doing much about finding the killer, is he?”
“Hopefully there’s more progress than we know about.”
Ron nodded. “Guess I better get back to my shelves.”
But after he left, the question of Sam Turner stayed on her mind. Maybe she should do an article on him. He was certainly fascinating in his own way. Kind of a man’s man, but there had been that minute in the park when he’d picked up on her fear and had actually seemed protective. And the way he’d looked at her when she’d first opened the door in the satin dress had been a little heated. He’d recovered fast, though.
The bottom line was that he was all business. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing when there was a killer on the loose. She just needed to remember that any interest he showed in her was all business, too.
She still had Sam’s card in her pocket, but fortunately she hadn’t had to call him to report any more contact from the weirdo who might or might not have been the killer.
But since she had his card in her pocket, perhaps she should call him. She was a reporter, after all, and he was the detective in charge. If he had new information, the public had a right to know. And this wasn’t because now that she was thinking about him, she really wanted to hear his voice or have him suggest they get together. Sure he was sexy and masculine to the core, but this was business. All business.
She pulled the card from her handbag, checked the number and punched it in.
“Sam Turner.”
“Hi, Sam.”
“Who is this?”
“Caroline Kimberly, reporter with the Prentice Times.”
“What’s wrong?”
The concern in his voice surprised her and made her feel a little guilty for calling the number he’d given her to use in case of an emergency. But she’d called, so she had to say something.
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just working on an article for tomorrow’s paper and I thought you might have a statement to make.”
“If you want a statement, call someone in PR.”
“I’ve tried that. There is no one in PR, only whoever happens to be manning the phones.” The silence grew awkward. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”
“You didn’t. I mean you did, but I don’t know when a good time would be. The only statement I can make is we haven’t made an arrest.”
“Does that mean you have a suspect, or suspects?” She was really pushing it now.
“It means I don’t have a statement except that we haven’t made an arrest.”
“Okay. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Yeah.”
The man’s conversation skills were abysmal.
“If you get any more messages,” he said, “call me immediately. It’s important that you do that. Don’t play with this guy, Caroline. He’s dangerous. Remember that.”
There was the concern again. Sam Turner was a hard man to figure.
“I promise I’ll call. I’m just your basic coward when it comes to dealing with murderers.”
“Good. Cowards have a much better chance of living to old age.”
She thanked him again, said goodbye, and that was the end of that. Feat accomplished. Results nil. Still, Sam stayed on her mind.
“Do you have that copy for me?” John asked, stopping at her desk with cup of goop in hand.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten. You write too much filler, anyway. Cut to the chase. It makes what you have to say more powerful.”
She went back to her typing, but it dawned on her that perhaps Sam should have been a reporter. If fewer words translated to powerful, he’d have won a Pulitzer.
CAROLINE BREATHED a sigh of relief as she pulled the car into her garage and killed the engine. It had been a long day and she was ready to slip out of the black pumps that were starting to squeeze her toes, pour a nice cold glass of chardonnay and watch a rerun of Will and Grace.
The garage, a fairly recent addition, sat a few yards behind the two-story house in the spot where a carriage house had been. The walk from the car to her back door was a pain when the weather was cold or rainy, but tonight it was clear and the brisk air felt good.
Only, tonight the area next to the garage was darker than usual. Much darker. For some reason, neither of her outdoor lights were burning, though they were on a timer and should have switched on at dusk. Probably a temporary power outage had them off schedule. Fortunately, she’d left the outdoor light over the back door on so she’d at least be able to see well enough to fit the key into the lock.
Something moved in the bushes behind her. Her heart slammed against her chest, but when she turned, it was only a cat that she’d startled from the bushes. Constant talk of murder had her spooked.
As she neared the house, she noticed a small package propped against the back door. She stopped in her tracks. The package was probably perfectly harmless, but no one had ever left one there before.
What if it had been delivered by the same man who’d left the note on her windshield? He knew what kind of car she drove. Maybe he also knew where she lived. He could be here now, lurking somewhere in the shadows and watching her the way he’d obviously watched her that night in the park. She couldn’t see him, but it was almost as if she could feel his presence.
Her heart pounded so loudly that if he was anywhere near, he could surely hear it. Probably even smell her fear. A killer. And her only defense against him and his knife were the keys in her shaking hand.
And there was nowhere to run.
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