Point of Danger Page 11

  She chewed on her lip again. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we give ourselves six months to get pregnant? If that doesn’t happen, we’ll start the adoption process—and if it’s too time consuming, I’ll quit my job to handle all the paperwork and other details.”

  Six months.

  Too long.

  He wanted her home now.

  And he wasn’t changing his time frame.

  But until the radio show she’d been hired to assist with was history, why not play along with her plan? It would buy him breathing room to figure out how to accelerate the process.

  “I can live with that.” He took her hand, stood, and pulled her to her feet. “In the meantime, why don’t we work on beating the odds your doctor gave us? I’ve been missing you all day.”

  Her shoulders drooped a tiny bit, but she masked her dismay well. “Sure. Give me ten minutes to freshen up?”

  “No problem.”

  He bent and kissed her.

  Meg responded—as always—despite the shadows beneath her lower lashes and the faint lines of weariness at the corners of her mouth that testified to her long day. Food and sleep had to be high on her priority list.

  But it was important for her to remember he came first.

  He drew back and played with a lock of her hair. “Go ahead and get ready. Wear that skimpy black outfit I got you.”

  The one she didn’t like.

  The one she’d kiddingly said made her feel like a hooker.

  Except deep down she hadn’t been kidding. The revealing scrap of lingerie wasn’t anywhere close to her style.

  He liked it, though—and he especially liked how he felt making her wear it.

  “Okay.” She backed off, rubbed her palms on her slacks, and disappeared down the hall.

  Steve strolled over to the fridge and took out a beer. He’d had his fill already tonight, but Meg hated the smell of beer—and the taste of it when he kissed her.

  This would remind her who ran the show.

  He popped the tab and took a long pull, thinking about what he would do to her in a few minutes.

  His mouth curled.

  Definitely some stuff she didn’t like—but enough she did enjoy to keep her satisfied. Balancing the two was always fun.

  He took another sip and wandered over to the back window, which overlooked the minuscule patch of grass that could use cutting.

  Meg would have to get on that this weekend. Relegating lawn chores to her had been one of his stipulations if they exchanged his apartment for a house. After a full day of physical labor, sweating behind a lawnmower held no appeal.

  Propping a shoulder against the wall, he watched a feral cat slink through the darkness, scavenging in the trash bins for a few tasty morsels.

  Meg wasn’t the prettiest or smartest or most adventurous woman he’d ever met, but she’d been easy to win, thanks to her weight issues and the loser parents who’d pulverized her self-esteem. It had been pathetic how fast she’d succumbed to a few compliments and kisses.

  And she didn’t want to lose him. Didn’t want to lose the way he made her feel when he was in one of his generous moods. A little sweet talk, a few gentle touches, a thoughtful gesture here and there—she was putty in his hands.

  Grinning, he finished off the beer, tossed the can, and headed down the hall five minutes early.

  She’d hate that. Being caught in the middle of a shower always embarrassed her.

  But he’d tell her he couldn’t wait any longer to be with her.

  The truth, though?

  It was all about control.

  Buzz double-checked the clothing laid out on his bed, ticking off the items one by one as the evening news played on the screen behind him.

  Everything was there, ready for his trial run this weekend.

  He fingered the black T-shirt, then picked up the brass knuckles and slipped them on. An old-fashioned weapon, but effective—and quiet.

  As was the Ka-Bar knife.

  It was amazing how available this kind of gear was on the open market.

  And he knew how to use it all.

  He set the knuckles back on the bed and took a deep breath. Blew it out.

  There was no reason to be nervous. He’d already done most of this in his previous life on the West Coast.

  But the task dangling before him was much higher profile—and this weekend’s mission would confirm he was up to the job.

  If all went well, he’d move on to—

  “And now, we have an update on last week’s story about the fake bomb that was left at radio personality Eve Reilly’s house six days ago.”

  Buzz swung toward the screen, tuning in as the anchorman recapped today’s events, beginning with the call to the station during Eve’s program.

  “At this hour, the police have no suspects, but they continue to work the case. While no one in law enforcement has confirmed there’s a link between the bomb threat and call, they did acknowledge they’re exploring that possibility. We’ll keep you updated as new developments arise.”

  Buzz picked up the remote and pressed the off button.

  No mention that Eve had any plans to take a hiatus from her show.

  Too bad.

  Her ideas were dangerous—and the fact that she had a huge platform to present them to gullible people who could be easily swayed by articulate, if erroneous, arguments made her dangerous.

  She had to be shut down.

  And given all that had happened, she would be.

  Especially if the siege she was under continued.

  Because everyone had their breaking point.

  9

  THE TALK HAD GONE WELL —even if far too many of the questions from the audience had been related to the furor in her life during the past week rather than the topic of tonight’s program

  Hopefully morbid curiosity about her personal tribulations wasn’t responsible for the large turnout. That would be an ego buster, and after all—

  “Wonderful job, Eve.”

  She swiveled as a female voice spoke behind her. The school principal was approaching, several members of the audience in her wake.

  “Thank you.”

  “We so appreciate you giving up your Saturday night to join us.”

  “It was my pleasure. And it’s a special treat to speak to parents and teachers of young teens. That’s the perfect age to lay a solid grounding in the principles that define America.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. As you pointed out in your speech, few young people understand how our government works—or why it was structured as a constitutional republic. We have to do a better job teaching civics in our schools.”

  “Hear, hear.” An older gentleman spoke up behind the woman.

  The principal smiled. “A number of people had questions they didn’t get a chance to ask during the Q&A. Can you spare a few minutes to chat with them?”

  Eve stifled a sigh. It was almost nine o’clock . . . she’d been up since six . . . yesterday’s fast and furious show had exhausted her . . . and stripping floors all day had taken a physical toll.

  But she owed every gig her best effort. It was always possible a simple conversation could be the catalyst that encouraged someone to take a deeper interest in defending the country’s founding principles.

  “Of course.”

  Thirty minutes and more than a few questions later, as she finished the impromptu Q&A and collected her purse and notes, the principal rejoined her.

  “Sorry to keep you this late. If it’s any consolation, you should be flattered by all the questions. Only on rare occasions does anyone hang around after our evening PTA programs.”

  “Then I’ll definitely take this as a compliment.” She scanned the empty middle-school theater. “Looks like we’ve closed down the place.”

  “We have. I’ll be around for a few more minutes, turning off lights, locking doors, and ducking into my office to pick up a stack of reports I have to read tomorrow. You’re welcome to han
g around if you’d like to walk out to the parking lot together.”

  Wait another ten or fifteen minutes when she was dead on her feet?

  No way.

  This was a safe area of town, the parking lot had plenty of lights, and her car wasn’t far from the entrance.

  Besides, while she didn’t have a Beretta stashed in her purse, as Grace did, she had her trusty pepper gel.

  “Thanks, but I’m ready to call it a night. May I leave through the lobby?”

  “Yes. The door will lock behind you.” The woman extended her hand. “Thank you again—and let me add my voice to the personal support expressed tonight by many of our members.”

  “I appreciate that.” She returned the principal’s firm squeeze. “Enjoy your weekend.”

  “You too.”

  Eve trekked toward the lobby, digging through her purse for the small canister of gel. As she pushed through the door, she pulled it out and paused to peruse the area.

  Two cars remained in the parking lot. No one was in sight, and the expanse of asphalt was well lit. This was also a low-crime, upper-middle-class section of town populated by professionals.

  If she wasn’t spooked by the incidents of the past week, she wouldn’t even have bothered to dig through her bag for the gel.

  Not that she’d ever share that with Cate. After her detective sister’s reminders to always expect the worst—and be prepared to deal with it—she’d be appalled by that admission.

  But living in fear was the pits.

  Given present circumstances, however, an extra dose of caution was prudent.

  Tightening her grip on the container, she crossed the lot toward her Camry, one finger on her autolock button, the other poised on the flip top of the gel.

  Ten feet from her car, she unlocked her door. In a handful of seconds she’d be safely inside her vehicle.

  Picking up her pace, she gave the lot another sweep.

  All clear.

  At the door of her car, she glanced into the backseat—another rule Cate had pounded into her sisters’ heads. One she always followed.

  No one was hiding inside, waiting to pounce.

  Without lingering, she slid behind the wheel . . . locked the doors . . . and exhaled.

  She was safe.

  All that worry, all those precautions, had been for nothing.

  No complaints, though. It was smarter to overprepare for trouble than be caught—

  Eve froze.

  Stopped breathing.

  The folded sheet of paper on her dashboard hadn’t been there when she’d left her car almost three hours ago.

  Slowly she reached for it. Lifted the top edge of the thin sheet. Read the typed words.

  Final warning. Shut up or die.

  A nife can stab more than tires.

  Sweet mercy. Would this never end?

  Heart pounding, she read the note again.

  Frowned.

  What was that about her tires? They were fine—at least the ones on the driver’s side that were visible from the auditorium.

  But the car did seem to be listing slightly.

  Were the other two flat?

  Should she get out to check?

  No. Not with this note in her hands. Whoever had gotten into her car and perhaps slashed her tires could be hiding nearby. They might not know how to spell knife, but they could very well know how to use one.

  A call to 911 would be appropriate, but a police officer she didn’t know would show up . . . and talking to a stranger—however nice he or she was—held zero appeal.

  She wanted a familiar face here. Someone whose very presence was reassuring and inspired confidence.

  And she knew just the face she wanted to see.

  The patrol officer had stayed in his car, as requested—close to Eve’s Camry, to assure her help was at hand if needed—but he hadn’t approached her.

  Good man.

  Brent parked beside the cruiser, and the officer slid out of the vehicle.

  Myers.

  Perfect.

  After two decades on the job, the man had street smarts and excellent people skills. Taking the initial report was his responsibility, but he’d cooperate to mitigate the stress of this latest incident as much as possible for Eve.

  “Lange.” The man held out his hand as he approached.

  “Glad you were the responding officer.” Brent returned his firm shake.

  “You got a hot one right out of the gate with this case.”

  “No kidding. You want to tag team tonight’s incident?”

  “Sure. You can take the lead if you want. You know the drill—and what I need for the report.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Shall we?” He indicated Eve’s car.

  Brent continued toward the Camry as Eve slid out from behind the wheel. She had on more makeup than usual, but it couldn’t disguise her slight pallor or the taut line of her mouth.

  “Thanks for coming.” She addressed the comment to him, giving his jeans and T-shirt a quick perusal before shifting her gaze to include Myers.

  Brent indicated the uniformed man. “This is Officer Myers.” He turned back to her. “Have you gotten out of the car since you called me?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen anyone?”

  “Only the principal. Officer Myers spoke to her as she was leaving.”

  “Give us a minute to walk around the car.”

  He and Myers circled to the other side.

  Considering the slight tilt of the vehicle, he wasn’t surprised to discover two flat tires.

  While Myers dropped to the balls of his feet and inspected the back tire, he did likewise in the front.

  The man joined him less than thirty seconds later. “Half a dozen punctures in the sidewall.”

  “Same here.” He rose.

  “Nasty prank.”

  Too bad that wasn’t all it was.

  “There’s a note too.” He rejoined Eve, who was leaning against the car, arms tightly crossed. “They’re flat.”

  “I assumed they would be.”

  “Would you like to sit while we talk?” He motioned toward the driver’s seat.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  He gave the area another slow scrutiny. Everything appeared to be calm—and it was unlikely the perpetrator was lingering, now that law enforcement was on the scene. Today’s mission had been accomplished. Why hang around and risk being spotted?

  “That’s fine. Walk us through what happened this evening.”

  Myers took notes as Eve told her story. Brent asked the necessary follow-up questions, but her account was thorough—and she provided her contact information to the officer without being prompted.

  “You know the routine.” Myers flashed her a quick smile.

  “I’ve had recent experience—sad to say.” Her lips rose a hair, then flattened again. “Any idea how someone got into my locked car without doing any damage—other than to my tires?”

  “All it takes is a wedge for the top of the door and a long rod.” Myers continued to jot in his notebook. “Power locks give a false sense of security. And jamming devices that prevent the car from locking even though you hear the familiar click are all over the open market. Car alarms can help—but those aren’t infallible either.”

  “That’s not the most comforting news I’ve heard today.” She motioned to the sheet of paper on the passenger seat. “There’s the note. Obviously I already touched it.”

  “No worries.” Brent pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the back pocket of his jeans. “We have your elimination prints on file from the fake bomb incident. But I doubt we’ll find anyone else’s on this. As I’ve mentioned, these”—he held up the gloves—“are a criminal staple these days—just like they are for law enforcement. Give me a minute to grab an evidence envelope from my car.”

  Myers continued to scribble in his notebook while Brent retrieved the envelope, placed a call to the Crime Scene Unit, and tugg
ed on his gloves.

  Eve moved aside as he reached across the driver’s seat and picked up the single sheet of paper. Read it. Showed it to Myers before sliding it into the bag. “You have any other questions?”

  “No.” The man stowed his notebook.

  “CSU will be here soon. Can you wait around until they show up?”

  “Sure.” Myers angled toward Eve. “Don’t hesitate to call us if there are any new developments, ma’am—but you’re in capable hands with Detective Lange. My report from tonight will be available by tomorrow if you want a copy for insurance purposes.”

  “Thank you—and thanks for responding so fast.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment and returned to his cruiser.

  Brent filled out the envelope, ending with the chain of custody section, then refocused on Eve. “Do you want the car towed, or would you prefer to have someone replace the tires here?”

  “What do you recommend on a Saturday night at this hour?”

  “I’d have it done here—but that would have to wait until tomorrow. I can ask Patrol to have an officer swing by overnight and keep an eye on your vehicle if you want to consider that option. I’ll also give you the names of a few reputable outfits that can take care of this—and I’d be happy to run you home.”

  She rubbed at the twin grooves above her nose. “I’ve disrupted your evening too much already. I should let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

  “The book I was reading can wait.” He might not admit to his colleagues that he spent his Saturday nights on such a low-key pursuit—but Eve would appreciate his choice of leisure activity.

  And maybe even be glad he wasn’t out barhopping . . . or on a hot date.

  “You were reading?” She stared at him.

  He hitched up one side of his mouth. “Yeah. I learned how in first grade.”

  Soft color stole across her cheeks. “Whoops. That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean to insult you. But in my defense, I haven’t met many men who spend their Saturday nights reading.”

  “Their loss—and no offense taken.”

  “Thanks. What are you reading?”

  “I’m alternating between a novel and a nonfiction book.”

  When he mentioned the titles—one about the relationship between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, the other a bestselling thriller—she arched an eyebrow. “Quite a contrast.”