He rose and moved toward her. She saw now that the glistening metal object on the table was a knife. An impossibly long knife. She swallowed, again measuring the distance between her and a door.
With a sudden burst, she stepped toward the back door, then quickly turned and ran toward the living room. She fumbled with the bolts, forcing jittery hands to steady as she jammed the locks away from their resting places.
The last bolt in her hand, she felt him behind her. Strong fingers clasped over lips, hot breath on her neck. She struggled against him, but it was no use. He was too big, too powerful. Her only weapon was retreat.
“Oh, Emily,” he said. A hand slipped down her side, cupped her breast, continued down to her waist. Lingered there, fingers dancing. Stopped. “What were you thinking?”
She remained quiet and closed her eyes. He tugged at her sweater, pulling it off. Her bare arms prickled in the chilly air. He grabbed her forearm. She felt the sting of the needle and waited for the haze that would no doubt descend. He picked her up, carried her to the back of the house. Toward her study.
She knew what he wanted. What they wanted.
She wouldn’t give it to him. That much she could do.
CHAPTER ONE
“Delilah Percy Powers, never in a million years did I think I’d find you doing something like this. Your momma was right! You have lost your mind.”
“My mother has a narrow view of sanity, Katrina.”
Delilah sank back in her office chair, amusement and irritation battling it out. She’d agreed to see her old school mate only because the woman had driven hours for a consultation. For what purpose, Delilah still wasn’t sure. Getting information out of Katrina Straub—now Katrina Mellon—was like prying a bone from a rabid dog.
“Well, never mind that, you haven’t changed a bit.” Katrina laughed, a gesture that did nothing to soften the horsy look of her face. “Your momma is worried about you, you know. After everything…” Katrina shook her head. “Back home, we understand your need to get away. But here? Never expected to find you running to a place like Philadelphia.”
“I’m not running away from anything.”
Katrina looked pointedly around the office. “Well, honey, it doesn’t look like you’re running to something, either.”
Delilah refused to bite. As she recalled, Katrina had been mean-spirited in high school. Seems some things never change. Delilah took her time straightening the papers on her desk, keeping her expression neutral. No good would come of saying more, even if the words were burning a hole in Delilah’s mouth. As satisfying as it would be, Katrina would scurry back to their hometown, full of half-truths and syrupy anger. And then Delilah’s mother really would have her Spanx in a twist.
Delilah said finally, “What do you want Katrina?”
Katrina sniffed. “That’s all I get after almost twenty years? Down to business already?”
“Most potential clients are in a hurry to discover some truth or another.” Delilah folded her hands on the desk, strained patience losing out to frustration. “But maybe you’re the exception.”
Katrina pursed her lips, clearly deciding whether or not to be offended. She held out a magenta-manicured hand in supplication. “It’s Hank. I think he’s entertaining other women and I mean to prove it. Your momma told me about what you do, and I thought, well…I thought maybe you could do something to help me out. I’ll pay, of course.”
“Entertaining other women?”
Katrina’s smile was coy. “Don’t make me say it.”
Delilah thought about this. She remembered Hank Mellon as a tall, balding, dour-faced young man. While he didn’t seem to be much of a catch, he also didn’t seem like the cheating type. But Delilah knew that a pickle could be a cucumber and vice versa; you had to be close enough to smell the difference.
“Do you need him followed?”
“Not exactly.”
“Pictures?”
“Kind of.” Katrina looked away. Delilah and Katrina were the same age, but Delilah could see the thinker’s crease etched between Katrina’s thirty-six-year-old eyes. She didn’t look like a woman who feared her love was betraying her. Neither rage nor grief shone in her eyes. Delilah smelled a scheme.
“I can’t help you, Kat, unless you tell me what you need.”
“Your momma said you’re a licensed private investigator.”
“That’s right.”
“You have women who…who can nab men?”
“I hire professional detectives.”
Katrina stood up. She walked to a bookshelf in Delilah’s office and scanned the photos that lined the top. She picked up a picture of a young man standing in front of a rocky cliff. His smile was generous, his eyes focused on something just beyond the camera. An involuntary shudder coursed through Delilah. She forced herself to hold Katrina’s gaze.
“Have you ever fallen in love again, Lila?”
“No.”
“You were lucky with him, you know. Had things turned out differently—” Katrina shrugged, flashed an apologetic smile. “He’d probably be a bastard like the rest of them.”
“That’s enough, Kat. Whatever your problems, don’t involve Michael.”
Delilah’s voice was quiet, but Katrina must have heard the underlying steely threat because she put the picture down and turned back to face the desk, suddenly all business. She sat down.
“I want one of your sexiest women to come on to Hank in a bar. I can give you the name of the place where he hangs out, I can tell you the type of women who excite him, I can give you any information that will make it more likely that he’ll bite. And then I want pictures.”
“You want one of my investigators to sleep with your husband?”
“Whatever it takes to get incriminating photos.” Katrina took a deep breath and continued. “I can’t be married to him anymore, Lila. I’m miserable. I dread every day waking up next to that man. But we have a pre-nup, and the only way out is if he’s cheating. You understand. It’s for the kids.”
“Does he hurt you?”
“No, of course not.”
“The kids?”
“No!”
“You suspect him of having an affair?”
“It’s not out of the question.”
“Homosexual trysts?”
Katrina frowned. “Why would you even ask that?”
“So you want me to set up what amounts to a sting operation?”
Katrina nodded.
“For money?”
Katrina smiled. “What else is there?”
Delilah said, “No.”
Katrina let out a strained laugh. “You’re refusing?”
“Yes, I’m refusing.”
“If you don’t want your girls getting sexual, hire a prostitute. I’ll pay. There are women out there who can be bought, I assure you.”
“But I’m not one of them.” Delilah stood and pushed her chair back from her desk. It was after six o’clock, and her stomach was rumbling. She had another two hours of muggy daylight to get the horses settled down, and she still had her other chores to do. She wanted Katrina and all she represented out of her office—and out of her life.
“I offended you. I’m sorry,” Katrina said. She stayed seated on the chair and looked up at Delilah with beseeching eyes, fluttering unnaturally long lashes. “I couldn’t go to someone near home for fear that Hank would find out. I knew I could trust you to be discrete, being school friends and all—”
“Look Katrina, I’m sure you have reasons for wanting out of your marriage, but at Percy Powers, we don’t set men up to fail. Lord knows, they do that often enough on their own. Hank may be an honest man. I won’t have a hand at turning him.”
“I drove almost four hours to get here.”
Delilah opened the office door. “Then you should have called first.”
Click here to learn more about The Dark Homage by Wendy Tyson.
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from I Know Where You Sleep, a P.I. Thriller by Alan Orloff.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
One
She told me the calls started about six weeks ago.
The first two came ten minutes apart. No answer, no heavy breathing, just a couple of wrong numbers. Then three the next night. Most likely, someone had gotten the number transposed, a misplaced digit, a too-big thumb struggling with tiny buttons. Or maybe it was some kind of robo-caller gone rogue.
Two days without a call and she figured things had gotten straightened out. Then four calls in the span of an hour, then five the next day, then five more two days later.
She’d tried to talk to the caller, tell him he had the wrong number, but there was no response. Not a grunt or snicker or hiccup. Nothing.
Her fears were confirmed. This was no careless dialer.
She blocked the number, but it didn’t work. He called from another phone, so she blocked that number, too. But he switched phones again. It was like playing Whack-A-Mole.
She changed her phone number, once, twice, but the caller tracked her down. Now the calls came eight, ten in a day. She turned her phone off. When she turned it back on, she was greeted with message after message of dead air.
The caller ID always read Unknown Caller. She pleaded with the phone company, but there was only so much they could do. And it wasn’t enough.
She tried whistles, screaming, even a friend’s airhorn. Still the calls came.
After three weeks, she got a call at the restaurant where she worked as a hostess. “I know where you work.” A coarse whisper.
She went to the cops. They talked with her, tried to reassure her, suggested she change up her routine. Told her to be careful. With luck, it’ll pass, they said.
No luck; the calls didn’t pass. After four weeks, she was summoned to her gym’s check-in desk for a call. She knew who it was, without even answering. But she did anyway. “I know where you play.”
She bought a gun.
Five weeks after the very first call, her phone rang while she was at church. Unknown caller. She knew better, but the pull was too great and she answered it. The same voice, the same harsh, indistinguishable rasp. The same voice that chilled her to the core. “I know where you pray.”
That’s when she came to see me, Anderson West, owner of West Investigations.
Her hand trembled, her voice trembled; beneath the tears, her cheeks trembled. But Jessica Smith had managed to get out her story. When she finished, she leaned back slightly in her chair, back stiff and hands clutched so tightly her knuckles were white.
“That’s a terrifying situation you’re in. You did the right thing coming for help,” I said, voice gentle.
She sniffled. “Of course, I went to the cops. Twice. But there didn’t seem to be much they could do. Or wanted to do.” She sniffled again. “I didn’t know where else to go. I mean…”
“You did the right thing, coming here.”
“Do you think you can make it stop?”
I glanced at my sister Carrie, who sat next to Jessica on an old, but comfortable, loveseat in my office. She took notes in a spiral notebook. I sat across from them in a leather club chair. “I think we can. We’ve handled cases like this before.”
Carrie squeezed Jessica’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch this guy, and you can get on with your life.”
“I don’t have much money,” Jessica said.
Before I could respond, Carrie jumped in. “Don’t worry about that either. The State of Virginia Professional Investigator Oversight Department requires us to provide a certain amount of pro bono services every year. I’m happy to say your case qualifies.”
I raised an eyebrow at Carrie. There was no such department, no such requirement. My sister just had a soft spot for innocent people getting terrorized. Of course, I didn’t object—I had a few soft spots of my own. “That’s right. We’ll handle your case at no cost. When we get enough evidence, we’ll turn things over to the police and they can finish it off.”
Jessica’s face brightened. Hearing someone talk about finishing things off must have given her hope. I hoped her hope wasn’t misplaced. “Let’s go back over a few things.”
She nodded.
“Any idea who could be doing this?” I asked, leading with the most obvious question.
“No,” Jessica said. “No idea.”
“You sure your stalker is a guy?”
“When he spoke, he whispered, harsh-like, so I couldn’t tell who it was—if I knew him or not—but I’m pretty sure it was a man.” Her eyes focused on something over my shoulder for a second. “Yeah, it was a man. Definitely.”
“And when was the last time he contacted you?”
“Two days ago. He called my cell. Left a message of silence. Called two more times right after that. Then nothing.”
“And you’re sure it was him?”
“You sound just like the cops. Do you think I’m making all this up?”
Carrie touched Jessica’s arm again, more reassurance. “No. Not at all. We just need to be certain about things.”
“That’s right. Just getting all our facts straight. On these calls, what did the caller ID say?”
“Same as always. Unknown Caller.”
“Okay. This time don’t change your phone number. Get a second line instead, and leave your old phone in a drawer. We don’t know yet how he keeps getting your new number, but this may throw him off. Or at least slow him down.”
“I guess I can do that,” Jessica said. Next to her, Carrie scribbled something in her notebook. After the meeting, she’ll type everything into a case file.
“Have you been contacted in any other way except for phone calls?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like has he left a note for you? Texts? Emails?”
“Texts. I told the cops that. But they weren’t threatening or anything, just a ‘hey’ or ‘whassup.’ The cops blew me off. I guess they won’t care until I get my head chopped off.”
“No one’s getting their head chopped off. Or any other body part,” I said, trying to inject a little levity into the situation. Judging by the expression on Jessica’s face, I failed. “What about Facebook? Have you gotten any disturbing messages there?”
“No.”
“Do you know all of your Facebook friends?”
She raked her teeth against her upper lip. “No. Not really. Whenever someone wants to be my friend, I just click OK.”
“He’s probably on there, tracking you, even if he doesn’t comment. From now on, stop posting on Facebook. Don’t even check it out. Same for Twitter or Pinterest or whatever else you do online. If you’re having electronics withdrawal, just watch TV.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Have you gotten any anonymous gifts?”
“No.”
“Has there been any vandalism?”
Panic flashed across her face. “No.”
“So right now, it hasn’t gone beyond calls and texts. That’s something. Do you live alone?”
“I have a roommate, although she’s out of town for a few days. We live in a townhouse in the Cedar Grove neighborhood, a few blocks from the mall out Route 50. She’s got a boyfriend, so she’s not always around. That’s why I bought a dog. Buster.” At the mention of her dog, Jessica smiled for the first time. It faded quickly.
“A dog is good.” I smiled back, trying to buck her up. “Nevertheless, we’ll run your place through a full security check. Make sure there aren’t any obvious weak spots.”
“Do you think he knows where I live?”
“I think we should assume he knows everything about you.” I paused, waiting for that to sink in. “We’ll also give you a documentation form where you can record every contact, every thing this guy is doing to you. Did the p
olice give you one of those?”
“Yes, and I tried filling it out, but every time he called, I was too shaken.” She threw up her hands. “I mean, what does it all matter, anyhow? You’re not really going to catch him. He’s going to terrorize me until I die, isn’t he? And he’ll probably be the one to kill me.” The tears started again and her chin quivered.
Carrie set down her notebook and took Jessica’s hands in hers. “We will get this guy. You have my word. And we’ve never failed yet.”
I glared at Carrie again. Unfortunately, we did fail from time to time. Goes with the territory. And I hated it when Carrie peddled false hope. Put a lot of pressure on me. I tried to regain control. “Jessica. Obviously we can’t really guarantee success. But we do have an excellent track record and I can promise we’ll do everything we can to get this guy off your back.”
She looked up at me, eyes wet. Another, longer, sniffle. “Okay.” A pause. “Thanks.”
“I know this is hard to discuss, but we need some more information. Often, the stalker will be an ex-spouse or ex-boyfriend. Have you broken off a relationship lately?”
“I’d been seeing this guy, Patrick Berenson, for about a year, and then we ended it.”
“By ‘we’ do you mean it was mutual?”
“Um. No, I guess I ended it.”
“Why?”
“We just weren’t getting along. And I…I sort of met someone else.”
“Uh huh. And how did Patrick take it?”
Jessica repositioned herself on the couch. “Not too well, really. He got mad, said we should keep trying.”
“Define ‘got mad.’”
“He didn’t hit me or anything. Just yelled a bit, stuff like that. Called me names.”
“What kind of names?” Carrie asked.
“Not nice names. ‘Two-timing bitch’ comes to mind.” Jessica shrugged, as if she got called a two-timing bitch every day.
“Do you think he’s behind this?” I asked.
The Swamp Killers Page 27
