together to move out? I presume you’ll be staying with a friend or at a hotel.”
Sarah repeated what she’d said before—no one was going to drive her out of her home. But even while she was saying it, she wondered if she wasn’t being stubborn without any valid reason. Well, whatever her motivation, she was staying put.
Oliver frowned. “Suit yourself,” he said. “If there’s anything you need from the kitchen, I suggest you get it now. We’ll probably be working in there for a while.”
Sarah didn’t have much appetite when she and Kyle went to lunch, and she still wasn’t hungry, but maybe she should eat something anyway. She stood in front of the refrigerator, but nothing caught her fancy. After about five minutes, she picked up an orange and wandered into the living room.
She had just started to peel the fruit when her cell phone rang. Sarah put the orange on an end table before she answered.
“I just heard,” a familiar voice said. “Are you all right?”
Sarah felt a twinge of conscience because she hadn’t thought to call Connie Douglas, who was both a friend and colleague. Connie had been an ER nurse for a number of years. Her hair was white, and Sarah initially took Connie to be much older than her late-forties. Later Connie revealed that her hair color had turned from blonde to silver-gray almost twenty years ago. Maybe it was because the prematurely white hair gave her an air of wisdom, it could have been the common-sense advice Connie gave, but Sarah treasured their friendship. The nurse had been a rock during the days and weeks after Harry’s death, and Sarah regretted that she hadn’t contacted her friend with news of this latest event.
“I’m fine, Connie. I’m sorry I didn’t call you,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure I was ever in any danger. It was just a fire among some oily rags in my garage.”
Connie leaped right to the point Sarah had ignored last night. “You don’t ever keep stuff like that around. Do you think the fire was deliberately set?”
Sarah wished she could go back, hit the “reset” button, rewind the tape, do something to make all this go away. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wished it had never happened. But Connie’s question was cloaked in genuine concern, and she deserved a straight answer. “Yes, the fire chief told me that last night. I was at the police department this morning giving a detective my statement about the fire.”
“Did you tell them about the harassment that went on before this?”
“Connie, I’m still not thinking straight, I guess, but what harassment are you talking about?”
“Sarah, you told me about these things when they happened. You just haven’t put it together. Think back to the phone calls after midnight. And what about the time someone was sneaking around outside your house?”
Sarah realized Connie was right. Maybe the events her friend had mentioned were connected to the fire. She’d ignored these things, pushed them out of her mind when they happened. They’d started after the deaths of her husband and daughter, and she guessed she was still too much in shock at her loss to realize they might all be tied together. At that time Sarah had tried to put an innocent face on each incident, but now she wondered if maybe the fire last night was simply the latest gesture in a series aimed at her.
She had poured a glass of water while looking for something to eat and brought it to the living room with her. Now she reached for the glass that sat beside the unpeeled orange on the end table. Sarah took a couple of swallows, but the dryness didn’t leave her throat. “I guess you’re right. And I suppose that means I need to call Bill Larson back.”
“Well, I won’t keep you from making the call. But don’t forget to stay in touch,” Connie said.
Sarah promised to do that, and quickly ended her call. Then she took a couple of deep breaths, pulled out the card Bill Larson had given her, and punched in the number. “Bill . . . Detective Larson? This is Sarah Gordon again. A friend has reminded me of some other things that might be helpful in your investigation.” Some things that may mean there’s someone trying to frighten me . . . or worse.
Chapter 3
3
Bill Larson hadn’t been home since he received the phone call twelve hours ago. Since then, other than his time at Sarah Gordon’s house, he’d felt almost chained to his desk and the surrounding parts of the squad room. It was time to repair the damage. That’s enough. If I look like I feel, I’ll frighten anyone who sees me.
He turned away from his computer, rose from his desk, and headed for the locker room. There, he pulled out the toiletry kit he kept in his locker. He did a quick above-the-belt wash with a wet cloth, then applied some Axe body spray. He wet a comb and ran it through his hair, although experience told him that five minutes later it would probably look unkempt again. As he observed himself in the mirror, he wondered idly when he’d have a chance to get a haircut. Finally, he changed into the clean shirt he kept in his locker. The same tie he’d been wearing would have to do. He felt better, but he still wished he had time to go home for a shower and a complete change of clothes.
Back at his desk, he ran his hand over his jaw and felt the rasp of day-old growth. I could swear I had a razor in that kit. Got to put one in there. Then again, maybe he’d just let his beard grow. Not shaving would give him another five minutes of sleep in the morning. Of course, this was Texas, not Minnesota, and summer was about to start in earnest. Perhaps a beard wasn’t a good idea. Besides, five more minutes in bed would most likely be spent staring at the ceiling, struggling with his always-present desire to start the day with a drink. Maybe a Bloody Mary, or . . . No! Enough of that.
He gathered the pages he’d filled with notes while talking with Sarah Gordon, butted them together, and stowed them in a manila file folder. He was about to shove everything into a locked drawer in his desk and get out to start chasing down leads when the phone on his desk rang. Please don’t let it be another case. “Police department, Larson.”
“Bill . . . Detective Larson? This is Sarah Gordon again. A friend has reminded me of some other things that might be helpful in your investigation.”
He opened the file folder that was still on his desk, found the last sheet of his notes, and pulled out his pen. As Dr. Gordon talked, questions arose in his mind, but he didn’t stop her. He’d flesh out the information later. For now, he wanted her to keep talking.
When she finished, he said, “Yes, you should have told me this when we talked earlier, but I’m glad you decided to call me now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I tried to ignore these episodes. After Harry and Jenny were killed, it was all I could do to keep going each day. I focused on the patients I saw, tried to move forward a day at a time, and if there was a bump in the road, I swerved around it and kept going.”
Larson knew the feeling. After his wife left him, taking Billy with her, his whole world felt like it left the tracks. Even the simplest decisions were hard to make. He’d found it difficult to concentrate on anything beyond what it took to get through the day. Matter of fact, the only time he seemed to be able to keep everything together was when he was dealing with police matters. Focusing his attention on cases was almost therapeutic. Maybe that had been the case with Sarah Gordon. Maybe that’s how everyone handled a traumatic event.
“Look, why don’t I call you later and get more details?” he said. “Meanwhile, it would help if you check your calendar, see if you can pin down the dates of these calls.”
