by Julie Miller
“I think that’s the idea.”
“I mean, how long has this person been watching me? I only noticed someone this afternoon. But they couldn’t have sent this today. Look at the date.”
When she reached over to point out last Friday’s date, Spencer pulled her away from the counter. “Do you make coffee?”
“What?”
“Do you have coffee in your pantry?”
“Of course, I—”
“Make it a full pot.” He eased the urgency from his grip on her arm. He needed to only think about being a detective right now. He shouldn’t be concerned with the frustration and fear flaring into her cheeks, or feel guilty about putting them there. He dropped his gaze down to her bare toes beneath the hem of her yoga pants, opting for something in the neutral zone between cop and caring. “Get something warm on your feet. Stay busy. I need to work.”
With a surprising understanding, or maybe just resignation, Bailey nodded and prepped the coffee maker before disappearing into her bedroom.
While the phone rang, Spencer pulled off his coat and scarf and tossed them over the back of one of the dining room chairs. This was going to be a much longer night than he’d planned.
Nick finally picked up. The breathless laughter on the other end of the line told Spencer he’d interrupted something more than the dinner date his partner had mentioned at work. “Your timing sucks, buddy. What do you need?”
Not that he begrudged his best friend some private time with the woman he was going to marry, but business was business. “Put your fiancée on the phone.”
Nick’s tone instantly changed. “There’s been another threat?”
Spencer glared at the mysterious package and cryptically worded message. If it wasn’t for that Christmas card, he’d have excused it as a retail mistake at this busiest time of year. “It came through a delivery service. I need it processed for any trace.”
“Miss Austin’s apartment?” Spencer heard whispers in the background, shuffling sounds that meant Annie and his partner were already gearing up to leave.
“Yes.”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Two hours later, Spencer lifted his gaze from the fuzzy brown slipper boots Bailey wore to watch her rinse out the empty coffeepot and load the four dirty mugs into the dishwasher. Heeding his advice in a head-down kind of way that brought to mind her vulnerable admission that she sometimes considered herself a useless bit of fluff, Bailey had worked in the kitchen the entire time. She’d emptied the dishwasher, wiped down counters, swept the floor and refilled coffee nonstop while he and Nick canvassed neighbors in the building and made phone calls and CSI Hermann processed the watch, card and packaging with her lab kit.
How could a woman with the guts to ignore her overprotective family’s advice and stand up to her rapist in court ever think of herself as useless?
But now Annie was stowing evidence bags and packing her kit, and Nick was reporting that the delivery man who’d brought the package into the building was someone new. While it wasn’t unusual to add extra drivers to the regular routes to make deliveries this time of year, no one in the building seemed to recognize the description of the man Corie Rudolf had given them. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Super cute. Nick had already put a call in to the company’s local office to confirm an ID and get a picture of the man.
Spencer heard enough of Nick’s report to know he wasn’t going to get any conclusive answers tonight. He might as well listen to Annie’s analysis and get out of here before he strayed from the neutral zone and went over to the kitchen sink to take Bailey in his arms again and tell her how much he admired someone with her courage and work ethic. He could confirm that the crown of that silky gold hair really did fit just under his chin, and that the lean muscle of that fit body curved in all the right places.
And he could completely screw up Bailey’s life and this case if he gave in to the temptation to touch her again.
So he blinked her from his sight and thoughts, and turned his attention to Annie’s dark brown eyes. “What can you tell me?”
“Good news?” Annie picked up the sealed bag that held the watch. “It’s an expensive brand with a manufacturer’s mark on the back that’ll make it easier to trace to the source. We’ll know if it was bought locally and repackaged, or where the retail order originated.”
Spencer nodded. “So we can confirm a location. Maybe we can get a description of the sender. And the bad news?”
Annie placed the bag inside her kit and peeled off her sterile gloves. “The card is generic, from a set of boxed cards that are sold in shops across the country. Pretty impossible to track down. Preliminary handwriting analysis says it matches the photographs from this afternoon, but we’ve got nothing to compare the samples to. As for the rest? There are no fingerprints besides Miss Austin’s and the neighbor’s anywhere on the watch, case, card or packaging. No stray hairs in the tape, nothing that can identify the sender.”
“So even if we get an address or phone number, which will probably turn out to be P.O. box or business, we can’t prove who at that address sent it.”
Nick crossed his arms and muttered a curse. “I can tell you who it’s from.”
The water stopped running in the sink and Bailey came to the opposite side of the kitchen island from where the rest of them stood. “What’s the significance of the broken watch? Other than it is broken. The message would have been just as clear with something from a discount store. Does that mean The Cleaner is someone who has a lot of money?”
“I think I know the answer to that.” Annie’s dark eyes looked from Bailey to Nick, then up to Spencer. “But my idea’s a little outside the box.”
Spencer didn’t need hesitation. He needed answers. “I didn’t choose you for my team because you think like other people do.”
Nick moved beside her to offer his encouragement. “Whatcha got, slugger?”
After a squeeze from Nick’s hand, Annie answered, “It’s what’s not here that worries me.”
“What’s that?” Nick urged.
“Unless you just like to show off that you can afford an expensive watch, or you’re a serious runner who’s timing sprints or laps, there’s not much call for a watch like this. Even if it’s in perfect condition.”
Bailey wrung the dish towel in her fists. “What would you use a watch like that for? What piece is missing?”
Spencer nodded an okay for Annie to answer, even though Bailey’s face was already growing pale.
“The timer. I’d use it to build a bomb.”
Chapter Seven
Spencer tapped his fingers on the polished walnut counter at the Shamrock Bar, and waved the muscle-bound bartender with the scarred-up face over to refill his glass with bourbon.
The neighborhood cop bar was quiet tonight—partly because of the late hour, partly because of the weather that slicked the streets and made it too cold for all but the hardiest of souls to venture outside, and partly because of the holiday season. Most people had parties with friends to go to or family gatherings to attend. At the very least, they were home watching TV specials and wrapping presents.
Spencer just had his thoughts, a criminologist’s printout about what other elements besides watch parts would be necessary to complete a bomb, and a really, really bad feeling that something deadly was closing in on Bailey Austin.
Jake Lonergan, the silver-haired bruiser who was tending bar, pulled the good stuff from the top shelf, but set the bottle on the bar top without pouring. “This will be your third one, Spence. You on duty tonight?”
“No.”
“Driving?”
He didn’t answer that one. He’d never been a heavy drinker—well, there’d been a spell there after losing Ellen where he’d indulged more than he should. He and Nick used to trade off
driving responsibilities so that the other could have a few. But Spencer and his partner didn’t go out for drinks after a particularly tough shift or closing a case the way they used to. Nick spent most of his evenings with Annie now, remodeling and repainting an old house they planned to move into following their spring wedding on the baseball field at Kaufmann Stadium.
Spencer spent his nights at home catching up on reading reports, working late at the precinct office or hanging out here at the Shamrock, reflecting on the events of one day and organizing his plan for the next. It was a sane, solid routine that had kept him moving forward toward his career goals for the past five years.
But tonight, that dedication to duty just felt lonesome. Wrong. Like he was somehow wasting his time.
“You got a case that’s weighing on your mind?” Jake asked, flipping around the wrinkled diagram Spencer had spread on top of the bar. “So now you’re researching explosives. Thinking of going postal on me?”
Spencer folded up the paper and tucked it inside his suit jacket. “You know, one of the things I like best about you, Jake, is that you don’t stick your nose into other people’s business.”
Jake laughed. “You can’t dent my hide, Montgomery. I can handle whatever sarcasm you dish out.” He lifted the bottle in his beefy hand. “Still want the drink?”
After a nod, Jake poured him another shot. Jake Lonergan was a good man, even if there was a lot about him that remained a mystery. The man walked and talked like a cop, but didn’t wear a badge, although he knew him to carry a knife in his boot. The two had become friends earlier in the Rose Red Rapist case when Jake rescued a woman from an assault Spencer’s team had investigated. The fact Jake had identified the drawing as the specs for a bomb told him the big man had a lot of expertise in weaponry, despite gaps in other parts of his memory.
Spencer picked up his glass and set it back down without taking a sip. He pulled the drawing back out and handed it to Jake. “Did you ever run across a device like that?”
Jake’s icy eyes skimmed over the printout. “I’d like to say I don’t remember, but yeah. It’s a homemade bomb. You can get the parts online or in the right store easily enough without the purchases registering on any federal watch-group radar.” He handed the paper back. “The actual explosive is the hard thing to get, but doable if you have access to demolition or construction.”
“And you’d definitely need a watch like that to pull it off?”
“If you want to control when and where it goes off with any precision. Most bombers don’t want to be around when the thing goes boom.”
Brian Elliott had earned his millions in property development and renovation. Certainly, his construction crews and anyone who worked for them would have access to those materials. With KCPD monitoring Elliott 24/7, he wouldn’t be able to put together a bomb. But who else in the circle of employees or friends around him would be willing to at least make it look like a serious enough threat to send Bailey into hiding or do something on a bigger scale to derail Elliott’s trial? Could one of them be The Cleaner?
Of course, there were dozens of construction companies, big and small, in Kansas City. Another explosives source could be the munitions storage facilities and manufacturing plants dotting the area, or maybe even one of the National Guard posts or nearby military base.
There were too many possibilities, too few facts for Spencer to reach any logical conclusions and come up with a direction to steer his investigation into who had threatened Bailey—or even confirm that the anonymous gift was indeed another threat.
“I could talk to my friend Charlie Nash at the DEA,” Jake interrupted Spencer’s thoughts. “Maybe he could tell us if the Feds have any word on something like that going down here in the Midwest.”
Spencer shook his head. “This isn’t about terrorism. It’s about intimidation.” He returned the paper to his pocket, needing some time to fine tune a list of suspects. “I’ll make some calls in the morning.” Since the bartender had brought up one of the mysteries of his past, Spencer asked, “Have you given anymore thought to going back to the DEA or some other law enforcement agency?”
Jake pulled the towel from his apron and wiped down the bar in front of Spencer. “Not until this trial is over and the people who are a threat to my wife and daughter have been put away.” Right. Jake had married the woman he’d rescued and adopted her baby, all in the span of a few months. “Until then, my most important job is playing bodyguard-slash-babysitter to Robin and Emma.”
Bodyguard. Not a role Spencer could stomach anymore. That’s why he’d left a black-and-white unit parked outside Bailey’s building tonight, and was maxing out his favors to keep someone with eyes on her around the clock until there were no more threats and the trial was over. He’d focus on the investigation, on unmasking The Cleaner and the thugs she liked to hire, not the D.A.’s star witness.
“Where are Robin and Emma now?” Spencer asked, wondering how Jake could step away from guard duty if he really believed there was still a threat to his family.
He replaced the bottle behind the bar. “With Hope Lockhart and your buddy Pike Taylor.”
“Wedding plans?” Pike was a K-9 officer on the task force. Was every man he knew building a home life outside of work?
Jake nodded. “Robin agreed to be Hope’s matron of honor. I’m guessing Pike is out with the dog while the ladies discuss invitations or whatever’s next on the list. It’s turning into the biggest production I’ve ever been privy to. I swear to God, if they make me put on a tux...”
Spencer picked up his glass, swirling the golden-brown liquid around the bottom while his thoughts drifted back to the night he’d lost Ellen Vartran. He’d impulsively proposed to her that night, not sure if he was feeling love or lust, and not caring. They’d made love in the shower and the words had popped out.
He’d had one job—protect the witness in the safe house. And he’d failed. When his shift changed, he’d gone out to buy a ring. When he came back...he’d had no chance to save any of them.
He’d been an empty man and a useless cop for months afterward.
A useless bit of fluff.
Spencer knew exactly what Bailey was feeling right now—that driving need to do something meaningful to atone for the sins and shortcomings that ate away at a person’s soul, to make a difference that might just assuage the fear and pain and guilt that tore a person apart inside.
Finding the mole who’d betrayed the safe house had been Spencer’s first step toward redemption. Arresting the Rich Girl Killer had been the second. Putting Brian Elliott away for the Rose Red rapes might finally put a staunch on the emotional wound that still bled inside him.
He raised his glass to his lips, maybe sending up a prayer for inner peace at the same time.
But the image on the television screen above the bar stopped him. “Hey, Jake. Will you turn that up?”
Spencer set his drink down and leaned in to catch Vanessa Owen’s pretrial update on the ten o’clock news. Although the beautiful brunette’s face filled up the center of the screen, it was the still photo in the bottom right corner that drew his attention.
It was a picture of a younger Bailey at some fancy-shmancy society event on the arm of her ex, Harper Pierce. She wore long hair swept up on top of her head. The look was innocent. Disinterested. Pageantlike. Not as sexy or compelling or touchable as the Bailey he’d spent time with today was.
“Dwight Powers has made it no secret that Mayweather heiress Bailey Austin is scheduled to testify in the trial of alleged Rose Red Rapist, Brian Elliott. As many viewers may recall, Jackson Mayweather’s stepdaughter was brutally beaten and raped, just over a year ago in downtown Kansas City.” Vanessa Owen’s voice hushed for a moment, as if tears of compassion or outrage clogged her throat. But Spencer wasn’t buying the act of a woman who’d lain in wait to corner Bailey in the parking
garage yesterday morning. “This reporter has the inside scoop that Miss Austin is extremely fragile right now. She has received anonymous threats indicating she may come to some harm if she agrees to testify. While KCPD and the D.A.’s office have no official comment, the information was confirmed by Miss Austin’s mother, Loretta Austin-Mayweather. As many of you know, Mrs. Mayweather’s annual Christmas Ball, which has raised millions of dollars for children’s charities—”
Spencer pushed to his feet and pulled out his wallet.
Bailey Austin fragile? In looks, perhaps. Maybe even in demeanor. But the woman could be made of steel if her mother, the damned reporters and the rest of the world gave her the chance she needed to succeed.
Jake muted the television. “There’s not much to like about that woman, is there.”
“No.” Spencer threw some bills on the bar to pay his tab without touching his drink. He already wasn’t thinking with a clear head if he was listening to his gut. And though he knew that could get him into trouble, it wasn’t stopping him. He grabbed his coat off the bar stool beside him.
“You heading out?” Jake asked, clearing his glass.
“Yeah. I’ve got work to do.”
A half hour later, Spencer was setting up camp on the street outside Bailey’s apartment building. He’d dismissed the uniformed officer, who was glad enough to report back to HQ for a refill of hot coffee. Sipping on his own to-go cup of java, Spencer settled behind the wheel of his SUV. He unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie and tucked his wool scarf more tightly around his neck.
The snow had stopped falling except for a few flakes dancing through the cones of light from the street lamps along the sidewalk. All the windows that had been lit up earlier in Bailey’s building were now dark, including hers. Hopefully, exhaustion, at least, would allow her a good night’s sleep.
Tomorrow, he’d have answers. The delivery man could be ID’d. He’d have a list of Elliott’s employees and other companies in the area with access to explosives. He’d know more from the lab regarding the origin of the watch.
