by Irene Hannon
“Um . . . I guess so.”
“My colleague, Chief Lisa Grant, and I were up in your main lobby a few minutes ago and heard the news about Jessica Lee. We understand she’s on a leave.”
“That’s right.”
“I hope your job is secure, though.”
“Yes. Mr. Bradshaw was clear about that. I’m very relieved.”
“I’m sure you are—and I’m happy to hear that. Chief Grant and I were wondering if you might know what happened with Ms. Lee? The main receptionist didn’t seem to have a clue.”
When she spoke again, Cathy’s voice was hushed. “I don’t know a lot. Mr. Bradshaw called the whole staff in late Monday and said she was taking a leave for personal reasons. But we all think it’s connected to that news coverage about all those people who died. I heard the Post story was picked up all over the country, and that Mr. Bradshaw was getting a lot of calls from clients. Plus, while she was in his office on Monday morning, a call came in for her from 20/20.”
“20/20.” He cocked an eyebrow at Lisa. “Interesting. Any idea what she planned to do with her time off?”
“No. She didn’t even say good-bye to me.” The woman blew out a disparaging breath. “So what else is new?”
“Maybe she’ll have a change of heart while she’s gone.”
“That would take a miracle.”
“Well, hang in there and thanks for all your help.”
As he signed off and slipped the phone back on his belt, Mac relayed the information to Lisa. “What do you say we drop by her condo and see if we can catch her in?”
“I’m all for that.” She handed him his coffee. “We might as well make one last attempt to exert some pressure before we deep-six this.”
He stood. “Want to take my car? It’s only a few blocks. I can bring you back here when we’re done.”
“Sure.” She took a swig of her iced tea, grabbed her jacket, and fell in beside him as he started toward the door. “I’m crossing my fingers.”
“Me too.”
As it turned out, though, the gesture was wasted.
“I’m sorry, folks.” The uniformed guard in the lobby of her condo shook his head when they asked for her. “Ms. Lee left yesterday afternoon. Told us to hold her mail, that she’d be gone for a while. A few minutes later I saw her car pull out of the garage.” He motioned to an oversized monitor showing feed from four security cameras that covered the main entrance, lobby, and parking garage.
“Did she say where she was going?” Lisa asked.
The fortysomething, slightly overweight guard flashed a gleam of white teeth. “That wouldn’t be her style. She doesn’t chat with the riffraff. The only time she ever said more than two words to me was a couple of weeks ago, when she asked about the security cameras.”
“I wonder why she was curious about that?” Mac rested his forearm on the tall desk in a casual, shoot-the-breeze pose.
“You got me. She seemed interested in the quad splitter we use to display the feed from all four cameras at once, and that we tape over the footage after a week.” He grinned. “We don’t exactly have high drama around here. I’ve worked at this condo for six years, and we’ve never had to reference any security tapes. But they help the residents feel more protected, so hey . . . they fork out big bucks to live here. Whatever makes ’em happy.”
Mac chuckled. “A man who knows his customers.”
“What can I say? The rich folks lead a different kind of life. As long as this job pays my bills, I aim to please.”
After thanking him, they returned to Mac’s car.
“Interesting that she asked about the security equipment not long before Erika and Joe died.” Lisa buckled her seat belt.
“Very. She knew that within a week there’d be no record of her activities on the days they died. No one could dispute her claim about her whereabouts.” Mac pulled into traffic.
“I’m more convinced than ever that getting her to crack is the only way we’re ever going to piece this puzzle together.”
“That won’t be easy if she’s gone incommunicado. And if she stays away two or three weeks, the story will be very old—and dead—by then. Unless 20/20 actually follows up on it.”
“I’m classifying that as a long shot.”
“Me too.”
They fell silent until he eased in next to Lisa’s car. “Any other ideas?”
Frustration sharpened her features. “Sad to say, no. But potentially letting someone get away with murder—or murders—is driving me crazy.”
“There is one positive side to our current situation, though.”
“What’s that?”
“If the case ends, we can shift our relationship from professional to personal.” He winked.
That coaxed a smile out of her. “There is that.”
“But we’d both rather have a better resolution.”
“Yeah.” She massaged her temple. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s give this ten days. We’ll pay her one more visit then. If she’s still out of town and there haven’t been any other developments, we’ll close the file. Sound reasonable?”
“Ten days, huh?”
“We can talk by phone in the meantime.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Better than nothing—but not by much. I guess I can live with that.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.”
She reached for the door handle, but when he grabbed her other hand, she turned back. “Can we throw one lunch in there somewhere? Just to make certain you don’t forget about me?”
Smiling, she leaned close. So close he caught the fresh fragrance that never failed to trigger an adrenaline rush. So close her soft hair brushed his hand resting on the wheel. “I think that could be arranged. But trust me, you are not a forgettable man.”
Then, before he could follow his instincts and claim the kiss he’d been hankering for almost since the day they’d met, she slipped out of the car, closed the door, and walked toward her Impala.
A horn behind him honked, and he had no choice but to drive off, leaving her behind.
But not for long.
In ten days, no matter what happened with the Alena Komisky mystery, he and Lisa could move forward with their own future.
Yet as he sent her one final glance in his rearview mirror, he had a feeling her discouragement over this case was premature.
Because his gut told him they weren’t yet finished with Jessica Lee.
24
Jessica pulled on the turtleneck, smoothed it over her hips, and inspected herself in the mirrored doors of the hotel room’s closet.
Black top. Black slacks. Black shoes.
Check.
She picked up the black baseball cap and tugged it over the coil of hair on top of her head, then tucked in any loose strands.
The dark sunglasses came next.
Opening her black shoulder bag, she ticked off the critical items—driver’s license, binoculars, latex gloves . . . and Charles’s compact Beretta.
She was ready.
After eight days of tracking Lisa Grant’s evening movements, after hours of strategizing, it was time to wrap up her “vacation,” head home, and do her best to convince Robert to let her return to work. She needed to launch her repair-the-damage campaign ASAP.
If it wasn’t too late.
An image of his doubt-filled eyes during their last meeting strobed across her brain, and a cold chill that had no connection to the hotel’s overzealous air-conditioning swept over her.
No.
She snuffed out the image.
There was time to fix the damage.
There had to be.
And with Lisa Grant no longer dropping in unannounced, with the press silent on the Alena story since the holiday weekend, there was no reason for Robert to extend her leave.
First thing on Monday morning, she’d convince him of that.
In the meantime, she had a job to do.
Slinging her bag over her should
er, she strode toward the door, shoulders back, chin up. She was ready for this. Had planned it down to the last detail.
And no one beat Jessica Lee when it came to planning.
After a glance through the fish-eye peephole revealed a deserted corridor, she slipped out and headed for the elevators.
A young couple was inside when the doors opened, but that was okay. With the glasses and her hair hidden under the cap, she wasn’t recognizable. Besides, the two of them were intent on discussing their evening plans.
The instant they reached the first floor, she exited and wove through the clusters of people in the spacious lobby. Conference goers, no doubt. There were two groups meeting at the facility, and the activity level in the public spaces was high. The hotel had truly been an inspired choice for her close-to-home “spa” vacation. Not only was it convenient to her target site, but all the bustle provided anonymity.
She pushed through the main door and walked to the adjacent lot. Self-parking was also a plus. No one would notice one woman coming or going.
Pressing the lock-release button on her keychain, she hurried toward her car. Picking up a rental might not have been a bad idea—but why go overboard? No one was checking on her. Except for some reconnaissance outings, she’d been holed up in her hotel room for nine days, working on the West Coast client presentations, making a daily spa appointment in case anyone later checked on her activities during her “vacation,” and formulating plans for tonight, and all had been quiet.
The story—and the case—were dead.
She slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and headed south on the route that had become all too familiar since she’d relocated to the hotel. The traffic was lighter tonight, so the trip should take fifteen minutes, max.
Then it would just be a matter of waiting for the right time—somewhere between eight-thirty and nine, if Lisa Grant’s pattern of the past nine nights held.
The chief was nothing if not predictable in her leisure time.
As she accelerated toward her destination, Jessica ran through the woman’s weekday evening routine. She came home from the office between six and seven. Let her dog run around for a few minutes in the backyard before calling him in. Cranked up her exercise tape sometime between eight and eight-thirty, based on the peeks she’d managed to get with her binoculars through blinds that weren’t fully dropped in the workout room. On Thursday night, after thirty minutes of gyrations, she let her dog out in the backyard while she rolled her trash can to the curb.
The only night the woman had ventured out after arriving home from work was on Wednesday, when she’d gone to her parents’ house—or some relative. According to a Google search, she shared the same last name as the owners of the modest home Jessica had trailed her to. Those visits had all the earmarks of a standing engagement.
For the most part, though, Lisa Grant lived a very quiet, solitary life off duty.
Tonight that was going to change.
Yawning, Lisa secured her hair at the nape of her neck with a stretchy band and gave Tally a pat. “Your favorite time of day, boy.”
He eyed her yoga capris and tank top and backed away.
She chuckled. “Yep, the music’s going to shake, rattle, and roll very soon. Take cover.”
The pup was out the door and careening for the basement before she finished her warning. As he clattered down the steps, she chuckled and walked toward her workout room, angling her wrist. Eight forty-five—a little later than usual. Why was it always the end of the day when she got around to her exercise routine?
Her mother’s response to that lament at dinner last night echoed in her mind.
Because you spend too many hours on the job.
That was true—and it was a habit she was finding difficult to break, despite her best intentions. Her goals for her move to St. Louis hadn’t changed; she still wanted to carve out time for a personal life that would someday include a husband and family. Yet a year into her new job, she’d made zero progress toward that goal.
Until Mac appeared out of the blue.
A flush of pleasure warmed her. Apparently the old adage was true.
Sometimes good things did come to those who waited.
She paused beside her weights. Today was upper-body day, so bench presses first.
As she positioned herself on the bench, hefted the bar, and went through her reps, resting two minutes between sets before adding weights, the rote routine left her mind free to think about the tall detective who was poised to play a new role in her life starting Saturday—or D Day, as they’d termed it. As in Done Day. Jessica had never returned to her condo, the press coverage had died, and no new leads had surfaced. The investigations were ready to be closed, despite their diligent efforts.
She blew out a breath and hefted the weights again.
The professional outcome wasn’t what she’d hoped . . . but as Mac had pointed out, the results in the personal column were positive.
And she was more than ready to move forward with that investigation—beginning with their Saturday dinner date. The quick lunch they’d shared on Tuesday had been pleasant, if rushed—but Saturday was going to be the real deal . . . assuming, of course, nothing else happened with their case.
As far as she could tell, that was a safe assumption.
She finished the bench presses, wiped her face on the towel slung over a nearby chair, and moved on to dumbbell shoulder presses.
After readjusting the weight bench to an upright position, she once more did the presses by rote, waiting for the physical exertion to ease any lingering tensions from the day.
But the energy purge wasn’t working its usual magic tonight.
How could she relax when she knew in her heart a killer was going unpunished?
Maybe Jessica Lee hadn’t actually killed Alena. That mystery might remain forever unsolved. But she’d orchestrated the deaths of Erika and Joe—and done it so masterfully they’d been unable to find one speck of admissible evidence. All they had were theories, coincidence, and supposition.
In other words, nothing on which to build a case.
The whole thing stunk.
As she proceeded to barbell curls, the injustice of it grated on her. Yes, they’d given Alena’s family some closure—but it wasn’t enough.
She still wanted answers.
Yet as a veteran detective in Chicago had told her in her long-ago rookie days, sometimes the bad guys won. Sometimes you just had to let things go.
That’s where they were with this case—like it or not.
Not. Not. Not.
But letting the less-than-desirable outcome in her professional life cast a shadow on her personal life would do nothing to solve the case. She had to learn to draw a line between the two and move on, as the experienced cop had advised her.
Sound advice, even if she’d never been able to apply it.
With Mac in her life, though, she had more incentive. She didn’t want anything to overshadow their budding relationship.
She finished her curls, mopped her brow again, and picked up the DVD remote. Lunging, stretching, flick kicking, and heel hopping to a loud, upbeat tune might perk up her spirits.
That and thinking about her Saturday night date.
She could hope, anyway.
After all, dwelling on the less-than-optimal outcome wasn’t going to change anything. She and Mac had done everything humanly possible to solve this thing. It wasn’t their fault that Jessica Lee remained free.
Much as it galled her, the case was a wrap.
The lights went out in the exercise room.
Finally.
Jessica tightened her grip on the Beretta and tugged her cap further down on her head. Thank goodness the woman’s house was in the country. This would be a lot more difficult to pull off if the police chief lived in the tiny town of Carson.
Out here, it had been easier than she’d expected during her daytime scouting expedition to find a spot to tuck her car. The empty for
-sale property adjacent to Lisa Grant had been tailor-made. Once she’d chosen that location, she’d just followed the long, curving drive each evening, parked behind the house, and taken a short walk through the woods. From there, she’d had a perfect line of sight to the side, front, and back of Lisa Grant’s house.
A mosquito buzzed in her ear, and she swatted it away, muttering a curse. Even the noxious-smelling bug spray she’d applied after the first night couldn’t keep all the bloodsuckers at bay.
Still, this spot was ideal. Better than the small, little-traveled road along the back of Lisa’s property. That wasn’t as close, and it didn’t have as many concealed parking spots. Also better than the small country church a hundred yards down the road across from Lisa’s house. The shrub-rimmed lot had been deserted every evening, and from there she would have been able to see the front of the woman’s house clearly.
This less-exposed spot, however, seemed almost heaven-sent . . . if she believed in such things—or in God. Having a view of three sides of the house had given her important information about the woman’s evening activities . . . and her dog.
A shiver rippled through her, despite the oppressive humidity of the July night.
The last thing she needed was another dog complication.
But she’d worked out how to deal with that issue.
A door slammed, and Lisa’s faint voice broke the stillness. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, Tally. No . . . you can’t come. Stay inside the gate. Good boy.”
Metal clanked.
A few seconds later, the wheels of her trash can crunched on the gravel as she began to roll it down the drive.
Now.
Jessica removed the latex gloves from her pocket, snapped them on, and crept silently through the woods, into the position she’d selected. In the distance, a sonorous boom of thunder rumbled through the dark night.
The corners of her mouth tipped up.
It was, indeed, time to rumble.
“Relax, Tally. I said I’d be right back.” Lisa tossed the remark over her shoulder as her pooch let out a yip. “There are no more car chases in your future, my friend.”
