James Patterson - Thriller - Stories to Keep You Up All Night

If Jeffrey saw her, he would do something stupid. Something that might hurt Deidre. The child's safety was paramount.

He snuck out the back door and closed it without a sound. Karen activated the tiny camera she wore in a pendant around her neck, waited until she heard the creaking boards under his feet and hurried out behind him. She followed him to the street where he'd parked a dark SUV.

Jeffrey was bent over, placing Deidre in the back seat when Karen came up behind him.

"Move away from the car. Much as I'd like to shoot you…" She allowed her deep, husky voice to trail away.

He stepped back, cavalierly raised both hands palms out.

"Turn around," she said quietly, hoping not to awaken Deidre. He complied. He saw the gun, pointed now at his chest. "Smile," she said, picking up the pendant and pointing the micro camera directly toward him. "A picture's worth a year of testimony, isn't it?" She photographed Deidre sleeping in the vehicle, too.

She'd argued with Beverly and Beverly's sister, Brenda, for hours about this part of their plan. Beverly had cried, said she didn't want her child's father incarcerated. She wasn't desperate enough yet. But Karen knew she would be. Released and alone, Jeffrey would take his daughter again, not because he loved her, but because he owned her. Deidre would never be safe from him. He should have gone to prison for battering his wife. Or when he stole Deidre the last two times. But Beverly had refused to testify. Now she had proof, when she needed it.

Jeffrey stared at Karen, wary but unafraid. Her lanky frame was indistinguishable from a man's in these clothes. And she held an equalizer pointed at his heart. Did he recognize her voice? Probably, although they hadn't talked in years. She could almost see him calculating his next move.

"If you ever set foot in Florida again, the video of tonight's escapade will be delivered to the U.S. Attorney's Office. You'll die in prison."

He smirked. He wasn't afraid of her. Karen's hand itched to smash the gun into his face, but she kept calm.

"Move to the front of the car." He sidled to the center in front of the grille. Her gaze never leaving him, the gun steady, Karen bent down and lifted the little girl. She stirred, but didn't waken.

When she was sure Deidre was secure in her grasp, Karen distanced herself from the SUV. "Get in and drive away."

Hands in his pockets, Jeffrey sauntered around to the driver's side and opened the front door. Instantly, the car alarm sounded, repeated long blasts of the horn. The cacophony awakened Dei-dre. When she saw the black-clad apparition holding her, she began to cry and kick, yelling, "Let me go! Let me go!" Karen grabbed her tightly to keep her from taking them both down to the ground, but the gun didn't waver.

"Hush, Deidre. It's me, Aunt Karen. It's okay. Be quiet now."

"Aunt Karen?" the astonished child cried, tears and screams coming to a shaky, tentative halt.

Jeffrey now had one leg in the SUV, his weight shifted toward the driver's seat. He pressed the key fob to silence the blasting horn, and then flashed a sardonic grin. "How nice to see you again, Karen."

She stiffened and extended the gun, her intention clear. "Don't forget what I told you, Jeffrey. No contact. Go."

"You think I take orders from you?" He slid into the SUV, started the engine, rolled down the window and threw a stare of pure hatred at Karen. She shivered imperceptibly. She'd made an open enemy. Somehow, he would prove he controlled her, too, along with everything in his world, no matter what the cost.

All pretext of the gentleness he'd shown his daughter gone, he said, "You'll be sorry you screwed me, Karen."

"I've been sorry about that for years."

Just back from Europe, the news flashed across her computer as she worked on revisions to Karen Brown's Guide to Switzerland, courtesy of Tampa P.D.'s Internet subscription active calls for service. A domestic-violence call in a Carrollwood neighborhood. The first officer at the scene found a woman shot and a five-year-old girl missing. An Amber Alert went out at 3:30 a.m. Karen glanced down at the clock on the screen. Twenty-five minutes ago. Wasting no time on useless recriminations, she left immediately.

Thirty minutes later, she reached Grouper Circle, a few houses scattered around the cul-de-sac bordering Lake Grouper. Tampa P.D. cruisers blocked the Dolphin Avenue entrance. Karen parked her red 4Runner and slipped her Sig under the front seat. She had a license to carry but no need to make this tense situation worse.

She grabbed her laptop and approached the first officer she saw. "Hey, Randy," she said, to avoid startling him in the darkness.

"Counselor." He nodded. "What's your interest?"

"Beverly London is a client. Came to offer support."

"She don't need it," Officer Wilson told her bluntly.

Karen closed her eyes. A short moment of mourning was all she permitted herself for now. "Suspects?"

"Nasty divorce. Custody problems with the daughter. That your angle?"

Karen nodded.

"Bet on the ex," Randy said. "Real piece of shit. Restraining orders, my ass."

Nobody needed to tell her how inadequate the law was at protecting women from men like Jeffrey. "Can I go up?"

He nodded.

"Who's primary?"

"Jerry Scanlon."

Karen made her way down the short street to the brick colonial at the end. She saw two unmarked cars, an ambulance and people milling around. Officers, crime-scene technicians, photographers. A couple of detectives interviewing one of the neighbors, probably the one who'd called in the gunshots. She walked up the sidewalk to the threshold and stared into the open front door.

Beverly London's body lay on the tiled foyer floor, clad in a neon-yellow nightgown, eyes open, frozen in surprise. Two entrance wounds were visible in her chest and abdomen. Lots of blood had pooled. Bullets probably severed the femoral artery. No way Beverly would have survived, even if she'd been found immediately. But she'd been there a while, long enough for all the blood to have congealed.

Karen caught Detective Scanlon's attention. "I hear you gave up law, writing travel books now," he said, a question in his tone that she'd answered too many times before. Why? That's what he wanted to know.

"I like writing travel books," she said. She was still a member of the bar. That's all he needed to know.

"Not enough money in the writing to keep you in cabernet?"

"Something like that."

He sized her up as if he'd never seen her before, although the two had worked together frequently during her short stint in the prosecutor's office. He waved toward the body. "Not a pretty scene."

"There are security cameras throughout the house and grounds." She pointed to the camera hidden in the wall sconce on the side of the front door. When his eyebrows rose in question, she nodded. "Mine."

"We're not through processing yet." He let her pass.

Karen moved carefully through the kitchen, Deidre's room, Beverly's room, and the door that led outside to the attached garage. She located the surveillance cameras and removed the memory sticks. The cameras recorded in a loop, replacing images every three days until the sticks were changed.

She opened her laptop, booted up and slipped the memory stick from the kitchen camera into the slot first. The images downloaded quickly. She and Detective Scanlon watched video of the dark kitchen, but nothing more.

"It was a long shot," he said by way of forgiveness.

Methodically, Karen downloaded data from the other four and continued searching. "Look there." She pointed to the screen. The intruder had come in through the garage door. Jeffrey London. No doubt about it. He's a bold bastard, she reminded herself.

They studied the digital images on the tiny laptop screen. She felt a sick deja vu as she watched Jeffrey invade the house, disarm the security system, climb the stairs, enter Deidre's room and return carrying the sleeping girl, just as he had the night Karen saw him from the kitchen chair.