“Do you have an idea?”
“After the break-in, she called me for help. I hadn’t seen her in months. I’d worked on the divorce settlement for her, chasing down Ashton’s assets. That’s where she and I, you know, got together. But that was a while ago. I made it clear I couldn’t look into the burglary for her. Because I didn’t want to get involved again. And because— Well, just because. ”
“Did you ever meet someone named Nigel Griffin?”
Hunt shook his head. “Should I?”
“Her insurance investigator, or one of them. He’s sort of a recovery specialist. He thinks she staged the burglary to get his attention, because she wanted him in her bed and he turned her down.”
“God.” Hunt laughed. “Everyone’s an egomaniac, you ever notice that?”
“Bud, I hear the cops have been pressing you pretty hard.”
“Oh hell, they know I didn’t kill her. They do think I’m holding something back, like I know more than I’m telling. Believe me, I know nothing. But I do know about obstruction of justice in a murder case. I was a cop, for crying out loud. They’re just grasping at straws. They got nothing better, so I get the treatment.” He grunted and turned his attention to the coffee dripping into the carafe. “That’s off the record.”
“Got it.”
He poured two cups of coffee. Lacey added cream and sugar and they walked back into the classroom. They stood by the desk at the front, sipping their hot coffee.
“Almost class time. You know what I think?” Hunt grumbled, surveying his empty kingdom. “This class is cursed.”
There was a loud explosion, followed immediately by a second. The classroom windows shattered and glass shards sprayed across the room like daggers. Hunt instinctively threw himself across Lacey to protect her, but she’d already hit the floor, covered with hot coffee, doughnuts, and jagged glass. Then there was silence. They lay still for a moment.
“Damn it! What the hell was that?” Hunt sat up, staring at the mess covering the floor. “What the hell do you want from me? I’m just trying to make a living here!”
Lacey sat up and looked around. Her pulse was pounding like a jackhammer, but she was unhurt. She brushed glass fragments carefully from her sweater, and picked some out of her skin, fighting the urge to cry. “I am never wearing this sweater again.”
“You okay?” Hunt gave her his hand and helped her stand up. “Watch the broken glass. Shotgun, probably. Could have killed us easy if they wanted to.” Hunt’s voice sounded calm, but his hands were shaking. “Sending me a message, I guess, but what the hell? Freaking illiterates! You can’t spell with a shotgun!”
The wind whistled through the empty window frames. Lacey didn’t want to look out the shattered windows into the cold night, afraid she might see a gun pointed right at her. But she forced herself to look. There was no one there.
Hunt unholstered his phone to make the inevitable 911 call. “The guys at the station are gonna hate me. Did I mention this class is cursed?”
Heavy boots pounded down the stairs and Snake Goldstein burst through the door, his pistol drawn and ready. He looked around and whistled.
“Man, what in the name of holy crap went down here?! You got bad guys spraying shot at you? Brother Hunt, you got enemies or what?”
“Excuse me. I have to—” Lacey ran to the ladies’ room. She made it there just in time to throw up.
When Lacey got home it was late. Her eyes burned, her muscles ached, and she was tired to the bone. A folded piece of paper was peeking out from underneath her apartment door. Her keys in her hand, she bent down to pull it out by one corner. It wasn’t the usual flyer for the local Chinese restaurant, or another plea from the landlord to keep the lobby doors closed. It was a message, scrawled in block letters with a thick black marker.
SMITHSONIAN: TONIGHT WAS JUST A FRIENDLY WARNING! STOP ASKING QUESTIONS. DON’T LOOK FOR TROUBLE. YOU MIGHT BE THE NEXT DEAD DUCK. A FRIEND.
A friend? A friend who blew out the classroom windows, with her and Hunt inside? Obviously this “friend” did not understand reporters. Backing off wasn’t an option. Lacey wasn’t close to figuring things out yet; she’d barely started pulling the threads together to find a pattern. I haven’t even begun to look for trouble!
Lacey let herself in and locked the door behind her. She considered her options. She could share this information with Detective Jance. He would thank her and counsel her to do exactly what the note suggested: Back off. Leave it to the pros, lady.
Were tonight’s events prompted by her news story about the drawing on Cecily’s photograph? It must have touched a nerve for her “friend,” a friend with a shotgun and the willingness to use it. And whoever wrote the note knew where she lived and where she went to class.
She slid the note into a big manila envelope so as not to smudge the fingerprints she knew would not be there. She decided not to call the cops yet. Her thoughts were too chaotic to make sense of them for a puzzled cop. The shotgun blasts had shattered her nerves like glass. This message seemed to be what Kepelov had said: Another Russian doll.
There was only one person she wanted to talk to, but she didn’t expect to see Vic again tonight. She’d called him several times from Falls Church and left him messages about the shotgun attack, but he hadn’t called back. She knew he sometimes had to work all night on some case or another, sometimes in secure government locations where cell phones were not allowed. And he needed some sleep, after flying in from the West Coast. Or maybe he was still out carousing with Nigel and Stella?
Lacey felt on the verge of tears. She’d been holding it in all night, ever since the windows had exploded and she found herself on the floor covered with glass. She was heading for the bedroom when the phone rang.
“Lacey, where are you? Are you safe? Are you all right?” It was Vic. “I was in that damn courthouse, they make you leave your cell phone with Security, and I just now—”
“Oh, Vic. It’s okay. I’m all right. I’m home.”
“You’re really all right? Not a scratch?”
“Not a scratch.” Maybe some cuts and bruises, but no scratches. “But persons unknown have left me a note. Under my door. Here at home.”
“A note? What kind of note?”
“The threatening kind. Vic, honey, I don’t know what to do—”
“I’ll be right over. Don’t let anyone in. Except me.”
“You’re late,” Mac said when Lacey waltzed into the newsroom at ten o’clock Thursday morning.
“Rough night.” She was glad she’d chosen one of Aunt Mimi’s fabulous outfits. The perfect vintage outfit helped remind her how tough a woman can be. It gave Lacey the strength she needed to deal with cranky bosses and grumpy police detectives. Today’s selection was from a 1939 pattern, a simple black crepe dress with an emerald green satin wraparound sash and a matching emerald and black bolero jacket. Shades of Rita Hayworth herself. No one since about 1939 had made anything like it, and Vic had found it irresistibly alluring that morning. But these days, Lacey realized, Vic would find a burlap feed sack alluring as long as Lacey was in it. Preferably not in it for long.
He arrived last night with guns and ammunition. Vic had missed her and worried about her and he had proven it to her satisfaction. Lacey smiled at the memory.
“I know I’m late for class, teach, but I have a note.” She handed her editor a copy of the warning message.
“A note?” Mac grumbled as he took it. “What kind of note?”
“Fan mail. My fans love me. The original is with the Falls Church police.”
Mac read the threatening message, his eyebrows bouncing indignantly. She filled him in on the shotgun blasts at PI class in Falls Church the night before. Lacey translated the brows’ message: Incredulous, followed by angry. “What did the police say?”
“That I should take its advice,” Lacey said. “Maybe they sent it.”
“You think it’s from the shooter? The one last night?”
“Oh sure it is, don’t you think? Sorry the letter writer wasn’t more specific, but you know how people are today. I blame e-mail. I’m just glad he didn’t text me. I never would have figured that out.”
Mac growled and the eyebrows danced again. “Lacey, we joke about your peculiar ability to land in the middle of these situations, and the Smithsonian bravado is duly noted, but it is officially time to ease off this story.”
“Not you too? What kind of journalist does that?”
“The live kind.”
Lacey turned and headed for her desk. “Maybe later. First I have to call the usual suspects, so they can deny all knowledge of the note.”
Mac followed her. “I got news for you, Lacey. I’m not running any more of your stories on Cecily Ashton until this shooter is caught.” Lacey opened her mouth to protest, but he continued. “Besides, you’re meeting Kim and the girls for lunch and their hair appointment tomorrow, and they’re looking forward to it. Don’t get yourself shot and disappoint my girls!”
“You know I wouldn’t miss that.” Lacey herself had introduced Mac’s foster daughters to the pleasures of having their hair professionally cut and styled. This appointment with Miss Stella was a big deal for them. “How come they’re out of school anyway?”
“Some kind of teacher planning day.”
“Don’t worry, the worst that can happen is Stella will dye their hair blue. No wait, blue and pink.”
Mac stared at her, slack-jawed. “I expect you to ride shotgun on that,” he said, oblivious to his choice of words.
“No blue and pink hair for Jasmine and Lily Rose. I’ll try to remember.” Lacey flounced out the door before he could say anything else. In the light of day, she felt fine. One night with Vic and she could even say the word shotgun without cringing.
Easy calls first, she thought. Her list began with Simon Edison, who said he had read Lacey’s story about the drawing. Of course he had nothing to do with the shooting or the note, he said.
“Then let me ask you this, Simon. When I saw that little drawing of what might be a bird in a cage, I thought about your Faraday cage.”
“Oh, like the drawing is a rebus? That’s pretty clever, isn’t it? I’m not sure I would have thought of that.” There was a long pause. “Do you suppose someone is trying to say something about the fabric? Like Cecily was a bird in a gilded Faraday cage or something?” She wondered if Simon Edison was playing with her. “I don’t know, but you should be very careful, Ms. Smithsonian! I wouldn’t want you to end up like my Cecily.”
That sounded a little threatening too. “Simon, did you write that note last night?”
“Of course not! There is no way I would place a nasty note under your door. I don’t even know where you live. I mean I wouldn’t anyway, Lacey. You know what I mean.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he cagier than he looked? She called Willow next, the home number from the class contact sheet; no answer. She did catch Edwina, who said she was so flustered by everything that happened in class she was off to the range with her girlfriends to shoot skeet.
“It relaxes me,” she said. “Better than bridge.”
“Did you happen to slip a note under my door last night?” Lacey asked.
“Why on earth would I do that?” Edwina said she had to go, her shooting party had arrived.
Hadley also denied any knowledge of the note. He was late to class last night because of snarled traffic on the George Washington Parkway, he said, and when he saw the police cars in the parking lot he turned right around and went home. He assumed they were there for him. He waited all night for the inevitable knock on the door, which never came. Lacey inquired about the voices. Hadley said Edgar seemed to be on leave. Raj was in charge, and Hadley couldn’t understand half of what he was saying. And he assured her the voices never left threatening notes or any physical evidence at all.
“Of course, Edgar and the others often order me to do very strange things. Part of the torment is resisting their bizarre commands. But I would never actually harm someone! I don’t know if that goes for everyone like me.” He offered the local mind-control group’s help in protecting her. Lacey thanked him.
But is tinfoil bulletproof? She didn’t let herself laugh until she hung up the phone.
“Hey, newshound. You all in one piece?” Trujillo stopped to smell the bundt cake on Felicity’s desk. It was a luscious cinnamon chocolate concoction, dripping with caramel frosting. Lacey used her mighty willpower to ignore it, but Trujillo, the notorious food and story poacher, cut himself a large slice.
“I seem to be all in one piece, thanks.”
“What can you tell me about the shoot-out at the PI corral?”
“Nothing much. Boom boom. No casualties. Except the windows.”
“Mac’s deciding whether we want to play it up big or not.” He dug into his cake. “The perp may just be after the attention.”
“In that case, maybe the perp’s a politician running for president.”
“At any rate, you’re off the story.”
“Go away, you smug pencil pusher.” Lacey waved him away and he took the hint. But the cinnamon chocolate caramel cake finally got to her. She sliced off a tiny sliver just as Felicity bustled back to her desk. Eating it would be bad for Lacey’s waistline, but it made the food editor smile.
“Lacey, Harlan and I have been talking about the wedding, ” Felicity said. As if they talked about anything else these days. “Well. Gosh. We would really like you to be one of my bridesmaids. Would you?”
A parade of the most dreadful bridesmaids’ gowns imaginable suddenly flooded Lacey’s imagination. Being sprayed by broken glass was bad enough. Wearing a dress devised by Felicity Pickles for her Big Day was unthinkable.
Lacey was glad for once her mouth was full.
Chapter 33
“Are you Lacey Smithsonian?”
Lacey looked up at the man in the blue jeans and green-brown camouflage jacket standing between her desk and Felicity’s. He didn’t look like someone who would be looking for her. Probably in his late twenties, he was boyish and nice looking, with sandy hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks.
“Yes,” she said. “That would be me.”
“I’m Eric O’Neil.” He extended his hand and grinned. Lacey hesitated and then took his hand. He had a firm grip. “Call me Eric. You called my office yesterday?”
Her hand hit her coffee cup and it shattered on the floor. She picked up the pieces.
O’Neil? Willow’s murderous stalker, that Eric O’Neil? Lacey took a breath and tried to stay calm. What the hell is he doing here? Can just anybody wander past the security desk in the lobby? Her next thought was that this guy was much too attractive for Willow, but of course that was just prejudice based on looks. Obsession was blind, and she was still thinking of the old Willow.
“Your office is in Philly, right? Cyber Rescue Squad? I never expected to see you here in D.C.” Her heart was beating way too fast.
“Right on my way home.” He tilted his head a little when he smiled, an oddly endearing gesture for a potential killer. “Heading back home from North Carolina. Hunting trip.”
“What kind of hunting?” Her heart was still pounding. Lacey thought her voice sounded a little squeaky. She hoped it sounded more confident to Eric O’Neil.
“Quail, grouse, pheasant,” Eric said. “Just birds this trip. They’re on ice in my truck. Season’s almost over.” He unzipped his camo hunting jacket, revealing a well-worn olive drab sweater. It looked like military surplus.
“Ducks?” Lacey’s mouth felt a little dry. Am I the “next dead duck”?
“Not this trip. You look a little flushed, Ms. Smithsonian, are you all right?”
“I’m good.” Lacey cleared her throat. She took a sip from her water bottle. “Call me Lacey. Have a seat. Please.”
Eric grabbed the office’s floating chair, the Death Chair, in which the former fashion editor had died. Decorated with
a skull and crossbones, it was a sturdy oak arm chair with casters. No one in the newsroom wanted it anymore, but it was too indestructible to get rid of. He sat down.
“I checked my messages and there you were. I never heard of your newspaper, but you said you were writing something about Nina, so I wanted to—” He stopped.
Her breath caught in her throat. “Yes, Eric?”
“Well, I’d do anything to help find who killed Nina. Her death was such a shame.”
“How well did you know her?”
“We dated for awhile. She was a sweet girl.” Eric looked Lacey straight in the eye. He seemed utterly normal. Charming, just as Willow had said. Perhaps he’s a charming sociopath, she thought.
“You dated?” Willow hadn’t mentioned that little factoid.
“It was pretty casual. She was like a butterfly, you know? She never landed anywhere for very long. But don’t get me wrong, Nina was very cool. I liked her a lot.”
“I heard she was dating someone else too,” Lacey said. “English guy?”
“Yeah, English guy. Griffith? Or something Griffith. Griffin? Nigel something?”
Nigel Griffin strikes again. “Jealous of him?”
“Me? Of him?” Eric made a face. “Why would I? Nah. I think I only met the guy once, at a party someplace. Nina and I weren’t going out anymore by then anyway.”
Trujillo had sidled up to Felicity’s desk again. Prowling for more cake, or more juicy crumbs of my story? Lacey wondered.
“Still hungry, Tony?”
“Must have missed lunch. Hey, man, you don’t look like a fashion story,” he said to Eric. “Unless Smithsonian here is suddenly into camo.”
“Fashion story? The last thing I’d be,” Eric said. “I’m just here about Nina.”
“Nina?” Trujillo looked puzzled. Lacey hadn’t filled him in. Now wasn’t the time.
“Tony’s one of our police reporters,” Lacey said. “He knows everything the police know. I’m sure he’s got important work to do.” She gave Trujillo a gentle shove in the direction of his desk. “I’m glad you came by, Eric, I’ve got some questions.”
Armed and Glamorous Page 28
