Light from Her Mirror (Mirrors Don't Lie Book 3) (30 page)

He realized she was waiting for him to speak again. “Tell me
about the Peeping Tom incident,” he finally said.

“It’s happened several times. I’ll get the strangest
sensation that someone is watching me. Once, I saw a flash of white when I
glanced up from my desk at work; another time I heard a noise on the balcony
and found an overturned pot plant. I reported it to the police, but they
dismissed it as a stray cat.”

“Isn’t it possible it was a cat?”

She met his gaze without hesitation and answered in that
soft, breathless voice uniquely hers.... and Doris Day’s. “Yes, of course it’s
possible. But cats don’t wear white shirts. I know someone is there, Mr.
Sterling. Especially after last night.”

“What happened last night?” He was almost afraid to ask. She
had come in complaining of being watched, then revealed someone stalking her.
Almost as an afterthought she mentioned the Peeping Tom. What next, he
wondered?

“I received this note,” she said, reaching into her purse
and withdrawing a sheet of paper. “I had gone out to dinner with a friend, and
when I got home, this was taped to my door.”

Lange inspected the note thoughtfully, studying the careful
lines of each letter. It almost appeared as if a child had written the
note..... Or an adult trying to disguise their writing as a child’s.... Or a demented
mind not capable of anything but childish scribble. It was the last thought
that sent a chill of foreboding racing down his spine as he read the words,
‘I’m
watching you.’

“Who all has handled this note?” he asked.

“Myself, of course. And my next door neighbor. And maybe a
friend of mine, I’m not sure.”

He rolled his eyes skyward and sighed. “Did it ever occur to
you that you were destroying whatever hope we had of lifting a set of
fingerprints off here?”

“No.”

He released another weary breath and pulled the note closer,
trying to gain some clue from it. “Did you call the police?”

“No, I called you.”

“Who was the friend you were with? Did he or she pick you up
or drop you off? Is it possible they could have seen whoever left this, or did
a neighbor, perhaps?”

“No, I’ve already asked everyone. I drove myself to and from
dinner, where I met a friend named Mitch Greenway. I asked my neighbors, but no
one knew anything about a note.”

“This Mitch Greenway... you’re not involved with him?”

“Just friends. We work together, actually.”

Again feeling that same rush of relief, he asked another
question, “Ms. Wilson...”

“Miss,” she interrupted. When she flashed him a smile, he
remembered why he had been smitten in the first place; her smile was like the
sunshine, warming him all the way to his toes.

“Miss Wilson, can you think of anyone this person might be?”

“No one.”

“Is there anyone who has been making unwanted passes at you,
anyone who seems to be obsessed with you?”

To his surprise, she actually laughed. “Obsessed? With a
little squirt like me?” There was genuine humor in her eyes as she leaned back
in her chair to afford him a better view, palms held upward for full effect.
‘Squirt’ was exactly what her two younger - and much taller - brothers called
her.  “I hardly think so, Mr. Sterling.”

Lange swept his gaze over her. She was small, he had to
admit, barely five foot four at best. Her bright yellow dress was a loose,
flowing creation, but somehow managed to hug her body in all the right places.
She wore sensible flat soled shoes and carried a purse big enough to double as
a briefcase, making a fashion statement of duty, not beauty. A full head of
white-blonde hair fell from a center part and billowed into soft curls just
past her shoulders. There was nothing glamorous in her light dusting of makeup,
but the effect was fresh and unique. To Lange, she looked like sunshine itself.

In a moment of pure honesty, the hardened ex-cop spoke to
her softly. “You, Miss Ashli Wilson, are a beautiful woman. Yes, I can see
where a man might be obsessed with you. So I will ask you again, in there anyone
you can think of that might be obsessed with you, or that might wish you harm?”

“Harm?” The thought seemed to startle her more than his
words embarrassed her. “Do you think I am in danger, Mr. Sterling?”

“The question is, do
you
think you are in danger?”

“I-I don’t know.” She shuddered at the very thought. She
raised big blue eyes up to his. “But the truth is, I am starting to get scared,
Mr. Sterling. The police won’t help me, not until this person actually makes a
move against me, and I’m afraid by then it might be too late. That’s why I came
to you. Will you help me? Will you protect me?”

When she looked up at him with such wide, innocent eyes,
when she pleaded with him in that whisper-soft voice, there was really nothing
else he could do. Even though the case’s validity was questionable at best, and
even though he was already stretched thin on time and resources, there was no
way he could possibly refuse a plea such as hers. Even though an inner voice
warned him to think it over, Lange Sterling heard his own voice answering as he
stood and extended his hand.

“Yes, Miss Wilson. I will take your case. I will protect
you.”

Less than eight hours later, Lange was regretting his hasty decision.
What was he thinking, taking on another case? He barely had time to eat and
sleep, let alone devote the time and surveillance a case such as this required.
And yet, here he was, rearranging his entire schedule to take on a questionable
case, and he was breaking one of his cardinal rules to do it: he was going in
completely unprepared.

Lange was a stickler about prepping for a case. Normally, he
would go in with a case file already established. It was his policy to know as
much as possible about each case he worked on. To that end, he always did a
complete background check immediately after taking on a new client. There would
be notes, photos, sometimes even preliminary legwork, all tucked inside a file
he would carry to this initial meeting. He prided himself on being well
informed and well prepared; surprises could be disastrous in his business.

But today there had been no time for prep work. After Ashli
Wilson left his office, he spent the remainder of the morning handling
paperwork and phone calls; the afternoon he spent with clients and realigning
priorities. He wrapped up one investigation, delayed another, and lost the
business of a third client not willing to share his attention. Without a decent
meal or any additional sleep, he was now running on fumes. And as if going in
unprepared wasn’t enough, he was also going in late.

Turning onto the street given as Ashli Wilson’s address,
Lange scanned the neighborhood to get a feel of the demographics. Typical for
an old city such as Richmond, there was a mix of old and new in the
neighborhood. On the right side of the street, a huge antebellum mansion,
complete with six white columns, sprawled across half the block; its
counterpart stood on the left, a newly constructed complex of upscale condominiums.
The neighborhood was nice, but just shy of affluent. The other residences were
neatly kept but more modest – a handful of Craftsmen style homes, a couple of
ranches, a new construction of stone and cedar, and another with a more modern
feel.

As he swung into the condo complex, he belatedly punched her
name into the search engine on his phone, thinking any information was better
than none. When it only brought up some television personality, he tossed the
phone onto the seat in frustration. He compared the house number on the paper
to the house numbers on the units, but the sequencing wasn’t making any sense.
Circling the building, he cursed himself again for going in unprepared.

“I’m on the wrong side of the street,” he muttered aloud,
realizing his mistake. She lived in the antebellum mansion. Which meant she
either came from money, or wasn’t as ditzy as she seemed. “If I’d done my
research, I’d know these things.” He continued to berate himself as he pulled
his truck into the circular driveway gracing the front of the mansion.

Lange grabbed his phone and tucked a small notebook into his
shirt pocket. As he walked up the steps of the mansion, he looked around in
appreciation. The lawn was neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds were blooming with
color, and the porch boasted a fresh coat of slate blue paint. A set of yellow
wicker furniture beckoned from one end of the long veranda, while a half dozen
rocking chairs, painted yellow with blue cushions, welcomed from the other. The
house itself was three stories tall, painted white with slate blue shutters and
doors, and, despite its advanced age, was obviously well cared for.

The double doors were a work of art, with thick stained
glass panels that depicted a beautiful bouquet of daisies. Above the doors was
a plaque proclaiming this “The Daisy House, circa 1853, Register of Historical
Places.” A modern intercom system and electronic keypad were tastefully hidden
behind an intricate metal panel beside the doors.

Finding her number on the panel, he pressed the intercom
button. After a slight delay, he heard her breathless reply float out onto the
porch. “Yes?”

“It’s Lange Sterling. I’m here for our appointment.”

“Is it that late already?” She sounded truly surprised. “I
just got home.”

As he rolled his eyes in exasperation, he hoped there was no
video cam. Trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, he asked, “May I
come in, Miss Wilson?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course. I’ll buzz you in. I’m at the top
of the stairs and to the right. Apartment 5.” A pleasant melody sounded,
granting him access behind the heavy doors.

Stepping into the foyer was like stepping into another era;
houses just weren’t made like this anymore. A wide hallway divided the home in
half, and ran from the front stained glass doors all the way to a set of
identical ones in the back. There was marble beneath his feet, but the floor
down the corridor was a gleaming hand-hewn wood, darkened with age. The walls
were papered in dark blue damask, with enough white trim molding, all
elaborately carved, to keep the color from feeling heavy. The few pieces of
furniture in the foyer were all antiques, from the massive hall-tree beside the
door to the small settee and side chair tucked into a corner.  But the
real beauty of the room was the stairway, a curved creation that swept from the
right of the foyer, up and over the hallway, to float into the second floor of
the grand old home with style and grace.

Lange ran an appreciative hand over the bannister, admiring
the fine workmanship of a century past.  The wood was warm beneath his
touch, worn smooth from years of handling and polishing and perhaps, he
imagined, a dozen children sliding down its curved path. If he ever took the
plunge into home ownership, this was exactly the kind of house he would want.

He ascended the magnificent stairway, his steps practically
silent on the heavy wool runner of muted gold, cream and blue. The second floor
opened into another wide corridor, this one flanked by paned windows in the
front, double French doors at the back, and two apartments on either side.
Lange turned right, toward the doorway marked with a scrolled wrought iron
“5".

Just as he rapped on the door, he heard a shriek from inside
the apartment. He immediately reached for his pistol. “Miss Wilson! Are you all
right? Open up, this is Lange Sterling!”

The door swung open and the woman inside threw herself at
him. The force of her hurled body into his unsuspecting arms was enough to make
him stagger backwards. He quickly regained his footing, his arms instinctively
closing around her for security.

“What is it? What happened? Is there someone in your
apartment?”

“N-No,” she managed to say. For someone so petite, she clung
to him with amazing strength.

Easily lifting her feet off the ground, Lange stepped
forward into the apartment, kicking the door shut after he carried her through
the threshold. She was obviously terrified. Continuing to hold her, he stroked
her hair in awkward assurance, murmuring words of comfort as he glanced around
the room for signs of distress. Seeing none, he held her until the trembling in
her body began to subside, until he became painfully aware of how soft and warm
and feminine she felt in his arms.

Slowly, before he did something stupid, he eased her away.
“Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, just- just frightened.”

“Why? What happened? Did you hear from him?”

“I-I’m not sure.” Untangling herself from his arms, she
moved forward into the living room on unsteady legs. “Sorry. I know I
over-reacted,” she murmured. Her tone was still dazed as she elaborated, “I got
a letter. An envelope. When I opened it, something cold and wet fell out.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. I was opening it just as you knocked, and
between the sudden noise and the feel of something wet... I- I sort of panicked.
I flung it across the room.”  She indicated the scattered mail strewn
about on the floor. Bending down, she began to search for the mysterious
object. Soon she was on all fours, looking in earnest.

Trying his best to be a gentleman and not stare at the
delightful view she presented as she crawled around the floor in a dress, he
diverted his attention by asking what she thought it might have been.

“Whatever it was, it was wet and wiggly.” She crawled past
him, completely ignorant of the tantalizing words and view of her upturned
bottom.

With a little groan, Lange decided the only thing to do was
to help her. Dropping down onto one knee, he ran his hand over the carpet, his
eyes still lingering on her. Would she feel this soft, this plush, if he ran his
hands over her body, the body she so innocently offered a view of? Would her
skin heat with friction at his touch, the way the carpet did? Hell, would he be
able to think of her in a strictly professional manner?