Taking Stock (38 page)

“
Safe
Haven
Crisis Center
. Do you have an emergency
?
”

“I’m safe at the moment. Is Jan in
?
”

“Jan Tripp
?
She hasn’t worked the hotline for six years. Who’s this
?
”

“
Eric
a Fletcher.”

The woman didn’t recognize the name. “
Eric
a, do you need help
?
”

The cabbie pulled over and looked back. “Fourteen seventy-five, Miss.” He eyed the rear passenger’s side door expectantly.

“I need a place to stay for a few days. Can you connect me to Jan
?
”

Fifteen minutes later
Eric
a stood outside a house that had the amenities she’d come to expect. There was an eight-foot stone wall surrounding the property with wrought iron spikes on top to discourage angry husbands. The cars were either in the garage or around back to keep them out of view from the street. There was a police station two blocks down, though this did little to calm
Eric
a’s nerves after seeing her name on the security computer.

The gate buzzed.
Eric
a let herself in and closed it securely behind her.

Jan opened the front door and gave
Eric
a a solid hug. “They say history repeats itself, but you’re the last person I expected to show up here in the middle of the night.”

Two inches taller than
Eric
a, Jan was substantial, though her muscles had softened with years. Her expression was as serene as
Eric
a remembered. She eyed the bloodstained hole in the knee of
Eric
a’s pants and then reached a hand toward
Eric
a’s elbow, sour at the way she carried it.

“Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” Jan said, as she closed the thick wooden door and engaged the deadbolts.

“I wish it were that simple.”

Shock registered on Jan’s face when she turned. They both knew the tangle of emotions that surrounded being beaten by someone you loved. They’d both lived the horrifying reality and volunteered to help other women overcome hopeless situations. She knew what Jan was thinking, but Jan had never been shot at by her boss.

Jan led
Eric
a into the living room doubtful anything could be more horrible than domestic abuse. Maybe she was right.

Eric
a described her last few years working for Brad, the break-in at her apartment, and her discoveries tonight with Stan. When she replayed her frantic run through the parking garage, Jan understood that she was lucky to be alive. She had nowhere to turn. Brad wanted her dead and he knew how to find everyone close to her. The police would probably join the chase in the morning and there was nothing she could tell them to make them understand. She hadn’t had time to find the proof she needed. At least she was safe for the night.

Brad burst out of the elevator and dashed over empty parking spaces on his way to the ramp. Halfway up, the cool air hit and he slowed before exposing the gun hanging by his side. A driver revved his engine and disappeared before Brad’s eyes reached street level. The bushes were still, the sidewalks empty. He listened for sneakers jogging away. She’d go for South Station or Faneuil Hall. He couldn’t decide which way she’d choose, and he couldn’t hear her footfalls. She’d gotten lucky.

Down Congress and back into the park, he scoured the shadows with the gun ready. He needed to find her, get rid of the gun and get away from all those bullet holes downstairs.

The benches and shrubs around the fountain were clear.

Someone turned the corner at
Franklin
and walked down
Pearl
toward him. Brad doubled back over the grass into the park. He ducked behind the bushes, stuffed the gun into his waist band, covered it and kept walking. They passed each other with a row of fruit trees between them. Brad hastened down the path wondering if the man had been drawn here by the shots or if he was just heading home.

Had someone called the police
?

Brad couldn’t risk waiting.

He hustled through the park, over three blocks and up three flights of stairs to his car. He thought he heard tires squealing toward him several times before he hit the gas and took off in the Corvette. He accelerated for the first four blocks, hitting fifty on Congress, running the red as he cut across two lanes onto State, barely squeezing inside the curb. He heard the sirens for the first time on the narrow streets around
Washington
. Dozens of squad cars descended on the scene he’d left. He dropped down to the speed limit and cruised along Tremont toward
Back Bay
.

The lights were off when he parked half a block from
Eric
a’s window. No sign of life in the apartment. Coming here was a waste of time. She wasn’t crazy enough to come home alone. She’d go somewhere else. Gregg’s probably. If she was upstairs, being parked out here was admitting his guilt to the cops when they showed up. He had to do something fast. She knew about the scam; she knew it was a program and she knew it was him running it. Seeing him in the garage cleared up any doubt she had after coming up empty with the video tapes. At least right now she couldn’t prove anything. She was frustrated in the office because she didn’t find what she was looking for, but she was very close.

He had to end it now. Another day sleuthing around the office and she might have the proof she needed. Tonight he graduated to attempted murder and he couldn’t give her time to prove he fired the shots. He weighed the gun in his hand. Discovered on him it could set her free. Discovered in her apartment, it could send her to prison.

Would a jury believe she tried to kill him
?

The security system showed she was the one in the computer room. To anyone who believed she’d taken the money, attempted murder made sense. He thought about sneaking in and leaving the gun, but if she could prove she hadn’t been home, he’d be helping her prove she’d been framed.

He cruised over to Gregg’s apartment in the North End and parked facing an alley where three sets of fire escapes twisted their way up the side of the building. The lights were out, but at
two o’clock
, almost all of them were. He waited a half hour for her to show up, debating with himself whether she was already inside or not. This was the first place she’d come.

At
three o’clock
he slipped across the street. He climbed on top of the dumpster, careful not to kick the metal sides. From there he pulled down the ladder and made his way up to the third floor on the rickety metal supports. Black paint chips stuck to his hands and the metal platform swayed, threatening to detach from the bricks.

He peered through the window on three. Nothing moved. The wooden windows were loose in their tracks so slipping the knife between them and prying the lock open was a snap. The counterweights were connected with ropes and pulleys in the window casing. They squeaked as the window rose, not enough to wake someone up, but enough so that anyone already awake would know someone was sneaking into the kitchen.

Brad’s shoes touched down on linoleum.

The gun led the way in. The door to the hallway had a chain and deadbolt, both engaged. He’d take that way out if he had to shoot. Otherwise, he’d slip out the fire escape the way he came in.

The first room he checked was Gregg’s. The sheets were pulled down, the quilt half off the bed. No mistaking he was sleeping alone. The second bedroom was piled with a bachelor’s odds and ends: weights, books, a bicycle and a cheap desk with a computer that looked like it was never used. The couch in the tiny living room was empty. She’d vanished.

Brad slipped back through the kitchen, out onto the fire escape and climbed down as fast as he could steady his hands and feet on the rungs. He wasn’t worried about noise anymore. He wanted to get home and figure out where to dump the gun. He jumped off the dumpster and trotted across the street to his car.

3:30
a.m
.
He’d come up empty.

Gregg slowly opened his eyes to rattling metal in the kitchen. He pressed his fingertips to the box under the nightstand. Fingerprints recognized, the end popped open and he withdrew the .357 he’d taken home from the farm. He eased the cylinder open, checked the contents and pushed it closed. The cylinder clicking shut would alarm any intruder. A pro would flee or hunker down.

He raised the bead to the center of the doorway and reached his feet to the floor. Hugging the wall he padded to the door casing. His back to the wall, he braced himself on the door jam and leaned his head outward, the .357 pointing to the table, the fridge, the window.

The window was wide open. Someone was inside.

He stalked into the guest room, the living room and back to the kitchen. Something banged in the alley. It sounded like a man jumping on the hood of a car. He leaned out the window and saw an outline rush out of the alley. A car started and drove past the far side of the building out of sight. The TV and stereo were in place. Gregg closed the window and wondered why someone would break-in and leave without taking anything.

Brad inched the door open and stepped inside, half expecting a swarm of blue shirts to envelop him, knock him to the ground and cuff him. He closed the door as quietly as he could and listened for intruders. His head was numb from twenty-two hours without sleep and the swirl of activity that began when he saw
Eric
a hunched low in his darkened office. Finally home, he felt even more vulnerable despite the gun tucked in his pants, truly because of it.

The phone rang as if it had seen him walk in and wanted to talk. He ignored it, walking through the kitchen and into the bedroom. The LCD panel on the Digital Logger showed the number of the only person likely to know he’d just arrived home at
3:47
a.m
.
He clicked the record button and lifted the receiver. 

“Nice work Bradley.”

“I could’ve used your help.”

“You don’t know half of what I do for you.”

“Like what you did to Vinny
?
”

“You screwed this one big. The cops are all over. Anyone see you
?
”

The man on
Pearl Street
came to mind. “No one but her,” he lied. “She’s a problem. If she shows up tomorrow, she’s going to tell the whole world.”

“She’s a smart girl. She got there just a bit too late.”

It sounded like Herman was agreeing to help.

“Be in my office first thing,” Herman said. “We’ll wrap it up.”

“See you at ten.”

“Idiot! Do you want everyone to know you were out all night
?
Get your ass in my office by eight. Have four cups of coffee if you have to. I want you looking traumatized, glad to be alive.”