“Have you seen this?” Tim strode into the back room of the P.D. and dropped a newspaper on the desk in front of Chris.
Chris found himself looking at the front page of the latest issue of the Observer.
Dispatch Reporter Harassed By Stalker The story went on to mention Felicity by name and also gave a detailed account of the threatening letters she’d received, her slashed tires and the anonymous bouquet of dead flowers she’d had delivered to her apartment over the weekend.
“It wasn’t enough that someone leaked this to the Observer but at the end of the article they felt it necessary to remind everyone that Jeremy isn’t Dad’s son and he’s no longer in charge of Hamilton Media,” Tim went on. “What’s next? Publishing Dad’s medical records?”
Chris could understand his brother’s anger. Even though the two newspapers were rivals, the Observer had never waged such a personal attack against his family.
“I dropped Felicity off at work this morning but I’m not sure if she’s seen this yet,” Chris said slowly.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s seen it. the Observer probably hand-delivered a copy to her,” Tim said bitterly. “Is it possible that the stalker leaked the information? The slashed tires—no one else knew about that, did they? And what about the flowers? I thought you were keeping this investigation quiet. No one should have known about those things.”
Chris silently cautioned himself that Tim wasn’t upset with him but at the situation. And he couldn’t fault his brother for voicing the same questions that were hammering at him. Which showed that he and Tim were thinking along the same lines. A whole new phenomenon. “Only Jason and Captain Driscoll knew about the tires and the flowers. In fact, I was just leaving to interview Felicity’s neighbors to see if anyone could identify the delivery person.”
“I’m going to call the Observer’s editor and get to the bottom of this,” Tim growled. “Once I get a name, you can do the cop thing and check it out.”
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Chris’s lips twitched. The cop thing. That was an interesting twist on his chosen career.
A complimentary issue of the Observer had been on Felicity’s desk when she got to work, the bold headline and story baring her private life for everyone to see. But that wasn’t the reason why she’d barely made her morning deadline.
Resolutely she’d put the newspaper aside as she tried to find a connection between RiverMill Developers and the property on River Street. Even though Chris had told her that Mr. Sykes, the owner of the buildings that Youth Connections wanted to buy, had simply explained he’d decided not to sell at this point, Felicity wanted to talk to him again. Maybe Sykes had been offered more money—or been bullied into taking the property off the market.
If Wes Greene was as motivated as Chris said he was, anything was possible. What she couldn’t understand was if RiverMill Developers did want the property, why be so secretive about it? Why not just put an offer on the table? And who was their connection at City Hall?
Felicity scribbled the names of the city councilmen on a sheet of paper and studied them. Then she added Mayor Whitmore and Ernest Cromwell to the mix. Every one of those people would have been present at the meetings she covered for the Dispatch. Any one of them could have found out about the feature she was writing and decided that she might stumble onto the truth before the sale went through.
Which might be the answer to one of her questions. At the center of the political debate over community development was tax dollars. If RiverMill stripped away three-quarters of the old buildings on River Street, it would displace a group of unemployed factory workers and lower-income families. The controversy over that decision would divide the city into two camps—the people who would say “good riddance” and those who wanted to “take care of their own.”
Mayor Whitmore had always put himself firmly in the category of the latter, but Felicity wasn’t sure about him anymore. She’d been a reporter long enough to know that sometimes people in power said one thing while their actions said the opposite. The mayor would have a lot of explaining to do if he had anything to do with Wes Greene buying River Street property.
And somehow she’d gotten caught in the middle.
If her hunch was right, the stalker had started his attack by writing the letters to the editor, maybe hoping that she’d be reassigned. When that didn’t happen, he turned his attention to threatening her. A woman alone would be vulnerable. Maybe feel frightened enough to quit the newspaper and go back to California.
Except she wasn’t alone. Felicity’s gaze drifted from her notes and she reached out to touch the satin-soft petals of the flowers that had been delivered shortly after she’d arrived at work that morning. This time they weren’t roses but a fragrant tangle of daisies and carnations in an array of confetti-bright hues.
The card wasn’t signed but it didn’t have to be. She knew Chris had sent them. She wasn’t sure whether he’d sent them to strip away the image of the dead roses or to cheer her up after finding out that she was going to be this week’s gossip, but it didn’t matter. He’d sent them. Which put a whole new spin on the conclusion she’d drawn that to Chris, she was just “business as usual.” Ever the professional, she doubted that Chris made a habit of sending flowers to the citizens of Davis Landing!
She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet scent, wondering if she should have told Chris about her suspicions the night before. Sometimes puzzle pieces looked like they should fit but there was the tiniest gap between them. Then you had to start the search all over again. Felicity wanted to be sure that there weren’t any gaps. There were peoples’ reputations at stake and she wasn’t going to present Ed or Tim with a scrambled bunch of notes and question marks. That’s what Perry Sharpe did at the Observer. It sold papers, but did nothing for the integrity of the newspaper.
Felicity took a deep breath.
Okay, Lord, You were with Joshua when You told him to march around the walls of Jericho. Help me bring down some walls here, too. Show me who’s on the other side.
“Felicity Simmons. Dispatch.” Felicity picked up her phone on the first ring. She’d been waiting all afternoon to see if the irritating number of calls she’d directed to Wes Greene’s office were finally going to pay off.
“Miss, ah, Simmons.” The male voice on the other line wasn’t one she recognized. “I understand you’re looking for information.”
Felicity exhaled silently. “Who is this?”
“Not yet,” he said, his voice cracking nervously. “I want to meet you somewhere, though. There’s a diner near Nashville. A truck stop.” He rattled off some directions and Felicity quickly jotted them down. “Can you meet me there now?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
There was a pause. “You can’t tell anyone. I mean it, Miss Simmons. You’ll get me in a lot of trouble if you do.”
Felicity chewed on her lower lip. Chris was such a familiar face in the community, if her source saw him anywhere near her, the interview would end before it began.
Maybe she was talking to Roland Sykes. He’d proved to be just as elusive as Wes Greene. Felicity took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.
Chris’s shift was officially about to end when the secretary tracked him down.
“There’s a woman here to see you. A Mrs. Mitowski. Apparently she was visiting her son for a few days and just found out from one of the neighbors that you were asking questions about a delivery boy?”
Chris’s mouth went dry. Without a word he turned on his heel and went straight to the interview room, where an elderly woman had settled into a chair to wait for him.
“Mrs. Mitowski, I’m Officer Hamilton. The secretary said you might have some information about a teenager who delivered some flowers to an apartment near your home on Saturday,” Chris said, easing the conversation into the direction he wanted it to go.
“There’s no might about it. I saw him with my own two eyes,” Mrs. Mitowski said, swatting the arm of the chair for emphasis.
“Could you describe him for me?”
“About my grandson’s age. Sixteen or seventeen. Tall and kind of skinny. Had hair that was two different colors. You know the type.”
He did. He shot hoops with them every week. The description was vague but Chris jotted it down. “Did you happen to notice what kind of vehicle he was driving?”
“Something red with a very loud muffler.”
“You didn’t happen to get a license plate number?” He asked the question automatically and was stunned when Mrs. Mitowski nodded vigorously.
“Yes, I did. I remembered it because it was one of those personalized plates. It said ZMANN.”
Chris felt a rush of adrenaline. This was better than a physical description of the suspect. A license plate would bring Chris right to his front door.
“Oh, man. It wasn’t me.” A lanky kid fitting Mrs. Mitowski’s description took one look at Jason and Chris standing outside the door and started to close it in their faces.
“Whoa, wait a second. We just want to talk to you, Zach.” Jason stuck the toe of his boot in the door before it closed completely.
“If this is about the graffiti—”
“No graffiti,” Chris said. “It’s about the flowers you delivered last Saturday.”
“Aw, that was just a favor for a friend.” Zach visibly relaxed and Chris took advantage of the moment.
“So you won’t mind answering a few questions.”
“Come on in.” He shrugged. “Sorry about the mess. The maid’s on vacation.”
“Bummer,” Jason said dryly.
Zach slumped into a tweed recliner that listed slightly to one side. “So whaddaya wanna know?”
“Who asked you to deliver the flowers?”
“Mickey Howe. He was supposed to but he and his girlfriend got in a fight, so he called me and asked me to do it. Paid me ten bucks. Didn’t seem like a big deal. The chick complain about them or something?”
“Or something,” Chris said. “Do you know who hired him?”
“Naw.” Zach’s expression shut down and he scratched the three whiskers under his chin, his eyes shifting away from them.
“Graffiti,” Jason said suddenly. “That wouldn’t have been the bridge last Friday night, would it? I think someone turned in a home video on that one….”
Zach’s Adam’s apple suddenly leaped against his throat. “I’ve got Mickey’s number in my cell.”
“Call him,” Chris said, keenly aware that Felicity was waiting for him at the Dispatch.
Zach pulled a high-tech phone out of the pocket of his ragged jeans and, with a wary eye on the two police officers, dialed his friend’s number. “Sorry, he’s not picking up.”
“Where does Mickey work?” Chris asked. If the kid said RiverMill Developers…
“He does all kinds of stuff. He works at the Burger Bin on the weekends and he’s a courier at the courthouse. Gets to ride a really cool bike….”
Chris’s gut clenched and he headed toward the door.
Jason was right behind him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get Mayor Whitmore on the phone.”
He punched in Felicity’s number on his phone but was immediately diverted to her voice mail. Both Tim’s office and personal lines were busy and Chris struggled to check his frustration.
“Everything okay?” Jason asked, slanting a look at him as they headed toward City Hall.
Chris wasn’t sure how to respond. The information Zach had given them could be the break they were looking for, but that didn’t stop an uneasy feeling from snaking through him.
Lord, help me solve this. I know You always shine your light in the darkness and reveal the truth. But please—watch out for Felicity.
One look at the diner as she pulled into the parking lot and Felicity guessed its reputation must have been posted on Web sites around Tennessee, which was probably why the parking lot was almost empty during the dinner hour.
So much for the security of meeting in a public place.
Which was the only reason why Tim had finally agreed to let her go alone to meet with the man who’d called. She’d kept her promise to Chris and sought Tim out before she’d left, but if he’d seen her destination he probably would have blocked the door and taken her car keys away. Or volunteered to go with her. He’d insisted she wait for Chris, but boss or not, she’d refused. The voice on the phone had been shaky, stressed. If it was Sykes and she was late meeting him, he might not hang around and wait for her. She couldn’t risk losing the chance to put the final pieces of the puzzle together.
Breathing a silent prayer for courage, Felicity walked into the diner and was relieved to see there were actually people inside. Several men were hunched together in a booth, their attention riveted on the grainy television set on the wall. The waitress, wearing a grease-spattered uniform, barely glanced her way as she wiped down one of the booths.
“Miss Simmons. Glad you could join me.”
The familiar voice came from behind her and a chill shot up Felicity’s back, tripping her heart into an uneven beat.
“Ernest.” She turned slowly, unwilling to let the mayor’s aide see the fear in her eyes.
“You were hoping for Mr. Sykes?” Ernest Cromwell asked, his lips twisting into a parody of a smile. “You did want to meet Sykes, didn’t you? Or was it Wes Greene? I can’t keep track. You’ve been such a busy girl this week.”