Don't Look Back (13 page)

He felt a flush creep up into his neck and jaw. “I don’t usually go around announcing it. But my point is, my dad had a pretty heavy hand, knocked me and my mom around. I had some rocky teen years, but that didn’t turn me into a killer.”

George shook his head. “I’m not talking about that kind of abuse. I’m talking about stuff that you can’t wrap your head around but that he thinks is normal.”

“Because it’s all he knows,” Jamie offered with a frown.

Samantha shook her head. “I’m not buying that. If he thinks it’s normal, he wouldn’t try to hide it. He’d be doing this stuff out in the open. Doesn’t the fact that he’s hiding his crimes suggest that he knows it’s wrong?”

“Not necessarily. He thinks what he’s doing is the norm but understands that not everyone holds the same beliefs that he does. He understands the fact that he could go to jail for what he’s doing, but he feels justified in going above the authorities’ heads, so to speak, in order to accomplish his goals – whatever those may be. It’s possible he thinks he answers to a higher power.”

Connor nodded. “Okay, so we have to stop him before he finds victim number eighteen.”

George glanced at his watch.

Dakota asked, “Are you in a hurry? We usually just kind of take our time over lunch since we all work weird hours.”

“No, I just have an appointment in about forty-five minutes.” “You work on a contract basis for the department, right?”

“Right. I do a lot of consulting. And I worked out a deal with the powers-that-be that I could use the office at the hospital to meet with clients I see in my private practice. That way I don’t have to keep up with two locations.”

“Sounds like a sweet deal to me.”

George smiled. “I think so. At least for the ones that don’t mind coming into the same area as the morgue. And the ones that do mind . . .” He shrugged. “I manage to work around that.”

Monica approached the table with a tray bearing food . . . and a small white box decorated with a black ribbon.

Dakota eyed it, wondering who it was for. The waitress saved it for last, placing it in front of Jamie beside the plate of food.

Jamie looked up. “What’s this?”

“Some man asked me to deliver it to you along with your food. Said he wanted to surprise you, that you were very special to him and you’d know who it was from.”

Dakota tensed, all senses on alert. He slid out of the booth and stood, eyes darting to the entrance to the restaurant. “Who? Where is he?”

Monica set the tray on the table behind her. A frown pulled her eyebrows to the bridge of her nose. She looked around. “I don’t see him.”

Jamie still stared at the box as though it were an angry rattler poised to strike.

George set his hamburger down. “What’s going on?”

Dakota’s eyes narrowed. “Describe him for me.”

“Um . . . kind of average looking. You know. Black hair with some gray, probably forty-something.”

With that paltry description, Connor motioned he’d go searching while Dakota handled the restaurant.

He raised a brow to George. “Bomb?”

“You think?” He rolled his eyes. “Or it could be some kind of booby trap as soon as you open it. A poisonous spider? A deadly powder?” George frowned. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?”

“Maybe.”

Jamie stood, hands shaking, but calm on her face. “Then we need to get everyone out of the restaurant.”

At the seriousness of their reaction, George’s eyes went wide. “It’s not really big enough for a bomb, is it?” he asked as he backed away from the table.

“Who knows? What I do know, I don’t like. A mysterious man delivers a package to someone who might have a stalker? That smells hinky to me. Let’s evacuate, and if we’re wrong, face the consequences later.”

Samantha pulled out her leather case that held her badge and FBI credentials. The one-inch blue letters on the upper half of the leather wallet drew stares of all kinds as she started going table to table asking people to leave in an orderly manner; explaining that they had a situation that needed to be handled.

Patrons exited, questions floating on the air, murmuring amongst themselves, several grumbling about having their meal interrupted.

Jamie and George followed the crowd out onto the sidewalk. Officers arrived, lights flashing on the black-and-white vehicles. One officer handed Dakota a roll of yellow crime scene tape and he went to work, sectioning off the restaurant.

The bomb squad arrived and set up shop.

While Samantha and Connor worked crowd control with several other officers, Dakota walked over to Lieutenant Michael Swift, the man in charge of the bomb squad, and explained the package.

“What makes you think it’s a bomb?”

“I don’t know that it is, but there are circumstances surrounding the package that make me suspicious – and paranoid.”

Michael drew in a breath. “All right, Dakota. I know you well enough to know that’s all I need to go on.” He turned to the man on his left. “Chris, suit up and take Abby.”

Chris nodded. “You got it, Loo.” He ducked back into the truck. Five minutes later, he emerged, dressed in Kevlar protective gear, with a highly trained German Shepherd at his side.

Dakota looked at Chris. “Abby?”

“Absolutely. The best bomb dog on the squad.”

“All right, this way.” Dakota led the way to the door of the restaurant, explaining the location of the package. Chris and Abby disappeared inside.

Outside, back across the street, away from any potential damage, they waited in silence, all eyes on the building.

Then Dakota spotted the waitress. “Hey, Connor, let’s get a description of the guy who left the package while we’re waiting.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” He pulled out a pad and pen and the two walked toward the woman.

Spotting them, she shoved her hands into her hair and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen. He just said to give the package to the woman with the white long-sleeved T-shirt on. He even pointed her out. I knew right away he meant Jamie.”

“I need you to go over what he looked like again. This time try to get in as much detail as you can, okay?” Dakota asked.

Frightened blue eyes blinked as Monica searched her brain for a description. “Um . . . he was old. Like maybe in his forties?”

“What else? Any tattoos? Anything to make him stand out?”

“He had a scar under his eye.”

“Which eye?”

“Um . . . left, I think. And like I said before, he had black hair with some gray in it.”

“Height?”

She eyed him. “Maybe a little shorter than you.” White teeth came out to chew on her bottom lip. Her nose ring quivered and tears filled her eyes. “He didn’t look dangerous.”

Dakota placed a hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “Hey, it’s not your fault, okay?”

Purple spikes slowly moved up and down in response to her reluctant nod. Then he asked her, “Are there any cameras in here?”

“You mean like security cameras?”

“Yeah.”

“Um, one over the door, but I think that one’s broken and it hasn’t been fixed yet, then there’s one in the bathroom hallway. And one in the dining area. I think that’s all.”

The one over the door was broken. Great.

He hid his frustration and said, “Since the camera’s broken, I want you to work with a sketch artist, all right?”

“Sure.”

He’d still want to look at the other cameras, but if the guy just walked in the door and handed the package to the hostess, then turned and walked out, he wouldn’t be on camera. “All right, check out the crowd. Do you see him?”

Her eyes roved from one person to the next. Finally, she shook her head. “No. No one looks like him that I can see.”

Dakota thanked her and walked over to Jamie. “How are you doing?”

“I’m scared. And mad.”

“Healthy fear is a good thing. But don’t let the mad make you do something you’ll regret.”

She gave him a long look, then turned as the man in Kevlar came from the building holding an open box in his gloved hands.

12

Jamie held her breath as the man motioned Dakota and Connor over. Both men pulled on gloves and Connor had a plastic baggie ready for the box. Samantha stood by her side, squeezing her fingers. “Well, it didn’t blow up.”

Jamie gave a halfhearted chuckle that died a quick death. “What are the odds that we’d be involved in two incidents requiring a bomb squad?” Just a little over a year and a half ago, Samantha had made a killer mad and he’d planted a bomb in her car. Fortunately, she’d managed to get out alive.

“I don’t think the numbers go high enough.”

Pulling in a shaky breath, Jamie let go of Samantha’s hand and walked toward the guys. Both of them looked a little sick. The bomb guy eyed her with . . . what? Compassion? Pity?

Dakota swallowed hard and capped the box. Was that a fine tremor she saw running through his hands? Connor shook his head and stepped toward her. Surely they didn’t think they were going to hide that from her, did they?

Stepping next to Dakota, she asked. “What’s in it?”

“Jamie, I really don’t think you want to see this.”

“It was delivered to me. It was meant for me. What’s in it?”

“Honey . . . ,” Connor began.

“Don’t honey me,” she snapped, spine going rigid. “I have a right to see it.”

“It’s a picture.”

“Of?”

“You.”

“Okay.” She raised a brow, trying for a brave front even while her insides quivered. “I’m guessing it’s a bad one.”

Dakota settled an arm around her shoulders. “Beyond bad.”

“Hey, hey.” The shout came from the woman who’d been identified as the manager of the restaurant.

Looking relieved at the distraction, Dakota turned. “Ma’am?”

“Can we get back to work here? I’m losing money by the minute.”

At Dakota’s look, Connor took over. He pulled the crime scene tape down, demanded order, and patrons filed back into the restaurant. Many asked questions, to which Connor replied, “I can’t discuss that right now.”

Jamie placed a hand on the plastic bag containing the box and tugged. Samantha stood at her side and George walked up to join them.

Dakota let go of the bag.

Samantha closed in next to her back, Connor drew in a deep breath, and Dakota reached out to cover her now gloved hand. “Think about this, Jamie. It’s not pretty.”

“I know, I got that.” She shot him a look that hopefully conveyed her determination to do this. She couldn’t be left in the dark. It was her life and she would not relinquish control of it. Not this time.

He removed his hand with a final squeeze.

Opening the bag, she reached in and slipped the top off the box.

Cold, sick fear curdled in her stomach as she stared down at the picture through the clear plastic bag.

It was her.

What she looked like dead.

Forcing herself into work mode, she desperately tried to look at the picture objectively.
It’s somebody else, it’s not me. It’s somebody
else, it’s not me.

But it was.

She lay on a metal table, eyes closed, head straight, not curved as though in sleep, straight as though on the slab in a morgue. Blonde curls surrounded a face she almost didn’t recognize. Blue black bruises around her cheeks and chin. One on her forehead.

“He hit me when I talked back to him, told me he’d teach me a little respect for someone in his position,” she muttered to whoever was listening.

A squeeze on her shoulder told her Samantha stood beside her.

A sheet covered her from mid-thigh to her armpits. The picture had been taken from the left side, clearly displaying the brand on her shoulder.

“He had an x-ray machine. Before he casted me, he took x-rays.”

Samantha stilled. “What?”

“How could I forget that?” she whispered. “No, I didn’t forget, I just . . .”

“What else?”

“He never took the mask off. Ever.”

“Jamie, what about the x-ray machine?”

Images flickered as though her memories had been threaded through an old super-eight movie reel. “When he broke a bone, he x-rayed it, then cast it. Mostly I remember the casts.”