Psychobyte (24 page)

Something To Believe In

“Hey,” I said as soon as he answered and then touched the speaker icon.

“Hi. Where are you?”

“Home. Am I expecting you anytime this evening?” I moved from room to room closing curtains and turning on lights as I talked.

“Late. Sorry,” Mitch replied.

“Long day,” I said; a statement, not a question. My fingers locked on the lid of a bottle of water and twisted off the cap.

“You all right?”

“Of course,” I replied taking a big swig of water.

“Wine?”

“Water.”

“El, really?” Mitch sounded preoccupied, distracted even. Computer sounds and office noises accompanied him. I decided to leave him to it. “Still working the case?”

Because that’s the only reason I’d drink water not wine after a long shitty day.

“Yeah. Not making a lot of progress but a few things have fallen into place.”

“And you’re okay?”

“Yep. I’m okay. Don’t work too late. I finally have an evening home.”

“Sure. I’ll pick up a bottle of Pinot. There isn’t any in the wine rack,” he replied, his smile evident in his words. “One glass wouldn’t hurt.”

I didn’t know if I could stop at one glass. Best not to tempt fate.

“Don’t be too late,” I said with a small laugh. An envelope on the kitchen counter drew my attention. I touched it, dragging it closer to me with a finger. I picked it up and turned it over. “Hey, did you call in here today?”

“Nope.” He paused. I heard him typing. “Why?”

“There’s an envelope on the counter addressed to me.”

“Not me, babe, maybe your dad came in?”

“Maybe.”

It wasn’t Dad’s writing but that didn’t mean he hadn’t put it on the counter.

“Don’t be all night, M.”

“Wait up?”

“Think I can manage that.”

He laughed. “See what you can do.”

I hung up, set my phone on the counter and took a closer look at the mystery envelope. No postmark. Regret twinged about handling it. Rookie mistake. Investigators look with their eyes first not their ungloved hands.

Who knew that would be a thing in my own kitchen?

Me! I should’ve.

Definitely not Dad’s handwriting, not Aidan’s either. It didn’t look like anyone’s that I knew.

So how did it get on my counter?

Walk? Nope.

Envelopes don’t have legs. Someone helped it.

My hand felt for the Glock on my hip. Unease crawled across the kitchen floor. A deep bone-chilling cold lapped at my boots. I opened the alarm company app on my phone and checked on code use. Dad’s code was used.

Maybe it was Dad.

I didn’t believe that for one second. Dad would’ve left me cupcakes or some other edible treat. It’s what he did.

“Just this once, I’m glad you’re late, M,” I said to no one. With a sigh, I made another call. I had to check. As soon as I heard Dad’s voice I spoke. “Did you come by today?”

“No. Why?”

“You didn’t put an envelope on the kitchen counter?”

“No.”

A bang shuddered in the distance as a door closed.

What the hell?

Listening, I held my breath.

“You okay? Where’s Mitch?”

“I’m good. M’s at work. Nothing to worry about, Dad.”

Another door closed.

“I hope not.”

Footsteps above me.

“Gotta go, Dad. Talk soon.”

“Honey, call Delta or push the panic button.”

“It’s nothing, Dad. It’s just an envelope.”

“Ellie!”

“Okay, okay. I’m calling.”

Later. Once I know who is in my house.

I hung up. I slid my Glock from the holster on my right hip using only my index finger and thumb. Awkward. Switching the weapon to my left hand, I adjusted my grip as best I could. I’m not the best with my left hand. Quietly, I walked down the hallway to the laundry and shut down the power to the house. The silent house alarm would trigger as the alarm system switched to auxiliary power.

Plunging the house into darkness worked in my favor. My home: I didn’t need light to find my way. I did take a small flashlight from a drawer under the laundry sink. I switched it on to check it was red light. Safety first. Might be my house but I have no desire to fall while climbing stairs in the dark. Red light doesn’t travel as far as white light. It wouldn’t alert anyone to my presence until it was too late.

My right hand ached. Standing in the dark hallway near the back stairs I listened. A door opened upstairs followed by a vibration as someone bumped into a wall.

I stood for a moment at the bottom of the staircase. Above the sound of my pounding heart, I heard tentative footfalls moving toward the stairs. Someone in my super secure house. Weird. Should also be impossible.

Footsteps moved downward. I flicked off the flashlight and waited.

The steps paused then continued. Every few feet the footfalls stopped. Tentative? Someone who didn’t know my house and had no idea how long the staircase was?

I supported myself on the wall at the foot of the stairs and waited. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. I did a slow blink. As I opened my eyes, a dark shape appeared then stumbled over the last stair. Instinctively my hand shot out and connected with a soft body.

A hard shove caused the black shape to fall with a resounding thud. Pain surged up my arm. Air rushed from the person in an undignified squawk.

I flicked the red light on and illuminated the face of the intruder. Holding the flashlight in my mouth I wrestled my phone out of my pocket, pain no longer registering. The flashlight on the phone shone a brilliant white light on the person’s face. I spat my small flashlight onto the floor and shoved my Glock into my waistband.

Rosanne.

What the hell? Made sense though; someone used Dad’s code. Who else could get it?

She shielded her eyes from the light.

I reached out and helped her up, turned off the flashlight on my phone. Then holstered my weapon and said, “Stay put.”

Returning to the laundry, I flipped the switch flooding the house with light again.

Back in front of Rosanne, I demanded an answer. “Explain!”

“I came by to see you …”

My head shook. “Try again.” I watched her pulling together her thoughts. “Did you put an envelope on the counter?”

“I came by to see you.” She paused. “I picked up an envelope addressed to you in the mailbox.”

“My mail is usually in the mailbox courtesy of the mail carriers who, you know, put it there.”

“Thought I’d bring it in for you.”

“Uh huh. And you got through the gate and into the house how?” I knew how but wanted confirmation.

“I used a code.”

Good that she didn’t lie. “You don’t have a code. So what you mean is … you stole a code.”

A sheepish look crossed her face.

I continued. “It’s breaking and entering.”

“More creative entering than breaking and entering,” Rosanne replied.

“No one likes a wiseass.” I felt the solid wall against my back. “And you creatively entered why?”

“Because I need to know what you know about your current case. That media briefing wasn’t the whole story.”

“You couldn’t have asked me?” I motioned for her to follow me to the living room. “Take a seat. Cutting the power triggered my silent alarm.” I checked my watch. “We’ll have company soon.”

Men in tactical gear carrying automatic weapons. No need for anyone to get shot unnecessarily.

Her eyes flicked from my banged-up hand to my face. “What’d you do to your hand? Looks painful.”

“Broke it on the last person who pissed me off,” I replied, letting the chill in my voice speak louder than my words.

I gave Dad a call. “Can you come over, please?” Yeah. Nah, not keeping his lady friend’s antics to myself.

“You okay, kid?”

“Yes. But you need to be here.” I hung up.

“Who was that?” Rosanne asked. She appeared to have lost some of her composure.

“My dad.”

Her face fell, mouth drooped and head shook. “Why?”

“Really?” Maybe the brain tumor prevented her putting two and two together. Because it wasn’t rocket science. “You stole his code and used it to access my home. You could’ve gotten shot.” Not even an exaggeration. “You used my father to get close to me and you were spying.” I looked at her for a beat. “Any of those things seem bad?”

Who am I kidding ‒ she’s a journalist?

I was wrong about her. I’d thought she was an okay person. The only journalist I’d maybe liked. She even helped me out once. Once a journalist always a journalist. It’s all about the story.

“That’s not how it happened,” she replied.

Headlights streamed through a gap in the curtains.

“Hold that thought and do not move!”

I hurried to the front door and flashed the exterior light three times before opening the door.

Three armed men stood bathed in my security lighting.

“Ellie?” said the tallest man, standing in the middle.

“Sean. I had a situation, it’s contained. My father will be arriving in a few minutes. Have someone escort him to the living room.”

“Sure.” He turned to the man on his right. “Stand the team down. Escort Simon Conway in when he arrives.”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

“Sean, with me,” I said and lead the way into the house. Sean shut the door behind him then fell into step with me.

Rosanne was shaken not stirred.

“Is this the breach?” Sean asked. Dressed in black, carrying an assault rifle, wearing body armor and several obvious weapons, Sean’s six-foot-seven-inch frame imposed upon the room.

“Yes. Rosanne here stole Dad’s code and let herself in.”

“That wasn’t very smart.” He addressed Rosanne, “Do you
have
a death wish?”

“I’m seeing that my decision wasn’t very clever.” She mustered fragments of intelligence and rammed them back inside her skull. “There are extenuating circumstances.”

“Save it for the judge,” Sean said and turned his head toward the door a little.

I heard the voice too. We looked at each other.

“Simon is on deck,” Sean said.

“I can hear,” I replied. “He’s going to be all kinds of upset.”

Sean nodded.

“Give me the word and I’ll remove Rosanne and have Delta pick her up from my custody. When you’re ready. No rush.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” My eyes focused on the doorway.

Waiting for my father.

Need You Now

Dad’s stern expression, knitted brows, and sharp tone announced he was unimpressed with Rosanne’s behavior. Second biggest understatement of the week, right there.

It took a bit to settle him down. Understandably. Sean removed Rosanne. I called Kurt. When he arrived, Dad went home.

Kurt and I stood in the kitchen. Neither of us spoke for a beat.

“Hand okay?” Kurt did not take his eyes off the envelope on the counter.

“No. Hurts like a bitch,” I replied, willing the envelope to give up its contents.

Kurt opened the freezer and took out an ice-pack. He handed it to me.

“Put that on your hand.”

I did. The cold hurt, I couldn’t tell if it was worse with the ice or without.

The envelope just lay there upon my counter daring one of us to open it. Could be that the envelope was the innocent victim of my inherent mistrust of people. That the lack of a postmark meant someone I knew dropped it off in person rather than mailing it, an invitation to an event and not at all sinister. Also, pigs fly and unicorns poop rainbows and no one has ever tried to kill me or broken into my home before.

My laughter took me by surprise.

“Share?” he said.

“It’s an envelope … let’s just open the freaking thing.” I tilted my head toward him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I don’t know … perhaps fiery death, viral death, zombie apocalypse? Or all of the above.” He grinned at me and lifted the ice-pack to check my hand. “It’s you, Conway, you attract some peculiar people and most of them want to shorten your life.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Sure is.”

Kurt picked up the envelope and felt it. He stood for a second with the envelope resting across the palm of one hand. Judging the weight.

“And?”

“Feels okay. But then C4 feels okay when it’s rolled real thin.”

“Cheerful thought.”

I passed him a flashlight from under the sink. He switched it on and held it under the envelope.

“Paper? What do you think?”

“Looks like it. Nothing weird looking in there. Tip it.”

Kurt tipped the envelope. Nothing loose moved. No powder rushed to the lowest corner. Probably not anthrax or heroin or cocaine. Love that I thought anthrax before schedule I and II drugs. Could be paper laced with the Ebola virus. For all I knew, that could be a thing now. I felt as though we should be wearing Level A Hazmat suits – the ones with self-contained breathing apparatus.

Kurt walked around the counter and opened a drawer. He removed a steak knife and slipped it under the seal of the envelope.

“Now’s a good time to pray, Conway,” he said with a grin as he slit the paper open and carefully extracted a folded piece of paper.

I could see his eyes over the sheet of paper as he read. It didn’t look good. “What is it?”

“Fan mail.”

“What now?”

He looked over the paper at me. “Confusing little words are they, Conway? “

“I thought you said fan mail?”

“I did, do you prefer love letter?”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

His head shook a little.

My heart sank. Another lunatic surfacing was the very last thing I needed. Kurt handed me the letter. I scanned it not really wanting to read it at all. By the time I got to the end of the page, I knew why I hadn’t wanted to read it, but too late to stop my brain processing the words.

“He …” I looked at the name at the bottom of the page, checking that it was a male. Hank. Probably a male. “Hank seems like a nice fellow.”

Warning bells boomed in my head. The contents and the name on the letter meant something but it wasn’t cementing into anything I could narrow in on.

Kurt laughed. “Probably a real sweetheart. You really should stop sending subliminal messages to four-hundred-pound gorillas, Conway.”