“I’ll argue that one. I’ve got a need to take care of you in a way I haven’t felt for any woman for a long time. I’m guessing it’s harder for you to believe it than anyone else.”
“Scary ex, remember?”
“One leg?” He tapped his thigh.
Maggie shook her head. “That doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well, I guess that one’s hard for me to believe.”
She curled her fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. “If I try not to do the crazy lady too often or too severely, will you try not to talk or think about yourself as though you’re anything less than a good, wonderful man?”
With a reluctant nod that made her think he was as skeptical about making a relationship between them work as she was, he let go of her waist and pulled her right hand into his to seal the bargain. “Slow it is.”
The sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted the intimate handshake.
Maggie quickly pulled away to see Joe Standage and his toolbox standing there with a wink-wink smile on his face. “Well, look at the two of you. Looks like romance is in the air.”
Joe’s teasing didn’t bother her as much as seeing the man with the dark, round eyes and tan coveralls standing behind him. Lawrence Boyle simply nodded. “Mrs. Wheeler.”
John’s movements were as purposeful and methodical as Maggie’s quick escape and throwing up of her invisible armor had been. He angled himself slightly between her and the other two men and slowly extended his hand to the man in the exterminator’s uniform. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. I’m John Murdock.”
Boyle stared at John for a few uncomfortable seconds before shifting the canister he carried into one hand and shaking hands with the other. “Lawrence Boyle.”
Although he seemed more at ease speaking to her than to John, the bleach-haired man didn’t exactly look happy to see her. “Your friends at the police department are keeping him for a while. Left me shorthanded today. Now I’m working a double shift.”
Was he expecting an apology?
John thumbed over his shoulder toward the storage lockers. “I’m guessing you’re here for the ants.”
“Yes, sir. Came back to have a look.”
“Lawrence is my brother-in-law,” Joe explained.
For some reason, Maggie had assumed Joe Standage was a perennial bachelor. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“My late wife—Lawrence’s older sister—passed away several years ago. Long before I retired and took this job.” Joe reached over and smacked Boyle’s immovable shoulder. “I like to shoot some work his way whenever I can.”
The first time Maggie had met Lawrence Boyle and his white van, a suspicion had planted itself in her mind, but she’d been too frantic about Travis’s safety for it to fully register. It did now. She moved up beside John. “You said you were
back
to look at the ant problem. Have you been in the building before?”
“Have you been in the building in the past week?” John clarified.
Bug-eyed Boyle shook his head. “This was one of Danny’s jobs.”
“Danny was here?” She looked from Lawrence to Joe and back. She didn’t care who talked, she just needed to know. “When?”
John stood right behind her. “Answer her.”
“He sprayed some old lady’s apartment upstairs—”
“That would be Miss Applebaum,” Joe interjected.
“And laid down some foam around the foundation down here. About a week ago.”
“The day I got that note and the elevator stopped.”
Boyle’s shoulders puffed up as if she’d accused him of something. “Once he told me you lived here, I made sure he came during the day while you were gone. I know your fifty-yard rule. He used to talk about you every day.”
“In prison?”
“Yeah. We shared a cell for a few years. I know what you said he did to you.”
“What he
did
do,” Maggie emphasized. She’d lived it, and the court had proved that there’d been nothing consensual about the weekend Danny had captured her, brutalized her, dragged her back to their old apartment and kept her prisoner until he’d finally drunk enough to pass out and she could escape. “That’s why he can never come near me or my son again.”
Boyle shifted on his feet, looking either embarrassed by his past or uncomfortable about sharing too much about a man he considered a friend. “Ma’am, I need to get to work. Like I said, a double shift means it’s a long day.”
“Was Danny in the storage unit, too?” she asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here to check his work. See if he missed something, or sometimes it just takes a second application to kill the buggers.” Boyle held up the flat-nosed nozzle and hose, and translucent plastic canister that contained a thick clear liquid and was marked
Poison.
“They can chew a lot of holes in the wood and lay a lot of eggs if we don’t catch ’em.”
When he moved around her to enter the storage area, Maggie grabbed his arm to stop him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there right now. It’s a crime scene. You’ll have to do your work another time, or work in a different area.”
“What happened?” He looked down at the hand on his canvas sleeve as if he wasn’t any happier about her touching him than he’d been to take John’s.
Maggie quickly snatched it away. “Someone broke into my storage locker.”
“You think Danny messed with your stuff?”
“Someone did.” John grasped her shoulders and pulled her a step back from both men. He made no effort to mask his suspicions that Joe and anyone he hired would have complete access to the building. “Someone who has a key.”
Chapter Ten
Thirty-six hours without hearing from a violent ex might sound like a reprieve to some women, maybe even an end to their troubles. But Maggie knew that going a full day and night without hearing from Danny was more likely to mean he was plotting something even more cruel than anything he’d done to her yet.
Still, it was heartening to have made it through almost two normal days. She thought if she had enough practice at it, she could learn to do normal without second-guessing every move or comment she made.
Her dinner with John had been by turns fun and awkward. Even with Travis between them to keep the conversation going, it had felt like a first date. The sundress she’d worn had been a hit, judging by the appreciative peeks beneath the table from John. But then she’d spilled her iced tea down the front of it and been forced to change into jeans and a T-shirt—and it seemed the glances were just as heated. She’d been nervous each time one of them asked a question that was a little too personal and the other paused before answering. And then, after putting Travis to bed, she and John had curled up on the couch together to share some more adult conversation. But the two hours of sleep she’d gotten the night before caught up with her and she’d promptly fallen asleep.
She’d warned John that she’d be a slow mover in the relationship department. But it was embarrassing to think just how much patience it would require of a man who wanted to be with her. She had to question if a man like John—so wounded by life the way she had been, and still searching for his own emotional healing—would have the patience and endurance to put up with her bad days as well as her good ones.
Work had gone a little better. She’d been invited to sit in on two victim interviews, one with Dr. Kilpatrick and one with Detective Montgomery. In the first interview, Maggie’s sharing of some of the emotions she’d carried with her since her own attack had encouraged one of the Rose Red Rapist’s earliest victims to share about her abduction. She’d been a young woman in graduate school back then, and had gone on to become a pediatric nurse, wife and mother of three children. Although she had no description of her attacker, she remembered being forced to bathe afterward—an early effort by the rapist to create a sterile crime scene that would leave no trace.
She’d met with the second victim this morning, an attorney who was more than willing to talk, but whose memory of the event had been blocked out by either emotion or time. Along with Detective Montgomery, Maggie had asked a few pointed questions that had helped the woman recall some specific details that matched Bailey Austin’s account—the scent of chemicals—cleansers, perhaps?—and the clear plastic beneath her as the rape occurred.
Maybe she wasn’t as successful about nailing Danny for stalking her, but she was beginning to feel that she was worthy of Chief Taylor’s belief in her—that she might just make a good detective, and that she was making a meaningful contribution to the task force’s investigation.
This afternoon, she’d joined Detectives Montgomery and Fensom at the Fairy Tale Bridal Shop to conduct a different sort of interview—this time with the closest thing they had to an eyewitness of the attack, shop owner Hope Lockhart.
Maggie hovered in the background while she observed the two seasoned detectives in action. Hope was about as keen on being grilled by the two detectives as an actual victim would be. A plump young woman with glasses and curly blond-brown hair, Hope Lockhart fit the stereotype of a plain Jane. But because redheaded Maggie was the last person to relegate anyone to stereotype status, she focused on the woman’s beautiful fashion sense and on the amazing diversity and apparent success of her business.
The entire time that the detectives were questioning her about the night of Bailey Austin’s attack, Hope dressed a mannequin in a silver-colored satin wedding suit and added it to a black-and-white storefront display touting sophisticated second weddings. Even with her business partner, and the building’s owner, Brian Elliott, on hand to offer his support, Hope stayed busy. Either she was worried about impressing her partner, or she needed to stay busy to keep her nerves from overtaking her.
“I really don’t see what I can tell you,” she said, swapping out a jeweled barrette with a netted hat to place in the mannequin’s hair. “Of course I want to help. I’ve worked with Bailey and her mother for several months, planning her wedding. I’d like to think of her as a friend.” She glanced at Detective Montgomery before switching back to the barrette. “But I didn’t see anything.”
Brian Elliott stood up from his chair in one of the seating areas near the shop’s dressing rooms. “Exactly. Montgomery, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Elliott handed off a file he’d been reading to his executive assistant, a dark-haired woman named Regina Hollister. He buttoned the jacket of his expensive suit and invited himself into the conversation. “Hope is the most honest woman I know. If she says she saw nothing that can help you, then she saw nothing. Now we were having a business meeting when you showed up that I’d like to finish so I can get back to my office.”
Spencer Montgomery slipped his hands into the slacks pockets beneath his own suit jacket, completely unruffled by the other man’s defense of Hope and superior attitude. “You’re free to leave anytime you want, Mr. Elliott. Miss Lockhart was one of the last people to see Miss Austin before the attack. She may have noticed someone lurking in the area who shouldn’t have been there—”
“I didn’t.”
“Or seen an unfamiliar vehicle.” Maggie noticed the wheels turning behind Hope Lockhart’s glasses, as though she was trying to place something she had seen that night. “And she would certainly be able to tell us Miss Austin’s state of mind when she left the bridal shop.”
“She was upset.” Hope worked the small hat between her fingers as she faced Spencer. “Bailey and her mother were arguing about the wedding. She wanted this classic outdoor ceremony in the backyard of her father’s estate. Small, with family and a few friends—something to do with wanting her sister to be her matron of honor. But her sister doesn’t deal well with crowds of people.”
Spencer’s attention was focused solely on the shopkeeper now. “I’ve met her sister. That would fit.”
Apparently giving up on moving the interview along, Brian Elliott returned to his seat. Nick Fensom, who’d been wandering through the salon, casually looking at the displays of clothes, invitations and gifts, ended his exploration near the same seating area. Maggie guessed he was positioning himself to run interference for his partner if Elliott decided to intercede again, so that Spencer could concentrate on Hope Lockhart’s story.
Maggie was beginning to rethink the shy appellation she’d given Hope earlier. Although her nerves were about to crush the small hat, she seemed equally determined to offer useful information. “To be honest, I felt like Bailey’s mother and her fiancé were ganging up on her. Mrs. Austin-Mayweather said she’d reserved a date at a cathedral and wanted Bailey to look at big ball gowns. And her fiancé—”
“Harper Pierce.”
“Yes. Harper seemed just as eager to have a big wedding as his mother-in-law. He kept talking about social contacts and publicity and expectations of the family name.”
“And Miss Austin didn’t want any part of that?”
“My job is to listen to the bride—to help make
her
dream come true. I tried to stand up for her, but I’m not terribly persuasive.” Perhaps seeing the damage she’d done to the hat, or just needing a break, she returned it to a box of tissue paper on the counter. “Bailey threatened to call off the whole wedding. They argued about it all the way out into the parking lot.”
“Where our perp probably heard the commotion that drew his attention to Miss Austin.”
Hope’s posture visibly wilted before she faced Spencer Montgomery again. “I was locking up the shop and turning out the lights before going to my apartment upstairs when I saw her walking past the front window. I should have gone after her.”
“Did you see any vehicles following her?”
Hope moved her head from side to side in disbelief. “Harper and Mrs. Austin-Mayweather pulled out of the parking lot and turned that direction. I thought they were going after her. Why wouldn’t they give her a ride?”
“She probably refused if she was angry.”
“I should have invited her back into the shop. I could have saved her.”
Maggie stepped out of the background at the woman’s growing distress. “Don’t blame yourself. Once a guy like that sets his mind on a target, he won’t stop until he gets what he wants. He saw someone who was vulnerable and alone, and he went after her. Chances are if you’d gone out there and gotten in his way, you might have become the victim instead.”