Silent Weapon
Sawyer returned to his office, presumably to resume the business of overseeing his numerous legitimate working assets. I waited in my car a safe distance away but well within sight of the exit and his SUV.
Three years ago he had purchased more than a dozen convenience stores for the sole purpose of cashing in on the lottery cow. He also owned a number of apartment buildings, which probably contributed to his motive for killing a man. The guy had stood in the way of a major deal and Sawyer had eliminated the problem, though no one, not even the detective assigned to his case, had been able to prove it.
First and foremost, no body had ever been recovered. That was the essential element of the defense’s entire case. Without the body, every meager speck of evidence the D.A.’s office had was circumstantial. The charges had ended up being dismissed when the state couldn’t come up with the body or irrefutable proof. Sawyer had walked away a free man. For more than two years he hadn’t made a single mistake. Probably never would have.
With my two psych classes under my belt and my innate sense of people, I had taken a shot in the dark. I’d used the oldest trick in the book. I’d pasted letters together on a plain white page of paper to form the words that would shake Sawyer’s carefully constructed little world. The message was simple: I know where you hid the body.
I had nothing to lose. If I was wrong about Sawyer, then he would simply get a good laugh out of my meaningless threats and that would be that. But, if he had murdered his competition and disposed of the body as I believed, he would worry, maybe just a little, as to whether or not I was telling the truth.
When I didn’t get the desired reaction immediately, I sent more letters. Gave the details only someone who knew what he’d done would know. Or, in my case, someone who’d reviewed the case file and, for instance, knew that he’d taken exactly $657 from the missing person’s middle desk drawer. The crime-scene report also reported that enough blood had been found on the carpet of the victim’s office that he couldn’t possibly have survived the attack, but there wasn’t a damned thing that indicated a murder weapon or anything else. No body, just a bunch of coagulated blood.
But Detective Steven Barlow had a theory. No letter opener had been found in the victim’s desk. None of his employees or associates could actually say whether or not he’d possessed one. When the pocketknife Sawyer carried was found clean of any sort of residue connected to the crime, Barlow had suggested that he’d used a letter opener. Barlow was convinced that Sawyer hadn’t gone to the victim’s office to kill him. The murder had transpired during the ensuing argument. None of which he could prove.
I, on the other hand, had nothing to lose by using Barlow’s conjecture as a ploy to prod a reaction out of Sawyer. So I sent more cut-and-paste letters. I mentioned tiny little facts no one should know. I also asked questions like, What’d you spend the $657 on? Where did you hide the letter opener? It was a shot in the dark. A play on Barlow’s hunch. But it had worked.
Sawyer was seriously worried.
Tonight at ten o’clock he intended to make a drastic move to protect himself.
I’d sent the first letter in time for Sawyer to receive it the day my vacation started. By Wednesday, when he hadn’t reacted, I sent another from the post office that delivered in his neighborhood. That way I could be sure it would be delivered the next morning. On Thursday I broke down and made a call from a phone booth. The whispered message was simple: I know what you did.
By Friday, I had my reaction.
After all, my vacation was only for one week.
Now all I had to do was stay on his tail until I had the location. Well, there was that one other little detail. I needed backup. Someone who could take him down when he made his move. Even I wasn’t fool enough to believe I could do that part alone.
With two brothers who are cops and two more who are firemen, I could call one or all of them, but that would be a mistake. Protecting me would be their one and only concern. I needed someone who could look at this objectively with an eye toward capturing a killer.
I knew exactly who to call.
Chapter 2
My voice deserted me when he answered my call. I stared at the name flickering on the screen.
Steven Barlow.
Barlow, thirty-five years old. Metro cop for four years, homicide detective for the last nine. Degree in criminology. Barlow was considered one of the top investigators in Metro’s homicide division. He had served as lead investigator—the one who’d tried to nail Sawyer three years ago. I hadn’t personally had the pleasure of meeting Barlow, but I had seen him in the hallowed halls of the city’s police headquarters. He was tall, maybe six-one or -two, and wore his black hair regulation short. But the blue eyes proved his most disturbing asset. He hadn’t ever really looked at me, but our gazes bumped into each other’s once or twice in passing.
Though it was rumored he carried a heavier caseload than any other investigator in Metro, and his collar record certainly backed up his unparalleled reputation, he always looked calm, unhurried and more confident than any man I’d ever known. His entire demeanor screamed of relaxed confidence.
Hello.
The new word on the screen carried the same effect as a dash of cold water on my face.
“Brett Sawyer is a murderer,” I said carefully. “I can prove it. At ten o’clock tonight he’s going to move the body you’ve been looking for. Stay close to your phone and I’ll call you with the location.”
I started to disconnect but more words tumbled across the screen before I could depress the necessary button.
Who the hell is this?
That was the one drawback to using my cell phone. As soon as he checked his caller ID, he would know exactly who I was. But there was nothing I could do about that. I couldn’t risk going to a properly equipped phone booth. I had to keep Sawyer in my sights. Couldn’t move until he did.
“Just stay by the phone,” I repeated before severing the connection. I sure wasn’t going to ask him for his cell number, though it would have been handier. His home phone number was listed in the personnel directory. That would just have to work…as long as he didn’t leave home.
I couldn’t worry about that right now.
Two more hours. Besides, during that time I felt certain Detective Steven Barlow would track down my home address, the make and license plate number of my car, and my place of employment. If I was exceedingly lucky he wouldn’t get around to calling any member of my family before 10:00 p.m. rolled around. Not that any of them could possibly guess in a million years where I was just now, but I didn’t want my mom or dad, or even my brothers, worrying unnecessarily.
I could do this. Yes, I had my moments of doubt, like back in the cemetery, but for the most part I was cool with the way this appeared to be going down. Sawyer had made his contact and a rendezvous time had been set. All I had to do now was stay close, wait and not get caught. It was entirely possible that a man like Sawyer had people watching him for security purposes. In fact, it was more than simply possible. It was probable. I could be under surveillance myself at this very moment, but I doubted it since no one had approached my car. Maybe Sawyer wasn’t as smart as he considered himself to be. Just maybe he thought he had gotten away with murder so he had nothing to worry about.
I felt my phone vibrate, and my breath caught. My heart squeezed once in my throat before slipping back down into my chest. I cursed. Getting this jumpy wasn’t a smart idea. Get a grip, Merri. It’s way too early to be this antsy. My next thought evaporated as my gaze focused on the caller ID.
Barlow.
What the hell did he think he was doing? Any distraction could be dangerous. But I had to answer…didn’t I? I needed him. If he chalked up my call to some crank playing jokes…I couldn’t take the chance.
“Hello,” I said quietly.
Why did you call me with that ominous message, Miss Walters?
I stared at the screen as my heart bumped madly against my sternum. What the hell did I say to that? Worse, why hadn’t I thought of this very scenario? Not only would he have my name after checking his ID unit, he would have my cell number. I knew that…I just hadn’t considered he would call back. So many, many possibilities. Obviously too many for a mere file clerk to have anticipated.
I know who you are. I just can’t figure out what you hope to accomplish with this hoax.
Fear blasted through me. Hoax? Oh, my God. That was the last thing I needed. If I couldn’t make him believe me, he might not come when I need him. There had to be a way to convince him. But how? What could I say that would prove anything? Quoting my knowledge of his old case would prove nothing. I didn’t actually have any evidence to back up what I knew would happen tonight. I’d launched this unofficial investigation on a hunch. The only proof of anything I possessed was my word as to what I had seen play out in that bar tonight. I had waited all week for Sawyer to react to the trap I had set. Quite honestly, I’d begun to believe I might have made a mistake.
Then he’d made his move. My conclusions on the case had been right. I had to see this through…couldn’t let anything go wrong now.
I swallowed my trepidation and said the only thing I knew to say, “Detective Barlow, this is no hoax.” I moistened my lips and plunged onward. “I’ve read the case file a dozen times over. You know I’m right about Sawyer…you knew it three years ago, you just couldn’t prove it. I can help you do that now. Tonight.” I sucked in a deep breath. “Just stay by your phone and I’ll call you with a location as soon as possible. After that there won’t be much time. You must come as soon as I call.”
Silence radiated across the line. The ability to hear wasn’t necessary. The absence of words on the screen screamed loudly of his hesitation. He still wasn’t convinced.
How did you get the file on Sawyer?
Oh, no. I wasn’t going to do his legwork for him. “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own. Right now I have to go.” I had already allowed my attention to be splintered by the conversation for too long.
Where are you?
I ended the call. I felt reasonably sure that the detective didn’t have the ability to do an impromptu trace on my call from his home, but I couldn’t be certain he hadn’t put in an order for someone else to do so before he placed his call to me. Triangulating my position could very well be entirely within Metro’s ability. I had watched enough TV crime dramas to feel fairly confident with that assessment. Why take the chance?
It was almost dark now. The sun barely glimmered above the horizon. Long shadows crept across the quiet street and lights glowed from a number of the windows of the high-rises along this block on the fringes of the business district. Seven cars besides mine lined the deserted street. Not nearly as many as I would have liked. At this hour most of the workers employed in the offices had long ago left for home, but a few remained to finish up necessary projects or to earn brownie points toward a promotion.
The building that housed Sawyer’s offices stood only four stories but looked as new as any of the others. According to the directory posted outside the main entrance, the lobby and a conference room were on the first floor. The entire top floor housed Sawyer’s suite of offices, and the floors in between, his worker bees. I didn’t know how long he would work tonight, but I needed to be prepared to move when the time came for him to make his appointment. I couldn’t let anything sidetrack me.
As if he’d picked up on the presence of unfriendly forces in the area, Sawyer exited the main entrance and strolled over to his SUV, which he’d parked in the small lot that fronted his building. His was the only building on the block that had its own private parking lot. That lot stood empty save for Sawyer’s SUV. He opened the driver’s-side door and rummaged around inside but his movements lacked real purpose. He seemed to be buying time. He closed the door and moved around the vehicle as if inspecting the exterior in the fading light. My heart rate kicked into a faster rhythm. What the hell was he doing? His gaze abruptly cut to the vehicles lining the curb on the far side of the street…including mine.
I slid down in my seat until I could scarcely see through the very bottom of the car window where it met the upholstery of the door. My breath stalled in my lungs as I waited to see what he would do next.
I didn’t have to wait long. He started across the lot, headed straight for this side of the street. What if he walked up to my car? Demanded to know who I was and what I was doing?
Not for a second did I dare take my eyes off him. Above the dash I saw him pause at one of the cars parked farther up, four vehicles past my position. Every mistake I had made in my calculations of how this little operation would go down flashed before my eyes. I hadn’t considered that he might have extra security, though I hadn’t seen hide or hair of anyone as of yet. Or that Barlow would give me any grief when I told him I’d solved his case for him. I also hadn’t given any thought to what I would do if a moment like this transpired.
If Sawyer moved toward my vehicle…what would I do?
My fingers itched to reach toward the ignition and turn the key. With nothing parked behind me, I could throw the transmission into Reverse and barrel all the way down the block before executing a quick turn to get the hell out of here. But if I did that, he would know. The whole operation would be blown and then my efforts would be for nothing.
And Barlow would know what I had done. Not to mention that Sawyer would likely get my license plate number as I rushed away and he would not rest until he tracked me down. My new career, such as it is, would be over, but far worse, my life likely would be as well.
So, I forced myself to remain perfectly still. To keep my breathing slow and steady. To stay as calm as anyone could in this situation.
The top of his head disappeared from my line of vision and I felt my insides go cold. Was he moving toward my car now? Keeping low so I wouldn’t see him? I balled my fingers into fists and fought the need to run.
I resisted the near overwhelming urge to close my eyes and wait for death to descend. Good thing, too, because a gray sedan suddenly drove past my position. Sawyer was behind the wheel. He didn’t even look in my direction.
Profound relief washed over me. As difficult as it was, I waited three more seconds before I eased back up in the seat and started my car. By the time I backed up and turned around he had stopped at the end of the block to wait for the traffic signal to change. In my peripheral vision I noted that one of the parked cars was missing. Why did he keep a car parked on the street when he had a lot in front of his building?
The answer was simple, I realized. He, unlike me, had contingency plans.
Though it was dark now I didn’t turn on my headlights. I rolled slowly forward, giving the signal time to change so that he would be focused on moving through the intersection rather than on what came up behind him. As he pulled out onto the main street, I followed. He merged into traffic on the cross street, which facilitated my ability to tail him and allowed me to turn on my headlights. This new vehicle he drove was a late model, four doors. Much harder to keep in sight since it blended in with the other vehicles rather than rising above them as the SUV had done.
I felt damned proud that I’d managed to keep my head about me during that last minute or so. If I’d ducked down too far in my seat or closed my eyes, I would never have seen him leave. I would still be parked on that street in front of his office wondering where he’d disappeared to. I prayed my good luck and my nerve would hold out for another hour and forty-five minutes.
Steven Barlow had worked murder cases for too long to talk about. He shook his head as he allowed his mind to traverse the files and faces of his professional past. That was never a good idea. Too many ugly reminders of the evil that men and women alike could do.
With hard work he managed to bring the killer to justice most of the time. Hardly ever failed, to be quite honest. But three years ago, he had. Failed, that is.
Brett Sawyer had gotten away with murder and Steven knew in his gut the man was guilty as sin. But he hadn’t been able to prove it. Whether Sawyer was that smart or just damned lucky, he still couldn’t say. And it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the bastard had gotten away with it.
Steven plowed his fingers through his hair and stared at the phone on the table next to his couch. What the hell was Merrilee Walters doing? How did she think she could pull this off? Not that Steven considered himself infallible, but at least he had the gold shield that gave him license to track down killers. This woman was a file clerk, for Christ’s sake!
Worry gnawed at his gut. Did the woman have a death wish? He put in a call to dispatch and had all calls to his home forwarded to his cell phone in the event he had to leave the house any minute now. Then he requested a trace on Merrilee’s cellular. Just to be sure he got her, he put out a silent APB on her car. He didn’t want her name going out over the airwaves just in case anyone who owed Sawyer was listening and…
“Just in case she’s nuts,” he muttered.
After the initial call it had taken a moment, but he’d remembered the woman. She worked in the archives. Cute. Flaming red hair. Pretty green eyes. Shy.
She’d never spoken to him, nor had he to her.
But then, his social life pretty much sucked. He stared at the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table that he’d been devouring before her call. Hell, it was Saturday night, and since he wasn’t hot on the trail of some killer, he sat at home, alone, watching a made-for-television movie.
Refusing to be disgusted with his own choices, Steven hauled himself up from the couch and followed his instincts. Might as well get dressed for business.
That old sixth sense—cop sense—was telling him to get ready. Merrilee Walters had gotten herself into a whole shitload of trouble, and if he didn’t do something about it she would most likely end up dead.
No way in hell was he going to let Sawyer get away with murder again. Even if the victim had brought it on herself.
Steven shook his head again. What the hell was this little file clerk up to?
Chapter 3
That’s the problem with being deaf. You can’t hear a damned thing. My impairment is commonly called profound loss. You don’t hear anything at all. I hadn’t heard Sawyer open the car door or slam it shut. Hadn’t heard the engine start or anything else.
I’ve learned to live with the lack of that crucial sense. What else could I do? But it had been devastating at first. Even now a slice of pain went through me at the memory. A few months before my twenty-eighth birthday I’d suffered a typical sinus infection. Nothing major, the usual nuisance. But the infection wasn’t just any old bug, it was a rare strain that would evolve and spread and do serious damage before the doctors, including the best ENT to be found in the whole state, could recognize and stop it. In the end, I survived, but my hearing was gone. A mixed hearing loss, functional as well as neurological.
What on earth did a twenty-seven-year-old woman do when she suddenly found herself deaf? Who wanted an elementary school teacher who didn’t know how to be deaf? One who no longer knew how to teach without the ability to hear? Needless to say, the school board did the only thing they could, they gave me a disability pension. And my fiancé, the very one I was supposed to wed in a mere three months, walked away from our relationship with no real explanation. I could only deduce that, as a songwriter, he felt that the woman with whom he would share the rest of his life needed to be able to hear and appreciate his music.
So, here I was, two years later, venturing out on my very first unsafe limb. Diving into my very first adventure as a handicapped woman.
I hated the term, but I couldn’t deny its accuracy.
I moved into the right lane, two cars behind Sawyer. That was another thing, I could still drive. Deaf people are actually very good drivers. According to statistics, deaf people have fewer accidents than those who can hear. Maybe because we become more visually observant. Makes sense to me.
Speaking of visual observance, I had no idea where Sawyer was headed. It seemed to be a little early for getting into position for his ten o’clock rendezvous.
Oh, hell. Something else I hadn’t considered. If the location was out of town, that would increase the time necessary for Barlow to arrive once I made the call. Definitely not a good thing.
I bit down on my bottom lip and toyed with the idea of getting Barlow back on the horn and telling him the entire truth right that second. But what if I did and Sawyer had connections in the police department? I hoped that wasn’t the case, but I couldn’t take the risk. I had to let this play out and hope Barlow would come through for me.
Whether or not this operation worked was in large part up to me. Just me. For the first time in two years I felt like I might actually accomplish something meaningful. I couldn’t give up too soon…couldn’t screw up, either. I had to make this happen. Had to prove I could do more with my life again than sit around waiting for a disability check to arrive or simply filing papers.
I shook off the old, familiar panic that attempted to creep up my spine. I would not let fear hold me back. I’d almost done that two years ago. I refused to go backward.
My family had rallied around me. Would have taken care of me the rest of my life with no questions asked. But merely existing was not enough for me. I needed more. I needed to do something that mattered. Something beneficial to society as a whole. I’d had that as an elementary teacher. I loved my teaching work…loved the children. Not a single day passed in my former career that I didn’t feel as if my small part genuinely mattered in the grander scheme of things. Sitting at home as a deaf, disabled woman almost drove me crazy at first, before I’d convinced my family I had to contribute to society somehow.
One year later, after intensive counseling and training, I felt ready to face the world again. The counseling had helped me get past feeling sorry for myself. Unfortunately, even I wasn’t above that pathetic pitfall. The training had taught me how to function without one of my senses.
I could sign, but it wasn’t my favorite way to communicate. I was well into my twenty-eighth year by then. Speaking had been my primary means of communication for far too long to change. I could still speak, I just couldn’t hear. One of the instructors at the academy for the hearing impaired had offered a solution I could live with. Lip reading. So I started to study the art. It’s more than merely watching the lips…the whole face is involved, and like science, it is by no means exact.
I grew very good at it. Very, very good. Within months I could read lips and respond in a conversation with scarcely a delay. Most strangers I encountered these days didn’t even realize I was deaf. So far, being deaf hasn’t affected the way I speak. I did have to study new ways to modulate my speech. I learned the difference in how it feels to speak in a normal tone versus a raised voice or shouting. I paid particular attention to the tension in my throat muscles and to the reaction of others. Once you started to pay attention and respond more to your visual world, it was amazing how much you could read on a person’s face. Like most things in life, everything was in the details.
Likewise, I could tell the tone in which a person was speaking by the expressions on his or her face and other subtle mannerisms. Once in a great while I meet the proverbial poker face. Then I have no choice but to interpret his tone by his words. I don’t like the loss of control that comes with those rare situations. That was just another reason I hated talking on the phone. For one thing, I had no way of knowing who was speaking. I could assume, based on the number I dialed, who might answer, but I couldn’t know for sure. Caller ID helped, at least I knew the name that went along with the number from which a call is made to me. Having no power over that aspect of my life was disturbing when I let myself dwell upon it—which wasn’t often.