Mystery Man

CHAPTER ONE

Three months passed.

Sherrie’s ankle healed, finally, and she was able to resume her running habits. She’d tried running during the day, but always felt too exposed. Running at night she felt alone on the streets, free from the mundane existence of those around her. She found the daylight often harsh, or the ever present crowds too oppressive. She did make one significant change: never again would she go running in Boynton. Never again.

Spring turned to summer. The days became hot and the nights became short. She ran in shorts and a tank top most of the time, the heat of the city too much for any other clothing. She often returned to her apartment drenched in sweat. More than once she returned to praise the air conditioner gods, who kept her unit running. A beer and a long shower helped as well.

June became July. On night, nearly midnight, she decided to go for a run. With no case to work at that moment, she saw no reason to get up early the next morning. She donned a pair of gold gym shorts and a white tank top over the proper undergarments, then laced up her shoes and stepped out onto the driveway to stretch. The night had fallen, and to her, the darkness was something like a heavy curtain. A light breeze had come up from the north, and the temperature had drifted down a few degrees. As she stretched she felt the lingering heat from the asphalt, and knew the roads and sidewalks would have retained the heat of the day. She knew it would be yet another sweat soaked trip around the neighborhood.

And she looked forward to it.

As she strode out onto the pavement she caught sight of a bright light behind the houses. As she reached Elm Street and turned right the light revealed itself. It was the Moon unusually large that night, with its glow bright and extraordinary as it perched just above the horizon. It was so bright that Sherrie felt the need the squint for a few seconds until her eyes adjusted. The humidity in the air formed a halo around the celestial orb, and the colors that formed the face seemed blurred. Still, she thought she could see the mythical face on the orb, those eyes that seemed to bore into her as she advanced.

She ran along the street just beyond the painted parking spaces and just short of the regular driving lane. Her footfalls somehow seemed muffled in the dense air. Her lungs had difficulty drawing in enough oxygen. The humidity seemed to keep her from the air she needed to support her athletic activity. After a couple of blocks she slowed her pace and her lungs finally caught up.

Another block along and she realized she had acquired a shadow. Across the street was a man, dressed in a yellow track uniform shirt, dark gym shorts, and white running shoes. He was on the sidewalk and kept perfect pace with her. She was instantly annoyed.

As she reached a stoplight, she cut across the road to confront the interloper. As she reached the center line the man turned a hard right and raced down a side street. By the time she reached the sidewalk the man was gone. There was no trace. As humid as it was, she half expected to see some kind of a vapor trail like the kind that bleed off the wings of a jetliner, but there was none.

She resumed her run.

She reached the river and turned south on Walnut Street. Another block along she thought she heard footfalls that were not her own. As she maintained her pace she listened hard for any other noises. A block later she was certain she was being followed.

“Feets don’t fail me now,” she mumbled.

She darted into an alley. Two strides and she was at full speed. The pavement was littered with dust and dirt and the contents of a garbage can that had suffered the bruise of some car bumper. She stepped over black garbage bags, empty potato chip bags, fast food cartons, empty cereal boxes, and the bones from a takeout chicken emporium. She stomped on a carton of mashed potatoes, caught herself, then deftly cut around a large rat who had availed itself of the feast. Another stride and she was back at full speed.

Two cross streets and she cut left toward State Street. Half a block later she headed back towards home. There were no more sounds that followed her. She could feel the lingering gaze of shadow in the tension of her nerves and the flat plane of her back.

When she reached the driveway again she didn’t stop to stretch or cool down. She drew the key from the pocket inside her shorts and let herself in. Once the door was closed and locked she scampered up the stairs feeling excited and scared and a little like the rodent who’d escaped a bird of prey. She opened her apartment door and scooted inside. The cold air from the A/C unit instantly brought goosebumps to her arms. She took no notice, the heat generated by her body, and by her fear, a perfect counterbalance to the cold. She left the lights off and went to the front bay window to see if anyone had followed her. Her heart pounded and her mind reeled. Her eyes peered into the darkness and tried to detect movement. The street lights stood on the curb and were too far away to cast enough light. They were not much help. In the dark of her apartment she stood stock still and held her breath as if the noise might give her away. As she peered between the folds of the curtains, her mind raced. Nothing moved. In the darkness, nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Finally she noticed the cold and wrapped her arms around herself. A small spasm caused her to shiver and her shoulders to jump. She went into the shower right away.

“Senator Stevenson is missing.”

Nancy Carlson stood behind her desk. Bright sunlight filtered in through the windows to her right. Sherrie stood across from her.

“I read about it on the ’net,” she replied as she sat down in a client chair.

“The case has been dropped on my desk,” Nancy said as she sat down. “Since this is a State Senator, the F.B.I. isn’t involved yet, and the State Police just had a round of layoffs. They can’t spare anyone right now. So we city bums have to handle the case, or so says the Captain.”

“Oooh, that must be serious.”

“Don’t mock me, Sherrie.” Nancy’s face was dark. “After that gang war incident, the mayor insisted I get a promotion.”

Sherrie had noticed the nameplate into door read Chief Inspector Carlson, not just Lieutenant Inspector.

“And the Captain has put a lot of expectations on me to solve the case.”

Sherrie instantly understood. She looked the Chief Inspector in the eye. “How can I help?”

Carlson picked up a very thick packet and handed it over. “This is everything we’ve got. Photos, interviews, the works. Read it over, familiarize yourself with the details.”

Sherrie took it and nodded.

“Work your magic on it,” Nancy said without humor. “I need your insight on this.”

Sherrie nodded again. She could see the candor and importance of this case in her face. “Can I take this home with me?”

“Yes.”

“Let me look over it carefully and I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk about it.”

Nancy nodded.

Sherrie got up and went out the door. The file was in a large manila envelope. It was a little heavy and a bit cumbersome to handle. She didn’t often carry a purse, and hadn’t bothered with one that day, so she had nothing else to carry. And the file certainly wouldn’t fit into the pockets of her pants. She carried it close to her body as she walked down the streets and into the subway and all the way into her apartment. The memory of the shadow from the previous night lingered in her mind.

She spread the contents of the file onto her kitchen table and began to look over the reports and photos and notes with interest. Immediately she noticed that there were a staggering number of details. Whoever put together the file was certainly a stickler, she told herself. While Sherrie knew the key to her “magic” was in the details, she felt a little overwhelmed.

She read and re-read the file for hours.

Her stomach rumbled.

Sherrie had been concentrating so intently that the noise startled her. At first she thought it was the fridge making one of its’ several characteristic noises before it cycled off, but then she noticed the recirculation motor wasn’t running. Then she thought it must be the steam pipes gurgling. She shook her head and returned to the files.

Her stomach rumbled again.

She looked left, then right, then at herself.

“Was that you?”

As if to reply, her stomach made another noise.

She laughed.

“I guess baby is hungry,” she chuckled. Then she looked at the clock on the wall and realized it was nearly five o’clock. “And you’ve missed the twelve o’clock feeding.” She stood up quickly from her chair and had a moment of vertigo. Her temple throbbed. “Been sitting too long, too?” she asked herself.

After a moment the vertigo passed. She walked slowly to the fridge and opened the door. Several containers of Lorraine Thomas’s simple and easily reheated dinners dominated the shelves. Sherrie had sampled most of them and all but one container held partially consumed remains. She reached for the last unopened container.

There was a loud knock at the door. Sherrie closed the fridge and strode to answer. She expected to find John Phillips standing there making some excuse or pretense to see her. His attraction to her was obvious, at least to Sherrie, and his behavior was what someone might describe as “solicitous”. One of her college roommates would have said he was “trolling for a BJ.”

John wasn’t at her door. Instead there was a dead body.

Sherrie choked off a startled scream.

The corpse looked like a man, perhaps fifty to sixty years old, with dark hair. He was wearing a ragged button down shirt and filthy dress slacks. He wore no socks but had on a pair of well-worn wingtip shoes.

Blood pooled beneath his head.

Sherrie glanced down the stairs. There was no one. Nothing around the outside door appeared to be disturbed. She glanced left and right almost automatically, but knew that there were no other apartments in this building. There was just John’s place below, and Lorraine’s place out back. Outside her door was just a landing and the stairs. She glanced around almost out of reflex.

She reached down to feel the dead man’s hand. There were some vestiges of warmth to the skin. Although he had no pulse, the man appeared to have died within the last few minutes.

She left the door open and went back to grab her cellphone. A quick call to 911 and she was back at the door. A man stood on the stairs, two steps down. He had what looked like a stenographer’s pad in his right hand, and a pen in his left. He was making notes at a furious pace.

Sherrie glared at him. He looked up.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “The door was open.”

“That’s a lie,” she retorted. She knew the door was always shut securely and always locked.

The man shrugged again. “How did this,” he gestured to the corpse, “get here?”

“I--” She stopped herself. “You’re a reporter.”

He started making notes again.

“No comment.”

He continued with his notes and ignored her.

“The police will want to talk with you,” she said. She let her eyes examine him. He was about five ten, perhaps a hundred and ninety pounds, medium brown hair, left handed, wearing a white shirt, no tie, black slacks, and shined black shoes. His hair was short and stood up like a buzz cut. There were perspiration stains at his armpits and around his collar. The steno pad appeared to be brand new. He was writing on the very first page, and the cardboard backing looked undamaged. The pen was a standard white ballpoint, and the raised black lettering of the brand name was prominent.

This was no reporter.

“Why did you do this?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “What?”

“Who is this man?” She pointed to the corpse.

“No idea.”

“Why did you bring him here?”

He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“You killed him,” she said, “not very long ago, and brought him up here and plopped him at my doorstep. Why?”

She heard a siren in the distance.

The man raised his face slightly and searched the ceiling with his eyes. Then he bounded down the stairs and out the door. Sherrie stood and stared after him.

CHAPTER TWO

Nancy Carlson stood and stared at the body.

Several technicians milled about as they photographed the corpse and dusted for prints and cataloged the scene. John had heard the commotion and come out of his apartment. Sherrie warned him not to approach, then asked him to contact Lorraine. He’d done as she asked. As the technicians worked they stood at the bottom of the stairs and made small talk.

“Better tell me about it,” Nancy said.

“All I did was open the door,” Sherrie replied, and took a few minutes to recount the conversation and her observations. “If I could use an Identikit, I think I can give you a picture of him.”

Nancy nodded. “You probably should have one of your own.”

Sherrie smiled without warmth.

The techs finished up, then two EMT’s bagged the body and trundled it down the stairs on a gurney. Another couple of techs came up and cleaned the blood off the landing. Only then did John and Lorraine come up the stairs.

Sherrie could see concern in John’s face. Lorraine looked ready to give her yet another lecture.

Sherrie held up her hands. “All I did was open the door.”

John and Lorraine stopped in their tracks.

“I was looking over the case file Nancy gave me,” she continued, “and someone knocked on my door. I opened it and there was the body.”

John and Lorraine looked at each other.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Sherrie added, “but it’s the truth.”

A tech came up the stairs and handed Nancy a black box that looked like it might contain a board game. It was long and flat and had a pebbled plastic cover. Nancy handed it to Sherrie.

“Let’s go into my kitchen.” Sherrie went back to her table.

Nancy, John, and Lorraine followed. Carlson noticed the contents of the Stevenson file laid out neatly on the table. She nodded in approval. Lorraine noticed that the apartment was cleaner than she’d seen in awhile. Her face showed mild surprise. John stood behind Lorraine and watched Sherrie for signs on stress.

Sherrie opened the box and set out the contents in neat sections. From slots in the box bottom she pulled out plastic sheets with line drawings on them, then chose one and put it onto a white square in the center of the box. The plastic sheet had two holes on the top that fit perfectly onto two pegs and held the sheet in place. John could immediately see that the line drawing was actually the frame of a jawline. Then Sherrie chose another sheet of the hairline and laid it over the first. The face began to take shape. In a very methodical manner, Sherrie chose a sheet to represent ears and a nose and a set of eyes. The last sheet was the eyebrows.

“That’s him,” she said at last.

Nancy had been taking notes. Over her shoulder John could see a series of numbers. Hairline: 106. Jawline: 110. She jotted down a couple of more numbers, closed her notebook and nodded. “We’ll put an ID on him quickly, I’m sure.” She patted Sherrie’s shoulder. “Well done.”

Sherrie gave her a smile, then started to put the sheets back in their original places.

“Keep it,” Nancy said. “Early birthday present.”

Sherrie chuckled. “Thanks.” She put the sheets back into their places as Nancy left.

“So,” Lorraine started.

“Lorraine,” Sherrie said as she got up from the table. “I told you the truth. I’m working on a case for Carlson, and I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Lorraine stood and gave her an imperious look. It was as if she might say “how dare you talk to me that way”.

“Now,” Sherrie continued, “if you two don’t mind, I’d like to get back to this file, so if you will both excuse me . . . ”

“Sherrie Jones,” Lorraine replied in an authoritative voice, “I thought you might need my help, so I dropped what I was doing and came right over. And now you want to kick me out like I was bad puppy!”

Sherrie stopped and put her hands on her hips. Her face showed her consternation. “Okay, I’m sorry, I should have said Thank You.” She put her arms out and gave Lorraine a hug. “Thank you for caring about me.”

John grinned and wondered if his turn for a hug would come next.

“Now,” Sherrie continued, “I would like to devote my full attention to Carlson’s case, so I don’t want to be rude and ignore you while I do that.” She started to gently direct Lorraine and John to the door. She smiled at John. “And thank you for your help.” She touched John’s arm and gave him a gentle nudge towards the landing.

John saw something in her face that told him she took the time to observe the social graces but really didn’t want to. He wondered if she’d feel more comfortable being rude. But he went out the door with Lorraine.

After Sherrie had closed the door, John looked at Lorraine. “When is her birthday, exactly?”

CHAPTER THREE

She was so glad to be alone again.

It took a few minutes, but her concentration returned. As she sat and munched on Lorraine’s version of lasagna, the pictures and notes from the file seemed to take on a life of their own. In her mind the details floated above the table like fireflies. She moved them around in different sequences to see if any ideas came to her mind. The facts were simple. Two weeks ago State Senator Jerome Stevenson got into the back of a four door sedan and never came out again. His driver, Andrew Milbourne, said during his interview that he picked up the Senator each work day in front of his home. The exact time varied, but Stevenson was always standing in the foyer of his spacious home when Milbourne drove up. The car belonged to a chauffer service, and was a late model luxury sedan leased from a local dealer. On the day Stevenson disappeared the car was a brand new black Lexus. Milbourne stated that he picked up Stevenson at eight thirty that Monday morning and drove out of the neighborhood and onto one of the main thoroughfares. Four blocks along Milbourne turned right. Barely a hundred feet from the intersection a large armored car veered across oncoming traffic and plowed into the Lexus broadside. Milbourne suffered cuts and bruises. Stevenson was not found in the car and had not been seen since.

The details of the file included numerous photos of the cars, the damage, and the surrounding area. There were sketches and diagrams of how the crash might have happened. There were no interviews of anyone in the armored car because, apparently, there was no one in the car when it veered off course. There was no evidence of any kind of remote control used on the armored car, and no evidence of a mechanical failure that would cause such a sudden and sharp turn. There were no finger prints anywhere on or in the armored car, and hair and fiber traces were conspicuously absent. The back seat of the Lexus had an abundance of hair and fiber to suggest that Senator Stevenson was indeed in the car, but nothing to suggest what happened to him. He may or may not have been injured. None of his blood or other bodily fluids were left behind. The Senator had been carrying a briefcase full of legislative documents, but none were found after the crash.

Sherrie turned the events over and over in her head. She studied the photos closely using a magnifier. She read the reports over and over, then shifted the pages around on the table to see if any insight came to her mind.

By midnight she was drained. She had long ago put the leftovers back in the fridge and rinsed out the fork. She’d downed a couple of glasses of milk. The cleaned glass sat in the dish drainer. She stretched and felt her back pop.

“Oi!” she murmured.

There was a loud knock on the door.

Sherrie jumped at the sound. Who the hell was this? she thought. She got up quietly from her chair, stepped to her right and retrieved a six foot length of one inch hardwood dowel rod from the corner. She had no training but had developed a couple of defensive moves with the rod. At that hour she had a strong feeling she might need it.

The knock was louder and more insistent.

Sherrie stepped quietly to the door, positioned herself, then grabbed the knob and threw the door open wide. In one fluid motion she lunged forward and thrust the end of the rod like it was a bladed weapon.

A hand grasped the end of the rod and tried to yank it out of her grip. Sherrie tried to pull it away but the grip was too strong.

The man who had questioned her earlier stepped out from the edge of the door. “Hey! Hey! Truce!” He let go of the rod and took a step back.

Sherrie was incensed. “Who the fuck are you!?!”

“Put that thing down, lady,” the man replied. “Didn’t your mother tell you things like ‘you could put an eye out with that thing’?“.

“Answer me!” She could see that his heel was on the edge of the top step. A slight shove and down the stairs he’d go.

“Put it down and I’ll tell you.” His hands were up in self defense.

She stepped back half a pace and held the rod vertical in her hands.

He took a step forward and extended his hand. “My name is Jim. Jim Atkins.”

She didn’t move.

“And you’re right, I’m a reporter.”

Her anger was near the boiling point.

“I work for the Sun.”

“A tabloid,” she said in a quiet voice. “A gossip sheet.”

He affected a hurt expression. “Please, lady, I’m a journalist.” He put his hands into his pockets.

She huffed a laugh. “And someone who is very good at breaking and entering.”

“Not true.” He glanced down the stairs. “I can’t help it if your outside door doesn’t close properly.”

“Is that before or after you jimmied the lock and broke it?”

He shook his head. “So young and yet so cynical.”

She glared at him. “What do you want?!”

He looked directly at her. “You.”

Her brows shot up.

“More precisely, an interview. All about you.”

“Why?”

He grinned. “You’ve solved a number of cases for the City PD. My readers would like to meet you, so to speak.”

“I don’t do interviews,” she said, and went to close the door.

“You don’t think the City would like to know why Chief Inspector Nancy Carlson is a fraud?”

She stopped. Her glare was full of fury.

“You’re the reason Carlson’s been promoted time and again. You solved the cases. She didn’t.”

“Nancy Carlson is a good cop.” Sherrie spoke through gritted teeth. “She’s solved hundreds of cases on her own, thank you very much.”

“True.” His voice was calm and reasonable and grated on Sherrie’s ears. “But the important ones, the kind that earn promotions, were ones that you solved.”

“She knows when to call me and when not to.” She started to close the door again.

“And she takes credit for your work,” Jim replied. “That’s called workplace fraud if you ask me.”

“Bullshit!” Sherrie leveled the rod again. “And if you don’t get out of here and leave me alone I’m going to make a citizen’s arrest.”

He huffed. “You don’t think I can’t take that away from you and beat you over the head with it?”

“Not if I can help it.” John was two steps down the stairs.

Moriarty whirled and gaped at Phillips.

“I’ve already called the police,” John said in an even voice. “You make any threatening moves and I’LL make a citizen’s arrest.”

The wail of a siren sounded in the distance.

Atkins turned back and lunged at Sherrie. She jumped back a step and jabbed at his face. John vaulted the last two steps and grabbed the back of Atkins’ shirt. In one quick movement Atkins spun John around and thrust him into Sherrie. They went down in a heap. By the time they regained their footing Moriarty was down the stairs and out the door.

It was 2:30 a.m.

Nancy Carlson was seated on the couch next to Sherrie. John was across from them in a chair.

“That was no reporter,” John had said. “He’s been trained in self defense.”

“How do you know that?” Carlson asked.

“I was in the Army for three years, and that’s the kind of training they gave you.”

Nancy nodded.

“Any luck on the sketch?” Sherrie asked.

“No. But now that we know his name we should be able to nail him down easier.”

Sherrie nodded. “Well, why don’t you nail him for B and E as well?”

Nancy heaved herself off the couch and slapped Sherrie’s leg with her notepad. “Done.” She went out the door and closed it behind her.

John got up from the chair. “You gonna be okay?”

Sherrie was curled up at the far end of the couch. She nodded.

“You were pretty handy with that dowel rod,” he chuckled. “That fellow better watch himself.” He turned to go.

“John,” she said in a soft voice.

He turned back.

“Thank you.” Her eyes weren’t wet and she didn’t look vulnerable. She looked genuinely grateful.

He grinned. “Just being neighborly.”

After he left she thought to herself: if he keeps doing that he’s going to earn that B.J. She went to bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Inside job.”

Nancy Carlson looked at Sherrie.

“I realize this is not a new idea to you, but there’s no other explanation.” Sherrie sat in a client chair in Carlson’s office and held the case file in her lap. “Somehow, this was staged.”

“So where’d he go?” Nancy let her hands stretch out.

“Stevenson opens his door and tumbles out just before the crash. In the confusion he simply walks away.”

“Couldn’t be. Door was still closed and locked when the first officers arrived.”

Sherrie shook her head. “Still possible. Most cars have a feature where you can unlock the door, open it, then lock it again before you close it and the door is relocked.”

“Electrically operated door locks,” Nancy replied. “Could have been activated only by the driver. Manufacturer calls it a child safety feature.”

Sherrie thought for a moment. “Does that model of Lexus have a feature where the back seat folds forward?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’d have to be awfully quick about it,” Sherrie said, “but what if he slipped back into the trunk just before impact, or even as they were rounding the corner, then climbed out in the confusion.”

Nancy gave her a blank stare.

“The pictures show that the trunk was open.”

“So how would he do that?” Nancy asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sherrie answered. “I’d have to look at the car to see if it has a release mechanism inside the trunk lid. But he didn’t just vanish into thin air.”

Carlson gave her a baleful look.

“Do you still have the car at the impound lot?”

Nancy nodded. “I believe we do.”

“I’m no expert, but perhaps one of your knowledgeable people could look for something like that?”

Carlson nodded and picked up the phone. Two calls later she hung up and dug a report out of a pile on her desk.

“His name was Powell.”

Sherrie stared. “The dead man on my doorstep.”

“Arthur William Powell, aged fifty nine, divorced, two children. Homeless for the past four years after he lost his job in that year’s financial sector crisis. Wife left him, pricey apartment foreclosed, unemployment ran out.”

Sherrie winced.

“He lived on the streets or in one of two dozen homeless shelters in the city. Liver shows advanced stages of alcoholism. Body was malnourished.”

“Happens a lot with drunks,” Sherrie said.

Nancy nodded. “Died of a blow to the back of the head, probably a nightstick or similar blunt object.”

Holmes nodded. “Probably never knew what hit him.”

“No doubt.” She put the file on her desk. “And you were right. Time of death was within two hours of your call to 911.”

“I knew it,” Sherrie seethed. “He was still warm.” The two women stared at each other for a moment.

“Got an ID on my mystery man?” Sherrie asked.

Carlson shook her head. “He’s not on the roster of reporters for the Sun. Not on their freelance or part-timer roster either. No record of his name or face in any department at that newspaper.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Neither am I,” Nancy added. “But I agree with you. He probably killed Powell.”

Holmes agreed. “But why?”

Carlson held her palms up.

“What the fuck does he want with me?” Sherrie’s voice was a little plaintive.

“It’s not an interview, that’s for sure.” John Phillips walked into the room. He was carrying several autopsy reports. He handed them to the Chief Inspector. “And I think he’s pretty damned dangerous.” He sat down in the other client chair and looked at Sherrie. “I’d keep that dowel rod handy.”

John and Sherrie stared at each other for a moment.

“Do you have a gun?” John asked.

She shook her head.

“You might consider getting one,” Nancy said. “You just might need the protection.”

Sherrie glanced at Nancy, then looked at John. The certainty of their opinions was very powerful.

“I have a an old World War 2 issue .45 handgun. It belonged to a great uncle.” John looked at her with obvious concern. “I could let you borrow it if you like.”

“I . . . ” Sherrie’s head dipped. “I never learned to shoot.”

John smiled.

“I . . .I really don’t like guns.”

CHAPTER FIVE

They were at the pistol range. To Sherrie it looked like a converted bowling alley. The shooting lanes were long and straight with a kind of back wall construction the reminded her of a pin reset machine.

“It may be necessary,” John said. He was being patient with her. She hated when people were like that. “And having one and using it at the right time just might save your life.”

“I know I know I know.” She took careful aim. The vintage World War 2 pistol was heavy in her hand. It took the strength of both of her hands to keep the thing level.

“Sight like I told you,” John continued, “and let out a little breath . . . ”

Sherrie fired. The gun jumped in her hands. It was all she could do to keep from dropping it. She glared at John. “I can’t do this.”

Another officer stood to the side. He was tall and muscular and had a chiseled face to go with the uniform. He picked up a .32 revolver from the next table and walked over. “Here,” he said as he handed the gun to Sherrie. “Try this.”

“Thanks, Mitch,” John said.

The revolver was much lighter and easier to hold. Sherrie liked it immediately. After a minute of show and tell, she was ready to fire.

She needed only one hand to hold it, but decided to use both to steady herself and aim. She took in a regular breath, let a little out, then squeezed the trigger. The jolted was a lot less, and the recoil wasn’t nearly as severe. She grinned and aimed again. She fired off three rounds in succession without hesitation.

John and Mitch stared at her. Mitch hit a button and the target came toward them along the wire system. By the time it reached them Sherrie could see that she’d hit two shots inside the black section and one outside it. They were the same size holes.

“I’d say the revolver is better, don’t you think?” She turned at looked at John. He had a slight grin.

Mitch chuckled. “Much better.”

“Wrap it up,” Sherrie joked, “I’ll take it.”

“You need a license to carry a gun.”

John stood on the landing as Sherrie unlocked her door. “I know that, John, but I don’t feel like giving anyone that much information.” They went in.

“It’s still the law,” he said. He followed her into the kitchen. Jim Atkins was seated at the head of her table. There was a file folder on the table in front of him. It looked official.

“How . . .what the fuck?!” Sherrie was immediately incensed.

“Do you know the penalty for breaking and entering?” John said.

Atkins had a smug look on his face. “The door was open.”

“It was not! I just unlocked it.” Sherrie glanced to her right to see if the dowel rod was still standing against the wall. It was not.

“I locked it after I came in,” Atkins said. “I don’t feel safe in this neighborhood.” He shook his head.

John took the cellphone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Atkins said.

“Why not?” Sherrie asked.

Atkins’ smug expression changed. “Because bad things might happen.”

John turned away and spoke into the phone.

“What kind of bad things?” Sherrie asked. She knew if she could keep him talking long enough perhaps the cops could arrive before he tried to leave.

“Like this,” he replied. He stood up and tossed pieces of the dowel rod onto the table

Sherrie stood her ground. “Is that supposed to make me afraid of you?” Her face was as hard as stone.

John turned back. “Who are you?”

“I’ve already told you my name.”

“But you’re not a reporter,” Sherrie said. “You don’t work for any news organization in the city.”

He nodded. “A convenient cover story.”

“Why did you kill that homeless man?” John asked.

“Yeah,” Sherrie added. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“Artie Powell was once a rich man,” Atkins began. The hardness was gone from his voice. “He was a high flier. But like the mythical Icarus, he flew too close to the sun and got burned.”

“So what is that to me?” Sherrie shot back.

“You’re a lot like him.”

She shook her head.

“You fly so high when you solve a difficult case, and you bask in the glow of self satisfaction even if your name doesn’t make it into the newspaper. You strut around here like the world belongs to you.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Atkins replied. “I’ve watched you.”

Both John and Sherrie gaped.

“And you do things that are, shall we say, less than ethical, to solve a case.”

“No I don’t.”

Atkins let his brows rise. “Last year you solved the murder of that alderman, what was his name?”

“Zimmerman?”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s him.” He chuckled. “You tricked his son into admitting he planned the whole thing.”

“It was true,” Sherrie protested. “His son did murder him.”

“No,” Atkins said with an eerily quiet voice. “I did.”

John and Sherrie stared at him in shocked silence.

“And the case earlier this year involving that young man, Rigoberto Mendoza. It was very brave of you to stand in front of all of those gang members and admit your guilt.”

Sherrie’s face was impassive.

“But I got the gangs to stop fighting.”

“How,” John asked.

Atkins waved the question away. “And this business with the state senator who disappeared.” He looked directly at Sherrie. “I did it.”

John was thoroughly confused. Sherrie wanted to beat this guy to a pulp.

“Why are you telling us this?” Sherrie asked.

He grinned. “I wanted you to know. I am also the man who will cause your downfall.” He looked wistfully into space. “Icarus is too close to the sun.”

There was a loud knock on the door. The police announced themselves. Both John and Sherrie glanced to the door without thinking. John went to open it and Sherrie looked back to discover that Atkins was no longer standing in her kitchen.

“What the fuck?”

“Where did he go?”

John stood and gaped.

Sherrie frowned. “There’s no other way out of here,” she said. “There’s a fire escape out that door.” She motioned to the back corner of the kitchen. “But it hasn’t been opened.”

“How can you tell?”

She walked over and pointed to the door jamb. “I put tape over the door, then painted it to match. The tape hasn’t been broken, so he couldn’t have gone out that way.”

“And he didn’t get by us,” John said. He glanced about the apartment. “So where the hell did he go?”

Two uniformed officers stood in the living room and listened. They were both very confused.

Sherrie walked over to the corner opposite the entrance to the kitchen. Her dowel rod stood unbroken. She picked it up and examined it. There was not a scratch on it. She looked at the ceiling, then visually searched the line where the ceiling met the walls.

John noticed her actions. “What are you looking for?”

She shushed him with a gesture. After a few moments, she pointed to a spot about two thirds of the way along the wall.

“See that pinhole? It’s either a camera or a projector.”

John was amazed.

Sherrie fished a roll of duct tape out of one of the kitchen drawers, then pulled a chair over and climbed onto it. She tore off a length of tape, then covered the pinhole with it.

John nodded. “He’s been in here,” he said, “and he’s been watching you.”

“Uh huh.” Sherrie continued to search the ceiling and walls. After a few moments she dragged the chair over to another spot and covered another pinhole.

“And he’s been busy,” John added.

In five minutes time she found five more pinholes. They were all in the kitchen.

Sherrie stood at the point where the kitchen tile met the living room carpet. “And I can imagine how many are in here.”

Atkins’ image suddenly appeared. He was standing to one side of the door to the hallway.

“You bastard!” Sherrie hissed.

Atkins laughed. His eyes danced and the sound he made was harsh and had a nasty tone to it.

Lorraine Hudson walked in and immediately noticed the two cops. Then she looked toward the kitchen. “Oh hi Jim,” she said to Atkins.

“Hi Jim?” Sherrie repeated. “You know this man?”

“Oh,” Lorraine replied, “didn’t I tell you? I hired Jim to do some repair work around here.”

Sherrie and John gaped.

“He was highly recommended,” Lorraine protested.

“Recommended by whom?” John asked with a sharp voice.

“Well that website that’s always advertising on TV,” Lorraine replied. “I can’t remember the name right now . . . ”

John and Sherrie stared at her, then at each other. Atkins laughed again and the sound was even more harsh.

Lorraine was confused. “What’s so funny?”

Atkins vanished.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Nancy Carlson was being sarcastic and serious at the same time.

“We have to stop meeting like this?” Sherrie showed a weak smile.

John grinned. “Look, if you two want to be alone . . . ”

Sherrie stared at him. Nancy grinned and waved away the comment.

There was a technician standing near the front windows. He was thin, with long arms and legs. His face was longer still. Carlson walked over to him.

“What have you got, Sanders?” she asked.

“As incredible as it sounds, we’ve found 19 holes in the walls, ceiling, and floor. We’ve covered them over with tape as Ms Jones requested.”

“Nineteen?!”

Sanders nodded. “So far.”

Sherrie’s gaze went to the ceiling and her hands flew up above her head.

“Good lord.” John stood next to Sherrie and searched the ceiling with his eyes.

“We haven’t checked the bedroom yet,” Sanders said.

“No need,” Sherrie said immediately.

Carlson turned to look back at her.

Jones stood and endured the awkward moment.

“Don’t you want us to check?” Nancy asked.

Sherrie didn’t answer. The silence drew out. John looked at Sherrie, then back to Carlson and Sanders.

“Oh, alright.” Sherrie went to her bedroom door and flung it open. In the center of the room was a mattress and box spring. There was no frame for the bed. It looked like the box spring had been set on the floor on move-in day with the mattress dumped on top of it. There were no sheets on it. A sleeping bag and a quilt were bunched up in the middle. A lumpy pillow rested on the floor next to it. Cardboard boxes lined the walls. In them were Sherrie’s running outfits, jeans, and undergarments. Sherrie switched on the overhead light.

John’s mouth hung open. Nancy simply stared in disbelief. Sanders did his best to hide whatever emotions he might have been feeling. Three techs went into the room and began to scan the walls.

John turned away from the bedroom and went to sit on the couch. Nancy followed him. Sherrie stood in the doorway and watched the techs work. After a minute or so she went into the bedroom.

“I’m not surprised, really,” John said in a low voice. “She seems to be the minimalist type.”

Nancy chuckled silently. “At least I have a frame for my bed.”

“Well, you’re married, too. Right?”

“No. Steady boyfriend, though.”

John nodded. “So I think I know what I’ll buy for our intrepid investigator when her birthday comes around.”

Nancy looked at him.

“Well, you can give her an Identikit. I can give her a bed frame.”

She smiled and nodded.

An hour later Sanders came out of the room.

“Twenty more.”

“Good Lord,” John said.

“And those are just the ones he and his techs could find,” Sherrie said as she came into the room. She crossed to an easy chair and slumped into it. “What the fuck does this asshole want with me?”

No one had an answer.

“Well,” Sherrie continued, “he’s got money.”

John nodded. “Putting in a holographic system like this is not cheap.”

Sherrie shook her head. “And he’s determined.”

“He is that,” Nancy agreed.

“Is he someone convicted based on your past work?” Sanders asked.

“Boy, not that I can remember.” Sherrie settled down in the easy chair and tucked her feet under her. John thought she looked a little more vulnerable.

“You’ve only been handling cases with me for the past, what? Five years.” Nancy tried to recall. “He doesn’t match the mug shots of anyone who’s case you worked on for me.”

“And who did you work with before you met Nancy?” John asked.

“That would be Paul Wysocki,” Sherrie replied. “Tough as nails and almost as smart, he used to say.”

Nancy chuckled. “Good cop, thought.”

“That’s for sure,” Sherrie agreed. “And a damn good man, too.”

John’s brows rose.

“Almost like a father to me. Helped me to learn police procedures, what to look for on a corpse.” She seemed almost wistful. “Let me observe interrogations, taught me investigative technique.”

“And let you be there when a suspect was arrested,” Nancy added.

“Yes, he did.” Her face turned very serious. “I’ll have to look through his old case files, but I don’t remember anyone who looked like this Atkins that Paul arrested.”

“They’re not computerized yet,” Carlson said.

“Ugh.”

“Won’t be easy.”

John intervened. “I know the head of the archives section, a Steve Chenoweth. I could see if he could dig them up.”

Sherrie looked at him.

“Might at least save you the trouble of digging them out of the boxes by yourself.”

“Okay,” she said with some hesitation. That B.J. was becoming more imminent and more deserved.

“Might take a day or so, but I can ask him.”

Nancy spoke up. “Have him do that, John. Tell him I ordered him to do it.”

“I can do that.”

“In the mean time,” Sanders interjected, “I think I might be able to get my hands on a kind of jamming device that would render these projectors inoperative.”

“Please do that,” Sherrie said at once.

Sanders nodded. “They’ll make your phone and cable TV useless while the jammer is switched on.”

Sherrie nodded. “I don’t use the TV that often anyway.”

“And if you use it, say, only when you sleep,” John said, “then you can be reasonably sure he won’t be watching you during the night.”

She shivered. The thought of being watched while she was at her most vulnerable, and most private, chilled her to the bone.

CHAPTER SIX

The archives section was surprisingly clean.

To her surprise, it was also above ground. Sherrie expected to have to descend into a damp, dusty basement and dig through filthy, grimy boxes and files to find out what she wanted to know. She also expected the archivist to be a grizzled and grumpy old fart. To her delight the archives sections was not only on the ground floor but well lit, clean, and run by a handsome young man with eyes that seemed to dance when he spoke.

“Yes,” Steve said, “this section used to be in the basement, but with the advent of DNA testing, and the need to review so many old case files, they decided to move us all uptown.”

“You talk about the files as if they were people,” Nancy remarked.

“Well,” Steve replied, “the files are all about people, so, in a manner of speaking, they are.”

Sherrie smiled. Nancy chuckled.

“We have several tables set up over here,” he said and gestured to his right. Nancy handed him a list of case files. Steve noticed that the list was several pages long. The pages were of legal size, and there were case numbers written on both sides of every page.

“I only had a partial list,” Steve said as he glanced at the pages. “This might take a while.”

And it did. Starting at eight thirty in the morning, Sherrie and Nancy went over each file and made note the names of the victim or victims, the perpetrator or perpetrators, the list of suspects, and the final resolution of the case. Steve had set up a laptop, and Sherrie made notes with it as they went. She used a database program so that she could sort the data later on.

By six in the evening they were done.

“Oooh,” Sherrie said as she rubbed her fingers. “Electronic writer’s cramp.”

Nancy chuckled. “Repetitive strain.”

“I won’t be able to grip the glass when I have a beer tonight.”

“The sacrifices we make for law enforcement,” Nancy quipped.

They shared a quiet laugh.

Steve stood across the table from them.

“Okay I take this laptop home with me?” she said to him.

He shrugged. “Police property.”

Nancy nodded. “Go over it and let me know if anything pops out.”

Sherrie agreed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Later that evening she sat at her kitchen table and fiddled with the sorting parameters.

There were murders, robberies, swindles, flimflams, fraud, abductions, abuse, and many other manners of crimes. Sherrie knew that Nancy had worked in just about every department in the force before she settled in homicide. She also knew that, when the bigwigs wanted a case solved, they went to Carlson. It didn’t matter if it was a homicide or not. They gave the case to her. And, frequently, Sherrie knew, Nancy would hand off the cases to her. It wasn’t fraud. It was asking for and accepting help.

As she sorted and resorted and reviewed the results, Sherrie knew she had come to like Nancy, and thought of her as a friend. Since there were few women who had risen above the rank of sergeant, Sherrie had come to respect her as someone who had worked hard to gain her status and success. Sherrie felt as though she, too, had worked hard to achieve success. Since most private detectives were men, Sherrie felt like she had something in common with Nancy in that each had been women succeeded in what was largely a man’s profession.

Hour after hour she worked and still nothing struck her. Hour after hour she stared at the screen, trying to pick apart details. After awhile her eyes watered and her head swam. “Oi,” she said aloud in the empty apartment. She glanced at the clock. It was after two a.m. “Wow.”

She got up, slowly, and stretched. Her back cracked when she reached her hands up high. Her thigh muscles protested when she went into a catcher’s crouch. Her hamstrings were tight as she bent far over. But after a few minutes of stretching her back and legs felt better. Her eyes, however, were tired.

“Time for bed,” she said to herself, and opened the door to the bedroom.

Atkins appeared just inside the door.

Sherrie shrieked involuntarily. Then she caught herself and called him a creatively coarse name.

He laughed. “Do you really think you could keep me out?”

She bristled at his words.

His image vanished. “Do you think duct tape will chase me away?” His image had reappeared in the living room.

She wanted to punch his lights out, but didn’t bother trying. You can’t punch a hologram, she thought.

His imaged vanished again, only to materialize in the kitchen. “I’m everywhere, and nowhere.” He gazed at the ceiling like he was looking at the stars.

“Asshole!”

He laughed heartily, then disappeared. The door to the landing opened all by itself.

“You won’t find me in the old case files.” His voice was coming from the television set. His image appeared on the small screen. “If you want want to find me, you’ll have to follow my lead.”

John came up the stairs holding a small box. When he stepped inside the door he saw Atkins’ image. He pressed a button on the top of the box and the image disappeared. The TV screen filled with static.

“Thank you,” Sherrie said, “again.”

“Sanders left this for you earlier today,” he said. He was wearing just a t-shirt and jeans. His hair was mussed into a serious case of bed head. “I heard you scream and wondered if that man had reappeared.”

She took the box from him. “How long is this supposed to work?”

“Until Atkins figures a way to burn through it, I guess.” He put his hands into his pockets.

They stood and looked at each other for a moment. Neither seemed to know what to say. Then Atkins’ image reappeared on the TV.

“That wasn’t nice,” he said with a plaintive voice.

John reached behind the TV and pulled out the power cord. The screen went black. “Shut up,” he murmured.

Sherrie held out her hand. “Let me see that.”

John handed it over.

She examined it closely, then pressed the top button again. Atkins reappeared. His face was twisted in confusion and anger.

“What the--”

“Shut up and listen to me,” Sherrie interrupted. “I don’t know what the fuck your problem might be, but it has nothing to do with me. Leave me alone.” She pressed the button and Atkins vanished.

John grinned. “I’m not sure that will keep him away,” he said. He scratched his head, then yawned.

“John,” Sherrie said in a quiet voice, “go back to your place and go to bed.”

“You’re gonna be okay?”

She nodded. “As long as this works, I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” He turned to go. “Goodnight.” He closed the door on his way out.

Sherrie went into the bedroom and began to get undressed. The clock radio buzzed.

“I can still talk to you.” It was Atkins.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she yelled. She turned the volume down a low as it would go. “And stay out of my life.”

Atkins’ image reappeared in the bedroom.

It was too much. Sherrie took a step forward and swung her hand through the image of his face. The force of her arm swing made her stumble.

Atkins waggled his finger at her. “You know that won’t do any good.”

She stood upright and glared at him. Her hair had tumbled about her face and she was forced to look at him between the strands. Her mouth was set in a grimace. “What the fuck do you want?” she seethed.

“I already told you,” he replied in a matter of fact tone. “Your complete and total downfall.”

“Well you can’t have it,” she hissed. “And while you’re at it, leave Nancy Carlson out of this. She’s a damn good cop.”

“And, like you, she’s a fraud.”

Sherrie cursed at him. “And you’re not?”

Atkins ignored her. “You’ve been trying to find out about me. I’ll tell you all you want to know in person, but you must follow my instructions.”

“You’re a bully,” she said as she brushed her hair away from her face.

“Yes,” he replied, “I guess I am.”

“And you get off on playing these games. If you have something to say, just say it. Stop this bullshit.”

He stared at her with an imperious look. “No.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I can personally guarantee your safety,” he continued, “and that you’ll be back here before dawn.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll hound you until you go insane.” His voice was full of malevolence.

She stared at him while her mind worked.

“I could have simply killed you any time in the last six months. Lorraine Thomas was so easily deceived that I couldn’t believe it. Some fake documentation, a fake entry or two on a website . . . ” He shook his head. “People can be so trusting.”

Sherrie didn’t move.

“Do as I ask and you will not be harmed. And all of your questions will be answered.”

“And yet you want to destroy me?”

He clucked his tongue. “Not in the literal sense.” He appeared annoyed. “Just your career.”

“Why?”

Atkins didn’t answer.

“And why Nancy?”

Atkins clasped his hands together in front of him and continued to stare at her.

After a moment Sherrie went to the bed and picked up her jeans. She slipped them on and fastened them, then slipped her feet into her running shoes. Her t-shirt hung outside her pants.

“When you get outside, go to the street, then turn right.”

She went.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The darkness was nearly impenetrable.

It wasn’t quite a fog that had settled over the city, but a haze that made visibility very limited. It was as if the darkness had some kind of force or substance that restricted how far any light would travel. When she reached the end of the driveway, Sherrie looked left, then right, and noticed that even the streetlights seemed dimmer than usual.

The street was lined with old growth trees that stood between the sidewalk and the curb. Ten steps to the right and Sherrie noticed a black rectangle hanging from a limb. In the center of the rectangle was a white label with black lettering. When she stepped close to it she could read her name. The box was hanging from a set of ear buds. Carefully she unwrapped the cords from the limb, then slipped the buds into her ears.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Atkins.” She spoke in a moderate and controlled tone. She knew that any outburst of emotion would start her down a path to hysteria, and she had her mind set not to go there.

“Good. Go to the corner and turn left.”

She reached the corner, looked left and right, then stopped. “Do I go across the street first?”

“No.”

She turned left and crossed to the opposite curb.

“Now go across the street due north and walk down the block.”

There were no cars on the street at that moment, so she crossed. As she did she noticed that the traffic light two blocks down was red. The light was usually very bright when she exercised during the night, but tonight it seemed uncharacteristically dim.

Five lots down the block and she came to a house where the owner had parked a compact car in a manner that blocked her path. She started around it.

“Sherrie,” Atkins said, “get into the car.”

She stopped. “Driver’s side or passenger side?”

“You’re driving.”

She opened the door. The window was down. The interior was clean and dry, but a low hum seemed to emanate from the back seat. “What’s that noise?”

“I have no idea,” Atkins replied.

“There’s a hum--”

A black cat darted out from the back seat and under the open door. Sherrie suppressed a shriek.

Atkins started to laugh.

“Oh shut the fuck up,” she hissed.

That made him laugh harder.

She sat down in the driver’s seat and buckled up. As she closed the door she noticed that the keys were in the ignition. Atkins was still chuckling.

“If you don’t stop I’m going to motel for the night.”

He stopped laughing instantly. “Back out and go right.”

She started the engine. The vehicle was one of those new, tiny cars meant for city driving. It had a manual transmission. She remembered the car she drove during he college days, and noted that this car was very much like her own. She had no trouble with the gears. In a few moments she was heading away from her apartment at about 25 miles per hour.

“At the next corner turn left.”

She turned.

“I should tell you that the car you’re driving has been wired so that, if the speedometer measures ten miles an hour or less, the gas tank will explode.”

Sherrie huffed. “What happens if I come across a red light?”

“So, from now on, if you want to live, you won’t go any slower.”

Nice of you to tell me, asshole! she thought.

Three blocks later she slowed for a red light. As she approached it turned green.

“Turn right here.”

She threw the wheel hard over and saw a pedestrian walking along the street. He looked like a homeless man, before him a shopping cart full of his belongings. When she completed the turn, the man suddenly yanked the cart towards the street and gave hit a hard push. Sherrie reacted immediately by tromping on the accelerator. The cart glanced off the rear bumper. Sherrie didn’t slow down. In her rear view mirror she saw the cart tumble onto it’s side.

Ahead was another pedestrian, a woman pushing a baby carriage down the middle of the street. Sherrie grinned. What mom would be walking the baby this late at night? she thought. Still accelerating, she zipped past the woman. She felt more than heard the carriage bang against the car.

“Left at the next corner.”

She slowed, then cut the corner close. A large truck blocked the street. She caught the glimpse an alleyway to her right, popped the clutch and let the car glide through the turn. The alley seemed clear.

“What are you doing in that alley? Get out of there!”

“You shouldn’t have put that truck in my way,” Sherrie replied.

There was a moment of silence on the line. She wondered if Atkins was surprised. Maybe he didn’t control everything about this little journey of discovery. Time to test the theory, she thought.

At the next street she cut hard left.

“I didn’t tell you to go that way,” Atkins said. His voice was almost plaintive.

“You said to get out of the alley,” she replied. “You didn’t say how.”

Another second of silence. “Fair enough. Turn left at the cross street, then right at the the stop sign.”

She complied. Within a minute she was headed down a residential street. Two and three family homes huddled close together along each side. Tiny, well manicured yards separated the homes from the street. Clapboard siding fresh with paint held up walls that had stood for eighty years or more. New doors with extra security features kept out intruders and solicitors. Sherrie noted plastic gutters and downspouts along with some barrels used to collect rain water.

Sherrie remembered in a flash that she had grown up in such a neighborhood.

“Where to?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you.”

She chuckled. “Your GPS not working so well tonight?”

“Keep going.” His tone was of an adult commanding a child and tiring of the duty.

The little black rectangle had been sitting in her lap. She picked it up. Where can I put this? she asked herself. The t-shirt she wore was meant for a man, and had a pocket over the left breast. On a whim she slipped it into the pocket. Immediately she was aware of the odd feeling as the shirt sagged under the new weight. She felt the equilibrium in the lack of balance between her breasts.

She reached an intersection and slammed on the brakes. The speedometer dial bounced off the “0” as she took the transmission out of gear, threw the emergency brake and rolled out of the car.

There was no explosion. There was no sound but the vague cityscape noises of traffic and population and the engine of the little car.

Sherrie picked herself up off the pavement and retrieved the little rectangle from her shirt . The feeling of equilibrium was comforting.

“You lied to me, didn’t you Jimmy boy?”

There was silence in her headset. She wondered if he was swearing a blue streak while the microphone was on the “mute” setting.

“Why did you do that?” His voice was under control, but she could hear the strain in the words.

“Testing you, little man.” She knew she was taunting him.

“Why did you--”

“C’mon, Jimmy, let’s be honest with each other for once. What the fuck is going on tonight?” Her words were harsh even in her own ears.

“You’re on your way to me,” he replied.

She paused. “Why not let me take a direct route? Why all this ‘turn left here’ crap?”

“I am taking you on a direct route.”

“Right. Sure you are.” She backed away from the car.

He didn’t answer right away. She knew she’d turned the tables on him yet again.

“Jimmy boy,” she said as she stood away from the car, “I think I’m not going to play your little game any more.” She turned and started walking away.

Five steps later the car exploded. The shock wave blew her down onto the pavement. When she hit the asphalt, the little triangle flew out of her hand and the ear buds escaped her ears. The triangle clattered down the street, the buds bouncing along tethered to their cables.

Sherrie turned back to look at the car. It was burning with an intense heat. The hood and top of the car were missing. So were the side windows. The windshield and back window remained intact. The smoke was darker than the night and made Sherrie choke and cough. She heaved herself up and moved farther down the street. The coughing eased.

She glanced about for the little triangle. She turned left, then right, and took a step. The triangle crunched under her feet.

“Oops.”

She picked up the triangle. It fell apart in her hands.

“Sorry, Jimmy boy, but our little adventure is over for tonight.” She tossed it away and started the long walk home.

CHAPTER NINE

When she finally reached the end of the driveway and turned toward her building, she saw Atkins standing at the side door.

Her first thought was “is this another projection?’, but then she realized that all the projections she’d seen were indoors, not outdoors. She had walked at a steady, unhurried pace, and as she caught sight of him she did her best not to break stride.

When she reached the small cement block that was the stoop, Atkins opened the door for her and gestured that she should enter. His face was full of anger and tension. His hand pointed toward the hallway and the stairs beyond.

Sherry stopped, glanced at the hallway, then thrust her right hand out in a straight right punch. The heel of her hand connected with the point of his chin. He grunted in surprise and was immediately thrown off balance. His arms pinwheeled as he tried to keep his heels on the concrete. Sherry took the opportunity to kick him in the groin. He doubled over and went down with a thud.

Sherry stood over him as thoughts flew through her mind. She wanted him apprehended, but didn’t have anything to bind him and disable him in a more permanent manner. Atkins was curled up in the fetal position as he held his hands against his genitals. His eyes were full of fury as he waited for the waves of pain to ease. She was wearing only running shoes, and wished she had on steel-toed boots so that she could kick him into unconsciousness. Her body was soaked with sweat from the walk and the sudden exertion, and her chest heaved as her mind calculated the next move.

He turned to roll away from her on to the grass and she kicked him in the ribs. He rolled over onto his face and she came down hard with both knees onto his kidneys. He growled and continued to roll. He managed to push her off his back and tried to pin her against the stockade fence that stood at the property line. She recovered quickly and tried to punch his face. He turned away at the last moment and her fist bounced off his cheek. He grabbed her wrists and held her still for a brief moment and their eyes locked. Each was wild with rage.

The ground beside Atkins’ head belched at the same time they heard the boom of a handgun. Both looked up to see John Phillips holding the 45 caliber Colt pistol. He was in a shooter’s stance, and clad only in briefs and a t-shirt.

John bit off the words distinctly. “Let. Her. Go.”

CHAPTER TEN

“James Michael Atkins.”

Nancy Carlson read from a printed report.

“Age thirty three, five foot eleven, one hundred eighty pounds, born not twenty miles from here in a subdivision named Featherington Hills.”

Sherry nodded. “A well-to-do area.” She sipped yet another cup of dreadful coffee.

“Attended all the best and exclusive schools, including a year at Oxford in jolly old England.”

Sherry’s tired brows went up.

“No arrest record, not even a traffic ticket,” Nancy continued. “Near as I can tell, he’s never been even a person of interest in any criminal case.”

“So he’s never earned any demerits,” John quipped, “so what? He’s been harassing Sherry for some time.”

“Well,” Nancy said, “as far as I can see, we have no evidence that he actually broke into your apartment.”

Both John and Sherry gaped.

“If Lorraine gave him a key . . . ”

John was aghast. Sherry nodded and glanced away.

“So we know he’s smart,” Sherry said, “and smart enough to know how to skirt the law and do what he wants to do.”

John, seated in a client chair beside her, fumed in silence.

“And it appears that the car you were driving was owned by a man who died last year. The title is still in his name and the registration has been renewed once since then.” Nancy looked at Sherry.

“So there’s no one to press charges for torching the car,” Sherry said almost to herself, “and no way to trace the car back to Atkins.”

She hesitated for a moment. “What was the name on the registration?”

“John Banner.”

Sherry huffed.

John almost laughed. “Wasn’t he the sergeant on--”

“I know noth-ing,” Sherry interrupted.

John grunted, then wiped his face with his hands. He pressed his hand against his cheek so hard that his face was distorted. He looked first at Nancy, then at Sherry, then leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair.

She gave him a small grin. She knew she had learned several things that day. First, Atkins worked under false pretenses and deliberate deception. Second, while he had no criminal record, he was certainly intent on committing crime. Third, he was one of those people that would commit a crime while not actually, technically committing a crime. He lied about being a handy man so that he could gain access to her apartment and set up his projectors so that he could terrorize her. And he used the alias of a dead man as part of his master plan. And fourth, John Phillips was looking out for her. Why else would he have come to her rescue?

She’d have to figure out what to do about that.

“Shall we go interview him?” Nancy asked.

All three got up and went down the hall to the interview room. Of course, it was empty.

“Who left him alone?!” Carlson demanded. No one in the squad room answered.

For the first time in her life, Sherry Jones felt in mortal danger.

They rode home together.

John’s car was comfortable enough, but it was that “boring little sedan” that many people drove. It was sturdy, and reliable, and eminently practical. But it wasn’t very attractive to look at, and didn’t have any outstanding characteristics. Sherry decided that the car was a lot like John.

“So where do you suppose he went?” John asked. The traffic was normal for mid-morning.

“No idea,” she replied. “But I’ll bet he’s pissed.”

John huffed and nodded.

“I could see it in his eyes,” she continued, “when you pointed your gun at him.”

He smiled and stopped for a traffic light.

“Thank you,” she said, “by the way.”

Their eyes met and they grinned at each other.

“You’re entirely welcome,” he replied.

The light changed and they moved on.

“So what made you decide to come out and model your underwear, anyway?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Actually, I was having a little bout with insomnia, and when I saw you coming up the driveway I could see in your face that something was wrong.”

She was surprised.

“Then I heard the commotion outside and acted without thinking. I just grabbed my pistol and came outside to find you two wrestling on the ground.”

She nodded. “Well you sure surprised us both.”

“And knowing what you’ve been through recently, I thought perhaps you weren’t having a lover’s quarrel.”

She chuckled. “No. Not at all.”

“And besides,” he continued, “I thought I might look quite fetching in my sleeping clothes.”

She laughed. “You mean LACK of sleep clothes.”

He chuckled. “I thought I might be too warm, so I was considering sleeping without them.”

She laughed a little harder. “So it would have been no sleep AND no clothes.”

He laughed as well. “And wouldn’t that have been quite the scene if I walked outside with my gun and nothing else.”

She laughed quite hard for a few seconds. His humor broke the tension she’d been feeling since Atkins interrupted her night. When she finally calmed down, a wave of fatigue washed over her. She yawned.

He noticed. “Ready for a good night’s sleep?”

She leaned against the car door and felt her body sag. “A good day’s sleep, more like.”

“I hate to bring it up,” he continued, “but are you sure Atkins will let you sleep?”

She frowned as she remembered that his image projectors still worked in her apartment. And they worked well in her bedroom.

“If I might offer an alternative?” he said.

She eyed him with a little suspicion. Then she remembered that he had come to her aid more than once, and softened her glare.

“I have a couch that is very comfortable,” he said as he glanced at her.

“Hmmm,” she replied. “I thought you might mention your bed.”

He chuckled. “With such little sleep, and the excitement and tension of the last few hours, I’m not sure I’m, ah, up for that.”

She did her best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Let me think about it.”

He nodded.

They were silent the rest of the way home. Along the way Sherry leaned against the door and began to doze. When John turned into the driveway, the jostling roused her.

“Home sweet home,” he quipped.

Sherry looked about. There was no sign of Atkins. She stepped out of the car and felt a great deal of apprehension. She stood next to the sedan and felt like the proverbial mouse about to step into the open ground.

John stood by the front of the car and let her gather up her courage.

She glanced at John, then made up her mind. Dammit, she thought, I’m not going to let that bastard control me or my life. She strode towards the side door with purpose. John followed closely behind.

Sherry used her key to open the door, then took a step into the hallway and stopped dead in her tracks. Atkins stood at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed in a blue dress shirt, jeans and canvas sneakers. His face was set in a hard frown.

“We have some things to talk about,” he said in a low and malevolent voice.

John saw him over her shoulder. “Is he real or is this another projection?”

“Let’s find out,” Sherry replied. Two steps forward and she kicked at him. Her foot passed through his image.

Atkins didn’t laugh, or huff a sigh, or change expression. He merely pointed up the stairs.

Sherry stood firm and crossed her arms over her chest. She stared back at him with defiance. “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

The fury left his face. “All in good time.” He gestured to the stairs again.

Sherry turned to John. “Is that offer still good?”

He grinned. “Always.” He dug the keys out of his jeans, opened his door, and let Sherry precede him into the apartment.

And there was Atkins standing in the center of the living room. “Did you really think I only wired one apartment in this building?”

Both John and Sherry groaned at the same time.

“One more thing I haven’t told you,” Atkins continued, “is that I know what happened to Senator Stevenson.”

“Oh, right,” John retorted. “Did you kill him, too?”

“No.” Atkins stared back at John. “You know, you are becoming quite the annoyance.” He drew a pistol.

“And now you’re going to shoot me with holographic bullets?” John sneered.

Atkins fired. Smoke spewed from the barrel of the gun as the report echoed in the room.

“Sound effects, too?” Sherrie asked.

“Sherrie . . .” John said.

She turned to him. His shirt was bloody. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. She stepped close to him.

“There’s no pain,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Your body is in shock,” she answered. “Sit down on the floor.”

He touched the stain on his shirt. “It’s cold.”

Sherrie stared. “Your blood would still be warm . . . ”

John and Sherrie made eye contact, and said: “Blood pellets.” They turned in unison to glare at Atkins, but his image was gone.

They looked at each other for a moment in silence.

“So what other surprises does this jerk have for us . . . you,” John asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “And just what he plans to do to bring about my downfall, well, I can’t tell.”

“He could just get the tabloids to print a cover story with the allegations, and that would start the ball rolling on an internal investigation,” John said. “Why go to such lengths when he could do that?”

“It’s a game,” Sherrie replied. “No, it’s more than a game. He has some kind of a vendetta against me, and/or Nancy, and we have to find out what it is.”

“And find Senator Stevenson in the mean time.”

They exchanged a look.

And on the seventh day we’ll rest,” John quipped.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

John and Sherrie were seated on the couch in his living room.

“I understand that Atkins is a nutbag,” he continued, “but what I don’t understand is why you have to play his game.”

“What do you have to eat around here?” she asked.

He stared at her.

“I’m starved.”

“Don’t evade the question.”

She stood up and looked for the kitchen. She took two halting steps forward, then saw the cabinets, and walked into the kitchen. John huffed, then got up and followed.

“Sherrie!”

She opened the fridge, then stood and stared at the contents. “Your fridge has a lot in it.”

He sighed heavily.

“A lot more than what’s in mine.”

“Sherrie.”

“Let’s talk about that while we eat.” She opened the freezer door to see a large store-bought pizza wrapped in cellophane. “Always good in a pinch.” She put it on the table and began to unwrap it. “What do you set your oven to?”

“Instructions are on the back of the label,” John replied, “look, Sherrie, I asked you--”

She walked around him while holding the pizza label in her hand. She turned the knob on the oven, then pulled down the door and set the pizza on the top rack.

“You’re ignoring me.”

She closed the oven. “No I’m not.” She looked directly at him. “But I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I’m starved.”

John looked at the clock. “Well, it’s nearly noon, and I haven’t had breakfast.”

“Okay, you have your fiber cereal and I’ll have the pizza.”

“How did you know I eat fiber cereal?”

She grinned. “You’re the type.”

He frowned.

“Besides, you’re a doctor, and you know about those kinds of things.”

He knew she was patronizing him.

“And I don’t feel like cereal. I feel like pizza.”

“And you haven’t answered my question,” he said.

“Look, John,” she said, “I’m hungry and tired and not the least bit on edge.”

“Thanks to Atkins,” he said.

“So don’t mess with me while I’m in this kind of mood.”

He saw the look in her face and knew she was serious.

“And I’ll answer your question after I get some food in me and my blood sugar level is closer to normal.”

He nodded.

She opened the fridge.

“Milk’s in the door,” he said.

“Ah.”

Atkins is like a serial killer.”

Sherrie had wolfed down three wedges of pizza and downed two full glasses of milk before she said anything else. John took his time eating cereal, yogurt, and a bagel. He had changed his shirt. They each had coffee.

“He has a pathology, and a logic, all his own. There’s no telling what’s on his mind, and why he has such a grudge against me, until we have more contact with him.”

John nodded.

“And the only way I can see to keep contact with him is to play his little game and be very, very careful about it.”

“Okay.” He sipped his coffee. “What do you suggest?”

She told him about last night’s trip in the car.

“I decided to change the game, so to speak, to show him that he couldn’t just toy with me.” She licked her fingers.

“Won’t that make him more determined?”

She nodded.

“Won’t he make certain that whatever tricks and traps he sets for us will work? Won’t they be more lethal?”

“And that’s when we can catch him.”

John stared at her over his coffee mug.

“He’ll be so busy being so careful that he won’t be ready for any variation.”

John stared harder. “And you have a variation in mind?”

She nodded.

He grinned. “Would you like some help with that?”

She smiled. “As a matter of fact I would.” She downed the last of the milk in her glass. “Let’s go to a motel.”

His jaw dropped.

“Separate.”

“Adjoining.”

The desk clerk glanced at each of them in turn.

Sherrie turned to John. “Separate.”

“Agreed,” he replied. “But if Atkins shows up in the middle of the night, you might want a friend nearby to help you.” He turned to the desk clerk. “Adjoining.”

Sherrie stared at him but didn’t speak.

The clerk, a young black woman with a helmet of dark pomaded hair, typed quickly and produced two key cards. “315 and 317.”

John took one, Sherrie the other. They walked in silence to the elevators. By chance there was one open. They stood in stony silence as the doors closed and the car went up.

“I don’t know what the problem is,” he said. “This was your idea.” He stared at the numbers above the door. “And I’m just thinking of your safety.”

“I suggested the motel so we could each sleep in peace and relative safety.” She huffed. Fatigue had come over her and her mood was ugly. “And I don’t want to be bothered.”

The door opened. They went down the hall and found their rooms.

“Truth be told,” he said, “I wasn’t planning on ‘bothering’ you at all. I was just trying to help.”

She grumbled thanks, then fumbled with her keycard. The door wouldn’t open. He slipped his card into and out of the lock with ease. The door clicked and he pushed it open.

She stood and glared at the door.

He pocketed his keycard, then walked over to her and held out his hand. She grumbled, then gave him the card. He had the door open moments later. She grumbled again, took the keycard from him, and shut the door.

He chuckled, then went into his own room.

Sherrie went into the room, then stood stock still. There was no sound. The air conditioning unit was off and the room was stuffy. There seemed to be no sound coming from the room above them. Perhaps there were no guests there at that moment, she thought. She glanced about the walls, checked under the bed and in the closets, then peeked behind the shower curtain. The room was blissfully quiet and devoid of threats.

She stepped to the window and turned on the air conditioning unit just under the sill. The only sound it made was a gentle hum. Satisfied, she slipped out of her grubby t-shirt, jeans, and underwear, and slipped between the sheets naked. Seconds later she was fast asleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“We seem to be making a habit of this.”

They were seated in the small dining room. The table was barely big enough for two. She was having something italian. He was having eggs and sausage.

John grinned and nodded. “Kinda nice, actually.”

She gave him a look that was supposed to be reproach but came off as something like “I’ll think about it.” Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower. So was his.

“So have you given any more thought to what kind of ‘variation’ you’ll give Atkins?”

“I don’t have a specific plan as of yet,” she replied as she chewed. “It’s more like a strategy.”

“Okay.” He wiped his mouth.

“I’d like to use Atkins; hatred of me as a weapon against him.”

John nodded. “I like it. Perhaps manipulate him while he thinks he’s manipulating you.”

She pointed for emphasis. “Exactly.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Well,” she replied as she set down her fork, “Atkins seems to want to force me to do what he wants me to do. He wants control over me for some reason.”

“Turn you into his little puppet?”

“Right.” She knew he’d get it. “Like the other night, I turned the tables on him when I stopped the car and got out before it exploded.”

“You wrested control out of his hands and back into yours.”

She nodded. “Right.” She shoveled another forkful of pasta into her mouth and chewed.

“And when he sends you on another adventure,” John continued, “you’ll do the same thing.”

She swallowed and drank some beer. “You got it.”

He nodded.

“Since we don’t know what Atkins going to do, we’ll have to play it by ear, so to speak.” She sipped.

“So what would you like me to do?” John asked.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

He sat a little more upright in his chair.

She put her hand on his as it rested on the table. “I know you’re a big boy and you can take care of yourself.”

“I’m no boy,” he said immediately. “Just like you’re no girl.”

She grinned slightly. It was the right answer. “I meant that I don’t want Arkins to think of you as ‘being in the way’ of whatever scheme he has in mind. He might decide to do something nasty to you and I wouldn’t want that.”

He smiled.

“I’m the one who should be the object of his hatred and obsession, not you.” She finished her beer. “You can help me do some planning, though.”

He nodded and kept smiling.

The apartment building was dark.

It seemed to loom in the darkness like some monster that kept still until prey came too close. Sherry walked up the center of the driveway and was careful not to look around. She knew John would be close by and it would be in both of their interests if Atkins didn’t realize that fact.

She walked directly to the side door and slid the key into the lock. Before she could turn it the door opened. Atkins stood in the doorway.

“Where did you go you little lost sheep?” he asked in a sing-song voice.

She stood outside the building and didn’t answer.

“I missed you,” he continued.

She could see that this was another hologram. While his image didn’t flicker, it was semi-transparent. She could see the dark treads of the stairs through his torso.

She didn’t speak. She knew he’d get to it quickly. She’d made him wait all day, and noted the expression of impatience on his face.

Something jabbed her in the back. She turned slightly to see who or what was behind her and two strong arms enveloped her. She immediately struggled to break the grip. The arms lifted her off the floor as her legs flailed. A hood was pulled over her head as she fought the attack. The air on the inside of the hood had a strange smell to it and she thought she recognized it. Before she could call forth another thought she lost consciousness.

John saw the whole thing.

He turned the corner of the building and brought his pistol to bear on the tall man holding Sherrie. The man turned his back and John fired. The bullet drove through the muscles of the left thigh and shattered the femur. The attacker let out a strangled cry and collapsed. John sprinted the twenty yards to Sherrie and leaned down to pull her away. As he reached for her a bullet struck his left shoulder and knocked him backwards. His gun cartwheeled into the darkness.

John swore as he went down.

His shoulder hurt like hell. His vision blurred momentarily. As he scrambled to get up a bullet zinged past him. For a moment he thought he was back in combat. He twisted away from the noise and tried to get to his feet. A heavy blow struck him in the kidneys and put him down. The legs refused commands sent to them from the brain. The feet failed him. Something struck him on the back on the head and everything went black.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She jerked awake.

She was in the driver’s seat. Her head throbbed as she realized she had been resting on the steering wheel. The hard plastic of the hand grip left a distinct impression on her forehead. She tried to move and discovered that she was strapped securely to the seat. She was handcuffed to the steering wheel and her feet were secured to the pedals. Over her ears were a set of headphones.

“Can you hear me now?” Atkins quipped.

Sherry muttered something creative.

“Anatomically impossible,” he retorted.

The car started on it’s own. The shift lever moved by itself.

“Drive!”

“Where?”

“Just drive.”

Headlights came on. Ahead was a two lane dirt path that wound through an old growth forest. She touched the accelerator and the very small sedan began to move. She glanced about and tried to get her bearings. The dashboard and door panels were made of cheap plastic. The window and door handles were missing. The dashboard had no lights on it. She couldn’t tell how fast she was going or how much gas was in the tank. She also couldn’t tell what time it was.

“Where are we?”

No answer.

“So you want me to go for a little drive in the country?”

Silence.

She continued forward. The road wound alternately left and right like the “S” turns on an auto test track.

“Guess I better keep an eye peeled for deer,” she mumbled to herself.

Presently she came upon a large building. At first glance it looked like some kind of school building. It was two stories tall and made out of concrete and brick. The facade stretched far to the left and right. Sherrie reasoned that these were wings where school children learned their ABC’s or studied for their algebra test.

“Do you know this building?” Atkins asked.

“No.”

“This is the Guernsey Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

Now we’re getting down to it, she said to herself.

“This is where my mother died.”

Here we go, she thought.

“My father was John William Atkins,” he continued.

Sherrie’s memory kick in. “Arrested nine years ago this past January.” She remembered it like it was yesterday. “The first case I handled with Paul. It started out as a murder investigation and snowballed into a major crime. By the time we wrapped it up Paul had arrested or helped arrest ten people. Charges ranged from bank fraud to breaking and entering to kidnapping.” The car came to a stop. “And the man that seemed to be pulling all the strings was John William Atkins.”

“I’m impressed.”

“You never forget your first time,” she quipped.

He didn’t reply.

“As I remember, John Atkins was sent to Attica on a lifelong gig for murder. Judge gave him, what?”

“A hundred and fifty years,” James Atkins recited.

“And that broke your mother’s heart?” Her voice was full of mockery.

“Have you ever loved someone with all your heart?”

“Yes,” she replied. “My mother comes to mind.”

“I meant someone your own age,” he retorted.

She didn’t reply.

“Four years ago,” Atkins continued, “you were working a case with a young officer by the name of Joshua Verlander.”

Anger flashed in her face.

“You were quite fond of him, weren’t you?” It was his turn to display sarcasm.

She knew anything she said would be useless.

“Did you know that I killed him?”

“Impossible,” she retorted. “He was shot during a holdup at a little grocery on the lower East Side.”

“Jackie’s Grocery on East 35th Street, I believe.”

How did he know? She wondered how much information he’d gathered from the newspaper accounts and how much he was making up. And how angry was he trying to make her? Only the Almighty might know.

“So what do you want?” she said through gritted teeth.

“Get out of the car.”

“I can’t,” she replied. “As much as you might like handcuffs--”

As if on cue, the cuffs released her. She gaped.

“How about my feet?”

The straps securing her to the pedals slackened as did the one around her torso. She opened the door and cautiously got out. Across the road was a high chain link fence. Every few feet there was a steel pole anchored into concrete, but otherwise there was no break in the fence.

From the far side of the car came two figures. As they stepped into the beams of the headlights she recognized Atkins right away. The other figure was a rather large man dressed in black, with a bolt cutter in one hand. He used it to cut a hole in the fence.

Atkins gestured. “Ladies first.”

The hole was large enough that Sherrie only had to crouch down a little to get through. The large man followed, then Atkins.

“Let’s go for a little walk, shall we?”

“Just you, me and your gorilla?” she quipped.

The big man seemed to take exception to that, but Sherrie didn’t care. She’d been looking for a way to turn the tables on Atkins, and if she could cause his hired hand to do something impulsive, well, that might give her the break she needed.

“My gorilla could break your coconut into little bitty pieces,” Atkins retorted.

“But you won’t do that,” she replied at once. “That might ruin your evening.” She gestured to the night sky.

Atkins grinned. “True.” He looked directly at her. “And my large friend, here, isn’t really needed on this trip, is he? As long as you have no idea what’s happened to your friend Phillips you’ll play along with my little game.”

“That might be true,” Sherried replied, “but I’m also curious.”

“I see. You want to play out the hand, don’t you?”

“You might say that,” she said.

Atkins turned to the gorilla. “Make sure we’re not disturbed, will you?”

The gorilla nodded and went back through opening.

Atkins gestured to the building. “Shall we?”

The interior was what she expected.

Just as they reached the main doors, Atkins pulled something out of his pocket and touched it with his index finger. Lights came on inside the building. The twin main doors opened on their own. Sherrie noted that they were made of aluminum and glass and covered with a layer of grime. A single light flickered in the foyer and illuminated the ugliness of the interior.

Inside the plaster on the walls had peeled and dropped onto the floor. The ceiling tiles had fallen down. The floor was cracked and peeling and littered with detritus unknown. Rats and other wildlife infested the walls and skittered under foot.

“You really know the best places to go on a date, don’t you Jimmy Boy?” she quipped. “You really know how to impress a girl.”

He looked at his palm and she could see he had a kind of cellphone. He touched another place on the faceplate. To her left the florescent fixtures in the ceiling came on one by one. As they came to life she was able to see down a long corridor. The walls were cinderblock that was once white but had faded to grey. The floor was hard tile flecked with grey and stained with substances unknown. The ceiling was suspended and the tiles were either broken, handing at odd angles or missing entirely. Vermin scattered in the sudden light.

“Home sweet home?” she joked.

He walked past her. “This way, please.”

Half way down the corridor he turned right into a large room. When she reached the doorway the lights came on and the brightness was intense. As her eyes adjusted she could see that someone was strapped to a table. That someone was John Phillips. He was wrapped up in a straightjacket, and his body was secured to the steel table. Blood stained the fabric of the jacket where he had been wounded. His face was white and had a sheen of sweat. His eyes were open and his mouth was trembling slightly.

“Audrey Atkins died in this room,” James said. “She died on that very table.” He nodded to the one occupied by John. “When my father was arrested she had no idea he was involved in any kind of crime. She idolized him. He was, as some women say, her entire world.”

Sherrie didn’t enter the room. She leaned against the door jam and crossed her arms over her stomach.

“The shock was too great,” James continued. “She became unresponsive.”

“I believe the term is catatonic,” Sherrie said.

“They tried shock therapy,” he said, “but instead of bringing her around, it killed her.”

Sherrie could well imagine the gruesome scene. But she didn’t bother to say anything. Atkins had more to say and she was going to let him say it.

He walked over to stare hard at Sherrie. “You and Detective Wysocki manufactured evidence.”

She shook her head.

“You faked it,” he seethed.

She didn’t bother denying it. He’d already decided it he was right.

“You conspired with other policemen,” he said with some difficulty, “and sent my father to prison for the rest of his life and killed my mother.”

She didn’t speak. Everything presented at the trial was true and correct as far as she knew. Nothing was manufactured or otherwise made up.

“Admit it.”

She didn’t move.

“Admit it and I will let the good Doctor go.”

She didn’t believe it.

“He’s wounded,” James said, and gestured to his own shoulder. “He needs medical attention.”

She remained silent.

“Admit it and I will walk out of here and out of your life forever.”

“Bullshit!” John’s voice was hoarse but it was distinct. “You didn’t do all this just to walk away.”

Atkins turned to glare at Phillips, then turned back to Sherrie. Her face showed her agreement.

“If you don’t admit it I will kill you both.”

“That would be too easy,” Sherrie said. “You said you wanted me to suffer. You said you wanted to destroy me. How would a simple admission, truthful or not, accomplish that?”

“This is being recorded,” John answered. “Has to be. You say the words he wants to hear and they’ll be on the national news websites instantly. Your face will be all over the tabloids and you’ll never solve another case again.”

“Do you understand the legal term ‘under duress’?” Sherrie asked.

“It won’t matter,” John winced. “The admission will be public and your career will be ruined.”

Atkins had a look of satisfaction on his face. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

“There is one thing I don’t understand,” Sherrie said. “What movie did you get this scene from?”

Atkins’ face drooped.

“Truth is,” Sherrie continued, “I had a feeling something like this might happen.” She pointed to her left calf. “I’m wearing a tracking device that’s been surgically implanted in my leg.”

Atkins smiled. “And what movie did you watch?”

There were noises down the hall. Carlson called Sherrie’s name.

For the briefest of moments, Atkins’ face showed panic.

“In here, Nancy.” Sherrie’s eyes never left Atkins.

Heavy footfalls echoed in the hallway. Atkins turned and quickly strode to the far end of the room. There he opened a solid wooden door and stepped through. A moment later two uniformed cops came into the room.

“Closet,” Sherrie said, “far end of the room.” She went to John.

Both officers moved quickly to the closet, set themselves, then threw open the door. Senator Stevenson stumbled into the room as one of the officers caught him. He was wearing a straightjacket not unlike the one John was wearing. The officers moved him out of the way. “It’s only an empty closet.”

“Damn,” Phillips gasped.

EPILOGUE

Three days later they were in John’s apartment.

“It’s too damn bad we didn’t catch him,” John said. He was seated in an easy chair and had a bandage on his shoulder. His arm was in a sling.

Sherrie nodded. She wore jeans and a tank top.

The hospital had sent him home with explicit instructions to take the rest of the week off. Since it was only Tuesday, John had said perhaps he would put in an appearance at the office on Thursday or Friday. As he sat in his chair and felt the pain begin to build in his shoulder, he wondered if that might be too soon.

“So we have a problem,” Sherrie said. She was on the sofa across from him.

“What problem?”

“You’re just too damn nice to me,” she said with a small glint in her eye. “Gets you hurt.”

“And strapped to a table,” he added. “The straightjacket was a nice touch.”

“Looked good on you,” she joked.

He chuckled, then yawned.

“Pain meds catching up with you?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’ve been pumped full of meds since the EMT’s showed up. Bad thing about it is that I need more to be able to sleep. Guess I’d better take the doctor’s advice.”

“Rest?”

He nodded again and started to get up. The room spun. To his surprise Sherrie was right there at his elbow.

“Let me help you,” she said.

He was genuinely surprised.

Their eyes met. There was concern in her eyes and on her face. Her arm went around his waist as she guided his free arm around her shoulders. John noticed that she fit perfectly under his arm.

She guided him to the bedroom. They walked one pace at a time. His balance was unsteady. Her guidance kept him from toppling over.

Once there she gently helped him off with his shirt. “Want me to help you with your pants?” Her eyes were playful.

“Damn,” he said.

“What?”

“The first time you’re in my bedroom and interested in getting my pants off, and I’m just too tired for that right now.”

She laughed. It was a throaty, hearty sound. He liked it.

“Rain check?” he hoped.

She didn’t answer. “I’ll have to check in on you from time to time.” There was a definite gleam to her eye.

“Deal.”

She walked to the door, then glanced back as she went out. “Maybe I won’t do any singing tonight.”

He laughed.