Find Me (The Donovan Family Book 3)

by Margaret Watson

  There was something off about their witness. Was she lying? Mac didn't think she was lying about what she'd seen. But her reactions were more than being scared and traumatized by what she'd witnessed. What was she trying to hide?

  Was she involved somehow? Did she know more than she'd told them?

  She'd agreed to return this afternoon. The woman had fascinated him from the moment she walked into the office. He wanted to peel away the layers of tension that encased Elizabeth Monroe and find out what she was hiding.

  She'd be back in about twelve hours. He'd be waiting for her.

  Chapter 2

  Lizzy sucked in a relieved breath as she stood in front of the elevator, banging repeatedly on the call button. She couldn't wait to get out of this building.

  The woman questioning her – Rhodes? – had treated Lizzy as though she was the guilty one. She'd acted as though every word out of Lizzy's mouth was a lie.

  That's what the police did. They tried to catch you up. Assumed you were lying.

  Her hands shook as she hit the call button one more time. The elevator dinged, and she took a step toward the door. When it opened, a man began to step out, stopping abruptly when he spotted her. Their eyes connected, and Lizzy couldn't breathe.

  It was him. The man from the parking garage. The man who'd shoved another man over the wall to his death. He held a paper tray with four cups of coffee, and they tilted slightly. As if he'd reflexively loosened one hand to reach for the gun visible beneath his jacket.

  His gaze was a cold, assessing sweep that made her shiver. She took an involuntary step backward, panic racing through her veins, until finally the man in front of her stepped out of the elevator. He stared as she got into the elevator, his eyes reptilian and flat. Lizzy's hand shook as she pressed the button for the first floor.

  As the doors closed, Rhodes said, "Thank God. Coffee's here."

  Her stomach clenched and she choked back bile as the elevator descended. The coffee she'd had at the hospital two hours earlier rolled around in her queasy stomach. She swallowed hard to force down the nausea. Her heart thundered in her chest, and the walls of the elevator closed in around her.

  Lizzy slumped against the wall of the elevator and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the convulsive tremors. God! What if he followed her down? What if he was waiting for her on the first floor?

  No. The woman had greeted him. He couldn't turn around and leave immediately, so she had a few minutes to escape.

  She should go upstairs and tell the other agents that she didn't need to work with a sketch artist. That the killer was standing in the room with them.

  Her hand hovered over the buttons for a moment, then she closed her fingers into a fist. She couldn't do that. They wouldn't believe her. They'd take his side and protect him. She knew how that code of silence worked. How the cop brotherhood protected their own. The killer would be free to kill again, and she knew who his next target would be.

  He'd have no trouble finding her. All the details of her life, including her address and phone number, had been conveniently recorded. He had everything he needed to track her down and silence her.

  She didn't want to end up on the sidewalk at the bottom of a parking garage.

  She shifted from one foot to the other. Fight or flight. Stay or go.

  No choice. She couldn't tell anyone in that office what she'd seen. Her life depended on it.

  When the elevator doors opened, she bolted for the front door of the Federal Building, then skidded to a stop. A handful of people stood several yards from the door, and bright lights lit the night. The press.

  They'd heard about the agent being killed and were looking for information. The last thing she wanted was to show her face to any of them.

  She spun around, hoping they hadn't already spotted her, and walked down the first corridor she came to until she was out of sight. Then she ran.

  A door on the other side of the building opened onto a deserted sidewalk. Panting, her heart pounding, she peered over her shoulder, then pushed the door to exit.

  Icy pellets of sleet hit her face and her feet skidded on the slush-covered concrete. It was almost five AM. There would be El trains running, but not very frequently. She had to get away from this building, so she hurried toward Randolf. A taxi would come along sooner or later.

  Five minutes later, she slumped in the seat of a cab, unable to stop shivering. As it turned the corner, she looked over her shoulder one last time to make sure she hadn't been followed. No one.

  Of course he wasn't following her. He didn't have to. She'd made it easy for the killer to find her. He already had all the information he needed.

  She would be hunted. She'd seen one of their agents commit murder. The man from the parking garage could bide his time and find her whenever he liked.

  Twenty minutes later, she handed the driver some bills and slid out of the cab. The main streets in Bucktown were stirring, but her block was deserted. Most of the apartments were still dark, although lights shone in the apartment above hers. Doug, her landlord, was awake. He commuted to the suburbs and left early to avoid the traffic.

  With one last look over her shoulder, she slipped into the three-flat and made sure the door locked behind her. As if that would stop a determined killer. Verging on panic, her heart pounding, she raced up the stairs to her second floor apartment. Franny whined at the door, and Lizzy's hand shook as she pushed the key into the lock.

  She closed and locked her door and sank to the floor, her dog nuzzling her leg. "Hey, baby," she murmured, wrapping her arm around the Australian Shepherd's neck. Franny lay down beside her and put her head in Lizzy's lap. The two-year old had an uncanny ability to sense Lizzy's emotions.

  She petted her dog, her heart slowing. When she straightened, Franny lifted her head and whined softly.

  "Yeah, Fran, I know you need to go out," Lizzy said.

  At the word 'out', Franny stood and stretched, then watched her owner expectantly. Turning on lights as she walked toward the back of the apartment, Lizzy peered down into the back yard, then opened the door a crack. "Go, Franny," she ordered.

  The black, tan and white dog bounded down the stairs. Her white legs gleamed in the moonlight, and her mostly black body became a dark shadow against the thin accumulation of sleet on the grass. A few minutes later, she ran up the stairs and into the kitchen. The dog stood patiently while Lizzy dried her feet, then trotted over to her food bowl.

  Thank goodness something was normal. Lizzy measured out food and gave the dog fresh water, then slid into a kitchen chair. Her body ached from the cold, from crouching on the wet concrete in the parking garage, from the horror of witnessing a murder. Her body craved sleep, but she knew she wouldn't get it.

  She was too scared to sleep.

  Franny would sound the alarm if someone tried to get in the door. She was a gentle, loving dog, but fiercely protective of Lizzy and the apartment. No one would get past her.

  "Watch," she murmured to the dog. Franny's ears perked up and she lifted her head from her food bowl.

  "Watch," Lizzy repeated.

  When Franny sat, her ears twitching, Lizzy headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, when the water had begun to cool, she stepped out, still not completely warm. It would be a long time, she was afraid, until she was warm again.

  "Franny, free," she called, and the dog trotted over to her and leaned against her leg. "We have to figure out what to do," she told the dog. Franny whined as if she understood every word.

  ***

  Two hours later, Lizzy alternated pacing the floor and throwing belongings into a small suitcase and a backpack. She hadn't figured out what to do, but she couldn't stay here. Not when the killer knew where she lived.

  Part of her wanted to go back to the FBI office and tell them what she knew. It was the smart thing to do. Surely, not everyone in that office would try to protect the killer.

  But what if they didn't believe her? She paced her sma
ll living room, around the couch, past the windows with their tightly closed blinds, back around the couch. Cops didn't want to hear anything bad about a fellow officer – she'd learned that the hard way. And FBI agents were just cops with fancy badges.

  What if she picked the wrong person to tell? She sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. She had no idea why that man had thrown another FBI agent off the fifth floor, but what if it involved other agents?

  She heard a tiny noise, too brief to be identified.

  Franny growled low in her throat, her ears perking. She walked stiffly toward the back door, and Lizzy snapped her fingers. Franny peered over her shoulder, and Lizzy saw the question in her eyes. She'd heard something. It was her job to investigate.

  Lizzy snapped her fingers again, and Franny walked slowly back to her. Lizzy curled an arm around the dog's neck, holding her closely.

  The sound came again, a tiny rasp of metal against metal. As if someone was trying to insert a key in the lock.

  Her stomach jumped and her heart began to race. She eased to her feet and signaled Franny to heel. Then, taking a deep breath, scanning frantically for anything that resembled a weapon, she walked toward the kitchen door.

  She wasn't going to cower in her living room and wait for that man to break into her apartment. At the very least, there were knives in the kitchen.

  The sound came again. Her steps slowed as she reached the kitchen, and she clutched her stomach. She was going to be sick.

  Her eyes darted to the knife block on her counter, the one that had belonged to her mother. Thinking of her parents steadied her. Her father had died protecting her. Her mother had succumbed to cancer, and Lizzy knew it had been from the stress.

  Wiping her sweaty hand on her jeans, she pulled out the biggest knife in the block. "Honey?" she called. "Is that you?"

  The scratching stopped. Moments later, she heard footsteps on the wooden stairs.

  She pushed the blind on the window to the side and saw a man hurrying toward the alley. He wore a dark coat, dark pants and dark shoes. His hair was dark, as well.

  The dawn sky was dull gray, washing out the color and details in the yard. She couldn't be sure it was the killer. But who else would it be?

  She had to get out of this apartment before he came back.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lizzy dropped the last item into the backpack and zipped it closed. Her head pounded and her eyes ached. She desperately needed to sleep. But she couldn't. Not yet.

  "Okay, Franny," she whispered. "We're going to Melinda's apartment." The tenant on the ground floor, who'd become one of Lizzy's closest friends, had moved out a week ago, just before she got married. Lizzy hadn't yet returned the spare key to her landlord – Doug's busy schedule conflicted with hers. Thank God.

  It would take a while before anyone looking for Lizzy checked the ground floor apartment. Melinda's name was still on the mailbox, and her blinds were closed. Unless they talked to Doug, no one would know the apartment was vacant.

  They'd ask soon enough. By then, she needed to be long gone.

  Easing open the door to the hall, she listened for a long moment. No one there. She motioned Franny to her side, slung the backpack over her shoulders and grabbed the suitcase and the bag of Franny's food and bowls. Then she hurried down the stairs and into the other apartment.

  Melinda had cleaned before she left, but opening the door disturbed dust motes in the air, and they flickered in the dim light. The walls were white and there were a few scrape marks on the hardwood floors. Otherwise, the apartment was completely empty.

  Lizzy checked every window lock and double-checked the back door. She and Franny weren't staying for more than a few hours, but she needed the reassurance of the locks.

  "Franny, watch," she commanded. Then she pushed the suitcase next to the wall, clutched her keys in her hand and crept out the door. She needed money and she needed a car, and urgency hummed through her. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  She ignored it as she stood in the small foyer of the three-flat. If she was trying to sneak away, she'd go out the back door and creep down the alley. She hoped the killer assumed that, too. So she waited fifteen minutes, watching carefully, then walked out the front door and stepped in behind a couple heading for the El stop two blocks away.

  ***

  "She's late." Rhodes stood in the hallway, hands on hips, staring toward the elevator as if her willpower alone would pull Elizabeth Monroe through the doors.

  Mac knew damn well she was late. He'd glanced at his watch too many times in the last half-hour. Fear tried to insert itself in his brain, and he pushed it away. Nothing had happened to her. She'd gotten stuck in traffic. She'd fallen asleep. She'd show up.

  "Damn civilians." Parmenter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then lifted his head. "Should have put her in protective custody."

  "Had no reason to do that. She wasn't a suspect," Mac retorted.

  "Maybe she should be," Jacobsen said.

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mac growled.

  "Awfully convenient that she's our only witness, isn't it? Maybe she's the one who tossed Kelly over that wall."

  "She's half Kelly's size." Mac gritted his teeth. What kind of idiot was Jacobsen?

  "Didn't have to pick him up," the other agent pointed out. "All she had to do was push."

  "Her story checked out," Rhodes interjected. "She was at the hospital, translating, just like she said."

  "Good cover," Jacobsen said without looking at her. "She could have set up a meeting with Kelly because she knew she'd have an alibi."

  He didn't want Elizabeth Monroe to be guilty, but Jacobsen was right. Mac couldn't let his ridiculous fascination with the Monroe woman get in the way. He twisted to look at Rhodes. "What did you find out about her?"

  "Background she gave us is true – grew up in northern Wisconsin, family moved to Chicago when Monroe was nineteen, right after her father was killed in a fishing accident. Mother died of breast cancer a couple of years ago. One brother, living in upstate New York. The agent hesitated. "The mother came to the FBI right after they moved here. Said the fishing accident wasn't an accident. Said a deputy sheriff who'd been stalking Lizzy did it."

  Her name was Lizzy? He pictured the woman with the curly blond hair, the quirky earrings, the faded jeans. Yeah, it fitted her. Mac swiveled to look at her. "Did anyone look into it?"

  "No. Said it wasn't our jurisdiction, directed her to the Wisconsin staties."

  "Was Kelly the one she talked to?" Jacobsen asked.

  Mac nodded at his fellow agent. Would be a good motive, if Monroe was the killer.

  "No. It was Grant. He's in Cleveland now."

  "Maybe she had a grudge against us," Jacobsen said.

  "So she, what? Lures a random FBI agent to a deserted parking garage and pushes him to his death? Then waits around to tell the police she saw what happened? She didn't strike me as stupid," Mac said evenly.

  But her story explained a few things. Her reserve. Her caution. The fear he'd seen in her eyes.

  "The woman looked wiped out when she left," Rhodes said. "Maybe she taught that class, went home, turned off her phone and fell asleep. Before you get all caught up in your conspiracy theory, Jacobsen, maybe you should consider that."

  "She hasn't answered her phone," Mac pointed out. "And you've called, what? Ten times?"

  "Maybe she's a sound sleeper."

  "Maybe the killer got to her," Rhodes said.

  His gut clenched, but Mac said, "No one knew about her but the agents in the office when Monroe was here. What were there, six of us?"

  Maybe she got stuck in traffic. Or maybe the press scared her off."

  "Then she should have called," Jacobsen snapped.

  Mac rolled his eyes and turned back to his computer. Jacobsen was as exhausted as everyone else. They'd been in and out of the office all day, following leads, with not much to show for it. The surveillance cameras in the parking garage hadn't worke
d for a week. No one but Lizzy had seen anything. They needed their witness, and they needed her now.

  Monroe. He meant Monroe. When had he started to think of her as Lizzy?

  "Want me to go to her place and pick her up?" Mac offered. Of course she was okay. No one knew about her. But his foot tapped on the floor and his fingers clenched and unclenched. He needed to be sure she was okay.

  "I'll arm wrestle you for the job," Jacobson said. "I'm going stir-crazy in here."

  "We all are," Rhodes said. "Suck it up, Jacobsen."

  Minutes ticked past, agonizingly slowly. A half-hour later, at 5:30, the office was completely silent. Damn it. They should have put her in protective custody. Mac stood up. "I'm going to pick her up."

  "Right. Rhodes, go with him."

  Mac grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevator. Rhodes was right behind him. They descended to the basement garage, and as they walked toward the bureau cars, Mac said, "I'll drive."

  "Be my guest. I hate the fucking rush hour."

  They got into a dark Taurus sedan and pulled onto Van Buren. It was a parking lot. Mac drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as they edged forward. After sitting through two traffic light cycles, he glanced at Rhodes. "Siren?"

  "Hell, yes. I'm...worried."

  "Yeah. Me, too." He flipped on the siren and the lights and began weaving through traffic until they got to the corner, then they turned north. Twenty-five minutes later, they pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant a few buildings down from her three-flat. They'd switched off the siren and lights a few blocks ago – they didn't want to draw attention to themselves.

  Mac opened his door at the same time as Rhodes. As they headed for her building, he unsnapped his holster. Dread was a drumbeat in his head. Rhodes glanced at him and readied her Glock.

  They pressed on the doorbell several times, but there was no answer. Taking a few steps back, they glanced up. From the mailboxes, Lizzy's – Monroe's – apartment was on the middle floor. The shades were down, but the slats were open. There were no lights visible from outside.

  The first floor blinds were closed. The top floor had the shades pulled up.