16
MS. JACKSON . . . may I speak with you for a few minutes?”
As the familiar male voice addressed her, Meg jolted to a stop and swiveled around, pulse hammering. Steve had been right. The detective on Eve’s case had, indeed, sought her out at the office.
What a way to end the week.
Somehow she managed to call up the facsimile of a smile. “Good morning, Detective Lange. I have to let my boss know I’m here and see if he wants me to handle any urgent matters.”
“I’ve already spoken with him. He said he didn’t mind if you were delayed for a few minutes.”
The man had covered all the bases.
But Steve had told her not to talk with anyone from law enforcement.
“I, uh, have a ton of work to do.”
“This won’t take long.”
She shifted her weight. Squeezed the strap of her purse. “Steve doesn’t . . . he prefers I not talk with you.”
“Why is that?” The detective’s tone remained cordial.
“He said he already answered all your questions.”
“We always like to get several perspectives. I won’t detain you long.”
Other arriving staffers cast curious looks their way as they skirted past in the hall, and her cheeks warmed. The middle of a busy corridor wasn’t the best place to have this discussion.
“Can we talk somewhere else?”
“I’ve staked out the conference room.” He motioned behind him.
Without responding, she walked past him and entered the room.
He followed her in and shut the door.
“I can’t tell you anything more than Steve already has.” She clutched her purse to her chest. “This is a waste of time for both of us.”
“That’s possible—but I can spare a few minutes, and a brief chat shouldn’t eat into your day too much.” His posture was open and affable as he motioned toward the table.
Short of being rude—and further raising his suspicions—what choice did she have?
Besides, as long as she was careful, what harm could there be in a brief conversation?
“Fine.” Legs stiff, she crossed to the table and sank into a chair, setting her purse in front of her.
“Would you like coffee?” He indicated the pot. “It’s not the best brew I’ve ever had, but it does contain a generous amount of caffeine.” He offered her an engaging grin.
“No thanks. I’m not a coffee drinker.”
The detective pulled out the chair beside her, angled it her direction, and sat, his posture relaxed. Friendly. Approachable.
He and his partner had been polite at the house last night too. Not many men these days displayed the small courtesies, like standing in a woman’s presence. Including her husband.
“If you change your mind about a beverage, let me know. I’ll be happy to get you a soda if you prefer.” He pulled out a notebook, his demeanor pleasant.
“Thank you. I’m fine.”
She scrutinized him, trying to reconcile this well-mannered, accommodating man with the negative picture Steve had painted of him after she’d returned from her “errands” last night.
Failed.
Either Brent Lange was an excellent actor, or her husband hadn’t presented a truthful portrait of him and his partner.
On the other hand, the detective may not have been as cordial to Steve if he suspected him of harassing Eve. As if her husband would ever do such a thing. Steve had his faults, but he wasn’t a criminal, no matter what this man thought.
So she’d listen to what he had to say—and be careful in her replies. As Steve had reminded her, a wife didn’t have to talk to law enforcement about her spouse.
“Did your husband explain the nature of my visit to your house last night?” Detective Lange’s manner remained genial.
“Yes.”
“Were you surprised?”
“More like shocked. Trying to link my husband to the problems Eve has been having is . . . it’s ludicrous.”
“Did he tell you we found his DNA last Saturday close to her car at a middle school?”
“Yes. He assumed there must have been another incident. But he had a job at that school earlier in the week.”
“So he told us.”
“It’s true.”
“I’m not disputing that. Were you aware that Ms. Reilly’s tires were slashed that evening, and a threatening note was left in her car?”
Meg’s heart skipped a beat. “No.”
“Your husband’s DNA was found within inches of her car door.”
That was kind of a weird coincidence.
As if he’d read her mind, Lange continued. “Don’t you think the odds of that are minuscule?”
She straightened her shoulders. “He was working at that facility. It could happen.”
Lange crossed an ankle over a knee. “Where was your husband that night?”
Steve had said they might ask that if they cornered her.
“Mostly at home, other than a quick trip to get gas.”
Except he’d been gone far longer than it took to fill up his tank at the corner station. A sudden urge to take a drive and clear his mind from the clutter of the week was how he’d explained his absence to her—but the police wouldn’t consider that a valid alibi. She had to verify his presence at the house.
Any woman would do as much for her husband.
“How quick?”
The detective wasn’t giving up—and while his tone was smooth as ever, his eyes were sharp. Probing.
“I didn’t time his absence.”
“An estimate would do. Ten minutes . . . an hour . . . two hours?”
She clenched her fingers together in her lap. “I don’t mean to be rude, but Steve said I’m not required to talk with you.”
“That’s true. However . . . since Eve is an old friend, I hoped you’d be willing to help us find who’s been targeting her.”
“Of course I am. But it’s not Steve.”
Lange watched her for a moment, then flipped open his notebook. “Do you know a woman by the name of Candy Norris?”
If the left-field query was intended to throw her, it succeeded.
“No.” She’d remember a name like Candy. “Why?”
“Your husband calls her on a regular basis. Has he bought you any jewelry lately?”
She twisted the combination wedding/engagement band with the line of diamond chips on top that adorned her finger. The only jewelry he’d ever given her.
“No. Why?”
“According to his credit card report, he’s made three purchases over the past year at a local jewelry store.”
A cold knot began to form in her stomach.
Why was Steve frequenting a jewelry store? Did those purchases have anything to do with this Candy woman the detective had mentioned?
Except . . . jewelry stores did sell other items, like watch batteries. And they did repairs and appraisals and—
“He bought an emerald ring, a diamond tennis bracelet, and a woman’s gold necklace.”
As the detective ticked off her husband’s purchases, the knot in her stomach tightened and the air whooshed from her lungs. Steve had been buying women’s jewelry. And given how Lange had framed his questions, he suspected it was for Candy.
But . . . but Steve wouldn’t do that to her. They’d only been married eighteen months. They’d taken vows. Why would he wed her if he wanted to play around?
Simple. He likes to control people—and you’re easy to manipulate.
No.
She smothered the taunting voice in her head.
That wasn’t true.
Steve would have an explanation for the purchases. For his calls to Candy. They could be grief related, even. A coping mechanism. From the beginning, he’d admitted that the loss of his first wife had been devastating. You had to cut people whose hearts had been broken a little slack.
Didn’t you?
“In case you’re wondering who Candy is, she works in a local bar.” The detective named it.
The burger joint Steve visited on occasion with his buddies. Never with her.
Tentacles of suspicion began to slither through her, as insidious as the calories that crept onto her hips and undermined her good intentions to lose weight.
“Who do you think the jewelry was for, Ms. Jackson?”
The bagel she’d scarfed down this morning after dragging herself out of bed hardened into a lump.
While his question came across as casual, it was obvious this man had already reached his own conclusion about the answer.
But it couldn’t be true. Not after last night. Not after all the things she and Steve had done into the wee hours. It had been as if they were back on their honeymoon. Operating on fumes today was a small price to pay for that romantic interlude.
The detective watched her, waiting for her to comment.
She had to defend Steve—at least until she talked with him.
“I know what you’re implying.” Her interlaced fingers began to throb, and she loosened the pressure on her knuckles. “But you’re wrong. About that, and about his involvement in the situation with Eve. Why would he want to hurt her?”
“How does he feel about your job here?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Is he supportive of your career?”
Why would this man ask that?
Unless . . . had she let a comment or two slip about Steve’s reservations during one of her chats with Eve at the station or at the spinning class? Had Eve mentioned that to the detective?
“It’s a temporary job, until we have a family. He and I discussed it.”
That didn’t answer the question—and the slight narrowing of the man’s eyes indicated he knew that.
But what did this have to do with anything?
He spoke as if he’d heard her silent question. “If Eve goes away, so does her show. And your job.”
When his implication sank in, Meg’s jaw dropped.
He thought Steve would try to ruin Eve’s career just to get his wife to stay home?
That was absurd.
Wasn’t it?
She massaged her temple as she tried to sort through all the information and insinuations that had been zipping around this room during the past few minutes.
“Detective Lange, I appreciate that you’re trying to do your job. But Steve would never be involved in anything illegal. He may still be working through all the issues associated with his loss, but he—”
“What loss?”
“The death of his first wife. You knew about that, didn’t you?”
It was impossible to interpret his expression. Not surprise, exactly—but it was clear he hadn’t known about Steve’s first marriage.
That was odd. This guy struck her as the type who did his homework.
He studied her for a moment. Let out a breath. “His first wife isn’t dead. They divorced two years ago—after she got a protection order on him for abuse.”
Meg heard the words. Understood them. But they were as difficult to make sense of as an algebra equation.
Before she could process this new information, Lange dropped another bombshell.
“His previous girlfriend also took out a protection order on him.”
Steve had been in two abusive relationships.
His wife hadn’t died.
The marriage he’d described as blissful had been the polar opposite.
Why had he lied to her?
And if he’d lied to her about all that . . . could she believe anything he’d told her?
Mind spinning, she lurched to her feet, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself. “I have to . . . to get to work.” Her response echoed in her ears as if it came from a great distance.
The detective rose too, and a business card appeared in her field of vision. “If you want to add to your story—or change anything—you can reach me at this number. Night or day.”
After a tiny hesitation, she took the small rectangle and stumbled toward the door.
The detective beat her to it. He twisted the knob and pulled it open.
Somehow she made it to the ladies room before she lost her breakfast.
Leaning against the wall of the stall, stomach quivering as she hovered over the toilet, Meg tried to digest all she’d learned in the past fifteen minutes.
Maybe . . . maybe there was an explanation for everything. Steve may have been afraid that if he told her the truth about his past, she wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him. It was possible Candy was nothing more than a friend. The jewelry purchases could have a simple explanation too. His friends might have asked him to put gifts on his credit card to keep the purchases hidden so they could surprise their wives. Some guys were thoughtful like that. The hair on the parking lot could also be coincidence.
But that was a lot of maybes and might haves and could be’s.
Too many.
Meg pulled out a length of toilet paper and wiped her mouth, but bitterness clung to her tongue—and her heart.
It appeared she’d been a fool.
The very word her parents had used when she’d told them she was going to marry Steve.
Someone came into the ladies room, and Meg straightened up. She should get back to her desk. Focus on her job. She had eight hours to decide what to do about the situation at home. And if she needed more time than that, she’d figure out how to buy some.
She wadded up the soiled tissue and tossed it in the toilet bowl, flushing away the evidence of her bout of nausea.
Nausea.
She watched the water swirl in the bowl.
That could work, considering how Steve had walked a wide circle around her during the morning sickness phase of her pregnancy. Even a hint of the stench of vomit made him queasy—and she knew how to produce that, thanks to the battle she’d once waged with bulimia.
If necessary, that tactic could give her breathing space to discover the truth about Steve.
Because if he’d done everything the detective claimed, she’d rather stick a finger down her throat than let Steve lay another finger on her body.
That hadn’t been fun.
Brent exhaled and propped a shoulder against the conference room wall. Watching someone crumble never was—even if they were a virtual stranger.
But his job was to nail the bad guys, and sometimes the innocent people who got sucked into their orbit crashed and burned too.
That wasn’t the fate he wished on Meg.
God willing, she’d survive this. And in the long run she’d be better off without that user. It was even possible that once she thought through everything, she’d be willing to admit her husband had been gone far longer than was necessary for a fill-up at the corner gas station. If they could poke a few holes in his—
“Knock knock.” Eve stuck her head around the half-open door. “May I come in?”
“Sure.” He pushed off from the wall.
She entered and closed the door behind her. “I caught a glimpse of Meg in the hall. She looked bad.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look too hot yourself.”
He conjured up a smile. “Gee, thanks for the ego boost.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She surveyed him and sighed. “I don’t envy you this part of your job.”
“Goes with the territory.”
“Did she tell you anything helpful?”
“Helpful as in giving us ammunition to nail her husband, no. But after she digests everything—and has a talk with Jackson—she may reconsider. You ready to go home?”
“I can get a cab if there’s somewhere you have to be.”
“I’ll drop you off en route.”
She didn’t protest.
He followed her out the door, into the elevator, and to his car.
Not until they were buckled in and pulling out of the parking space did she speak. “What happens next with the case?”
“We continue to dig. I’m going to talk with a few of Jackson’s coworkers, keep the heat on. We also have eyes on him periodically—and we’re not trying to be covert about that. I want him to think we’re watching him 24/7. That should keep him from trying anything else until we get definitive evidence against him.”
Unfortunately, the man had covered his tracks well. Finding evidence could be a matter of if, not when. A possible outcome he wasn’t yet ready to admit to Eve.
“Does that mean I can go about my business as usual and forget about hiring Phoenix?”
“Do you have a busy weekend scheduled?”
“If you mean will I be running around doing errands, no. I plan to finish the floor in the living room. That will keep me housebound other than going to church on Sunday.”
“Don’t bother to call Phoenix, then. I’d offer to take you to services, but the youth group from my church has its annual weekend campout, and I always volunteer.”
“That should be fun.”
He hiked up one side of his mouth. “Depends on how you define fun. Watching over a group of ten-to-twelve-year-old boys for thirty-six hours is a challenge. Many of them have never spent a night in the woods. We’ve had more than a few freak out during a coyote howlfest at midnight.”
“I can imagine.”
“So tell me about today’s program. I was only able to listen to bits and pieces. Any unusual calls?”
She glanced at him as he maneuvered the car out of the garage and headed toward the highway.
Uh-oh.
Unless he was misinterpreting the vibes, she was debating whether to reintroduce the subject they’d discussed during the drive down in the dark.
Please don’t, Eve. I’m not up for that after talking to Meg.
As if she’d heard his silent plea, she launched into an account of the exchange she’d had with one caller who was convinced the American Revolution had been about slavery, not taxes.
By the time he asked several questions and they shared a few chuckles over the more bizarre calls that had come in, he was pulling into her driveway.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
He set the brake and circled the car, giving the neighborhood a quick scan. All appeared to be quiet.
As they followed the path to her porch, he took her arm—and when she smiled up at him, his heart did a strange flip-flop.
Funny.
Since Karen’s scathing assessment after their breakup, he’d been convinced he wasn’t up to the job of being a husband. Women needed emotional connections, sharing at the deepest levels, and that had never been his strong suit. How could it be, after the upbringing he’d had?
Karen had never complained much about his reticence until the end, though. Perhaps she’d thought that in time she could change him. And perhaps she could have.
But with Eve, it was already different. In the space of two weeks, he’d shared more about his past than he’d ever revealed to Karen—which was telling.
It also supported Eve’s theory that he had it in him to open up . . . with the right woman.
That didn’t solve the other problem, however.
He stepped back while she fitted the key in her lock, keeping tabs on their surroundings.
It had been a good try on her part to suggest their jobs had similarities, that if she abided by his rules she’d never marry either. Yet that was a stretch. Once they got past this traumatic incident in her life, there wasn’t likely to be a repeat. It was an anomaly, even for a high-profile career like hers.
The danger in his job, on the other hand, would last forever. While detectives weren’t as vulnerable as first responders, no street job in law enforcement was without risk.
Was it possible, though, that because of all she was going through now, Eve would be better equipped than most women to understand and handle the psychological pressures that came with the risks of his job?
That question continued to loop through his mind as he said goodbye, waited until the lock clicked on the other side of the door, then returned to his car.
It was certainly a possibility worth pondering this weekend in the few spare minutes he’d have between bandaging cut fingers, putting salve on minor burns suffered while toasting s’mores, and comforting kids who’d never spent a night in the arms of Mother Nature.
Nor could it hurt to send a few prayers heavenward. Not asking for a specific outcome—he believed the line in the Lord’s Prayer that said thy will be done—but for guidance to make a wise decision . . . and the fortitude to follow through.
Wherever that might lead.