I'm Watching You (18 page)

Zack guided Lindsay to a back table tucked in a corner. He pulled out a
chair for her, waited while she sat,
then
took the
seat nearest to the wall--he always liked his back to the wall, eyes
facing the door. This quirk was a holdover from his undercover days.

"Well, that's a first," she said as she sat.

"What?"

This close she could smell his soap. She loved the simple, masculine
scent. "You held out a chair for me."

He opened a napkin. "Even an old dog can learn a new trick."
Extra meaning punctuated the comment, and she didn't know how to respond.
An uneasy silence settled between them before he broke it. "How secure is
your apartment?

She opened a pack of crackers.
"K-bar in the
sliding glass door.
Dead bolts on front and back
doors.
Extra long screws in the doorjambs.
Not
real high tech but effective."

"Lose the key under the flower pot yet?"

Lindsay nodded. "I'm willing to admit it was stupid to keep
the key under the pot. It is now gone."

Zack seemed satisfied. "Ever had any trouble with anyone connected
to the shelter? Anyone ever follow you home?"

"No. That hasn't been an issue. But I've been called
every name in the book by enraged husbands and boyfriends. Even the victims can
get nasty when I push them to testify against their abusers. But that's
all par for the course.
Nothing new."

"What about the woman who was killed by her husband about nine
months ago? What was her name? Rogers?"

"Pam Rogers. And I blame myself for that one."

He frowned. "Why?"

"I should have seen it coming. Pam was extremely codependent and
terrified of living without her husband. I told her time and again not to call
her husband, but she couldn't let it go. Thirty minutes after I left for
the day, she called him.
A half hour after that he picked her
up.
He was hitting her before they were in the car. The volunteer on
call telephoned me. We called the police."

"She was found dead the next morning," Zack said.

"Yes. I went to her funeral. One of her brothers approached me. He
was angry and blamed me for what had happened. I remember someone from the
crowd dragging him away."

"She was an adult, Lindsay. You couldn't have stopped
her."

"But if I'd been there I could have talked her out of
calling." The
but-ifs
stalked her.

His voice softened. "You can't be there
twenty-four/seven."

She shook her head. "I still remember the pain in her
brother's eyes."

"What was his name?"

"Simon Palmer."

"Where does this guy live?"

"Richmond. Southside, I think. He's an accountant."

"You had any contact with him since his sister's
funeral?"

"None."

The doors to the kitchen swung open and a young waitress with honey
blond hair swept into the room with a tray of water glasses, bread sticks, and
plates of pasta. Lindsay recognized Zack's older sister, Eleanor,
immediately. Eleanor was thirty-three years old, vivacious, and had Down
syndrome. She had as much pride as the other Kiers and was determined to be as
independent as possible.

Lindsay beamed. "Eleanor!"

"Hi, Lindsay," she said, grinning.

When Lindsay had met Eleanor, Eleanor had been living in her
parents' house but had wanted a place of her own. Her fiercely protective
family had vetoed the idea. It had been Lindsay who'd suggested that the
room over the Kier family garage be converted into an apartment. The idea had
been a hit, and within months the room had been turned into a fully functioning
apartment. Eleanor had been thrilled.
So had her parents.

Eleanor set her tray on a stand and served them.

Lindsay then stood and hugged Eleanor. "You look wonderful."

Eleanor grinned broadly and hugged Lindsay back. "You look
skinny."

Lindsay laughed. Eleanor had no pretense and always said what was on her
mind. The honesty was refreshing. "So everyone keeps telling me. I guess
I'd better eat."

Zack stood. There was softness in his gaze when he looked at his sister.
He was a year younger than her, but he'd always been her protector.
He'd once told Lindsay that Ellie was the reason he'd become a cop.

"So what are you doing here this afternoon, Ellie? I figured
you'd be helping Mom and Dad with the party."

Eleanor made a face.
"No way.
Mom is
driving us all crazy. She wants the party to be perfect. And Dad is mumbling a
lot under his breath."

Zack smiled. "What else is new?"

"Nothing."
Eleanor waved for Lindsay and Zack
to sit. "Can I get you anything else?"

Lindsay smiled. "No, this is great."

Zack nodded. "We're good."

Eleanor leaned close to Lindsay and said in a stage whisper, "Zack
is real sorry about your big fight."

Zack coughed. "Would you beat it, Ellie? Lindsay and I have
business to discuss."

"Marriage business?"
Eleanor said, hopeful.

Heat rose in Lindsay's face. She didn't dare look at Zack,
but she could feel his gaze on her.
"Just
business."

"Zack, you need to fix this marriage," Eleanor said.

Zack cleared his throat and glared at her.
"
Ellie.
"

She matched his glare. "What?"

"Butt out."

She grinned.
"No way, Jose."

"
Ellie,
" he warned.

"Okay, okay, I'm going. But I'm going to be listening
at the door."

When Eleanor vanished into the kitchen, Zack said, "She can be a
little outspoken."

Lindsay broke a breadstick in two. "I always liked that about
her."

He laughed. "I do too, most times."

She took a bite of pasta. It tasted like heaven. She didn't
realize how hungry she was. Before she knew it, she'd eaten half of the
pasta on her plate.

Zack set down his fork. "Ellie's right, you know."

"About what?"

"Sooner or later, we're going to have to settle this
marriage business."

Tuesday, July 8, 2:00
P.M
.

These days it was the little things that
reminded Nicole of how much she'd lost during her marriage and was only
now regaining in increments.
Walking through the park.
Ordering an ice cream cone.
Having
money that she'd earned in her pocket.

She still felt shaky about life in general, but she was discovering how
much she'd forgotten how good it felt to make decisions and to be
independent.

She strolled down the Carytown district sidewalk. This was her favorite
section of town. She loved the early nineteenth-century row houses that were
painted bright colors and housed ethnic restaurants and curio shops as eclectic
as their patrons.

Nicole moved past the smoothie store, the chocolate shop and into her
favorite French bakery. She purchased a croissant and a cafe au lait and
savored both before wandering back outside. Down here, she could almost pretend
her life was normal.

Her gaze drifted to a familiar
FOR RENT
sign posted above a
Pilates
studio that was sandwiched
between a jewelry store and a restaurant. Again, she imagined reopening her
photography business.

Giving rein to impulse, she climbed the narrow steps of the building to
the second floor. She followed a
RENTERS INQUIRE HERE
sign to a half-open green door. She knocked.

"Come in!"

Nicole pushed open the door and found a tall woman dressed in a
loose-fitting pants-and-shirt ensemble. She had long black hair and dark brown
eyes that reminded Nicole of a cat.

"Can I help you?" the woman said.

"I saw your
FOR RENT
sign."

The woman smiled and extended her hand. "That's wonderful.
My name is Fiona Moore. I own the building."

"Nicole Piper." She shook Fiona's hand, grateful she
hadn't stumbled with her new name.

"Would you like to see the space?"

Her throat felt dry. It really was madness to entertain owning a
business. "Yes."

The woman grabbed keys from the desk drawer. "Follow me."

Nervous, Nicole tightened her fingers around the strap of her bag.
"Great."

Fiona moved with the grace of a dancer as she walked down the hallway.
She unlocked a door, pushed it open, and flipped on the lights. "So what
kind of business do you have?"

"I'd like to open a photography studio." Soft scents
of lavender and fresh paint swirled as she stepped into the all-white room
distinguished by high ceilings, chair molding, hardwood floors, and a bay
window that overlooked Cary Street. The space was small but the southern
exposure lighting was exquisite. Immediately, she imagined furnishing the room
with simple pieces that she could use as props for her portraits. The place had
so many possibilities.

"The space is only about three hundred square feet," Fiona
said. "But there is a kitchenette with a large sink that could be
converted into a darkroom. That is, if you need a darkroom. So much photography
is digital."

Nicole strolled into the center of the room. She pictured cameras on
tripods, lights, and backdrops. "I can take digital, but I prefer film.
There's a richness that comes through when I develop the photos
individually."

Fiona smiled. "You're an artist."

At one time art was all she was about. Now it was a luxury she
couldn't afford. These last two months she'd learned to be brutally
practical and ruthless. "How much is the rent?"

"Seven hundred plus utilities."

Nicole tried not to wince. Once she could have afforded the price.
"I'm just getting started and poverty is a fact of life right
now."

Fiona wasn't put off by her honesty. "Do you have a
portfolio?"

Nicole moved out of the room. No sense dreaming about what wasn't
to be now. "I've a collection of recent work I've done since
I came to Richmond.
All portrait work."

"I'm looking for a photographer to take pictures of me and
the studio.
Big marketing push for the studio in the fall.
I'd love to see your work."

Excitement rose inside her. "Sure."

"I can't pay much." Smiling, Fiona locked the door
behind them. "You're not the only one on a tight budget."

Nicole mentally leafed through her pictures. Already she'd taken
several dozen portraits. What she had to show didn't measure up to the caliber
of her old stuff, but it was still good.
"Might take me
a couple of days.
I could come by next Monday."

Fiona brightened. "Ten?"

She thought about her work schedule. "I can make that."

Fiona held out her hand. "See you on Monday at ten, Nicole Piper."

A wide grin tugged at Nicole's lips. "Great."

The thought of freelance work filled her with hope for the future. She
didn't have the money to open a business now, but she'd taken the
first step toward it.

Nicole hurried down the stairs but was so distracted she nearly bumped
into a man. He had dark hair slicked back off his face and Rayban sunglasses.

For just a split second, she thought the stranger was her husband,
Richard.

Heat from the sidewalk shot upward, and sweat began to trickle down her
bare legs. "Excuse me." Her voice cracked.

The man nodded. "No problem." He kept walking.

She stared after him. He wasn't Richard. Richard was 3,000 miles
away. Yet, her heart hammered in her chest. She started walking, but her gait
wasn't as confident. The ease she'd felt just seconds ago had
vanished.

She'd not seen Richard in nearly three months, but that
didn't mean she was safe. She
knew
her husband.
He was out there looking for her, and if she wasn't very, very careful
he'd find her. She glanced back at the
FOR RENT
sign. What had she been thinking? A business was just too risky.

She opened the cell phone Lindsay had given her and turned it on. She
usually kept the phone off because Richard had used her old cell to keep tabs
on her.

Her hands trembling, she dialed the number of the woman who'd
helped her escape Richard: Claire Carmichael. As the phone rang, she
wasn't sure what Claire could tell her. Maybe that Richard was still in
San Francisco...that he'd forgotten about her.

Claire's voice mail picked up. When the beep sounded, Nicole
panicked and couldn't speak. Lindsay had warned her about any contact
with people from her old life. She closed the phone.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Better to be safe.

For the millionth time, she wished Richard was dead.

San Francisco, 11:15
A.M
. PST

Richard Braxton had chosen his home because of the stunning view of San
Francisco Bay. The original house on the lot had been old, filled with
"charm," according to the historical society, but it hadn't
suited his vision of the home he deserved. So he'd had the house razed.
There'd been an outcry, protests,
lawsuits
even,
but he'd maneuvered through it all.

The showpiece house he'd created, with its steel and sleek modern
lines, didn't suit the narrow-minded tastes of his neighbors, who
preferred brick and boxwoods. But that didn't concern him. Richard
Braxton did what
he
wanted,
when
he wanted.

Richard understood his greatest skill was his ability to see the
potential; to know when a house, a market, or a woman was worth his attention.

Potential had been the reason he'd been drawn to the lot and it
had been the reason he'd been attracted to Christina, his wife. Christina
was a beauty, a stunner, and he had known from the moment he'd first seen
her in that rundown photography studio that he could make her into something
special.

Training her had not been easy. She had a fierce and spirited nature,
and it had taken so many lessons to mold her into the vision he'd had for
her. In the last few months they'd been together, he'd begun to
believe that he had nearly succeeded. She no longer argued with him. She
dressed perfectly in the tasteful Chanels and de la Rentas. She'd learned
to be punctual, to keep her makeup perfect, and had tamed that thick mane of
black hair.

Perfection had been in his grasp.

And then she'd vanished. That fool chauffer had let her slip away.

How long had she been planning to run from him?

The thought tormented him daily. He replayed every moment they'd
shared those last couple of months. He thought about the books she'd
read, the movies she'd seen, and the people she'd spoken to,
looking for clues. He'd been insanely busy with work during that time and
had been distracted. But he'd thought she'd been transformed and
there was nothing to worry about.

For her to
run,
there had to be someone else.
She had to have taken a lover.

A soft knock on his study door had him turning to find Vincent Malone
standing at the threshold. Vincent wasn't a tall man, but his wiry body
was compacted muscle. His Italian double-breasted suit complemented his frame,
and his ice blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, accentuated vivid green
eyes. He was Richard's right-hand man. He knew all his dirty secrets. For
the last two weeks, he'd done nothing but search for Christina.

"Anything come of that lead Jimmy gave us?" Richard said.

Vincent closed the study door behind him. "I've had men
canvassing the area and showing her picture around. No one has seen her."

Richard moved to his large mahogany desk that he'd had specially
made in Spain. "So that's it? She just vanished?"

Vincent smiled. Like Richard, he savored a good hunt. "Everyone
leaves a trail, Mr. Braxton. The trick is being able to find it."

"Has there been activity on a credit card or cell phone?"

"No. There's been no activity on her cards, phones, or
Social Security number. And I've had computer experts check every chip in
her computer.
Nothing.
I've still got men
looking in every airport, bus and train station, and car rental place. But
there's been no sign of her."

Anger was nearly driving him insane. Killing Jimmy had made him feel
good for a while. But his well-being hadn't lasted long. "So
we've got shit."

"Not exactly."

Richard flexed his fingers. "So you've found
something?"

"Claire Carmichael."

His patience wore thin. "I don't know her."

"She owns the New Age bookstore about five blocks from the
restaurant where Jimmy lost Christina."

"Why do I care about her?"

"She's part of this network of people who help abused women
disappear. She speaks regularly at community centers in your area."

Months of pent-up rage burned in Richard.
"Abused
women.
Christina wasn't abused. I gave her everything. I love
her."

Vincent nodded his head in deference. "I didn't mean to
suggest she was."

Richard drew in a deep breath. "So you think this Carmichael woman
helped Christina?"

"Yes. Your wife's driver remembered taking her to a Bay Area
church several weeks in a row. I checked. It was a support group run by Claire
Carmichael. I want to talk to her."

Richard shook his head. "The bitch interfered with my marriage.
Give me her address."

Vincent looked doubtful. "Wouldn't you rather I take care of
it? Better to let me do the dirty work."

"I like the dirty work."

Richard
downshifted
the gears of his BMW and
pulled into a parking spot in front of the New Age bookstore located near San
Francisco Bay. The store was housed in an old row house that had survived the
big earthquake a hundred years ago. Tall with a sharp roof, square bay windows,
and lots of gingerbread trim, the building was considered a treasure, but by
his way of thinking it was an old pile of junk.

He'd never have given the place a second glance if not for Claire
Carmichael.

He shut off the car engine and got out. Inside the store, he spotted
Claire. She was about thirty, olive skin, not tall. She wore a frumpy, flowing
dress that hid her curves, and she had pulled back curly hair into a high
ponytail that highlighted sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. Not his type, but
loosen the hair and ditch the dress and she might be worth a spin.

Richard grew hard.

He imagined her eyes lighting with desire as he shoved inside her. And
then he pictured the passion shifting to fear as he wrapped his hands around
her neck and squeezed the life out of her. She'd fight to breathe.
She'd kick, try to scream. But in the end, the life would fade from her
body.

It was almost closing time and it didn't take long before the
store emptied of customers.