She pressed the blanket to his head, her hands shaking uncontrollably. The heavy smell of firecrackers blew through the room from the nonexistent window. Broken glass littered the sofa and carpet.
Dave hadn’t moved, but at least she felt a pulse. Her eyes settled on the gun cabinet in the dining room. If she could get there… Almost hyperventilating, she crawled toward it. She pulled herself onto her sore ankle. It was locked. She fumbled with the combination. Crap, what was it? She tried Abby’s birthday, then Jocelyn’s. Dave? A combination, right. Dave and Jocelyn’s together. Sweat dripped down her face. Her fingers shaking and slippery, she unlocked the cabinet and grabbed a shotgun.
Voices hooted outside followed by a rebel yell. Another round of bullets pummeled the leather sectional couch, spraying stuffing over Dave. Jen released the slide lock and pushed the shells into the chamber. She hadn’t shot a gun since her father left, but she remembered the pumping action. She stepped along the wall over the broken glass, thankful for her slippers. Twinges shot through her sore ankle as she squatted to point the muzzle out the window opening. Were they still out there? She didn’t dare look over the hedge just outside the window.
A brick flew through the opening followed by shouts. “Bitch, we know you’re in there.”
She pulled the trigger and the recoil almost knocked her over. A muffler rumbled and tires squealed along with the popping of another round that sounded more distant. Jen pumped off shots until she ran out of ammo. Her arms and legs trembling, she staggered back to the cabinet, grabbed more slugs and limped toward the front door.
A hand clamped her shoulder. “Jen, give me the gun.”
Dave. Thank God. Blood covered his face. Suddenly drained, Jen dropped the gun as if it were a sandbag. Dave yanked her arm. “Go to the kitchen and hide behind the island. Call the police.”
* * *
Dave picked up the shotgun and exited through the laundry room door. He ignored the screaming pain in his head and blinked back dizziness. Anger surged. How dare they attack his home and endanger his woman? He’d sneak up on them from the service entry.
A whimpering sound came from the area of the trash cans. One of them was hurt. Good job, Jen. He unlatched the gate and pushed it open while he crouched behind the air conditioner unit. Other than the moans, he heard no other sound. He slipped out the gate, staying close to the wall. Melissa lay in a pool of blood next to the trashcans. Dave dropped the gun and fell to his knees.
“Melissa.” He touched her face. What was she doing here? He cupped his mouth and yelled, “Jen. Call an ambulance.”
Melissa’s eyes rolled as she gasped for breath, coughing blood. She tried to talk, but no words came out of her mouth.
“Stay with me. Help’s coming. Keep breathing.” He tore off his shirt and pressed it onto her bloody torso. “Oh, God. Don’t let her die. God, have mercy.”
Gravel crunched behind him. He turned with a start. Jen covered her mouth and dropped to ground. “What have I done?”
“Did you call an ambulance?”
“Y-yes… Oh, Dave… I didn’t mean to shoot her.”
“Go back to the house and wait for the police.” Dave stroked Melissa’s matted hair. Her breathing weakened. He held her head in his lap and prayed. Beyond the trash cans, Melissa’s Volvo station wagon sat shattered, littered with holes and broken glass.
Sirens overwhelmed the neighborhood, and a blur of emergency vehicles streaked onto his driveway. The paramedics peeled Melissa out of his arms.
Several minutes later, Dave and Jen were herded into separate squad cars and taken to the station.
* * *
Jen lost count of the times she had been in a police station in the past week. The detective gave her a bottle of water and switched on a recording device. “You’re not under arrest, but you may request the presence of your lawyer.”
Jen waved her hand. “I’ve nothing to hide.”
She described the shots shattering the window and destroying the couch. “It was so close. We were just sitting there. We… we could have been killed.”
He hummed and tapped on his keyboard, looking more like a college professor than a savvy detective. “Yes, must have been frightening. That neighborhood’s not known for drive-by shootings. Secluded and extremely high end. Have you any enemies?”
“Enemies? What do you mean?”
He lifted his gaze from his computer and took a bite from a powdered sugar donut with blood-red filling. “Oh, sorry, you want one?”
Jen shook her head. The detective, what was his name? Tanner or something returned to his computer. Scattered Post-its littered his desktop along with crumpled coffee cups. Stacks of paper and candy wrappers were shoved in piles under his monitor. Nothing like Detective Mathews’ sleek, bare desktop. Why wasn’t he on the case?
Tanner finished his donut, wiped his hands on the wrinkled shirt that stretched over his paunch and swiveled his chair to stare at Jen. “You never thought how dangerous it was to handle a firearm? To shoot without looking? It’s called reckless discharge of a firearm.”
“B-but I didn’t mean to shoot Mrs. Bowers. They shot at us first. I heard a muffler thunder and tires squealing while they were shooting. They must have gotten away before the police showed up.”
He scribbled something on a Post-it and stuck it on his monitor. “Of course they did,” he sneered. “But where were you standing? Pretty convenient that you placed yourself where you weren’t hit.”
“Huh?” Chills gripped Jen’s sides from her armpits to her hips. “We were near the stereo.”
“Doing what?” The examiner pulled on his mustache.
“K-kissing.”
“Kissing.” He tapped his keyboard again. “So the perps saw you kissing, shot out the window, and
then
threw a brick?”
“I don’t know if they saw us. I mean, it happened so fast.”
He twirled a pencil over his lips and looked at the ceiling, as if counting flies. “I don’t see the point of the brick. Sure you didn’t plant it?”
A cold jolt of panic dropped to her stomach. “What are you talking about?”
He lowered his horn-rimmed glasses and glared over the top. “Mr. Jewell has been a victim of harassment ever since his daughter was kidnapped.”
Sweeping over the clutter, he grabbed a stack of files and plopped them on the desk in front of Jen. “Maybe you don’t have enemies, but he does. Crank calls, anonymous tips leading nowhere, fake police reports, vandalism, threats. And it’s escalating as his company gets closer to the initial stock offering. You might just be the latest, most effective form of harassment—giving out fake code, attracting his attention, seducing him.”
Jen’s gut twisted and shockwaves vibrated up her neck. She couldn’t find words to respond.
He tapped the desk with a pen and pointed it at her. “I know your type. I must admit you took some lumps with the kidnapping, but you were clever, staging the phone calls, making sure your GPS-enabled iPad was on and trailing him to the drugstore parking lot so he could rescue you.” He made air quotes around the word ‘rescue.’
Jen jumped out of the chair. “What are you talking about?”
The examiner leaned back with a smile. “Your so-called sprained ankle, the one you made sure to limp on so Mr. Jewell would treat you like fine china. Ha!”
She leaned on the desk. “It healed, okay? I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
A policewoman opened the door. “The brick.”
Tanner hefted his weight from his chair and took it from her. “Ah… clever. The note. A bunch of expletives from Sherry Mendoza, the supposed email stalker. What do you have to say?”
Jen clenched her fist behind her skirt. “I need to make a phone call. My roommate’s name is Sherry. If she’s not home, she could have thrown the brick.”
“Sure, good thinking.” He pointed to the phone on his desk with an undisguised smirk. “Help yourself.”
She cleared her scratching throat and dialed the number to her apartment. A woman answered after the fifth ring. Her voice had an alto quality and was not as squeaky as Sherry’s.
“May I speak to Sherry?” Jen put on an overly cheerful voice.
“She’s sleeping. Who are you?”
Ire surged in Jen’s stomach. Forget the fake cheer. “I’m her roommate and the holder of the lease. Jen Jones. I need to speak to her.”
“She’s hungover. Give me a message.”
“No message. I want to hear her voice. It’s important. Has she been up this morning?”
The woman yelled. “Sherry, your roommate wants to talk to you.”
Jen sweated. What excuse would she give? Happy Thanksgiving, did you save me a turkey casserole?
Crackling noises came from the line and a slurred voice said, “Yeah? Jen?”
“Hi, Sherry. I’m not going to be home for a bit. Don’t worry about the turkey casserole.”
“What? Sure… ugh. My head’s beating me up.”
“Make sure you clean up, okay? When’s your friend leaving?”
“I dunno. See ya.” Sherry grunted and must have dropped the phone on the counter. Jen heard grumbling from the other woman before the line went dead.
Tanner looked up from his laptop. “So, you’ve eliminated her? Too bad for you.”
Jen’s head hurt and cold sweat laced her brow. “Is Mrs. Bowers going to be all right?”
He switched off the recorder and pocketed it. “I don’t know. They took her to emergency surgery. Mr. Jewell’s been released since you claim to have done the shooting. You were out on bail for murder.”
He wiped his glasses and peered at them in the sunlight. “But you’ll be spending the weekend in jail.”
“Hey wait, I thought you said I wasn’t under arrest.”
His lips stretched in a self-satisfied manner. “That’s so I didn’t have to read you your rights.”
He handed her the phone. “Call your lawyer.”
* * *
Dave walked out a set of double doors at Valley Medical Center. Pete Bowers, Melissa’s husband and CEO of OgleNet, met him at the fountain. His pugnacious face was beet red, and he punched Dave without preamble. “What the hell was my wife doing at your house?”
A security guard yelled, “Hey, hold it down, man.”
Dave held his jaw and rubbed his throbbing forehead. “I had no idea she was there. Someone shot up my living room, and my girlfriend shot back.”
“What were you doing, cheering her on?”
Dave hung his head. “Of course not. Melissa’s my friend. I’m just as worried as you are.”
Pete shoved Dave against the wall. “She has a collapsed lung, and they’re digging buckshot out of her. You’re one hell of a cheeky guy to say you’re as worried as I am.”
The guard yelled, “Take it out of here.”
Pete pushed Dave and strode off. Dave bent his face to the wall. He should never have played with fire. And Melissa was definitely fire, make that molten lava. How much did Pete know? It’s not like he fleeced her. They had a mutual agreement, and he allowed her to make wise investments early and often. But still, what he’d done was a sin and she was hurt as a result.
He called his lawyer. “Phil, I’m in trouble again.”
“Yeah, Owen texted me. Jen shot the wife of OgleNet’s CEO. The gossip network. It’s all over the friggin’ internet.”
“Jen didn’t do it on purpose. She was afraid for her life.”
“What was she doing at your house in the first place? I told you to stay away from her.”
He palmed his aching head. “She’s in danger and it’s my fault.”
Phil sneezed and cleared his throat. “Well at least the thugs were picked up by the police. They had several handguns and a shotgun. What’s puzzling is the message taped to the brick. It was from Sherry Mendoza, another incarnation of your email stalker. The usual expletives against you.”
“Does this mean Sherry and the kidnappers are connected?”
“Maybe, and maybe not. Nick SnotOgler’s blog claims Jen is impersonating your email stalker. So the thugs might have gotten the idea to mislead us, or perhaps—”
“Were they the same ones who kidnapped Jen?” Dave picked at the gauze pad on his right temple.
“Yes, and one of them says he’s your friend from college. Tom Banks, remember him?”
Tom? The one who used his car for job interviews last summer? Dave groaned. Of course. Tom was pissed when he refused to hire him for lab manager. Greta and the team chose Bruce, even though Dave had put in a good word for Tom. But how could he have misjudged him? His dad’s disdainful words percolated,
Naïve loser. They don’t even have to pull the wool over your eyes to fool you.
Phil’s voice punctured his thoughts. “Are you listening? Tom’s alias is Barry Blanks. He’s the one Jen called Scraggly Beard.”
Dave’s lungs deflated as if he lost his wind. “Tom? How could he be involved? Are you telling me he took my car and ran over Rey?”
“It’s possible, although a witness claims a young woman with brown hair drove the car away. She could have met up with Tom later, but we have no proof. The perps aren’t talking. At least they’re off the streets.”
Dave grabbed a handful of his hair. “Did the police ID the woman who took the car? Maybe she’s the email stalker.”
“Mrs. Bunney, the witness, couldn’t pick Jen from the lineup. But then, she’s so old and distraught about her dog dying that she’s not considered reliable. She couldn’t understand why all the suspects weren’t wearing the same clothes.”
Dave exhaled through his nose. “So it could be anyone. Why would the police arrest Jen?”
“Look, I’m your lawyer, not hers. If you ask me, I think Craig Pearson, your former study buddy is behind the emails. Anyway, why are you so concerned about the email stalker? It’s just a minor annoyance, no harm done. Unless you think it’s her?”
“Her who?”
“You know, back at Stanford, the teaching assistant? What was her name? Wasn’t it Sherry or something?”
“That’s nuts,” Dave said. “Last I heard she took a canoe to the Okefenokee Swamp, paddling past alligators and water moccasins. That was eleven years ago.” Dave rubbed his itchy eyes. “You don’t suppose Jen’s roommate knew about her?”
“Nah… I already checked out the roommate, dumb as a lug nut. And she’s a skinny blonde, doesn’t look anything like the one you dated, quite an Amazon, that one. Do you think she’s back in the Bay Area?”