“Maybe it was just a mistake,” she said, brushing the dried leaves and dirt from the knees of her jeans. “Maybe someone else planted a bomb—like one of the authors of the crazy letters to the editor. But because someone saw me there earlier, they thought it was me. A simple matter of mistaken identity.”
“I don’t buy it,” he said.
He guided her to where his cruiser was parked.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He grinned. “Well, first we’ve got to get that poor cat out of the tree and then I’ll take you home.”
Mary smiled. “Thanks. Earl really freaked that poor kitty out.”
“I sympathize with the cat,” Bradley said.
She laughed as she settled into the seat and strapped on her seat belt. “And this is much better than walking back home.”
“Yeah, this way I can keep a closer eye on you,” Bradley said, feeling another twinge of guilt at his choice of words.
They drove through the darkened streets and parked down the block from the house with its cat in a tree.
“I don’t want to draw too much attention to us,” Bradley said, as they exited the vehicle.
“Yeah, because a woman all dressed in black and a policeman in uniform standing outside a house and calling, ‘Kitty, kitty, kitty,’ isn’t going to draw any attention at all,” Mary replied.
“Mary.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
Mary giggled. “Yes, sir.”
The poor cat was right where Mary had left it earlier, clinging to a branch about ten feet in the air. “Awww, poor kitty,” Mary crooned. “Come on down. The big, bad ghost is all gone now.”
The cat looked down at Mary and meowed piteously, but didn’t budge.
“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” Bradley called.
“Did you know that your voice raises at least an octave when you do that?” Mary asked. “It’s almost disturbing.”
“Mary.”
Mary chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Shut up.”
Bradley moved closer to the tree and reached up toward the branches. “Come on, kitty,” he pleaded. “Come on down.”
Mary moved next to him. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”
The front door of the house burst open. A heavy-set middle-aged man with a terry-cloth robe barely covering his ratty tee-shirt and boxers exited with a shotgun in his hands.
“Hey, you, whaddya doing in my front yard?”
Bradley moved away from the tree into the light shining from the front porch. “I apologize, we were on patrol and noticed your cat in the tree,” he said. “We were just trying to get her down.”
The man peered into the darkness toward Mary. “You and who else? Cat woman?” he asked.
Mary swallowed a giggle and stayed where she was, under the tree.
“No, an undercover law enforcement officer,” Bradley improvised, “helping the department with some specialty training.”
“And you stopped to get a cat out of a tree?” he put the shotgun down and scratched his head. “Is that how my tax dollars are being spent? What kind of specialty training?”
“Night ops,” Bradley said.
“Night ops my ass,” the man replied. “Horace, get down from that tree right now and get your butt inside.”
The cat scrambled down the tree and dashed through the open door. “Now can I get some sleep?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir, have a good evening, sir,” Bradley said.
“Bunch of kooks, middle of the night, night ops,” the man muttered as he closed his door.
Mary doubled over in laughter as Bradley stormed past her toward the cruiser. “People used to have respect for the law,” he said.
“Obviously the man doesn’t appreciate the danger associated with the job,” she giggled. “You could have received some really deep scratches.”
Bradley continued toward the cruiser, trying to ignore her.
“Wait, dear, don’t forget cat woman,” she called, tears beginning to stream down her face. Bradley turned back. Mary could see him struggling not to laugh.
“Night ops my ass,” she mocked and bent over to catch her breath.
The bullet whizzed past her and exploded into the tree bark above her. Her laughter stopped immediately. She dropped to the ground only seconds before Bradley dropped next to her, his gun drawn, his eyes very serious.
“Which way did it come from?” he asked.
“Across the street, northwest,” Mary stuttered, her body shaking in reaction to the close call.
“Hey, are you okay?” Bradley asked, sliding closer.
“Last time I got shot, I died,” she replied, taking a deep shuddering breath. “Just give me a minute and I’ll be okay.”
“Shit!” he swore. “Hang in there. I’m going to call for reinforcements.”
He pulled his radio from his holster. “This is Alden, I’m on Demeter near LaCresta, shots fired. I need back-up immediately.”
“So,” he said, putting his arm around Mary and pulling her alongside him. “I’ve never met someone who died. I mean someone who could actually talk to me about it. Was it all bright lights and Mormon Tabernacle Choir music?”
She smiled in spite of her fear. She’d used this tactic before with victims in their first stages of shock to calm them down until help could get there. “Well, I can’t really be sure but I think I remember hearing Queen’s ‘Another One Bites The Dust,’” she quipped.
He snorted. “Well, at least it wasn’t ACDC’s ‘Highway to Hell.’”
She chuckled, and although it was comforting to have him next to her, shielding her, she knew that she needed to figure out what was going on. “So, who do you think is trying to kill me?” she asked.
“Hey, it could have been me they were after,” he replied.
“No,” she turned her head and looked at him. “We both know that bullet had my name on it.”
He turned back, his face grim, his lips set tightly. “Mary…”
The approaching sounds of sirens halted their conversation for the moment.
“That was fast,” she said.
“They’re good guys,” he replied. “I know they have my back.”
Mary slowly did an examination of the area around her, looking at all of the places people could conceal themselves. Suddenly the safe residential street she had just jogged through with Earl had changed from a quiet garden to a dangerous jungle. “Do you think he’s still out there?” Mary asked.
“Not if he’s smart,” Bradley answered. “If he’s smart, he hightailed it as soon as he got that first shot off.”
“So I’ve been laying on this cold ground next to you for nothing?” she teased.
“Hey, I thought it was a bonding moment.” He smiled at her.
She grinned back. Three Freeport Police Department cruisers pulled up to the curb in front of them and three uniformed cops, their guns drawn, exited the vehicles.
“Chief, are you okay?” one of the officers asked.
“Yes, thanks for getting here so quickly,” Bradley responded.
“I think we can get up now,” Bradley added, standing and offering Mary his hand.
“Thanks for your help,” she said to the officers.
“No problem, ma’am,” one of the younger officers replied.
“Well, I still owe you a ride home,” Bradley said.
“That would be really nice,” she said.
“And I’m going to station one of these nice officers outside your house tonight,” he continued, “just in case.”
“You know I’m licensed to carry,” she said. “I can protect myself.”
“Yeah, I figured,” he said. “Just the same, I’d feel better knowing someone was out there. Just one favor.”
“Sure. What?”
“Don’t shoot my officer.”
“Bradley.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
TWENTY-ONE
Mary sat in t
he City Council Chamber watching the circus that was going on around her. Mayor Hank Montague had decided that the “shooting incident” as he called it, needed to be reported to the press so that the good citizens of Freeport could be aware.
She watched the press representatives from the Freeport Republic, the local radio station and the television stations from Rockford, the nearest major city, jockey for position in the small chamber room.
Mary turned to see the mayor speaking with Bradley in the corner of the room. Although he stood about a head shorter than Bradley, his open smile, animated movements and friendly manner drew your eye. He is, Mary thought, the ultimate politician.
She could see how he would have been an asset in Senator Ryerson’s campaign.
Mary met him when she first opened her business. He stopped by to welcome her to the area. Once she had told him what she did—paranormal investigation—he seemed to give her a little distance. Mary shrugged. Of course, many people get freaked when you mention ghosts.
Mary tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair. This was ridiculous. The public did not need to be aware that someone was using her for target practice. Well actually, she amended mentally, we’re spinning the story to make it look like some crackpot is taking shots at the Chief of Police.
Both Mary and Bradley decided that was the best way to handle it.
“So, you and Miss O’Reilly were out together in your cruiser for what reason?” the reporter from The Freeport Republic asked Bradley.
Mary played the truthful scenario through in her mind.
Well, Miss O’Reilly was following a ghost that was about one-hundred-fifty years old through the streets in order to make sure his remains were identified and he could rest in peace instead of walking through our streets and frightening defenseless cats.
Nope, that isn’t going to work, she decided.
“As most of you know, Miss O’Reilly is a decorated former Chicago police officer,” she heard Bradley say.
She didn’t think he’d remember that.
“She’s received many commendations, especially in the area of gang relations and vice,” he continued.
She knew she hadn’t told him that.
“Her experience is invaluable and the police department appreciates her willingness to share that knowledge with us,” Bradley said. “Miss O’Reilly was pointing out areas of potential risks in the city last night.”
“You feel that Demeter and LaCresta is an area of high risk?” the reporter asked. Demeter and LaCresta was one of the quietest areas in the city.
“No,” Bradley stated. “As Mr. Walker mentioned during his part of the interview, we happened to see that his cat, Horace, was up a tree, and we stopped to assist it.”
Mary turned to look at Mr. Walker, who looked much better fully dressed. He thanked them profusely, convinced that the “thugs” that shot at Mary were actually after Horace.
“Damned right,” Mr. Walker interrupted. “They probably saved Horace’s life.”
He turned menacingly toward the reporter.
“You got a problem with that?”
The young reporter shook his head. “No, no sir, I’m glad that Horace is safe.”
The reporter turned to Mary. “Miss O’Reilly, I can’t help but notice that your face is bruised, did that occur during the altercation last night?”
No, I ran into a fort a day earlier, she thought. Nope, that wasn’t going to work either.
“No, it didn’t,” she said out loud. “Thanks to the quick reflexes of Chief Alden, I was in a secure position moments after the shot was fired.”
“Where did you receive the injury?” the reporter asked. “I understand the chief’s vehicle was outside your house for most of the night, the evening before this incident.”
Why you little gossip, she silently accused.
“Because I am a private investigator, I can’t divulge any specifics. However, I did receive fairly serious head-trauma during an altercation related to a case I am working on,” she said. “The chief received this information through proper channels and because we didn’t want to put any local health care facility under duress, he agreed to monitor my condition. Not only do I, but also the agencies that I am currently contracting with, appreciate his help in this matter.”
Okay, maybe I’m laying it on a little thick, she thought, but damn it, he’s just looking for dirt.
The reporter’s eyes widened. “Agencies?” he repeated. “Would those be federal agencies?”
Well, Apple River Fort is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, so that’s a federal agency, she added silently.
“As I said earlier, I really can’t give you specifics,” she said. “But yes, a federal agency was involved.”
“Thank you, Miss O’Reilly,” he said, with a little more respect in his voice.
“Mayor Montague, do you have any comments about what happened last night in Freeport?” the reporter asked.
“First, I want to express my gratitude that both Miss O’Reilly and Police Chief Alden survived this ordeal without any serious consequences,” he said. “And I appreciate the quick acting response of Freeport’s Police Department coming to the aid of the police chief. This is an example of the wonderful public servants we have in this town.”
Wonderful public servants brought to you by Mayor Montague. Is there any politician that doesn’t make every positive incident all about them, Mary wondered?
After the press conference, Hank Montague approached Mary and Bradley.
“Good job last night,” he said. “It’s good to know that the only casualty was an oak tree.”
“And from what I understand, Mayor, it was only a flesh wound,” Mary replied lightly.
The mayor turned and smiled at her. “I’d hate to see a flesh wound on skin as pretty as yours, young lady,” he said, stroking his hand intimately along her cheek. “You need to take care.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Thank you,” Mary said, stepping out of the reach of his touch.
“See that you do,” the mayor replied, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“We’ll be examining that bullet to see if we can trace it back to the weapon involved,” Bradley said, drawing the mayor’s attention to him.
“Excellent,” the mayor said, slapping Bradley on the back. “Excellent job, young man.”
An hour later Mary and Bradley were sitting in his office, eating sandwiches and arguing.
“You do understand what a confidentiality agreement is, don’t you?” Mary asked.
“You do understand what being shot is, don’t you?” Bradley replied. “You already died once. I don’t think that makes you invincible, does it?”
Mary winced and then shook her head. “No, but having done it once, I can tell you that I don’t want to experience it again anytime soon. So I am careful.”
“Running into a fort is being careful?”
“Bradley, you obviously don’t understand, so let me explain this to you. When a ghost needs to show me what happened to them, so I can investigate their circumstances, I’m kind of transported back to their time,” she said. “Everything looks like it was when whatever happened took place.”
“Yes, and when you are wandering around in the 1980s you are completely defenseless,” Bradley countered.
“Now that I know that someone is out to get me, I’ll be more aware,” she said. “I won’t put myself in a situation that might compromise my safety.”
“So you can control when you transport back?” he asked.
She took a bite of her pickle spear to prolong the moment before she had to answer. “Well, actually, before this case, I never transported before,” she admitted. “And so far, it hasn’t been planned.”
“What makes this case so different?” he asked.
“Probably murder,” she replied.
“Murder?” Bradley asked, dropping his sandwich onto his plate. “This case involves murder?”
TWENTY-TWO
&
nbsp; “Well, that went well,” Mary muttered sarcastically as she jogged down the steps of the police station and headed up Main Street toward her office. Logically she could understand Bradley’s concern. Growing up with a house full of men, she also understood the alpha-male need to protect others. But damn it, she was a former Chicago cop. Did he really think that she couldn’t handle her own investigation?
She looked down the street at the patrol car slowly following her. Obviously not.
She entered her office and watched the patrol car glide down the street and park halfway up the block. The officer was positioned so he could watch the door of her office and her car.
“This is a total waste of taxpayer money,” Mary muttered. “I’m going to write my congressman.”
Instead, she picked up the phone and called Rosie. “Hi, Rosie. Can you and Stanley come down to my office? I need your help. Oh, and bring your emergency box.”
Rosie and Stanley arrived within fifteen minutes.
“So, I see you’re being staked out,” Stanley said as he entered. “You’ve been planting more bombs lately?”
Mary grinned. “No, the police chief wasn’t thrilled that I didn’t see fit to share my case with him,” she said with a shrug. “So I’m being tailed.”
“How exciting,” Rosie trilled. “Do you want us to create a diversion while you speed away?”
“Well, speeding away wouldn’t be good. I don’t want to break the law,” Mary said, “just bypass it a little.”
“I like the way you think,” Stanley said. “How can we help?”
“Rosie, I need to borrow your portable mannequin,” Mary said, opening the emergency box Rosie placed on the table.
She drew out the inflatable doll. “I need a stand-in for the afternoon.”
“What the hell is that?” Stanley asked, turning on Rosie.
“What does it look like?” Rosie replied.
“It looks like trouble,” Stanley said, blushing from his collar up. “Pure and simple trouble.”
Mary laughed and walked over to the storefront windows. She closed the blinds securely and then brushed her hands together briskly. “So, Stanley, do you want to help dress her or would you like another task?”
Crimes of Passion Page 95
