Jan Hambright - Keeping Watch

“When did you discover I was here?”

“This afternoon, at the station. I went in for a sketch session and overheard the chief ratting you out.”

“Yeah, voices carry over there in the marble halls.” The air between them was charged, and he glanced over at her in the filtered light coming in from a streetlamp a hundred feet to the south. “I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to alter your routine.”

“I know.” She thrust a brown paper bag toward him. “So I made you a chicken salad sandwich.”

Royce caught a glimmer of pride in her green eyes. As he reached for the bag, their fingertips brushed. “My favorite.”

She stared at him for a moment, licked her lips and pulled her hand back. “It’s the least I could do, considering you’re out here watching over me, keeping me safe.”

Royce opened the bag, bent on satisfying his hunger, but realized it wasn’t for food. He rolled the top of the sack down and set it on the console. “I’m doing my job, Miss Charboneau.”

“Call me Adelaide, please.”

“Okay. Adelaide. This is a nice break from the action, but you’re safer inside your house. I’ve got a feeling he may be watching right now, and you’re here, where he could discover me before I can catch him.”

“You’re right…of course you’re right.” She glanced away for an instant and stared into the darkness before refocusing on him. “If you need anything, the key to my door is under the mat on the front porch. Help yourself.”

“That’s not safe.” Worry rocketed through him. “It could be discovered, and he won’t break a window to get in next time. You might not have time to dial 911 before he gets to you.”

“Don’t worry.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm for an instant. “I move the key discreetly every couple of days.”

A measure of relief coated his nerves, but his worry remained. “How’s your ankle?”

“Much better. I’m getting around on it, and it’s almost back to normal.”

“There’s something I forgot to ask you the other night.”

She turned her full attention on him.

He pulled in a breath, awed by how beautiful she looked in the shadowy darkness. Shocked by the level of arousal taking his body one degree at a time. Why was he drawn to her with such an unreasonable reaction? A reaction he wasn’t able to control? “The word behold was carved in the siding under your studio window.”

Her features changed, her eyes narrowed, her lips pulled into a frown, before the look of concern evaporated.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“No…nothing.”

She reached for the door handle. “I’ll leave you to it, Detective Beckett. Sorry I disturbed you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she was already out of the car and vanishing into the deep shadows. Pulling in a breath, he stared at the route she’d taken and watched her cross the street. Real or imagined, he knew he’d upset her. But her reaction to his question was suspect. So why would she hold out on him? Why would she prefer a lie over a truth that could save her life and help him catch her attacker?

The unanswered question pestered him well into the night and right up until the moment a light flickered on in a downstairs window.

Royce straightened in his seat and glanced at his watch. Almost 3:00 a.m. Close to the time her home had been invaded almost a week ago.

Caution tightened the pit of his stomach as he stared at the blade of light slicing through the darkness from the window of her studio.

What could she possibly be doing in there at this time of night?

Movement at the edge of the light sawed through his attention. His heart rate picked up and thrummed in his ears. He could just make out the silhouette of a man, pressed against the side of the house.

The unsub? Had he been there the whole time?

Tension twisted his muscles into knots. Stealth was his only option. He needed to catch the creep. Now…tonight, before he tried to hurt her again.

Reaching down, he snagged his radio and called for backup. He picked up the mini-mag flashlight from the seat next to him, shoved it into his pocket and clipped the portable radio on his belt.

Keeping his focus locked on the subject, he opened the car door and climbed out. He didn’t shut it, but instead left it open a crack. If the subject heard a car door latch, he’d take off like a shot.

He took a low profile, crossed the street and sagged into the shadows next to the sidewalk.

Pausing at the head of the alley, he took cover next to a fence. Royce eased his head out and stared into the darkness. At the other end, a block away, he spotted a car parked at an odd angle under a streetlamp. Did it belong to the Peeping Tom?

Agitation rocked his body and coated his nerves. He pulled back, took the radio from his belt and relayed the location of the vehicle to the uniforms in a low whisper. If it did belong to the suspect, they’d have him before he had a chance to run, or they’d have a plate number to track him with.

Somewhere in the thick night air, he heard an engine turn over. He listened, but couldn’t dial in its location as the hum mingled with the tune of the city streets.

The hair on the back of his neck bristled. Warning bells sounded in his head, but it was too late, he’d already stepped out into the open mouth of the alleyway.

The roar of the speeding car’s motor sliced into his awareness just as he caught a glimpse of its dark, sleek body fifty feet from where he stood and closing in like a rocket.

Royce lunged for the other side of the alley, the forward momentum driving him onto the asphalt inches from the kamikaze car.

It passed close by, so close it ruffled his hair.

Royce rolled over, pulled his gun and took aim just as the driver of the car tapped his brakes, released and barreled into the distance and out of range.

He’d like to believe that was random, but it didn’t stick. Frustrated, he lowered his weapon and came to his feet. He’d gotten the first two numbers on the licence plate, 32, and he recognized the taillight configuration of a Mustang.

He radioed the car’s direction of escape and the partial plate number before turning his focus on the lit window as he came around the end of the fence and stepped into the yard, staying in the cover of the bushes.

Surprise rippled his nerves and rooted him in place. The subject still stood in the same spot peering into Adelaide’s studio window, his forehead resting on the bottom right-hand pane.

How was that even possible? How did he not hear the commotion from the alley seconds ago and get spooked? He’d heard of fixation, that locked-on tunnel vision in which nothing exists outside the focus, but he’d never seen it in action, not until tonight.

Damn scary. He raised his weapon and edged out of the trees. “Police. Turn around and show me your hands.”

The startled subject raised his hands and took a couple of calculated steps back.

Caution ran along Royce’s nerves. Only seconds existed between surrender and pursuit, with nothing in between but bullets and mayhem.

Was the Peeping Tom armed and dangerous? He couldn’t be sure. “NOPD. Turn around.”

The man bolted.

Royce rushed toward him, closing the distance in quick strides, but the suspect dove for the ground at the corner of the house, crawled around it and disappeared out of sight.

He reached the side of the house and flattened against it. Gun raised, he slid along the wall, stopping only briefly to glance in the studio window at what the subject had seen moments ago through the two-inch crack at the bottom of the window shade.

Adelaide was lying on the floor of her studio among a smattering of sketches. He looked for blood, and saw none.