workroom, but Brady refused to cut it off.
Too bad his wife liked it or Emma might actually have an ally in harping about safety.
The two men muttered social niceties while Emma sat down next to Brady, groaning as Jim produced another file.
Same drill as last time. “Brady Edgar Wilson. Age, thirty-eight. Married to Tanya. No children. You manage Toliver’s Treasures’ jewelry department. Supervisor for Beautiful Things. I see that your father, Edgar, worked as a goldsmith here as well. Fifty years? Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Brady answered. “He was very happy here.”
“Must have been. Anything to add before we get started?”
“Nope.”
“All right then, here’s the deal.”
Jim proceeded to explain that their suspect referred to himself as “The Doppelgänger,” a German word meaning a ghostly double that haunts its earthly counterpart. They’d taken to calling him simply “Dop.”
The situation began when Anthony was attacked just over three weeks ago, on June fifteenth. Dop claimed responsibility the next day, telling them in a virtually untraceable e-mail that Anthony was evil and Dop had marked him so the world would beware.
“But it’s been two years since Anthony was fired from Bracco and no one’s heard a peep from him since,” Emma said. “Why now?”
Jim said, “We’re guessing Dop couldn’t find Anthony before he came back to St. Paul. Very few people knew where he was and they weren’t real likely to share.”
“Any guess why this person’s after Emma now?” Brady asked.
Emma frowned at him. Jim might be young but at least he was finally giving them details. And she couldn’t help but be impressed when Jim took Brady down a couple pegs with, “Let me be honest. We’re not dealing with your garden-variety stalker. It would be irresponsible on my part or yours to assume there’s a logical reason for what Dop does. So what I need you to do right now is listen. Let me get through the facts and maybe something will ring a bell with you. Until then, bear with me.”
Brady relaxed while Jim backed up to clarify a few things. Anthony hadn’t had any warning. No e-mails like Emma was getting. They hadn’t started until afterward but the pictures had been taken beforehand, showing them that Dop had been following Anthony for at least two weeks prior to the attack.
Emma couldn’t help it. “Where was he when it happened?”
“At home. But he’d spent most of the night at his parents’ house. Well, his mom and stepfather’s, actually. I understand you’ve met Sophia and Geoff?” Jim asked.
“Yes,” Emma said. Geoff Turner was a thoracic surgeon at the hospital where Sophia was Director of Nursing, and they’d gotten married shortly after Anthony disappeared. “We’re on a charity board together. American Red Cross.”
“Oh yeah.” Jim nodded. “You have a fund-raiser this Thursday night, right?”
Emma looked at Brady again. The Red Cross charity auction was a loaded topic around here. During the festivities, she was supposed to meet with Trenton Neville, one of the world’s most influential jewelry merchandisers. He needed to be in St. Paul that day and he’d added the auction to his agenda so they could discuss Beautiful Things.
And he wasn’t messing around. Neville planned on bidding upward of twenty-thousand dollars on whatever she’d donated.
But last week, Brady had accidentally sold the gardenia necklace earmarked for the auction, forcing Emma to sacrifice a piece she cherished. Not only was the rose necklace the first piece Charles, her master goldsmith, had ever crafted for Beautiful Things, but it held other, more personal and private meanings.
Thanks to Brady and their material shortage, she had to give it up.
And now it seemed all the arguing and juggling might have been unnecessary. With this psycho on the loose, they probably weren’t going anywhere Thursday night and it was to be hoped Trenton Neville had a heart. Or a really good sense of humor.
Her temper meter nudged upward a bit. She’d seen Anthony’s mother, Sophia, a week ago at a fund-raiser planning meeting. All things considered, Emma understood why she wouldn’t have said anything. But if Sophia had, the Creep’s e-mails would have been reported instantly to the proper authorities.
She turned her attention back to Jim, who told them Anthony had stuck around after his parents’ party, talking with his stepfather into the wee hours. He went to sleep there for a while, but around four-thirty in the morning he drove home.
Anthony remembered seeing movement in the backyard as he pulled into the garage and was jumped almost the second he stepped outside to investigate.
Dop made the first slash immediately from Anthony’s neck to the base of his shoulder blade. Blood trail evidence showed Anthony had fought for an extended period of time before blood loss and a blow from his attacker rendered him unconscious.
Anthony couldn’t remember Dop finishing the X. The working theory was that the second cut had been made after he’d gone down.
“Dop’s calling card, presumably,” Jim said.
Listening in horror, Emma felt her stomach begin to churn again. Even if Jim was an agent and had probably told worse tales, she couldn’t believe his nonchalant delivery.
But she’d seen Anthony with her own two eyes. She knew the outcome, so there was no reason her stomach should be performing acrobatics.
“Problem,” Jim said. “It was a new moon, and Anthony’s yard light was out. Probably not a coincidence. At any rate, the only physical description he can give us is that Dop is fast, taller than himself, and wore black clothes and a ski mask. Finding someone taller than six-two does narrow the field, but that’s all we’ve got for a physical description.”
Still in gruesome narrative mode, Jim explained that Anthony had been found two hours later by his housekeeper. The X itself hadn’t been deep enough to damage bone or muscle, and the EMTs didn’t find another knife wound. But time had been Anthony’s enemy. The fight had cost him copious amounts of blood and his prognosis at the scene had been “grave.”
Emma’s stomach seized. Thank God she’d skipped breakfast. Her entire mind was flooded with a vision of Anthony lying helpless on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. He might have been ambitious and unethical, but no one deserved that.
This couldn’t be happening.
And then Jim said, “The worst part was, those people who’d been at that staff party were on duty when Anthony was brought in. So everyone was shook up and Sophia was a wreck. Luckily, Geoff kept his head and was calm enough to resuscitate him.”
Emma covered her mouth, feeling bile rise into her throat.
“Emma?” Jim asked sharply. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, no.” Brady panicked, dragging her off the couch and explaining, “Weak stomach.”
Emma stumbled along after him, limp as a rag doll. Her
