Текст книги "Malevolent"

Автор книги: Jana Deleon

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Three

The room was dark and damp. The old bricks that made up the walls were crumbling in some places and growing moss in others. She didn’t know the length of the room in feet, but she knew it was exactly thirty steps long and twenty steps wide. When it rained, water crept in where the brick met the concrete floor. If it rained hard, the entire floor was drenched. She stood as long as she could, but if it rained for too long, her weakened body couldn’t keep her upright and she eventually had to sit down. The water soaked into her clothes and made the room freezing in the winter and sticky hot in the summer.

She couldn’t remember how long she’d been in the room. Several summers and winters had passed. Maybe five. Maybe more. When you sat in the dark every day, it was hard to know how much time passed. But as bad as the room was, it was worse when he came to get her. He’d stick her with a needle and she would go to sleep, but not completely. She could remember what happened, how he bathed her and dressed her, then took her to the red room with all the candles. There were other people in the red room. People who hurt her, along with the man. 

But she didn’t want to think about that.

Thinking about the red room made her want to die. 

She’d tried to kill herself once. Had slit her wrists with a piece of broken brick. The man had been so angry when he found her. He’d wrapped her wrists to stop the bleeding. Every day, he’d returned to the room to make sure the cuts didn’t get infected, and every day, he’d made her pay for her attempt to escape her prison. Made her pay so badly, she’d never tried again.

Thunder boomed outside and she slid to the center of the room, curling her arms around her legs. Her right foot throbbed from the minimal movement. Maybe it was broken, but as long as it couldn’t get infected, the man didn’t care. Her teeth began to chatter, and she hoped the storm was short. She wouldn’t be able to stand on her foot, not for more than a minute.

As the water began to creep into the room, she squeezed her arms tighter around her legs and prayed. God hadn’t heard her yet, but he was the only thing she had left.

Shaye bolted upright in bed as thunder shook her bedroom walls. She squinted a bit as the bedroom light hit her eyes, then zeroed in on the baseboards, looking for water. The old hardwood floors were as dry as a bone. She flopped back onto her pillow and blew out a breath. Lately, every time it rained, she had the same dream. So far, most of the summer thunderstorms had rolled through the city during the day, but a few had broken the night stillness with booming thunder and pounding rain.

She closed her eyes, wondering if she’d be able to get back to sleep, but with every roll of thunder, her heartbeat ticked up a notch. She flung back the covers and walked down the hall and into the kitchen. It was a short walk and an easy one. No light switches to fumble around for in the dark. The only time Shaye was in the dark was when the power went out, and even then, she had a lantern and a whole nightstand drawer full of flashlights, located right above the drawer filled with batteries.

No complete darkness. No candles. Not ever.

She grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator and flopped down on the couch. The television was mounted on the wall in front of her, but the cable guy wasn’t due until tomorrow, so right now, it was just a big black monitor, providing no distraction whatsoever. At least the Internet guy had made a call that afternoon. Television she could do without for a night or two, but having no Internet was akin to having no hot water. It just wasn’t a livable sort of thing.

She rubbed the bottle of water across her forehead. The air-conditioning in the apartment was good, but the humidity from the storms made the air inside stale and muggy. Her laptop sat on the end table where she’d left it before she went to bed, so she flipped it open and fired up a movie on Netflix. At least it provided a little bit of noise to drown out the storm.

Staring at the dark television in front of her, she tried to force her mind from the dream but she couldn’t. Was it real? She had no doubt the girl in the dream was her, but what she didn’t know was if the dream was true. Had that really happened to her? Was that the reason she was terrified of the dark and hated even the sight of a candle? Or did she fear those things for other reasons and the dream was a made-up story that her mind had created? Its way of expelling her demons?

Would she ever know?

She blew out a breath. Eleonore told her that her mind had blocked the past in order to protect her from a mental break. Given the extent of her physical injuries, Shaye had no doubt that was true, but Eleonore also thought that one day, when she was strong enough, she might start to remember. The problem was, right now, everything Shaye saw was only in her dreams. Nothing flashed through her mind or caught her attention when she was awake. Only when she was sleeping did the darkness creep in.

The dream felt real. She could feel the terror the girl felt, the horribly painful throbbing of her foot, the awful desperation when she began to pray.

Shaye’s foot had been broken. It was one of the many things she’d had surgery to fix after she’d gone to live with Corrine. Two long scars across her wrists indicated a suicide attempt, and one made by a child who had seen it in the movies but didn’t know that you should cut long ways if you were serious about dying. But again, were those things that she knew to be true manifesting themselves in her dream, or was the dream giving her a glimpse of her past?

As much as the dreams terrified her, she hoped they were real. Because if she never remembered, then the people who’d done this to her would get away with it.

###

Emma hurried across the hospital parking lot, one of the hospital security guards in tow. Jeremy Walker was a nice man and more importantly, a big man and a retired cop. When her shift had ended, she’d sought him out specifically and asked if he would walk her to her car. It was a little after 2:00 a.m., and most of the city had shut down for the night. But it was midweek. Come the weekend, at 2:00 a.m., some parties would just be getting started.

“How you doing tonight, Miss Frederick?” Jeremy asked as they walked.

“I’m doing all right,” Emma said. “Thanks for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You’ve had a rough time of it lately, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Things will get better, right? Isn’t that what you always tell the victims—that time heals everything?”

“I reckon that’s what we say.”

Emma looked up at him. “You don’t think it’s true?”

Jeremy frowned, his dark eyes troubled. “I don’t guess I do. I don’t think there’s enough time to repair some things. Some things just become part of a person, like their skin color. It doesn’t have to define them, but it’s always with them.”

“That’s an interesting way to look at it, and I agree with you. I don’t doubt that at some point I’ll be as happy as I was before, but I don’t think I’ll ever be the same, if that makes sense.”

“Yes, ma’am, it does. Most people go through life with a false sense of security…until something happens. Then you start to take a closer look at the way you do everything and the risks involved.”

“Like walking to my car alone at night in a dark parking lot?” Emma smiled.

“Two weeks ago, you’d have been waving and hurrying out that door without so much as a backward glance.”

Emma stopped in front of her car. “Well, I appreciate you walking me out here.”

“Any time. And I mean that. You don’t go traipsing around here like you’re some superhero. They gave me a badge and a gun for a reason.”

Emma placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “You’re the best, Jeremy.”

He smiled. “I’m going to tell my wife you said so. Sometimes she needs a reminder. Now, go on and get out of here.”

He took a couple steps back from her car but stood and waited as she pressed the button to unlock her car door. Clearly, Jeremy didn’t consider the job done until he saw taillights. She pulled on the door handle, but the car was still locked. She pressed the button again, waiting to hear the click that indicated the lock has disengaged, but it never made a sound. She pulled on the handle again, just to be sure, but it didn’t budge.

“Is something wrong?” Jeremy asked.

“The keyless entry isn’t working. Something else to take care of, I guess.” She pulled her car keys out of her purse, disengaged the slave key, and manually opened the car door. “I can’t remember the last time I used a key to do this.”

Jeremy nodded as he pulled her door open. “Technology has taken over the world. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m not one of those old people always bitching about progress. Last night I talked to my granddaughter in Tokyo on the computer. Nope, you won’t hear me complaining at all.”

“That’s great,” Emma said, trying not to think about all the times she’d Skyped with David. All the emotions she felt seeing her husband so far away and in a war zone. Back then, she couldn’t wait to see him again. Now she was afraid she’d never stop seeing him.

Jeremy shut her door and stepped back from the car. She tried to start the car, but it didn’t make a sound. She tried again. Nothing. She opened the door and stepped out. “It won’t start.”

“Probably your battery,” Jeremy said, “which would explain the remote not working. Pop your hood and I’ll take a look.”

She reached back into the car and released the hood latch. Jeremy lifted the hood and shone his flashlight onto the battery cables.

“One of your cables is loose,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any pliers?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No worries. I can get it fixed up well enough to get you home. You got pliers there?”

“If I don’t, I can get them.”

Jeremy pulled a package of gum from his pocket and popped a piece in his mouth. He offered Emma one but she declined, then watched in confusion as he carefully folded the foil wrapper. Her confusion cleared when he stuffed the wrapper in between the terminal and the wire cap to hold it in place.

“It will conduct power because it’s metal,” she said. “Ingenious.”

“Done it more times than you can guess. Probably still carry gum because of it. Don’t chew it much anymore because of my dentures. Go ahead and try her again.”

Emma hopped into the car and gave it another try. The engine roared to life and she grinned at Jeremy as he closed the hood. “Lifesaver,” she said.

Jeremy smiled. “All this flattery is going to ruin me.”

“I’ve never had that happen before,” Emma said. “Is it common?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s common, but it happens. When was the last time you had the car in for service?”

“Last month. They did an oil change and the usual once-over.”

Jeremy nodded. “Most likely, it got knocked loose. Or someone removed the terminal and didn’t tighten it well when he put it back on. Make sure you get that tightened before you drive it anywhere else.”

“Absolutely! Thanks again, for everything.”

“You have a nice night, Miss Frederick. What’s left of it.”

Emma shut the car door and backed out of the space. She could see Jeremy in her rearview mirror, still standing where she’d left him, watching her drive away. As soon as she rounded the corner, the smile she’d forced for the old security guard vanished and her anxiety shot up another notch.

Maybe Jeremy was right and the terminal was loosened during her last service, but she didn’t really believe that. The service had been over a month ago. What were the chances that it just happened to pick now to pop off? Emma had never been a big believer in coincidence.

It was him.

Clutching the steering wheel, she fought back the anxiety that threatened to take over. She had to remain calm. Scared people made mistakes, and she wasn’t about to become the ditzy heroine who ran back into the spooky house.

Still, when she got to the hotel, she would valet her car. Damn the twenty dollars a day plus tip.

She refused to be scared. But she was going to be careful.

Chapter Four

Shaye hesitated in front of the door to the police station. The morning work crowd hustled down the sidewalks, hurrying to make the nine o’clock shift. Artists, toting their wares, made their way toward Jackson Square, hoping to make some money off the tourists. Everything was so normal, except for the part where she was standing in front of the police station.

Shaye hadn’t been in this building for nine years, and if she was being honest, she didn’t really want to go inside now. But that same honesty forced her to admit that she’d accepted long ago that if she hung her hat out as a private investigator, the odds of her needing to pay the occasional visit to the New Orleans police was going to be high. Before she could find a reason to put it off until after lunch, Shaye pushed the door open and stepped inside.

A bench sat against the wall on the left side. A reception desk stretched across the right side, separating the tiny lobby from a sea of desks occupied by police officers. A lot of New Orleans may be just going to work, but the police station was already jumping. Three drunken young men sat at one desk, their fraternity letters emblazoned on their shirts. One of them caught sight of her and nudged the others, causing them to break out into “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.” Clearly they’d seen Top Gun one too many times.

Two women, either prostitutes or exotic dancers, sat at another desk, their expressions shifting between anger and boredom. At some desks, people talked in raised voices, maybe a decibel below screaming, while others leaned across the desk, whispering and looking embarrassed.

Shaye scanned the faces for the policeman she’d come to see, but she couldn’t locate him.

An older man with silver hair, what was left of it, studied her over the reception desk. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yes,” Shaye said. “I’d like to speak to Detective Beaumont.”

“A lot of people would, but he retired last year.”

“Oh.” Shaye was a bit taken aback at first, then she chided herself. Detective Beaumont had sported a full head of gray nine years ago. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’d retired. Unfortunately, that left her with no one to talk to…no one she trusted, anyway.

“Would you like to talk to someone else?” the sergeant asked.

“I guess so. I’m looking for someone who can talk to me about David Grange’s murder.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You with the paper? Because we don’t just hand out information to reporters.”

“No. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the deceased’s wife.”

The sergeant raised one eyebrow, his expression clearly shouting “bullshit.”

Shaye reached for her purse and fumbled with her wallet, trying to pull out her ID. Finally, she managed to get the identification out and presented it to him. The sergeant leaned over to look at the card, then looked back up at Shaye.

“You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I’m twenty-four. Some might consider that young, but I’m legit.”

The man shook his head. “Pretty girl like you…why would you want to be a PI? Chasing down cheating husbands and insurance fakers? It’s a thankless job.”

“I’m not looking for thanks. I’m looking for the truth.”

He snorted. “Girl, you got a lot to learn, and I’m betting it’s going to be a bumpy ride. But what the hell do I know? Thirty-two years at this job and I still get up and drive to work every day. I’ll get you someone to talk to.”

He turned around in his chair and yelled, “Vincent! Someone here needs to talk to you.”

A heavyset man with short silver hair and glasses looked over at Shaye and frowned. “Send her back!”

The sergeant turned back around. “That’s Detective Vincent. He was the senior officer on the Grange murder. I’m sure he can help you.” But his tone when he delivered the last statement didn’t instill confidence.

Shaye took a deep breath and walked past the reception desk and into the sea of police officers and criminals, preparing herself for the complete waste of time that talking to Detective Vincent was probably going to be.

As she approached his desk, he grabbed a stack of folders in one of the metal chairs and shoved them into the only bare corner of his desk. He motioned for her to take the seat and plopped back into his chair, glancing at his watch and then his computer screen.

“I’m Detective Vincent,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Shaye Archer. I’m a private investigator, and I was recently hired by Emma Frederick to look into some things concerning her late husband, David Grange.”

The detective’s eyes widened slightly when she threw out the private investigator part, but he managed to force the bored look back into place. “I don’t know what it is you or the Frederick woman needs to know. The man’s dead and she killed him. From where I sit, it seemed like a good idea. Not sure what more there is to investigate.”

“Ms. Frederick thinks she’s being stalked.”

Vincent sighed and slumped back in his chair. “This again?”

“Are you the officer she spoke to a couple of days ago?”

“I’m afraid so. Look, I listened to everything she had to say, drove to her house, and me and my partner checked every square inch of the place. There was no forced entry, and Ms. Frederick told me she’d changed the locks after the other incident. I can’t make something out of nothing.”

Shaye’s back tightened and she struggled to maintain her cool. “Ms. Frederick saw someone in her house. How can that be nothing?”

Vincent shook his head. “Emma Frederick is a nice woman who went through something horrible. Regular people aren’t prepared to be attacked, much less kill their attacker, especially when they’re married to him. I’d be more worried if she didn’t have some trauma after what she’s been through.”

“You think she imagined it.” No wonder Emma had been so worried that Shaye wouldn’t believe her. Someone was stalking the woman, and the cop who should be trying to figure out who it was didn’t even think there was anything to investigate.

“Of course she imagined it. What other possible explanation is there?”

“I don’t know. I suppose someone could have been in her house but you failed to find the point of ingress.”

“Got yourself a live one, Vincent,” said a young policeman at the desk next to Vincent’s. He looked at another cop standing next to him and grinned.

Vincent shot them a bored look. “I didn’t fail to find anything because there wasn’t anything to find.”

“Maybe. But I’m being paid to make sure.”

“So make sure. It’s not my dime.”

His dismissive tone was the last straw for Shaye. Since when had the burden of proof shifted to the victim? “And if I find something you missed?”

Vincent’s jaw flexed. “Look, you seem like a nice girl. You should be down in the Quarter, partying with your girlfriends and looking for a husband to get you that piece of the good life.”

Even though she knew he’d said it to get to her, Shaye bristled. “The day I need a man is the day I check myself into a convent.”

Vincent smirked. “But yet you’re here needing something. And I’m a man.”

Shaye smiled. “I’ll acquiesce to the first comment. I’m not convinced of the second.”

“Ooooh.” The other cops sounded off in tandem as Shaye rose from the chair.

“Thank you so much for your time, Detective Vincent. Since that’s all you gave me.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the exit.

“You go girl,” one of the prostitutes said as Shaye passed. “Don’t take no shit from a man or you’ll end up like me.”

Shaye gave her a nod and picked up her pace, letting the door to the station slam shut behind her. To hell with the cops. Hoping for some help from Detective Beaumont had been a reach to begin with. She had no reason to expect a cop who didn’t even know her to offer up information. Before she’d even said a word to Detective Vincent, she’d expected him to scoff at her profession and the case, but she hadn’t expected the level of derision he’d shown toward her client. Clearly, Vincent had problems with women, and even more of a problem with someone finding out he’d been wrong.

Shaye had every intention of making that potential problem a reality.

###

As the precinct door slammed shut behind Shaye Archer, Detective Jackson Lamotte sat at his desk nearby watching as two rookie cops starting razing Vincent. It wasn’t smart of them. Vincent had rank and could make their jobs miserable, a fact he knew all too well since he’d been partnered with Vincent a year ago. But he couldn’t blame them for their delight. Vincent was a sexist asshole and a lazy cop to boot. Sure, he’d taken down his share of bad guys back in the day, but now he seemed content with cruising straight into retirement on past performance.

Jackson had known exactly how things would go the moment Shaye sat down at Vincent’s desk. At least, he’d known how things would go from Vincent’s end. With her cool demeanor and quick comebacks, Shaye had surprised him. For someone so young, she wasn’t easily intimidated.

He looked out the window and watched as she crossed the street and went into a café. Vincent’s irritated voice sounded behind him as he argued with the rookies. Jackson glanced back and decided the argument would probably take a while, and then Vincent would need a break to recover from his hard morning. Vincent always needed a break, and lately, every morning was hard. Basically, unless dispatch forced Vincent off his desk, Jackson wouldn’t be needed or missed. Maybe when the man retired, Jackson would get to do actual full-time work again. Shuffling paper at his desk was getting old.

He rose from his chair and grabbed his cell phone and wallet out of his desk drawer. No one even looked his direction as he wove in between the desks and made his way out of the precinct.

It was too late for the work crowd and too early for the tourists, so he easily spotted Shaye at a table in the back corner, sipping on a latte. Only one other table was occupied—two old men arguing over gas prices and the best place to get a haircut. They barely nodded as he made his way past them. Shaye, however, was another story. Her gaze locked onto him as soon as he stepped in the café, and never wavered as he walked directly toward her. Her eyes widened for an instant as he stopped at her table, but she recovered quickly.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“No. But I think I can help you.”

She gave him a disgusted look. “Take a hike, perv.”

Jackson let out a single laugh. “Shit. No, that’s not it.” He pulled out his ID and held it out for her to see. “I’m a detective.”

“That’s too bad.”

“There’s days I feel the same way. I heard your exchange with Vincent. Do you mind if I sit down?”

She studied him for a moment, then pointed to the chair. “Suit yourself.”

As Jackson pulled the chair out and sat, a waitress sauntered over and smiled at him. “Your usual, Detective?”

“That would be great,” he said. “Thanks, Christi.”

“First-name basis?” Shaye asked.

“Café…police station. Seems a natural progression.”

“I suppose so.”

Christi returned with a large mug of black coffee and sat it in front of him. He added a packet of the fake stuff and stirred. “About Vincent, I would apologize for his behavior, but I don’t figure you’d care, and he’s not my responsibility.”

Shaye raised one eyebrow. “Honest and direct. That’s something I don’t get often.”

“Yeah, well, I’m lazy and lying requires too much effort.”

Shaye’s lower lip trembled and he could tell she wanted to smile, but he hadn’t completely breached her defenses.

“I’m glad you stopped across the street,” he continued. “I probably wouldn’t have followed you more than a block. Maybe less.”

The smile finally crept through. “So why are you expending so much of your valuable energy pursuing me into coffee shops?”

“Emma Frederick hired you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me why exactly?”

Normally, Shaye would never give out information about a case, but Detective Lamotte wasn’t just anyone, and given that he’d heard her conversation with Vincent, he already knew most of it. The case part, anyway.

“She’s being stalked.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because she said so. Look, Detective Lamotte—”

“Call me Jackson.”

“Okay, Jackson, I don’t know when the police department’s policy changed from helping victims to mocking them, but I don’t like it. Emma Frederick is a nice woman who is scared to death, and you guys are telling her she’s imagining things.”

He understood her anger, but he didn’t think she was right. Not completely. “In my job, I’m not allowed the luxury of what I believe to be the case. Only what I can prove.”

“Which is a great concept if I were gathering evidence for a murder trial, but my goal is to prevent her from being murdered. Consider my services a preemptive strike.”

“The implication being that the police arrive at the party after it’s already over.”

She held her hands up and tilted her head to the side. “You said it.”

And unfortunately, there was a huge element of truth in the statement. Cops rarely actively prevented crime. They investigated it. Past tense. But if someone had the means to hire a private investigator, they could go on the offensive. “I’ll be the first to agree that having someone check into things gives Ms. Frederick an advantage most don’t have. But I also know more about the situation than you do. You see, Detective Vincent is my partner.”

“And you’re sitting here with me. Are you trying to piss him off?”

“Not directly, but if that’s a side effect of our conversation, I’m okay with it.”

She smirked. “We can both agree on that. Have you been partners long?”

“A year, but it feels like a ten-year journey through hell.”

“I can imagine. Did you work David Grange’s murder?”

Jackson nodded. “And I checked out Ms. Frederick’s house after she came in and claimed someone had been inside the night before.”

Shaye shifted in her chair, and Jackson could tell she was dying to let a million questions fly, but she was still playing it cool. He had to give her credit. She was doing a credible job of it.

“Is it like Vincent said?” she finally asked.

“Yeah. Not that he knows firsthand, mind you. He pretty much stood around in the living room and nodded. I did all the heavy lifting.”

“And there’s no way someone broke in?”

“There’s always a chance. Locks aren’t perfect. With the right tools, an expert could be inside in a second. But…”

“Nothing was stolen, so that lets out professional thieves, and locksmiths don’t usually let themselves in strangers’ houses simply to terrorize them.”

“Pretty much. None of the windows had been messed with, and I couldn’t see signs of tampering on the door locks, either. A pro wouldn’t leave signs, but most break-ins aren’t conducted by pros. No footprints in the backyard, and we’d had heavy rain earlier that evening. The backyard is covered with shade trees, so grass is at a premium. There’s no way to get to the back door without leaving footprints across the lawn.”

“So he entered through the front door.”

“If he entered, that’s the only option that I can see, but it’s not a great one. The front porch is visible by at least eight houses on the block, and Emma herself said she always leaves the porch light on.”

Shaye sighed. “You don’t believe her either.”

“I believe Emma thinks someone was in her house that night. I believe she thinks she’s being stalked, and she may be right.”

“But?”

“But if someone is stalking her, there’s no way it’s her husband. David Grange is dead. I saw the body myself, and trust me, no one comes back from a severed carotid. Not after he’s bled for as long as he did. I understand you believing that Emma is being stalked. She’s your client and it’s your job to take her at her word unless you have good reason not to. But given the evidence, you can’t possibly believe her stalker is David Grange.”

“I never said I did. I made the necessary phone calls yesterday. Everyone seems quite clear on the fact that David was dead before the paramedics arrived. And no one doubts that the corpse they handled was indeed David Grange. Honestly, I don’t think Emma believes David is her stalker either, but I do believe someone is following her. He’s just being very clever about it, because as long as Emma has no proof, she has no protection. But too many odd things have happened to her, and I’m not a big fan of coincidence.”

Jackson tapped one finger on the table. Sometimes he hated how the rules and the law tied his hands when he couldn’t find enough proof to back up his theories. The reality was, Emma Frederick had gotten to him. And if he was being honest, he believed someone was watching her. Despite the fact that she was clearly frightened, he found her logical and more importantly, sane. Maybe not every strange incident that had happened to her in the last couple of months could be attributed to PTSD or coincidence. Like Shaye, he wasn’t a big fan of it either.

“Can you tell me anything about David Grange?” Shaye asked.

“He was abusive. Ms. Frederick got a restraining order. He violated it and attacked her, and she killed him. One of her neighbors corroborated him striking her.”

“Really? She didn’t tell me that.”

“She might not know. The officers who worked the abuse complaint questioned them. A retired gentleman who lives next door was trimming his rosebushes and could see them arguing through Emma’s kitchen window. He saw David hit her.”

“Trimming his rosebushes, huh?”

“Ha. More likely, he was out pretending to trim the bushes so he could be nosy, but either way, it was a good thing for Ms. Frederick. Between the eyewitness report and her hospital records, we had no question of credibility, and because of that, it was easy to forgo any charges against her for David’s death. The DA took one look at the file and said ‘Thank her for her service to society and cut her loose.’”

“So you didn’t investigate any further? You didn’t check out David any further?”

“Why would we?”

She sighed. “You wouldn’t. Your case was closed.”

Jackson frowned. “Why do you want to know more about David? You’ve already agreed that he can’t be the stalker.”