Against the Storm1 (30 page)

“Mark, it’s Trace. I need you to track a call or at least find the cell tower it just came from.”

“Maggie’s stalker?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me her cell number again. And give me the exact time of the call.”

Trace reached out and Maggie handed him her phone. He checked the time and rattled off the information Sayers wanted.

“I’ll get back to you,” Mark said.

Trace clicked off and gave Maggie back her phone.

“He didn’t disguise his voice,” she said, tucking it
back into her purse. “Maybe he wasn’t using a disposable this time.”

“Maybe. But even if he was, I’ve been working on an idea…”

He took her hand, led her to the Jeep and helped her climb inside. They had just pulled into the parking lot in front of his office minutes later when his cell started ringing.

“Disposable,” Mark said simply. “But I got the tower location.” Sayers gave him the address.

“So the three night calls came from one tower, the daytime call from another.”

“That’s right. Good luck with it.”

“Thanks, Mark.” Trace signed off and they started for the office. “I’ve been working on a theory.” He unlocked the front door, led her inside, flipped on the lights and turned off the alarm. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Maggie let Trace lead her into the conference room, where a map of Houston and the surrounding area was spread open on the table.

“The white stickpins mark the locations of the two cell towers where the calls originated.” He pointed at one of the pins. “The night calls, including the one you got tonight, came from here. There were three of them. My theory is the guy was at home when he made the calls.”

“That makes sense.”

“The text message you got at the shore was a daytime call.” Trace pointed to the second white pin. “It came from this tower here. I think the guy was at work.”

Maggie studied the map. “And the colored pins?”

“Sol ran your main buyers and came up with a work
address for each, their home addresses already being on the list. The yellow pins mark work and home data of anyone who bought five pictures. There were only two, and neither fell into either zone. The red pins are people who bought four pictures. There are ten of them, but some live out of the city, so aren’t on the map. A couple live in an area serviced by one of the towers, but unfortunately, their work addresses don’t fall in the daytime zone.”

Maggie picked up the list. “Twenty people bought three pictures.”

“That’s right. I was just getting started on those when you called. We’ll make those buyers green.”

They worked together to place them. Locating the addresses through Google Maps using Alex’s borrowed laptop, which Trace had brought into the conference room, they tried to find a person who lived in the night tower zone and worked in the daytime tower zone. Some people lived in other areas, and those names were discarded.

Maggie shoved the last of the green pins into the map. None were in both tower areas.

Trace blew out a breath. “Well, I guess my theory sucks.”

She picked up the list. “You haven’t located the ones that were purchased through art brokers.”

“True, but those buyers bought only two pictures.”

“I know, but he just started stalking me recently, so maybe time was a factor. And maybe he used a broker to keep his identity secret.”

“Worth a try. We’ll make them blue.”

Maggie went back to work on the laptop. The first name was Maryanne Rosemore. “Doesn’t sound too ominous.” She typed the home address into Google Maps.

Trace located the area on the map and shoved in a bright blue pin. “Outside either zone,” he said darkly.

“The last name here is Phillip Coffman.” She frowned. “I don’t know why, but it sounds familiar.”

“Coffman…Coffman.” Trace walked up beside her, typed in the name. “President of HTM Technologies.” He looked at her. “Their offices are in the Park View Towers. That’s right here.” He found the location on the map and marked it with a pin. It was only a couple blocks from the daytime white pin.

Maggie’s heart started pounding.

“What’s the home address?” Trace asked, and she could tell he was trying not to get excited.

“It’s 55556 Bayou Glen.”

“That’s in Tanglewood. Big money lives there.” He stuck a blue pin into the map. It was inside the night zone. “Bingo.”

Trace went back to work on the laptop, typing far faster than she could have, pulling up information on Phillip Coffman. “The guy retired six months ago after twenty years with the company.” He glanced up. “He quit right after his wife died, but continued to do consulting work at the office on a part-time basis.”

“Can you find a picture?” Maggie asked. Trace clicked on a couple more websites, found what he was looking for and turned the laptop around so she could see.

Big, forties, dark hair silvered at the temples. “Oh, my God.”

“You recognize him?”

“He and his wife were known for their charitable contributions. Mrs. Coffman died of breast cancer. That’s where I met her husband.” Maggie looked up.
“I danced with him at a breast cancer awareness fundraiser earlier this year.”

Trace’s voice was hard. “And let me guess…the band was playing a waltz.”

T
race phoned Mark Sayers, who sounded even grumpier than the first time he’d been awakened. “Sorry to bother you again, buddy, but I need your help.”

Sayers grunted into the phone. “So you found him.”

“Yeah, and I want to pay him a little late-night visit.”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow morning?”

“Nothing. If we had enough evidence to arrest him. We don’t. All we’ve got are a couple of cell towers and a bunch of pins stuck in a map.”

“But you’re sure it’s him.”

“Everything fits, even the description, and Maggie recognized his picture. I’m certain it’s him. We need to put the fear of God into this asshole. I need you to meet me at his house.”

“I’m not supposed to be working this case.”

“You aren’t. The address is 55556 Bayou Glen. That’s out in Tanglewood.”

“Guy must have plenty of money.”

“Enough to pay an arsonist to burn down Maggie’s house.” Seemed as if Trace had been wrong on that one.
It would be interesting to see what Phillip Coffman had to say.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Sayers hung up, and Trace turned to Maggie. It was nearly two in the morning. She looked tired, but her eyes were bright and there was plenty of color her cheeks. She was fighting mad and he didn’t blame her.

“I’m going with you,” she said. “I want to talk to him.”

Trace shook his head. “I’m taking you home.” Back to her newly rented apartment instead of his place, which hadn’t felt like home since she’d left. “We don’t know how this guy is going to react when he finds out his dirty little secret isn’t a secret anymore.”

“Why can’t they arrest him?”

“Where’s the proof? We don’t even have enough to get a search warrant. That’s why I want Sayers there tonight. If we get any kind of probable cause, we can go in. Maybe we’ll find what we need inside the house.”

Maggie’s chin came up. “I’m coming, Trace. You can take me home and I can drive myself, or you can let me ride with you.” She gave him a sassy, belligerent smile. “I know the address, remember?”

“Dammit, Maggie!”

She didn’t say more, just stood there glaring, making it clear she meant what she said.

“All right, you can come. But you have to stay in the car.”

“Fine.”

As he locked the office and led her outside to the Jeep, his gaze ran over her. The little red dress looked wilted, her fiery curls a little less tamed, but she was still the sexiest woman he had ever seen. And the most appealing.

They drove up in front of the house just as Sayers’s dark brown unmarked police car pulled up behind them. Trace retrieved the Beretta 9 mm he’d stashed under the seat earlier, and stuck it into the waistband of his jeans, behind his back.

“Promise me you’ll stay right here,” he said.

Silence. “I’m in the car, aren’t I?”

He didn’t miss that she hadn’t actually promised. He gave her a hard warning glare. “I should have handcuffed you to a chair and left you in the office.”

Maggie just smiled.

Trace closed the door and walked up to Sayers, and the two of them approached the massive front doors.

“The way it looks, this guy’s got money and power,” Mark said. “He could cause a real shitstorm for me down at the department.”

“If Coffman’s as off the deep end as he seemed on the phone tonight, I don’t think he’ll go in that direction.”

“I hope you’re right. I think.”

They reached the door and Sayers rang the bell. Then he started pounding. “Police! Open up!”

The residential lots in the area were huge. No lights went on, no neighborhood doors came open. Sayers pounded again and the front door swung wide, revealing Phillip Coffman, six-three, mid-forties and slightly overweight.

“Yes? What is it?”

“I’m Detective Sayers and this is Trace Rawlins with Atlas Security. May we come in?”

“I’m sorry, what is this about?”

Trace answered, stepping things up a bit. “It’s about your obsession with Maggie O’Connell. It’s about stalking her, breaking into her home, putting a tracking
device on her car, installing video cameras. It’s about setting her house on fire and nearly killing two people.”

Coffman started shaking his head. “I didn’t set the fire. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

Sayers glanced at Trace and then leaped into the fray. “But you admit to harassing her, breaking into her home?”

Coffman started frowning. He looked unsettled, but mostly just bewildered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ms. O’Connell and I are very close friends. We…we’re planning to be married.”

Trace swore softly at the sound of Maggie’s voice behind him. “We aren’t getting married, Mr. Coffman! We don’t even know each other! We danced together once—that’s it.”

Coffman smiled at her. “Maggie…my dear, sweet Maggie. I knew you would come to me. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“That’s it,” Sayers said. “Put your hands behind your back, Mr. Coffman. You’re under arrest for violating section 42.072 of the Texas penal code. That’s stalking, Coffman.” Gripping the bigger man’s arm, Sayers turned him around and snapped a pair of handcuffs onto his thick wrists. Coffman made no move to fight him, just kept staring at Maggie over his shoulder as if she had somehow betrayed him.

Sayers called for backup and a few minutes later a patrol car rolled up in front of the house. As the officers approached, Coffman turned a pleading look on Maggie.

“I don’t understand, dearest. Tell them…tell them we’re in love.”

Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “We aren’t in love, dammit!”

“That’s enough,” Sayers said to Coffman, and started reading him his rights. The officers asked a few questions, then maneuvered the man down the walk to the patrol car and into the backseat. The cruiser rolled away and disappeared into the darkness.

“You’ll both need to come down to the station in the morning to make a statement,” Mark stated.

“No problem,” Trace said.

Sayers blew out a weary breath. “I should have known after the first phone call that I wasn’t getting any sleep tonight.”

“Sorry about that.” Trace glanced around for Maggie, but she was nowhere in sight. “Dammit!”

The front door stood slightly ajar. It was clear she had gone inside. Trace and Sayers followed.

“I was planning to get a warrant, go through the house with the detective in charge of the case in the morning.”

“I guess not,” Trace grumbled.

The house was huge, with very high ceilings and gleaming wood floors. The walls in the living room were covered in a silk brocade that matched the sofa. The entire house was spotless. Clearly, Coffman had a staff to take care of the place, though none of them appeared to be in residence.

Trace and Mark climbed the sweeping staircase and found Maggie in the massive master bedroom.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t touch anything,” Trace said as he walked up behind her. She was standing there frozen, staring at a wall of photographs pinned one on top of another—all of her. Next to them were pictures of Angela Coffman. Pictures of Angela and Phillip together.

“Losing his wife was the stressor,” Mark said.

“Maggie’s about the same size,” Trace said, “and both of them have red hair.”

Maggie just stared. “I can’t believe how many photos he took. How could I have not noticed him?”

“I have a hunch he had people working for him. That’s how he got the bug on your car and the cameras installed in your apartment.”

“Oh, my God, look at those.” There was a whole wall of music boxes, all with dancing couples. Except that one had been broken and the dancing couple was missing. “That’s where he got the figurine.”

“Your guys should have a field day tomorrow,” Trace said to Sayers.

When Maggie made no comment, Trace settled an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get out of here. Let the police do their job.”

He led her back downstairs and they left the house, paused on the porch as Mark secured the property.

“We’ll be down to make a statement in the morning,” Trace said. “Thanks, Mark.”

“I’m just glad it’s over.”

Trace nodded. Maggie was safe and his job was finished.

He should have been glad.

He wasn’t.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel sorry for him.” Maggie sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep as Trace wheeled the vehicle toward home. Well, not really her home. Maybe it would feel that way, eventually.

Maybe.

Besides, the apartment was only temporary. Once her town house was rebuilt, she and Ashley could decorate
it, make it feel cozy this time. It wouldn’t have a cheerful 1950s kitchen, but you couldn’t have everything. “The guy
was
kind of pathetic,” Trace agreed. “He’s obviously got mental problems. Losing his wife sent him over the edge. Somehow he identified you with her.”

She felt a sweep of sadness. “He must have loved her very much.”

Trace flicked her a sideways glance. “Doesn’t change the fact he almost killed your sister and her baby.”

Maggie caught his eye briefly. “He says he didn’t set the fire, though. He admitted to everything else, so why would he lie about that?”

“The guy’s a head case, Maggie. Probably hired someone to torch the place and doesn’t even remember.”

“I guess so.”

Trace entered the gate code for the Baylor Apartments, drove into the compound and pulled up in her guest space. The sun was coming up, soft yellow rays shooting through the branches of the trees, the sky a pinkish orange. He walked her to the elevator and they made the short ride up to the third floor.

The closer they got to the apartment, the more her stomach knotted. She didn’t want Trace to go. She wanted him to come inside. She wanted him to make love to her.

She wanted to tell him that she had made a terrible mistake and desperately regretted it. She wanted to tell him that she loved him.

One look at the set of his hard, bristly jaw, the distance he kept between them, and she knew it was too late.

She forced herself to smile as she used her key to
open the door. “It’s been a long night. Thanks for everything.”

“I just did what you hired me to do.”

She nodded, felt a lump beginning to form in her throat. “I don’t…don’t suppose you want to come in.”

He just shook his head. “Wouldn’t be a good idea.”

She didn’t reply. She thought it was a great idea.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “Take you down to make a statement. You’ll need to get a restraining order. I can help you get things rolling with that, too.”

She swallowed. “All right.”

“Good night, Maggie.”

She looked up into his face, so male, so ruggedly handsome, and her heart clenched. “Good night, Trace.”

He turned and started walking, and Maggie just stood there, watching until he disappeared. Her chest was aching, her eyes wet with tears.

For the first time she knew how David Lyons had felt the night she had said goodbye and walked away.

Maggie rode with Trace to the station the following morning. He seemed so distant, so completely removed from her that she wanted to cry. When they were finished giving their statements, he drove her to Evan Schofield’s office to sign the documents necessary to file a restraining order.

The law office was first-class all the way, with dark wood paneling, shelves filled with leather-bound books, and expensive bronze statues on the tables in the reception area.

The only attorney Maggie knew well enough to call was David, and she wasn’t about to do that. Trace had suggested Schofield, and she remembered him being with Shawna Jordane during Trace’s fight with her
rap-star husband at the Texas Café. Schofield was well known in Houston for his wealthy clientele.

The hour in his office passed in a blur. The only thing she remembered aside from signing the documents was Schofield telling Trace the judge had ordered Bobby Jordane into rehab for the next ninety days.

“You don’t think Shawna will take him back when he gets out?” she’d asked.

“Shawna’s one smart lady,” Schofield said. “I don’t think she’ll go down that road again.”

“Let’s hope Jordane learns something while he’s in there,” Trace commented.

“Most of them don’t,” Schofield had said.

Trace drove her home after that. They barely spoke on the way. He let her out in the parking lot of the Baylor complex.

“I need to return your laptop,” Maggie said, wishing he would stay. “Do you want to come up while I get it?”

“I’ve got to get back. I’ll pick it up some other time.”

Her heart sank. “All right.” And then he was gone.

Maggie trudged wearily along the corridor to the apartment. No matter what happened, she vowed, no matter the risk she would be taking, she was determined to talk to him, tell him how she felt.

She just couldn’t seem to find the right time.

Jason carried the last cardboard box up the stairs and set it on the new beige carpet in Ashley’s tiny living room. He had helped her get settled in. Mrs. Sparks had rounded up some furniture, and he had brought a few things over. Not too many. And he had purposely dinged up the ones he’d bought. He didn’t want her to guess they were new.

The little place wasn’t all that bad, small but kind of
cozy in a way he’d never known. All his life he’d rattled around in thousands of square feet of living space. He was so used it, he took it for granted. But he thought that spending his nights here cuddled up with Ashley wouldn’t be all that bad.

“I need some green plants,” she said, drawing his attention. “Soon as I get my next paycheck, I’m going down to Walmart to buy some.”

He almost smiled. It was cute the way she was so thrifty. He’d never known a woman like that.

She turned to survey the placement of the sofa beneath the window, and the bookcases along the wall made out of Home Depot shelves and cement blocks she had spray-painted brown. She had a knack for decorating, he could see. Making a place as small as this look good with old, patchwork furniture was definitely a challenge, but she was doing a great job with the little she had.

“It’s starting to look really good, Ash.”