I'm Watching You (12 page)

"Tell Mom I'm fine," Zack called.

Malcolm shook his head. "That won't be good enough.
She's going to want details." He stopped in front of the house, pulled
off his glasses, and studied the exterior. "Were you sober when you
bought this piece-of-crap house, Zack?"

"Sober as a judge."

"Now I'm really worried about you. Do yourself a favor and
bulldoze it and start fresh."

That coaxed a grin from Zack. "It's a great investment. The
realtor said lots of potential and charm."

Malcolm's gaze scanned the peeling paint on the front porch and
the dry rot by the front door.
"Lots of work.
Lots of money to fix it up."

"Consider it therapy." Zack nodded to the bag.
"What's in the bag?"

"Mom sent food." Malcom handed him the bag.

Zack opened the bag and found a large tinfoil container of ziti,
cellophane-wrapped bread rolls, two cookies, and a plastic fork. He was
starving. "Bless you."

Malcolm sat down on the porch and studied the house. "Why'd
you pick this place?"

Because Lindsay had once looked at
the house and talked about filling it with babies.
Instead he said, "It's
an investment. I paid next to nothing for it." He was nostalgic but not
stupid.

Sighing, Malcolm glanced down the street at the collection of
half-century-old homes. Most had been renovated. "Fixed up, it could be
worth a fortune," he said.

"That's my thought. If it doesn't work out I can
always flip it for a profit."

He sighed and didn't seem convinced. "Oh, Mom said to remind
you about the party."

"Party?"

Malcolm looked at him as if he were dim-witted. "Damn, Zack,
Eleanor's birthday party.
Saturday.
Mom's
been planning it for months. Be there or suffer the consequences."

"Oh yeah, right."
He opened the tinfoil container and
savored the blend of ziti, tomatoes, oregano, and basil. His sister, Ellie, had
talked about the party for weeks, and he'd cut off his right arm before
he'd disappoint her. "I won't miss it."

"Mom would have come but the restaurant is packed tonight. She
couldn't get away."

"No sweat."

"I saw the six o'clock news. I guess you saw Lindsay
today." Malcolm didn't hide the fact that he disapproved of
Zack's
un
marriage to Lindsay.

"Yep.
And I'm in no mood for lectures about
Lindsay, our marriage, or unsigned divorce papers."

Malcolm held up his hands. "You'll get none from me
today."

"Good."

"Still, this investigation is going to be a hornet's nest.
Is Ayden going to let you stay on the case?"

"Yes, but Warwick's taking the lead."

Malcolm frowned. "He eased up on you at all? Or is he still being
an ass?"

"Like always, he's expecting me to
screw up."
Zack bit into a slice of warm, buttery Italian bread. "Warwick will have
to wait until hell freezes over before I drink again."

The comment pleased Malcolm. "Any leads on the Turner case?"

"No forensic evidence on the body. Turner's wife has an
ironclad alibi, as does his number one drug-dealing client and his law
partner."

"What about
your
wife?" Malcolm
kept his voice neutral.

"Lindsay doesn't have an alibi. She says she was home alone.
Frankly, her alibi is so lame, it could be true. But I need to be sure. The
judge should sign my search warrants in the morning, and then I'll work
my way through her phone, computer, and office records."

Malcolm traced a callus on the palm of his hand. "Lindsay can be
tenacious when it comes to protecting battered women."

"But I'm betting she's no killer. She hates all kinds
of violence."

They sat in silence for a moment as Zack ate.

"So what are you two going to do about your marriage?"

Zack jabbed his fork into a cluster of ziti. "We're not
talking about that, remember?"

Malcolm stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.
"Cut the crap and answer the question."

Zack chewed his ziti slowly. "I'm going to do my best to
save our marriage."

"Shit, Zack, have you lost your mind? She left you." Malcolm
was a man of strong opinions. During Zack's recovery he'd been a
rock. But even though Zack had regained his balance, his brother remained overprotective.

The truth behind his failed marriage shamed Zack. "She had good
reason."

"She should have stuck by you when you got sick."

Sick
. Zack shook his head. "It's not
like I had cancer, Mal. I was a drunk. I let her down."

Malcolm shook his head. "Marriage is for better or worse in my
mind.
Sickness and health."

"I guess this is the worse part."

"How can it ever get better between the two of you? Lindsay is
obsessed with work. She can be abrasive. And she is now a suspect in a murder
investigation. No one in their right mind would want her."

Zack grinned. "And your point is?"

Malcolm's eyes darkened. "This isn't funny."

Zack sobered. "No, it's not. My marriage is sloppy.
Sucks right now.
But once, it was pretty great. I want that
back."

Malcolm shook his head. "Will she have you back?"

"I don't know."

The Guardian clicked off the television, irritated by the evening news
reports. Harold's name had been released to the press, but the stations
had given the murder little airtime. All three stations had screwed up the
story, but that dumb bitch reporter from Channel 10, Kendall Shaw, had missed
the point completely. She'd prattled on about the county's low
murder rate and domestic violence statistics. She seemed more worried about her
own image than reporting the story.

That was the problem with people. They were selfish and far too wrapped
up in their individual lives to notice what didn't directly concern them.

The only one who could truly
see
was Lindsay.

She reached out to others in need. She put the lives of others in front
of her own.

Her warrior spirit should have appreciated Harold's hand nestled
in a bed of irises. Like the flowers, which telegraphed Friendship, Hope,
Wisdom, and Valor, the hand was rich with symbolism. It not only bore
Harold's platinum wedding band, but it was the left hand and it was well
known that the attorney was a lefty. It was his dominant hand.
His power center.
He'd always struck his wife with his
left fist.

One click of another remote and a very different image snapped on the
TV. This in full color as well, but it was an image of Lindsay's living
room.

The cameras had been placed in her apartment thirty days ago. It had
been appallingly easy to gain entrance. A work order and a report of fuzzy
cable was all it had taken. The cameras had been easy to install. Several
weren't bigger than the size of a dime, and the transmitter, which
boosted the signal up to seven miles, was easily wired into an outlet behind
the AC unit.

The Guardian settled back in a chair and studied the television screen.
In the background, Lindsay's favorite Sugarland CD crooned. The country
western song was upbeat, fast paced. In the background he heard Lindsay
singing.

Seconds later Lindsay emerged from the kitchen. Her hair was damp from a
shower and she wore an oversized, well-worn T-shirt that said
"USC." She had a large bowl of popcorn and a diet soda.
Her favorite evening ritual before bed.

Lindsay's habits were so predictable.
Two cups
of coffee before work.
An hour of yoga in the morning.
Glasses only when she read. Weekends when she wasn't on call meant
refinishing the chest of drawers that would be a showpiece. Insomnia when she
was troubled.

Lindsay sat on her carpeted floor and switched on a cable news station.
Silently she watched and ate her popcorn.

Her phone rang and she leaned over and grabbed the receiver off the
cradle. "Hello."

Late calls never boded well. They always meant a crisis that pulled her
away, and she'd already had a long enough
day
.
She shouldn't have gone to the church. But then she wasn't one to
quit on a promise.

A flipped switch and the call broadcasted over the speakers.

"Hey, Aisha," Lindsay said.
"Is everything all right?"

Aisha sighed. "The shelter is fine.
Everyone is real nice."

"And the boys are settled in?"

"Yes. We're all in the same room.
They like that."

"What's wrong?"

"Marcus called me again this evening on
my cell phone. He keeps telling me how much he loves me."

Lindsay's expression tightened.
"We've been through this before, Aisha. He wants to control you.
What he feels for you isn't healthy."

"I know, I know. And I told him I
wouldn't be coming back to him no matter what. And I meant that. I really
did."

"Good girl."

Lindsay and the Guardian spoke the two words in unison.

"But he wants to see the boys. He says
they're his sons and he has a right to them. I don't want to keep
Damien and Jamal from their dad."

"The boys are afraid of him."

"He hasn't hit them in a
while."

Lindsay gripped the telephone, struggling with
her temper. The children always got to her. "He is talking about his
rights as a father but you have rights, too, Aisha. You and the boys have the
right to a safe home."

"I know, but..."

"Have you called my friend at Legal Aid
about the divorce and custody?"

"Not yet."

Lindsay pressed fingertips to her temple.
"We've been through this before. Call the woman at Legal Aid whom I
told you about. She's very nice. She'll tell you about your
rights."

"Okay."

"Are you going to call?"

"Yes."

"Good. You're doing a good job,
Aisha. I'm proud of you."

A sob escaped Aisha. "Are you
really?"

"I really am."

"Thanks."

They talked a few more minutes about the legalities of divorce and
custody before Lindsay hung up. The Guardian switched off the phone speaker.

Lindsay turned back toward the television and rubbed her temple. She
scooped a handful of popcorn and took a bite. But she no longer seemed to enjoy
her snack. Frowning, she tossed what remained in her hand back in the bowl.

Absentmindedly, she pushed away the bowl. She had a tendency not to eat
when she was upset. And at the rate she was going, she was going to make
herself sick.

Lindsay rose, then began to pace. She moved around her town house like a
caged animal.

The Guardian touched the television screen and traced the profile of her
face.

Harold's death, the hand, even the note hadn't been enough
to assure her that she wasn't alone in her Holy Cause. She needed to know
she had an ally. She wasn't alone.

But words didn't matter to Lindsay. Only deeds mattered to her.

The real way to prove to Lindsay that she had a true friend now was to
ferret out more Evil Ones. The more men who died now meant that many fewer
battered wives whom Lindsay would have to care for.

As the bodies would begin to stack up, she would see the pattern. She
would see that she had a true Guardian.

Tuesday, July 8, 12:00
A.M
.

Kendall Shaw was pissed. She stopped the
recording of her eleven o'clock news report and climbed down off the
elliptical trainer she kept on the sun porch of her mother's house.

The story she'd filed had been nothing short of lame.
Murder in the city's west end.
Identity
of victim.
A brief recap of his career and murder
stats in the metro area.
Domestic violence.
Ya, ya, ya.

It was all very bland, very ordinary, and not the kind of story that was
going to get her to a bigger television market like L.A. or New York.

But her boss had given in to pressure from Dana Miller, the
shelter's board chair, and had ordered her not to mention Sanctuary or
its location. For now, all stations were protecting the shelter's
identity. And unless something broke soon, Dana would see to it that the story
faded away.

As Kendall had stood outside Sanctuary today, she had sensed she'd
stumbled upon a big story. She'd wanted to linger and remain on hand with
her cameraman, Mike. Something was going to break--she could feel it in
her bones.

But the evening news producer had felt otherwise. He'd wanted film
of a warehouse fire. She'd argued. He'd denied her request to stay
and had pulled her cameraman.

Minutes after Mike had left and Kendall was packing up, Lindsay had run
screaming out of the shelter. Her terrified screams had the cop in the patrol
car scrambling toward her. Within minutes, the place was swarming with more
cops.

Something
big
had happened in the shelter.

And if she'd had film, it was the kind of
something
that would get her a better job.

Mike did return, but by then it was too late. The cops didn't
release any details and she'd had to file her original story.

From her briefcase she pulled out a CD of the raw footage from this
morning. She swapped it out for the other CD in the tray and hit
"play."

She fast-forwarded through the morning interviews with neighbors. The
last interview of the morning was with Mrs. Young, the neighbor across the
street, who kept going on and on about how nice Lindsay's yard was and
how no one knew the house was a women's shelter.

Blah, blah, blah.

Kendall slowed the tape to just before Mike had shut off his camera.
This time she didn't focus on Mrs. Young but the background just to the
right of the shelter.

A cat chasing a squirrel.
Thunder clouds.
And then in the bottom-right corner, the bumper of a van pulled into the frame.
At the time, her back had been to the shelter and she'd been on the phone
with her producer. She'd not noticed the driver. Hell, who ever noticed
delivery guys?

Now as she reviewed the footage, she watched closely. The driver, head
tucked low and a box of flowers in hand, got out of the van, ran up to the
front porch, rang the bell, and set the box down. As the driver turned, the
tape turned to static. Mike had switched off the camera.

"Damn it!" Kendall rewound the tape. She watched the footage
again. Lindsay had returned to the shelter around two. She started screaming
minutes later. Whatever had freaked Lindsay out had to be the box.

"What the hell was it? What was sent to her?"

Kendall had good instincts and she had learned to listen to them.
Whatever had gone on at the shelter today had to do with Lindsay. She
couldn't prove it, but she'd bet money that Harold had been killed
for Lindsay.

She dashed upstairs to the stack of files in the corner of the living
room. She kept all her interview notes filed away in case she ever needed to
reference them again. Since she'd moved into the house last December,
she'd not taken the time to put the notes away, convinced that she was
here only temporarily.

Flipping through the manila folders, she pulled the file containing her
article about Lindsay.

Scanning the pages, she read her notes from her late April interview.
There seemed nothing out of the ordinary. She had notes on Lindsay's
day-to-day routine at the shelter. She had stats on domestic violence in the
county and the country. All this was strictly background.

Kendall flipped to her notes on Lindsay's past. She was a graduate
of the University of California. She entered school at the age of nineteen and
attended on a full scholarship and was an honor student. Lindsay worked for a
landscape company to pay for living expenses. And she made it through in three
years so that she graduated with her class. Originally she was from Ashland, a
town in Hanover County, Virginia.

That notation had Kendall pausing. She'd forgotten Lindsay was a
Virginian. Lindsay had only mentioned it in passing and had spoken of herself
several times as a California girl.

It wasn't unusual for a kid to go so far from home for school, nor
extraordinary to take a year off between high school and college. Still,
something nagged at her.

Kendall dug her Blackberry out of her briefcase and looked up the number
of the
Herald Progress
, the local paper that covered
the town of Ashland and Hanover County.

Last year, she'd done a very nice piece on the
Herald
Progress
' anniversary celebration. The paper's assistant
editor had always said to call if she needed anything. Well, she needed a
favor.

Unmindful of the time, she dialed his number.

The phone rang five times before a
groggy
male
voice answered, "Hello."

"Barry. Kendall Shaw. I need a favor."

"Kendall?" She heard fumbling with what must have been a
light switch. "It's midnight. Can't this wait until the
morning?"

"Not really. And I'm sorry for the late time, but I'm
working on a story. Can you do a search for me?"

"
Now
?" he groaned.

"Yes."

"You are insane. I'm not digging up anything for you at this
time of night."

She rushed to say, "You said you owed me big for that piece I did
on the paper's anniversary."

Grogginess mingled with irritation. "Kendall, it's
midnight."

She twirled her finger in her hair as she paced. "Look, do this
search for me and I'll
owe
you."

"What's that mean?"

"Name your price."

He cleared his throat. "Cover my book signing at the Book Nook
next week?"

Kendall had received and read his press release on the signing of the
self-published book of homespun stories. She'd tossed the release and
hadn't given it a second thought. Damn.
"Deal.
But I need my information now."

"I want to be on the morning news."

"I'll make it happen."

"Swear."

"Swear."

Barry chuckled. "What do you want?"

"Anything and everything you have on Lindsay O'Neil. She
would have lived in your area about eleven or twelve years ago."

"O'Neil. That name doesn't ring a bell."

"I wrote an article on her for
Inside Richmond
back in May. She's about thirty.
A very pretty
blonde."

"Oh yeah, I remember her. That article caused a bit of a buzz up
here."

"Why?"

"I don't think her name was O'Neil when she lived up
this way. Anyway, a few of the old guys at the paper remember when she was
tangled up in some murder."

Kendall straightened. "What murder?"

"I don't remember."

Impatient, she tapped her foot. "You've got to get me more
information, Barry."

"I'll see what I can dig up."

Lindsay was the key to this story. "Do that."