Out of Character (8 page)

Something slammed Jillian’s back, and she plummeted into the street. The headlights and steel of a city bus raced toward her, but she couldn’t catch herself, couldn’t move out of the way. Diesel fuel fumes burned her lungs. The engine’s roar drowned out her hammering heartbeats.

An instant before she hit the blacktop, someone jerked her back. The bus whizzed by, so close its breeze touched her cheeks and chin. Then Jillian was standing safely on the sidewalk. Heart still racing, she looked for whoever had pulled her to safety.

A middle-aged woman, sturdy in a rust down parka and black Sorrel boots, grabbed her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Are you all right?” a man in a camel hair coat asked simultaneously.

“I’m fine. Thanks for rescuing me.” Jillian was uncertain whether she should be addressing the woman or the man.

“I think it was a man in a dark coat, but I don’t see him now.” The woman looked around. “Maybe it was your guardian angel.”

“Whoever it was saved my life. Did you see who pushed me?”

“Pushed you? I’m not surprised.” The man raised a brown leather finger. “These corners are a menace on Friday night, everyone rushing to be the first to cross when the light changes. They need more police and—”

“It wasn’t an accidental bump,” Jillian said. “Someone shoved me in front of the bus. I felt a hand on my back. Did you see anyone?”

The man and the woman both shook their heads, as did the rest of the small group who’d apparently decided the possibility of a good show was worth a slight delay in their weekend plans.

“Why on earth would anyone have done that?” another woman asked.

Jillian surveyed everyone, all eyeing her curiously. No witnesses meant no busy cop would believe it was other than an accident or her imagination. “It must have been an accident. I work in an ER, and I’ve had a long day.”

Everyone nodded.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the first woman asked.

“I’m fine, and my car’s a block away,” Jillian said. “Thanks for your help.”

Insides quivering, she crossed the street, sticking to the middle of the crowd. A McDonald’s lit up the end of the block. She hurried to it then headed for the restroom. Once inside, she locked the door, dug her phone out of her purse, and made a call. “Andy? Can I come to your office? Either I’m going crazy, or someone’s trying to kill me.”

Jillian sat wrapped in a navy and gray afghan Andy’s grandmother had crocheted, clutching a glass of cabernet. She’d been shivering when he’d pulled up outside the McDonald’s, and she still was. Even his warm car and condo hadn’t taken away the awful chill.

Andy sat beside her. “Talk.”

She’d started talking the instant she’d gotten into the car, but he’d asked her to wait until he wasn’t driving and able to concentrate on what she said. Now he was ready to talk, but she wasn’t. The shove had to be more of her imagination. Things like that didn’t happen to average people with normal, slightly dull, lives.

Except she couldn’t stop shaking.

Andy took her free hand. “You said you’re afraid someone’s trying to kill you. Why?”

“It seems stupid, and maybe I’m overreacting because of Kristen’s death.”

“You never overreact, which means it isn’t stupid. So talk. Please.”

Jillian set her glass on the mahogany end table and told Andy about being shoved tonight, as well as her earlier sense of being followed and that someone had been in her apartment.

Andy listened, his face expressionless.

“I know I didn’t imagine being pushed. Everyone had stopped for the signal, so it wasn’t an accident. Besides, it was a shove, not a bump. Coming on top of the chairlift and my car…” She rubbed her cheeks. “Do you think I’m being paranoid?”

Andy tapped his chin with the knuckles of his fisted hand, the familiar gesture comforting. “God, I hope so. To be safe, let’s assume you’re not. Do you have any idea why anyone would want to hurt you? Anything happen at work lately?”

“Nothing unusual.”

“You didn’t get someone’s mail or e-mails or strange phone calls?”

“Nothing.”

Andy leaned back, his fingers laced on his lap. Despite his relaxed posture, he was completely focused on her problem. His deceptively low-key approach was an asset in his job as a prosecutor, and fooled many defense attorneys. “The first unusual thing was the shooting on the chairlift, right?”

“That I noticed.”

“What did you do in Keystone?”

“What people always do on ski vacations. Ski and eat.”

“The people Kristen was going to meet that night, do you know them?”

“I met them that afternoon. Kristen went to law school with one of the couples, and the others were their friends. We skied with them during the day, then all decided to meet for dinner, but I was too tired, like I told you.” She drained her wineglass and set it on the table.

“Did you meet anyone skiing?”

“I took a class the first day.” Jillian pulled the afghan tighter around her shoulders.

“Was there anyone strange in the class?”

Clutching the afghan together with one hand, she picked the wine bottle up off the wagon wheel table and refilled her glass. “No one. Except maybe Mark.”

“Who?”

“Mark Jefferson. I was with him when I was shot.” She carefully returned the bottle to the table.

“He was strange?”

“No, but after the shooting, he disappeared.” She couldn’t look at Andy and talk about Mark. She picked up her glass and contemplated its ruby depths.

“Disappeared?”

She swirled the wine like a serious connoisseur, trying to get it as high as possible on the sides of the glass without spilling. “Not exactly disappeared. I assume he gave the cops a statement, but he said he’d call me, and he never did. The manager of his townhouse said he’d checked out, even though he’d told me he was staying the week.” She kept her eyes on her glass. “Kristen and I decided the shooting convinced him to go home, maybe because he’s married.”

“How well did you know him?” Andy asked sharply.

“I’d met him at a lesson the day before and had dinner with him that evening.” She’d never lied to Andy, even by omission, but he didn’t need the details, especially if he had feelings for her.

Andy didn’t pursue it. “Did you run into Mark the next evening or had you arranged to meet him?”

“I arranged to meet him. Do you think this has something to do with him?”

“Disappearing is definitely suspicious. What’s he do?”

“He’s an accountant in New York City. He said he works for a small firm, but I don’t know its name.” Her fingers cramped around the stem of her glass. She set the glass on the table and finally looked at Andy. “You don’t think he’s involved in anything illegal, do you?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he discovered something someone wants to make sure he doesn’t disclose.”

“But why would someone blow up my car and shove me in front of a bus? I haven’t seen him since the shooting.” She shook her head. “It must be something else.”

“Unless the shooter thinks you can identify him?”

“I doubt it. It was nearly dark, and I was on the wrong side of the chairlift.”

“I’ll contact the Keystone police and see if they’ve learned anything more about the shooting.” Andy refilled his glass.

She made herself say the words. “I could call Mark and see if he knows anything, or if he’s had any trouble since he left Keystone.” No matter how logical, that was the last thing she wanted to do.

“He might have been the target,” Andy said.

“Maybe he’ll tell me why.” Jillian massaged her temples. “I should think of a reason to be calling in case his wife answers. She might wonder how I know him.” She dropped her hands. “I can’t believe I got involved in something like this.”

“We don’t know you got involved in anything,” Andy said. “Besides, we all make mistakes. I’m certainly an authority on that.” He sipped his wine then set down his glass. “How about if I call Mark? I can pretend I’m officially involved in the investigation and have some questions.”

“I’d appreciate that. But he never gave me his cell phone number.”

“I’ll bet I can find him.”

Jillian tossed the afghan onto the sofa and followed Andy into his study, a small room furnished with modern office furniture in black metal and cherry wood. Andy sat on the black leather desk chair and woke the computer. “Do you know what part of the city he lives in?”

“He never said.”

Jillian watched over Andy’s shoulder as he went into a bookmarked directory and entered Mark’s name, then waited. Two Mark Jeffersons lived in the New York City area, one in Brooklyn, the other in Queens, but both were in their twenties.

“He said his family’s in Connecticut,” Jillian said. “Maybe he lives there. Or in New Jersey.”

But Andy didn’t find a Mark Jefferson living within commuting distance of New York City in either state. “Maybe I’ll have better luck with accountants.” He typed in more information. “Still nothing. Firms and companies don’t always list their employees, so I’ll pull up a list of CPA’s in New York state. Why don’t you get the wine?”

Jillian went to the living room. Andy had no doubt figured out she’d done more than have dinner with Mark, and she felt guilty. Although why should she? For all she knew, Andy had been with Tiffany or some other woman that night. She picked up the wine bottle and carried it to the study.

Andy was scanning a list on the monitor. “I can’t find a single New York CPA named Mark Jefferson. Maybe he never got his CPA.”

Jillian set the wine bottle on the top of the bookshelf, next to a carved wooden moose. “He went to Harvard Law School.”

“Which makes not bothering with a CPA unlikely. Everything Mark told you might have been true, and he lied about his name because he’s married.” Andy swiveled to face Jillian. “Except you have dinner with him, go skiing with him the next day, and
voila,
someone shoots at you. You never see the man again, but three nights later, your car blows up. You feel as if you’re being followed, then someone tries to push you in front of a bus. Maybe he was trying to avoid more than a jealous wife.”

Jillian got up stiffly, as if she’d aged half a century, and shuffled to the only window. She flipped open the chrome blinds. A couple streetlamps illuminated a street as cold and empty as she felt. “Because I got involved with him, Kristen is dead.”

Andy squeezed her shoulders. “Stop it. The cops determined the car explosion was an accident, right?”

“They left me a message yesterday.” Jillian watched a man walking a dog. The dog’s shape and jaunty gait identified it as a terrier, although in the dim light, its breed wasn’t obvious.

“So it most likely was. Maybe Mark did lie because he’s married, the shooter was a kook, the car explosion was a fluke, and some schizophrenic thought God told him to shove you. Maybe you’ve just had a spectacular run of bad luck. Even if it’s more than that, it’s not your fault.” His breath tickled her ear. “You’re the victim.”

“The victim.” Jillian wrapped her arms around her midriff, trying to warm herself and crush the pain that filled her stomach and chest. Kristen might have been killed because someone had tried, and was still trying, to kill her. All because she’d spent the night with the wrong man.

Andy turned her toward him and shook her gently. “The most likely explanation is a series of horrible coincidences, but if it isn’t, I promise you’ll be safe until we can stop it.”

She just looked at him, pain and helplessness overwhelming her.

He led her back to the living room sofa then sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You can stay here. I’ve got a doorman, a fancy security system, some of the best locks anywhere.”

Jillian nodded.

Andy rubbed her arm. “Tomorrow morning I’ll check with the Keystone police. I’ve also got a contact who’ll know if anything’s going on around Keystone that you might have stumbled into, maybe some major drug action. After I talk to Phil, we’ll figure out what we do next.”

“I have to work at seven.”

“Call in sick.”

“I can’t. They need me.” She forced herself to straighten and focus. “I’ll tell one of the guards I was threatened by a gang member. Under our new hospital policy, that means he has to shadow me for a few days.”

Andy gripped her bicep. “You haven’t gotten any threats, have you?”

“Only the usual, guys acting tough to impress their friends. They forget you the instant they leave. We all think it’s a ridiculous policy.”

“The hospital administrators clearly had more sheltered upbringings than you did.” He released her arm.

“You mean they distrust anyone who doesn’t wear a suit and make at least six figures a year?”

“Or their lawyers do. Are you ready to order takeout? I’ll be your official food taster.” Andy grinned. “You never know, the Royal Orchid might be trying to poison you.”

She wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want to worry Andy, not when he was being so nice. She managed a wobbly smile. “You’re trying to get more than half of the food.”

“You know me too well.” He took her hand. “I’ve missed you Jillian. A lot.” He looked away. “Sorry, I know this isn’t the right time to bring that up.”

“Not right now.”

He studied her face. Then he dropped her hand and reached for his cell phone.

* * * *

After they ate, Jillian and Andy spent a couple hours sitting on the sofa, sipping wine and listening to music, jazz with an occasional country or blues selection thrown in. It was exactly what she’d needed. She moved her stocking feet off the wagon wheel table. “Thanks for taking me seriously.”

“I hope it turns out to be nothing.”

Which she was optimistically beginning to think was a real possibility. “It makes me feel better that I’m trying to figure things out, rather than simply reacting.”

Andy tapped his chin with his knuckles. “Kristen said you’ve never been able to handle feeling out of control. That’s why you don’t like skiing.”

Her eyes stung. “Kristen loved analyzing me. I can’t believe I’m actually going to miss that.” She refused to think about Kristen tonight. “Believe it or not, I now like skiing.”