Текст книги "Malevolent"

Автор книги: Jana Deleon

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Yes.” Emma opened a door and Shaye entered the small walk-in and opened the panel on the security system box.

“I looked at it that night,” Emma said, “and it all looked fine to me, but I’ll be the first to admit I have no idea what I’m looking at. The cop who searched the house looked too, but he didn’t mention anything being wrong.”

Shaye pulled the tools out of her back pocket and went to work on the electrical outlet that held the power adapter. “He wasn’t looking as closely as me.” She worked the electrical plug out from the wall and held it up for Emma to see. “It’s not wired.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “But isn’t there a battery for when the power goes out?”

Shaye nodded and lifted the battery out of the security panel box. She pulled the right battery terminal off and looked at it, but it appeared okay. When she pulled the left one, it snapped off completely, leaving small bits of a clear plastic substance in her hand.

“What is it?” Emma asked.

“Superglue. He broke the terminal and glued it on to make it look like it was still connected.”

The bit of color that had returned to Emma’s face, left. “But how did he get inside the house to begin with? I changed the locks.”

“If someone has the right tools and knowledge, they can pick a lock. What did David do in the military?”

“He was infantry, but he trained to repair their trucks and other equipment.”

Shaye nodded and made a mental note.

“Why would that matter?” Emma asked. “I mean, we’ve agreed that it can’t be David…”

Shaye placed the battery back in the panel and closed it. “No. But it’s probably someone who knew him.”

“Someone who might have the same skill set. I see.”

“Have any of David’s coworkers or military buddies shown up?”

“I was just thinking about that last night, but the answer is no. I’ve only met a handful of people that David knew, so it wasn’t like I was close with any of them. I assumed it was because of the way he died. I mean, what do you say to the widow who killed her husband?”

“Probably not ‘can I have your number’?”

Emma stared at her for a moment, then broke into laughter. She laughed so hard she stumbled backward into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her face. Shaye stepped out of the closet and closed the door behind her, happy that Emma enjoyed her joke. Eleonore had used the same ploy so many times in therapy when things got difficult for Shaye to handle. This was the first time Shaye had tried it herself.

Emma finally regained control and wiped her eyes with her fingers. “Oh my God. I needed that so badly. I can’t even remember the last time I laughed. I mean really laughed.”

“Have you thought about talking to someone…I mean, about all of this?”

“Yes. And I will.” Emma looked up at her and smiled. “You’re a good person, Shaye. I know my discernment hasn’t been all that great recently, but I’m sure I’m right about you.”

Shaye felt a blush creep up her neck. No matter how much Eleonore had worked with her, Shaye still found compliments uncomfortable. On one hand, it pleased her to know she was appreciated, but deep down, there was some dark part of her that whispered that she didn’t deserve them.

“I’m glad you laughed,” Shaye said. “I would have had to return the retainer if you hadn’t.”

Emma smiled, then sobered. “Do you think it means something that none of David’s coworkers or old military buddies contacted me?”

“No. I was more interested in if someone had. Staying away seems normal under the circumstances.”

“And if someone had gotten in touch?”

“If it was a simple ‘sorry and let me know if I can do anything,’ then I still don’t see any cause for alarm. But this guy is playing with you, and sitting down with you for coffee would be another ego boost for him.”

“Oh. That’s a horrible thought. I’m glad they all stayed away.”

“Me too, but if anyone shows up, you let me know.”

Emma nodded and rose from the bed. “Let’s go look at my old bedroom.”

They headed down the hall and into the bedroom that Emma had occupied as a child. Emma opened the closet door and pushed the clothes aside to show Shaye the panel at the back. Shaye got on her hands and knees, slid the panel back, and peered inside.

The room was narrow and dark, and Shaye imagined Emma huddled in the far corner, hearing the whistling on the other side of the thin plaster wall, her pulse racing. If hiding in this room had been the only thing that could save Shaye from an attacker, she probably would have died. Even now, her breathing was somewhat shallow.

She backed out of the closet and looked over at Emma, who was fingering the edge of a lamp. “Is it supposed to be for winter storage?” Shaye asked.

“I don’t really know. I found it when I came to live with Aunt Margaret. She’d only recently moved in and didn’t even know about it.” Emma gave her a sad smile. “I was only five when my parents died and I came to live here. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. How many kids had a secret room in their closet?”

“Narnia.”

“Exactly. Except no cold and no witch. I used to crawl inside and stay there for hours, reading books with a flashlight. Even though Aunt Margaret never had children, somehow she knew to leave me alone when I was there. That somehow I felt safe, and inside the closet, I could work things out.”

“You’re lucky you had your Aunt Margaret.” Something Shaye knew firsthand.

“Extremely lucky.” Emma looked back at the closet and frowned. “But now it doesn’t feel safe. I mean, it saved my life, but I didn’t feel safe in there. I was scared to death. I can’t even imagine crawling back in there.”

Shaye knew exactly how Emma felt and didn’t blame her one bit. “Let’s see the rest of it and get out of here.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They finished with the upstairs, then Shaye checked out the backyard and immediately saw what Jackson had meant when he said an intruder would have left prints if entering through the back of the house. The giant oak trees created shade over a good two-thirds of the backyard, leaving much of the ground bare. There was no way to approach the house from the back without creating evidence of passage.

As Shaye exited the house, she caught sight of something sitting on the steps leading up to the front porch. She walked over and saw it was a card in a bright pink envelope. She picked it up and checked both sides, but didn’t see anything to indicate who the card was for. Behind her, Emma closed and locked the front door and Shaye turned around.

“I found this on the steps,” Shaye said.

Emma turned and looked at Shaye’s outstretched hand. Her eyes widened and her hand flew up over her mouth. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “Open it.”

Shaye opened the envelope and pulled out a birthday card. Before she even opened it, she already knew who it was from.

Happy Birthday, my darling. David

“He was here,” Emma said. “I told you he’s following me. There’s no other way he could have found me at the repair shop.”

Shaye frowned and stuffed the card back in the envelope. “Can I keep this?”

“Yes, please. I don’t ever want to see it again. I don’t want to see any of that stuff again.”

Shaye slipped the card in her duffel bag. There was really little purpose in keeping it, except that she didn’t want Emma to have to deal with it. The likelihood of finding a print for the stalker was low. He had been clever so far, so Shaye couldn’t imagine him slipping and leaving a print on the card. And the card would have been handled by any number of store employees and however many people pulled it off the shelf to look at it, then put it back.

“Stay calm,” Shaye said. She looked up and down the street, but didn’t see anyone holding an “I’m a stalker” sign. Still, leaving the card on the porch steps when they were inside was brazen.

Unless he’d had someone else do his dirty work again.

“Too bad Mr. Abshire is busy in the backyard. He might have seen who delivered the card.”

“Oh! That’s right. The stalker could have sent someone else, like he did with the skater kid.”

“Did the skater kid give his name?”

“No.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Maybe fifteen or so. Long dirty blond hair in a ponytail, and I mean dirty blond both in color and in condition. He looked like he needed a good scrubbing. His eyes were light green and he had a tattoo on the back of his hand—an eyeball. It didn’t look like professional work, and to be honest, it was a little creepy.”

“What color was it?”

“Black. Why, do you know him?”

“No, but I think I’d like to meet him.”

“You think he knows more than he was telling?”

“Maybe. If he’s a street kid, probably. They don’t miss much, but they’re not exactly big on volunteering information, either.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We get back into our cars and head back to New Orleans.”

“But we were going to talk. If he’s following me…”

“That’s why we’re going to meet at Landry’s. There’s a parking lot next door and plenty of people around. He won’t make a move in public. That’s not his play.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you taking any chances. If you think he could come after you…”

“If he’s been watching, then he saw the sample books. He has no reason to think I’m anything but what I’m putting myself out to be.”

“I guess,” Emma said, but Shaye could tell she wasn’t convinced.

“After lunch, you’re going to change hotels.”

“He’ll find me again,” Emma said, sounding totally defeated.

“Maybe, but it will probably buy you a few days. You told me you picked a hotel close to your job. When he realized you were no longer staying in your home, those are probably the first places he checked.”

A flush ran up Emma’s neck and cheeks. “I’m so stupid! I’m sure you’re right.”

“You’re not stupid. You just don’t think like a criminal. That’s a good thing.”

“Seems like it would be an advantage right now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got that part covered. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Emma nodded and headed to her car. Shaye tossed the sample books and her duffel bag into her car and hopped inside. As Emma pulled away, Shaye started her car and headed down the street.

He was getting bolder.

That gave Shaye more opportunity to expose him, but made it that much more dangerous for Emma.

###

He lowered his binoculars as the cars rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The attic window was tiny but provided a perfect view of Emma’s house. He could even see inside the open windows. It had been so kind of Mrs. Pearson, the homeowner, to go see her new grandchild in Arizona, and so unfortunate that she’d returned home before his work was finished. In a day or two, her family would grow concerned and the police would pay a visit, but there would be nothing to indicate he was there, except Mrs. Pearson, and she wasn’t going to talk.

Emma wouldn’t return to the house. Not to live. Not even to stay overnight.

She had done everything she could to keep him out—set the alarm, rekeyed the locks—but there was no lock he couldn’t pick. He’d learned that skill long ago, when it was the only way to buy his freedom. And the alarm was a joke. Most home alarm systems were. Even commercial systems were lacking, which was good. After all, a man had to make a living, and working a regular job wouldn’t allow enough time for his hobbies.

He smiled. Every man needed a hobby.

He wondered about the woman who’d met Emma at the house. Mama would say she was just another whore, but he couldn’t manage his life with such a simplistic viewpoint. Even a whore could put a kink in his fun, and that just wouldn’t do. The fabric sample books implied interior decorator, but her casual jeans and tennis shoes didn’t convey that at all. Even stranger, the “decorator” had kept the card he’d left on the steps. Why would she do that?

He supposed she could have seen Emma’s panic and offered to get rid of it for her, but he’d fully expected Emma to run to the police with what she thought was hard evidence. It wouldn’t be, of course. A card owned by Emma and found on her property was hardly a smoking gun. The cops still wouldn’t have anything to go on, and the last time he checked, they didn’t offer bodyguard services, anyway.

He frowned, thinking about the decorator again.

Something told him she needed a closer look. He had big plans for Emma, and no one was going to get in his way.

Chapter Seven

Shaye pulled up to the curb just down the street from Andy’s Auto Repair and parked. The street was the usual mix of old buildings, some residential, some retail, some commercial. Shaye had never been interested in travel—too much change too fast. Too many unknowns, but she wondered how many cities offered the same sort of eclectic blend within a one-block radius, especially in areas with no high-rise buildings.

She walked down the sidewalk toward the café that Emma had been walking to when the skater had accosted her. A couple of teens were standing on the corner, so she headed toward them. They stopped talking as she approached and gave her a once-over.

“Hi, guys,” she said. “I’m looking for a skater who lives in the area. Dirty blond hair in a ponytail. Maybe fifteen.”

One of the teens narrowed his eyes at her. “You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“No, but that don’t mean nothing. Why you looking for this skater dude?”

Shaye pulled out her license and showed it to the boys. “I think he saw the man who’s stalking the lady who hired me.”

“No shit!” The second teen shook his head. “That’s fucked up. If some dude was stalking my moms, I’d cut him.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” the first teen asked. “You gonna cut him?”

“Unless he presents a threat, that would be illegal,” Shaye said.

“But he’s stalking some lady, right?” the second teen said. “So if you find the dude, then he might try to attack you. Could you cut him then?”

“I’d probably just shoot him,” Shaye said, assuming the blunt truth would work best with these two.

The two boys looked at each other and nodded.

“Badass,” the first one said.

“I think I’ve seen the dude you’re looking for,” the second one said. “He hasn’t been around too long. I seen him before at the docks. That’s where the skaters do their thing.”

“Thanks,” Shaye said. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” the first one said.

“I hope you get him,” the second teen said. “The stalker, I mean.”

“So do I,” Shaye said, then headed back to her car. The docks were only a couple of blocks away. With any luck, the skater would be doing “his thing.”

It took only a couple of minutes to drive to the dock, and Shaye’s spirits lifted a bit when she saw several skaters using the concrete forms as their own personal obstacle course. She parked and headed for the docks, easily spotting the long blond ponytail as she walked. When she got close to the docks, she stood and watched until the boy looked her way, then she motioned to him.

He stopped skating and stared at her for several seconds, but didn’t move. Probably deciding whether to approach her or flee. She must not have looked threatening, because he finally picked up his board and shuffled over to her.

“Who are you?” he asked, stopping about ten feet away.

“Shaye Archer.” She pulled out her license and showed him. “I’m a private investigator. I’m hoping you can help me.”

The boy held up his hand. “Look, I ain’t know nothing.”

She smiled. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want no trouble is all. I don’t like the cops.”

“At the moment, I’m not crazy about them myself. Look, there’s a lady I’m trying to help because the police won’t. You brought her a scarf this morning.”

He gave her a wary look. “Yeah, I remember. She acted like I held out a snake or something. She’s not saying I stole it, is she?”

“Nothing like that. The man who gave you the scarf has been following her.”

His eyes widened. “He’s a creeper? Oh man. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known that. No wonder she was scared. Shit, I feel bad now.” He looked genuinely upset.

“It’s not your fault. You were just being nice.”

He shrugged.

Shaye pulled out her cell phone and opened an image she’d loaded of David Grange. “I wanted to know if this is the man you saw.”

She turned the phone around to show the boy. He squinted at first, then finally moved closer. Shaye knew David wasn’t the man the boy saw, but wanted to give him a starting point for a description. When he frowned and continued to look at the photo, she started to wonder.

Finally, he shook his head. “It wasn’t him, but the dude looked a lot like him.” He pointed to the phone. “This guy has a square jaw. The other guy didn’t.”

“But he looked like this—a lot or a little?”

“Enough to be related. I mean, dude had on sunglasses, but yeah, I can see where people might think they were the same guy. Unless they was looking really close.”

Related. 

David had told Emma that he had no living relatives, but then he probably hadn’t told her he’d abuse her either. What if everything he’d told her was a lie? A brother would be a good choice to seek revenge for Emma’s killing David. In fact, it was the most logical speculation she’d come across so far.

“What’s your name?” Shaye asked.

The boy hesitated for a moment. “Everyone calls me Hustle.”

“You live around here?”

“You’re standing on my front porch.”

Shaye glanced around, but all that stretched for a hundred yards was dock and parking lot. “You live on the streets? How old are you?”

“Old enough.” His jaw set in a hard line.

Shaye held in a smile. She’d used the same line on Jackson Lamotte, and had probably been as irritated by the question as Hustle was now.

“Look, I’m asking because I know a social worker. If you’re underage, she can help.”

He took a step back and pulled up his shirt to expose three long scars running across his belly. “Last time someone ‘helped’ me, they stuck me in a house with the guy who did this.”

Shaye’s stomach rolled. “Your foster parent did that?”

He dropped his shirt and looked away.

Shaye knew this kid—not personally, of course, but knew him from so many of the stories that Corrine had told her about the cases she worked. It wouldn’t do any good to detain him. If they put him in a group home or new foster home, he’d only be there as long as it took to get away. If Corrine hadn’t taken her in, and Shaye had experienced more trauma in a group or foster home, Shaye had no doubt she would have done the same thing. There were plenty of great foster parents and lots of good people working in group homes, but in every crowd, there were the ones that weren’t so great. Weren’t so nice.

“Where are your parents?” she asked.

“Never knew my pops. My mom got killed last year by her ex-boyfriend. Said he was gonna get her for breaking it off with him, and he did. The coward did that shit while I was in school, wasting my time in history class when I could have protected her.”

Shaye’s heart ached for this boy. She knew better than anyone what it felt like to be physically beaten down, to be afraid of everyone you came in contact with. But she’d had Corrine. This boy had been dealt the horrible blow of his mother’s murder, then an abusive foster father. She wanted to do something to help him, but she knew he wouldn’t allow it. Couldn’t, because he couldn’t afford to trust her, either.

She pulled out her wallet and emptied it of the eighty dollars in cash inside. She handed it to Hustle. “Take this. Get something decent to eat.”

He looked at the money and frowned. “Why you giving me money?”

“Because when I was fifteen I had no one, but a social worker took me in, gave me everything I needed to get healthy and get an education. She even adopted me. I was lucky. And I’d like to call her to help you, but I know you won’t accept it. So the least I can offer you is money for food.”

“You was on the street?”

She nodded.

He studied her for a couple seconds more, then took the cash and stuffed it in his pocket. She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “This is my cell number. If you change your mind, call me. Anytime.”

He took at the card and nodded. “Thanks,” he said, then dropped the skateboard and took off.

Shaye stood there until he disappeared around the end of the dock, wishing she could have done more and praying that one day he would be ready for help. Finally, she turned around and headed back to her car. Hustle had given her something to think about.

It was high time to dig into David Grange’s past.

###

Emma pulled her makeup bag out of her suitcase and placed it on the vanity. It had taken her an hour to get to the new hotel. It was only five miles away from the first hotel, but she’d driven up the highway and around every borough of the French Quarter making sure she wasn’t being followed. When she was finally convinced no one had tailed her, she’d pulled into the parking garage and registered for a single night. If she didn’t feel okay tomorrow morning, she’d find another place. Maybe it was crazy, but Emma didn’t care. She was done ignoring that nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. She hadn’t felt safe at the other hotel, and she’d had good reason not to. New Orleans had plenty of hotels and she was traveling light. If she had to move every day, she’d do it.

But for how long?

The question was one that kept creeping into her thoughts and it never failed to frustrate her, mainly because she didn’t have an answer. How long would it take to identify her stalker, and once he was identified, how long would it take Shaye to convince the police of the danger, and even if they believed her straight off, how long would it take to apprehend him? A day? A week? And even if they apprehended him quickly, could they do more than issue a restraining order?

She flopped back on the bed and blew out a breath. Too many unknowns. Maybe Clara had been right. Maybe she should just leave. Pack a larger bag, get in her car, drive as far as a tank of gas would take her, then fill up and do it again. If Patty could sell the house quickly as she claimed, Emma should have enough money to survive for quite a while without working. Years, if she was careful, but eventually, she’d have to take another job. Would he still be looking for her? Or maybe the key was to take a job with a doctor’s office and not a hospital, or maybe even private care. The demand for in-home care was growing every day. She could effectively fall off the employment grid if she was patient and waited for the right opportunity.

It was all so much to think about. And when she went down that path, the sheer number of things that would have to be done overwhelmed her. She rose from the bed and checked the dead bolt again. The first thing she was going to do was take a long hot shower, with the bathroom door open, the shower curtain cracked so that she had a good view of the door, and her pistol sitting on the toilet. Then she was going to order a hamburger, wine, and cheesecake from room service and do her damnedest to forget how frightened she was.

###

Shaye frowned when she heard the knock on her front door. She glanced at her watch. Eight p.m. Too late for the cable guy, who’d never shown, and too polite for a robber. Since she could count the number of people who knew where she lived on one hand, she bet herself a large pizza that it was Corrine.

She put her laptop on the end table and hopped off the couch. When she pulled open the door, she found herself staring at the smiling and hopeful faces of Corrine and Eleonore. “Double trouble,” she said.

“We come bearing housewarming gifts,” Corrine said and held up two bottles of wine.

Shaye felt herself weaken just a bit. It was her favorite wine from Corrine’s special stock.

“Uh-hmmm.” Eleonore held up a cheesecake.

“You guys don’t fight fair,” Shaye said and waved them inside.

“We’re a parent and a psychiatrist,” Eleonore said. “The fact that you even assume we’d fight fair tells me I have more work to do with you.”

Shaye grinned. “Break open that cheesecake before I grab it from you and kick you out.”

Eleonore put the cheesecake on the counter and opened the empty drawers one at a time.

“I’ve been too busy to unpack,” Shaye said, “or to shop. There’s some plastic utensils on the stove that I had leftover from Chinese food, and some paper plates in the cabinet behind you.”

Corrine sighed and opened one of the bottles of wine. “It hurts my heart to hear you say you’re too busy to shop. You’re a woman, and an Archer. Surely there’s something you need to buy.”

“I just ordered office furniture,” Shaye said as she grabbed a package of plastic cups from the pantry and slid them in front of Corrine. “I might even get a rug. That should make you happy. That’s purely for decoration.”

Corrine gave the plastic cups a look of dismay. “What color is the rug?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t picked it out yet.”

“You’re just trying to mollify me with a theoretical rug.”

“Yes. Is it working?”

Corrine handed Shaye a cup of wine and smiled. “Maybe a little.”

Shaye took a sip of the wine and sighed. “This stuff is wonderful.” She sat the cup down and pulled open the refrigerator. “Eleonore, I have bottled water and Diet Dr. Pepper. What’s your preference?”

Eleonore dumped a huge slice of cheesecake onto a paper plate and slid it over to Corrine. “I’m going to go wild and have the Dr. Pepper.” She cut two more pieces and they all stepped around the counter and back into the living room. Eleonore and Corrine sat on the couch while Shaye perched on the edge of the end table that had never made it back to the corner.

“So,” Eleonore said, “Corrine tells me you already have a client.”

Shaye took a big bite of the heavenly cheesecake and nodded. “A nurse. Really nice woman.”

“Cheating husband, I suppose,” Corrine said and sighed. “You’re probably going to get a lot of that.”

“Not this time. Her husband’s dead.”

“Well, I guess killing him is one way to ensure he doesn’t cheat,” Eleonore joked.

“Actually,” Shaye said, “she did kill him, but not for cheating.”

“Oh!” Corrine sat up straight. “You didn’t tell me it was a murder case.”

“It’s not,” Shaye said. “The guy was abusive and had a record. She had an order of protection, he broke in the house to attack her, and it didn’t work out the way he intended.”

“Good for her,” Corrine said.

“Sounds like she deserves a piece of this cheesecake,” Eleonore said. “Don’t tell me the DA is pressing charges.”

“No,” Shaye said. “He didn’t pursue it.”

“Smart move,” Eleonore said. “The last thing you want during the next election is to be the prosecutor who picks on abused women.”

Corrine frowned. “Wait a minute. Is your client Emma Frederick?”

Shaye looked at her mother, a bit surprised. “Yes. Do you know her?”

“Not well, but I’ve spoken to her at the hospital over some of my charges and liked her. I heard a little about what happened to her. She’s so nice. I can’t believe she has more problems after everything she’s been through. So what’s the case, or can’t you say?”

“There’s no confidentiality laws for PIs, if that’s what you mean. Decorum dictates that I don’t go around blabbing, but since you’re here and asking, maybe you can give me your professional opinions.”

The two women looked at each other and frowned. Shaye already knew what they were thinking—if she wanted the professional opinions of a social worker and a shrink, this case was a doozy.

“My client is being stalked, but he’s very clever. So clever that the police didn’t believe her.”

“But you do?” Eleonore asked.

“Yes.” Shaye told them about the first incidents that Emma had. “But he’s escalating.” She went on to tell them about today’s events with the scarf and birthday card.

“Oh my God,” Corrine said when she finished. “That’s why you took those sample books from the house today. You were afraid he might be watching.”

Shaye nodded. “She’s selling the house, so interior decorator was a logical cover. I don’t want him to know Emma has help.”

“Damn straight you don’t want him to know,” Eleonore said. “I don’t think I have to tell you how bad this situation is. I assume you’ve gone to the police with this new evidence?”

Shaye squirmed a bit. “Not yet.”

“What the heck are you waiting for?” Corrine asked, practically hopping in her seat.

“The lead detective kinda pissed me off,” Shaye said. “He basically implied that Emma was weak, and it was all in her head.”

Eleonore shook her head. “The woman killed her husband—a man with far more strength and skill than she had—and she’s the weak one? When was this detective born, the 1700s?”

“Actually, he’s probably only a little older than you,” Shaye said.

Eleonore looked over at Corrine. “And you ask me why I don’t date. Look at the pool I’ve got to choose from.”

Corrine rolled her eyes. “Because every fiftysomething in New Orleans is that guy. Your dating excuses are as bad as mine.”

Eleonore turned back to face Shaye, not bothering to acknowledge Corrine’s statements. “Surely there’s someone else you could talk to? The New Orleans Police Department has got to employ at least one person with a brain.”

“There was one guy,” Shaye said. “The rude detective’s partner. He’s younger, like me, and didn’t seem to like the old detective any more than I did.”

“So he doesn’t think your client is frail and imagining things?” Corrine asked.

“He said he found her credible, but without evidence, his hands are tied.”

“But you have evidence now,” Corrine said. “The scarf and the card.”

“Yes,” Shaye agreed, “but what can he do? We have no idea who the stalker is, and the police aren’t in the business of playing bodyguard in case someone is in danger. They don’t have the resources, and unfortunately, a nurse who lacks political or economical connections isn’t going to get anything beyond the norm.”

“She’s right,” Eleonore said. “I don’t like it and I still think it should be reported, but right now, this is still a case of harassment by an unknown party. The stalker hasn’t made a physical threat.”

“So the police should only concern themselves with investigating crime rather than preventing it?” Corrine argued. “You know the threat is coming.”

“That’s exactly what I said to the younger detective,” Shaye said.

Eleonore shook her head. “He’s getting off on terrifying her—the scarf, the card—purely psychological stuff.”