Point of Danger Read online

  “I haven’t heard anything, which leads me to believe there haven’t been any breaks in the case.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Are the police concerned that this person could come back?”

  “I don’t think they’ve ruled out that possibility.” Especially given Brent’s suggestion about personal security.

  But Olivia didn’t have to know that. It would only make her worry, and it wasn’t as if there was much chance her older neighbor would be in the line of fire if the person did decide to pay a repeat visit.

  “That’s troublesome. Do you think you ought to beef up your security here at the house?”

  Eve pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped the chocolate residue from her fingers. “I’ve got a first-class system. Once I arm it, no one can get in without me—and the police—being informed.”

  “But that wouldn’t prevent someone from leaving another bomb on the property.”

  There was that.

  “If this person comes back, I doubt they’ll try the same technique twice.”

  At least she hoped not.

  “You’re probably right. But I do hope you’ll be careful.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Well . . . you have work to do and I have a soap to watch.” She winked and rose. “If I can ever be of help, though, don’t hesitate to call. I may not move as fast as I used to, but I can dial 911 as quick as anyone.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind—and thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. This is what neighbors do. Enjoy the rest of those brownies—and keep your phone close at hand when you’re outside . . . just in case.”

  With that encouraging thought, her neighbor lifted a hand in farewell and recrossed the lawn.

  Eve glanced around her backyard, a tiny tingle of trepidation prickling through her.

  She didn’t need Olivia’s warning to remind her to be on red alert. Ever since she’d found the fake bomb, she’d been looking over her shoulder and jumping at every tiny noise—not how she’d ever intended to live her life.

  So while reasonable precautions were prudent, she’d carry on as usual otherwise . . . although that would be much easier to do if the police identified the person who’d left the fake bomb.

  She picked up her cell. Weighed it in her hand.

  Brent Lange had said to call him anytime. All she had to do was scroll through her address book, press his number . . . and ask for an update.

  However . . . if he had anything to report, he’d have called her—as he’d promised. The detective struck her as the kind of guy who kept his word.

  She set the phone on the table and sank back in her chair.

  Bothering him at work simply to hear his resonant, reassuring voice was selfish. For all she knew, the man could be at a crime scene.

  So she’d wait for him to call her.

  And until then, she’d continue to do what she’d been doing—and what Olivia had advised.

  Be super careful.

  Because even though her life had been quiet since Friday night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another threat hovering in the wings.

  “Until next time, this is Carolyn Matthews signing off.”

  Carolyn ended the podcast with one keystroke, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of water.

  That had been an excellent program.

  Excellent enough to deserve a slot on real radio.

  Yet no matter how hard she’d pushed Doug, he’d given her no specific promises.

  She screwed the lid back on her water with more force than necessary.

  After eight months stroking his ego and playing the charm card, she should have gotten concrete results by now.

  Shoving her chair back from the computer, she rose and began to pace.

  Too bad Eve hadn’t buckled after the bomb scare. That would have made life much simpler. But apparently the woman wasn’t intimidated by physical threats.

  Still . . . there were other ways to make people squirm.

  Carolyn wandered into the kitchen. May as well finish off the bottle of wine in the fridge. There wasn’t more than a glass or two left.

  She pulled it out, removed the cork, and poured a generous serving, swirling the golden liquid as she mulled over how best to proceed.

  There was one card she hadn’t yet played in her break-into-radio campaign. One she’d been holding in reserve in case the opportunity presented itself . . . or nothing else worked.

  This could be the moment to put it on the table.

  She took a slow sip of wine and walked over to the picture window in her condo, giving the city lights below her a slow sweep. Not a bad view—but a larger . . . higher . . . unit would offer a more impressive panorama.

  That wasn’t going to happen on her reporter’s salary—although it would be within the realm of possibility if she ever got the chance to host her own radio program.

  Propping a shoulder against the edge of the window, she watched the traffic below. Thanks to the new office building that was under construction, all vehicles were being diverted north, toward less-savory side streets in the city. An unappealing but necessary detour if the drivers wanted to reach their destination.

  Maybe that’s how she should view the card she held. She didn’t have to like using it . . . but if it got her where she wanted to be?

  Worth considering.

  Carolyn returned to her desk and pulled out the file she’d been holding in reserve for months. Set it beside her computer.

  She didn’t have to decide tonight.

  But she couldn’t wait too long or the window would close.

  Al

  Mon., Aug. 27, 9:35 p.m.

  Where do we stand?

  Dan

  Mon., Aug. 27, 9:44 p.m.

  Working on it. Patience.

  Al

  Mon., Aug. 27, 9:44 p.m.

  She needs 2 b gone.

  Dan

  Mon., Aug. 27, 9:45 p.m.

  Agreed—but details must b thought thru carefully & timing must b perfect. Stand by.

  5

  THANKS FOR CALLING THE SHOW” —Eve double-checked the name on the phone monitor—“Denise. What’s on your mind today?” She glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to go on her Wednesday program. She should be able to take one more call unless this one ran long.

  “I wanted to weigh in on that big protest at the abortion clinic yesterday.”

  “Sure.” The massive turnout of picketers, a cooperative effort by a number of churches, had elicited more than a few comments on today’s program—but it was impossible to tell from this woman’s tone where she stood on the issue.

  The caller didn’t leave her guessing for long.

  “I get that people have a right to protest peacefully, but I think it’s terrible to subject women already under stress to more grief. Abortion is a personal decision, and it’s nobody’s business but the woman’s.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Eve caught a movement in the sound booth.

  She looked over.

  Brent Lange was standing behind Ryan.

  Her heart missed a beat as he lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  At the caller’s query, she forced herself to refocus. This topic was important and required no less than her full concentration despite the very distracting man standing ten feet away who was watching her every move.

  She swiveled her chair to eliminate the appealing view in the sound booth. “Yes. I’m here. And I have to disagree with you. The woman isn’t the only one affected by her decision. So is the unborn child.”

  “It’s not a child until it’s born.”

  “So you agree with late-term abortions?”

  “Umm . . . up to a point.”

  “What point?”

  “Well . . . after the baby could live on its own outside the womb, it would be wrong to abort it.”

  “No baby can live on its own outside the womb. Even full-te
rm babies have to be fed and changed and clothed and sheltered from the elements.”

  “That’s not what I mean. They should be able to survive with basic care.”

  “So you’re saying a premature baby who requires medical intervention isn’t really a baby, and we’re under no obligation to help him or her live.”

  “No. I’m not talking about that either.” Frustration etched the woman’s words. “I mean earlier than that, when it’s just a mass of cells—that’s not a baby.”

  Since the caller wasn’t able to defend her original position, she was shifting gears.

  Typical.

  “Again, I have to disagree. Did you know a baby’s heart begins beating one month after conception—before most women realize they’re pregnant? At six weeks, brain waves can be detected. By week ten, the baby has fingers and toes, and all essential organs have formed. So when is this child not a baby?”

  “Look . . . you’re making this more complicated than it has to be. A woman has a right to decide whether to have an abortion. I mean, it’s her body.”

  “That’s not quite true, either. While the baby is inside her body, it has distinctive DNA. He or she is a unique individual from the moment of conception.”

  “But it couldn’t live without the mother—and she ought to have the right to decide what to do with it.”

  “You mean whether to carry her baby to term—or kill it?”

  “Kill is a harsh word.”

  “So is abortion.” Eve rested her elbows on the table in front of her and linked her fingers. “You know, in discussions on this topic I always hear about the rights of women—but who watches out for the rights of the unborn? Why do we treat babies in the womb differently than babies who’ve been born? Have we as a society decided that the most vulnerable among us aren’t worth protecting? And who’s next on the hit list? The elderly? The disabled? Anyone who’s not productive as defined by the self-proclaimed enlightened members of our so-called civilized society? Let’s talk about this a little more.”

  As Eve launched into one of the subjects that was near and dear to her heart, an awareness of Brent’s proximity simmered in the back of her mind.

  But when it came to the causes she believed in, not even a tall, dark, and handsome detective waiting in the sound booth could distract her from her message.

  No wonder Eve Reilly raised hackles.

  As Brent listened to her conversation with the caller and watched the gestures, body language, and facial expressions the radio audience wasn’t privy to, one thing became crystal clear.

  This woman was passionate about what she believed—and she wasn’t afraid to tackle hard topics. Nor was she afraid to take a stand that was unpopular in many circles.

  A stand that, in this case, she was defending with absolute conviction and rational, hard-to-refute arguments.

  Her response might be impassioned, but it was also reasoned and fact-based.

  In the end, she demolished the hapless caller—but she did it respectfully and civilly, without ever resorting to belittling or dismissive language.

  Quite a way to end the morning show.

  Except . . . she turned toward the sound booth and held up her index finger.

  “She’s taking one more call.” Ryan adjusted his headphones as he spoke over his shoulder.

  Eve pressed a button on the console in front of her. “Good morning. I don’t see any ID on my monitor. With whom am I speaking?”

  “My name’s Andrew.”

  “Welcome, Andrew. We’ve got time for one more quick question or comment. What’s on your mind today?”

  “I have a question.” The man’s voice had an odd, sort of disembodied quality to it.

  Brent’s antennas went up.

  “Shoot.”

  “You seem pretty conservative in your opinions and values.”

  “Guilty as charged—and no apologies. What’s your question?”

  “Given the moral high ground you advocate, I wondered how you justified dating a married man eight years ago, while you were a high school teacher. Don’t you think that’s inconsistent with the image you present to your listeners?”

  Given Eve’s slow blink and her sudden intake of breath, the caller’s left-field comment had totally blindsided her.

  It had blindsided him too.

  As far as he could tell from his interactions with the woman sitting in the studio—along with the information gleaned from his background check—she was as genuine as they came and rock solid in her values.

  Yet for the second time in six days, she’d had a bomb dropped in her lap.

  There wasn’t much chance the timing was coincidental, either.

  On the other side of the window, Eve’s demeanor morphed from shocked to analytical, and he could almost hear the gears whirring in her brain.

  She leaned forward, the white knuckles of her clenched fingers her sole outward sign of stress as she spoke in a calm, rational tone.

  “Andrew, I wish I had time left in my program to dig into the subject you broached, but we’re down to a minute and a half. I’ll have to address this on Friday—but let me assure all of you listening that the situation was not what it appeared to be, despite the way Andrew framed it.”

  Her wind-down music began to play in the background, and Eve signaled Ryan to cut the volume.

  The music faded out as she continued. “I’ll also be blogging about this topic later this afternoon if any of you would like to hear an explanation sooner. But let me be crystal clear. I would never condone dating a married man. It goes against every principle I believe in about the sanctity of marriage. This will be my lead-off topic on Friday. In the meantime, visit my blog later today for more details.” She signaled Ryan, and the music volume rose. “Until Friday, this is Eve Reilly, fighting the good fight.”

  While Ryan flipped switches on the board in front of him, Brent focused on Eve.

  If she remembered he was there, she gave no indication of it.

  For a full thirty seconds, she remained where she was. Motionless.

  At last she took off her headset and began to gather up the papers on the table in front of her.

  “Boy . . . that came out of nowhere.” Ryan was watching her too. “Eve can’t catch a break lately.”

  “Did you see any ID on that last call?”

  “No. My screen was blank, like Eve’s.”

  Translation? The caller hadn’t wanted to be identified.

  Eve headed for the door, and he did the same. They both emerged into the hall at the same time.

  Doug Whitney was waiting for Eve.

  “What the heck just happened in there?” The man looked frazzled.

  “I wish I knew.” She angled away from the program director. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Brent stopped beside her.

  Doug finally noticed him. “Oh. I didn’t know you were coming by again today.”

  “I have to be downtown later this morning for a meeting, so I thought I’d swing by with a few questions for Ms. Reilly that came up from the review I did yesterday of her hate mail. It appears I arrived as phase two of the attack was kicking off.”

  Doug stared at him. “You think this is related to the fake bomb?”

  “The timing seems too close to be coincidental. Since the person couldn’t physically intimidate Ms. Reilly into silence, they may be resorting to other tactics.”

  “And this one could be even more damaging.” Doug ran his fingers through his hair and transferred his attention back to Eve. “Undermining your audience base could have dire consequences for ad revenue.”

  “I’m aware of that—but I think we can contain this once I explain the situation to listeners.”

  “Tell me that guy’s allegation was a total fabrication.”

  She took a deep breath. Let it out. “It’s not true in terms of how the caller positioned it.” She turned to him. “You should sit in while I brief Doug if you think this is relevant to the bomb inci
dent.”

  “Let’s use the conference room.” The man started down the hall.

  Eve fell in behind him, but when Brent touched her arm she swung back. “Could you use a coffee refill?”

  She studied the empty mug in her hand. “Yeah. There’s a pot in the break room.”

  He took the mug from her icy fingers. “I found it while I was here yesterday. Cream or sugar?”

  “Both. Heavy on the sugar. The conference room is around the corner up there.” She motioned ahead of her, where Doug had already disappeared.

  “I’ll be there in three minutes.”

  She nodded and continued down the hall, back straight, step confident, head high.

  But those chilled fingers had given her away.

  They also suggested the listener’s claim had some basis in fact. He may have twisted it to suit his purposes, but there was a nugget of truth in there somewhere.

  And that was bad.

  While Eve didn’t appear to be a quitter . . . and she might be willing to stand up to a bomb threat . . . this latest attack was much more insidious. Undermining the moral character of a public figure who espoused traditional, conservative values could bring about a bloodless coup.

  Doug’s first concern, about her audience and ad revenues—the lifeblood of a radio station—had been telling.

  If Eve’s credibility with her listeners was compromised and they deserted her, she wouldn’t have to quit. The show would be cancelled.

  Plus, once you planted doubts in people’s minds, they had a tendency to believe the old where-there’s-smoke-there’s-fire adage, regardless of the truth.

  Eve was articulate and had natural eloquence—but even an expert communicator would have difficulty combating this kind of foe.

  Still . . . if anyone could do it, his money was on Eve Reilly.

  Someone was really out to get her.

  As Eve sank into a chair in the conference room while Doug handled a quick phone call in his office—no doubt related to the bombshell that had been dropped in the waning moments of her program—she forced her lungs to keep inflating and deflating.

  Never in a million years had she expected that unfortunate chapter in her life to see the light of day again. It was ancient history—and none of the parties involved would benefit by rehashing it.