Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  The landline rang again.

  Muttering a curse, he limped to the wall, snatched the phone off the hook, and snapped out a greeting.

  “Steve Jackson?”

  The deep voice was muffled, as if someone was speaking through several layers of cloth.

  “Yeah. Who is this?”

  “You have legal difficulties. I have information that can help you.”

  He studied the cracked pane of glass in the back window that Meg had been after him for weeks to fix. “Who is this?”

  “That’s not important. But what I have may keep you out of jail.”

  Was this for real—or someone’s idea of a sick joke?

  “What do you have?”

  “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

  Steve frowned. The whole tenor of this call felt . . . off. Maybe the press coverage was bringing out a bunch of nutcases—or people who were up to no good. The last thing he needed was more problems.

  “Why don’t I give you my lawyer’s—”

  “No.” The caller’s tone sharpened. “I’m not dealing with anyone but you. If you don’t want my information, fine.”

  Steve leaned against the counter, taking his weight off his bum ankle, mind racing.

  Was it possible this person did have a nugget that would help his defense? It wasn’t as if he was innocent—but the case was circumstantial except for the kid, and his lawyer ought to be able to undermine a nine-year-old’s credibility. However, it wouldn’t hurt to have a piece of tangible evidence that further chipped away at the prosecution’s claims.

  “Fine. You can come by whenever—”

  “No. We have to meet at a neutral place. No witnesses. I’ll give you directions.” The caller began spewing out instructions.

  “Whoa! I have to write this down. Give me a minute to get a pen and paper.”

  “Hurry. I’m not staying on the line long.”

  Steve moved as fast as he could to the bill drawer and pulled out a blank envelope and a pen. “Ready.”

  He jotted as the stranger talked—but red flags began popping up as the location sank in. “That’s way off the beaten path.”

  “It’s safe.”

  Steve doodled a bull’s-eye on the envelope. He was liking this setup less and less. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Let’s just say I’m returning a favor. Be there tomorrow at one o’clock. Tell no one about our meeting, come alone, and don’t be late. I’m not waiting around. Stay in your car until I drop the envelope and drive off.”

  The line went dead.

  Slowly Steve replaced the handset in the cradle. Reread the directions he’d written down.

  Was it safe to go alone to such an isolated spot?

  Did this person actually have useful information, or was this a scam?

  Had he ever done a favor for someone who would feel compelled to repay him? And if so, where had they gotten whatever information they had?

  Stymied, he limped over to the table, sat down in front of his cooling pizza, and popped the tab on his beer.

  Could this be a trap?

  He took a long pull on his beer as he mulled that over.

  Nah. He was being paranoid. Who would target him? He didn’t have any enemies.

  Well . . . okay, a few. His ex-wife and ex-girlfriend weren’t his biggest fans, but they were far away. Candy was annoyed with him, but she’d find a new guy fast. And Meg didn’t have the guts to do him any physical harm.

  So what did he have to lose by showing up? He’d stay in his car, with the doors locked, and if anything seemed the slightest bit suspicious, he’d be out of there.

  His attorney wouldn’t approve of such a mysterious, clandestine rendezvous, of course—but it wasn’t the lawyer’s butt on the line. If the meeting was a bust, he never had to know about it. If, on the other hand, it produced a useful piece of information, he’d be happy to have it.

  Steve flipped open the pizza box and picked up a slice. He didn’t have to decide this minute whether to show up or not. Why not sleep on it, see if any concerns came to mind overnight?

  And if they didn’t, at one o’clock tomorrow he’d be sitting locked tight in his car, cellphone in hand on the off chance he ran into trouble, waiting by an abandoned railroad bridge in far west St. Louis County.

  That was odd.

  Juggling the plate with two homemade cinnamon rolls in one hand, Eve twisted her other wrist to confirm the time.

  No, she wasn’t too early. Olivia had said she always rose at dawn, and it was eight-thirty. Nor would the woman have gone somewhere at this hour. She never ventured out on the roads before nine or ten—or after dark. One of her concessions to advancing age, as she’d confided the day she’d come over with a plate of cookies to welcome her new neighbor.

  A return gesture to thank the woman for her many kindnesses was long overdue—but how was she supposed to deliver it when Olivia wasn’t answering the door?

  Eve caught her lower lip between her teeth. Could her neighbor be sick . . . or injured? Was that why she wasn’t responding to the knock?

  She set the rolls on a patio chair and peered into a window, cupping her hands around her face. The kitchen was dark, the counter clear, the coffeepot empty. As if no one had yet ventured into the room this morning for food or drink.

  A niggle of unease skittered up her spine.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  She dug out her cell. Punched in Olivia’s number. Waited while the phone rang . . . then rolled to voicemail.

  Her alarm ratcheted up another notch.

  Too bad they hadn’t exchanged keys in case of emergency.

  But the older woman had dismissed that suggestion, saying she’d told the police where a spare key was hidden on the property should there ever be a crisis.

  Like maybe today.

  Trouble was, there was no way to know for certain whether her neighbor required assistance or was sleeping soundly.

  Eve swiveled around and surveyed the yard. If she could figure out where the key was, she wouldn’t have to raise what might be a false alarm.

  But after ten minutes of fruitless searching, she threw in the towel. If Olivia did need help, every minute she wasted could compound whatever was wrong. She’d have to call the local police, explain the situation, and ask them to send an officer.

  After one final knock went unanswered, she summoned help.

  Less than five minutes later, a police cruiser swung onto the cul-de-sac sans sirens—as she’d requested. This neighborhood had had enough excitement over the past three weeks. Why wake everyone up on a Saturday morning?

  The car stopped in front, and the same officer who’d escorted her to safety the day of the bomb scare emerged. He followed the walk to where she waited by the front door. “Morning, ma’am. I’m Officer Clark. You have concerns about your neighbor?”

  “Yes.” She repeated what she’d told the dispatcher by phone. “There’s supposed to be a key hidden around the house somewhere. Olivia said she’d left that information with the local police.”

  His brow puckered. “Not to my knowledge. Give me a minute.” He pulled out his cell and retreated a few yards, speaking in low tones.

  He finished his call fast and returned to her. “We can’t find any record of a key location for this address, although we do have that information on file for a number of residents. You’ve tried the doors?”

  “Yes. And the windows.” The task had kept her occupied while she waited for help to arrive.

  He scanned the front door. “Let’s go around back.”

  She led him to the rear, stepping aside as he examined the door and frame.

  “This shouldn’t be difficult to open. The homes in this area don’t tend to have very secure doors. You may want to back up.”

  As she complied, the officer angled sideways and kicked with his heel below the lock. With a splintering clatter, the door swung open and smashed against the wall.

  “Wait here.
” The officer entered the kitchen.

  Eve clamped her hands on her hips as he disappeared into the hall.

  Wait?

  Not her forte.

  Tamping down the urge to follow him in, she paced the small back porch.

  One minute passed.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Why was a walk-through of the small house taking—

  She halted as the faint wail of a siren keened through the quiet Saturday morning. It was coming their direction.

  Had the officer summoned an ambulance?

  Ignoring his orders to stay outside, Eve entered the house.

  A male voice was speaking, but the volume was too low to distinguish the words.

  She moved toward it.

  “Try to stay calm, ma’am. The paramedics will be here within a few minutes.”

  Her pulse stuttered. Olivia did have a medical emergency!

  Eve picked up her pace, following the voice to the living room.

  In the corner that led to the hall, Olivia lay on the floor beside a closed door. She was pushing at the officer with her left hand, as if she wanted him to leave, while her other arm lay limp on the carpet, a key beside it. One side of her face was contorted, and the syllables coming out of her mouth were garbled.

  Classic stroke symptoms.

  Eve’s heart sank.

  Fighting back tears, she crossed to the woman and dropped down next to her. If the officer didn’t like her being here, tough. “It’s Eve, Olivia. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll watch out for you.”

  The woman’s gaze shifted to her, the emotion in her glazed eyes difficult to read. And the string of mangled words she uttered was incomprehensible.

  “Does she have any family we can contact?”

  At the officer’s question, Eve shook her head. “None that I know of. She’s a widow, and she told me once she didn’t have children. I’ve never heard her mention any family other than her husband, Nathaniel. I think she’s been alone since he died twenty years ago.”

  The sirens outside were louder now, and the officer glanced toward the street. The ambulance must have turned on to the cul-de-sac.

  “Can you stay with her while I open the front door?”

  “Of course.”

  The man left her alone with her neighbor and disappeared into the small foyer.

  Eve took the older woman’s hand in a comforting clasp. “The paramedics are here, Olivia. They’ll take you to the hospital and you’ll get the best of care.”

  The reassurance had no effect on her neighbor’s agitation. She continued to thrash weakly on one side and mumble muddled words.

  Eve’s throat tightened again. It must be awful to be helpless and have no one in the world to call upon for assistance.

  But if—no, when—Olivia recovered, she wouldn’t be alone. None of the Reillys were wired to walk away from a friend in need. A fact she’d relay as soon as her neighbor was calmer and able to think more rationally.

  In the background a door opened, and a muted conversation took place. Seconds later, two paramedics entered the room.

  Eve gave Olivia’s hand a final squeeze and relinquished her position to the professionals.

  As the paramedics went to work, the officer motioned her into the kitchen.

  Her cell began to vibrate, but she ignored it as she joined him. This was more important.

  The man stopped beside the kitchen table and pulled out a notebook. “You said she has no family as far as you know. Are you aware of any church affiliation, or a close friend who could be a proxy for her or have power of attorney?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I only met Olivia about three months ago, after I bought the house next door.”

  “Does she have a cellphone?”

  “The old flip kind, not a smartphone. She carries it for emergencies. She told me once she had no idea how to do anything with it but place a call. I doubt there are any contacts stored in it that would help you.”

  “We’ll check anyway. Do you know if she’s close with any of the other neighbors?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I mean, she’s friendly to everyone and shares her baking talents with all of us, but I’ve never picked up that anyone is more than a casual acquaintance.”

  “I’ll see if I can find any useful information in the house.”

  “Would you like me to help?”

  “I’ll ask for backup if necessary. It may be as simple as going through her purse. Let me get your contact information in case we have any questions.”

  The man must have forgotten about their earlier meeting during the bomb scare.

  She recited her name, address, and cellphone number.

  “Thanks.” The officer jotted it all down. “I remembered the name, but this saves me hunting up the address and phone.”

  So he did recall their previous encounter.

  “If I can offer any further assistance, don’t hesitate to call.” She leaned sideways and called out to the paramedics. “What hospital will you be taking her to?”

  One of the technicians responded.

  “If you’re thinking about following her there, that may be a wasted effort.” Officer Clark spoke as if he’d read her mind. “Unless you’re next of kin or have power of attorney, no one will tell you anything.”

  That was true.

  Yet sending Olivia off alone didn’t feel right.

  On the other hand, she had a speech to give.

  Eve blew out a breath. “I hate for no one to be there for her, but I do have another commitment.”

  “I’d be happy to let you know who ends up being responsible for her decisions, if that helps.” The officer put away his notebook.

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “Let me walk you to the door.”

  It was only a few feet away—but the man must be following protocol. With the owner incapacitated, law enforcement would probably be responsible for safeguarding the house.

  He led her to the back door, and she eyed the splintered jamb around the lock as she passed.

  Good luck securing that.

  Not her problem—though it wouldn’t hurt to drop by later and make certain someone had taken care of this.

  But for the next few hours, she had to keep the Young Republicans event top of mind—even if worry over Olivia would be nipping at the edges of her concentration.

  She picked up the plate of cinnamon rolls and headed for home, pulling out her cell to see who’d called a few minutes ago, while she was in the house.

  Brent—and he’d left a message. One bright spot in her day, at least.

  She smiled as she put the phone to her ear . . . but her lips flatlined as she listened.

  “Eve, I’m sorry to bail on you, but I got pulled into a double homicide early this morning and I expect to be here for hours.” She had to strain to hear him against the backdrop of sirens and a cacophony of voices and other noises. “I’ll do my best to get to the park for your speech, but I can’t guarantee it. Please be careful. If I don’t make it to the event, I’ll call you later.”

  Sighing, she silenced her phone and shoved it back in her pocket. Why leave it on? Brent wouldn’t be calling, and she wanted no interruptions during her appearance.

  Back in her kitchen, she set the plate of rolls on the counter, said a quick prayer for Olivia, and retreated to her office. She had exactly one hour to review her speech and transform herself into Eve Reilly, glam radio personality. Coiffed hair, sophisticated makeup, chic clothing . . . the whole nine yards.

  She wrinkled her nose. The least favorite part of her job.

  Thank heaven she didn’t have to worry about glamour while she was behind the mic in the studio. If she did, the gig would hold far less appeal. As it was, she could put all her energy into what mattered—content, not image.

  But all her primping would be worth it if Brent was able to join her later for the speech—and a trip to Starbucks.

 
; Before the day ended, however, she’d swing by the hospital. Perhaps by then Olivia would be allowed visitors. You didn’t have to be family or have power of attorney to hold someone’s hand and offer a bit of comfort.

  Focusing on someone else’s needs might also help her deal with the insidious fear she hadn’t been able to shake. While she’d reassured Brent that fear had diminished, her instincts continued to warn her danger was nearby, waiting to pounce.

  And until law enforcement was certain the threat was over, she intended to keep looking over her shoulder and preparing for the worst.

  23

  WE’RE READY TO TRANSPORT. Did you find any contact information?” As the paramedics stood, one of them called the question over his shoulder.

  “No.” Officer Clark shook his head. “I went through her purse. Nothing in the wallet but credit cards, driver’s license, library card—the usual.” Nor had the cell he’d found been helpful. Eve Reilly had been correct. It was ancient technology. A password hadn’t even been required to pull up the contacts list—which had been blank.

  The other paramedic angled toward him and locked onto his gaze. “The hospital will want that information fast. Decisions may have to be made.”

  In other words, the homeowner was in bad shape, and dramatic measures could be necessary in the near future to keep her alive.

  Or not, depending on her medical directive—if she had one.

  “A colleague’s on the way. We’ll see if we can find anything more.”

  “Call the hospital ASAP if you do.”

  “Understood.”

  As the paramedics wheeled her out, the older woman continued to mumble. Her eyes were glassy, yet a hint of panic lurked in their depths. Despite her obvious disorientation, on a peripheral level she seemed to realize the gravity of her situation.

  Clark followed them to the porch. As they started down the walk, another patrol car pulled up outside.

  Perfect timing.

  These days, you wanted witnesses and backup if you poked around a private residence without the express permission of the owner—and you better have an ironclad reason for doing so. Like a life-and-death emergency.