Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  Yet this go-round, she wasn’t going to ignore it.

  Yes, she’d mention her idea to Steve. Give him a chance to work through this with her—assuming he wasn’t behind the threats to Eve. That was only fair.

  But if he said no? If he refused to change his behavior?

  This marriage was over.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Sara Allen double-checked the Tupperware inventory in her trunk as her son spoke. “What?”

  “There’s the delivery guy I saw the day you picked me up from school and we went to drop off the stuff you sold at that party.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sara did another count of the small containers that could keep two pounds of brown sugar fresh. Always an easy sell at parties, once she demonstrated her personal piece of Tupperware filled with still-soft two-year-old sugar. If she was one container short, she’d have to schedule another trip—and who had time for that?

  “He’s not wearing a uniform today either.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How come he didn’t wear a uniform at that house? Or drive a truck with the company name on it? Our FedEx guy always does.”

  “What?” Yes! There it was. The small piece of Tupperware was tucked behind the grocery bags she carried for her trips to Aldi.

  “That guy over there. How come he didn’t have a truck with FedEx on it?”

  She pulled her head out of the recesses of her trunk and turned her attention to Jeremy. At nine years old, her son was a constant font of questions. And he noticed everything, from the color on the outside of flower petals to the number of holes in a button.

  Definitely not a skill he’d inherited from her.

  “What guy are you talking about?”

  “Over there.” He pointed to a tall man who was striding toward a vehicle in the fast-food parking lot, a bag with arches on the side in one hand and a large paper cup in the other.

  “Why do you think he’s a delivery guy?”

  “’Cause of that package he left at the house across the street.”

  “What house? Which street? When?” She shut the trunk. This quick stop for a milkshake to reward Jeremy for sitting in the car half of Sunday afternoon while she delivered Tupperware was taking too long. They had to get rolling.

  “You know. That day you picked me up from school at lunchtime and you stopped to deliver an order. ’Member?”

  “Yes.” That had been two weeks ago Friday. The first week of school, when dismissal had been at noon. Hard to forget that day, since the neighborhood where she’d made the delivery had been on the news that evening, thanks to a fake bomb someone had planted on the doorstep of a radio celebrity.

  A fake bomb that had been inside a FedEx package.

  Sara froze.

  Was it possible . . . could her son have seen the guy who’d left it? Last she’d heard, the police didn’t have any suspects.

  She squinted after the man, who was approaching a Grand Cherokee. He appeared to be a normal guy. Nothing about him sent up any red flags.

  “Mom.” Jeremy tugged on her arm. “Don’t all those guys drive a truck with FedEx on the side? And aren’t they ’sposed to wear a uniform?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I think so.” She peered at the license plate. Fumbled for a pen and scrap of paper in her purse. Jotted down the numbers and letters while the guy backed out.

  As he drove past, he gave them a quick glance.

  She bent her head and pretended to search her purse for her keys.

  Jeremy slurped up his shake through the straw, gawking at the car.

  “Jeremy—don’t watch him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just don’t, okay? Get in the car.”

  For once he complied without further questions or argument.

  She slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and slipped on her sunglasses, following the progress of the guy in the SUV as he swung onto the main drag with a screech of tires and a heavy foot on the gas.

  Now what?

  She stuck the key into the ignition, watching until the Cherokee disappeared into the traffic.

  “How come we’re not moving?” Jeremy continued to suck on his drink.

  “Honey . . .” She angled toward him and looked over her shoulder. “Are you sure that’s the same man you saw the day I was delivering Tupperware?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How do you know? Did you see his face?”

  “Uh-huh. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, but I think a bee was buzzing around him, ’cause he took them off for a minute and swatted the cap through the air. I saw him when he turned toward me. What I noticed most though was how he walked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He kind of steps lighter on one foot. Like Dad did last year after he broke his toe. Didn’t you notice that?”

  “No.” She’d hardly noticed her husband’s limp, let alone a stranger’s.

  However . . . if the man’s off-kilter gait had been obvious, she’d have spotted it. Whatever abnormality Jeremy had picked up must be very subtle.

  “So how come he wasn’t wearing a regular uniform that day? I mean, his clothes kind of looked like a uniform, but they weren’t. Like, there was no company name on his shirt. And why didn’t he have a truck?”

  She could think of one answer—but if she shared her suspicions with the police, what were the chances they’d take the comments of a nine-year-old seriously, even if she vouched for his powers of observation and attention to detail?

  And did she want to put him through what might be a traumatic experience?

  Yet if his testimony could help the police find the lunatic who was planting fake bombs, wasn’t it worth the risk?

  She rubbed her forehead and sighed.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  At her son’s uncertain question, she smoothed out her brow and put the car in gear. “Nothing, honey. Let’s get these deliveries done so we can go to the park with Dad this afternoon after he gets home from his meeting at church.”

  “Yes!”

  She caught his exuberant fist pump in the rearview mirror, smiling as she pulled out of the parking spot.

  But as soon she left the fast-food restaurant behind, the corners of her mouth leveled out. She had a serious decision to make—but she wasn’t making it alone. John needed to weigh in as soon as he got home from his meeting.

  And if they both agreed their son’s story was credible, their Sunday could end up including a visit from the police.

  Yawning, Eve pressed the automatic door opener on her garage and edged around her car toward the lawnmower.

  After hours of physical labor on the living room floor, cutting the grass didn’t hold much appeal—especially with temperatures hovering around ninety. But thanks to all the rain they’d had last week, her lawn was past due for a haircut.

  The job shouldn’t take long, though. An hour, tops. By five-thirty, she’d be done with the chore and have the rest of the evening free. She could kick back with a soda on the deck and relax.

  And who knew? It was possible Brent would call. He ought to be back from his camping trip by then.

  In fact . . . maybe he’d join her if she asked.

  Now wouldn’t that be a great cap-off for the weekend?

  Grinning, she wheeled the mower out onto the driveway and pulled the cord. Two tries later, it roared to life, and she aimed it toward the grass.

  As she walked along behind the self-propelled machine, she scanned the neighborhood. Quiet, as usual. The older folks tended to hibernate if the temperature climbed above eighty-five, and kids today would rather play on their computers or smartphones than indulge their imaginations with outdoor games of make-believe.

  Hmm.

  Not a bad topic for one of her shows.

  She circled the garage. Tired as she was, it would be wise to begin in the back. If she got the hardest part of the job done first, she ought to be able to muster up her flagging energy for the easier home stretch.
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br />   Tooling along the property line, she surveyed the adjacent yards. Just as quiet as the front. No neighbors visible . . . yet a faint whiff of barbecue suggested someone had fired up a grill.

  That would be an appealing Sunday dinner—but barbecuing for one never seemed worth the trouble.

  Those steaks in her freezer weren’t improving with age, though. And she’d wiped down the patio furniture an hour ago, deadheaded and watered the flowers in her container garden around the railing, cleaned up the stray kernels of popcorn that had spilled during the Scrabble game with her sisters. It would be a lovely spot for dinner.

  Lovelier still, of course, if she was sharing the meal with—

  Her step faltered.

  Why was a piece of paper attached to the railing of the deck steps? It hadn’t been there an hour ago. She’d have noticed it while she was cleaning up.

  Slowly she released the control bar on the mower—and silence descended, save for the chatter of a squirrel in the oak tree that shaded the deck.

  Pulse accelerating, Eve circled around the mower and crossed to the railing.

  A single, folded sheet was thumbtacked to the cedar upright supporting the handrail.

  Could it be another message from her tormentor?

  Her gut said yes.

  But . . . how was that possible?

  Unless . . . had Steve eluded whoever was assigned to watch him—or done this in between County surveillance gigs? After all, both Brent and Cate had admitted they couldn’t watch him 24/7.

  On the other hand, her intuition could be wrong, given how she was jumping at shadows these days, looking for danger around every corner. It was possible the note had nothing to do with the threats. What if it was from a neighbor—Olivia, or Ernie’s owners? If that was the case, raising a false alarm would cause unnecessary angst.

  Why not check it out herself first? In light of past experience, there wouldn’t be any fingerprints anyway. Steve had been careful all along—and he had more incentive now than ever to be extra diligent.

  Eve scrubbed her palm on her shorts and worked out the thumbtack with a fingernail. Pulled it free and opened the note.

  It was short and to the point.

  It was also time to call Brent.

  19

  Tell your sisters to watch their backs. Don’t expect that detective to keep you—or them—safe. If you want this to end, shut up. Now.

  Brent reread the note Eve had handed him the instant he walked in the door. Looked at her.

  Her arms were folded tight against her chest, and her fair skin had paled, calling attention to the few, faint freckles on her nose that weren’t usually detectable.

  The latest incident had shaken her.

  And he wasn’t any too steady, either—especially after the phone calls he’d placed on the heels of his conversation with her while he was driving back to St. Louis.

  “Let’s sit somewhere.”

  “I’d offer the living room, but as you can see, it remains furnitureless.” She motioned toward the empty space as she walked toward the back of the house.

  “Floor turned out great, though.”

  “Thanks.” She indicated the fridge as she entered the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink? Or a killer brownie made by my eighty-one-year-old neighbor? She may be totally clueless about technology and prefer soaps to heavy discussions about social issues, but she sure knows how to use an oven.”

  Eve’s uncharacteristic chatter was more evidence her nerves had kicked in.

  “No thanks.”

  She continued to the table, perching on one of the bar-height chairs as he dropped the note into an evidence envelope and claimed the seat next to her. “Always prepared, I see.”

  “Goes with the territory. I keep a few of these in my personal car for emergencies.” He ran his hand over the scruff on his chin. “Sorry about this, by the way. I don’t shave on these camping trips, and rather than detour to the house after your call, I drove straight here.”

  “No problem. The bad-boy stubble is intriguing on a good-guy face.” She attempted a smile, but the corners of her mouth quivered. “So what’s going on? Did you find out if your people have had Steve under surveillance?”

  “On and off—but not for the past two hours.”

  She exhaled. “So he could have put that on my porch.” She touched the evidence bag.

  “No, he couldn’t. He’s been in the emergency room for several hours. Car accident.”

  Eve stared at him. “But I . . . I don’t understand. I thought he was . . . isn’t he our guy? I mean, you found his DNA in the parking lot. Doesn’t that incriminate him?”

  “Circumstantial evidence isn’t all that helpful, unless there’s a preponderance of it. Even then, it’s iffy. A competent defense attorney would dismiss it. But I’d bet my bank account he was the slasher.”

  “Yet he isn’t responsible for that.” She waved her hand toward the note. “So where does this leave us?”

  Nowhere good.

  However . . . Eve was already spooked. He’d have to ease into the theory he’d been formulating since the hospital confirmed Steve’s presence—one that had solidified after he read the note resting on the table between them.

  “It leaves us with a new possibility.”

  She squinted at him. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “No—and neither do I. But we have to consider the facts and follow them to their logical conclusion.”

  “Which is?”

  “Let’s back up first. Based on the window between straightening up your deck and finding the note, Steve couldn’t have left it. It’s possible he has an accomplice—but my take on his personality is that he operates solo. That means this note is from someone unconnected to him.”

  He waited, giving her a chance to reach the same conclusion he had.

  After a few beats, her eyes widened. “That must mean . . . could two people be targeting me?”

  “I’d say that’s a credible theory—more so in light of the written communication you’ve received. The two notes we think Steve left are short. One had a misspelling. This is much longer and the spelling is correct. Also—the one left the night of the tire slashing said it was the final warning. Why leave any more messages?”

  Eve lost a few more shades of color. “So Steve may not be behind all the incidents that happened before today.”

  “Or he could have been—and someone with another objective is seizing the opportunity to coast in under the radar, wreak havoc . . . and let him take the fall.”

  “Wonderful.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, inhaled, and linked her fingers on the table. “Let’s switch gears for a minute and talk about the threat to my sisters. That’s never come up before. And why did this person mention you?”

  “I’m assuming he’s been monitoring your activities. Watching your house. He’s seen me coming and going, and you said your sisters visit on a regular basis.”

  Dismay tightened her features. “It was hard enough dealing with the idea that someone was after me, but if I’m also endangering my sisters . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Let them know about the note. From what I’ve seen and heard of Cate, she can take care of herself—and your other sister isn’t in town.”

  “She also carries a gun.”

  “Two points in her favor. She won’t be the most convenient target—if this person even follows through on the threat.”

  Eve lifted one hand and massaged her temples. “Can this get any more complicated?”

  Yeah, it could. But why bring that up unless—

  His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Frowned at the screen.

  Sarge wouldn’t be calling him on a Sunday evening unless they were short of personnel at a major crime scene.

  “Give me a minute.” He rose, walking away as he spoke.

  “Don’t hurry on my account. I could use a few minutes to absorb this latest curveball.”

 
; He put the phone to his ear and retreated to the foyer as he greeted Sarge—and prepared to beg off an assignment for tonight. The situation with Eve required his immediate and full-time attention. While there was no question Steve had broken the law, the challenge was gathering sufficient evidence to book him.

  But the possible involvement of a third party put a whole new spin on this—and added an exponential degree of risk.

  Meaning Eve was back in the bull’s-eye.

  This was getting old.

  As the low rumble of Brent’s voice drifted into the kitchen from the foyer, Eve stood.

  Neither of them might want a soft drink, but she had to expend some of the restless energy coursing through her—and sitting here waiting for him to return wasn’t doing the job.

  She should also warn Cate and Grace ASAP in case this guy followed through on his latest threat. Brent could be correct in his assumption that neither of them were at as much risk as she was, but until they nailed her nemesis, she wasn’t going to be able to shake her worry.

  As she set their drinks on the table, Brent returned, his expression difficult to read.

  “Trouble?” She pushed his soda toward him.

  He picked it up and took a long swallow. But he didn’t sit. “A new development. It seems we may have an eyewitness to the fake bomb delivery.”

  A surge of hope buoyed her spirits. “That’s fantastic news!”

  “If it pans out. He’s nine.”

  “Children aren’t credible witnesses?”

  “Not under the age of seven, usually. Older than that? Depends on the child. This one’s closer to ten, which helps.” He finished the drink in a couple of long gulps and set the can back on the table. “I’m going to call a colleague of mine, see if he’s free for an hour to go along on the interview. I want a second read on whatever we hear. And I have to swing by the office first to prep. Walk me to the door?”

  She followed him to the foyer. “I guess this means I’ll have to go back into red-alert mode.”

  “Yes.” He paused, his hand on the knob. “I’ll swing by and take you to work again tomorrow.”

  “I can’t keep asking you to get up at the crack of dawn to chauffeur me to the station.”