Stalked. Beverly Long

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СКАЧАТЬ arrived at the reverend’s house and learned that Hope was still in bed, that she was always in bed until early afternoon, he’d been disgusted. The party girl needed to get her very nice butt home and get to bed at a reasonable time so she could stop wasting her life away. He knew he was probably too much the other extreme, but he was generally up by four, had read a couple newspapers by five, worked out and eaten breakfast before the sun was up.

      He entered the air-conditioned house just in time to see Hope, with keys in hand, exit through a door that he assumed led to the garage. He cut through the immense living room, then the study and out the front door just as the garage door went up.

      She backed out fast, slowing just a little to close the garage door behind her. Mack didn’t miss his opportunity. He opened the passenger door and swung into the still-moving car.

       Chapter Three

      “Hey!” she yelled.

      “A minute of your time,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

      She jammed on the brakes, almost causing him to pitch forward. He could tell that she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but good manners or something had her shoving the car into Park. “You’ve got sixty seconds.”

      Now that they were sitting close and there were no competing fragrances from the chemical-rich pool, he could smell just her. The scent was something light, elegant, and it made him think of the rare orchids that his father grew.

      Her bare arms were tanned and fit and he suspected that at some point they did more than just lift a martini glass. She probably had a personal trainer on call.

      One polished fingernail tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. He glanced at her toes. Yep, they matched. He not only knew his bridal-gown designers now, but he was also pretty up to speed on polish colors, too. There’d been a lengthy discussion over lunch about those. Hope favored something a little hotter, a little sexier, than the pink champagne that his sister and her bridesmaids were wearing.

      “You’re wasting time,” she said.

      “I talk fast,” he said, and gave her his best friendly smile. It had unarmed bad guys all over the world, but didn’t seem to faze her. Her jaw remained stiff. He wished he could see her eyes but she’d put on her sunglasses.

      “I guess I really just want to know why you’re so damned determined to be careless with your personal safety?”

      She pressed her lips together.

      He opened the folded papers. “I think you should see these.” He handed her the least insulting one. She started to reach for it and stopped.

      “You can touch it. These are copies. The police have the originals and the envelopes that they came in. They were hand-addressed and delivered by mail to your father’s office. This one came about a week ago.” Reverend Minnow had shared that he’d asked Chief Anderson, the local cop in charge, to keep the letters confidential unless there was a specific reason for the information to be shared. Evidently the chief was a devout follower. Reverend Minnow had given Mack the chief’s private number and he’d entered it into his phone.

      She took the paper. Read it. Her expression didn’t change.

      That pissed him off. He leaned close and read aloud. “‘Dear Reverend Minnow. I lost my son because of you. You need to know the same pain.’”

      “This one came just two days ago.” He spread the paper out. “‘Dear Reverend Minnow. An eye for an eye. My son. Your daughter.’”

      She finally looked at him. “I’m not sure what you want me to say?”

      “Maybe something like, ‘wow, I’m kind of worried.’”

      “But I’m not.” She took a deep breath. “Do you know that my father has a new book coming out soon?”

      Mack nodded.

      “My mother’s cancer is in remission. Good news, of course. Not great timing for my father. You see, she’d been recently diagnosed when his last book hit the shelves. Gave him the boost he needed for it to hit the New York Times list.”

      Okay. A few things were starting to make sense. First things first. “I’m sorry that your mom was ill.” His own mother had died of cancer when he was just a teenager. “And I’m glad that she’s getting better.”

      “Thank you,” she said, her voice very soft.

      “You really think that your father would engineer something like this just to get some attention?”

      “Definitely. Don’t underestimate my father. Others have and they’ve paid the price.”

      “Bing believes these threats are real.”

      “Uncle Bing is a wonderful man. But his friendship with my father, which I do not understand, is apparently clouding his judgment.”

      “What if you’re wrong?” Mack asked. “Do you have so little regard for your life that you’re willing to take the chance?”

      She moved the gearshift to Reverse. “Mr. McCann, you’ve used up more than your sixty seconds. Get out.”

      He would have thought she was absolutely as cool as a cucumber, but she had a profound tell. Her pretty hot-pink toes on her left foot were moving. Her foot wasn’t tapping. No. Just the toes, expending her nervous energy. If she’d had on shoes or if they’d been seated at a table, he’d never have been the wiser. He opened the door. “Don’t be a fool, Hope.”

      He watched her drive away. Let her get to the end of the block before he moved. Then he ran for his car, which was parked around the corner. Before she got to I-280 East, he’d picked up the car and settled in, staying a discreet three car lengths behind.

      He called Bing from the car. “I’m following Hope.”

      “I’ll let her parents know,” Bing said and hung up.

      She drove competently, staying up with the nonrush-hour traffic. They crossed through the Holland Tunnel and weaved their way through lower Manhattan, then up to midtown. Then she pulled into a parking garage one block off of Fifth Avenue that charged a ridiculous thirty-five dollars per hour. He idled in a no-parking zone, giving her time to get out of her car and down the sidewalk. Then he pulled into the same lot and quickly parked.

      This portion of Fifth Avenue was one designer store after another. The shoppers were an eclectic bunch. Parents with children, likely on vacation to the Big Apple, and much more likely, he figured, to be window-shopping rather than buying at the overpriced stores. There were business types—men and women—with briefcases or expensive leather bags on their shoulders and cell phones in their hands. Maybe they shopped but he thought not. Probably en route from one meeting to the next and using the expensive street as a convenient thoroughfare.

      And then there were the real shoppers, the people like Hope Minnow, who had the means and the inclination to pay for a designer name and some personalized service. He caught up with her in a small store that was somehow managing to pay their rent selling purses, scarves and shoes.

      He stayed outside because the interior СКАЧАТЬ