A Whisper in the Dark (20 page)

Mitch’s words rang uncomfortably in his ears.

“You didn’t tick him off, did you?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“You’re good at that, no?” She softened the words with a smile.

“An expert, evidently.” Shoving his own shortcomings aside, he sighed. “You okay?”

She sobered. “Those photos scared me, John.”

They’d scared him, too, but he didn’t say the words. “Mitch is going to check with Homicide and Missing Persons to see if they can figure out who the woman is.”

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she crossed to the desk then turned to him. “I don’t understand why he’s targeted me. Yes, I write erotica, but I’m not the only sinner in this city.”

“It’s hard for a normal person to understand what drives the demented mind. Evidently, he feels as if you’ve committed some wrong, either to him personally or, perhaps, to society. He’s blinded to everything else.”

She shook her head. “So where do we go from here?”

“I need to use your computer to take a look at some software online.”

“What kind of software?”

“The kind that will trace incoming calls. A long shot since this guy is probably using a disposable cell, but it’s worth a try.”

“Knock your socks off.” She crossed to her computer and closed the program she’d been using. “I can log these books later this evening, after I close.”

John thought about that a moment and decided this was probably a good time to lay down some rules. “Starting today, I don’t want you alone in the shop, Julia. In fact, I don’t want you to open the shop at all unless I’m here.”

“Whoa.” She raised her hands as if to stop a speeding semi rig. “Look, I know I need to be cautious. I can handle that. But I will not close my shop. This is my livelihood. My business. A major source of income—”

“You can get by for a few da—”

“No, I can’t. I will not close the shop. I will not let this bastard force me to do it.”

Frustration ground through him. “Julia, if you want me to keep you safe, you’re going to have to cooperate and make some concessions.”

“Maybe she’s not the only one who needs to make concessions,” came a male voice from behind him.

John spun to see Jacob standing between two rows of books. He must have entered through the rear door and neither John nor Julia had heard him.

“This is between me and Julia, so do yourself a favor and butt out,” John said harshly.

“This is my gig, too,” Jacob maintained. “For God’s sake, man, I don’t see how you can keep her safe when you’re passed out in the freaking storage room, slobbering all over yourself and puking in the alley.”

“Jacob.” Julia warned.

The other man looked at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Julia, but you’re my friend. Someone’s going to have to say it. God knows we’ve all been thinking it.” He jammed a finger in John’s direction. “Before you start making demands on her and pointing your finger at her friends, maybe you ought to take a good, hard look at the way you’re going about this.”

John stared at the other man, his heart pounding. The urge to put him on the floor was strong, but he resisted. As badly as he wanted to wipe that smug expression off Jacob’s face, what little self-respect John had left wouldn’t let him do it.

“Stay out of this,” he heard himself say.

“I’ve stayed out of it long enough.” Jacob tossed a pointed look at Julia. “She’s my friend, and I’m not going to let you get her hurt because you can’t keep your head out of a bottle.”

The words struck a nerve, but John didn’t let himself react. But he could feel the rage building. The knowledge that he was teetering on the edge of a very steep precipice. It wasn’t often that he lost control, but he knew it he didn’t get out of there pronto he was going to do something all of them would be sorry for later.

“I’ll check out the software at the store,” he said and started for the door.

“John, wait—”

“Don’t.” He jerked open the door, then turned. His eyes sought Jacob’s. He jabbed a thumb at Julia, hating it that his hand was shaking. “If anything happens to her while I’m gone, I’m coming after you.”

The other man made a sound of disgust.

John slammed the door hard enough to shake the antique plates on the wall.

 
Julia hated it that Jacob and John were at each other’s
throat. She considered both men friends and didn’t want to take sides. But in the end she was compelled to agree with Jacob. Not because she was concerned for her own personal safety, but because she was concerned about John.

She could see the heavy toll the shooting in Chicago had taken on him. He blamed himself. A heavy load she wished she could somehow lessen. Julia had never been good at watching people she cared about self-destruct. But John was in a place she didn’t know how to reach. She didn’t know how to help him.

But her father would. Benjamin Wainwright might be overbearing as a father, but as a man of faith he was a good listener. He was good at helping people put their problems in perspective. She resolved to give him a call and ask him to speak to John. As his friend, she felt it was the least she could do.

They hadn’t spoken since the exchange between him and Jacob earlier in the day. John had left to pick up the tracing software and spent the entire afternoon installing it on her computer. Julia had caught herself watching him several times throughout the day. And she found herself liking what she saw just a little too much.

When he was working on a task, his concentration was complete. His brows knit. Hands steady on the computer keys. Eyes level on the screen. She wondered what it would be like for that concentration to be focused on her . . .

Realizing what she was doing, she quickly shoved the errant thought aside. John Merrick was not the kind of man she should be having those kinds of thoughts about. He was deeply troubled and in no condition to partake in a relationship. Not that she was interested. She wasn’t. But a girl could look . . .

At five o’clock Claudia left for her evening class. Jacob left shortly thereafter. Julia spent the next hour filling out the daily sales report, cleaning the coffee station and replenishing spent candles.

“You got a minute?”

She started at the sound of John’s voice and spun to find him standing at the counter, his hands in his pockets.

“Sure.” She set down the rattan tray of flavored teas and came around the counter. “Look, if you want to talk about what happened this afternoon, there’s no need—”

“Actually I want to show you how the software works.”

Julia couldn’t help it. She smiled. “All right.”

He walked to her desk. She noticed he’d moved the phone and put it next to the computer. A wire ran from the computer into the phone. He pointed to a tiny box the size of a cell phone next to the tower. “This box relays the caller information to your computer. Your computer in turn will relay the information to the tracing company. They need three minutes to complete the trace. So, if our boy calls, try to keep him talking.”

She nodded, impressed by the sophistication of what he’d done. “Of course.”

“Don’t turn off the computer—keep this software running at all times.”

“Will it tell us where he’s calling from?

He hit a key, brought the monitor to life.“A dialogue box will pop up the instant the trace is complete. If he’s calling from a physical address, we’ll get it. If he’s calling from a cell phone, they’ll have to run what’s called a triangulation grid, which will tell us the location of the nearest tower.” He hit another key and a box popped up. “Chances are he’s using a disposable cell phone, but I thought this was worth a shot.”

“Do you think he’ll call?”

“Yeah, I do. I think he’s escalating. Even if he’s cautious, he won’t be able to resist the compulsion that drives him. He’s not finished. Hopefully, he’ll make a mistake.”

Julia suppressed a shiver. It was unnerving to know there was some stranger out there who at the very least wanted to hurt her. Or at the worst, wanted her dead.

“I’m going to finish your book tonight,” he said. “See if I can figure out what has this guy so pissed off.”

Discomfort rippled through her at the thought of him reading the book. “All right.” She cleared her throat. “Just be prepared . . . I mean, it was written with a female audience in mind.”

“I noticed!” One side of his mouth curved, and for an instant the old John was back. “But I think I can handle it.”

Julia hoped so, because she wasn’t so sure she could.

SEVENTEEN

John closed the storage room door behind him and studied
his new living quarters. Julia had done her utmost to make the room comfortable. She’d added floral sheets to the cot. A water glass, carafe and a vase of fresh cut flowers adorned the tiny wooden table next to the cot. She’d moved some boxes and set a radio on the shelf. A bar of fancy pink soap sat in the rack above the sink along with a matching pink hand towel.

He wished the scene between him and Jacob hadn’t happened. John told himself the other man had been out of line, putting his nose where it didn’t belong. But the fact of the matter was, Jacob was right. The truth of that stung. Hit him in a place that was already rubbed raw.

Once upon a time, John had been a good cop. It was the one thing in this life he’d done well. The shooting had changed everything. It had left John with a fear he couldn’t get a handle on and a terrible guilt that ate at him twenty-four hours a day.

So what in the hell was he doing here, taking responsibility for another life? Julia’s life? Jacob was right. John was in no frame of mind to be taking on this kind of responsibility. He wasn’t capable of protecting her, couldn’t even pick up his gun. His attraction to her was skewing his objectivity. He was making the entire situation worse by drowning himself in booze every night. A losing proposition for everyone involved. Especially Julia. If the bastard stalking her decided to pay her a visit in the middle of the night, how did John plan to protect her?

Scrubbing his hand over his face, he walked to the duffel and opened it, found himself staring down at the fifth of gin he’d picked up at the liquor store on Bourbon Street. He could feel the need crawling inside him, taunting him with the promise of oblivion.

Next to the gin was the revolver. Even though the weapon was zipped in its case, John still felt a cold chill at the sight of it. The reaction shamed him. At one time he’d been a decent marksman. He’d made it a point to get to the range two or three times a month. He’d
enjoyed
shooting. Then came that terrible night in the warehouse. He still dreamed about the way the gun had kicked in his hand. He still saw Franklin Watts’s pale-as-death face. He could still hear his final words. Feel the warm stickiness of the other man’s blood on his hands.

Two weeks after
The Incident
, being a firm believer in facing the hair of the dog that had bitten him, John had gone to the range. But the instant he’d tried picking up his weapon, a cold sweat had broken out all over his body. His heart had pounded. He’d begun to tremble, and suffered with nausea so powerful he’d tossed his lunch. He’s found himself in the throes of a fucking anxiety attack and left without the slightest clue how to overcome it.

He knew he should see a shrink. His captain had ordered mandatory counseling. Only John had quit the department after that first visit. He’d thought he could handle it on his own. What a fool . . .

Pulling the duffel closed, John turned away from it and tried not to feel like hell. He wanted a drink. He wanted to be able to pick up his gun without fucking losing it. Goddamn it, he wanted Franklin Watts to still be alive . . .

Restless and unsettled, he sat down on the cot and put his face in his hands. He closed his eyes, wishing he were somewhere else. That he hadn’t screwed up his life and a dozen others. That Julia’s safety wasn’t his responsibility.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking down at the corner of her book,
A Gentleman’s Touch
, which was sticking out from beneath the cot. He’d shoved it there the night before and promptly forgotten about it. He didn’t feel like reading. But facing a long night and a host of demons, he figured it was better than spending the next eight hours bouncing off the walls.

He’d been curious about the book, anyway. He wanted to know what Julia had written that had angered someone to the point of wanting to hurt her.

Snagging the book off the floor, he folded the pillow and lay back on the cot. Misery settled onto his chest as he opened the book. Refusing to acknowledge its presence, he turned the page and began to read.

 
Julia knew better than to start a project as monumental
as her taxes so late in the evening. But when she’d sat down at her laptop to work on her current project,
The Bride’s Secret Dream
, the words refused to come. Usually she could find solace in her writing. Tonight, however, she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She felt out of sorts. Out of touch with her characters. It didn’t happen often, but when it did she knew there was no forcing the issue.

Now if only she could get a handle on these taxes.

Sighing, she pulled a fat hanging file from the drawer and set it on the desk. From within, she slid a manila folder marked “Deductions” and began sorting them according to type of expense.

The wall clock glared down at her, reminding her that if she didn’t go to bed soon and get some sleep, tomorrow was going to be a tough day. Usually, she was a good sleeper and fell into slumber the minute her exhausted head hit the pillow. Tonight she felt keyed up. Restless. As if her own skin didn’t quite fit.

She wanted to blame it on the latte she’d had after dinner. But caffeine had never bothered her before. As much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it, she’d been thinking about John on and off all evening. She’d tried occupying her mind with other things. Her book. Taxes. Even the stalker. But time and time again she found her thoughts going back to John. She wanted to believe her preoccupation with him was nothing more than concern for a friend in trouble.