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The breath swooshed out of her, and her hand was suddenly shaking so hard that she sloshed some coffee on her fingers when she set the cup on his desk.
“Good. That’s good.” A moment later, she repeated it.
He debated if he should check her fingers, to make sure she hadn’t scalded them. She certainly wasn’t doing anything about it. Egan finally reached over and caught on to her wrist so he could have a look. Yep. Definitely red fingers. He rolled his chair across the floor to get to the small fridge, retrieved a cold can of soda and rolled back toward her. He pressed the can to her fingers.
She didn’t resist. Caroline just sat there. Her head hung low. Probably numb. Maybe even in shock. “I didn’t want anyone else’s death or injuries on my hands,” she said under her breath. “I couldn’t live with that.”
Since she seemed on the verge of tears, or even a total meltdown, Egan decided to get her mind back on business. His mind, too. He didn’t like seeing her like this.
Vulnerable.
Fragile.
Tormented.
He preferred when she had that aristocratic chin lifted high and the ritzy sass was in her eyes. Because there was no way he could ever be interested in someone with a snobby, rich, stubborn chin. But the vulnerability and the genuine ache he heard in her whisper, that could draw him in.
Oh, yeah.
It could make him see her as an imperfect, desirable woman and not the next victim on a killer’s list.
And that wouldn’t be good for either Caroline or him.
He needed to focus.
That was the best way to keep her alive and catch a killer.
He wrapped her fingers around the soda and leaned back to put some distance between them. No more touching. No more thinking about personal stuff. “The timer on the explosive was set for 8:10 p.m. Where would you normally have been at that time?”
Her head came up, and she met his gaze. “Since it’s Monday, I should have been in the car, driving home from work.”
He was afraid she was going to say that. “That’s your usual routine?”
She nodded. “I always work late on Mondays. The security guard walks me out to my car at eight p.m., because that’s when his shift is over. I leave at exactly that time so he won’t have to stay any longer, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to drive home.” She put the soft drink can aside so she could touch the necklace. “But the security guard wasn’t feeling well tonight. He wouldn’t go home until I did so I left about forty-five minutes earlier than I usually do.”
That insistent sick guard had saved her life. Egan didn’t need to spell that out for her.
“Who knows your work routine?” he asked.
The color drained from her cheeks. “Anyone who knows me.”
Well, that didn’t narrow it down much, and it certainly didn’t exclude Kenneth Sutton. There was just something about Kenneth that reminded Egan of a snake oil salesman. Egan only hoped that his feelings weren’t skewed that way because the guy was stinkin’ rich.
“So did the same person plant that bomb and then break into my house?” Caroline asked.
“Possibly. Maybe he set the explosive to make sure you didn’t come home when he was there.”
She shook her head. “Why? If that explosive had killed me, why bother to break into my house?” She waited a moment, her gaze still connected with Egan’s. “Unless he was there to make sure I hadn’t survived.”
It was Egan’s turn to shake his head. Egan had already played around with that theory, and it had a major flaw. “Then the intruder would have been lying in wait and would have attacked the moment you walked in. You wouldn’t have had time to make that 9-1-1 call or grab a knife.”
She closed her eyes a moment, and her breath shuddered. “So, this intruder perhaps not only wanted me dead but also wanted something from my house?”
“Bingo.” That was the conclusion he’d reached as well. “He probably thought you’d died in the car bomb, but when you came driving up, he’d perhaps already gotten what he came for or, rather, had tried to do that, and he fled because a person who sets a delayed explosive isn’t someone who wants a face-to-face meeting with their victim. Now, the question is—what did he take? The usual is either money or jewelry. Something lightweight enough to carry away.”
“I already told you I don’t keep large sums of money in the house, or on me. I use plastic for almost everything I buy. And I don’t own a lot of jewelry.” Caroline held up her hands. “These pieces are all from family members. Aunts and my mother. My grandmother,” she added, pointing to the gold heart necklace.
Family stuff. Something else he knew little about. “What about any small valuable antique that the intruder could have taken from your house?”
Another head shake. “I run an antiques business and love vintage cars, but I prefer modern decor.” She paused. “Or rather, no decor. I’m not much for fuss or clutter.”
He thought of her virginal white bedroom and glistening black kitchen and agreed. Modern, uncluttered and maybe even a little anal. Everything perfectly aligned and in its place, like the cool crystal.
Everything in place but those cookies.
Store-bought. Not the gourmet kind from some chichi bakery. Normal ones. Egan had a hard time imagining her standing in her kitchen. Surrounded by all that expensive glitter. Wearing silk designer clothes. And eating Oreos.
“Wait. There is something,” she said a moment later. “I have a small clock that was a Christmas gift from my mother. It’s portable and probably worth a lot. It’s on the nightstand, next to the dream journal I’ve been keeping for the psychiatrist.”
Egan didn’t remember seeing a clock or a journal, but then his attention had been on those open French doors, not the nightstand. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number to the SAPD dispatch, who in turn connected him with Detective Mark Willows.
“This is Sgt. Caldwell,” he said when Willows answered.
“Glad you called,” Willows interrupted before Egan could explain. “I just got an update from the CSI guys. They took Ms. Stallings’s lock from her bedroom door so they can test it to see if it was picked. They’ll replace it with a temp so we can secure the house.”
“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”
“Well, we don’t want another break-in. This is just preliminary, but those shoe prints left on her bedroom floor are about a size eleven. Some kind of athletic shoes. So, we’re probably looking for a male.”
Egan made a note to check Kenneth Sutton’s shoe size. “I need you to check on the nightstand in the master bedroom and tell me what’s there,” Egan said to the detective.
“Give me a minute. I’m walking that way.” Egan heard the sound of the man’s movement. And waited. “There’s a phone and a clock,” Willows reported. “The phone is white, and the clock is about the size of baseball. It’s gold, and it’s got pearls and what looks like emeralds all around the dial. Heck, the friggin’ hands look like they’re made of diamonds. Caldwell, this is some clock.”
Yes, and the intruder didn’t take it. “Is there anything else on the nightstand?”
“Just a pen. Common, ordinary variety.”
Oh, man. “There’s no paper or notepad?”
“Nada.”
“Thanks. Make sure CSI checks that nightstand for prints.” Egan hung up, ready to relay that to Caroline, but he could tell from her expression that she already knew.
“My dream journal is missing,” she mumbled.
“Yeah. The expensive clock is still there, though. So, let me guess—everyone at that lunch today heard that you’d been keeping a journal.”
The color crept back into her face, and she looked as if she wanted to curse. She nodded.
Hell.
Egan leaned in and looked straight into her eyes. “Caroline, what exactly did you write in that journal?”
Chapter Four (#ulink_146e39b7-04b7-5936-ba38-b58d486778ef)
“It’s gibberish,” Caroline concluded as she glanced over the notes that she’d spent most of the previous night and that morning making. Or, rather, the notes that Egan had insisted she make so she could try to re-create her stolen dream journal.
She’d told him the night before that it was futile, that the dreams hadn’t revealed anything important. Caroline still believed that. But Egan had persisted anyway, right before the bomb squad had given her the all-clear to leave his office and go to the house of her best friend, Taylor Landis.
Taylor had welcomed Caroline with open arms. Literally. And her friend had hardly let her out of her sight since. They’d chatted, drunk some wine, and then Taylor had called her security expert to go over to Caroline’s house to change all the locks on the windows and doors and to repair the security system. It wouldn’t give Caroline peace of mind exactly, but it was a start.
“Okay, let me have a look at those notes,” Taylor insisted. She had her long blond hair gathered into a ponytail, she gave it an adjustment and then waggled her fingers. “Maybe they won’t be gibberish to me.”
Caroline handed her the notes and proceeded with her so-called walk-through of her own house. Yet something else Egan had insisted that she do. With an armed security guard shadowing hers and Taylor’s every move, Caroline checked her office to make sure everything was in place.
It was.
A PC, laptop and several thousand dollars worth of computer accessories. All still there.
She checked off another room from her list and went to the guest suite off the main corridor. She’d decorated this one all in blue. Pale, barely there blue, for the most part, with the exception of the glossy navy paint on the floor and a fiery abstract oil painting that hung over the natural white stone mantel. She no longer liked that particular bold shade of blue in the painting because it instantly reminded her of Egan’s eyes.
Caroline made a mental note to replace it.
“You dreamed about clocks chasing you?” Taylor commented, reading from the reconstructed journal.
“Yes.” Caroline frowned. “And don’t you dare say anything about ticking biological clocks. I get enough of that from my parents.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” However, Taylor’s pun indicated she’d thought it. Caroline’s frown deepened at her friend’s grin.
Caroline checked the white marble guest bathroom. Nothing missing there. And she went into a storage room crammed with carefully stacked, unopened cardboard boxes. Things she’d bought to redecorate when she’d moved from her condo to the house five months earlier. The house had been a thirtieth birthday gift from her parents, and even though she had plenty of space—fourteen rooms—Caroline just hadn’t gotten around to making the place hers.
She glanced inside the storage room, saw nothing undisturbed and then headed to the one area that she did indeed want to check out.
Her garage.
With her attention nailed to the notes, Taylor followed her. So did the guard, but he kept some distance from them.
“In the dream you had, a man saved you from the attacking clocks,” Taylor concluded. “Looks like your rescuer was Egan Caldwell.”
Caroline stopped so abruptly that Taylor nearly plowed right into her. “How did you come up with that?”
“Easily. In your notes, you said you were running through the woods with the clocks in pursuit. A man stepped out. He had blond hair, a blue shirt and a silver star embedded in his hand. He shot arrows at the clocks to stop them. Sounds like Egan to me. He has a star badge. He often wears a blue shirt, and he has blondish hair. And if you ask me, those arrows are phallic symbols.”
Stunned, Caroline snatched the notes and read over them again. Oh, God. She was certain she hadn’t dreamed about Egan and his phallic symbol, but if Taylor believed she had, then Egan might think that as well. She’d have to change the notes before he arrived. Except that she couldn’t.
Could she?
No. If he found out, he’d view that as the equivalent of tampering with evidence.
A better solution was just to keep the journal from him and not let him read a single word. She’d wait and show the notes to the psychiatrist, especially since she was meeting with the doctor the following day. Maybe she could convince the psychiatrist to keep them private. After all, it was obvious to her that the dream wasn’t connected to the murders or the hit-and-run.
Caroline tucked her journal beneath her arm and stepped into the garage. The doors were open, allowing in the humid breeze and plenty of light so she could see the damage. It was indeed minimal. A few small holes in the wall and some smoke stains—that was it.
Unfortunately, the minimal damage didn’t extend to her.
Someone had violated her space, and Caroline wondered how long it would be before she could walk into her house and not think about being killed.
Maybe she never would.
The white Mercedes was gone, of course, towed away in the early hours of the morning by the CSI agents, who were probably now looking for clues about the person who had left that explosive for her. She prayed they’d have answers soon.
Caroline continued to look around the garage, and her gaze landed on the workshop door. It was wide open. And it shouldn’t have been. Good grief. She hurried to close it. Except it wouldn’t shut. The CSI had apparently busted the lock, probably to check for evidence, and she glanced inside the workshop at what they’d no doubt seen.
Her old secret.
Something she didn’t exactly want to announce to the world, including Taylor, who likely knew about it but was too much of a friend to say anything. Caroline would have to do something about getting that door fixed.
Taylor ran her fingers over the remaining vehicle, the 1967 candy-apple-red Mustang. “You used to drive this car all the time,” she reminded Caroline.
“Yes. But I gave up on hot, fast things.” And for reasons she didn’t want to explore, she immediately thought of Egan again.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to think of him for long because she heard the voices in her backyard. Obviously, the guard heard them as well because he reached for his gun. Caroline waved him off, however, when she saw her visitors approach the garage.
Kenneth and Tammy Sutton.
She didn’t want a gun drawn on her neighbors. Of course, Kenneth was also Egan’s prime suspect, but Caroline didn’t believe that. Except she hated the uncomfortable feeling that crept through her now. Egan was responsible for those doubts.
But the question was—were his doubts founded?
Twelve hours ago, Caroline would have replied with an emphatic no, but that was before someone had tried to blow her to smithereens.
“Are you all right?” Tammy asked, hurrying to her. She latched on to Caroline, hugging her, and engulfing her in a cloud of Chanel number-something. The woman’s layers of thick gold chains dug into Caroline’s breasts and her bloodred acrylic nails were like little daggers.
Caroline untangled herself from the hug and stepped back. “I’m fine,” she said, realizing she’d been repeating that lie all night and all morning. To her parents. To Taylor. Even to the security guard lurking in the mudroom doorway. And now to Tammy Sutton.
Kenneth strolled closer. No hug. He had his hands in the pockets of his expertly tailored gray suit. With his dark hair combed to perfection, he looked ready for work. And probably was. Being chairman of the City Board often required a sixty-hour-plus week, and it was already past the normal start of his workday.
“You look tired,” Kenneth observed.
“Caroline and I sat up chatting all night,” Taylor volunteered. Covering for her. So that she wouldn’t have to discuss the stress of the explosion and lack of sleep. “She’s doing great, just like Caroline always does. Of course, she’s anxious to catch the monster who did this.”
Kenneth and Tammy nodded sympathetically. “So did the intruder take anything?” Kenneth asked.
Caroline inadvertently glanced down at the new dream journal squished between her arm and side. “Not really.”
Tammy must have noticed that glance and the uncertainty in Caroline’s voice. “Are you taking inventory?”
“Something like that.”
