Authors: Brenda Hill
She’d call the police, and—no, she couldn’t call them. Who could she call? Suzy! She’d call Suzy. She grabbed the phone, fumbled and punched a wrong digit. Damn!
Ritchie started to whimper; she picked him up.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She held him on her hip and tried to appear calm. She hit the buttons again; this time, it went through. Please, please be there.
“This is Susan Banning.”
“Oh thank God!”
“Tracy, what’s wrong? Where are you? Why did you leave without letting anyone know?”
Ritchie, watching his mother, started to cry.
“Just a minute,” she said to Suzy. “It’s all right,” she crooned to her son. “Everything’s going to be just fine.” She forced herself to breathe deeply and smile for him. He stopped crying, but he stuck his thumb into his mouth and kept his eyes on his mother. “Sorry,” she said into the phone. “I need your help.”
“Are you at a place I can call you back?” Suzy asked. “I’m in a hallway and there’s no privacy. I’ll use Sharon’s office. She’s at a meeting.”
“Just please, don’t let anyone know I called.” She gave Diana’s number, hung up and put Ritchie back down on the floor next to Joey. He still wanted to cling.
When the phone rang a few moments later, Tracy felt a little more calm and told Suzy everything that had happened, including her talk with Sergeant Sanders. She ended with the note in the mailbox. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I just know I have to get out of here.”
“I understand,” Suzy said, the familiar levity absent from her voice. “Give me a little time to make some arrangements.”
“I have to do something quick,” Tracy’s voice rose. “He’s out there, watching.”
“I have to make some calls, but I’ll get right back to you in a few minutes. In the meantime, get enough together for you and Ritchie to last for a few days. Okay?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry about that. Let me take care of it for now. Just do as I tell you.”
“Okay,” Tracy said. “Oh! I can’t go anywhere until Diana or Judy gets home. I’m taking care of Joey, Diana’s little boy.”
“When will they be home?”
“About five-thirty or six.”
“Tell you what, I’ll come over. Sometimes another person in the house will discourage a nut from doing anything rash. Then we’ll get you out of there. In the meantime, keep your doors and windows locked.”
Thank God for Suzy. Tracy didn’t feel quite so alone. After hanging up, she went around and checked the back and front doors, and for good measure, put a kitchen chair against each door. Then she double-checked all the windows. It would get a little stuffy, but she could always haul out the fan.
Sitting back down in the kitchen, she poured another cup of coffee, tasted it, and dumped it. She was thirsty, so she poured a glass of soda, took it to the window and stood looking out.
Everything seemed so normal on the residential street, no one would think there were monsters out there. She sipped her drink, reluctant to move away from the window. She felt safer keeping watch. What she would do if she actually saw him, she didn't know. But she just felt better watching.
She heard the boys behind her. Joey was getting restless, tired of the building game, and Ritchie, trying to learn to walk, was all over the place. He had tried to pull himself up by holding onto the chair propped against the door, and from there, it was total chaos. The chair fell, and he fell, landing in the dog dish by the door. Chunks of dry food from the bowl next to him were scattered all over, and Ritchie was sprawled in the dish of water.
Muttering under her breath, Tracy rushed to him. He laughed, and after she was sure he was okay, she thanked her lucky stars her son had such a sunny disposition.
Suddenly, she heard a shuffling sound at the back door. The knob turned from side to side. Tracy froze. She couldn’t swallow.
Oh, God, she had to call the police. She ran for the telephone and couldn’t find it. Where had she set the damn phone?
“Tracy! Tracy, it’s me.” It was Suzy’s voice.
Tracy shoved the chair out of the way and opened the door. “You scared me to death!” She threw her arms around Suzy. “God, it’s good to see you. Thanks for coming.”
“Is everything okay? Didn’t you hear me? I knocked several times.” Suzy had on a large knitted shawl and a flowered metallic headscarf.
“Sorry. Things got noisy.” She pointed at Ritchie, still sitting in the water. He looked perfectly happy.
Suzy bent to talk to Ritchie.
“Well, hello, young man. I’d say you picked an odd place to make yourself comfortable.” Ritchie smiled brightly, then tried to talk, showing his snaggle-toothed grin. “You’re certainly a good-looker,” Suzy continued, “I go for men with dark hair and eyes.”
Ritchie laughed and preened for her, just as if he understood everything she said. “He’s a sweetheart,” Suzy said, smiling. She sat down at the table and waited while Tracy took Ritchie to change his clothes. “Why is the chair turned over?”
“I had it propped against the door.” Tracy’s voice carried from the bedroom. “Made me feel better, having some kind of barricade.”
“Good idea.” Suzy placed the chair back against the door.
Tracy changed Ritchie’s clothes, placed him in the playpen, and tried to talk Joey into joining him, which he finally agreed to do when she offered them a cookie.
At the kitchen table, Tracy told Suzy about the poem she’s received in the hospital, and showed her the note that had been left in the mailbox.
Suzy read the note. “What a sick-o. What do the police say?”
“I’m afraid to call them. He’s out there, watching me. If for some reason they don’t pick him up right away, what’s to stop him from getting to me or Ritchie before the police can do anything?”
“Um hum,” Suzy murmured. “Like my husband used to say, ‘you’re between a rock and a hard place.’”
“I’m so scared. I’m afraid to stay, and I’m afraid to leave. I don’t know what to do, but I have to do something.”
“Maybe they can’t do anything, but I can. First, you’re gonna have to get some clothes together, for Ritchie and yourself, enough to last awhile. Since this maniac already knows you’re here, it shouldn’t be a problem to get the things from your apartment.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I’ve been afraid to go up by myself or even to send Diana. But now, when Greg and Diana get home, we’ll do it.”
“Good. Just get some things for a few days. We’ll worry about later, later.” She patted Tracy’s hand. “Tonight, we’re gonna get you and Ritchie out of this house.”
“But how?” Tracy’s voice rose. “If he’s watching, he’ll just follow wherever I go.”
“Just leave it to me,” Suzy told her, a hint of the old mischief in her eyes. “I’ve dealt with this sort of thing before, and I have something pretty terrific worked out if I do say so myself. My husband always did talk about how devious my mind was, especially when I wanted something. Will your friends be home by about eight tonight?”
“I think so. Everyone should be here.”
“Great. We need the house well-lit and busy looking. Here’s what we’ll do…”
Tracy listened carefully. It was a wild plan, but it could work.
It had to.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Reese sat at his desk, files spread in front of him, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything but Tracy’s situation. She was so frightened now that he doubted she’d even stay in the same room with him, much less tell what she knew.
She had every reason to feel that way.
But he had to do something, needed to find some way to help her. No way would he sit back and let her face this thing alone. Because of his moronic behavior, he’d lost someone dear to him, and though he’d never be able to redeem himself with her, he could help someone else. There came a time when one had to put the past aside and go on with life. For him, that time was now.
It was the damnedest thing. When she lifted those beautiful doe-eyes and looked at him, he felt the strongest urge to take her in his arms and never let anyone upset her again. Including himself.
He suddenly realized what he was thinking. Christ! What the hell was the matter with him? He needed all his wits about him, and here he was thinking about her eyes. Besides, he was at least fifteen years older than she. And had the beginnings of a middle-age spread. Well, to be honest, he could afford to lose about twenty-five pounds. What could she possibly see in an aged, worn-down cop?
Sighing, he tossed some notes on top of the piled clutter on his desk and loosened his tie. Ah, what the hell. Placing his feet on the desk, he leaned back in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position to ease his nagging stomach. Even though he knew better, he’d grabbed a Chicago-style hoagie, strips of beef smothered with fried onions and green pepper. Would he never learn?
His gaze fell on the Anna Mae Foster file, at the glossy of the dark-haired girl. She had the same look as Crissy before the attack, a wide-eyed innocence, but with that little extra sparkle in her eyes.
If only Anna Mae hadn’t skipped. He felt sure Karlton Wolfe was the perp, but he’d like to get a positive ID from someone.
Cooper was still down with strep and, although it sounded harsh, he was glad. Someone was going to have to talk to her about her attitude. Not him. He might be considered brave, but he wasn’t heroic. Or that stupid.
He thought of Lucy Peterson, the angelic-looking Scandinavian blonde who, according to what she had told them, had been raped by a stranger who jimmied her window open. The UV had no trouble picking up semen on her abdomen and inner thighs. There had been bruising, although nothing as bad as Crissy or Tracy. The prints in her bedroom led to a family guy, but one who had a record for soliciting prostitution.
It had been Cooper’s first case as a detective, and she had been ecstatic she’d found her man. She arranged counseling for the victim and scheduled a psychologist and a sociologist to testify in the girl’s behalf. She stayed with the victim, trying to talk her into counseling. When the case finally went to trial, everything was looking good. Until it came to light that the perp was Peterson’s lover and she was getting back at him for not leaving his wife.
Sighing, Reese took his copy of the file, slipped on his navy jacket and grabbed his keys. Her last place of employment was on East Colfax; maybe someone there would recognize Wolfe’s picture.
His stomach gurgled. First, he’d get a soothing milkshake, then cruise down the boulevard. The air might clear his head.
Traffic was heavy for late morning, probably because for once, it wasn’t raining. Denver’s notorious brown cloud was absent, the temperature a pleasant seventy-five degrees. He headed east on Colfax Avenue.
A few years ago, the section beyond the capitol held X-rated bookstores, theaters, and marital-aids shops. But after an outcry from the neighbors, great efforts were made to clean up the area and pressure was put on the owners until a great many moved out. The few who remained enjoyed a brisk business.
The ‘ussy Palace, large enough to occupy almost a block, advertised nude dancers, and as their main attraction, Berta Big Boobs, billed as The Largest Bumps in the Plains. Across the street and down one block, The Mons Review boasted that their girls were younger and better looking. About two blocks down and sandwiched between two adult bookstores, The Peter Piper advertised an all male review, with no cover charge for ladies on Thursdays.
Reese was familiar with all the joints, having busted most of the girls at one time or another when he was in Vice.
But the faces were always changing. Some of the luckier ones ran back home, while others hung on to the life until they got too old. Or too whacked out on drugs or disease. They were the ones who left in body bags.
Continuing east, he passed the Zanzibar, a well-known country and western nightspot where he’d spent quite a few evenings. They’d even filmed part of a Clint Eastwood movie inside. Reese drove on, passing Fitzsimmons Army Hospital on his left. Another of his old hangouts sat just past the 225 Freeway.
He continued for another few miles, then turned north on Eighth until he entered a run-down commercial area. Eighteen-wheelers were on the move, pulling in and out of loading docks. Others parked alongside, waiting their turn in open lots overgrown with grass and weeds. A couple of the buildings sat lop-sided, as if one good gust of wind might tumble the entire lot. Reese wondered how an eighteen-wheeler could ever line up with it, but he guessed they did. Certainly the place enjoyed a brisk business.
Inside the cramped office of Miles Construction, a young blonde receptionist in jeans and tank top, occupied a desk by the front door. Wearing a telephone headset over one ear, she looked up from the stacks of papers and gave Reese a pert smile.
“Can I—” she began. The phone interrupted her. “Miles Construction,” she answered, grabbing a pen and notepad. With a nod of her head, she directed him to one of two chairs by her desk.
An older woman sat at a desk on the far side of the room. Skinny, with cropped gray hair parted in the middle, she looked up briefly, gave him a sour look from behind her glasses, then went back to her ledger. Reese noted the musty smell of the room and wondered if she smelled the same.