Faces of Fear (24 page)

"Please do not try to tell me what my job is," Michael said coldly. "I've been on this job at least as long as you've been on yours. I know what my job is, and if
you
were doing
your
jobs, you would be out following up on every single thing Tina's found instead of wasting my time and yours by trying to kill the messenger instead of dealing with the message."

"I'm sorry you see it that way," Sands said, glaring at him.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Michael said, deciding to toss them a bone, though there would be no meat on it. "I'll talk with Tina, and I'll personally review all the material she plans to air, all of which is standard procedure."

"We'll want to see that material before it airs, too," McCoy countered.

"And that is not standard procedure," Michael said, "and I can tell you it won't happen."

"We can go over your head," McCoy said.

Michael waved a hand at his desk. "Would you like to use my phone?"

Sands forced a smile. "The police and the press have always had a pretty good working relationship. We don't want anything to change that, do we?"

"None of us do," Michael assured the detective, moving toward his office door. "So you two do your jobs and let us do ours. Understood?"

McCoy looked ready to leave, but Sands didn't budge. "Look, Shaw—we're asking you nicely to check her
facts
before she airs them," he said. "Make sure they're facts."

"Believe me, I'll do exactly what the law demands," Michael replied as he opened the office door just as his intern appeared with the fresh latte. The two detectives glared at Michael, then walked out.

He closed his door and returned to his desk, suddenly feeling better about everything. The adrenaline rush of sparring with the two detectives was better than ten cups of coffee; but even better was the knowledge that Tina was genuinely onto something, and knew more about it than the police.

A newsman's dream.

He grabbed the stack of messages again and started returning calls, starting with one from Scott.

He needed to tell him that he would probably be late for dinner, maybe by as much as a week.

The soft trill of the cell phone thundered in the quiet room, and adrenaline gushed through the body, flushing the face. The fingers picked up the phone and the eyes checked the caller ID.

PRIVATE CALLER

The client.

It had to be the client.

The fingers deftly flipped open the phone and brought it to the ear, but the angry tirade could already be heard, as if it had been in progress even as the phone was ringing.

"How could you have been so stupid?" the voice from the phone demanded. "Are you insane? How could you have left that girl alive? Alive! And you didn't even tell me? God
damn
you, you perverted lunatic."

The hand holding the phone trembled at the onslaught, and the mind braced itself for the rest of the tirade.

The voice from the phone dropped, but its tone became dangerous. "Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I will fix this, but it is absolutely the last thing I will ever fix for you. Ever. This is not part of the deal."

The furious voice paused as the speaker took a breath.

The hand not holding the phone wiped perspiration from the forehead and the upper lip.

"Very well," the voice on the other end of the line said. It was far calmer now. "Let's go over the rules one more time. It's very simple: I give you the orders and you fill them. That's all there is to it. Do I have to actually say that you leave nothing to chance? Do I have to stipulate that once you have what I need, you finish your job? Next time something goes wrong, you contact me immediately. Immediately!" The voice dropped even further and took on a darkly menacing tone. "But of course nothing like that will ever happen again, will it?"

There was a pause, and the hand tightened on the phone. "No," the voice whispered into the telephone.

Without even acknowledging the response, the other voice resumed, the words pouring through the phone. "I made you," the voice said. "I made you and I can destroy you. I can destroy you any time I want."

The mind shrank from the words, but the ears kept listening.

"There will be no more mistakes! None. You will simply finish this job. Finish it now! And then, at last, I will be done with you!"

The line went dead.

The fingers, trembling as if palsied, closed the phone and laid it gently on the desktop.

The accident in Bakersfield would never be repeated.
Could
never be repeated.

Indeed, it was almost inconceivable that it had happened at all.

Yet it had.

The right hand clenched into a resolute fist.

Not again.

Never again.

There was only one more item to be collected.

One more, and it would finally be over.

The debt would finally be discharged.

No more orders. No more demands. No more deadlines.

The fingers moved to the computer keyboard.

The eyes peered closely at the monitor, the fingers typed in a few quick keystrokes, and a few moments later pictures once again began to fly by….

ALISON GRIPPED THE TENNIS RACKET TIGHT AND CROUCHED, BOBBING back and forth as she awaited her father's serve. He eyed her from the far line, bounced the yellow ball a couple of times, then abruptly dropped the racket to his side.

"Tell me again why can't I come to your birthday party?" he called across the net.

She straightened up, sighed, and let her right arm relax. "I already told you—it's a party for my friends! So come on and serve."

"So now I'm not your friend?" Michael countered.

"You're just trying to distract me from match point," Alison called back, resuming her stance once again.

Her father finally served, but Alison knew the instant his racket connected with the ball that he was way off his game, and she slammed the return cross court to end the match. She held up her hands in victory, and heard a lone fan from the courtside café applauding her win. She turned to give Scott an exaggerated bow, then ran over to the net to hug her father.

"Okay, you whipped me," Michael said as they walked over to Scott, who had ordered them both iced teas in anticipation of Alison's victory. Michael eyed them dourly, noting that the ice hadn't even begun to melt. "Some faith you had in my comeback," he observed. "Was it that obvious I was running out of steam?"

"Always bet on the younger horse," Scott replied, and grinned at Alison. "Well done, missy." Then he turned back to Michael, the grin turning evil. "And you're going to have to get back to the gym. She whipped your ass, old man."

Michael shrugged. "She's been doing that pretty regularly for the last two years. I should start worrying about it now?"

"And," Scott went on as if Michael hadn't spoken at all, "since it looked like you were carrying about twenty pounds too many out there, I ordered us all chicken Caesar salad for dinner."

As if on cue, the waitress appeared with a tray of food.

Michael ignored the gibe, turning back to Alison. "About the birthday party…" he began again as the food was put in front of them.

Alison rolled her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you? It's for my
friends
!"

"I'm your friend."

Scott rolled his eyes.

"If you were my
friend,
" Alison said with exaggerated innocence, "I would have let you win."

Michael feigned hurt feelings.

"Would you stop worrying about that party?" Scott told him. "The three of us will do something fun for her birthday."

"Like go to the beach," Alison said around a mouthful of salad.

"Perfect," Scott decided. "We only seem to get to the beach when we're with you. Otherwise, he's spending more Sundays at work than he is at home."

"I've been busy," Michael protested. "There's a lot going on." Then his expression darkened slightly, and his voice turned serious as he faced his daughter. "And I understand there's a lot going on in your life, too."

Alison tensed, certain she knew what he was about to say. His next words confirmed it.

"Your mother tells me you're thinking about having breast implants."

Scott dropped his fork and threw up his hands in exaggerated disgust. "Oh, dear God! Not this again!"

Alison stared first at her father, then at Scott. Had they been talking about it, too?

"Listen," Scott said to Michael. "I know you're her father, and I know you don't approve of this, but she's sixteen, or at least she's about to be, and this is a decision she should be making with her mother. Boobs, as you well know, are none of our concern. Some men's, yes. But not us. So get over it, all right?"

"But—"

"But nothing!" Scott waved a dismissive hand toward Michael, and turned to Alison. "Despite what your father thinks, I think your stepfather's giving you a terrific birthday present."

"But it's
surgery,
" Michael said. "
Elective
surgery. It's dangerous—"

"It's dangerous just walking across the street," Scott cut in. "And since only one parent has to sign off on it, I'm assuming it's a done deal. So instead of trying to make your daughter feel bad, why don't you just be happy for her?"

Michael sighed, but finally managed a crooked smile for Alison. "Look, I just want the best for you, that's all. So I suppose if this is what you really, really want, you should probably go ahead and have it. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to worry about it. Okay?"

"Okay," Alison agreed. "But I promise you, it's going to be no big deal."

Michael's cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, sighed as he looked at the caller ID, then accepted the call. After no more than three words were spoken, he closed the phone, put it back in his pocket, and stood up. "I've got to go to the station," he told them.

"Now?" Alison and Scott said in unison.

"I'm sorry, cupcake," he said, bending down to kiss Alison. "This Frankenstein Killer thing is keeping everybody on edge." He turned to Scott. "Can you drive her home?"

"Of course," Scott replied. "What time will you be home?"

Michael shrugged. "Until Tina's special airs, my time is no longer my own."

Scott looked at Alison and lifted an eyebrow. "Like his time is ever his own."

"Tell me," Alison said.

"Look, I'm sorry. If it was up to me—" Michael stopped as he saw them rolling their eyes, and put some bills on the table for the check. "Thanks for the game, honey. And stay safe, okay?"

"I will," Alison said, though she wasn't sure if he was talking about her implants or the serial killer who seemed to be everywhere on TV lately. "'Bye."

"See you at home," Michael said to Scott, then headed off toward the parking lot.

"Must have been hard growing up with that," Scott said as they watched him go.

"You get used to it," Alison replied, and sipped her drink.

"Well, maybe it's just as well he left us alone," Scott said, "because I wanted to tell you about this." He pointed at his chin.

Alison cocked her head quizzically. "What?"

"This cute little cleft in my chin? I've only had it for three years."

Alison's eyes widened. "You're kidding!" The dimple in his chin was such an integral part of Scott's face that she couldn't imagine him without it.

"Not kidding at all. I always had this horrible weak chin, and I always hated it, and I finally decided to do something about it. So guess who I went to?"

"Oh, my God," Alison blurted, already knowing the answer. "My stepfather?"

"None other. If you want the best, go to the best. And your stepfather is definitely the best. I told your father all about it, and I thought we'd settled it before we met you today. But apparently I didn't quite convince him that it's just no big deal."

Alison smiled, then moved her dad's salad out of the way and changed seats so she could sit next to Scott. "Okay," she said. "Tell me what it was like. I want to know everything."

* * *

ALISON CLOSED her history book and leaned back in her desk chair. No use trying to study any more tonight; she'd already read the last paragraph at least six times, and still had no idea what it said. All she could think about was what was going to happen Friday afternoon.

The minute she'd told her mother and Conrad that her father okayed the surgery—leaving out all his arguments against it, and the fact that Scott was actually the one who had convinced him—Conrad told her that he assumed she'd convince her father and had already penciled her in for Friday, right after school.

Friday!

This
Friday.

Her mother had been thrilled and, if she was going to be absolutely honest with herself, she was, too.

At least at first.

But as Conrad talked about her being back in school on Monday, and completely healed by her party, her excitement slipped away.

Friday was the day after tomorrow, and somehow it all seemed to be happening too fast.

Way too fast.

But what could she do? She'd already made up her mind—in fact, she'd been ready to argue with her father for as long as it took to get his approval, or even go ahead without it. So what had changed?