by Desiree Holt
“Look.” She skillfully maneuvered in traffic. “We have to be alert, but we’re changing our itinerary and you should have a couple of days in Philadelphia to relax. You have the publicity thing again the day of the book signing, but maybe until then we can just play tourist. How does that sound?”
It sounded great to him, although he wouldn’t mind just spending the two days in bed with Sam. It seemed the more he was with her, the more he wanted her. And again he reminded himself not to push, not to rush. He wasn’t walking away this time.
“Do you think he was watching when we left to get the car?”
“Maybe. He could have been sitting in a parked car waiting for our reaction. Too bad for him we left in a different car from a different level of the garage, so there was nothing for him to see.”
Still, Blake was on edge when they reached the airport. Sam pulled up to the departure check-in where a man stood with their luggage. He spoke quietly to her as he handed her an envelope, got in the car, and drove it away.
“Are you sure this isn’t a movie?” He tried a little levity.
“Be nice if it was.”
“So what now?”
She opened the envelope and pulled out two ticket confirmations. “We have the last two seats on a flight that leaves in thirty minutes. We need to hustle.”
At the gate, Blake still had that uneasy itch between his shoulder blades. He kept telling himself he had to trust both Sam and Vigilance that they’d eluded the stalker, at least for the moment. He tried to sleep on the flight but his nerves would not let him settle down. Maybe they’d evaded whoever this was for the moment, but as Sam had pointed out, something worse was likely to happen.
At the hotel Sam connected with a woman who was waiting for her in the lobby and handed her another envelope. Then she got in the car he and Sam had just arrived in, and drove off.
“Just grab your bags and follow me,” she told him. “This hotel valet parks all the cars.”
“We don’t have to check in?”
She grinned. “Already taken care of. These are the room keys. Come on.”
“What about our car? She drove off with it.”
“And we’ll be using the one she arrived in. That way, at least for a couple of days, no messages left for us.”
“I’ll say this,” he told her. “I’m sure getting my money’s worth with Vigilance.”
“We aim to please. Come on. No suite this time. There were none available. But we’ve got connecting rooms.”
But as far as Blake was concerned, the only thing that would get any use in the other bedroom was the en suite bathroom.
* * * *
The stalker was in a rage. What the hell was going on? Where were these idiots? He’d been slouched down in this car ever since he saw them come down in the elevator. They had to be going someplace because Morgan had his messenger bag with him when they came down in the elevator. He hadn’t made his presence known here in D.C., just to see if he could put them off their game while he worked on his plan for Philadelphia. According to the computer, they had two more nights here. Maybe they were going sightseeing, or maybe Morgan was researching a book.
Now they had just disappeared. But where? He’d hacked the bastard’s phone to get his calendar and found nothing on the plate for today. He never left a day free, so why now? What were they doing? Did they think they could really outsmart him?
When he finally had to accept the fact that they weren’t coming to pick up the car, he headed back into the hotel.
“Excuse me.” He caught the attention of one of the clerks.
“Yes?” Phony smile. “May I help you?”
“Yes.” He dug deep for his best company manners. “I have an envelope to deliver to the people in the Vigilance suite but I’ve forgotten the number. It’s very important that I get this up to them.”
“I’m sorry.” Another insincere curving of the lips. “We’re not permitted to give out room numbers.”
“But this is very important. It’s from his publisher.” He was getting ready to throttle the clerk.
“If you will leave it with me,” the clerk said, “I’ll be sure he gets it. Or if you like, I can phone up to the suite and tell him you are here. If he says to send you up, then I can give you the number.”
He wanted to bite nails. Morgan would know it wasn’t from his publisher. He certainly wouldn’t give permission for the stalker to come up to the suite. If he made more of a scene, the clerk would remember him, which was not good.
“You know what?” He dug up his own smile from someplace. “I remember the publisher told me Mr. Morgan would be writing this morning and he doesn’t like to be disturbed. Let me just check and make sure he has to have it right away.”
“As you wish.”
He could feel the clerk’s eyes boring into his back as he walked away, holding his cell phone to his ear while he pretended to make a call. He’d already made himself too memorable to the clerk. It was a damn good thing he wore a disguise that made him look totally different.
He had few options left to him. He could go back to the garage and keep watching for them to get their car. He could change disguises and hang out here at the lobby coffee bar, waiting for them to come down from the room. That would only work for so long, however. If he spent too much time there he’d call attention to himself.
Instead he went to his room to think, regroup and reorganize. Maybe try to see things from a different angle. They hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth. As he sat there drinking coffee and nibbling snacks, he realized he could come at this backward. It would take time and a sophisticated program, but he apparently had plenty of time and the program was already on his laptop.
Buoyed with enthusiasm, he accessed the hotel’s registration database again and fed it into a special program he’d written to find the identities of people on a list. He’d written it for a client, a private security service. It was probably illegal as hell, but the client didn’t give a shit and neither did he, especially after the fat fee he was paid.
He lifted the phone and ordered a bottle of wine from room service. Then he turned on the television. He might as well try to relax. If the program worked—and he had no doubt it would—at the end of the run when all other guests were eliminated—what remained would be the name under which Morgan was registered. They could only fool him for so long.
He closed his eyes and thought about the next steps in the process. Morgan had two more book signings before the big one. He’d be closing the tour in Tampa, a good decision by the publisher, and this signing would be a little different. Instead of being at a bookstore, it would be held in an event center in South Tampa, one that could accommodate up to three hundred people. The stalker had read all the details and looked up the event site. How lucky for him there was even a diagram to download. That would be the place for his final act of revenge. He would go out in a blaze of glory, making sure the world now knew how Blake Morgan had created a career on lies and thievery.
He would die there, but that was his plan. His life was empty now, fueled only by his determination to unmask Morgan. It would be his ultimate satisfaction and his ultimate revenge.
His room service order was delivered, and the program chugged along, sifting through the names. Then bingo! Two rooms registered to a corporation his program couldn’t identify. It had to be them. Excitement coursed through his veins.
But why hadn’t he seen them? He’d watched carefully from the lobby, knowing when they’d have to leave for appointments but he hadn’t caught a smell of them. What the hell?
He wasn’t sure if they’d be in their rooms right now or if they’d gone out someplace now that his obligations were taken care of. They’d made themselves so scarce it was hard for him to know what was what. He decided he’d put on one of his disguises and knock on their door. If one of them answ
ered, he could just say he was sorry, he had the wrong room. But if no one answered, he’d get in and out quickly, leaving more messages everywhere like the last time.
He set the half bottle of wine aside for—hopefully—a celebratory drink later on. He pulled on a blond wig, jeans, a black T-shirt with an open collared shirt over it, and tinted glasses. He’d learned people focused on things that stood out, like the glasses, rather than on the person.
He also stuck his knife in its sheath and hooked it into his belt loop, adjusting his T-shirt and collared shirt so it was hidden. The last thing he picked up was the folder with all the messages in it.
He took the elevator down to their floor, waited until the corridor was clear and knocked on their door. He waited but there was no answer so after a full minute he knocked again. Still no answer. He slid from his pocket the master key card he’d stolen from housekeeping and swiped it at the door lock. When the light turned green he slid into the room, closing the door at once. He had to hurry. They could come back at any minute.
He searched through the room, and it only took seconds before he realized something was wrong. There were no clothes in the closet, no toiletries in the bathroom. He opened the door to the connecting room and searched every inch of it, with the same results.
What the fuck?
He went through both rooms again, opening every door, searching to see if they’d left some clue by accident, anything, but the rooms were clean as a whistle. Rage consumed him. He wanted to scream. But that would be sure to bring someone running, and he couldn’t have that.
Damn, damn, damn. How had this happened? Where the hell were they?
Finally, his anger still simmering in his bloodstream, he took out his knife and began hacking at the bedclothes, first in one room then the other. Then he shredded the bath towels and finally the drapes on the windows. In his mind, he was slitting Blake Morgan’s treacherous throat, then slicing through the flesh of that bitch now traveling with him. He imagined their blood flowing, draining from their bodies while he laughed in triumph. Then he took the packets of notes he had with them and spread them around the rooms. By the time he was finished he was exhausted.
He made his way back to his room and the wine waiting there for him. He had the information on their next plane reservation, as well as the one at the next hotel. But what if they took a different plane or stayed someplace else in Philadelphia? It was obvious they were trying to avoid him and get him off their trail. Well, he had plenty of tricks still in his bag. He had a surprise and he was going to pursue it, no matter what.
Maybe he should go to Philadelphia a couple of days early. He could scope out the store where the book signing was scheduled. See how he could blend in with the crowd. Maybe figure out a different kind of mischief to create.
He also needed to take time to compose the first letter he planned to write to the media. He’d test that in Philly. He wanted to grab their interest so they poked at Morgan about the kind of asshole he was. Spread it all over the news. Even all over social media, something he planned to do before long, but the timing had to be just right. Everything was intended to happen in steps. He wanted to drive the man crazy before he unmasked him to the world. It was only fitting to destroy him as he’d destroyed another human being. A wonderful, warm human being.
Already he could visualize the final destruction.
* * * *
The hotel in Philadelphia wasn’t one Blake had ever stayed at before but he liked it as soon as he walked in. It was smaller than he was used to, although far from tiny, and it had more of an old-fashioned feel to it that he liked. He also appreciated the fact that there was no trace of them at the front desk. He was sure by now the stalker was over the top enraged, having lost track of them. At least it gave him a couple of extra days to breathe.
The first thing Sam did was take out the little gizmo again and go around checking everything in the room. She’d done it in D.C., too.
Blake studied her, puzzled. “Surely you don’t think he found these alternate reservations and planted something to spy on us, do?”
“I never assume anything.” Finished, she put it back in her tote. “I just don’t want unpleasant surprises.”
“But what could he hope to gain by planting some kind of device?”
“He could listen to us, find out what our plans are, any number of things. I don’t intend to take any chances.”
Finished with that task, she called the bookstore to check on the signing, then reconfirmed Blake’s media appointments.
“I know Annemarie had to do more than this,” she protested. “Just tell me. I promise I’m a quick study.”
“I know you are.” Absently rubbed his jaw. “But to tell the truth, I’m not in the mood for research or editing or anything else in that category.”
She was in the middle of trying to persuade him to do a little sightseeing and hopefully unwind when her cell rang.
She looked at the screen then at Blake. “Avery,” she told him. “Hey, Avery. What’s up?” She frowned. “What? But who? And where is he? I think—”
Blake, impatient at hearing only one side of the conversation, took the phone from her hand.
“Avery? Sorry to cut in on your conversation, but what’s happened now? More bad shit?”
“Hello, Blake. Nice to speak to you, too.” Her voice was edged with a combination of irony and sarcasm. “I was in the middle of telling Sam that we’ve unearthed a possible candidate for the stalker. Why don’t you have her put me on speaker so I can brief you both at once?”
“Who?” he snapped, when Sam had pressed the icon. “Who’s doing this to me?”
“We don’t know for sure,” she pointed out. “But does the name Andrew Foley ring a bell?”
“Oh, yeah.” He snorted. “He was pissed off because he lost out to me for best mystery of the year award at a mystery writers’ dinner two years in a row. It’s true he called me all kinds of names and threatened to ruin my reputation. You think he’s doing this? I don’t know about that. He seemed like all show and no go.”
“We’re dealing with events that happened last year and the year before,” she pointed out. “Still recent enough to be raw. We’ve tracked down evidence that he’s been badmouthing you to everyone he can. Called you a fraud and a few other unprintable things. I called to get your reaction, to see if you thought he might possibly be doing this.”
“I can’t think what I would have done that he thinks is worthy of all these notes. Sure, he was angry, and pissed off at me, but people lose awards all the time, and they don’t go off the rails like this.” Blake rubbed his jaw. “I guess anything is possible, though. Where is he now? What’s he doing? I want to talk to him. If I can see him, I can get a good read on him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I just wanted to touch base in case you could give me some personal feedback before we move forward.”
“Avery.” Blake ground his teeth. This was the first concrete name they’d come up with and he wanted the details. “If you don’t tell me, I can find him myself. There are plenty of people I can ask. You should know that. But I want to talk to him myself.”
“I just don’t want you going off half-cocked.”
“I’m not an idiot, Avery.” Blake gripped the cell so hard he was afraid he’d break it. “Just tell me where he is, or I’ll find out myself.”
Her sigh carried across the connection. “He lives just south of Philadelphia. But Blake—”
“Here?” He wondered if this was an accident or fate. “He’s right here? Son of a bitch. I want the address. I want to see that miserable bastard myself.”
“Just calm down, please. See? Now you understand why I was reluctant to pass this along, especially considering where you are.”
“Damn it, Avery,” he snapped. “I—” He stopped, drew in a full breath and let it out slo
wly. “I will behave myself. I promise. But I might get more out of him than a stranger. Besides, I’m in a better position to assess if he’s really the stalker.”
Silence hummed along the connection and he could visualize Avery weighing all the pros and cons. “Alright,” she said at last. “Put Sam on the phone. I’ll give her the information. Along with strict instructions to ride herd on you.”
Blake shoved the phone at Avery but he stood right next to her. He’d grab that phone again, if he had to.
“Uh-uh,” she was saying. “Yeah. Got it. Got it. Okay. I’ll report back to you.”
“Okay.” Blake pounced. “What’s the address?”
“Avery’s texting it to me right now.” She put a hand on his arm. “Calm down, cowboy. We’re not going there if you’re planning to blow up at him.”
Blake chuffed an impatient breath. “For God’s sake, Sam. The man is trying to ruin my life. He leaves threatening messages. He’s almost killed someone.”
“Take a breath,” she told him. “We don’t know for sure that he’s the one, only that his is the first possible name that popped up. If we go there, you have to follow my lead.”
He shook his head. “I want to confront him. To demand he tell me what the hell is going on.”
“And what if he’s not the one? Avery only said he’s a possibility. Let’s go see him and scope out the situation. It may not be him at all. So calm down. We’ll go pay him a visit and see what’s what.”
It took a supreme effort of will but he banked his anger and frustration and forced himself to calm down. She was right. And if he went at like a madman, all that would result would be a shouting match. Foley was good at that. He knew from personal experience. He’d do his best to tamp down his irritation but he needed some kind of outlet for all the anger and rage building inside him. This would take every bit of his self-control.
The drive to Andrew Foley’s house took a little over forty-five minutes. The community was obviously upper middle class, quiet but not ostentatious wealth and success. The house was two-story, brick, not as large as some of the others in the street but with a well-tended lawn and shrubs. Sam pulled up in the driveway and parked facing the garage door. She turned off the ignition and looked over at Blake.
