Deadly Pursuit (26 page)

“Teach her a lesson.”

“We did that with the brownnoser in high school too. Some of the kids broke into her locker and trashed it. The rest of us spray painted a message on her car. She stopped being such a jerk after that. I guess we scared her. Is that sort of what you have in mind for this woman?”

“Sort of.” Daryl grinned, his gaze fixed on Alison's office. “And I can guarantee that when I'm finished with her, she'll never stick her nose in where it doesn't belong again.”

Or anywhere else.

Alison had expected Mitch to call no later than 4:30 with his ETA.

It was now 5:15.

And he wasn't answering his cell phone.

Frowning, she drummed her fingers on her desk. It was possible some new development in the homicide had diverted his attention. But he didn't seem like the type to forget a promise, no matter how distracted he might be.

She considered driving herself home . . . but she wasn't keen on incurring Cole's anger—or Mitch's displeasure—again.

With a sigh, she pulled out a phone book and scanned the listings, searching for his father's number. Mitch had sounded exhausted earlier; maybe he'd fallen into such a deep sleep he hadn't heard his cell phone ring.

After locating Walt's number, she tapped it in. Once again, the phone rolled to voice mail. She left a message there, as she had on his cell.

Stymied, Alison replaced the handset in its cradle. She hated to call Cole, but she'd rather disturb his rest than face a dressing-down later. Maybe if she offered to talk to him on her cell from the time she left the building until she was safely locked into her car, he'd be okay with her driving home alone.

It was worth a try.

But calls to both his cell and apartment numbers produced the same result.

No response.

Again she left messages.

Alison was less worried about Cole's lack of response than she was about Mitch's. If the painkillers were as high-powered as she suspected, Cole could be down for the count. A ringing phone might not rouse him.

On all the messages, she'd said she'd wait fifteen minutes for a callback. To pass the time, she answered email and refiled some case folders. All the while hoping the phone would ring.

By quarter to six, it hadn't.

So now what?

As far as Alison could see, there wasn't much choice, unless she wanted to hang around the office until someone finally got her message. But who knew when that might be? She'd already been waiting an hour.

And cooling her heels in her office was not the way she wanted to spend her evening.

Time to go to Plan B—a repeat of her morning ritual. She'd wait until she saw other people in the parking lot, then hurry to her car. Once she was locked inside, she'd be safe.

Cole and Mitch might not like it, but short of calling a cab and leaving her car in the parking lot all night—not an appealing option—she didn't know what else they expected her to do. She was the last one in the office, and Rog had left for the day. There was no one to walk her out.

Gathering up her purse and briefcase, Alison stood and flipped off the light in her office. As long as she kept a sharp lookout in the parking lot, what could happen between the door and her car?

And in less than thirty minutes, she'd be safe and sound in Cole's apartment.

Employing the best-defense-is-a-good-offense tactic by giving her brother grief for not answering his phone.

“So how much longer are we gonna wait?” Bev shot Daryl an impatient look and tapped her finger against the steering wheel.

Good question.

Daryl squinted at the entrance to Alison's office, located in the corner of the L-shaped mall and partly shielded from view by a planting area of trees and shrubs. The social worker should have come out an hour ago. Why was she running so late?

This delay hadn't been part of his plan. If they sat around in the parking lot much longer, they might start to arouse suspicion. That kid on the skateboard had already given them a couple of curious looks.

On the other hand, the delay could work to their advantage. The later Alison left, the less chance other occupants of the building would be leaving at the same time. As it was, no one had exited in the past ten or fifteen minutes. The building was probably deserted by now.

Except for Alison.

“Chill out, Bev. Her car's still here. She has to leave eventually.” He gestured toward the older model white Civic, parked farther down the row, closer to her office. The cars in this part of the mall lot had thinned out, but there were still three between theirs and hers.

“Yeah, well, I'm getting hungry.”

He was too. And thirsty. But there would be time to eat and drink later.

“She's not going to spend the night. You can eat when the show is over. All artists have to suffer for the sake of their art. Why don't you run over your lines again?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him.

Although he ignored her irritated look, he, too, was getting restless. Maybe this thing wasn't going to go down tonight after all. What if Alison intended to stay until seven or eight? There was no way Bev would hang around that long. She was already beyond edgy. They might have to try again another day.

A muffled rumble of thunder suddenly reverberated through the hot, muggy air, adding to his jitters. Dark clouds were beginning to mass on the horizon, suggesting a storm would soon be rolling through.

He hadn't counted on bad weather either.

Just when he was on the verge of chucking the whole thing, a movement in the doorway of the building caught his eye.

Alison.

A rush of adrenaline jerked him upright from his slouched position, and his heart slammed into overdrive.

This was it.

“Bev . . .” He elbowed her, keeping Alison in sight through the branches of the trees in the planting area. “Here she comes. Are you still with me?”

His partner blinked and peered at the front of the building. Alison was hovering outside the door now, scanning the parking lot.

“She seems nervous.” Bev leaned forward, one hand resting on the wheel, the other shading her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.

“Yeah.” Daryl grinned. “She does.”

The exact effect he'd intended to achieve with acts one, two, and three.

Now it was time for the finale.

He slumped in the seat again, tucking the cowboy hat he'd salvaged from Chuck's prop closet low over his forehead. “You remember the plan, right?”

“Of course.” She adjusted her wig and grabbed her purse. “Don't worry. I've never forgotten a line onstage. Mr. Montesi said I was a real pro.”

The opinion of her high school acting coach was of no interest to Daryl. All he cared about was her performance tonight.

Because if it wasn't flawless, they were both in big trouble.

Alison remained by the door for several minutes. But at last she crossed in front of the building, following the walkway that led around the planting area. Daryl did a quick survey of the parking lot. There were a few people down by Home Depot, all focused on the carts they were pushing or busy stowing their purchases in their car. None were close enough to cause a problem.

Perfect.

“Okay, Bev. Go!”

Taking the cue, she opened the door and slid from the car.

And as he watched her walk in the direction of Alison's Civic, making a pretense of digging through her purse, he flexed his fingers and took a deep breath to steady his pounding pulse.

The curtain was going up.

“Hey, Dr. Lampke. Sorry to delay your dinner.”

While his father greeted his cardiologist, Mitch pushed off with his shoulder from the wall in the corner of the ER treatment room where he'd spent the past hour and twenty minutes. There'd been nonstop action since they'd arrived—constant monitoring of vitals, blood tests, an EKG, an echocardiogram. They'd given his father oxygen, hooked him up to a heart monitor, administered nitroglycerin, and fed him more aspirin.

The whole experience had freaked Mitch out. A fact he'd tried to hide under a placid demeanor. If his father
was
having a heart attack, the last thing the older man needed was more tension and anxiety in the room.

“Not a problem, Walt.” The midfiftyish man ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair and smiled at his patient. Mitch hoped the doctor's upbeat manner was a positive sign. “I never get home before seven. I'll be there in plenty of time.” Turning toward the corner, he held out his hand. “Hello, Mitch.”

The man's pleasant expression and firm handshake were comforting, but Mitch wasn't going to assume anything. “So what's the word?”

“All positive news.” The doctor addressed both Mitch and his father. “Your vitals are all sound, Walt. Blood enzymes are fine. Heart rhythm is normal. All the vessels are pumping nicely. But I want to take a quick listen.” He fitted his stethoscope in his ears and proceeded to do just that. When he finished, he pulled out the earpiece and smiled. “You want my diagnosis? Indigestion.”

Thank you, God.
Mitch sagged against the wall.

“I told you it was that Mexican food.” Walt wagged a finger at Mitch. “Wasted everybody's time.”

“On the contrary. You did exactly the right thing,” Dr. Lampke interjected. “Never, ever take a chance with chest pain. A small percentage of patients do have heart attacks not long after bypass surgery. For some reason, their coronary arteries go into spasms. A lot of research is being done on that phenomenon, as a matter of fact. Bottom line, though, you didn't make a mistake by coming in. I'm just glad to report that salsa, not spasms, was the cause of your chest pain and discomfort.”

“So I can go home?”

“Yes. As soon as they get your paperwork in order. One piece of advice—stay away from the Mexican food for a while, okay?”

“Trust me. If I never see a refried bean again, it will be too soon.”

The doctor chuckled and once more shook their hands. “Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I'll see you in my office for your next routine visit.”

Once he exited, Walt scrutinized Mitch. “You don't look so hot.”

“I've had calmer days.”

“Maybe you'll feel better after you have some dinner.”

Dinner.

Angling his wrist, he checked his watch—and muttered a word he rarely used.

Walt raised his eyebrows. “What's wrong?”

“I was supposed to meet Alison at her office. We were going to pick up some Chinese food and eat at her brother's.” Even as he spoke, he was reaching for his cell phone.

Except it wasn't there.

And he knew why. In the midst of the emergency, he'd left it sitting in the charger in his room.

He switched to the phone on the wall. Tried several times to dial out. Failed.

“That one's out of service.” A nurse pushed through the door and motioned behind her. “There's one at the desk you can use while I unhook your father from all this equipment.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and looked toward his dad. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“No problem. You tell that pretty little lady it's my fault you stood her up.”

His father increased his volume as Mitch pushed through the door and it swung shut behind him.

But he wasn't worried about Alison being mad. She'd understand his oversight in light of the emergency.

What worried him was her safety.

The last missive from bingo man had been overtly threatening. Even now, picturing her name written on that tombstone sent a cold chill through him. Cole had felt the same way. That's why they'd agreed to stick close to her in public. No way did they intend to give the guy any opportunity to check off the last box on his bingo card.

But in the past fifteen hours, their plans to provide constant coverage had crumbled.

Leaving Alison on her own.

And as he strode down the ER corridor in search of a phone, Mitch prayed she'd played it safe and either waited him out at her office or called Cole.