In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (8 page)

Very interested.

It had taken a ton of research to convince her boss she could
come up with enough information to write a compelling story,
but almost a week after her eavesdropping episode, Claudia got
the green light for a piece on paranormal phenomena. With one
caveat: it had to have the local angle she'd promised.

That was her next order of business. And she'd already done
her homework. Earlier in the week, her computer search of the
St. Louis area phone book had revealed only one listing for a
Joseph Birkner-the name on the credit card at the restaurant.
He and Marta lived at 7135 Willow Lane.

It had been a piece of cake to pin down where Rachel's friend
worked. She'd just followed her one morning to Stafford Elementary School. After practicing her spiel for the past few
days, Claudia was confident she could pull off her plan without
suspicion and get the information she needed.

Stepping out of her cube in the newsroom, she headed toward the conference room-the only available office space with
a door in the whole place. That was her one gripe about the
paper-and journalism in general. No privacy. How was a reporter supposed to cultivate confidential sources or develop
exclusives when everyone within twenty feet could hear your
conversation?

She ran through her script once more, withdrew her cell
phone, and keyed in the number for Stafford Elementary. At
4:30 on a Thursday, the place could be shut down for the day. But she hoped not. Now that she had the go-ahead, she was
anxious to get started. Tapping her foot, she listened as the
phone rang once, twice, three times. By the fourth ring, as she
was beginning to resign herself to voice mail, a live person
answered.

"I'm so glad I caught you before the end of the day, Claudia
returned the woman's greeting, doing her best to sound frazzled.
"I was trying to reach one of your teachers, but I can't read my
own scribbling. I always did get bad marks in penmanship" She
gave a self-deprecating laugh. "It's Rachel .." she left the sentence hanging, crossing her fingers the woman would fill in the
blank.

"Sutton?"

Yes! "That could be it. Unless ... is there another Rachel on
staff ?"

"No, we only have one Rachel:"

"Then she must be the one"

"Were you wanting to inquire about piano lessons, by any
chance?"

Another piece of background information. Excellent. Claudia filed it away for possible future use. "That's right. For my
daughter"

"My daughter is one of her students too, the chatty woman
offered. "Rachel is a very good teacher. I'm sure you'll be delighted. I'm afraid we can't give staff information over the phone,
but I'll be happy to ask her to call if you'll give me your name
and a contact number."

"Perfect. It's Judy Denham" Claudia made up a number.

"Got it. I'll pass this on to Rachel:"

"Thank you so much. You've been very, very helpful:"

More than you'll ever know.

Smiling, Claudia ended the call.

On to step two.

Rachel shivered and slipped the key into the door of her
small bungalow. The cold had returned with a vengeance
sometime during the afternoon, and she regretted leaving her
gloves on the kitchen counter this morning. The short walk
from her detached garage to the door had already numbed
her fingers.

A frigid gust whipped past, and another shudder rippled
through her. The wind chill had to be in the single digits. So
much for St. Louis's short-lived mid-winter thaw. And with
ominous clouds turning the sky dark as night at only 4:30, she
assumed more snow was on the way. Oh, well. It had been nice
while it lasted.

Stepping inside, Rachel shut the door against the bitter cold
and drew a slow, deep breath. It had been a long week. She'd
doubled up on piano students Tuesday and Wednesday night to
carve out time for parent/teacher conferences last night at one
of the two schools where she taught music. After the conferences, some of her colleagues had convinced her to go out for
pizza. It had been close to eleven when she'd stepped through
her door.

Tonight, she wanted to relax. Needed to relax, after the oddly
stressful past month. And she'd planned her Friday evening
with that in mind. First, she was going to savor the full order
of shrimp and broccoli linguini in a light olive oil sauce she'd
picked up from her favorite Italian restaurant on the way home.
That would be followed by the generous slice of chocolate
torte she'd cut from the cake in the teachers' lounge today.
She intended to cap the evening with a soak in a hot bubble
bath, accompanied by a good book. And perhaps she'd allow
herself one final indulgence-a few fanciful thoughts about a
certain sandy-haired FBI agent with cobalt blue eyes.

Since her visit to the agency's office a week ago today, she
hadn't thought a lot about him. Hadn't let herself think a lot
about him. She was too much of a realist. Growing up in foster
care had that effect, she supposed. You learned to appreciate
kindness, to accept indifference, and to move on without a
backward glance no matter how you were treated. It wasn't as
if anyone had ever been unkind to her. But the succession of
placements had left her yearning for roots. And it had given
her a deep, lasting appreciation for home. Her house might
be small and unpretentious, but it was hers. That meant the
world to her.

And if she had no one to share it with ... that was just the
way life had worked out. She didn't dwell on it. Except, once
in a while, on special days that were meant to be spent with
someone you loved.

Like today.

Valentine's Day.

Setting the white sack containing her dinner on a small table
near the door, she shrugged off her coat-and tried to do the
same with her sudden melancholy. Instead of feeling sorry for
herself, she'd focus on all the things she should be grateful for.
Including the relaxing evening ahead.

In a dozen strides she crossed the small living room and
ignited the gas flames in her fireplace. She'd always said if she
ever bought a house, it had to have a fireplace. The homes she
could afford in the areas where she wanted to live didn't offer
such features, however, so she'd added this soon after moving
in. It had been an extravagance-but one she'd never regretted.
On a cold winter night, there was nothing like curling up next
to the flickering logs with a cup of hot chocolate. Not a bad addition to her activity list for tonight, either. She might end her
evening that way. After the bubble bath.

The first order of business, however, was food. Breakfast had been a long time ago and she was starving. Juggling classes at
two schools had its challenges, and lunch was often a casualty.
On the bright side, however, skipping her noon meal meant she
wouldn't have to feel guilty about tonight's pasta spree.

She snagged the bag off the table and was halfway to the
kitchen when the doorbell rang.

Torn, Rachel hesitated. She hated to be rude. But she wasn't
in the mood for company-or a sales pitch. On the other hand,
her caller could be someone who was interested in a mural, or
wanting to inquire about piano lessons ... though most piano
customers phoned and the majority of those interested in a
mural emailed after viewing the samples on her website. But
she'd had a few potential clients show up at her door through
the years.

Resigned, she deposited the bag on the table again and returned to the door, checking the peephole.

A young woman stood on the other side, her longish,
dark-blonde hair pulled back at her nape with a barrette. A
gold choker peeked through the neck of her black wool coat,
glinting in the porch light, and a leather shoulder purse was
slung over her shoulder. A newer model, sporty red car was
parked at the curb behind her. Although she was a stranger
to Rachel, her attire and transportation didn't suggest salesperson or survey-taker. That was a good thing. She should
be able to dispense with the interruption quickly and get on
with her evening.

Pasting a smile on her face, she pulled open the door. "Hi.
Can I help you?"

"Rachel Sutton?"

"Yes"

"My name is Claudia Barnes. I'm with St. Louis Scene" She
held out a business card. "I was hoping you might give me a
few minutes:"

Responding by reflex, Rachel took the card. "I'm sorry. I don't
think I'm familiar with that publication"

"Not enough people are, I'm afraid. It's only been around for
two years. But the circulation is growing. Scene is a free, weekly
news magazine. It's distributed at restaurants, grocery stores,
and various other places of business. I'm a reporter."

The logo on the card was vaguely familiar to Rachel. "I think
I've seen it. At the coffee shop I go to, maybe. It's a tabloid, isn't
it?"

"Yes"

Puzzled by the visit, Rachel tipped her head and gave the
woman a quizzical look. "How can I help you, Ms. Barnes?"

"I'm hoping you'll let me interview you for a story I'm working on about paranormal phenomena"

The request caught Rachel like a left hook-and left her reeling. Several seconds ticked by before she could find her voice.
"Excuse me?"

The woman's poise wavered for an instant, her smile flickering the tiniest bit. Clearing her throat, she hitched her shoulder
purse a bit higher. Her smile steadied. "I'm working on a feature
on the paranormal. A story like that is always more interesting
when it has a local angle, and I understand you had an experience recently that falls into this category. With a Raggedy Ann
doll?"

Stunned, Rachel stared at her. "Where did you hear that?"
The question came out strained and hoarse.

"I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources. That goes against press
protocol. It's true, then? You have psychic abilities?"

"No"

"What about the doll?"

"That's the only time I .." Rachel stopped. Clamped her lips
shut. But it was too late. For all intents and purposes, she'd
confirmed her experience with the doll.

"It's a fascinating story, Ms. Sutton. I know our readers would
be interested in it. Even if the FBI wasn't"

The woman's eyes narrowed, and Rachel suspected she was
fishing now. That she didn't know what the FBI's reaction had
been. But how did she know about Rachel's visit to the field
office in the first place?

Only one answer came to mind. Someone at the FBI had
leaked her story to the press. Perhaps not with deliberate
intent, though that didn't matter at this point. It was out
there.

But who could it have been? She'd told her story to no one
at that office except Nick Bradley, and somehow she couldn't
imagine him being that indiscreet. He could have shared the
story with other agents, though, and one of them might have
commented on it to someone with connections to the media.
How else could this woman have gotten the information?

"You know, Ms. Sutton, whether they admit it or not, law
enforcement agencies do use psychics in crime solving. I've
been researching the subject, and back in the 1970s there was
a woman in St. Louis who-"

"Ms. Barnes" Gripping the edge of the door, Rachel cut her
off. "I don't know where you got your tip about me, but I'm not
interested in your article or in participating in any way" She
started to close the door.

"That's your choice, of course" The woman raised her volume
slightly. "It's just that I wanted to give you a chance to tell your
story in your own words rather than have me paraphrase it with
a `no comment' from you:'

Rachel's hopes for a quiet, peaceful evening-make that a
quiet, peaceful life-disintegrated. The reporter might be bluffing, hoping that last comment would spur her to cooperate,
but if she wasn't, Rachel would face public humiliation. It had
been bad enough talking to one person at the FBI. If this was splashed across the pages of a tabloid and read by tens of thousands of people, she'd never shake the loony label.