Perhaps Livvy had seen him skulking in the shadows, and the perp had been forced to act sooner than he had planned.
That would explain certain things, like the dropped purse on the parking area, the midweek timing, and the fact that the attack had a hurried, almost improvised, feel to it—the most glaring evidence of which was the fact that it had not succeeded.
Joe’s phone started to ring. He pulled it out, glanced down at the incoming number, and felt his pulse quicken.
He’d been waiting for this call.
“Yo,” Joe answered.
“I got that tape enhanced for you.”
“Yeah?”
“The girl starts off with ‘Hello,’ and then she listens. Then she says, ‘I meant every word I said. And I’m not backing down.’ She listens, says, ‘I can’t hear you; you’ll have to speak up.’ She listens again, says, ‘Oh, that’s what I was hoping you’d say. What? There’s static—I can’t really hear.’ And then she listens one more time and says, ‘Fine. That’s good. What? All right, I’m going to walk outside and see if that helps.’ And that’s it.”
Not much. Definitely no smoking gun, of course. When was life ever that easy?
“That help?”
“Maybe,” Joe said. “Can you overnight me a copy of that?”
“You got it.”
“I appreciate your help. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Joe disconnected, thought for a second, then walked over to the back door—his perambulations had taken him into the kitchen by the time the phone rang—and opened it. Then he yelled for Dave. Going to find him wasn’t an option. No way was he stepping outside the house while Nicky was alone in it.
“You finished checking those phone records yet?” he asked Dave without preamble as soon as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Almost. The last three people I spoke to mentioned hearing static, by the way. The funny thing about it is, one of them was on Marsha Browning’s call list, and there was never any suggestion of static in the Browning case.”
Joe felt a spurt of disgust. “I’m not surprised.” He could thank Nicky and her show for that. Put an idea like that out into the collective consciousness, and it stuck like a burr in every mind that heard it. “Okay, I know we’re swamped here, but that needs to be finished ASAP. And we need to start rechecking alibis.”
Dave looked troubled. “You really think we’re going to catch this guy?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. Then his phone started to ring again. He glanced at the number, frowned, and answered.
Nicky walked into the kitchen just as he disconnected. She was still pale and drawn-looking but clean, with her beautiful hair all smooth and shiny and a touch of lipstick on her mouth. She was wearing a chocolate-colored tank top and matching pants and looked, literally, good enough to eat.
Joe hated what he had to tell her.
“That was your mother,” he said, knowing that there was no way to make hearing this any easier for her. “We need to get you back to the hospital right away. There’s a crisis with Livvy.”
20
LIVVY’S DAUGHTER WAS BORN by Caesarean section at 5:18 p.m. With Livvy battling for her life, the doctors felt that taking the baby was the only option. The newborn was immediately whisked away to the neonatal ICU, more as a precaution than anything, as her life wasn’t felt to be in danger. Livvy’s soon-to-be-ex, Ben, who had shown up at the hospital several hours before, followed to stand watch over the infant, and a group—which apparently didn’t include the bimbo, as neither Leonora nor Uncle Ham went ballistic—arrived to stay with him. Almost beside herself with anxiety, Leonora went back and forth between her daughter and granddaughter, and Nicky stayed with Livvy.
All through the night, she sat beside her sister’s bed, holding her hand, listening to the beep and whir of the monitors, and praying like she had never prayed before.
Around four a.m., Livvy moved and made a small guttural sound. Alarmed, Nicky stood up and leaned over her.
“Liv?”
To Nicky’s surprise, Livvy opened her eyes. Their gazes met.
“My baby?” It was a reedy whisper, sounding nothing at all like Livvy’s usual voice.
“She’s fine. You don’t have to worry.”
Livvy’s hold on Nicky’s hand tightened.
“Pinky swear?”
Nicky felt her throat start to close up. “Pinky swear.”
The faintest of smiles just touched Livvy’s mouth. Then she closed her eyes.
THE OTHER CALL Joe had been waiting for came in about eight a.m. Friday morning.
“Want the good news or the bad news?” his caller asked.
Joe grunted. “You mean there’s actually some good news? You’re already making my day.”
“That untraceable e-mail address? Traced it.”
“Yee-haw.” Despite the complete and utter exhaustion that went hand-in-hand with having had almost no sleep for two and a half days, Joe felt a welling of excitement. “So, where’d it come from?”
“It started out with a free Bigfoot account, got encrypted, bounced around Asia a little bit, got encrypted again—”
“Can we cut to the chase?” Joe asked. “Things are kind of hopping here.”
“Cutting to the chase brings us to the bad-news part.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Bottom line is, your e-mails originated from the Free Public Library in Charleston. Main branch. Original sender name was Mr. Potato Head. I could probably break it down to a specific computer for each e-mail for you, but I don’t think it would do you much good. You know how many people use the computers in there each day?”
“Too damn many,” Joe said glumly. “But at least it’s a place to start.”
He hung up and placed a call to the Charleston police.
NICKY AND LEONORA and Uncle Ham and Uncle John and Harry and Marisa and the police guards Joe had assigned to stand watch and God knew who else all stayed at the hospital until about three p.m. Friday, when Livvy’s doctors said that it looked as though she was going to make it. By then, the strain was showing on everyone. Leonora broke down and cried. Nicky insisted that her mother go home and rest, and Leonora agreed to do so as long as Nicky promised to go home and sleep when she came back. This Nicky agreed to, and they, along with Uncle Ham and Uncle John and a few others, quickly worked out a loose schedule so that Livvy and the baby would not be left alone. Then Leonora left. By the time she came back, accompanied by Uncle Ham and Joe, Nicky was so tired that she could hardly get up out of her chair.
“How is she?” Leonora asked.
“Better,” Nicky answered. “She asked for water twice, and the baby once, so I think she’s doing pretty well, considering.”
“They’ve got her heavily sedated, you know,” Uncle Ham said. “The doctor said they were going to start weaning her off it tomorrow.”
“Come on.” Joe slid a hand around Nicky’s elbow. “You look like you’re about to fall down. You need sleep.”
Coming from a man whose face was gray with fatigue, this was something like the pot calling the kettle black, but Nicky was too tired to point it out. Anyway, she did need sleep—desperately. It was kind of touch and go as to whether her legs would support her all the way to Joe’s car.
On the way to the elevators, they passed by the newborn nursery. Tired as she was, Nicky stopped for a moment to look through the glass. Hayley Rose—that was the name Livvy had chosen weeks before—appeared peacefully asleep in her incubator. She was tiny, red-faced, and wrinkled, with a little pink knit cap pulled down low over her brow. Livvy hadn’t seen her yet. Your mommy is going to love you, Nicky told her new niece silently. Then, as the nurse inside the baby ward frowned at her through the glass and Joe tugged at her arm, she moved on.
The warm, sweet rush of fresh air that greeted her as she stepped outside the hospital for the first time in almost thirty-six hours revived Nicky to some degree. It was just after eleven p.m., and beyond the fro
sty halogens that lit up the parking lot, the night was still and dark. Still and dark had the power to spook Nicky now, so she held on to Joe’s hand tightly and stayed close by his side all the way to his cruiser. It was possible that the Lazarus Killer had fulfilled whatever mission he was on and was even now in the process of fading away into the shadows for another fifteen years, but she wasn’t ready to bet her life on it. Anyway, as Joe had pointed out, he had promised to kill three, and only two were dead. That knowledge gave her the shivers.
They reached the car, and Joe opened her door for her, then closed it as she settled in. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, Nicky had her seat belt on and her head was resting back against the smooth, faux-leather seat. Yawning, she inhaled the scent of plastic and coffee and cigarette smoke, which was what the inside of Joe’s police car smelled like.
She was so tired. She couldn’t remember ever being this tired.
“So, did anybody ever track down that partial license-plate number Dave was so excited about?” Nicky asked as Joe started the car.
Joe grimaced. “It was a rental. The guy was a tourist who was rushing off to a pharmacy to pick up a prescription for his kid’s ear infection. Everything checked out.”
“Oh,” Nicky said, disappointed. “What about—”
“Wait.” Joe pulled out of the lot. “Whoa. I’m not talking about this anymore tonight. I need a break, and so do you. You hungry?”
“A little. Mostly I’m just tired.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
He definitely looked it, she thought, taking in the lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes and the unshaven stubble darkening his chin. His red power tie was loose, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and his navy jacket and khaki slacks were badly creased.
“Did you sleep last night?” she asked.
“Some.” He glanced her way with a half-smile. “How about you?”
“Some.” It was by accidentally falling asleep in her chair at Livvy’s bedside, which had resulted in a series of ten- or fifteen-minute catnaps interrupted by nurses, monitors, or wandering relatives. “I was kind of afraid to close my eyes. I kept thinking that if I quit watching Livvy, she might slip away.”
“The doctors say she’s going to make it.”
“I know.”
“By the way, in case I forgot to mention it while I was yelling at you for it, I think that was a hell of a brave thing you did, charging Livvy’s attacker like that,” Joe said. He glanced at her. “Stupid, but brave.”
Nicky’s eyelids were growing heavy. Lulled by the motion of the car, she blinked owlishly at him. “Hey, she’s my sister. And if that was supposed to be a compliment, it kind of sucked.”
His smile widened. “Yeah, well, bravery’s a fine thing, but so is good sense.”
Nicky made a face at him. She was simply too tired to argue.
They were driving over the South Causeway Bridge now, and the hollow rumble was oddly comforting. It was a sound she associated with going home. Below the bridge, Salt Marsh Creek gleamed like oil in the moonlight. Overhead, the sky was a softer black, ablaze with stars. She was just admiring the beauty of the pale sickle moon when she realized that they were turning the wrong way.
She frowned. “Where are you going?”
He glanced at her. “My house. You’re spending the night. Probably several nights. With everybody running back and forth to the hospital and all the investigative work still going on at Twybee Cottage, I figure it’s safer for you to stay with me than me to stay with you.”
Nicky considered. “All my clothes and things are at Twybee Cottage.”
“No, they’re not. Your mother packed you a bag. It’s in the trunk.”
“You got my mother’s permission for me to sleep at your house?” For some reason, Nicky found this amusing. Tired as she was, she had to smile.
“She thought it was a good idea.”
“My mother likes you.”
“I like your mother.” He pulled over to the curb and parked, and Nicky saw that they were in front of his house. He got out, and she got out, too, waiting while he got her suitcase from the trunk. Then they went inside.
Joe shut the door, dropped her case on the floor, and flipped on the living-room light.
Nicky suddenly felt a little awkward. The house had two bedrooms, she knew. She wanted to sleep with Joe, but she remembered that they had been on the outs before Livvy had been attacked. Maybe she should opt for the spare bedroom. . . .
She could clearly hear Joe saying it: I don’t do relationships.
She was too tired to get mad, too tired to do anything at all, so she sank down on the couch, which was tan corduroy, a little worn, a little lumpy, definitely well used. On one side of it was a navy plaid recliner, on the other an orange tweed rocker, neither one of them new. Joe headed for the kitchen, taking off his jacket as he went. Beneath it, she saw that he was wearing a black nylon shoulder holster over his white shirt. It made him look tough and capable and very masculine. And sexy. Way sexy.
“Want some eggs?” He called over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen, turning on the light as he went. “Or a bologna sandwich?”
“You cook?” She settled deeper into the couch.
“Mostly just when I want to eat.” His voice floated back to her. “You like ’em scrambled?”
“Sounds good.” Nicky thought about going into the kitchen to help him, but she was just too tired to move. She thought about picking up the remote on the coffee table and turning on the TV, but she was too tired for that, too. In the kitchen, she could hear him moving around, opening the refrigerator, rattling cutlery. . . .
HIS COOKING WAS a poor, pitiful thing compared to the delicacies Nicky was probably used to, staying in the same house as her Uncle Ham, but food was food and Joe was hungry. When the eggs were done—he’d made toast, too, although with the pig looking through the window at him every time he cooked, he’d quit with the bacon a couple days ago—he called Nicky. When she didn’t answer, he went into the living room to get her.
She was asleep on his couch. Sitting up, head resting back against the cushions so that her glorious hair fanned out around her face, lashes forming thick, black crescents against milky skin, luscious lips slightly parted—and gentle snores issuing from between them.
Joe grinned. He walked over to the couch. For a long moment, he simply stood looking down at her, enjoying her beauty, enjoying the slightly ridiculous, wholly endearing picture she made. Then it occurred to him that he was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, which wasn’t a state he was either used to or comfortable with, and the reason was zonked out on his couch. His grin faded. He was in trouble here, already way too entangled with this girl, and his best course of action would be to cut and run before he got sucked in any further.
Unfortunately, cutting and running was impossible. She was in his house, asleep on his couch, and the reason she was there was because it was his job to keep her alive.
That being the case, he was left with three options: He could wake her and see if she was still hungry for eggs, he could leave her where she was, or he could carry her off to bed.
He chose the last one, picking her up carefully so as not to wake her. Not that there was much fear of that. She was a dead weight in his arms—surprising how heavy a hundred twenty pounds could feel—and she didn’t so much as miss a snore while he maneuvered her through his open bedroom door and put her down on the bed. She was wearing white jeans and a pale yellow T-shirt and sandals with little bitty heels. The bedroom light was off, but he could see her well enough because of the light spilling in through the open bedroom door. He cast a quick look around—no Brian anywhere in sight—and considered.
He could let her sleep in her clothes. On the other hand, she would be far more comfortable without them.
Slipping off her shoes, he set them on the floor beside the bed. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and pulled them down her legs. She wore tiny, deep-
red panties, he was interested to see, that made the curve of her hips and the slender length of her legs look sexy as hell. His body’s reaction was instant and automatic, and he grimaced as he tossed her jeans over the chair in the corner. That left her T-shirt. Getting that off was more of a struggle, but he managed and was rewarded by the sight of her gorgeous, creamy breasts in an itty-bitty bra. The deep-red color looked fantastic against her pale skin. Something—either the laboring breath of the air conditioner blowing across the bed or her subconscious reaction to his touch (he preferred to think)—made her nipples jut visibly through the flimsy fabric of her bra. She was smiling faintly in her sleep, and the temptation was almost overwhelming. More than he had ever wanted to do just about anything in his life, he wanted to crawl into bed with her and kiss her awake and . . .
She’d been through a terrible trauma, and she was dead tired. Sleep was what she needed, not sex.
That being the case, and also because he was a really good guy and a true credit to the fortitude and willpower of the red-blooded American male, he bundled her under the covers and left her to sleep.
And he went back into the kitchen to feed the pig a plateful of cold, greasy eggs.
NICKY SLEPT DREAMLESSLY until the sensation of a warm, firm mouth pressing down on hers woke her with a start.
She stiffened, and her eyes flew open.
“Hey, sweet thing, it’s eight o’clock.” Joe straightened away from her. For a moment she goggled at him, disoriented. He was fully dressed except for his jacket, and was in the process of sliding his knotted tie up to his shirt collar. He smelled good—like soap and toothpaste. He looked good, fresh out of the shower, clean shaven, with his hair brushed and his clothes pressed. He looked, in fact, like a man who had enjoyed a good night’s sleep, and as Nicky cast an eye around the room, she realized that they were in his bedroom and he had, in fact, slept with her.
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