Deadly Pursuit Read online

  Finally.

  After braking to a stop, he slid from his car as Cole angled in sharply beside him. The other detective was out of the door almost before his unmarked Impala jerked to a stop.

  “This looks promising.” Mitch set off for the small group.

  “Yeah.” Cole fell into step beside him.

  One of the patrol officers saw them coming. With a word to the other two, he broke out of the huddle and met them halfway.

  “We have a little problem.”

  Mitch frowned. “He’s not our guy?”

  “No. He’s our guy. No question about it. He was halfway across the lot when we arrived, but a couple of witnesses said they saw him on the phone at the time in question.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Cole gave him an impatient look.

  Suddenly one of the other two officers moved to the side, giving the detectives a clear view of the perpetrator.

  Mitch exchanged a glance with Cole. And read his own thoughts in the man’s surprised expression.

  This wasn’t at all what they’d expected.

  Pacing the kitchen, expecting a call any minute that would tell her the outcome of the race to catch her stalker, Alison nevertheless jumped when her phone rang.

  As she lunged for it, Bert nipped at the hem of the jeans she’d put on while she waited. Apparently he thought the sudden move was a new game.

  “Not now, Bert.” She shook her leg to discourage him as she checked caller ID.

  It was Mitch.

  She didn’t bother with preliminaries. “Did you get him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her immediate rush of relief was tempered by an odd nuance in his tone. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Let’s just say we’re surprised. Do you know a guy in his midtwenties named Erik Campbell?”

  She searched her mental rolodex and came up blank. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “He has Down syndrome.”

  An ID badge containing a first name clicked into focus. Along with a face.

  “Does he work as a bagger at the Schnucks grocery store near my house?”

  “We haven’t determined that yet. All we’ve been able to figure out is that he lives in a group home not far from here. We have a call in to the house manager. She should be arriving any minute. He’s too upset to talk to us.”

  Alison slid onto a stool at the counter and combed her fingers through her hair. “This doesn’t make sense. I’ve known Erik since I moved here and started going to that store. He’s a very nice guy—always pleasant and polite. And there’s this sweet innocence about him . . . I can’t believe he’d do anything malicious.”

  “Those dead roses and bingo card weren’t warm and fuzzy.”

  “I know. It’s a huge disconnect.” She bit her lip and tapped her finger on the counter. “Something’s not right here.”

  “There are witnesses who saw him making the call, Alison. By the way, an officer will be arriving at your house shortly to pick up the roses.”

  “Okay.” She played with the cross that hung on a gold chain around her neck. “Look . . . do you want me to join you? He might talk to me. We always chat when I’m at the store.”

  “I’ll hold that offer in reserve for now. Let’s see what we can find out first. You’ll also need to think about whether you want to press charges.”

  The notion turned her stomach. “That will depend on what you learn, I guess. But I can’t imagine taking that step. There has to be an explanation for this.” The doorbell rang and she slid off the stool. “I think the officer is here.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in touch with more information soon.”

  While the uniformed officer waited in the tiny entry area, Alison retrieved the bag from the garage. Once she handed it over and locked the door behind him, she wandered back to the kitchen. Bert danced around her ankles, trying to entice her to play.

  “Later, Bert.” She bent down and gave him a conciliatory scratch behind the ear.

  She didn’t know Erik Campbell all that well. Their contact was limited to the few words they exchanged if he happened to be working during one of her visits. On her last few visits, though, he’d stopped bagging an order halfway through at an adjacent checkout line to come over and take care of hers.

  How—or why—that translated to silent phone calls and weird bouquets was beyond her. But she hoped Mitch would get to the bottom of it.

  Because despite the witnesses to tonight’s phone call, something didn’t ring true.

  “Erik’s still very upset, Detective Morgan. I don’t know how much you’ll be able to get from him until he calms down.”

  Mitch didn’t need Dorothy Walker, the group home manager, to tell him that. At her suggestion, he and Cole had reconvened with her and Erik in the living room of the home a few blocks from the quick shop. The other five residents had been diverted to the TV room to watch a movie, but the switch to familiar surroundings hadn’t lessened Erik’s agitation. He was huddled in a corner of the couch on the far side of the room, keeping tabs on their discussion.

  “We can wait a little longer to talk to him, Ms. Walker, but we do have to get some answers. There are witnesses to tonight’s phone call. And the other phone used to make the harassing calls is at a gas station across the street from the Schnucks where Erik works.”

  Dorothy shook her head, her expression troubled. “This is so unlike him. He’s such a gentle spirit. A few weeks ago he found a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and he took meticulous care of it. He’s always the first to offer assistance when any of the residents needs help too. I wish I had his patience.” She sighed. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “What can you tell us about his background?” Cole joined the conversation.

  “Erik’s twenty-five and a model resident. He’s never given us one bit of trouble. Until his mother died of cancer nine months ago, he lived at home with her. Prior to her death, she made these living arrangements for him. He’s on the higher-functioning end of the Down syndrome scale.”

  “How long has he worked at Schnucks?” Cole asked.

  “Six years. We’re talking with the store now about transferring him to a location closer to the home. That way he can take the bus to work. But we wanted to give him a chance to adjust to the loss of his mother and his new living environment before further disrupting his world. For now, we drive him to and from work.”

  “Any problems on the job?”

  “None. The store loves him because he’s so friendly and always tries hard to please. Too hard, in fact. When someone is unhappy with him, he gets very upset and tends to withdraw—as you can see. However, under normal circumstances, he communicates very well.” She checked on Erik again. “I’m certain there’s an explanation for his actions.”

  The doorbell rang, and Cole turned toward it. “That’s probably the officer with the flowers. I’ll get them.”

  “Keep them in the foyer for now, okay?” Mitch instructed.

  As Cole exited, Mitch sized up Erik again. “Ms. Walker, I had a cousin with Down syndrome. In a lot of ways, Erik sounds like Justin. I think I may be able to get some answers without upsetting him further.”

  “As long as I can join you, I’m fine with that. I want him to feel he has a friend nearby.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  She led him over to the couch. Erik shrank deeper into the corner as they approached. Mitch chose a chair at a nonthreatening distance, while Dorothy sat beside Erik.

  “Erik, this man would like to talk to you for a minute, okay? He’s a detective. I’ll be right here the whole time. He thinks you can help him by answering a few questions. And I know you like to help people.”

  She conceded the floor to Mitch, and he leaned forward with a smile. “Hi, Erik. I’m Mitch Morgan, and like Ms. Walker said, I’m a detective. I’m sorry the policemen scared you at the quick shop. They didn’t mean to do that. But someone has been calling Alison Taylor
on the phone from there, and she asked us to find out who it was. She says you bag her groceries sometimes at Schnucks. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  Erik looked over at Dorothy, and she gave him an encouraging nod.

  “Alison is nice.” His words came out shaky and laced with fear.

  “Yes, she is.” Mitch waited, giving Erik a chance to offer more.

  “Some people . . . never talk to me. Some people act like I’m . . . not even there. But she always talks to me. She even told me her name.”

  That sounded like Alison.

  “I called her a few minutes ago. She said she didn’t believe you would do anything to scare her.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” Erik leaned forward, his features twisted with distress. “I just wanted to talk to her. I looked her name up in the phone book, but I couldn’t . . . get the words out. My mouth got . . . all tangled up.”

  “What did you want to say to her, Erik?” They already had an admission of guilt. Now he needed to find out the motive. But Mitch was inclined to agree with Alison. There’d been no malicious intent in the young man’s actions.

  “I just wanted to tell her I liked her, and to say thank you for always being nice to me.”

  “Is that why you left the flowers too?”

  His head bobbled up and down. “Yes. Susie at the store was going to throw them out. But I thought they were . . . still pretty. She said I could have them, and she let me wrap them up in that fancy green paper.” His tone shifted from enthusiastic to crestfallen. “But Alison . . . didn’t like them. She said they were . . . all wilted. That made me feel real bad.”

  “Is that why you sent the black roses?”

  His face went blank. “Huh?”

  Mitch was used to reading criminal types, many of whom were experts at faking—and hiding—emotion. Erik wasn’t in that league. And his confusion appeared to be genuine.

  Glancing toward the door, where Cole was watching the scene from a distance, he motioned him in. “Bring the roses.”

  Alison’s brother retreated to the hall, reappearing moments later with the bouquet. After handing it to Mitch, he backed off a few feet.

  Pulling away the green paper, Mitch set the bingo card on top of the stems and held the bouquet out for Erik to examine.

  The young man took one look and recoiled. “Those are dead. And ugly.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “And that card is . . . scary.”

  “Did you send these to Alison, Erik?” Mitch kept his tone conversational.

  “No! That might scare her!”

  His aghast expression, and the sincerity in his eyes, convinced Mitch that Erik was telling the truth.

  Leading him to a conclusion Cole clearly shared, based on the furrows denting the other man’s brow.

  Two different people had targeted Alison for attention.

  Erik’s innocent contact had been well-intentioned, if unsettling.

  But the dead, black roses and ominous bingo card weren’t innocent. Nor well-intentioned.

  A flicker of fear flamed to life in the pit of his stomach.

  “Is Alison mad at me?”

  At Erik’s distressed question, Mitch redirected his attention to the young man sitting across from him. Handing the bouquet back to Cole, he tried for a reassuring tone. “No, Erik. She’s not mad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He thought about Alison’s offer to come over, and the concern that had softened her words. There was no chance she’d press charges after hearing the details about her secret admirer’s actions. “Yes, I’m sure. But from now on, just talk to her at the store, okay? That way she won’t be scared.”

  “Okay.”

  Mitch rose. After assuring Erik she’d be right back, Dorothy followed him to the foyer.

  “I’m sorry about this, gentlemen.” She pitched her voice low. “I’ll have a discussion with Erik tonight about appropriate ways to express affection. He’s been quite bereft since his mother’s death, and I can see how he’d latch on to friendly overtures—and misinterpret them. Please let me know if there are any further calls.”

  “We will. Thanks for your cooperation.” Mitch turned to Cole. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  They didn’t speak again until they were in Cole’s car, retracing their route to the quick shop so Mitch could retrieve his own vehicle.

  “I’m more worried now than I was before.”

  At Cole’s terse comment, Mitch looked over. The man had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the set of his jaw was grim. If Alison thought her brothers had hovered before, she was about to find out what real hovering was.

  And her brothers weren’t the only ones who were going to be sticking close.

  “Yeah. This puts a whole different spin on the situation.”

  “We need to talk to Alison. Probe harder. She must have ticked somebody off, despite her claims to the contrary.”

  “Why don’t you let me see what I can find out?”

  Cole shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Why you?”

  “It might help preserve family harmony. I’ve gotten the impression she thinks you and Jake are a tad overprotective.” It was a logical suggestion, if not entirely altruistic.

  His colleague considered the offer, then let out a disgruntled sigh. “Okay. You have a point. But I want to know what she says. Tonight.”

  “You got it.”

  Cole pulled up beside Mitch’s car. “I’m going to make another call to patrol. I want more drive-bys.”

  “Good idea.” Mitch opened the door. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Once behind the wheel of his own car, Mitch checked on Cole across the parking lot. The other man was already on the phone. Beefing up patrols.

  The sooner the better.

  Because even though it was possible the dead roses were a onetime, random prank left by a bunch of drunk teenagers out for a night of fun, Mitch’s gut told him someone was targeting Alison specifically. And unlike Erik, he was trying to scare her.

  An image of the skull and crossbones on the bingo card flashed through his mind. Followed by a niggling sense that the perpetrator was planning to inflict a lot more than fear on Alison.

  Unfortunately, safeguarding her from that kind of nebulous threat wouldn’t be easy.

  No matter how hard he or her two protective brothers tried.

  7

  “So whaddya gonna do, man?”

  Irritated by the question, Daryl Barnes spared Chuck Warren no more than a quick, impatient glance as he paced in the dilapidated mobile home. There might not be any bars on the windows, nor armed guards at the door, but he felt trapped just the same. As if the walls were closing in on him and there was no escape. It was the same way he’d felt during his four long years in the maximum security prison in Potosi.

  He hated it now as much as he’d hated it then.

  “I don’t know.”

  Chuck leaned back in an upholstered chair that looked as if it had been salvaged from someone’s street-side garbage pile. Stuffing oozed through the rips in the stained fabric as he took a swig from his beer can. “You can stay here as long as you need to, man. Unless I get lucky some night. Then I might ask you to take a hike for a little while.” His leering grin revealed several discolored, rotting teeth.

  Pausing beside the battered TV set, Daryl looked over at Chuck. The years hadn’t been kind to his onetime business partner, who looked fifty instead of thirty. His clothes hung on his gaunt frame, his hair had thinned, and his face sported what appeared to be a bad case of acne.

  Thanks to meth.

  Chuck wasn’t just sampling anymore. He was using heavily—and had been for a long time. Daryl had known that the instant he’d laid eyes on him, when Chuck had come to pick him up from the homeless shelter where he’d spent his first two nights of freedom while trying to track down his old buddy. He’d seen the classic signs of long-term addiction often enough in their customers to recog
nize them at a glance, and they turned his stomach. That’s why he’d vowed never to let his own sampling get out of hand. A line now and then, that’s all he’d ever done. Snorted, never injected.

  Years ago, Chuck had kidded him about his delivery preference. Most people smoked—Chuck included. But the whole notion of putting toxic vapors into his lungs had freaked him out.

  Now, from all indications, his onetime collaborator was way past smoking. He was slamming. Pumping the stuff right into his veins. Often. And Daryl didn’t want to go down that road. Nor risk more time behind bars. If he’d had any other option, he wouldn’t be here now. But he’d had no place else to go.

  A rush of anger swept over him, and he clenched his fists at his sides. If Nicole had taken him in, given him another chance, he wouldn’t have had to seek out his old partner in crime. But no. When he’d looked her up in the phone book and called after his release, she’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome in her life—or her home. Even though he’d given her and her snot-nosed brat a place to live when he’d found her wandering the streets five years ago.

  And who was to blame for her change of heart?

  Goody two-shoes Alison Taylor.

  His anger erupted into a white-hot blaze, and he slammed his fist against the cracked Formica counter. A piece splintered off, leaving a rough, dangerous edge.

  “Hey! Chill, man.” Chuck sat up straighter, his restless energy fueling Daryl’s own edginess. “I’m just kidding. I owe you for keeping your mouth shut when the cops busted you. Otherwise, I’d have ended up in the slammer too. You can stay here anytime. Listen, you sure you don’t want a line? It would make you feel better.”

  “No.”

  The other man jiggled his foot and scratched a sore on his arm. “Have it your way.” He stood and headed for the fridge.

  Daryl caught a rancid whiff as his host brushed past, and he took a step back. This was not how he’d envisioned his first few days of freedom.

  Chuck rummaged through the collection of cans, selected one, and popped the top. He chugged several long swallows. Gave a small burp. “So whaddya think that social worker thought of our little present?”