in prison. He scanned the collection of blunt haircuts, practical shoes, and holstered guns until he settled on Deidre Jones. He allowed another look at the sensible black purse that couldn’t have cost more than twenty-five bucks. No gun.
Drawing in a breath, he distanced himself from the waiting crime scene. He’d learned distance when he’d been eleven. Against his mother’s orders, he’d decided to be the first of the Morgan boys to climb Miller’s Falls. He’d been inches from the top, feeling mighty proud of himself, when a rock under his right hand had given way. He’d fallen fast and hit hard.
When he’d awoken, stars twinkled in the sky and he’d been perched on a ledge, his arm twisted and broken. Pain had sliced through him and his heart pounded like a fist. He’d tried to sit up, desperate to get away from the edge, when a portion of the ledge crumbled under him. He’d realized if he kept moving or panicked, he’d die. So he’d closed his eyes and stepped back from the fear. He’d called for help until his voice was raw, finally, he’d stopped. He’d slowed his breathing and
steadied his heartbeat. In the quiet of his mind, he’d found a refuge away from fear.
He’d lain on that rock for nearly three days, never moving as the crows circled, rain drizzled, and bugs crawled over him. When he’d been rescued, he’d been so calm the searchers had thought he was in shock. Later, when he’d faced his first crime scene, he’d stepped back again and returned to the emotionless place that allowed him to see clues that others, overcome with emotion, missed. This talent, honed to cutting sharpness, resisted corralling more and more. In recent years, personal relationships had suffered. He’d lost touch with too many. And worse, he didn’t care.
“Iceman. Ice on the outside. Ice in his heart,” Georgia had declared at the most recent family Christmas celebration. A few glasses of wine in her, she’d bemoaned the trials of love. Stone sober, he’d suggested she overrated love. That comment had earned him the “Iceman” moniker.
“Alex.” Deke’s voice rushed across the sparsely furnished living room.
“Yeah.” He turned from the pictures to see Deke standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright sunlight shining in from the kitchen.
“The victim is Deidre Jones, isn’t it?” Alex asked.
“Yes.”
Yesterday, he’d smelled the lies on her like overdone perfume when she’d challenged him at the TBI offices. He knew he’d hit some kind of nerve with his questions, and she was hiding something big. He’d been right but didn’t relish the victory. “What happened?”
“She was stabbed multiple times. She’s in the kitchen.”
Dozens of questions rattled in his brain, but he silenced them all. Look first. Then ask. His old man had said that a million times. Don’t let anyone else’s analysis cloud your perspective.
He moved past a couch and a coffee table. On the table sat a half glass of water, red lipstick on the rim. No furniture beyond the couch, other than a television and a small end table with a lamp on top.
