by Tessa Dawn
Jordan swallowed convulsively, even as she scribbled the number down on a Post-it. She wasn’t sure if it would help at all, considering the fact that he might be lying, and every guilty perp she had ever put away believed he or she was innocent. She would need a better clue. “And what did I put you in prison for?”
“Sexual assault.” He laughed, as if the very term was somehow funny, and her stomach clenched in response.
“Well, Mr. 28765”—she pronounced each number with heavy sarcasm—“I think you should be advised that you are threatening an officer of the court, and that happens to be a felony, not to mention a parole violation. Furthermore—”
“Oh, it’s not a threat,” he interrupted. “It’s a promise. And frankly, I don’t give a damn who you think you are, you haughty skank.” Before Jordan could reply, he taunted, “I know where you live, and I watched you last night.” He groaned. “You were sitting oh-so-cozy in your red silk pajamas, eating popcorn in front of your big-screen TV. What were you watching, witch? Salem’s Lot?”
Jordan frowned, chewing on her bottom lip, as she tried to remember what she had been wearing last night…
A pair of red silk pajamas.
And she had been eating popcorn on the sofa.
She sat up straight in her chair. “How long did you spend in prison, Mister…”—she paused—“what did you say your name was again?”
He laughed. “Oh, it’s not going to be that easy. In fact, it isn’t going to be easy…or enjoyable…or quick at all. But it is going to be soon.”
Jordan tried to home in on his voice. He had a faint South American accent, perhaps Cuban or Colombian, and he sounded like he was in his late teens or early twenties, definitely no more than twenty-five. Since she didn’t deal with juvenile cases, he had to have been sentenced in the last seven years. “Look, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is: I don’t know how you got my direct number or what you’ve been doing outside of my apartment, but it ends right now. Do you understand? I am going to report this call, as well as your recent activity, to the proper—”
“Yessss…” He practically hissed into the phone like some kind of reptile, some kind of slithering snake. “Yes, it ends now. See you soon, Jordan.” With that, he hung up.
Jordan sat back in her chair and bristled as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Great, just great, as if she didn’t have enough to deal with at the moment: Her current caseload was monstrous; her best friend Macy was about to have abdominal surgery; and her grandmother had recently passed away, leaving her, for all intents and purposes, without a family support system.
Now this?
What else could possibly go wrong?
She brushed her long auburn hair behind her shoulder and sighed. She was tired of dealing with everyone else’s chaos, tired of constantly swimming upstream. She was tired of fighting for a secure place in a sometimes-hostile world, and honestly, she was growing weary of dealing with the scum of the earth on a daily basis, just to make a living.
Something needed to change.
And perhaps that was what all her previous unease was about.
Not being one to get mired in self-pity, she swallowed her trepidation and hit the intercom button on her phone. “Janice?”
“Yes, Jordan?” her secretary replied immediately, her cheery, singsong voice playing through the speakers like a merry tune of light.
“I need you to place a trace on the last call you sent through.”
“Is everything all right?” Janice asked, her gaiety instantly fading to concern.
“No, not really,” Jordan said. “The guy on the phone was a real creep, a disgruntled ex-con, and I think he’s been stalking me. We’re going to need to file a report.” She sighed, betraying her exhaustion. “Oh, and while you’re at it, would you pull up all the files we have from the last seven years of sexual predators who we’ve successfully prosecuted, then cross-reference them for those who were recently paroled with an inmate number 28765—the number might be bogus, but check it just the same. It could save us a lot of time. Also, look for males between the age of nineteen and twenty-five, those who might have a South American accent.”
Janice paused for a moment. When she finally spoke, her tone was unmistakably somber. “Sure, Jordan. Sheesh…I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “Me, too.” She disconnected the call, not wanting to focus any more energy on gloom and doom. And then she picked up her cell and texted Macy: Hey, M. I’m gonna need a rain check on dinner. Something came up. I can probably still do coffee a little later, maybe meet for cinnamon buns at the Two Forks Mall, instead??? Does 8:30 work for you?
Macy texted right back: Sure, J. Hope everything’s okay. See you at 8:30.
Jordan smiled in spite of her current concerns. Not unlike her secretary, Macy was always a bright light in Jordan’s occasionally dim world, and it was very important for Jordan to keep their engagement—Macy was going into the hospital on Monday for laparoscopic surgery, to have a benign tumor removed from her abdominal wall, and the last thing Jordan wanted was to leave her best friend hanging, especially when Macy’s nerves were already frayed. The girl had always been there for her, and she intended to return the favor. She would be damned if some psycho and his drama, legitimate threat or not, would keep her from supporting Macy. The latter just wasn’t an option.
The intercom buzzed in her office, and she hit the neon-green button. “What’ve you got?”
“I’m still working on the trace,” Janice said, “but I’ve already found twelve files, all convicted sex offenders, all sentenced in the last few years, and all with Latin surnames—I’m going to have to call corrections to check on the inmate number, but I’ll send them through to your email. Let me know if you want me to cross-check CDIC or NCIC, just to see if there’s anything new, especially if the guy has been released since we archived the files.” She tapped away on her keyboard and double-clicked her mouse, the familiar sounds echoing through the speakers. “Oh, and Detective Jacobs is on his way over to take your complaint.”
Jordan smiled. She couldn’t help it. Janice was an excellent assistant, and Detective Mike Jacobs? Well, he was just an excellent cop. Not to mention, a really good man: a hard-nosed investigator who had a crazy sixth sense when it came to sniffing out a lowlife. If anyone could get to the bottom of this—quickly, efficiently, and with aplomb—make sure that Jordan was safe, it was Mike. Besides, there was no point in jumping the gun or freaking out, ruminating about all the morbid possibilities at this juncture: whether the caller was a talker or a doer, whether he just wanted to scare Jordan witless, or whether he was actually capable of acting out some sick, demented fantasy, going further than just peeping through her ninth-floor window with a pair of binoculars.
Either way, Mike would figure it out, and in the meantime, Jordan would do her due diligence and keep her energy positive for Macy.
Bad things had happened before, and evil people existed in the world…
They always had.
But the good ones were all that mattered.
One way or another, Jordan would handle the situation. She always did. And more than likely, Mike would have the crackpot in custody before she finished having coffee with Macy, especially if the idiot was dumb enough to give her his real inmate number.
Opening her email, Jordan clicked on the link Janice had just provided and began to download the files.
Chapter Three
Jordan sat across the table from Macy in the Two Forks Mall, Cinnamon Café, and slowly licked her lips, savoring the last sticky bite of her cinnamon bun. “Oh my gosh,” she groaned, “that was heavenly.”
Macy smacked her lips and smiled. “Almost as yummy as a naked man with hard abs and a huge…smile.”
Jordan chuckled.
“So, did you take care of that business, whatever had you tied up earlier?”
Jordan shrugged one shoulder with indifference. “Yeah, pretty much.” She had given a full report to Michael J
acobs, and they had narrowed down potential suspects to three possible men: a Cuban named Carlos Blanco, who had been convicted of stalking a pre-teen girl; a Colombian named Javier, who had spent four years in the state penitentiary for aggravated sexual assault; and a loser named Alonzo, who was in and out of prison every couple of years, as if he had the routine set on a revolving schedule. Detective Mike was looking into all three cases, waiting to see if one of their inmate numbers matched, and he had offered to send a patrol car by Jordan’s building at regular intervals throughout the week—or at least until they got to the bottom of it. As she had surmised, the caller may have been set on vengeance, or he could just be a creepy cuckoo-bird, hell-bent on scaring a pretty young attorney.
One way or the other, they would put a quick end to it.
Jordan slapped her hand down on the table in an abrupt change of subject. “Enough of that. We’re not here to talk about me. How are you doing? How are you feeling? Are you ready for Monday?”
Macy sat back in her chair, considering Jordan’s words. Her eyes darted around the café in a sudden bout of people-watching, and then she abruptly slapped her hand on the table, mimicking Jordan’s gesture. “Enough of that, too!” she exclaimed. “We are only here to talk about frivolous things—nothing heavy.” She ran a finger through a clump of cinnamon, sugar, and butter, the gooey concoction left over on her plate, and sucked it off her finger, smiling. “Let’s look for hotties.”
Jordan threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Macy, a one-track mind, as always.” She checked her watch and smiled. “As much as I would love to stalk the mall with you, trying to find a rare, delectable hunk, I can’t.” She frowned in apology. “I have to get back home. I have a case in Judge Stanley’s court on Tuesday morning—jury selection—and I’m not ready.” She raised her eyebrows. “Can you forgive me?”
Macy stuck her lip out in a playful pout. “Well, you’re no fun.”
“None at all,” Jordan agreed, hoping for mercy. She batted her large hazel eyes at her friend. “But you still love me, right?”
Macy sighed. “I guess.” And then she rolled her eyes.
“What?” Jordan asked.
Macy practically glared at her. “Nothing.”
“What?”
Macy harrumphed. “It’s just that I’m really getting tired of spending weekend after weekend home alone. Batman movies no longer really do it for me.”
Jordan furrowed her brows. “Okay…so what does that have to do with me?”
“Oh, please,” Macy chided.
“What?” Jordan repeated, sincerely puzzled.
Macy leaned forward in her chair and gave Jordan a cross look. “You are the eye-candy, the guy magnet, the one that draws the hotties in like bees to honey.”
Jordan smirked. “Yeah, or more like flies to shit.”
Macy laughed. “That, too,” she teased. “But it’s just that I need you to find me a man—just for the month of June, at least. Okay?”
Jordan scrunched up her nose and scoffed. “Oh my gosh. No. Even if you weren’t having surgery on Monday—which means you couldn’t really entertain a man right now, anyhow—you know that I am not into matchmaking or dating. Right now, I’m just focused on my career.”
“A career you hate,” Macy supplied, eyeing her meaningfully.
Jordan flicked her wrist as if shooing the topic away. “Maybe, but I thought we agreed: We aren’t having any heavy discussions right now.”
Macy nodded. “Right. Okay. But just as a quick aside, I’m only going to say one thing: I don’t care how much money you spent on that fancy law education. You hate it. You’re miserable doing it, and life is too short to spend rolling around in the muck with criminals.”
Okay, so Macy was going to go there, despite their agreement to keep it light. “Who’s rolling around in the muck?” Jordan asked.
Macy cocked her eyebrows. “You understand what I’m saying. You’re a gifted artist, Jordan, and you’re never happier than when you’re painting. So what if you don’t get to live on the top floor of a high-rise apartment or drive an eighty-thousand-dollar car; wouldn’t you be better off doing what you love?”
Jordan tried to shrug off her annoyance.
So much for a quick aside…
Macy had a way of oversimplifying things and then occasionally caging them in the most unattractive way possible, even though she meant well. “First of all,” Jordan said, “I live in the high-rise apartment because I love the view of the sunset over the mountains, and I’ve earned it.” She winked conspiratorially. “It’s an artist’s thing. And I love my car because I love my car, not because of the price tag. And besides, I’m not married to any of those material things. What I am married to is having some sort of security and stability in my life, knowing that I can take care of myself, even past retirement.”
And there it was again…
That sinking feeling in Jordan’s stomach like something global in her life was shifting.
She thought about Macy’s words, the fact that she was bringing all this up now, and tried to dismiss the significance: Following her parents’ death, Jordan had been raised by her aging grandmother, and growing up on a fixed income had not been easy—life had been one constant struggle after another, and Jordan had made herself several promises at a very early age. One, that she would never go hungry again. Two, that she would always be in a position to take care of herself, no matter what. And three, that she would be the captain of her own ship, even if she steered it into a veiled cluster of jagged rocks, and she had always done just that—captain her own ship, that is. So why did she feel like someone else…something else…was about to take over the helm?
She quickly dismissed the thought and sighed. “I’m trying to be independent, Macy, because I have to be. Besides, I still paint on the side.” It was a cursory but adequate explanation. Well, either way, it was all Macy was going to get.
Macy eyed her dubiously. “When was the last time you did a scenic? A mountain range, a meadow, a waterfall? Anything?”
Jordan frowned. “Fine. Point taken.” She searched for a playful way to change the subject. “Is there anything else you would like to say about my life before I go? Perhaps I should change my hair color, join a new religion, or take up yoga?”
Macy sneered in jest. “No, I guess not.” She immediately perked up. “Although I have heard that yoga really improves your flexibility.” She winked at her and sighed. “All I’m saying is that you need to take total care of yourself—emotionally, spiritually, that kind of thing.” She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. “Maybe even consider getting back together with Dan someday.”
Jordan bristled, and Macy immediately held up both hands, palms forward, in a placating gesture, before the prosecuting attorney could snap her head off.
The assistant district attorney of the 2nd Judicial District, Dan Summers, had been Jordan’s one true love: handsome, charismatic, and amazing at his job—the man had never lost a single case. And he had also been the one to break her heart in a thousand pieces by conveniently failing to mention that he was married when they first met. While he may have truly fallen in love with Jordan during their short, six-month affair—and while he had eventually left his wife after they broke up—the fact that he had lied to her, day in and day out, that he had taken the moral choice away from her, as if she didn’t have an opinion on the matter, had been utterly and irreconcilably devastating to the twenty-seven-year-old prosecutor. While Jordan did not consider herself the single most virtuous human on the planet—every now and then she struggled with a petty thought here or there, like anyone else—she had never been the type to date a married man. She would have never chosen to disrespect another woman so selfishly. And that’s what Dan never got: It was more than the lies and the deception; it was the lack of regard, his willingness to make Jordan’s choices for her. And ever since, he had been trying to find a way back into her heart—and back into her bed—but that door had been summarily
closed.
Indefinitely.
Macy’s tenacious voice interrupted Jordan’s thoughts. “You’re way too young, way too smart, and way too beautiful to live your life all alone or in a job you don’t enjoy. That’s all I’m saying.”
Jordan blinked several times, and then she nodded crisply, not wanting to encourage the conversation any further. “Thank you, Macy,” she said softly. “And I do—I will—take better care of myself.” She plastered a congenial smile on her face. “Honestly. I promise.”
Macy seemed satisfied with that answer. Thank God. “All right then,” she said, sounding like someone’s mother. “Will you come see me on Monday at the hospital, before I go into surgery?”
Jordan nodded emphatically. “Of course. I’ll be there before you arrive. I can still take you if you want.”
Macy shook her head. “No. My mother is insisting on the honor. She wants to make sure I follow all the pre-op instructions to the letter, like I might suddenly lose my mind and drive through a Starbucks on the way, drink a gallon of coffee and choke under anesthesia.”
Jordan chuckled. That sounded just like Karen Wilson. She glanced down at her watch and gasped. “Oh my gosh: It’s already 10:15! I really do have to go.”
Macy followed her eyes to the watch and sulked, playfully extending her bottom lip. She stood up, gathered her purse, as well as the extra cinnamon bun she had ordered for later, and brushed a few crumbs off her blouse. “Are you parked in the font lot?” she asked, apparently hoping they could walk out together.
“No,” Jordan answered. “No spots when I got here. I’m parked right below the furniture gallery in the garage. I’ll just take the exterior stairs down—my car is close.” She gestured toward a pair of glass doors that led to an outside balcony and staircase, pushed back her seat, and stood to give her friend a hug. “I’ll see you later, then. Monday for sure.” Giving Macy an extra hard squeeze, she added, “Oh, and if you start to get nervous or worried before then, you know you can call me. Doesn’t matter how late it is.”
