Watch Your Back

by Karen Rose

  ‘Fine,’ she said in a tone that said she was anything but. ‘I have to go anyway. I have just enough time to change my clothes and get to that wedding.’ She stood on her toes to give Clay an impulsive hug. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he muttered gruffly. When she was gone, he leaned over the stall door to see Cordelia putting away her brushes. ‘Change of plans, kid. You get to stay.’

  The little girl’s eyes were cautious. ‘For how long?’

  ‘As long as you like. I’m taking you home. And I’ll make sure your mom isn’t angry with you.’

  ‘Because she’ll be angry with you instead,’ Cordelia countered.

  So? What else is new? ‘I’m a big boy. I can take it. Now go . . . saddle up, or whatever it was you were about to do when I got here.’

  Her smile reappeared. ‘Thank you, Mr Maynard,’ she said politely.

  ‘You’re welcome. In the future, tell your mom the truth, even if it’s scary. She doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark that way.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said as she ran out to find Maggie VanDorn and get her saddle.

  For a long moment he watched her, thinking about what he’d say to Stevie. Wishing his heart hadn’t started beating harder in anticipation of seeing her again. Even if it was only to hear her tell him to go away again.

  Baltimore, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 2.42 P.M.

  The woman was going to die. Sitting on the floor, away from the shattered window, Emma watched the medics work on the injured woman as the husband stood by helplessly, tears running down his face. Emma hadn’t been able to find the woman’s pulse. The medics had found one, but it was weak. She’d lost so much blood. Too much. ‘Dammit all to hell,’ Emma whispered.

  ‘I agree.’

  She looked up, unsurprised to see a detective crouching beside her. She’d met Stevie’s new partner long ago, long before they’d been teamed up in BPD’s homicide division.

  It had been over seven years before, at Cordelia’s christening. JD Fitzpatrick was Cordy’s godfather. Emma’s path hadn’t crossed his again until today. She wondered if he knew who she was, if Stevie told anyone outside her immediate family about their annual lunch.

  Knowing Stevie, probably not. She was an intensely private woman. Which was part of her problem. Stevie was too private. And way too intense.

  And I certainly didn’t help matters any. Way to go, Dr Walker. She’d intended to confront Stevie with her self-destructive behaviors with a lot more subtlety. But I got upset. She sighed inside. And then I upset her. I didn’t mean to upset her.

  Fitzpatrick pulled a notepad from his pocket. ‘I need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. I don’t think I’ll be much help, though. I didn’t see the shooter.’ Her voice stayed calm, but her body shuddered. Stevie could have been killed. Like the waitress was. Like that poor woman I tried to help will soon be.

  ‘Just tell me what you can. My name is Detective Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘I know. You’re her partner.’ She looked across the room to where Stevie was arguing with another pair of medics. ‘She won’t want to go to the hospital. Please make her go.’

  ‘You were sitting with Detective Mazzetti?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He waited for her to explain and when she said nothing, he frowned. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Emma Walker. Dr Walker,’ she clarified. ‘You and I have met before, once. At Cordelia’s christening. Stevie introduced me as Dr Townsend. I’m the grief counselor who helped Stevie start up the grief support groups at the police department.’

  His eyes narrowed as he made the connection. ‘Dr Emma Townsend. You wrote the book Stevie used in the grief groups she did with cops. I read it. It helped when I lost my first wife.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said quietly.

  Fitzpatrick’s expression had softened. ‘You helped her through Paul’s murder. And Paulie’s,’ he added gruffly, then briefly closed his eyes. ‘Today’s the anniversary. How could I have forgotten? I always take Cordelia out for ice cream on the anniversary. I forgot. Dammit.’

  ‘You have an infant, right? Just three months old?’

  ‘Jeremiah,’ he confirmed.

  Emma gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Stevie told me about him. She was so thrilled when you asked her to be his godmother. I imagine you’ve had a lot of sleepless nights.’

  ‘That’s not an excuse. Cordy is my goddaughter. I should’ve remembered.’

  ‘I think she’ll understand, Detective. Cordelia’s got a kind heart.’

  ‘Apparently, so do you.’ He gestured to her blouse that had been ivory but was now streaked red. ‘None of that blood is yours, right? The medics said you were uninjured.’

  ‘It’s mostly Elissa’s.’ Emma didn’t think she’d ever forget the way the husband had shouted his wife’s name, trying to make her stay with him. ‘The older victim. A little belongs to Stevie.’

  ‘The manager said you tried to stop the victim’s bleeding, that you kept the husband relatively calm while Detective Mazzetti secured the scene.’

  ‘Stevie was pretty amazing, taking charge like that. Never saw her in action before.’ After calling 911, Stevie had slumped against the wall and Emma thought she was weak from blood loss. But her friend had been assessing the situation and within seconds was barking out orders, corralling the diners into a banquet room without windows. She’d tied a dinner napkin around her own wound, then had the staff close all the drapes in case the shooter was still out there.

  ‘She’s got a level head,’ Fitzpatrick agreed. ‘She’s been trained on how to handle emergencies like this.’

  ‘Unfortunately her level head doesn’t extend to herself. She’s telling the medics that it’s “just a flesh wound”, that she’s had much worse. Which is true, but irrelevant. She thinks she can talk them out of a hospital visit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she’ll go. He’ll make sure of it.’ Fitzpatrick pointed to the door, where a tall, barrel-chested, bald man stood, fists on his hips and a scowl on his face. ‘He’s our boss.’

  ‘Peter Hyatt,’ she murmured. ‘I met him at the christening, too.’

  ‘So you and Stevie have remained friends all this time. I didn’t know.’

  ‘I didn’t think she’d shared it. We have lunch together on the anniversary of her loss, every year. At first it was because she was finding her way, then because she’d started grief groups within the police department and I consulted with her. Now . . . we’re friends. We get together in Florida from time to time. It’s been a while, though. Sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I?’

  ‘That’s normal,’ he said steadily. ‘It doesn’t bother me. Tell me what you saw.’

  ‘Stevie and I were just sitting here. Arguing,’ she said with a wince. ‘Then out of nowhere . . . Boom. The window shattered and everyone started screaming. For a second I sat there, staring out the hole where the window had been. It was like I was . . .’

  ‘In shock?’ Fitzpatrick offered kindly.

  ‘I guess so. Then my brain finally came back on line and I dove for the floor. I saw the woman next to me was hit, crawled over and started to help. Stevie yelled for me and I could see she was bleeding, too. But not as bad as the woman I was helping so I stayed where I was. Stevie called 911, then got everyone to safety. It wasn’t till everyone was cleared out that I realized the waitress was dead.’

  ‘What do you know about the couple who were sitting next to you?’

  ‘Only what the husband told me while we were waiting for help to arrive. Elissa and Al Selmon. They were here for their wedding anniversary.’ Her voice broke and she cleared her throat harshly as Fitzpatrick’s eyes flickered in sympathy. ‘It was their fortieth.’

  ‘Did he give any indication that he suspected who’d shot his wife?’

  She blinked at him. ‘No. Not at all. I assumed . . . I thought Stevie was the target.’

  ‘Why would you think that?�
� he asked.

  She let her eyes close wearily. ‘Because she’s been attacked three times in the past week, which I’m sure you know. Because the last attacker, a shooter with thankfully really bad aim, got away. And because when the first shot missed today, this shooter tried again.’ She lifted her heavy eyelids, stared Fitzpatrick down. ‘Why would you think she wasn’t the intended target?’

  ‘Because the two of you were sitting in front of a window. If someone had wanted her dead, she was a perfect target. Instead, she’s barely got a graze on her shoulder. It could have been a random shooting. The target could even have been you, Dr Walker.’

  Emma frowned, then rejected the notion, realizing he didn’t believe it, either. ‘Stevie’s the one with all the enemies. It’s far more likely that the shooter simply missed her. Stevie had just unexpectedly moved. We were arguing. I said some things that made her furious with me. She got up abruptly, turned around, collided with the waitress, and they both fell to the floor.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m not her therapist. You know that. I’m her friend.’

  ‘So nothing you tell me breaches confidentiality. I get it. What did you argue about?’

  Emma sighed. ‘Mostly the choices she’d been making lately. Not resting enough, investigating her old partner’s cases, putting herself in harm’s way.’

  ‘I had the same argument with her. It didn’t make her furious with me. Just pissed.’

  ‘I brought up her love life. Or lack thereof. I’d really rather leave it at that.’

  Fitzpatrick’s brows lifted. ‘You got on her for giving Clay Maynard the old heave-ho?’

  She blinked at him again. ‘You know about Mr Maynard?’

  ‘Who doesn’t? But I wasn’t brave enough to confront her about it.’

  ‘I hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean to. Like I said, I’m not her therapist, I’m her friend. I got upset and handled it badly. Really, really badly.’

  ‘She’ll live. Figuratively and literally. If you hadn’t argued, she’d have been sitting in the crosshairs when the bullet came through the window. So . . . this annual lunch of yours. Tell me about it, logistically. Where do you meet?’

  ‘Always here, and always at three o’clock. Except this year.’ Emma frowned. ‘This year we met at two. I was supposed to be leaving for Las Vegas when lunch was over.’

  ‘Why Vegas?’

  ‘My husband’s there, at a convention.’

  ‘So your routine was disrupted. Who knows about your lunches?’

  ‘My husband and kids, Izzy, Cordelia. Stevie’s brother. My parents. Maybe hers, too.’

  ‘Why are her parents a “maybe”?’

  ‘They’re lovely people and they love Stevie. They’re just not big on talking about grief. Not everyone can. That’s one of the reasons Stevie and I get together every year. To talk.’

  ‘I understand. Who knew you’d moved the time?’

  ‘My husband knew. The restaurant knew, because I called to change the reservation. On Stevie’s side, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘I will. Thank you, Dr Walker.’ Fitzpatrick stood up. ‘Can I take you anywhere?’

  ‘To the hospital. I’m going with her.’

  Hunt Valley, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 5.00 P.M.

  Clay checked his rearview mirror and frowned. The white Camry was still there.

  Alec craned his neck around to look out of the back window. ‘How long has it been following us?’ he asked in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper.

  The cab of Clay’s truck was hushed, Cordelia having fallen asleep in the backseat.

  ‘At least since we left the florist,’ Clay murmured back. They’d stopped at a flower shop in downtown Hunt Valley after Cordelia had finished her riding lesson. Clay had picked up the daffodils for his mother’s grave and Cordelia had asked if she could take some flowers to her mother, hoping to charm her into not being angry with her about the equine therapy.

  The bunch of rosebuds she’d chosen for Stevie lay next to her on the backseat. Clay hoped they did the trick and that if Stevie got mad, she’d take it out on him and not her daughter.

  ‘I thought we’d lost them at the ice cream shop,’ he went on, ‘but the driver was just playing with us.’ Whoever followed them knew what he was doing, staying back just far enough to prevent them from seeing the license plate number.

  ‘None of our current cases involve a white Camry,’ Alec said. He held up his phone. ‘I checked our database.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Clay checked the mirror again. The Camry was two cars back. ‘Is Cordelia still buckled in?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because I’m going to try to lose this asshole on the Parkway.’ He merged onto the six-lane highway and waited for the Camry to follow. When it did, he waited until the next exit was in sight and at the last minute pulled onto the shoulder and stopped hard. The Camry shot by, unable to pull over in time to make the exit ramp. Clay peeled off the ramp, satisfied. ‘I’ll take us down back roads. It’ll take us a bit longer to get Cordelia home, but it’ll be safer. I don’t want to lead him to Stevie’s house, whoever the hell he is.’

  Alec looked over his shoulder. ‘She’s still asleep. I can’t believe she didn’t wake up.’

  Cordelia hadn’t moved, still curled up in the corner of the big backseat. ‘She hasn’t been sleeping well,’ Clay said. ‘I guess it just caught up to her.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Alec said quietly. ‘Kid’s been through the wringer.’ His phone beeped and he checked it. ‘It’s a rental. The white Camry, I mean.’

  Clay shot him a surprised glance. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I got the license when it passed us by. I ran a search.’

  ‘On your phone. God, I am so old. Who did the renting?’

  ‘This search engine doesn’t give me the name. We’ll have to check the rental agency.’

  ‘The rental places at the airport will still be open on a Saturday night. We can head to BWI after we drop Cordelia off with her mother.’

  It was a relief to have a task already waiting for him, because staying busy seemed to be the thing that kept him sane each time Stevie Mazzetti shoved him out of her life. That she would again tonight was a certainty. He was calmly driving into a tornado, knowing the cost.

  And if that wasn’t true insanity, he wasn’t sure what would be.

  Chapter Four

  Baltimore, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 5.30 P.M.

  ‘Hey, Mom?’ Standing in his mother’s kitchen, Officer Sam Hudson opened the door to the basement. ‘Are you down there, Mom?’

  ‘Yes, son.’ Out of breath, she was struggling with a laundry basket.

  Oh, for God’s sake. ‘Mom, stop that.’ He took the stairs two at a time and lifted the basket from her hands. ‘You’re not supposed to carry heavy things. You just had heart surgery. Triple bypass. Remember?’ Irritated, he started up the stairs without waiting for her reply.

  This was why he stopped by on his way to his own apartment after every shift and on his days off, too. He half expected to find her at the bottom of the stairs, passed out under a pile of laundry. Of course it would be clean laundry. His mother would be too embarrassed to be found passed out under dirty laundry.

  ‘Yes, son,’ she repeated, climbing the stairs behind him. ‘I remember. I was there, right there on the operating table. Just like I was there when you were born. Hmm. When would that have been? Let me think. Oh, right. Only thirty years ago. I’m sixty-two, last I checked. Which makes me both older and your mother. So stop telling me what to do. That’s my job.’

  He put the basket on the kitchen table. ‘To tell me what to do or to tell yourself?’

  ‘Both.’ She nudged him out of the way to open the oven, allowing wonderful aromas to escape. ‘And I have seniority so you’re not getting my job.’

  He took an appreciative sniff. ‘You made pot roast. You are a queen
among mothers.’

  ‘I know,’ she said regally, then laughed.

  Sam smiled, finding contentment in the sound. He’d been so terrified he’d lose her during the surgery, that he’d never hear her laugh again. ‘You’re also a sneak, using the smell of pot roast to divert my attention from your bad behavior.’

  ‘Whatever works,’ she said cheerfully. ‘If you want to help me, then set the table.’

  Sam grabbed plates from the cupboard, pausing when the thick bubble-wrap envelope on the counter caught his eye. The envelope was propped up between the Washington Monument salt-and-pepper shakers he’d bought for his mother on a field trip to DC when he’d been eleven years old. They were only cheap souvenirs, but he’d bought them with money he’d earned himself because her birthday was coming up.

  And because he knew his father would have forgotten because he was too high or out looking for his next fix. His mother had made a fuss over those cheap souvenirs like he’d bought her solid gold and had kept them on the counter ever since.

  Sam picked up the envelope that read Samuel J. Hudson, cleanly typed on a mailing label. ‘When did this come, Mom?’

  She looked up from the potatoes she was mashing. ‘Today. There’s no return address. I thought it might be junk, but I wasn’t sure. It’s got something in it. Too heavy to be anthrax.’

  He stifled his laugh because he knew she was serious. His mother watched entirely too much television. ‘Come on, Mom, who would be sending me anthrax?’

  She shrugged. ‘You’re a policeman. Maybe you made somebody mad at you.’

  ‘It’s not anthrax,’ he muttered, opening the envelope.

  ‘Isn’t that what I said? So what is it?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’ Carefully he emptied the contents on the table.

  And heard her gasp. There was an old Orioles cap that Sam immediately recognized, and a dozen old, worn-out photos. And sitting on top of the photos was a plain gold wedding band.

  She stood, pale as a ghost, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes filling with tears. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘Sam. Oh dear God.’