Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  He let her lead as they wound through the crush of emergency personnel and vehicles, then took a seat beside her and handed over the bottle.

  “Thanks.” She tipped her head back and took a long swallow, the plastic crinkling beneath her fingers.

  Brent pulled his gaze away from her long, graceful neck and retrieved a notebook from his pocket. “Why don’t you walk me through what happened with the package?”

  She recapped the bottle and gripped it with both hands. “It was there when I got home from spinning class. About three-thirty. I saw it as I pulled into the driveway, so after I parked in the garage and dropped my gear in the kitchen, I went to retrieve it. I opened the door, started to bend down—and heard ticking. After I spotted a wire sticking out, I called 911.”

  “Keep going.”

  “I left the house and went next door to warn my elderly neighbor. Then I ran over to my other neighbors’ house to stow their dog in the basement and take cover. One of the local officers met up with me there and brought me here.”

  He frowned. “Didn’t the 911 operator instruct you to vacate the area?”

  “Yes—but I didn’t want Olivia or Ernie to get hurt.”

  “You were taking a chance.” True as that was, it was hard to fault a woman who put the safety of others above her own.

  “I couldn’t live with myself if anyone was injured because of me. This mess isn’t their fault.”

  “You think it’s yours?”

  “The suspicious package was left on my doorstep.”

  “Any theories about who did it, or why?”

  “Nothing specific—but I’m on quite a few people’s blacklist.”

  Not what he’d expected to hear.

  “Explain that.”

  A wry smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I take it you don’t keep up with local talk radio.”

  “No.”

  “I host a syndicated current-events show three mornings a week. While I try to present all sides, I make no secret about my personal conservative leanings. That doesn’t sit well with everyone.”

  “Does that mean you’ve been targeted before?”

  “Never like this—and never at home.” She watched the bomb crew in the distance prepare the robot for deployment, faint creases marring her forehead. “Until today, the attacks have been confined to words and an occasional harmless package.”

  “Define harmless.”

  “A box of manure was delivered to the studio once. Also the back end of a two-person donkey costume. And a few months ago someone sent a voodoo doll that resembled me, with pins stuck in it.”

  Powerful statements—but not dangerous.

  “Any serious threats?”

  “None that keep me awake at night.”

  That didn’t answer his question.

  “How about any that would keep the average person awake at night?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged and took another swig of water. “After a while in this business, you develop a thick skin. But that”—she pointed her bottle toward the cul-de-sac—“is disturbing.”

  At the very least.

  “Did you see anyone unfamiliar in the area as you drove in?”

  “I didn’t see anyone, period. Most of the residents are young couples. The neighborhood’s deserted during working hours.”

  Great.

  That diminished the odds of finding someone who could have witnessed the drop-off.

  And except in high-end neighborhoods, most residents didn’t have a video component in their home security systems.

  But they’d canvass the area anyway. Just in case.

  “What are the odds the package is a real bomb?”

  At Eve’s question, he shifted his attention back to her. “Low. A homemade bomb could be triggered by an alarm clock, but digital timers are more common these days.”

  “What happens if it’s a fake? A prank?”

  “We investigate. Planting a hoax bomb isn’t a prank. It’s a felony. Let’s talk about any recent troubling communication you’ve received.”

  “It’s all been the usual kind of garbage. None of the comments raised serious red flags.”

  “Have you ever contacted law enforcement about any of these hostile messages?”

  She rolled her eyes. “If I reported all the nasty notes I got, I’d be on the phone with the police every day. The left preaches tolerance—but only as long as you agree with them. If you don’t, they consider you unenlightened and fair game for their wrath. Sorry to offend if you happen to be of a liberal bent, but that’s how I see it.”

  The lady wasn’t shy about speaking her mind.

  No wonder she ticked off some of her listeners.

  “I’m not offended. Depending on how this plays out, we may want to see any recent malicious communication you’ve received.”

  “I’ll give you the contact information for the program director at the station. He and one of the admin people monitor my snail mail and social media accounts. The volume got away from me months ago. Now they just send me any notes they think merit a direct response. They’ll be happy to provide anything you need.”

  “Are there any disgruntled listeners you hear from on a regular basis?”

  “Some.” She rubbed her thumb over the almost-empty bottle. “Near as I can tell, though, they prefer verbal sparring to bombs.”

  “One of them could have decided actions would speak louder than words.”

  She flicked a glance at the first responders in the restricted area, faint furrows denting her brow. “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “Any particularly controversial programs in the past couple of weeks?”

  She huffed out a small snort. “Every program is controversial to some people.”

  His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Sarge—wanting an update, no doubt.

  “I have to take this.”

  “No worries. I’m not going anywhere. But if I could borrow your cell after you finish your call, I’d appreciate it. I want to tell the station what’s going on, and I left my phone at my neighbor’s house.”

  “Give me two minutes.”

  He scanned the crowd for a small pocket of quiet. Spotted one behind an ambulance that was pulled up to the curb.

  As he walked toward it, he gave Eve Reilly another once-over.

  She was watching the activity inside the inner perimeter, clasping the empty water bottle in one hand, her neighbor’s key in the other. Given her calm demeanor, no one would suspect she’d found a possible bomb on her doorstep less than an hour ago.

  But he’d felt the tremors in her fingers. Seen the taut cords in her neck when she swigged her water. Heard the slight breathlessness in her voice. Felt the waves of tension rolling off her.

  She was putting up a brave front, but she was spooked.

  Big time.

  As she should be.

  Maybe she was used to negative feedback, given the rancor she roused on her show.

  But someone had risked a felony charge by putting that package on her porch.

  And anyone who was willing to take that kind of chance wanted to do far more damage to Eve Reilly than best her in a verbal sparring match.

  2

  I APPRECIATE YOUR CONCERN, Doug, but I’m fine.” Eve repositioned the phone against her ear, keeping Brent in sight as she talked to the station’s program director.

  “I still can’t believe someone left a bomb at your home.” Shock dulled Doug Whitney’s usual upbeat tone.

  “It’s probably a fake.” Shifting away from the reporters massed behind the yellow tape who were calling out questions to every first responder within ten feet, she took a quick inventory of the tall detective.

  Athletic physique. Neatly trimmed dark brown hair. Coffee-colored eyes. Powerful shoulders and broad chest beneath a tailored jacket. Authoritative posture that gave him a commanding—and reassuring—presence.

  He looked like the kind of guy who would be comfortable wear
ing a white hat and riding into town to—

  “. . . is real?”

  Whoops.

  She’d lost the thread of her conversation with Doug.

  “Sorry.” She turned away from the distracting detective. “It’s noisy here. What did you say?”

  “When will they know if the bomb is real?”

  “Soon, I hope. But the detective said the odds were low.”

  “A major hassle—and scare—nonetheless.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry about this, Eve.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who throws out all those incendiary topics to the masses. Pardon the pun.”

  “I’m glad you’re able to joke about this.”

  “Joke may be a tad strong . . . but I am trying to take it in stride.”

  “You think you’ll be up to doing your show on Monday?”

  “Count on it. If whoever pulled this stunt is hoping to shut me down, they’re going to be disappointed. Unless you’re getting cold feet.”

  “No. Sorry for the clichés, but intimidation raises my hackles and makes me dig in my heels.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Brent began weaving toward her through the crowd. “I have to go. By the way, the detective said he may be in touch with you to review any recent nasty communication that’s come in.”

  “He better set aside a whole afternoon.”

  “I already warned him.”

  “I’ll alert Meg to begin putting a file together.”

  “Perfect. She’s a dynamo.”

  “I agree. She wasn’t the best candidate on paper, but I’m glad you convinced me to hire her. Keep me in the loop on the bomb situation.”

  “You got it.” She pressed the end button.

  Brent dropped back onto the bench beside her. “You didn’t have to cut your conversation short. I just wanted to let you know the press has picked up that you were the recipient of the package.”

  “It was only a matter of time.”

  “I’m assuming you’d prefer not to talk to them.”

  “Correct. I’ll confine all public statements to my own show and social media.” She lifted the cell. “Do you mind if I make one more call? I don’t want my sister a couple of hours from here to find out about this on the news. She worries too much about me as it is.”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I’d also like my other sister brought up to speed . . . but it may be safer if you initiate that contact.”

  His eyebrows rose. “How so?”

  “She’s a County detective—on her first undercover assignment as we speak. She said she’d be unavailable for the duration, barring an emergency. I don’t want to put her at any risk, but I’d like to reassure her I’m fine and that the situation is under control.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Cate. Same last name as mine. Do you know her?”

  He gave a slow nod. “I’ve run into her on a few occasions, but we’ve never worked together. I can ask her handler to communicate your message.” He tipped his head. “You two don’t resemble each other at all.”

  “Nope. I got my dad’s Irish blood, and she got my mom’s Greek DNA.”

  He studied her for a moment. “You have a touch of your mom’s Greek heritage too.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he rose. “Let me get an update on the situation while you phone your other sister.”

  As he left her to join the bomb crew that was watching the feed from the robot, she punched in Grace’s number.

  The phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times . . . then rolled.

  Naturally.

  She blew out a breath. When had she last connected with her younger sister on a first attempt?

  But she didn’t want to hear any excuses for the detour to voicemail—especially if they involved the gruesome details of an autopsy.

  Eve shuddered as she left a brief message. Her sister’s clients didn’t send nasty letters or leave bombs on her doorstep, but cutting up dead people for a living had its own downsides.

  Not that you’d know it talking to Grace, though. The woman loved forensic pathology. Claimed it was like living a mystery novel every day.

  Go figure.

  But if it made her happy . . . hey. To each his own.

  “Good news.” Brent rejoined her. “Your bomb appears to be a fake. One of the crew is going in to verify that.” He motioned toward a guy who was donning what looked like an overinflated space suit.

  She handed him back his phone, and as their fingers brushed, a spark zipped through her nerve endings.

  Oh, for pity’s sake.

  She was a mature thirty-one-year-old, not a teen with unruly hormones. She needed to get a grip.

  “Does, uh, that mean I’ll be able to sleep in my own bed tonight?” She tried for a casual, conversational manner—and came close to pulling it off.

  “I don’t see why not. We’ll be around the area for a few hours talking to neighbors, searching for any evidence the delivery person left behind—but you can go back to your usual routine.”

  Usual routine? After finding a pseudo bomb on her front porch?

  Ha.

  The chances of a routine Friday night were zero to none.

  “Or not.”

  She blinked at his postscript. “What?”

  One corner of his mouth twitched. “Reading people’s expressions is a handy skill in my business. You’re thinking normal won’t be in your vocabulary for a while.”

  “I guess a poker-playing career isn’t in my future.”

  “Let’s just say winning a fortune at blackjack in Vegas probably shouldn’t be on your bucket list.”

  “Never was, never will be. Cycling through Tuscany, however—different story.”

  “Now that sounds appealing.” His gaze locked on hers, warming for an instant before he stood abruptly. “Will you be okay here by yourself?”

  “Uh . . . sure. I’m used to going solo.”

  He hesitated, as if debating whether to respond—but in the end walked away.

  Easing back against the wooden slats of the bench, Eve watched him until he disappeared behind a fire truck.

  Interesting man.

  Intriguing, even.

  The kind of man who could be an enjoyable companion on her wish-list cycling trip to Italy.

  Perhaps even the kind of man who could be an enjoyable companion period.

  Now wouldn’t that be fun to explore?

  Except Brent Lange was here in an official capacity, and she was just one of many victims he dealt with every day. The odds of their paths crossing again after this incident was put to rest were about as low as the odds had been that her bomb was real.

  She sighed.

  Too bad.

  Because confident as she was in her ability to stand up to intimidation, it would be comforting to have someone like Brent in her corner if by chance today’s prank morphed into a much more ominous threat.

  “Honey, I’m home.” Meg Jackson dropped her purse on the kitchen table and continued toward the booming TV in the living room.

  Steve glared at her from his overstuffed chair as she entered. “Why didn’t you call and tell me about this?” Muting the sound, he waved a hand toward the screen, where video footage of Eve’s scary afternoon was front and center on the evening news.

  “Doug didn’t tell me until five—and I was anxious to get home.” Summoning up a smile, she continued toward her husband of eighteen months, trying to settle the flutter in her stomach. She should have called. Given how negative he was about her job, it was a no-brainer he’d be upset about today’s incident.

  But it was easier to deal with his agitation, calm the waters, in person.

  At least that was how she justified the delay.

  “You could have called from the car.”

  She perched on the arm of the chair and bent to kiss his forehead. “I thought this merited a face-to-face conversation.”

  The twin crevices above his nose deepened.
“That doesn’t change the reality of what happened. You know how I feel about your job. Now I have to worry about you being in danger and overworked.”

  “I’m not overworked—and Eve’s the one in danger, not me.”

  “What if the bomb had been left at the station?”

  “It wasn’t—and the building has excellent security. Besides, Eve told Doug the bomb was probably a fake. Did they say anything about that on the news?” If she deflected his focus, it was possible they could avoid another row about her job.

  “Yeah. It was a hoax.”

  “See? Everything’s fine. I’m fine.” She rose. “Let me get dinner started. You must be hungry.”

  He grabbed her hand as she began to move away. “Meg.”

  She braced and angled back. “Let’s not argue about this, Steve. Please. I like my job. This was a fluke. I’m not in any danger.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I couldn’t go through that again.”

  She gently wiggled her fingers to loosen his taut grip and sank back onto the arm of the chair.

  Cut him some slack, Meg. Losing a young wife to cancer had to be devastating. If he’s a bit overprotective, live with it. You might feel the same if the situation was reversed.

  “You’re not going to lose me, I promise.” She brushed back the lock of hair that liked to fall forward, onto his brow. “I’m safe at work, and what I do there doesn’t take away from our relationship. You’re gone all day too. And sitting around here moping after the miscarriage wasn’t healthy for me. We agreed a job could help me get back on my feet emotionally.”

  Well . . . that wasn’t quite true.

  She’d pushed hard for the job, and after tons of cajoling he’d given in—with clear reservations.

  But framing it as a mutual decision could help keep this discussion from escalating to an argument.

  “You seem to be doing fine now. The job was never intended to be permanent. We also agreed on that.”

  “Yes . . . but I’ve only been there six months. After how Eve went to bat for me, I don’t want to walk out and leave everyone in the lurch—or cause an issue for her.”

  His jaw hardened. “I don’t care about Eve Reilly. I care about you.”

  “I know, but she did pull strings to get me hired. If she and I hadn’t been high school classmates, I doubt I would have gotten the job. There were better-qualified candidates.”