Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  Nothing that he could prove, at least.

  Tightening her grip on her purse, she trekked toward her car.

  Maybe he’d come around, call her to apologize, beg her to keep their lunch date next Monday.

  But what if he didn’t? What if, instead of caving to the temptation to spend time with her . . . and perhaps share more than lunch . . . he cut her off? Continued to doubt her innocence?

  Would he take his suspicions to the police?

  And if he did, what would that do to her career—and her ambitions?

  Despite the warmth in the air, a cold chill raced through her.

  Gritting her teeth, she shook it off.

  Even if Doug did mention his misgivings to the case detective—and the police decided to investigate—their efforts would come to nothing. If there was any evidence to be found for any of the incidents that had occurred with Eve, it would have surfaced by now.

  There was no reason to worry.

  She was safe—and so were her ambitions.

  Knock, knock.

  At the hard rapping on her back door, Eve jerked away from the floor buffer she’d just turned off in the living room and swiveled toward the kitchen.

  Calm down, Eve. If someone was up to no good, they wouldn’t be knocking on your door.

  Gulping a steadying breath, she stripped off her dust mask and ducked around the plastic barrier taped over the opening to the foyer that was supposed to contain the mess. Heart still hammering, she hurried toward the back of the house.

  As she approached the door and her neighbor waved at her through the window, her pulse slowed.

  After wiping her hands on her jean cutoffs, she unlocked and opened the door. “Hi, Olivia. I’d invite you in, but the house is a dust bowl.” She slipped outside.

  “My.” The woman gave her a once-over. “Have you been cleaning out your attic?”

  “Worse. Refinishing floors. A job not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt such an ambitious enterprise—but I baked chocolate chip pecan cookies and brought you a few.” The woman lifted a plate covered with plastic wrap. “They came out of the oven ten minutes ago.”

  “Wow.” Eve took the home-baked goodies and breathed in the scent seeping through the plastic. “These smell delicious. You’re going to spoil me.”

  Olivia waved the comment aside. “An occasional sweet-tooth indulgence never spoiled anyone.”

  “In that case—I’ll eat one . . . or two . . . or three.” She grinned. “If I get us each a soda, would you sit with me for a few minutes while I take a break and put a dent in these?” She indicated the plate.

  “I’d be delighted. The only item on my afternoon schedule is a few soaps, and I’d much rather visit with my famous neighbor.”

  Eve snorted. “Hardly famous.”

  “But you’re getting there. You keep at it, you’ll be up there with that Russ Limbo everyone talks about.”

  Not likely—but it was a kind sentiment . . . even if Olivia wouldn’t know Rush Limbaugh from the current teenage heartthrob. The woman was much more conversant about vintage movies than current events.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Olivia patted her arm. “I may be old, but I can recognize talent.”

  “Have a seat while I get those sodas.”

  Eve returned to the kitchen, fixed their drinks, and rejoined her neighbor at the patio table.

  “True confession—I stole one of your cookies.” Olivia flashed a guilty smile as she accepted a soda.

  “You can’t steal cookies you baked.” Eve bit into one and closed her eyes, letting the gooey chocolate dissolve on her tongue. “Bliss.”

  “I’m glad you like them. What with all the recent excitement in your life, I decided comfort food was in order.”

  “I agree—and these fit the bill.”

  “I keep hoping the police will find whoever is behind the unfortunate incidents. Have they made any strides at all?”

  “None they’ve shared with me.”

  The woman exhaled. “I’m sorry to hear that. I noticed that nice-looking young detective leaving your house Saturday night and I hoped there’d been a break in the case.”

  “No.” Eve took another bite of cookie. How to explain Brent’s visit? If she told her neighbor about the incident in the school parking lot, Olivia would worry more. “He was here to follow up on a few details.” True—except the details were about the latest attack.

  “Oh.” Olivia’s face fell. “That’s disappointing.”

  “I know they’re working hard to find the culprit—but in the meantime, I’m hoping he’ll get tired of the game and my life will return to normal.”

  “I wonder if that’s already happened? It has been six days since that call to the station.”

  “True.” Eve picked up another cookie and changed the subject. “These are delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like them, my dear. Best of all, you don’t have to worry about how many you eat. Hard as you work, you’ll burn those calories off in a jiffy.”

  “I wish.”

  “No wishing necessary. It’s true. You’re refinishing floors, for heaven’s sake.” She shook her head. “In my day, women didn’t tackle such jobs. Not that we couldn’t have, mind you—but letting a man do the heavy work does have its advantages.” She winked.

  “I see your point.” But having someone to work with her, side by side, on projects like this would be even more appealing. Especially someone with dark brown eyes . . . warm, firm lips . . . and character stamped on every contour of his face.

  “Besides, all your running around keeps you in shape too. Going to the radio station at the crack of dawn, riding your bike, taking those spanning classes, your frequent speaking engagements.” She exhaled. “I don’t know how you keep all those balls in the air.”

  “There are days I don’t either.” Eve took a third cookie.

  “You gave a speech last weekend, didn’t you? At an outdoor event—a rally, I believe?”

  “No, that’s a week from Saturday. Last weekend was the PTA talk.”

  “Oh yes. I remember now. The next event is a picnic for politicians . . . or is it young entrepreneurs . . . or veterans?”

  “All of the above, I expect.” She washed down the remains of her last cookie. “It’s the annual barbecue for a Young Republicans group. The members fall into all those categories.”

  “You are one busy lady.”

  “I love my work—and I like doing my part to protect the values that built this country.”

  Olivia nodded. “It’s important to stand up for what you believe—no matter the risk.”

  “I agree.”

  “Well . . .” The older woman pushed herself to her feet. “I should be off. You have to get back to your floor job.”

  “And prepare for tomorrow’s radio program.” She rose too. “Thank you again for the cookies. I can assure you they won’t last long.”

  “I’ll whip up another batch soon. Don’t work too hard.” Olivia patted her arm and crossed the deck.

  “Would you like an extra arm to lean on while you go down the steps?” Eve knew the answer before her spry neighbor responded.

  “I’m fine.” She started down. “The doctor’s after me to use a cane, but I’m resisting. These legs may not be as strong as they once were, but they get me where I have to go without any propping up.”

  Eve waited until Olivia crossed the lawn and disappeared onto her patio, then wandered back inside, locking the door behind her.

  Quiet descended.

  Too much quiet.

  It was a shame she didn’t have an excuse to call Brent for an update.

  But he’d left one on her voicemail yesterday, while her cell was stowed in a locker during spinning class—and it had been both detailed and concise. The CSU tech had found a few dark hairs clumped beside her car, and Brent had promised to call her if they yielded any useful information
. He hadn’t asked about the status of the tire situation, nor offered to drive her to the school parking lot to retrieve her car, so she’d hitched a ride in the mechanic’s truck.

  Sighing, she set the plate of cookies on the counter and tossed the two empty soft drink cans into the recycle bin.

  Why, oh why, had he called during her class?

  Eve trudged back to the living room, slipped on the dust mask, and flipped the switch on the buffer.

  But her mind wasn’t on the task at hand. It was busy trying to manufacture a reason to call Brent.

  Could she fill him in on her conversation yesterday with the security firm he’d recommended, perhaps? Was that a sufficient excuse?

  No.

  Give it up, Eve.

  Grasping the handle on the buffer, she resumed the tedious chore of moving the piece of equipment from side to side, following the grain. The old finish turned to powder beneath it, making it easy to see where to move next.

  Too bad the course to follow with Brent wasn’t as obvious.

  Nevertheless, the basics were clear.

  If he wanted to talk with her, he’d call—and if he got her voicemail again, he’d ask her to return the call rather than leave a message.

  He hadn’t yet done that.

  So . . . she should wait. Give him breathing room after their conversation on Saturday night. If he was running scared, a woman who was too forward could send him fleeing the opposite direction.

  Or maybe her impromptu kiss had already done that.

  The drone of the buffer masked her huff as the machine continued to smooth out the rough spots in the wood and remove the layers of protective finish.

  It was a shame there wasn’t a buffer for the soul—and the heart.

  Other than love, of course.

  But love carried risk. It required taking a leap into the unknown and a willingness to fail—and fall.

  For a person like Brent, whose experience with love—or the lack of love—was disastrous, that risk could be too formidable.

  Not the happiest thought she’d had today—and it stuck with her for the remainder of the job.

  Once all the bad junk had been stripped off the wood, she shut off the buffer, leaving the mask over her nose as dust motes swirled around the room.

  There were two tactics she could employ to convince Brent to take another chance on love.

  The first involved a follow-up phone call—after a reasonable interval—if he didn’t get in touch with her. That step was a given. The only challenge was deciding what constituted a reasonable interval.

  The second tactic involved prayer. Also a given—and one she intended to launch immediately.

  Because cutting through all the garbage that was preventing him from dipping his toes into romance again could very well take a miracle.

  13

  THE EVE REILLY STORY had dried up.

  Buzz skimmed the Wednesday Post headlines again, flipping through the pages.

  Nothing.

  There hadn’t been a single mention of it in the paper—or on the news—since the phone call to the station a week ago . . . and that had only merited a one-paragraph follow-up. Apparently she’d weathered the storms of the past ten days and was staying the course.

  Some people had a knack for escaping danger unscathed.

  For a while, anyway.

  But if blows continued to rain down on them, eventually one would hit its target and their luck would run out.

  “Aren’t we the cerebral one.”

  At the taunt from Suds, he closed the paper and tucked it between the insulated food carrier and the tree supporting his back. “I decided to improve my mind as well as feed my stomach during lunch break.”

  Suds snorted and waved toward the paper. “There’s nothing but bad news in there. I get enough of that in real life. Give me Candy Crush any day.” He lifted his cell.

  “Video games will turn your brain to mush.”

  “Me and the hundred million other people who play it.”

  No wonder the world was in such a mess. Didn’t anyone worry about important issues anymore? Like politicians controlling people’s lives. The oppression of capitalism. The evil inherent in authority.

  Not to mention the people who promoted a society where big government, getting rich, and institutions of authority were not only accepted but encouraged.

  People like Eve Reilly.

  He swallowed past his distaste.

  Unthinking morons like Suds and Crip were slaves and they didn’t even know it—because they’d rather play Candy Crush than fight for their rights . . . and their freedom.

  Idiots like them got what they deserved.

  But he wasn’t an idiot—and the status quo wasn’t acceptable. That’s why—

  “Hey.” Suds stared at him. “What’s with you? You’ve got a weird look on your face.”

  He clenched his fist but relaxed his features. “I’m thinking about the screen porch we’re going to tackle this afternoon. It’s going to be a bear to paint, with all that lattice.”

  Suds watched him for a few moments, then shrugged. “At least it’s not a hundred degrees in the shade anymore. Crip lucked out pulling that pool house job in Ladue, though. His gig is air-conditioned—and the owner buys the crew those froufrou frozen drinks from Starbucks every afternoon.”

  “Sweet.”

  “No kidding.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket. “You ready to hit it again?”

  “Yeah.” Buzz pushed himself to his feet. “Let me put my stuff in the truck and I’ll join you in a minute.”

  “See ya there.”

  Suds strolled toward the back of the house, whistling one of those stupid songs with asinine lyrics that were the rage.

  After he disappeared around the corner, Buzz picked up the insulated carrier and newspaper from the spot he’d claimed in the side yard and headed for the truck in the driveway. Compared to the estate where Crip was working, this neighborhood was low end.

  Not that he begrudged his high school acquaintance a plum job. Ever since that varsity football injury had left him with a limp—and a politically incorrect nickname—he’d had more than his share of challenges.

  Buzz tossed the paper and carrier in the truck and swiped the sleeve of his T-shirt over his forehead, anger roiling anew in his gut. No one should have to sweat in this heat to put food on the table and a roof over their head while the fat cats sat on piles of money and pulled the strings on the puppets who did all the real work.

  Unless more people were enlightened, though, nothing would change.

  Nor would it change if personalities like Eve Reilly, with her bully pulpit, kept convincing the masses that the structure of this country, and the capitalistic society championed by those in power, was worth defending.

  “Hey, Buzz.” Suds waved at him from the corner of the house. “Grab the electric screwdriver.”

  “Okay.” He turned back to the truck and rummaged for the tool.

  Four more hours until he could chill out in his apartment.

  It felt like a lifetime.

  But he’d survive.

  Because he had more to look forward to than a cold beer and another round of Candy Crush.

  He had plans to make.

  “Yes!” Brent pumped a fist in the air.

  “Must be good news.”

  As the male voice spoke behind him, he swiveled around in his desk chair at headquarters.

  Colin Flynn leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Either you just secured a hot date or there’s been a positive development with one of your cases.”

  At the mention of a hot date, an image of Eve flashed through his mind.

  If only.

  But the detective colleague he shared an office with had nailed his reaction with his second guess.

  “My euphoria is case related.”

  “Congrats from a work standpoint. My condolences on the social front.” Colin strolled in and dropped into the chair at his
desk. “What case?”

  “Eve Reilly.”

  “Yeah?” He leaned forward, interest sparking in his eyes. “I was beginning to think that was destined for the deep freeze.”

  “Me too. But CSU came through for me at the car scene.”

  “What did they find?”

  “A small clump of dark hair containing a few strands with roots.”

  “Aha. You got a DNA match in CODIS.”

  “No.” The FBI database hadn’t yielded anything. “But I got a hit in the DOD DNA Registry.”

  “Department of Defense.” Colin leaned back and linked his fingers over his stomach. “So your guy is military—or ex-military.”

  “Ex.”

  “Any previous lower-level run-ins with law enforcement?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.” A major crime would have yielded a match in CODIS—but that didn’t mean their man was 100 percent clean.

  “If you want any help tracking down leads, let me know.” He pulled out his cell and scanned the screen. “I have to take this.”

  As Colin angled away, Brent hunkered down and refocused on his computer. With a name and a few other identifying details in hand, it should be easy to gather additional data.

  Thirty minutes later, his pulse picked up and he leaned closer to the screen he’d pulled up a minute ago.

  How about that?

  His suspect wasn’t merely a disenfranchised listener. He had a link to Eve.

  Meaning he must have a personal ax to grind.

  And now that they had a name, it was possible Eve could shed some light on the motivation.

  He eased back in his chair.

  A phone call would suffice for professional purposes—but he wanted to see her, even if he still had cold feet after everything he’d shared on Saturday night.

  He didn’t have to stay long, though. He wouldn’t stay long. As soon as he passed on the news, he’d get out of there.

  But seeing her face when she learned her troubles were almost over would be the highlight of his day.

  Get real, Lange. The highlight of your day will be seeing her face, period.

  Yeah, yeah.

  He stood abruptly, and Colin looked over at him, one eyebrow raised.

  Ignoring his colleague, he picked up his cell and made a fast exit. He might be able to hide the truth from his coworkers, but he couldn’t hide it from himself.