Читать книгу Witness to Murder - Jill Nelson Elizabeth - Страница 11

How could Brody sit and talk so calmly to a brutal murderer? Oh, that’s right. Hallie curled a lip. He didn’t think a talented basketball star could also be a supreme creep.

“That’s not an option, Damon.” Brody’s fingers drummed against the console between the driver’s and passenger seat. “You can’t run from this. You’ve got to—” Paused. “I know it, and you know it, but now we need to convince the police.”

Shouted curses from the opposite end of the connection carried to Hallie. She winced. Creep, all right. Kills a woman and then only cares about saving his own skin.

“Get a grip!” Brody’s icy tone sliced through the heated explosion. “There’s only one right alternative at this moment, and you’d better take it.” Pause. “When and where?” Pause. “I’ll be there.” Brody snapped his phone shut then turned toward Hallie. “I’ve got to go. We’ll have to finish our chat later. Can you swing around to my car?”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to meet with a wanted fugitive. You could get in big-time trouble. Not to mention, since he’s capable of murder, you’re risking your life.”

One side of his mouth lifted, and the trademark dimple flickered. “Thanks for your concern. I appreciate it, but this is something I have to do.”

Hallie shrugged, bitter protest burning on her tongue, but what was the point of wrangling with this stubborn man? “I hope it’s not your funeral…literally.”

Brody laughed. “I think you’re doomed to see me in the office tomorrow, not a casket.”

Gritting her teeth, Hallie started the car and backed out of her space. She should boot him out and make him walk, but she was raised to be Minnesota nice, a code of courtesy that had trickled over the border to her Eau Claire, Wisconsin family address. “Where’s your vehicle?” She guided the compact around The Meridian.

“It’s the Impala right there.”

Her gaze followed the direction of his finger, and she punched her brakes. They lurched forward against their seatbelts. “You’re the one who was following me in a new car.” She skewered him with a glare.

Brody’s storm-cloud eyes studied her like she must’ve fallen off the turnip truck. “Is there something criminal about trading fresh every couple of years? Lots of people do it.”

“That’s not the point. You scared—I mean I thought…” She trailed away on a huff. Nothing like making an idiot of herself in front of a guy who already considered her little better than window dressing at the station.

“Ahhhh.” That viewer-popular dimple took up residence in his right cheek.

Would Aunt Michelle approve if she slapped it off? She looked away and scowled out her window toward a young couple leaving the restaurant hand-in-hand.

“Given what you believe about Damon,” Brody said, “you thought my car might contain the killer looking for the only witness.”

She turned a hard gaze on him. “So I’m a little skittish after what I saw this afternoon.”

“Actually, I don’t blame you. Under the circumstances, that was sharp thinking and a good reaction to ditch me. Though I did wonder where you disappeared to when I arrived at the party, and you weren’t here yet.” He laughed.

The tension in Hallie’s muscles eased. The guy could be charming. Not that she cared about that, but maybe he was starting to get that she wasn’t a total airhead. “I had intended to report the incident to the police tomorrow. Guess I won’t have to now.”

Nodding, Brody climbed out of the car, then bent and poked his head inside. “Rain check on our conversation.”

“You’re not the only one with questions to ask. I want to know what makes you so sure your golden boy’s not a killer. And it better be good.”

He smacked the top of her vehicle with his palm. “Deal. And it is.”

Her car door thunked shut, and the sportscaster strode into the dusk. She’d find those broad shoulders appealing if they didn’t bear that “I’m all it” swagger she’d detested in Teresa’s fatal tormenter. Hallie shook her head. She thought she’d come so far in erasing those images from her mind—getting on with her life—but they’d only been hiding. Lurking for an opportunity to pounce. She had to put the memories back in their cage. How would she cope if she started having those nightmares again? A shudder rippled up her spine.

She needed to make sure today’s monster was taken off the streets as quickly as possible. No way could she trust Brody to do the hard thing with his Wunderkind. She slipped her vehicle into an empty spot near the restaurant exit but behind the cover of an SUV. A few seconds later, Brody’s new car cruised past and turned onto the road. Hallie maneuvered out of the parking lot and crept up behind him, allowing a car between them. Shortly, all three of the vehicles glided onto the interstate going north. Hallie took a different lane than Brody and stayed behind the other car as a buffer.

Minutes ticked past. Was it stifling in here, or was she just nervous? She turned up the air conditioning and repositioned her sweaty hands around the wheel. Find out where Brody was meeting Damon and call 9-1-1, that’s all she had to do.

But what if the killer spotted her? He’d know for sure she wasn’t going to back off from her testimony. Did that matter? He’d be behind bars. Unless, of course, they let him out on bail. They wouldn’t do that, would they—not after he’d already run once?

Hallie slid her cell phone from her purse and placed it at the ready in the cup holder on her console. Doubts and fears made no difference. She had to do this.

For Alicia. For Teresa.

What did that woman think she was doing? Brody checked the driver’s side mirror again. It wasn’t so pitch dark he couldn’t make out the shape of her little car a couple of lanes to his left. When she’d followed him from the restaurant onto the interstate, he hadn’t thought much about it since their routes coincided for the moment, but she should have veered off on 35E toward St. Paul instead of tailing him on 35W toward Minneapolis.

One thing he’d observed from afar during their time together at WDJN, Hallie Berglund chose the high road toward whatever she perceived as truth and justice, regardless of personal risk. He’d admired her more than once for putting action to her convictions—and wanted to shake her more than twice for the chances she took. Like the time she didn’t tell a soul at the station before she posed as a waitress and sneaked into a backroom meeting between high-level management of a major corporation and top union representatives. Her story had exposed corruption on both sides of the table, and big heads had rolled. If she’d been caught pulling that stunt, she’d probably be wearing a cement straightjacket at the bottom of the Mississippi River.

A familiar chill flowed through Brody’s veins. Yes, a reporter sometimes needed to take chances to get a story, but they also needed to make sure their backside was covered if things went south—not go freelancing after a dangerous scoop without someone in the know.

Tonight, she no doubt figured on catching herself a murderer. He’d have to disappoint her. He was going to see Damon alone and without interruption. What happened after that was up to Damon. If Brody had done half the job he hoped with the kid, the young man would make the right choice.

The exit to France Avenue came up, and he took it. Hallie’s car lurked behind a Lexus sports coupe that would have had his ex shooting him eyeball daggers because they couldn’t afford one on a sportscaster’s salary. Like she couldn’t get a job? Brody shrugged off the residual resentment. Deborah was no doubt driving whatever she liked ever since she’d snagged the sort of sports idol she craved. The guy was rich and famous…and headed either for a breakdown or the hoosegow, from the inside information that had come to Brody’s ears.

He glanced at his rearview. Yep, Hallie was still back there. Now she’d put a Papa Morelli’s Pizza delivery car between them. If she could lose him on the mildly busy road in suburbia on the way to the restaurant, then turnabout was more than fair play. She didn’t stand a chance of staying with him in the downtown Minneapolis maze of stoplights and one-way streets. Brody grinned and pointed his vehicle into the heart of the city.

Forty-five minutes and one phone call later, he pulled the Impala over to the crumbling curb in front of a seedy stucco home in a rundown neighborhood. A single light glowed in a front window. Brody stepped out of his car. Garbage smells assaulted his nostrils. He looked upward and stars sparkled back at him, visible only because most of the streetlights were out. From a house across the street, rap music thumped through quality speakers. A car belched smoke and screeched away from in front, leaving two junkers at the curb and a low-slung sedan in the driveway. Drug house.

Brody headed up the walk toward the stucco dwelling. The doorway eased open several inches, and a narrow pillar of light spilled onto the tiny ragweed lawn.

“That you, bro?” Damon’s voice quavered toward him.

“In the flesh.”

The door opened wide, and Brody stepped into a musty-smelling foyer that barely contained the two of them. The towering basketball player wrapped him in a bear grip and dropped his head to Brody’s shoulder. Sobs shook Damon’s whipcord frame.

“I shouldn’t have done it…” Gulp. “But that woman, she—”

“What are you talking about?” Brody shoved Damon against the wall. “Don’t tell me—”

“You didn’t see Alicia. You don’t know anything!” Damon’s muscled shoulders drooped. If despair had a face, Brody was looking at it. “That other woman,” Damon continued. “The way she looked at me made me want to hurt her, but I just—”

“Brody Jordan.” The hoarse words brought both of their heads around. In an interior doorway stood a rail of a woman dressed in a stained T-shirt and dirty jeans that sagged around bony hips. Thin lips stretched away from yellowed teeth, and the acrid taint of cigarette smoke, mingled with a harsher kind, wafted from her body. But Brody’s stare riveted on the .45 pistol she clutched in white-knuckled hands. “I never thought I’d say this to you, but get out of my house. You’re not taking my boy to jail. They’ll never let him out.”

Brody gazed into Meghan Lange’s dilated pupils. Here stood the reason that Damon was born and raised an emotional yo-yo, but the woman loved him the best she could. There was no doubt about that. And right now, there was no more dangerous creature in the world than a terrified mother on drugs.

Hallie stopped her car behind Brody’s and sat squeezing the steering wheel. Did she dare step foot outside in this neighborhood? She glanced around the area. Had Brody gone inside the house where the music blasted or this other one where the door stood open? Under her rearview mirror light, she checked the address Vince had given her over the phone after she’d lost Brody. She looked at both homes, but couldn’t read the house numbers in this darkness.

Well, she was always one to take a chance on the open door. She tucked her cell phone into her jeans pocket. As soon as she confirmed Damon was present, she’d make her call and scoot. Gripping her car keys in her fist, one key poked outward for a quick jab into an eye if necessary, she hustled up the chipped and weed-ridden sidewalk. Somewhere in the shadows to her left, a snap sounded. Hallie froze, muscles wired for flight. For long seconds, all she heard was her own pulse. Then a woman’s voice grated from beyond the doorway ahead. Brody’s tones answered, smooth as butter. Placating.

“Mom, put that thing away,” a third voice rasped. Damon? “You’re so wasted, you’re as likely to shoot me or yourself as anyone.”

Shoot? Hallie’s heart fluttered. Brody was in danger, just like she’d warned him, but not from the source she’d anticipated. What could she do about it?

Her hand closed around the phone in her pocket, but that wasn’t the whole answer. The police couldn’t get here fast enough to stop the tragedy that could occur at any second. Maybe there was a rear entrance. If she could sneak inside and create a distraction, Brody might get the gun away without anyone being hurt. That was a big “if,” but better than walking inside and giving the crazed woman another target.

Hallie darted across the lawn toward the left side of the house. Her peripheral vision caught Brody backing out the front door with his hands in the air. She reached the narrow strip of ground between houses and plunged into darkness. A low growl ahead stopped her in her tracks. Then a hiss and rustle indicated a retreating feline. Who knew what else lay ahead of her? What was she thinking trying to creep around the dark in this neighborhood? She needed to call the police right now! Hallie yanked the cell phone from her pocket, and her fingers found the keys. 9-1—

Crash!

That was no gunshot. Male voices shouted, one of them Brody’s, and a woman started crying. Hallie backpedaled and poked her head around the corner of the house.

A scarecrow woman stood on the front lawn, wringing her hands. “My window!”

The front window sported a jagged hole, Brody now clutched the gun, and the lanky Damon wrapped his mother in his arms. No one else was in sight, but from somewhere nearby, tires screeched on pavement.

Gaze darting from side to side, Hallie hustled up to Brody. “What happened?”

“What are you doing here?” He glared at her.

“I was trying to save your bacon, but then this.” She gestured toward the shattered pane.

“You didn’t throw a rock?”

“No, I was sneaking around back.”

Brody scowled. “You win the Girl Scout badge for tracking me, but you need to get out of here. Now!” He turned toward the noisy house across the street.

Her gaze followed his. A pair of dark figures lurked by the fancy car in the driveway. Their unseen stares crawled beneath her skin. “What about you?”

“I’m not a beautiful woman, and besides, Damon and I are leaving, too. I called and got police blessing for me to bring him in, rather than them coming for him. Now go!”

Hallie glanced across the street and gulped. The watchers had moved to the end of their driveway. Brody took her elbow and steered her to her car. She hopped in, slammed the door and locked it, then lowered the window a crack. “Aren’t you leaving now, too?”

Brody stood on the street with his back to her, eyeing the observers, Damon’s mother’s gun in plain sight. “You’re the spark that could set this situation off. I’ll be fine. Trust me, please, and get moving.”

Hallie started her car. A hasty retreat could be a wise thing once in a while. She peeled out. The rearview mirror showed Brody walking back toward the mother and son on the lawn. The other two men were retreating to their own domain as well.

Invisible clamps loosened from Hallie’s chest, and she took in a deep breath. Was Brody really going to bring Damon in, or was he playing her?

“Trust me,” he’d said. That was a novel idea where the WDJN sportscaster was concerned. Still, Brody had called her beautiful a few minutes ago. Her skin warmed. Humph! Like that compliment meant anything. In the breath before that, he’d equated her with a Girl Scout. He might as well have patted her on the head and offered to buy a box of cookies. But then, he had looked pretty impressive standing there with a gun between her and those thugs across the street. Of course, he was thinking about his own hide at the same time, not to mention looking out for that slime Damon and his wigged out mother.

Reaching a main thoroughfare well away from the shady neighborhood, Hallie popped open her cell phone and dialed. “Hello, Vince? Remember that favor I owe you?”

“What? I’m about to collect already?” The crime reporter chuckled.

“Brody says he’s going to bring Damon in. If you get down to police headquarters with a cameraman, you could get footage that’ll scoop the other media again.”

A low whistle sounded in her ears. “That tidbit is worth another favor back at ya.”

“I warn you, I don’t forget things like that.” She laughed.

They ended the call. Now Brody had better come through.

A little while later, Hallie let herself into her apartment and pulled off her shoes near the hallway closet. In socks, she padded into her living room and touched the button to boot up her laptop sitting on the coffee table. Then she went to the kitchen and put the teakettle on to boil. Some folks nuked their tea in the microwave, but her mother had taught her from a little girl that the old-fashioned way is best. Of course, Yewande Berglund’s tea had been made with native roots and barks. Tonight called for double chamomile. The natural relaxant had a way of warding off bad dreams. She didn’t need those after today. Hallie put two scoops of crushed leaves into the strainer.

While the water heated, she went to her bedroom and changed into pajamas. Then she opened the lacquered wood jewelry case on her mirrored dresser and took out a shiny child-sized bracelet. The solid circlet of copper fit on her palm. Engraved elephants, linked trunk to tail, marched around the circumference. On the right rear foot of the hindmost elephant stood the Yoruba tribe’s symbol for blessing, Hallie’s mother’s signature.

The same symbol she’d seen on the bracelet that adorned a dead woman’s wrist.

The teakettle screamed, and Hallie jumped. Man, she was keyed up. Time for that tea…and a little research while she sipped. She checked the bedside clock. Too late to call home and ask Uncle Reese and Aunt Michelle a few questions about the time in her life they rarely discussed—her Africa years. That conversation would have to wait until tomorrow evening after her full day of interviews for her modeling story, which would include plenty of questions about Alicia while she was at it.

“I’m coming,” she called to the whining teakettle as she headed back to the kitchen.

Soon she carried a steaming mug into her living room and perched on the edge of her couch. Savoring the pleasantly pungent taste of chamomile, she transferred her cell phone photos to her computer. Alicia’s bracelet filled the screen. This circlet also featured elephants, but these stood nose-to-nose. Hallie zoomed in until she came to the pivotal part.

The Yoruba symbol for blessing on one of the elephant’s hind feet was clearly visible. Hallie’s mother had made this bracelet. The confirmation raised a million more questions, each more puzzling than the last.

How and when did Alicia get the armband? Had she purchased it by chance at a flea market, a rummage sale, a pawn shop? If so, how had the piece come to be on the market? Yewande Berglund had never sold her work, only gave it to those who would treasure the items. So who had passed the bracelet to Alicia? The model couldn’t have been a year old when Hallie’s parents were killed. Had that person known her mother and father? How? Why?

Was there some mysterious connection between her and the woman she’d found murdered only hours ago? Could more than publicity have been on Alicia’s mind when she requested that Hallie do the interview? What would she have told her if they’d had the chance to talk?

Hallie surged to her feet and marched her empty mug into the kitchen. Those were questions that demanded answers, and as a reporter she was equipped to find them—for herself not the station.

Only one question remained. Hallie leaned on her palms against the countertop. Did she have the courage to face the shadowed fears in her own mind that those answers might disturb?