The guy was an idiot.
Dale had just suffered through one of the longest half hours of his life, thanks to . . . he checked the EAP counselor’s card . . . Randy Miller. Dale had wanted to throw up as the man ran through his polished, fake, “I’m concerned” routine. But if Red and George wanted him to play this game, he had to go along or his job would be on the line. That meant he was beginning his Monday by meeting with a moron. And hoping it would end here.
Unfortunately, Mr. Sensitivity had other ideas.
As Miller leaned forward in a practiced posture of caring, looking like an older version of nerdy Clark Kent in his black-rimmed glasses, it took every ounce of Dale’s self-control to stifle his revulsion and maintain a neutral expression.
“I think it would be good if you talked with someone who has more expertise in counseling people who’ve faced the kind of trauma you’re dealing with, Mr. Edwards.”
It was the sentence Dale had been dreading. The clown wanted him to talk with a shrink.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. . . .” He consulted the card again. “Miller. I’m used to handling my own problems.”
“Sometimes it’s difficult for us to see our personal situations clearly, Mr. Edwards.” The man’s patronizing manner made Dale want to gag. “And there’s nothing wrong with admitting an occasional need for help to sort things out.”
This had nothing to do with helping him, Dale thought, trying to swallow past his disgust. It was all about passing on responsibility. He knew how the system worked. He’d seen plenty of examples in his own job. Everything these days had to be double-checked and signed in triplicate or the attorneys could eat you alive if you were unlucky enough to find yourself facing a lawsuit. It was all about dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s and covering yourself. This spineless twit didn’t want to sign off on Dale without a second opinion.
Going in, Dale had known there was a possibility the guy would pass the buck to a shrink. And he was prepared to argue against it, if necessary. In a polite, rational way, of course. It was important to convince Miller he was coping, that he had his act together, that the time off mandated by Red and George was all that was needed. Two weeks of breathing space to rest and regroup. That was the case he planned to make.
Until Miller threw him a curve.
Jotting down a name and phone number on a pad of paper, he handed it to Dale. “I’d like to set up an appointment for you with Dr. Emily Lawson. She sees referrals from EAP programs for some of the largest companies in St. Louis. I’ve sent a number of people to her, and the feedback has been excellent.”
As Miller went on to sing her praises, Dale tried to process the bizarre turn of events.
He’d been referred to the very person he’d had in his crosshairs two weeks ago.
Coincidence couldn’t account for this twist of fate, he was certain of that. It had to be a sign. The Lord wanted him to see her. Their meeting must be the key to whatever plan the Almighty wanted Dale to implement. Somehow, during that face-to-face encounter, God would show him how he wanted his vengeance to be exacted.
There was one problem, however. While Dale didn’t think the cops had a clue about his identity, his on-the-job slipups worried him. He couldn’t afford mistakes . . . there, or in his mission. There could be no connection between him and Emily Lawson. He had to protect his identity.
“All right, Mr. Miller. I’ll talk to her. But I’d like to keep this anonymous.”
“That’s not a problem. No one but you, me, and Dr. Lawson will know about your appointment with her, and only the two of you will know what was discussed.”
“I appreciate that. But information can leak. And a lot of people think there’s kind of a stigma attached to seeing a psychologist. I’d be more comfortable if I could see her anonymously.” The man frowned. “You mean, keep your identity confidential?” “Yes. I think it would help me, you know . . . open up.” He tried to convey an earnest, cooperative attitude.
“I must admit, I’ve never had that request before.” Miller leaned back in his leather chair. “In today’s world, there isn’t a stigma associated with counseling, Mr. Edwards.”
“The thing is, I had a buddy once who went to a counselor for a drinking problem. Somehow that information got into his records, and when he tried to change jobs they found out about it. Even though he’d licked the problem, they didn’t hire him.
I’d rather not put myself in that position.” Dale hoped the Lord would forgive him for that fabrication.
The man considered him for a few seconds, then nodded.
“Okay. I think we can do this. The important thing is for you to see Dr. Lawson. What name shall I set it up under?”
“Joe Smith?”
“You can’t get much more anonymous than that.” The ingratiating smile the man flashed him grated on his nerves. “I’ll be in touch later today to let you know what slots she has available. Would tomorrow or Wednesday be okay, if I can get you in that soon?”
“Sure.” The sooner the better.
Standing, the EAP counselor held out his hand. “I do appreciate your coming today, Mr. Edwards. All of us want to help you through this difficult period. I know Dr. Lawson will be of great assistance as well. And I want you to feel free to call me if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“Thank you.” Dale took the man’s hand in a brief grip before exiting.
As he headed down the hall toward the elevator, he pulled the idiot’s card out of his pocket. The tremor in his hand surprised him, but treating a jerk with respect took a lot out of a man.
The elevator pinged, and as the door slid open he ripped the card into a dozen small pieces with more force than necessary. And before he stepped inside, he deposited them where they belonged.
In the trash can beside the door.
Two hundred and eighty-nine possible matches on the car.
It had taken two days to cull them from the thousands of plates containing the number eight. And the final result was far from perfect. As Mark had suspected, incomplete information had inflated the list. Fifty of the names were there because the hand search revealed the registration had not included either a model or a color.
Tuesday was not beginning on a high note.
Handing the list he’d paged through to Coop, Mark looked at Steve as the squad supervisor spoke.
“We ran the names through NCIC. Other than two people who showed up with reports of stolen property, everyone was clean.”
Discouraged, Mark leaned back in his chair. The National Crime Information Center was the most comprehensive listing of crime-related data in the United States. He’d hoped it would identify some suspicious characters on the list. But if that database didn’t raise a red flag, there wasn’t one to be raised. On the owner of record, anyway. But a friend or relative could have used the car too. There was no way to determine that without contacting every owner. And then hoping he or she would be honest about who had driven the car.
“How are we going to handle this?” he asked.
“I already discussed it with Carl. They’ll take care of the interviews in their own jurisdiction, but there are only a few in the Oakdale zip code. We inherit the rest by default.”
“A good cluster of them are in close proximity to St. Louis metro. The others are scattered.” Coop scanned the pages. “We’ll have to pull in some of the region offices to assist in tracking these people down.”
“They’ll love that.” From his field agent days, Mark recalled his own distaste for requests for assistance from other offices.
In most instances, they were a nuisance . . . dead-end interviews or wild goose chases that took him away from his own cases and produced nothing.
“You have any other suggestions?” Steve prompted.
“Unfortunately, no. But this could take more time than we have if the guy is going to try again.”
“We’ve got ninety agents here. We can spread the interviews in our jurisdiction around. But first you and Dr. Lawson need to review that list. If either of you recognizes a name, that could expedite things.”
Mark checked his watch. It was approaching six. “We’ll stop by Emily’s on our way home and give her a copy. I’ll review it tonight too. By tomorrow morning, we should know if there’s anyone we should focus on.”
“We’ll hold off on the interviews until you both have a chance to look it over. And hope this guy is in no hurry to finish the job.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I don’t recognize any of the names. I wish I did.” Emily tossed the multi-page document onto her coffee table, leaned back on the sofa, and tucked her legs under her with a frustrated sigh.
For the past half hour they’d been scrutinizing the license plate list. Mark had finished a few minutes earlier, with the same result, and he wasn’t any happier than she was.
“I guess we’ll be hitting the pavement.” Mark directed his comment to Coop, who sat in a side chair, ankle crossed over knee, nursing a soda.
“Tracking all these people down will be a massive job.” Emily looked from Coop to Mark. “Isn’t there any other option?”
“Not unless our guy sends us another clue that helps us narrow down the list,” Mark responded. “But I’m not complaining.
This is a big step forward. If he’s in here, we’ll find him.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt.
“He’s been quiet for the past week. Maybe he’s giving up, despite that note he sent you.”
“It’s possible. But I’m not counting on it.” His gaze sharpened.
“You’re not getting complacent about security precautions, are you?”
“No. Anything but.”
“Good. The arm’s looking better, by the way.” He examined the jagged wound, visible now that the stitches had come out and the bandage was off.
She brushed her fingers over the scar. “The doctor says I’m a quick healer.”
“That seems to be true. Physically, at least.”
When Mark’s loaded comment was met with silence, Coop looked from one to the other and rose. “I think I’ll step outside and give Monica a call. Let me know when you’re ready to head out,” he told Mark.
As the door opened, then shut with a quiet click, Mark moved over to sit beside Emily. “I need to leave in a minute.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“You look tired.”
“Must be catching. Have you checked a mirror lately?”
He wiped a hand down his face. There was no sense disputing the obvious. “I’ll be glad when all this is over and we can focus on more pleasant things. Like this.” He rubbed his chin against her hair, enjoying the feel of her soft curves pressed against him.
“What you said to Coop a minute ago . . . it’s true, Mark.”
Her soft comment surprised him. Knowing how skittish she was about the subject, he’d expected her to let his implication about psychological and emotional healing pass.
“You’ve got a lot to overcome, Em. I understand that.”
“You’d think with all of my training and experience, I’d be able to deal with my own fears. I know why I’m afraid to get close to people. I just can’t manage to apply in my own life the remedies I give to everyone else.” She huffed out an annoyed breath. “If nothing else, though, this whole thing has given me a better understanding of what some of my patients go through as they try to put their own histories behind them. And speaking of histories . . . how are you doing with the convenience store incident? With everything that’s been happening, have you had a chance to work through that at all?”
“Believe it or not, yes. I’ve accepted that I did what I had to do. The guilt, however, is another story. It’s still there, and
I suspect it always will be, to some extent. I’m hoping God will help me find a way to manage it. That’s what I’m praying for, anyway.”
“You’re praying?” She turned to give him a curious look.
Shifting toward her, he framed her face with his hands, brushing his thumbs lightly over her cheeks. “Thanks to you. If our paths hadn’t crossed, I doubt I’d have factored God into the healing equation. I’m glad you got me started on that journey, Em.” He stroked her hair, letting the silky strands drift through his fingers, signaling his intent a heartbeat before he claimed her lips in a gentle kiss.
“I hate to go.” His voice was husky as he rested his forehead against hers.
“The feeling is mutual.” She whispered the words, and her breath was like a warm caress against his face. “I figured out your plan, by the way.”
“What plan?”
“The plan to break down my defenses with kisses.”
“Is it working?”
“I don’t think I better answer that.”
A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I’ll take that as a very positive sign. Walk me to the door?”
He rose and pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion, keeping her hand in his as they moved toward the small foyer.
At the door, he turned to her. “Be careful.”
“Always. You too.”
“Sleep well.”
He reached for the handle, but when she touched his shoulder he turned back. To his surprise, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his.
The significance of the gesture wasn’t lost on him. Until now, he’d initiated every romantic encounter. Tonight, she’d taken the lead.
A slow, warm smile began at his lips and spread to his eyes.
“Good night, Em.”
As he stepped outside and waited for the lock to click behind him, Coop materialized out of the shadows in the corner of the porch.
“Everything okay in there?”
“Yes. Thanks for that timely exit.”
“Hey, I’m a sensitive guy. I can pick up vibes.”
“Right. Like the night we went out for pizza after running that killer CQB training route and you forgot you’d promised to take Monica to dinner. You didn’t exactly handle your phone call to her with a lot of finesse.”
He winced. “You would remember that.”
“She does too.”
“Okay, it was a mistake. A big one. But I’m getting better. I just need a little more practice. Which is hard to get when I’m gone for weeks at a stretch.” He gave Mark a pointed look.
“Tell Les about it. He’s the one who decided you should be my shadow.”
“Yeah. Like that’ll do a lot of good.” He waited while Mark slid into the passenger seat, then walked around the car and took his position behind the wheel. “Did you give any more thought to Steve’s offer?”
“Lots of thought. No action.”
“Does she know about it?” Coop nodded toward Emily’s condo as he backed out of the parking space.
“Yes. But she’s running scared. After her experience with Grant, guys in high-risk professions aren’t on her top ten list of favorite people.”
“Like I said before, love changes everything.”
Coop was right, Mark acknowledged. In his case, anyway.
While he didn’t think he was head over heels yet, he was rapidly falling. He wouldn’t be considering a permanent move to St.
Louis if he wasn’t.
As for Emily . . . more and more, he was convinced she felt the same way. If he was an accountant or a doctor or a salesman, the risk factor wouldn’t be a barrier, and he suspected she’d have given him a green light long ago. But he couldn’t change who he was. He might be able to find a way to use his skills in a less risky position, but law enforcement wasn’t just a job for him; it helped define him as a person—in the same way Emily’s work helped define her.
He had a feeling she understood that.
But he wasn’t confident she could accept it . . . even if their future together hinged on it.