FIVE IN A ROW E-Book

Jan Coffey

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 499

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

From USA Today Bestselling Author May McGoldrick writing as Jan Coffey...   In a crowded parking lot, chaos erupts as a Porsche careens out of control. An SUV crashes through a dealership window, and a Mercedes plunges off a pier onto a yacht. Witnesses claim the vehicles had a "mind of their own." Five wrecks in a row—this can't be mere coincidence.    Computer guru Emily Doyle finds herself at the center of a deadly game, targeted by a hacker intent on capturing her attention. The technology being used to control the cars links her to each victim, but how?   Enter Ben Colter, the investigator hired by automakers to uncover the truth. As the body count rises, Emily and Ben must navigate a twisted web of virtual reality and international terrorism, racing against time to stop the next deadly incident. Will they expose the mastermind before it's too late, or will they become the next victims in this chilling conspiracy?  ​​​​​​​What reviewers say: "A chilling premise that may make you hesitate to start your car." – Romance Reviews Today  ★★★★★  "This is a dynamite book! Well-written, believable, filled with tension and realism, it pitches just the right mix of mystery, intrigue, and romance." – Jefi Neal, TRRC  ★★★★★  "Fast paced, edge of your seat read." – Rosie Bendra, Fresh Fiction  ★★★★★ 

Leseprobe

FIVE IN A ROW

JAN COFFEY

withMAY MCGOLDRICK

Book Duo Creative

In the event that you enjoy Five in a Row, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors. Thanks!

Five in a Row. Copyright © 2018 by Nikoo and James A. McGoldrick

Previously published by Harlequin/Mira 2005 under same title

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Special Preview of SILENT WATERS

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

To the loving memory of

Nassim Hashemi

Our dear friend, taken from us too soon

&

To Marie Livigni

A special doctor who treats life

not just as a few single threads,

but as an entire tapestry

PROLOGUE

Fall 2003

Three computers sat on desks arranged like a horseshoe. A laptop was docked to the middle one. The light from the monitors cast a flickering bluish glow on the walls, and the syncopated rap of Jay Z was coming from speakers in the corners. There were no windows in the basement room. The rented townhouse had been built into the side of a hill, and Lyden Gray liked it this way. He liked his privacy.

Boxes of computer parts and electronics supplies sat in piles, cluttering much of the floor. If anyone were ever to see the inside of this room, though—and no one ever did—it would not be the computers or the clutter that would attract their attention. It would be the walls.

The walls were a work of art. Covering the painted cinderblock from the top of the desks to the ceiling was a collage of pictures and articles, downloads and actual photographs.

And it was a shrine to just one person.

Emily Doyle was a deity to Lyden. Beauty and brains all tied up in a package of pure woman. She was a goddess.

Everything Emily had ever published in the tech magazines or online was on that wall. Every picture of her on the Internet was there. The weekly announcements of her Monday night online workshops were all taped up in perfect order.

In a special place, above a table filled with things she’d touched with her own hands, were a collection of photos that made Lyden’s temperature rise every time he looked at them. They were photos he himself had taken. Pictures of her speaking at a conference in Philadelphia. A photo of her on the street during a lunch break. Another of her sitting on a wrought-iron chair in front of the Eatopia Café in Wickfield. And that special picture of her in a bathing suit, lying on a towel on the beach in Rhode Island. The thrill that raced through him at the memory of the day he’d taken the picture was almost too much to bear sometimes. He’d laid out his own beach towel right next to hers on the sand. All he had to do was to stretch out his arm and he could have touched her. As he lay there that day, he could see the beads of perspiration glistening on her throat, her breasts. He was so close he could smell the lotion on her skin.

The scurry of new activity in the chat room drew Lyden’s attention to the screen on the far-right monitor. More troops were arriving. An army of intruders. Annoying pieces of shit.

This was his time. These weekly hour-long chats with Emily provided the only source of real pleasure he had. Without these chats, he knew what he’d be doing. He’d have to go to her. See her in person. Drive to Connecticut.

After all, she was his.

CHAPTERONE

The eight-year-old Honda’s windshield wipers slapped back and forth, struggling to keep up with the sheets of rain battering Emily Doyle’s car. She peered through the watery smear covering the windshield. The beams of the headlights reflected blindingly off the bumper of the SUV ahead of her.

“Come on,” she whispered. The line of cars inching slowly through a maze of dirty orange cones toward the exit sign of the high school parking lot seemed to be going nowhere.

The whole darn place was one major construction site. The school renovation project which had started two years earlier, had only advanced about as far as tearing up the lot and forcing parents, teachers, and older students to park a half mile away. Earlier tonight, Emily had heard more than a few of the other parents grumbling about it as they slogged through the mud and gravel to the old building. She promised herself that she’d stop nagging at her son, Conor, about tracking ten pounds of dirt into the house every day after school.

The four-wheel-drive in front of her stopped to let another line of traffic join in. Emily glanced at the clock on the dash. 8:51.

“Nine minutes. Plenty of time,” she said under her breath, pressing the defrost button and turning the heat up to high.

Her button-down shirt and dress pants were wet and sticking to her body. She was cold and uncomfortable. Emily gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror and cringed at the way her shoulder-length dark brown hair was plastered against her head. The little mascara she’d put on tonight had run down onto her cheeks. She took a soggy tissue out of her pants pocket to wipe the smudges.

Emily’ssister Liz had warned her about the impending storm, but she was too thick to take an umbrella. Liz had also told her about the temperature dropping off tonight, but Emily simply refused to admit that wintry weather was just around the corner. It was only the first week of October.

“Come on!” She banged on the steering wheel as the driver in front of her seemed content to let the whole line of cars from the other lane cut in front of them.

Her cell phone rang. It was Conor.

“So, how was back-to-school night?” her son asked in a cheerful voice.

“You’ve already made a name for yourself, you womanizing heartthrob. I met Mr. and Mrs. Gartner, Ashley’s parents. They couldn’t say enough nice things about you.”

“That’s because they’re in shock over their daughter getting a good grade on anything. She’s my lab partner. I think this was her first hundred percent ever.”

“So, is she cute?” Emily asked, tapping the horn for the car in front of her to move.

“She’s blonde, beautiful, a foot taller than me and outside of the four walls of the biology lab, she doesn’t even know I exist.”

“She’s not a foot taller than you,” Emily replied reasonably. She was relieved as the traffic started to crawl again. “I saw the parents. There’s no way she could be over six feet tall.”

“Mom, I’m four ten.”

“Four eleven and half,” she corrected. “And the last time we had you measured was August. I bet you’re five-three by now.”

“No, I’ve shrunk since August,” Conor said. “But I’m cool with it. So how did you like my teachers?”

Emily knew he wasn’t cool with being the shortest kid in the ninth grade, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She was five two. Her ex-husband David was five-seven with his shoes on. She knew she didn’t have to remind Conor again that what he lacked in physical size, he more than made up for with intelligence.

“I like your teachers. Our time in the classrooms, though, was cut way short because of your rather long-winded principal.”

“I guess that’s because Mr. Peterson is new.”

“Maybe.”

“Though I do think he likes to hear himself talk,” Conor added.

“I met his wife, too. She was nice. The quiet type.”

“Their son Jake is a freshman like me,” he commented. “Awesome kid.We’ve been sitting at the same lunch table. I was going to ask him if he wants to catch a movie with me this weekend. By the way, where are you?”

“Still in the parking lot.”

“You’re going to be late.”

Emily glanced at the clock. It was 9:01. She was late. “I know. Where are you?”

“At the Café.”

The Eatopia Café had been a joint venture for the two sisters. Emily had come up with the start-up money, Liz the expertise. The health food sandwich and coffee shop faced the quaint village green of Wickfield, Connecticut, and Liz took care of the operation of the restaurant as Emily saw to the books and the financial end. She was not usually trusted up front, where the customers gathered.

“Is Aunt Liz gonna drive you home?” she asked.

“No, she left half an hour ago for a hot date. I closed the place up for her, and now I’m in the back.”

“She left you alone?” Emily asked loudly.

“Mom, I’m fourteen years old. I’ll be driving in twenty-two months. I’ll be going to college in four years. I’m responsible enough to turn a lock and press handful of numbers on an alarm keypad.”

Conor was responsible enough for all of that and a lot more. Still, it didn’t lessen Emily’s worry. This was who she was. A single mother of a teenager. And a complete worrywart.

“I’ll see you at home,” he told her.

“How are you going to get there?” Emily asked.

“I’ll walk.”

“You’re going to walk two miles in the rain? I don’t think so. I’ll pick you up.”

“You’re already late for your online class,” Conor protested. “Remember responsibility? How about punctuality? Do you remember lecturing me about that stuff?”

Yes, she did. The speech came up whenever Emily had a hard time getting Conor out of bed in time to catch the bus, which happened roughly five days a week.

“There are probably about two hundred ultra-serious geeks from around the world in that chat room, waiting breathlessly to hear about…what are you talking about tonight?”

“Email encryption.”

“Yeah, that,” the teenager replied. “You’ll waste sixteen minutes coming to get me at the café first, and you’re already…let’s see. Eleven minutes late. Jeez, what a rip-off, Mom. You’re robbing these guys of half of their session.”

Emily finally turned out of the parking lot and onto the country road. “Nice try laying on the guilt, buddy. Get off Facebookand log me in. I’ll save myself eight minutes by getting into the chat from there.”

* * *

She was never late.

Lyden cracked all ten knuckles at once. The chat room was buzzing with all kinds of drivel being messaged back and forth between the pests. He rolled his chair across the floor to pick up a new Emily flyer he’d printed from an upcoming computer show. Picking up a pair of sharp scissors, he carefully, lovingly cut out her picture. As he snipped away, though, his attention never wavered too far from the computer screen.

Eighteen minutes late.

One of the morons in the chat room posted the comment that Emily must have had a hot date and forgot about them. As he read it, Lyden’s collar tightened around his throat. The room was suddenly too warm. He kicked the piece of shit out of the chat room and got up to turn the thermostat in his office down to fifty-five.

Emily wouldn’t do this to him. She wasn’t a cheat.

Lyden’s pulse jumped uncontrollably when he saw the screen name Em V move to the top of the long list of attendees. He rolled his chair to the keyboard and waited like some devout acolyte for her to say something. A few of the brownnosers immediately broke protocol and leaped in, firing questions at her about whether she was okay. Lyden kicked a half dozen of them out, too.

“My time,” he whispered, putting the half-cut flyer and the scissors down beside the keyboard.

Sorry, guys. It’s not me. I mean, this is not Em V. It’s her son. But she should be here real soon. Back-to-school night tonight. My principal is a little long-winded, so she’s running late.”

The disappointment was intense. Lyden could feel the heat burning his face, his scalp, and he was aware of pounding in his ears.

He stared at his right hand. It was fisted around the handle of the scissors. He didn’t remember picking it up again, but the tip of it had stabbed Emily’s face, nailing it to the desk.

“Shit,” he said thinly. “It’s not your fault.”

Lyden’s chair shot backwards across the open space to the third computer. He had to punish the person who was responsible for this.

He knew everything about her life, about her family. Her son was a freshman at Wickfield High School. A couple of quick searches on the Internet, and he had the school’s website up. The name of its principal was easy.

Another two minutes, and he was in Connecticut’s Department of Motor Vehicles database, getting the vehicle identification numbers and the make and model of Principal Scott Peterson’s two cars. It was so easy.

“So, you like to drive new cars. Nice,” Lyden whispered, seeing his own reflection on the screen as the computer searched another database to match the VIN numbers of the cars with the component registry ID. Two numbers popped up.

He typed them in his laptop and waited. The first one was asleep. But not the second.

“Ready to have some fun?” Lyden asked softly. Smiling to himself, he went to work.

* * *

The high school parking lot was practically deserted. Jill Peterson figured that, apart from the night janitor, her husband must be the last person left in the building. Parked next to a temporary construction trailer, she watched the trees swing and bend under the force of the wind and rain. Before leaving North Carolina, her husband had warned her about the New England weather. It didn’t matter. She’d been ready for change. All of them were. After ten years as an assistant principal, Scott was ready for a promotion. Their son Jake was going into high school, so it was a good time to move for him, too. And Jill was happy wherever her men were.

A blanket of wet, gold-colored leaves covered the ground. Fall, only just here, was going to be gone soon. She turned up the radio as the weather report came on.

“The rain will continue…”

Jill saw her husband leave the front door of the school, and she worked her way over the center console to the passenger side of the car. Some rap music came on the radio. She changed the station back.

She didn’t like to drive in this kind of weather. She would just as soon stay home on stormy nights. But tonight, she had to be here as a parent. Jake was a new student, in addition to being a freshman. Jill was as anxious as any of the other parents to meet his teachers, even though her husband was the new principal. She had a feeling that Scott was happy to have her there tonight, too. This was his first night in the limelight.

Scott opened the driver’s door and climbed in, bringing with him the smell of rain and wind. He threw the umbrella he hadn’t bothered to open on the floor of the backseat.

“I’m sorry I was late coming out. The custodian had to fold up and put away two hundred chairs in the gym, so I gave him a hand.”

“No problem.” Jill reached over and brushed the rain off the back of his hair. “By the way, you were wonderful.”

“You’re prejudiced, honey.” He gave her a tender smile, pulling on his seat belt and taking the car out of park. “I spoke too long. I know I did. But there was so much I had to cover. And this is the only chance we get to have all these parents at school like…”

The car took off like a bullet. Jill, her hand stretched across her as she was about to lock her seat belt, was thrown back against the seat.

“What are you doing?” she cried, looking in horror at her husband.

Scott’s face was chalk-white, his hands fisted around the steering wheel.

“Put your seat belt on,” he said through clenched teeth. “Right now. Hurry, Jill.”

She couldn’t get the seat belt to lock as the car jerked to the left and she was thrown against the door.

“Stop. Stop the car,” she said in panic.

“I can’t. I have no control over it.”

“Step on the brake. Do something!” she screamed. They were accelerating toward a thick line of trees.

Scott’s hands were off the wheel. He was yanking at the key, pulling at the handbrake.

“Oh, my God, please don’t.” Jill covered her head in her hands, thinking of Jake. “Not both of us. Not like this.”

The car took a sharp right at the last minute and banked up on two wheels. Jill Peterson had no time to say anything more. She looked up just as they crashed head-on into a parked bulldozer.

As the darkness came over her, the only sound she could hear was the beat of the rain on the crumpled hood…and the rap music again playing on the radio.

CHAPTERTWO

The doors to the conference room were locked. All incoming calls were held. Cell phones were shut down. Even the blinds were drawn, shutting out the dismal view of the Detroit skyline. No interruptions of any sort would be allowed.

A dozen executives and as many lawyers representing a hastily assembled consortium of automobile manufacturers and insurance companies sat around the oval conference table, their eyes all focused on Ben Colter and his two investigative associates. Each person at the table was impatient to tell the consultant his or her speculation on the cause of the accidents.

Five in a row. No coincidence, to be sure.

An assistant circled the table, handing out a packet of papers. Ben took one, scanning the contents.

“The first accident happened in Albany, New York,” a Detroit attorney, the spokesperson for the group, explained. “Midday, no sign of the driver being under the influence. The car ricocheted back and forth across the parking lot a few times before piling headfirst into a cement barrier. The driver claims he had no control over the vehicle.”

Ben glanced down at the timeline of the accidents. Names, phone numbers, court schedules as they stood now, they were all there. He glanced over at Adam Stern and Gina Ellis, his two associates. Gina was already jotting down her questions.

“The second accident occurred in a car dealership in Providence, Rhode Island. The car was taken out for a test drive, but it never made it out of the lot. It made a U-turn at high speed and ended up crashing through the plate glass wall of the showroom. The driver claims that the vehicle just took over.”

Ben flipped the page and glanced over the police reports from the accident.

“Some loose ends persist with regard to the third accident,” the same lawyer continued. “San Diego. Elderly driver. She lost control and crashed the vehicle into the side of her church.”

Ben circled the age of the driver on his handout. Eighty.

“The fourth accident is a high-profile one. Miami, Florida. A dot-com multimillionaire named Jay Sparks. The sports car jumped off a pier and flipped end over end into a docked yacht. Half a dozen lawsuits and we know more are on the way.”

There had been plenty of headlines with that accident. But no mention of any possible relation to the others.

“The fifth accident is the one from yesterday in Wickfield, Connecticut. We’re all still awaiting the results.”

“Five different models of cars.” Ben paged through the report. “Reading what you sent me before this meeting, my understanding is that despite the drivers’ claims that steering, braking, and acceleration controls failed to function at the time of crash, the detailed diagnostic testing of the first four vehicles showed no malfunctioning or tampering of any sort.”

“That’s correct,” the attorney answered. “In each case, the vehicle careened out of control, nearly killing the occupants, but no cause has been established.”

Ben knew why they were here. Neither the automakers nor the insurers wanted a repeat of the public relations fiasco of the eighties. Accidents that were rumored and then reported in the media to be a malfunctioning computer in the idle stabilizer had nearly bankrupted Audi.

Naturally, the possibility existed that there was nothing wrong with these cars. Or at least, nothing connected the accidents other than the drivers’ comments. It was very possible that these executives were sweating over nothing. Ben knew how corporate jitters worked, though; he made a good living because of it. He knew they needed to report positive results to their CEOs, and they would protect their companies at all costs. Still, the pockets that they wanted to protect were deep, and he understood how far into those pockets an American jury could reach if negligence of any sort, at any level, could be proven.

An attorney representing a major insurance company spoke up on Ben’s left. His company insured the drivers in two of the accidents.

“The first accident took place twenty-one months ago. With the ongoing litigation, we understand the difficulties your people might face in interviewing the plaintiffs and the eyewitnesses. That was why we decided to jump on this latest case. You could be conducting your investigation at the same time the local police and our engineers are working at it. No lines have been drawn yet in this case.”

Ben nodded. Colter Associates hadn’t been hired to do any simple diagnostic testing on the damaged vehicle. His three-member team had an impressive legal and technical background, and their strength lay in piecing together the evidence gathered for the most part by other experts. After seven years in existence, Colter had established a national reputation as a special investigation unit capable of solving intricate puzzles when it came to automobile accidents and claims.

“How are we being explained?” he asked of the group at large. “Publicly, I mean.”

Across the table, a female executive with one of the automakers responded. “As you can understand, we’re all very sensitive about rumors. Your firm’s discretion has been relied upon in the past by several of the insurers here, as well as by those of us in Detroit. We all are cognizant of that. I must tell you that I personally do not believe that you will find anything conclusive, but the mere fact that we have retained your services to investigate could be misconstrued and cause damage. Up to now, the news media and law enforcement agencies have treated each of these accidents as separate and unrelated incidents. We’d like to keep it that way.”

Ben had sensed Vivian Thomas’s hostility from the moment they’d been introduced. Although her company had designed and produced the automobile involved in the accident in Connecticut, she, of all participants, appeared to be the least willing to go along with this inquiry.

“You won’t be seeing me on 60 Minutes, Ms. Thomas, but I need to know under what authority we’re going to request local law enforcement agencies to share their reports.” Ben glanced at the list lying on the table in front of him. “What authorization do we have to interview Mr. and Mrs. Peterson in the hospital?”

Another attorney representing the Petersons’ insurance company spoke up. “It will be better for all of us if you conduct your investigation under the umbrella of our side of the operation. Your firm has done quite a few consulting jobs for us over the past few years. It’s perfectly reasonable for all outsiders to assume we’re seeking your assistance in this case, as well.”

“And when we start digging into the other four accidents?” Gina Ellis asked. “You wouldn’t want to stop the ball once we get it rolling. Before we start any investigative work, however, we need to have full representational authority in writing to access and review whatever material and to interview whomever we deem necessary for our research. We’re talking inside and outside of the automotive companies, ladies and gentlemen. Full access to internal design reviews, product liability risk reports, personnel, board memos, whatever. Plus, we want it clarified contractually that we represent a legally defined consortium of both automakers and insurers here, no matter what we say outside this room. As a former member of the Business Ethics Board for the Connecticut Bar Association, I can tell you that none of us wants to be answering charges of collusion or cover-ups down the road.”

As Gina continued to talk, Ben took in the looks of surprise on many of the faces around the table. He’d seen it before and loved it. Beautiful, reserved and African American, Gina made a practice of waiting for her moment in meetings like this and then taking control. Ben knew his associate’s powers of articulation were impressive, and in a moment she had them all in the palm of her hand.

As Gina continued to explain Colter Associates’ legal and contractual requirements, Ben turned his attention to Adam Stern, his other associate. The financial and technical expert had been leafing through the pages of the reports they’d been given.

“Bare bones stuff,” Adam said, quietly nodding at the paperwork before him. “Mostly one-page police reports. Nothing that could be called expert diagnostic testing on either of the first two vehicles. Only the notes of mechanics at the local repair shops. The next two at least have a checklist. They don’t fill me with confidence, though. I want to be there myself when they go over the Peterson car.”

Ben knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Adam away. A mechanical engineer with ten years in design and manufacturing at General Motors and an MBA in finance, this was the type of job Adam dreamed about.

Ben caught Gina’s nod. She and the attorneys representing the companies appeared to have come to agreement on the legal technicalities of their course of action. The financial package had already been decided upon, so there was little more to be accomplished here.

The automaker hosting the meeting tried to bring it to a close, but Vivian Thomas spoke up again. “As a reluctant participant in all this, I need to inform you on behalf of my company that it’s crucial that we have an end in sight. I want specific goals and a reasonable time frame in which you will conduct your investigation and submit your conclusions.”

“Our goal is to find out if there is any connection between these accidents and see if we can ascertain the cause. Whatever we find will be in the reports we submit. Unfortunately, as far as a time frame, Ms. Thomas, a lot of what we do needs to follow your own company’s internal engineering and diagnostic review.” Ben was more than familiar with the reputation Thomas’s engineering group had for conducting their operations at a snail’s pace. “If the Peterson case turns out to be the last of these accidents, we can have a preliminary report ready two weeks after your group concludes their work.”

A minute later the meeting officially broke up. As Gina and Adam huddled by the windows, Ben spoke to a few of the executives he’d met before. Several knew his father and wanted to pass on their best wishes for his “semiretirement.” John Colter, a well-known trial lawyer in the Northeast, had been representing insurance companies for over four decades. He was partially responsible for Ben starting this company.

“Two weeks?” Gina asked coolly when the three of them were left alone in the conference room.

Ben’s two disgruntled employees had already packed everything in their briefcases and were ready to go.

“Seriously?” Adam asked. “What are we? Robots? These incidents are spread all over the country. How the hell are we going to get all our ducks in a row in that short a time period?”

“Where’s the fire?” Gina chimed in. This was a rare instance when she appeared to be taking Adam’s side. “These people have been sitting on their butts for almost two years without doing anything about this. They wouldn’t have blinked twice if you’d said six months or a year.”

“I said two weeks after they’re done with their reports,” Ben reminded them as he packed his own briefcase.

“Yeah, but did you see the look on Vivian Thomas’s face?” Gina pointed out. “At this very minute, she’s charging up her cattle prod to use on her staff. I’m telling you, her engineers will push some half-assed paperwork off their desks just to put the ball back in our court. She wants a clean slate and she wants it quick. Pretty, end-of-the-year books. Big bonuses. And she’s going to hold you to your two weeks. Mark my words, Ben, we’re the ones who are going to feel that prod of hers before we’re through.”

Ben picked up his briefcase, and they started for the door. “I only promised a preliminary report.”

He’d known that time was an issue from the first moment they’d been approached about the job. Gina and Adam knew it, too. He didn’t bother to remind his associates again of the high six-figure bonus that went along with the timely completion. He didn’t have to. He hired only the best. Besides, this was the only way to work. Ben liked to work hard. He liked fast cars, fast woman, and fast jobs. Dawdling was not his style. Life was too short. Period.

Gina was as solid as a rock. There was nothing that she couldn’t do. She was a wife, a mother of two small children, a genius with the law. Her middle name was balance and her last name organization. She held Colter Associates together.

Adam was just flat-out smart. And a complainer. Or, at least, he was happy to complain to Ben and Gina. Standing five feet eight inches, Adam had average looks but an amazing social life. Weekends in the Bahamas or Aspen. Flying to Europe for a quick break. Every time Ben saw him out and around, he had another gorgeous woman on his arm. Ben figured Adam’s personal charm had to be based in his unshakeable aura of confidence. Everything his associate said was a fact, or Adam made it sound that way. There wasn’t a topic on which he wasn’t well informed. And what he didn’t know, he made up.

Adam sometimes drove Gina crazy, but the three still managed to get along amazingly well. In their own way, they’d become a family.

“Make it an overnighter to Connecticut,” Gina was telling Adam as they got into the elevator. “Be there for the diagnostic work. Then go on to San Diego. You have to cover Miami, too. I’ll get to work on New York and Providence. No overnighters for me. It stresses out the kids.”

“I’ll cover things in Connecticut,” Ben said.

“Right. That’s where the meat of our preliminary report has to come from,” Gina reminded Ben. “Good luck with your digging. In fact, you should plan on staying there a few days.” She smiled at him. “Who knows? Maybe the slow pace will do you some good.”

Ben nodded and looked away. Slow? Right. A good job to focus on. And to fill his down time, if there was any, he had three racetracks and two casinos within a short ride of Wickfield.

Just the kind of slow pace Ben liked.

CHAPTERTHREE

The ancient trees that shaded Wickfield’s village green in the summer months were now leafless after the rain and wind of the previous days, but Emily loved the strength and beauty they lent to the town’s center. That was true for any time of year. She loved almost everything about the town she now called home.

Wickfield was the quintessential New England village, and the steepled churches, white-columned neoclassical mansions, and brick shops lining the village green were visible proof of its early colonial prosperity. Five roads had converged at the green since the days when Washington himself had ridden in to plan his northern campaign and secure the financial support of the successful local landowners. There was new money here now, thanks to the New York literary crowd, but the character of the place had changed very little over the years.

Emily drove slowly along the wide cobblestone street that formed one border of the green. On her right, restaurants, antique shops, art galleries, real estate offices, a local bank, and the old courthouse all stood side by side in a picturesque combination of outdated architectural styles. Brick predominated, the red clay worn to a variety of warm colors. Each building had its own distinct façade, accented by occasionally ornate woodwork. Painted wood signs hung above the doorways, and the wide sidewalks were busy for this time of year. To her left, across the green, two white clapboard churches flanked an old and attractive granite building that once served as the local jail in colonial days. The old jail now had a sign out front proclaiming itself the Wickfield Inn.

All along the street, cars and SUVs were parked face-in, and every space was filled. Emily came to a stop as she reached the narrow alleyway that separated the Eatopia Café from Raven’s Books & Gifts and peered down the cobbled lane, looking for a possible place to park in the small area behind the buildings. She could see Liz’s car there, and Mr. Raven’s van was taking up two spaces, as usual.Just then, the backup lights appeared on a Range Rover just ahead of her.

“Good timing,” she said out loud, putting on her blinker and looking through the plate glass front window into the café as she waited.

Emily could see Liz was busy behind the counter. Lunch had not yet begun in earnest, though a half dozen customers were already standing in line, getting sandwiches to take out. A couple of the regulars from the courthouse were sitting at one of the three wrought iron tables in front of the café, eating their early lunch and enjoying the sunshine.

It still amazed Emily what this place had come to mean to her and Liz. The joint venture had served to ground the two sisters. It had brought them closer to each other. It gave them a feeling of ownership, of belonging. They now had a place in this community, too. This was exactly what Emily wanted for Conor and for herself.

Eatopia Café was also a place where both sisters could play the roles that suited them best. Liz had inherited their father’s handsome Irish looks and his personality. She was an extrovert, a people person. She remembered names and made friends easily. She liked to perform. And the customers were enchanted not only with her healthy, gourmet sandwiches, but with her beauty and charm. Emily, on the other hand, was just like their Italian mother. Dark complexioned and on the short side, she felt particularly plain when she was in the company of her sister. Emily felt no envy toward Liz, though. She knew who she was and was content with it. Emily was an introvert, a behind-the-scenes kind of person. In her case, she was really a behind-the-screen kind of person.

The SUV drove away, and Emily nosed into the parking space. Shutting off the engine, she got out. A car tooted its horn across the green as she stepped up onto the sidewalk. She turned and looked back across the glistening cobblestones. On the green, in front of the Vietnam war monument, a bed of mums still in bloom caught her eye. The monument was new. A semi-circular wall of granite standing near a Civil War statue. She gazed at the mums for a moment. Their reds and golds were vibrant in the bright morning sunshine, and she wondered for a moment how long it would be until the first hard frost cut their vitality, leaving them bent and faded. Such is life, she thought, turning and going into the café.

Liz was alone behind the counter. The new haircut looked good on her. Short red ringlets bounced prettily around her face. The tall, lithe body moved with the gracefulness of a dancer as she took orders from one customer and bagged a sandwich for another. Other than a slight flush on the high cheekbones, Liz appeared to be in total control. Her expression brightened, though, at seeing Emily.

“Good news, sis,” Liz said. “You’re promoted.”

Emily answered the friendly nod of one of the regulars and, instead of heading back toward the office, slipped behind the counter. She dropped her bag on the shelf below the cash register. “Promoted to what?”

“Delivery woman.” Liz rang up the total for a young woman who was ready to pay. She motioned to a cardboard box containing drinks and sandwiches. “The police station. I have one more sandwich to add to it, then it’s ready to go.”

Emily stepped back and looked toward the empty back hallway. The light of the office was off, so no one was playing computer games back there. “Don’t tell me Steve is a no-show again?”

“At least, this time he called. Two minutes ago,” Liz said, handing the order to the next customer. “His girlfriend has his car, and she’s not back. He said he’s unavailable today.”

Two weeks on the job and four days missed already. This commission-based “delivery” part of the business was a trial run, anyway. The idea had been brought to them by the twenty-three-year-old newspaper carrier, snowplow operator, and lawn and garden guy, who also did all kinds of odd jobs around the village. That is, so long as there was no sense of urgency involved in the job. Emily knew it was just about time to can the idea and Steve with it. She moved to the cash register and rang up the next customer’s order.

“Who’s coming in to help you at the counter?” Emily asked as the bells chimed on the door of the café. A group of three more customers stepped in.

“Sharon’s on her way. She’s running a few minutes late.”

The bell at the door sounded again. Emily glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 11:45. They started serving at 11:00. The two-dozen sandwiches Liz put together every morning before opening were already gone. She was now at the point of making orders up from scratch and seemed totally oblivious to the growing line of people snaking through the café.

“Do you want the second sandwich on a twelve-grain bread, too?” Liz asked the man at the counter.

The noise decibels were steadily increasing. Emily hated lines. She hated traffic. She could feel the perspiration starting to dampen her shirt, and she started to peel off her jacket.

“Give me something to do. How can I help you?”

“Keep it on.” Liz tucked a sandwich into the box. “Delivery to the police station, remember?”

“How are you going to handle this mob?” Emily asked under her breath.

“The way I handle them every day.” The younger woman winked. “You’re getting pale. Get out of here before you pass out on me.”

Emily didn’t need to be asked twice, especially when the door opened again. Glancing up, she was relieved to see Sharon coming in. It took some maneuvering for the woman to make her way through to the counter. She looked at the box Emily was picking up from the counter.

“No Steve again?” Sharon asked in disbelief.

Emily shook her head and started toward the back door. Backing out, she almost missed the short step down to the pavement, though, as her heel caught some kind of package left by the door. She righted herself as the steel door closed with a resounding bang behind her.

The fresh air felt wonderful, the sun warm in the protected courtyard behind the building. She adjusted the awkward box of drinks and sandwiches in her arm and glanced over her shoulder at what she’d almost tripped over. A package sitting against the door under the mailbox. She saw her own name and the café’s address, but no markings to hint as to the contents.

An uncomfortable feeling quickly formed in her stomach. She hoped it wasn’t something new from her secret admirer. She couldn’t handle any more gifts. She was starting to get spooked by the attentions of whoever this guy was. No name. The return address was fake, and it changed every time he sent her something. She knew that because she’d written to a couple of the addresses, only to have her note come back to her as undeliverable. And he just kept sending her gifts, signing himself ‘A Fan’.

You were supposed to be a celebrity to have a fan, or at least beautiful and sexy like Liz. Emily was not any of those things. He had to be a computer geek. Probably one of the nameless and faceless online students who devotedly plugged themselves into their computers every Monday night for one of her classes.

Or maybe someone who had attended one of her conference workshops. She was invited to speak at least in dozen computer expos all over the country every year. Emily only agreed to half of them. And there were always a few who approached her afterward. She was friendly but distant.

She wasn’t looking for a relationship, especially not with someone in her own line of business.She’d married David Lee the same year that both of them had received their master’s degrees from MIT. They’d moved west to San Francisco, had Conor, and worked for the same company. Their life had been their jobs, but it hadn’t been enough for either of them. After the first year, there have been no spark between them. No sense of romance. Other than work, they soon found they had nothing in common. Except Conor.

It was six years this August since their divorce. David was married again, this time happily. And to a “non-technical” person. Emily was here, back in Connecticut, and unwilling to make the same mistake in her life. She decided to let the package stay where it was and started down the alley.

She’d been considering taking some official action about the gifts, though. Just in case. Maybe this was as good a chance as any to make a report about what had been going on. She was heading to the police station anyway. At the same time, she’d never been one to succumb to hysteria. The whole thing might be harmless. Whoever this person was, he’d made no demands or overtures in person. The gifts had been small and inexpensive, but very thoughtful. Back in July, an Amaryllis bulb. Then, an out-of-print book that he somehow knew she’d been looking for. Another time, a box of her favorite dark chocolate. And there were other things, too. Sometimes shipped, other times left outside of the same door of the café with a note. The stranger seemed to know her well, but still preferred to stay in the shadows. All the same, he also knew how to find her. Thankfully, his presents had only been left at the Eatopia Café.

Emily hurried along the sidewalk and turned sharply up the stone stairway of the police station. As she did, the box of food she was holding rammed directly into the stomach of someone standing on the steps. Emily juggled the box and a hand reached out and righted a drink that was tipping precariously.

“I’m so sorry.” She stepped back, embarrassed.

“Careful.” A strong hand gripped her arm, stopping her retreat. She glanced over her shoulder and realized she was about to back into someone else coming up behind her.

“Do you need a hand with that?”

“No, thanks.” She looked up into his face. The man’s hazel eyes were studying her. He looked doubtful. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

“I’m going your way. At least let me get the door for you.”

Emily accepted his offer with a nod. She didn’t think he was a townie, at least no one she’d seen around before. Clean-cut good looks. Very tall, but not gangly. Built like a quarterback. Former, she repeated, studying him again as he opened the door for her. The touch of gray in the sideburns were a giveaway. The suit and tie made her think lawyer. Definitely a professional.

He held the door as she passed through it. Crossing the small waiting area, she put the box of lunches on the high reception counter.

“Delivery from Eatopia Café,” she told the young dispatcher who came over. Emily knew she had just been hired onto the force.

“How much do we owe you?”

“Good question.” Emily hoped her sister had the foresight to leave a bill. The box was too high for her to search inside. The stranger once again came to her aid and lowered the box for her to look inside.

She couldn’t help but notice the spicy scent of his cologne. It was pleasant, not overpowering.

“I can see that I may have to share my tip,” she told him.

“I was counting on it.”

Their gazes met over the box and for a fleeting second, Emily’s insides fluttered, surprising her. She looked back into the box.

“Here it is.” A menu marked with the tally was tucked on the side. She took it out and handed it across the counter. The dispatcher disappeared with the box and the receipt through a door, and Emily could hear her calling for money for the lunches.

“So, do you have an extra menu?”

Emily turned, plunging her hand into her jacket pocket. She’d left her purse behind and didn’t even have a business card for the restaurant on her. She shook her head.

“Sorry, I don’t. But we’re only a block up the street. On the same side. Eatopia Café.”

“What kind of food?”

“Sandwiches, mostly. And soup.”

His gaze narrowed. “Health food?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his expression. “You wouldn’t know it. Or at least, that’s not the only kind of food we have on the menu. We gladly slap a rasher of bacon on twenty-four grain bread.”

“With mayo?”

“Whatever you want.”

His smile was dangerous. It made him look boyish and more handsome, if that were at all possible. His eyes, though, became serious as he studied her face for a moment. “I think we’ve met before.”

“Great line.” She shook her head, trying to keep it light. Suddenly, she was not so comfortable with the scrutiny. “Impossible. I have an excellent memory.”

“So, do I.”

Emily turned and smiled at the detective coming through the front door of the station.

Jeremy Simpson spotted her and came straight over.

“Hi, Em. What are you doing here?” He leaned down and brushed a friendly kiss on her cheek as her “helper” backed away a step.

A year and a half ago, Emily’s sister Liz had gone out on half dozen dates with Jeremy Simpson. Emily liked the detective. He was a steady kind of guy, handsome, but not too inflated by it. He was a straight shooterand had a good sense of humor. And what you saw was what you got. But her high hopes for the relationship had probably been a death sentence for it. They’d broken it off before the usual month was up. Emily had stayed friends with the detective, though. They’d even worked together on several civic committees regarding the village center.

“Trying to earn my keep,” she said brightly in response to his question. “I’m the delivery person today.”

“Earning your keep. That’s a good one.” He chuckled. “So, how is Conor liking the high school?”

“Well enough, I think. It’s so sad, though, with what happened with the Petersons.”

Emily felt the attention of the other man on them, and she glanced over at him. He was watching the exchange with intense interest. Jeremy looked that way too, and recognition registered on his face.

“Colter. I didn’t expect you until this afternoon.”

“I finished up at the garage early.” The two men shook hands. “Do you have few minutes now?”

“Yeah, sure. Excuse me, will you, Em?”

The dispatcher appeared at that moment with the cash for the lunches. Emily gave a half wave to Jeremy and Colter on the way out of the building and saw them start around the counter into the department offices in back. From the bits and pieces, she heard as she went out, this Colter fellow was apparently involved with the insurance side of things on the Petersons’ case. She wondered which side he represented.

Scott Peterson had come out of the accident with several broken bones and a ruptured spleen. Four days in the hospital and his condition was finally stable. As bad as that was, his wife Jill had fared far worse. She was still in a coma with internal bleeding in the brain. Nobody knew to what extent her recovery would be, if any. No surgeries were planned. Everything was still touch and go.

Conor had told Emily that Jake Peterson had missed school for most of this week. Jill’s parents had arrived from Atlanta, and they were all spending their time in the waiting room at the hospital. Emily had promised Conor to drive him over there after school this afternoon. He’d put together a bag of stuff he wanted to deliver to his new friend.

Emily could see from the street that the café was even more packed than when she’d left a few minutes ago. Deciding on the back door, she turned down the alleyway to the courtyard behind the buildings. The package was still there by the door. She contemplated taking it back to the post office. She could refuse delivery. As always, though, her curiosity won out. What if this were the time when he finally introduced himself? She took the rest of their mail out of the mailbox.

Once inside, she dropped everything on her desk and went to help Liz and Sharon behind the counter. Friday lunches were always the busiest of the week.

“That’s the only safe place for you.” Liz pushed a stool toward her and motioned to the cash register.

“This delivery job is terrific. I got a very good tip.” Emily counted out the money she’d been given at the police station and put the extra in the tip can by the register.

“There are some brain cells left in Steve’s head,” Sharon commented. “The boy’s problem is his lazy butt.”

Emily wasn’t too worried about dropping the delivery service. Even without it, Eatopia Café had broken even this past year. Of course, Liz continued to grumble that she was drawing a salary and Emily wasn’t. Even though Emily kept reminding her sister that she had other sources of income, Liz was forever cutting the hours of their counter help and putting in extra hours herself. Sharon, in her forties and divorced, didn’t particularly mind, of course. Her ex-husband was very punctual with alimony and child-support.

For her part, Emily had never been short on cash since the day she’d graduated from college. Even after leaving San Francisco and the corporate world, her plate had continued to be full of consulting jobs. And this year, a retail electronics giant had offered to sponsor her Monday night workshops, thus providing another steady stream of income. More and more people were attending the free classes, the sponsor was getting good exposure, and everybody was happy.

“So, did you run into anybody over there?” Liz asked, while making two sandwiches at the same time.

“As a matter of fact, I saw Jeremy Simpson.”

“Anybody interesting?” Liz asked, giving her a meaningful glare that told Emily her sister wasn’t interested in anything she had to say about the detective.

“I think I might have recruited an out-of-towner to try out this café.” She took a couple of business cards off the counter and stuck them in her back pocket for future use. “An insurance guy, I think. Maybe a lawyer.”

“Maybe he’ll be staying for the weekend.” Liz said with a wink. “Easy on the eyes?”

“Just the way you like them. Tall, dark, and brooding. The only problem is that he’s wearing a suit.”

Liz leaned over her shoulder. “Maybe he’s got play clothes in the car.”

Sharon joined in the conversation. “All I have to say is it’s about time we had some new blood in this town. The shortage of men is disgusting.”

A middle-aged man who was paying for his sandwich chirped in. “Seems to me there’s plenty of good home-grown stock in town.”

That, naturally, opened a floodgate, with two women behind him and Liz and Sharon letting him know in no uncertain terms the problems with “home grown stock.” And the conversation shifted to all the troubles withdating in small-town America.

No one seemed to be in any rush, including the provocateur who winked at Emily as he took his change. She listened to the good-natured banter, but the discussion was totally out of her league. And despite a couple of efforts to draw her into the fray, she couldn’t make any contribution. Dating was a foreign topic to her. Since her divorce, her social life had centered on her son. The men in her life had not been lovers, but friends, and she was happy with that. Happy with who she was. Her feelings of self-worth were certainly not based on somebody else’s opinion of her.

She didn’t have to worry about the ups and downs that Liz went through because of her love life. The uncertain beginnings, the disappointments, the temporary emotional thrills, the occasional heartaches, the annoyances caused by pests who couldn’t take a hint. No, she’d quite happily take a pass on all that.

At least, that was what she’d made herself believe over the years.

When the rush began to subside, Emily slipped quietly off her stool and disappeared into the tiny office. The mysterious package on her desk was the first thing that caught her eye. She ignored it and thumbing through the day’s mail, she separated the bills from the junk mail from the catalogues. Next, she scrolled through the hundred plus emails she’d received overnight.

The box remained in her peripheral vision. As always, the mystery of it tugged at her.

Finally giving in, she grabbed a pair of scissors and opened the package. The Unabomber would have had a field day with somebody like her. No thought for safety. Just cut through the tape and rip open the top. She shook her head as she pushed away foam peanuts.

“What have you sent me this time?” she asked, looking at the rectangular shaped jeweler’s box that lay nestled in the packing material.

She took it out and examined it before opening it. There was no marking on the velvet covering. Nothing to indicate what shop it had come from. Pushing the packaging to the side, she placed the box on the desk and opened it.

“A watch!” she whispered.

An old man’s watch, with an oversized face and large numbers and hands. She picked it up and stared at the thing, trying to understand its significance, intrigued by the puzzle of it. The gifts she’d received beforegenerally had some thought behind them. They’d all been relevant to something she’d mentioned in passing in her talks or in her workshops or online. A smile broke across her lips. This had to, as well.

She placed the watch back on her desk and dumped the rest of the packing material into her trashcan. As the last of it tumbled out, a plain white envelope fell out, as well.

“So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Emily asked as she opened the envelope.

There was no note inside. Not even the customary Post-it with the neat block letters, “A Fan.” Emily pulled out a folded newspaper clipping, the only thing in the envelope. She opened it and stared at the article. It was from the local weekly paper.

High School Principal Hospitalized

Wickfield Police are investigating a one-car accident involving the High School’s new principal. Scott Peterson took a wrong turn Monday evening and crashed into construction equipment on school property. The incident, which occurred following the…

Emily was startled by a soft knock on her open door. Liz stood in the doorway, staring at her curiously. “Em, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You look kind of pale, all of a sudden. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Nothing is the matter.” She dropped the clipping on her desk and pushed herself to her feet. She felt shaky. The connection was clear enough now. She’d been late for her online class on Monday. So, she needed a watch to keep track of time. The Petersons accident had occurred on Monday. “Do you need me at the counter again?”

“No,” Liz said, looking over the desk. Her gaze focused on the watch. “Another gift from your weirdo?”

She nodded, but then shrugged indifferently and started around the desk. “The weirdo, not my weirdo. So, you have another order that needs delivering?”

Liz shook her head and glanced over her shoulder before stepping into the room. Emily pulled up short as her sister put a hand on her shoulder.

“You were dead on the money.” Liz arched one eyebrow, her voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s tall, dark, and handsome. He’s here and, unfortunately, asking for you.”

CHAPTERFOUR

The food looked way too wholesome for his taste, and the jury was still out about the atmosphere.

Standing in front of a pair of side-by-side refrigerated drink cases, Ben Colter shifted his attention from the paper menu in his hand to the artwork on the wall. Behind the counter, the space next to a coffee machine was covered with framed newspaper features and obviously favorable magazine reviews of the Eatopia Café. A plaque boasting a Best of Connecticut award had been hung dead center.

“Can I get by?”