Cross the Line, page 27
I checked the time on my computer screen—well past closing—and decided to let the call go to voice mail.
I perused the comments on Addison’s post, hoping someone might leave a clue. There were a few readers who shared conspiracies, a handful of people who left less than supportive comments about me, and then there were the rare but disturbing statements like “Prostitution is a sin, and the payment for sin is death. DEATH.”
I made note of the semihomicidal and scary religious-sounding statements. I perked up at the next comment.
There’s this guy who trolls the neighborhoods in a white van with a cross painted on the side. He chats up the girls and gives them snacks and those religious booklets, but I’ve seen the way he looks at them, like he’s disgusted.
I’d forgotten about the van across the street from Cami’s apartment. That was the vehicle that was missing when we came out of the building.
I read the message again, and something clicked in the back of my mind. Rob mentioned a man with Scripture pamphlets crossing paths with Cami Monday night, and the man I met at the food pantry had chattered on about his mission in poor communities.
What was his name? I rummaged around in the cobwebbed part of my brain where names were stored, but came up empty.
Opening my phone, I started a text to Jordan with the new possibility, but someone rapped on the front door.
Riley’s head snapped up from his paws, and he rose to his feet, but he relaxed when he recognized the young woman standing on the sidewalk.
Hope chewed at a fingernail as she waited, her leg jiggling. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on at the hospital, and exhaustion and tears made the skin around her eyes puffy.
Pushing up from the floor, I unlocked the door and opened it. “What happened? Is Cami okay?”
She forced herself to stop gnawing at her nail and gripped her phone in both hands. “She ain’t awake yet. I was hoping you might have like two seconds so we could talk.”
“Sure, come on in.” I secured the door after she entered and walked back to the reception counter. “You want some tea or hot chocolate? I can make some.”
“Nah, I ain’t gonna be here long.”
A dog barked outside, and Riley trotted over to the door. He cocked his head curiously when the bark came again.
I tucked my fingers into the back pockets of my jeans. “What’s up?”
Hope blew out a breath. “I was desperate when I came here asking for help, and you were super nice, but . . . you can drop the case or whatever. Cami’s fine now, and I just want things to get back to normal.”
Her request caught me by surprise. “Cami’s not fine, and whoever did this to her is still out there. We need to find him.”
“No offense, but you two couldn’t even find Cami, and you knew you were looking for her. You’re never gonna find somebody whose name and face you don’t even know.”
“Jordan’s tracking down a lead, and I’m—”
“Just let it go, Holly,” she snapped, then sighed. “I’m sorry, but I need all this to be over.”
“Then help us figure out who he is so it can be over. There’s some connection between this man and the three of you.”
“The three of us?”
“Cami, Dorina, and you.”
“Nobody tried to grab me.”
“We don’t think he was driving through your neighborhood because he was interested in your son. We think he was there for you.”
“You two and your theories.” She shook her head. “Even if you’re right, I can take care of myself. Dorina’s got Clayton, and Cami’s got a cop at her door, so . . . we’re good. You did your good deed trying to help a lost cause. Now you can move on to a client who can pay you.”
“Hope—”
“See you around, Nancy Drew.” She unlocked the front door and shoved her way out.
I stared after her in confusion. Her change of attitude didn’t make sense to me, and its irrationality kindled a spark of frustration. Was this how Marx felt when I made an emotional decision he didn’t agree with?
An annoyed breath escaped my lips. I couldn’t let the conversation end there. Whether she wanted our help or not, I couldn’t let her walk away without explaining the risks to her safety. This wasn’t a threat that would go away if she ignored it.
I touched Riley’s head. “I’ll be right back.” I threw open the door and jogged to the alley Hope had taken the other night.
It was empty.
I hesitated to follow, but I wouldn’t be gone long, and Riley would guard the agency from burglars. I sprinted to the end of the alley and paused to take in both directions.
Movement in the shadows drew me to the right, and I turned onto a side street. The cold night air bit at my skin through my sweater, and I rubbed at the goose bumps on my arms. I should’ve grabbed my jacket from the wall hook.
“Hope?”
A flash of pink receded around a corner. Where was she going? Surely she wasn’t planning to return to Brushwick tonight.
I watched for threats as I followed at a more cautious pace, praying I wouldn’t get mugged. I had nothing to give a mugger unless they wanted my shoes.
The sound of a door latching made my heart skip. Had that come from the alley Hope turned into? A taxi would’ve waited for her in the parking lot, not in a dark alley near the end of the block. Who was she getting into a car with?
I broke into a run, determined to catch her before the vehicle could pull away. I barely rounded the corner when a patch of slick newspaper snatched my feet out from under me, and I crashed to the ground with a yelp.
Pain radiated up my tailbone, and I rubbed at the small of my back as I gathered my legs beneath me.
My breath caught at the horrifying sight in front of me. A white utility van sat ten feet away, the front end facing the other direction. My eyes grazed the license plate before settling on a round puncture in the rear left door . . . about the size of a bullet.
This wasn’t just any van. It was the van.
One of Clayton’s shots might’ve hit the hubcap, but the other one must’ve hit the door while it was open.
Fear pounded through my veins. Was Hope restrained and gagged in the back? Had the man been waiting here to grab her when she walked by?
A part of me wanted to rush forward and throw open the doors to rescue her, even as the sensible part of my brain screamed that I was in danger.
If I was right about what happened, the kidnapper was still here. Before I could decide whether to attempt a rescue or flee and call the police with the van description and license plate, a body slammed into my back.
An arm locked around my waist, and a hand clamped over my mouth to muffle the scream that burned up my throat.
33
Panic punched me in the chest, stealing my breath and scattering all rational thought. I flailed, desperate to break free of the arm locked around my rib cage. My attacker stumbled off balance and then reared back, pulling me off balance.
My sneakers left the ground, and I sucked in air through my nose as I clawed at the gloved hand over my mouth. The man hauled me toward the back of the van, his voice a hiss in my ear.
“Calm down.”
I launched a frantic attack, like the chaotic tornado my mom used to jokingly accuse me of being—arms and legs flailing, clawing at and ripping whatever I could reach.
If he intended to stuff me into his murder-mobile, he was going to feel the pain of that decision for weeks afterward.
“Get . . . the doors,” he grunted.
At his command, someone slipped out of the passenger side of the van and emerged from the shadows. Shock stole the fight from me.
Hope.
Her expression remained flat as she opened the rear doors and stepped off to the side. “I don’t see why you gotta go grabbin’ her. She ain’t a part of this.”
“You . . . made her . . . a part of this,” he panted.
The enclosed compartment of the van stretched out in front of us, a dark box with only one way out. I kicked and thrashed, desperate to keep him from shoving me inside. He staggered and then overcompensated, causing both of us to pitch forward.
The air whooshed from my lungs as he dropped on top of me, pinning me to the metal floor.
His heavy breaths ruffled the hair on the top of my head as he demanded, “Zip ties. Glove compartment.”
No.
The last time zip ties touched my skin, I had been tortured for hours. If he tightened that plastic around my wrists and ankles, I wouldn’t be able to fight him off.
I wasn’t going to be locked up in some abandoned construction site or dank basement for however long it took Marx to track me down and kick in the doors.
I slammed my head into my attacker’s face, and he rocked back with a groan, giving me a chance to squirm out from under him. I barely made it to my hands and knees before he gripped my ankles.
Dragging in a lungful of air, I released an ear-piercing scream. Someone would hear me. Someone had to hear me. He wrenched me back toward him, and I belly-flopped, the impact reducing my scream to a squeak.
The man slapped a hand over my mouth again, his fingers digging painfully into my cheeks. “The duct tape too.”
“Come on, Ollie, let’s just leave her and take off before someone sees something,” Hope suggested, her voice coming from behind the van.
“She’s seen something, thanks to you. This is all your fault.”
“My fault?” Hope hissed back. “You’re the one who snatched my best friend.”
“Cami’s not your best friend. You killed your best friend, remember? Now give me the stuff.”
A strip of wiry plastic and a roll of duct tape thumped on the floor beside my calf. With an irritated sigh, the man released my mouth and leaned down to grab them. As his weight shifted, I bucked my hips, knocking him off balance.
I didn’t have much leverage, but I thrust a foot into his chest, and he fell backward. Not giving him a chance to recover, I slammed a second kick into his chest, and he tumbled out of the van, smacking the ground with a pained grunt.
I crawled out after him, cold water seeping into my sneakers as my feet splashed into a rain puddle. Before I could leap over my would-be kidnapper, he lunged up from the ground, his fingers locking around my wrist.
“Let go!” I yanked and twisted until my arm slid free inside my sweater sleeve, but the man still clutched a fistful of the material. “Hope, please . . .”
Hope backed up against the side of the building, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t going to help me.
My sleeve stretched, but I couldn’t pull it from his grip. I would have to leave my sweater behind. Shrugging it over my head, I pirouetted out of it, leaving it dangling from his fingers.
I stumbled and fell, pain lancing up my right wrist as I threw out my hands to break my fall. Wincing, I clambered up and squeezed between the van and the building, taking off for the street.
“Cut her off!” the man shouted, charging after me.
I pushed my soggy feet and strained muscles as fast as they would go, lungs burning with every gulp of air. If I could make it to the agency around the corner, the reinforced glass windows and door would protect me. Riley would protect me.
The rumble of an engine made my heart stutter. The van had turned onto the street with its lights off.
No, no, no.
I rounded the corner and bounded over the uneven slab of sidewalk that tripped me up the first few evenings I took Riley out for his bathroom break, but my pursuer missed the cue. He stumbled and crashed to the ground behind me.
Jordan’s car was in the parking lot, and he stood on the sidewalk in front of the agency, attention on his phone. I couldn’t catch my breath to scream or even call out his name, so I ran straight for him.
He turned at the sound of my footsteps, hand instinctively dropping to the gun on his hip. I was moving too fast to stop, and I plowed into him, knocking him backward.
He threw a hand against the door to steady himself and wrapped his other arm around me.
“Holly? What . . .”
Brakes squeaked as the van stopped in front of the abandoned building next door to pick up my would-be kidnapper. The passenger door slammed, and the vehicle shot down the street.
34
I rolled up the sleeves of the sweatshirt until I could see my fingers. I had never realized how long Jordan’s arms were until now. What was that, five rolls? Six?
Jordan kept a change of clothes in the office, and I was grateful to have something to cover my tank top. My sweater was probably lying in an oily puddle in the alley or being stuffed into an evidence bag.
Rest in peace, favorite sweater.
A knock on my office door made my pulse jump, but it slowed when I remembered that I was safe. The threat had driven away.
I stepped around Riley and twisted the lock on the knob, opening the door. Jordan stood there with a mug in one hand and an ice pack in the other.
He took in the sweatshirt that hung like a sack from my shoulders. “And now I know what my sweatshirt looks like as a dress. I’m sorry I don’t have any pants that’ll fit you.”
I glanced at my damp, dirty jeans. “They’ll dry.”
“You look tired.”
I was beyond tired. The adrenaline that had sustained me during the fight and allowed me to outrun my pursuer was gone, and all I wanted to do now was take a nap.
I took the ice pack Jordan offered and sank into my oversized chair, wrapping the coolness around my throbbing wrist.
“Detective Chamberlin is on his way over, and officers are trolling for the van,” Jordan said.
I doubted my description of a utility van with a possible license plate, give or take a number, would be very helpful in a city with more than eight million people. The chances of them finding it were slim.
But I did know one thing for certain—the van wasn’t the one Jordan and I saw parked across the street from Cami’s apartment. There was no cross on the side, and the shape was more rectangular. That made me question the religious-zealot angle I was contemplating earlier.
Jordan passed me a mug of hot tea, and I read the message the company had stamped on the tag.
“I like you a lot, but I’m chai.”
Each tea bag had its own unique phrase, and I could imagine Jordan sifting through them to avoid the flirty ones that said things like “Hey cu-tea!” and “You are steaming hot.”
I rested the mug on my knees. “Thanks.”
Jordan dropped into my desk chair, concern shining in his eyes. “I know I’ve asked half a dozen times already, but are you sure you’re all right?”
I shifted my wrist. “Yeah, it’s a little swollen, but it’ll be okay.” It wasn’t broken, but my rough landing irritated an old injury.
“I don’t just mean your wrist.”
I hadn’t missed the worry in his eyes when I plowed into him wearing nothing but a tank top in the frigid weather. I assured him the man hadn’t tried to hurt me, but the worry remained.
“It’s only a few bruises. I’m fine.”
“Your idea of fine concerns me. If he had gotten you in that van . . .” A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he looked down at his hands. “Maybe Marx was right, and having you work here is too dangerous.”
Wait, was he trying to fire me?
“If it’s not safe for me, then it’s not safe for you,” I reasoned.
“It’s different, and you know it. I’m not saying someone wouldn’t try to intimidate me into backing off a case, but they’re not gonna see a hundred-and-eighty-pound, six-foot man and think, ‘I’m gonna stuff him in my van.’”
“You don’t know that.”
“Speaking from a man’s perspective, I do. Guys like the one who grabbed you have no interest in a fight they think they might lose. The perception, true or not, is that women are easier targets.”
“Well, he misjudged me, because he lost anyway.”
A smile touched his lips. “Yes, he did. But what about the next time we find ourselves in the middle of a case someone doesn’t want us investigating? Or a case that involves criminals and predators.”
I understood his fears, but there was nothing I could do to allay them. I couldn’t change the fact that I was five two and a hundred pounds.
“You would be safer if you did photography full-time,” he said. “Your office would still be yours, but you wouldn’t need to be involved in the investigations.”
I bristled. “I have the same drive to protect people as the rest of you, and that isn’t gonna change because God made me sample sized.”
His lips twitched as he tried to keep them from curling up at the corners. “I know, and I know you won’t stand on the sidelines when someone is in danger or missing, but I had to try. But if you insist on continuing to work risky cases, we need to restart your self-defense training.”
I stared at the swirls of dark stretching from the tea bag in my mug. Resuming training meant learning how to break out of holds. It meant being physically restrained, which was more than I had been comfortable with over the past year.
Jordan leaned forward to catch my gaze. “You know Sam and I would never hurt you, and we’ll go at a pace you’re comfortable with.”
“I know, but I can’t promise I won’t freak out and hurt you.”
“I’ll wear long sleeves.”
I tucked my lips between my teeth as I considered it. “Can we wait until my body doesn’t feel like it’s been through a taffy puller?”
Because right now, everything hurt.
“We can ease back into it after the wedding, if you’re ready.” Jordan pushed to his feet. “Why don’t you rest until Chamberlin gets here. You look like you’re gonna pass out in your tea.”
He tugged my throw blanket out from under Riley’s front paws on the floor and draped it over my legs, the simple but kind gesture warming me more than the mug of steaming tea.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
