Veil Of Fear. Judi Lind
felt his back go rigid. How had they meandered into such dangerous territory? He didn’t want to talk about the near-fatal shooting that had left him lying in a hospital bed for months, wondering if he’d ever walk again. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about those endless weeks. But her words had already evoked the nightmare. A bead of sweat tickled his forehead as he vividly recalled the agonizing hours of physical therapy. And the million disappointments before the first small flare of hope.
Now, he felt Mary’s eyes on him, studying him with curiosity. After nearly two years he should be able to come up with some cute quip to explain his early retirement. He’d even thought of a cocky rejoinder—something about being shot by a jealous president. Trace should be able to laugh the whole thing off and keep his private hell locked away, but he couldn’t find the bantering tone necessary to pull it off. When he finally answered, his voice was tense and guarded. “Retired. Disability.” He stood up.
All business once again, he asked her for the anonymous letter she’d found earlier.
The note Mary handed him was typical of hundreds of others Trace had seen during his eight years with the secret service. The words were cut from magazines and newspapers and glued to cheap paper.
The perp in this case, however, fancied himself witty. Usually, threatening letters, written by depressed and deeply disturbed people, were terse and to the point. This jerk used word games—the bride won’t live happily—or ever after, to intimidate his victim as if he was enjoying himself.
Trace dropped the note onto the table and looked up into Mary’s trusting eyes. He felt unaccountably compelled to reassure her. He couldn’t offer any real hope, so he resorted to platitudes. “Sounds innocent enough. Mr. Regent’s probably right, just your ex-boyfriend out to wreak a little revenge.”
“Oh, do you think so? Truly?”
He couldn’t lie—not when she asked him directly like that. “I hope so, Mary. That’s the best I can tell you right now.”
The crestfallen expression that claimed her features lasted only a moment. Proving herself a true Pollyanna by nature, she immediately forced a quavery smile. “But you’ll be able to stop this creep, won’t you? Can’t you send that note to the FBI? I took a tour of FBI headquarters, it’s amazing what they can do with a shred of evidence like this.”
Trace ignored her first question and responded to the easier one. “I’m afraid we can’t involve the FBI in this. No federal laws have been broken and no real harm’s been done. Besides, I doubt if their lab could be much help.”
Mary tapped the tabletop with an impatient fingertip. “Why not? During the tour, they told us how they’d tracked down criminals with partial fingerprints and DNA testing, and ink samples and...and all kinds of tiny clues no one would ever think about.”
Civilians! They were so used to seeing cases neatly resolved in an hour on television that they couldn’t understand that criminal investigation was rarely as clear-cut in real life. Trace hated to be the one to do it, but Mary was about to get a lesson in reality.
Choosing his words with care, he began. “First of all, fingerprints. How many people handled this envelope? You? The doorman? Did the perp bring it to your room himself or did he tip a bellboy to slip it under the door?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
Trace shook his head emphatically. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. That letter’s been handled so much, any prints it may have held have probably been obliterated.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I never thought about fingerprints when I opened it.”
He smiled to soften the implied rebuke. “You had no way of knowing. You also mentioned ink samples. What ink? The guy cut the words out of magazines. As for DNA testing—what’re we going to test? Okay, maybe our letter-writing friend actually licked the envelope and left traces of saliva. Do you have any idea how expensive DNA testing is? The amount of time it takes to process? More important, we have to have a suspect to compare against the results—assuming we get any conclusive evidence to begin with!”
“But what about Mark?” she argued.
Trace was impressed. Mary wasn’t going to give up easily. He was glad she had a strong fighting spirit. She was going to need it.
He stood up and slipped the note into his pocket. “Mark Lester is certainly a viable suspect. But even knowing that, what can we do? Go ask your ex-boyfriend to lick an envelope and give it to us so we can charge him with harassment?”
Mary pushed away from the table, her dark eyes flashing. “Your sarcasm is cute, but unnecessary. What do you propose we do, Mr. Know-It-All, wait until he tries to kill me?”
Trace busied himself with recapping his ballpoint and closing his notebook. He couldn’t look into Mary’s eyes just yet for fear she’d see the truth.
Nearly ten years of protecting people who were targets of deranged criminals had taught Trace one lesson: there really wasn’t much that could be done until and unless the criminal actually got bored with writing letters and decided to follow through with the threats.
Mary Wilder was absolutely right. Other than increasing security, there wasn’t much more they could do.
The next move was the stalker’s.
Chapter Three
The easy camaraderie Trace and Mary had enjoyed over their sandwiches had vanished like morning mist on the White House lawn. She tried a couple of times to draw him out, to find that genial companion of a few short moments ago. It was no use. Trace had retreated into his shell and locked the door firmly behind him.
He paced across the living room, as if suddenly ill at ease, pausing only to check and recheck the patio-door lock. His charcoal jacket swung away from his hip, and Mary saw for the first time that he was wearing a gun.
She felt weak and trembly all of a sudden. If Jonathan had hired an armed guard, then surely she’d been underestimating the danger. Suddenly, Mary was very glad to have the arrogant Mr. Armstrong around.
When he started toward the front door, she asked, “Are you leaving?”
He paused with his hand on the doorknob and nodded. “For tonight. So far, Mr. Regent’s authorized me to accompany you only when you’re outside this apartment. He doesn’t feel that you need twenty-four-hour-a-day protection. He thinks you’ll be safe here as long as you keep the door bolted.”
“And what do you think?” Mary asked, trying once again to reestablish the earlier rapport she’d felt with this enigmatic man.
Trace shrugged. “He’s probably right. I’ll check the roof access before I leave the hotel tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get a dead bolt for that adjoining suite. You should be safe enough for tonight. Besides, we don’t have any reason to believe this kook is going to do any more than send nasty letters.”
Mary crossed her arms and stifled a yawn. Even after that long nap she’d taken, she was still exhausted. “So, what’s the game plan for tomorrow?”
“I’ll be back early in the morning. You just go ahead with your normal plans and whither thou goest, I’ll tag along. Then, in the evenings, I’ll lock you up in your tower like Rapunzel.”
“Sounds exciting. Do I ever get to let down my hair?”
Trace groaned and walked to the door. “On that really awful pun, I’ll say good night. And, Mary—”
“I know, I know. Lock the door behind you.”
He nodded and disappeared into the hallway without a backward glance.
She followed behind him and bolted the door, then flipped on the security latch. Turning around, Mary faced the empty foyer. How much larger, and lonelier, her apartment seemed without Trace here.