I'm Watching You (19 page)

Richard had all night to chat with Little Miss New Age about Christina.

When she disappeared behind a curtain into the back room of the store,
he went inside, careful to keep the bells on the door from jingling. Softly he
shut the door, locked it, and flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
.

Richard moved behind the counter and unplugged the phone.

"Hello, is someone out there?" Claire called.

He reached into his pocket and let his fingers slide over the cold steel
of his knife.

Claire heard the creak of footsteps in the store. The hair on the back
of her neck rose. She'd had trouble with shoplifters in the last few
months and didn't like to leave the store unattended.

She took off her glasses and laid them on the ledger on her desk. She
stood and crossed to the curtain separating the back room from the retail
portion of the store. She pushed through the curtain. "Can I help
you?"

The man standing by the display of healing crystals wasn't what
she'd expected. He was hardly a teen thug looking to grab up what he
could. And he wasn't remotely like her regular patrons.

He was smartly dressed in a stylish suit that looked handmade. His white
open-neck shirt was made of crisp linen. His nails were buffed and his short
black hair was brushed off his face.
Strong jaw.
Tanned skin.
Nice to look at.

The man raised his head and met her gaze. His eyes were so dark that the
pupils all but disappeared. She'd never glimpsed the face of Evil but now
she sensed she was looking right at it.

The man tossed her a quick smile. "I hope you can help me."

A lump formed in the pit of her stomach. "What do you want?"
Her tone had grown hard, losing all hint of welcome.

He set down the expensive crystal he'd been cradling.
"My wife.
Christina Braxton."

Claire remembered the woman vividly. The bruises on her arms and neck
testified to the trauma she'd suffered at the hands of her husband.
Claire had sensed the fear and the goodness in Christina. It had been an easy
choice to give her cash and the keys to the secondhand car. "I
don't know what you're talking about."

Richard nodded almost as if he were pleased by her answer. He pulled the
switchblade from his pocket and he flicked the blade open. "I was hoping
you wouldn't talk too quickly."

Panic exploded inside Claire. She snatched up the phone and discovered
the line was dead. She bolted to the back of the shop to the back alley exit.

Richard moved quicker than a cat. He reached her just as she made it to
the door. He grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back. He drew
the knife blade along her cheek, slicing flesh as he went. Pain burned her face
as warm blood oozed down her cheek.

"Where is my wife?" he whispered against her ear.

"I don't know."

Claire wasn't going to tell him where Christina was hiding. And
she knew the cost of her silence was going to be her life.

Tuesday, July 8, 3:20
P.M
.

Kendall was very pleased with herself. She and
Mike had shot her evening report and it had gone better than good.
Lindsay's past made great television. This newscast was going to get
Kendall noticed.

Her phone rang. Without taking her eyes off the road, she pulled the
phone from her purse and flipped it open. "Kendall Shaw."

"You're a hard woman to find." The deep male voice
sounded smooth, confident, but she didn't recognize it.

"Who's this?"

"Detective Jacob Warwick, Henrico County
Police.
Your phone
has been busy all morning."

Damn. She thought about the film footage of the delivery truck at the
shelter. That was the kind of information she should have shared with the cops
first thing this morning. An obstruction of justice charge would not help her
career.

Kendall kept her voice smooth. "Sorry.
Running
down leads on a story.
What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to chat with you about the shelter murder and
review your tape from yesterday."

She kept her voice cheerful. "Sure. What time works for you?"

"Now would be nice."

The steel behind the words left little room for argument. And she
wasn't about to piss anyone off at this point. "I can swing by the
station and get a copy of the footage." No need to mention she had one at
home. "It will take me at least a half hour to get the tape and meet you
at my office."

"I'll meet you at the at station office."

Her mind turned. Maybe she could even score a quote or two from Warwick.
"See you in a half hour."

Kendall arrived at the television station fifteen minutes late. When she
rushed into the lobby, she spotted the detective immediately. He was staring
into one of the station's trophy cases, his hands clasped behind his
back. He had a relaxed way that she suspected was deceptive.
"Detective
Warwick?"

His smile didn't reach his piercing eyes. "Kendall
Shaw."

Kendall crossed the lobby and accepted Warwick's hand. His grip
was powerful. "Good to meet you."

"I appreciate the help."

"If you will follow me, I'll take you upstairs. I can burn a
copy of that footage onto a CD for you." The west wing of the Deco-style
building was littered with ladders and plastic tarps. "Excuse our mess.
We're undergoing a huge renovation."

"No problem."

They wound down the narrow corridors. "Would you like a tour of
our newsroom?"

"No thanks." He flashed even, white teeth.
"Maybe another time."

"Sure." Under his easygoing demeanor was steel. "When
the renovation is done, all this is going to be gone. From what I hear, it will
all be very sleek."

"Really?"

So much for small talk.
She led him to a news edit bay, a
small glassed-in room off the hallway furnished with a computer station. She
sat down on the swivel chair in front of the computer. "The
station's new P2 cameras are equipped with hard drives, so there's
rarely a tape anymore. With luck we still have the footage. Generally, when
we've filed the story, we dump the raw stuff to clear space on the
computer."

Warwick frowned. "Let's hope
it's
still here. The other stations didn't have anything."

Kendall punched a few buttons and opened a file. "You're in
luck. The footage is here." She burned a CD and handed it to him.

"Thanks."

She rose and had to look up to meet his gaze. "No problem."

When he nodded and started to turn, she said, "I hear Lindsay had
a rough past. Think there is any connection between this murder and her
mother's death?"

The comment surprised Warwick. "You've been doing some
homework."

"That's my job. Do you think the two killings are
linked?"

His expression was unreadable. "We don't discuss the details
of an active case."

"Just seems odd. Her mother is the casualty of a domestic murder
and this latest body is dumped behind a women's shelter."

"Can't help you."

She'd have better luck getting blood from a stone than information
from Warwick. "Thanks."

Tuesday, July 8, 4:25
P.M
.

Lindsay stood behind Zack as she watched the
uniformed officer crate up her office files. Impotent rage roiled inside her.
She'd worked for a year to make this shelter into something worthwhile,
and in twenty-four hours it had fallen apart.

"Do the cops have to mess everything up?" Lindsay asked,
unable to remain silent.

Zack turned. "Lindsay, wait in the kitchen. When Warwick returns,
we'll all talk."

Frustration ate at her. A few hours ago, they'd shared a meal.
She'd laughed with his sister. Now, he was all
cop
again. "Can I have my purse? I'd rather go back to Mental Health
Services. At least there I can be productive."

"I'll bring it out to you," Zack said.

The wall was back between them. "Great."

She went into the kitchen. This time of day the kitchen should have been
teeming with activity. Kids would be running around, residents would be
talking, and the phones would be ringing off the hook. Now it was dead silence.

Needing something to do, she went on the back deck to the potting table.
There were four six-packs of marigolds, a pot, and soil. All the supplies were
still damp from yesterday's rain. Careful to keep her back to the murder
scene, she opened the bag of soil and poured rich, dark dirt into the pot. It
felt good to have her hands in the soil. She gingerly removed a marigold from
the plastic container and pushed it into the soil. She was reaching for the
flower pack to get another when the back door opened.

"Ms. O'Neil," Warwick said, "could we
talk?"

She shoved out a breath, wondering when he'd returned.
"Sure." She headed back into the kitchen and washed her hands. Zack
came into the room and the three sat at the kitchen table.

Warwick opened his notebook to a clean page. "We've got our
warrant, which gives us open access to your files. You can help us by telling
us those that should be red flagged."

Lindsay had thought about that a lot last night. "It's hard
to say."

"We'll get the names with or without your help. But your
help will make the investigation go faster."

She sighed. The sooner Harold's killer was caught the sooner the
shelter would reopen. "We've had some rough cases the last few
months. Give me your notebook and I'll write the top ten."

Warwick pushed the notebook and a pen toward her. She scratched out the
worst of the abusive spouses she'd dealt with.

Once she'd finished, Warwick studied the names. "Do you
think any of these men could be the Guardian?"

"I don't know. But they're all violent men. And none
of them would want to help me."

Zack leaned forward but remained silent. Clearly this was
Warwick's show.

"When is the last time you saw Turner?" Warwick asked.

She didn't like his tone. "I told Detective Kier all
this."

Warwick flashed white teeth. "Again, please, for my
benefit."

She reviewed the details of her encounter with Turner.

"And you confronted him at the party?" Warwick said.

She felt that evening's anger returning. "It wasn't my
intention, but, yes, I did have words with him."

"Remind you of your old man?" Warwick said.

Angered that Zack must have discussed her past, she straightened.
"Yeah, in a lot of ways Turner did remind me of him."

Warwick tapped his index finger on the table. "It's clear
you love this place. The toys, the warm colors, and the flowers--they were
all done by you, weren't they?"

"Sure."

"And you care about the women and children. I've leafed
through a few files. Your notes suggest you really do want these women to
succeed."

She sensed a setup. "Cut the compliments. What's your
point?"

Warwick's expression hardened a fraction and she had a sense
he'd mentally taken off the gloves. "I went to your folks's
place in Hanover. It looked as if it had been a nice place at one time."

A sudden weight pressed against her chest. "You were there?"

"Kier and I read your mother's murder file. We see how rough
you had it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Her voice was just above a
whisper.

"You grew up with an abusive man and then you run into someone
like Harold, who reminds you of your father." He met her gaze head-on.
"He gets in your face and in essence threatens to close the place you
love. It would be reason enough to kill him."

Zack said nothing, nor did he show any emotion. She'd never felt
more alone.

"I didn't kill Harold," Lindsay said, teeth clenched.

"You have no alibi, Ms. O'Neil."

"I told you that I was home asleep."

"A fact you can't prove."

Jordan Turner may not have wanted her help but Nicole Piper did, and
Lindsay wouldn't tell the cops about her. Richard had contacts in the San
Francisco Police Department, and she couldn't risk inquiries from the
guys on this end. She'd find a way out of this mess somehow. "No, I
can't."

Warwick closed his notebook. "I suggest you get an attorney, Ms.
O'Neil."

She glanced at Zack, expecting some kind of support. "I need an
attorney?"

Zack showed no hint of emotion. "It wouldn't hurt."

Abruptly she rose. "I can't believe this," she said.
"I've got some nutcase out there sending me body parts and now the
cops are breathing down
my
throat. I didn't
kill Harold. But I'm the first to admit I hated the guy and I won't
lose any sleep over the fact that he's dead."

Zack stood but said nothing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and
rattled change.

Warwick was unfazed by her outburst. "Get a lawyer."

"Are you going to charge me?" she demanded.

"Not yet."

Lindsay couldn't believe this. All she'd done was stand up
for
herself
when Turner had tried to browbeat her and
now she was a murder suspect. "Can I have my purse?"

Warwick slowly rose. "Yes. It's on the banister by the front
door."

"Thanks." She started down the hallway.

"Don't leave town without calling me, Ms.
O'Neil," Warwick said.

She didn't glance back.
"Right."

She snatched up her purse and dug out her keys. She didn't bother
with a sideways glance into her office at the jumble the cops had made of her
files as she pushed through the front door.

Once in her Jeep, she cranked the engine and backed out. As she drove
home the surge of adrenaline from her interview began to fade.

Lindsay felt weary and so alone. She couldn't tell the cops about
Nicole. The woman was just getting her life back. She prayed the real killer
would be found soon so the spotlight would leave her.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled in front of her town house. She moved
up her walkway and shoved her key in the lock. God, all she wanted now was a
hot bath and a cup of tea.

"Lindsay!"

Sam's cheerful voice had Lindsay turning. He wore khakis, a white
button-down shirt, and loafers without socks. The late afternoon light pulled
red highlights in his thick sandy blond hair.

In a flash she remembered her promise to have dinner with him tonight.
"Sam."

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

She glanced forlornly at her home. God, but she wanted to get into bed
and pull the covers over her head.
"Oh, no
problem."

Creases formed around his blue eyes. "You forgot, didn't
you?"

She glanced down at her keys in the door and grinned. "Or maybe I
saw you drive up and was headed out to meet you?"

He laughed. "We can go with that story, if you like."

She could feel her blood pressure dropping.
"Works
for me."

Sam's eyes grew serious. "If you want to bag tonight,
it's fine. You look like you've had a tough day."

Her hand went to her ponytail, which had sunk low on her head.
"I'm good. I need a night out or I'll sit at home and
stew."

He grinned. "Good. There's a new French restaurant out on
Patterson."

"I should change."

"Naw, you look good. Besides, it's casual."

She wasn't hungry. Lunch had been filling. Still, an evening out
that wasn't emotionally draining would be welcome.

Sam guided her to a sleek Audi and opened the door for her.

Lindsay couldn't help but smile. "You're spoiling
me."

"You could use that once in a while." He closed her door and
came around the front. The car's interior smelled new.

He slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The soft scent of his
aftershave reminded her that this was a
date
.

Crap. Didn't she have enough on her plate?

They'd not driven a block when his cell rang. He glanced down at
the number and sent the call to voice mail.

"Why don't you answer that?" Lindsay said. Zack always
took his calls.

"It's not important. You are."

Not all men were like Zack.

And that was a good thing.
Right?

Alone in the car, this close to Sam, she felt a bit awkward. If
he'd been Sam the
friend,
she'd have had
no trouble talking to him. But Sam the
date
felt like
an entirely different person. Suddenly pressure existed where there'd
been none before.

"So how was the hospital today?" she said.

He kept his gaze on the road.
"Same old, same
old."

Normally, Sam had half a dozen stories to tell about his day in the ER.
And his unexpected silence had her scraping for something else to say that
would keep the conversation going. "No war stories?"

"None.
Ever notice we always talk about work?"

"Yeah."

His expression turned serious. "Let's do our best not to
talk shop tonight."

Suddenly she was tongue-tied. What would they talk about?
First Zack and now Sam.
Why couldn't she carry on a
conversation with an adult male? "That doesn't leave much."

He grinned. "There's the weather."

She laughed but realized seeing Sam like this felt dishonest somehow.
She was legally separated from Zack and a signature away from finalizing the
divorce. She was rebuilding her life without him. Dating was
okay
.

Sam pulled into the restaurant's parking lot and parked in a spot
close to the door. She got out and met him at the front of the car. He placed
his hand into the small of her back and guided her into the restaurant.

It was a quiet, small bistro that had only opened a couple of months
ago. Most weekends the place attracted large crowds. Tuesdays offered a slower
pace.

The hostess led them to an intimate table in the back near a fireplace
filled with votive candles that flickered in the dimly lit room. "Stop
indulging me."

He chuckled and took his seat. "You deserve to be spoiled once in
a while."

Lindsay spread her napkin over her lap. "I'm so used to
taking care of everything. Being spoiled makes me feel uncomfortable."

The waitress arrived and Sam ordered a bottle of wine as well as a
sampling of appetizers. Within minutes they arrived. The wine was excellent, as
was the display of cheeses.

As he swirled the Merlot in a glass, his gold signet ring winked in the
candlelight. "So why are you so used to taking care of yourself?"

She shrugged.
"Long, long story, Sam."

Sam laid his hand on hers. It was warm, soft. "Is there anything I
can do to make this day better?"

Her hand felt steadier as she raised her glass to her lips. "Know
any good defense lawyers?"

The Guardian watched a drunken Burt Saunders stagger out of the bar on
Third Street. In less than twelve hours the bastard had made bail. No wonder
people said the American justice system was in the toilet.

Anger roiled inside the Guardian as Saunders lumbered down the sidewalk
toward a red Lincoln with a white convertible top. A pink parking ticket lay
flat under the windshield wiper. Saunders tossed the ticket in the gutter and
fumbled in his pockets for his keys.

He didn't realize that Death stalked him.

Saunders dropped his keys on the street by his car door. He wobbled
forward and patted the ground for the set. He lost his balance and hit his
shoulder hard against the car door. He swore.

The Guardian moved closer until inches separated them. "Looks like
you're having a bit of trouble tonight."

Saunders's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Fuck off."