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Seating myself behind the desk, I stare at the laptop and pour myself some whiskey. I down the whiskey and pour another. I feel the burn of the alcohol and how it immediately goes to work on my frayed nervous system. I still have a little time before I need to install the Ring app, so I go to recent calls and tap the icon for the cop’s personal cell phone. I press it, place the call on speaker, and set the phone down on the desk beside my laptop.
While the phone rings, I go to the wood stove, grab the black iron poker, and open the hot door. I grab another couple of apple wood logs and toss them inside. Using the poker, I bury the new logs with the red-hot coals, and they take immediately. By the time I close the door, I hear Mary saying, “Hello, Martin, what’s up?”
“Hang on, honey,” I say.
Closing the door on the stove I place the poker into the wood box and go back to my desk, settling into my swivel chair.
“You got a minute?” I say.
“I’m in the middle of a triple homicide,” she says. “But anything for you, Martin.”
“You serious?” I say.
“No,” she says. “I’m expeditiously processing the paperwork. It’s one of those boring ass days where I have no choice but to catch up on my ever-expanding in-box.”
“Your inbox is most definitely not expanding,” I say, not without a grin. “In fact, it’s very tight for a woman of your years.”
An exhale comes over the line.
“Must you be so crude, bestseller?” she says.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just trying to lighten up the atmosphere. It’s been a hell of a morning.”
I then proceed to tell her everything. From the numerous texts to going for a jog and passing out, to being rescued by a young couple, including a young woman who not only wants to be a writer but who also asked me if I would dedicate a book to her one day. When I told the cop her name was Jenny, she sighed and added a, “Hmmmmm.”
“But I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet,” I say.
I tell her about how I heard the kitchen door open and close. Then as soon as I called down from the second-floor landing, thinking it might be Laura since she’s the only one I know who has a key to the joint, the intruder took off. I also let her in on how I checked the whole house from top to bottom and found a surprise set on the kitchen table.
“And she or he, left a note?”
Pulling the note out of my shirt pocket, I unfold it and set it on the desk on the opposite side of the laptop.
“What does it say?” the cop asks.
I read it to her. “Have you started on my book yet, Martin? It’s to be dedicated To Jennifer, with love. Understand me? I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you or Mary.”
“Okay,” Mary says. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Not only is that note more than a veiled threat but whoever is responsible for this can be charged with breaking and entering.”
“Should you investigate?” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “But what about calling the locksmith?”
“They’re here now,” I say. “They’re also installing the Ring devices on the exterior doors and placing a deadbolt on the basement door since it can be accessed by an old rusty Bilko door located on the side of the house behind the shrubs.”
“Bravo,” she says. “Also, I might remind you that Laura is not the only other person who possesses a key to your place. So do I.”
“Oh, I guess I forgot about that,” I say. “Something tells me you can be eliminated as a suspect in my stalking case.”
“We’re looking for a woman named Jennifer,” she says. “Probably middle-aged. Probably not married. My guess is she’s white, perhaps a bit homely and frumpy, reads your books incessantly, has more cats around the house than she can afford to take care of...you know, the kind to take in strays...She’s also quick to anger. She obsesses over things and people whom she wants to like her. When they reject her, it’s not a case of water off a duck’s feathers. It's more a case of retribution.”
“Wow, Mary,” I say. “I didn’t know you were so versed in profiling.”
“The New York State Troopers sent me to graduate school to study criminology. I took two full semesters on profiling and even had to spend time at Quantico with the Feds. Now they’re the real pros when it comes to profiling.”
“So, you’re saying I could be in imminent danger,” I say, grabbing hold of my whiskey glass and draining it.
You might not necessarily be in danger, bestseller,” she says. “If the person who’s stalking you turns out to be the kind of woman I’m describing, she’s still in the courting stage of the relationship.”
“Courting stage,” I repeat with a scrunched brow. “Relationship.”
“Yes, whether you like it or not, you and she have established a relationship, however fucked up it happens to be, if you’ll excuse my French. And do want to know why it’s reached the point of fucked up, Martin Jordan?”
She only calls me Martin Jordan when she’s dead serious about something.
“I’m not sure I want to hear it,” I say.
I picture Mary, not seated at her desk but standing at one of those trendy new stand-up desks that are said to be perfect for professionals who don’t like to sit on their ever-expanding asses all day. Now that she’s switched out of her formal uniform for the day and back to wearing plain clothes, she’ll be wearing a tight-fitting blue dress that maybe comes halfway down her thighs. It will also be low hung in front, exposing more than just a hint of cleavage and perhaps some of her black, lace, pushup bra. She does this on purpose, or so she told me once before, to drive all the big-bellied, married troopers nuts. It’s her little female power play in what is still, even in the 2020s, most definitely a man’s law enforcement world.
“Because what did I tell you from the get-go when you started getting these texts?”
“Um, do not engage,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “If you simply blocked Jennifer’s phone number from the beginning, it’s likely none of this would be happening.”
It’s then I decide I probably shouldn’t mention the fact that I’m about to meet my stalker for coffee at three in Millbrook. At a minimum, she’ll be very upset about making what is perhaps a stupid decision. But then, that’s me, the professional stupid decision-maker.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know, but I have a confession to make, Mary.”
She exhales. Or should I say, sighs.
“What is it?”
“I feel like I have a story here,” I say. “A famous mystery writer who is currently suffering from writer’s block finally breaks the block when a crazy woman stalks him.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t tell me you’re actively engaging in this activity so you can write about it in real-time,” she says.
“I’ve had worse ideas,” I say.
“Oh, dear Lord, Martin,” she says, “the decisions you make sometimes boggle the mind. No wonder you saw a doctor for so long.”
“Okay, now that hurts,” I say.
“It was meant to,” she says. Then, “Listen, if you want to come down and file a formal report you have every right. Or you can wait things out a little bit and maybe see if we can get a positive ID on her via your new Ring Doorbell System.”
“That sounds like a better plan,” I say. “See, sometimes I can make the right decision. Will I see you later?”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m here for one more night before I head back home to Watertown for the weekend. It’s Brent’s last weekend before he heads back to Florida.”
“Back to home, hearth, and the happy, healthy, old hubby,” I say.
She hangs up on me.