“Open the envelope. It could be a juicy lead on a new story that’ll land you in the office next to mine,” Brody teased.

“You are trying hard to butter me up.” Hallie laughed.

“Not at all. I recognize a woman with a destiny when I see her.”

A tiny smile curved her mouth, and Brody’s pulse did a little cha-cha.

“Get out of here, Jordan. I’ve got work to do.” She turned away, and he left, chuckling.

A scream halted him midstride. He whirled and raced back to her carrel. Hallie stood in the aisle between work stations, hands to her chest, wide stare fixed toward the floor. He followed the direction of her gaze and spotted the manila envelope on the carpet. Next to the packet lay a braided gold rope.

Hallie pointed a trembling finger toward the dropped items. “Somebody sent me the cord that strangled Alicia. And this, too.” She thrust a piece of plain white paper at him.

Plain block letters in bold black marker said YOU COULD BE NEXT.

JILL ELIZABETH NELSON

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.

Witness to Murder
Jill Elizabeth Nelson

And you will know the truth,

and the truth will set you free.

—John 8:32

To those whose lives have been stunted by fear. (Isn’t

that all of us at times?) May the truth spoken in

love—to ourselves, to others—make us free to live in

the joy and peace God intends for His children.

Contents

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

Channel Six television news reporter Hallie Berglund put her right foot on the bottom step of the swaybacked porch, then stopped cold. The hairs on her arms prickled. What was that awful noise coming from inside the house? Some kind of music? This century-old Victorian was rented by four University of Minnesota coeds, but even if they liked punk rock they wouldn’t listen to this. And why was the front door several inches ajar?

Careful to keep the heels of her pumps from clacking against the wood, she walked carefully up the remaining two steps, but angry creaks from the porch boards announced her arrival. Whoever—whatever—was inside gave no indication her approach had been heard. The noise progressed in decibels.

Hallie frowned. There had to be a logical explanation. On the telephone, Alicia Drayton had sounded eager, almost desperate, to do the interview as soon as possible. The part-time fashion model and full-time student had said her roommates would be out all afternoon—a perfect opportunity for the two of them to talk privately.

The sound continued—long, drawn out. Like something a person would hear on a dark and moonless night, not in the balmy afternoon of a cloudless June day. She doused the impulse to back away and wait for her cameraman to catch up with her. She was a reporter, and she needed to find out what was going on. Sooner rather than later.

Her rap on the warped door panel widened the opening, revealing a foyer done in dark wood and last decade’s wallpaper. She stepped inside onto a scatter rug and was greeted by lingering scents of mingled women’s perfumes. To her left a set of stairs led upward. Ahead and to her right lay an opening framed in old-fashioned wide wood.

“Alicia?” Hallie’s voice sounded hollow in the open space.

The noise stopped, and silence fell like a skipped heartbeat. Then a loud sniffle announced a fresh round of wails, this time in words spoken in a masculine tenor. “No, no, no. This isn’t real. Allie, baby, wake uuuuuup!”

Hallie’s breath caught. Was Alicia hurt? Hallie hurried forward, heels tapping the faded floorboards. She stepped through the opening, and a squawk escaped her throat.

What whirlwind had trashed this living room? The couch was tipped onto its back, an easy chair lay on its side, and the entertainment center had fallen face down, scattering shattered electronic equipment. And who lay sprawled on the floor near the heavily curtained picture window? The head and torso were concealed from view by a lean man with spiked blond hair who crouched over the inert body. His bare, muscular shoulders quaked beneath a sweat-streaked tank top the same shade of tan as his running shorts.

“Who? Wh-what?” The words stuttered between Hallie’s lips. “Should we call 9-1-1?”

The man eased to his feet, all six feet six inches of him. He swiveled toward her like a man in a trance, slate-blue eyes staring blankly. Wetness glistened on drawn cheeks in a face all sharp planes and angles. In his fist he clutched a braided gold cord. “She’s…dead.”

Hallie’s gaze fell to the head and shoulders on the floor behind the man’s feet. She gulped. Whoever had trashed this room had also done a number on the woman’s face…and her neck. Raw cord marks dug into her pale throat.

Alicia? The glossy auburn hair splayed around her head matched the publicity photos that had been sent over to the station, but the facial features were too puffy to be identified. The giveaway was the man with what appeared to be the murder weapon in his hand—Alicia’s boyfriend, Minnesota Golden Gophers’ bad boy, Damon Lange. The college basketball player’s famous temper had finally turned him into a killer.

Hallie’s gaze locked with his. Ice encased her muscles, and her heart slammed against her rib cage. A change melted over Lange’s face. Pinched sorrow fell away, relaxed into openmouthed awareness, and then red-faced fear—and fury. Lange raised the fist that held the cord and charged toward Hallie.

She shrieked and whirled away, racing toward the open door. The scatter rug on the floor slid beneath her heels. Hallie’s cameraman, Stan Fisher, stepped into the house, exclaiming, as Lange’s body struck Hallie from behind. She careened into the cameraman, and the two of them went down in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Hallie’s knees hit the floor—hard—and her suit pants did little to protect them. Pain speared up her legs. Damon disappeared out the door. His boat-sized feet struck a hollow tattoo on the porch.

Gasping for air, Hallie rolled away from Stan, who lay on his back spluttering and clutching his precious camera to his bony chest. Heedless of her aching knees, she scrambled on all fours toward the doorway and gripped the doorpost. Out on the sun-soaked street, Damon charged into the street, arms pumping, the braided cord no longer in hand. A green-and-blue Papa Morelli’s Pizza delivery car whizzed up the road, and the ball player dodged barely in time to avoid being hit. Then he raced onward and out of view between the houses.

“What was that all about?” Stan’s footfalls came up behind her.

Dazed, Hallie stared up into his wide-eyed face. “Call 9-1-1. Damon killed Alicia. I saw.” Her voice came out in a rasp. She struggled to her feet, leg muscles jittering. “At least, I think she’s dead. I’d better…I need to check.” She forced a lump down her throat.

Stan gaped at her, freckles standing out like punctuation marks on his pale cheeks.

“Just call.” Her voice rose an octave.

She brushed past him and wobbled into the living room. Debris crunched under her pumps as she approached the body. To one side lay the cord she’d seen in Damon’s hand. He must have dropped it when he fled. In the background, Stan’s excited voice reported the emergency.

Gaze averted from Alicia’s face, Hallie watched the body’s chest for some sign of rising and falling, but she spotted no movement beneath the gauzy, long-sleeved tunic top swirled in psychedelic 1970s colors. She crouched beside Alicia and pressed two fingers to the inside of her wrist. She held her breath while she counted to ten. Not a flicker of life.

Groaning, Hallie closed her eyes and bowed her head. Not again, Lord. Why did women stay with men who abused them? She’d asked that unanswerable question over and over in the nine years since Teresa’s senseless death. Back then, as a college sophomore, she had been powerless to gain justice, but this time she was in prime position to make certain the guilty party didn’t get away with murder just because he was a popular athlete.

Jaw clenched, Hallie opened her eyes, and her gaze fell on the edge of a band of metal on Alicia’s wrist that she’d nudged aside in order to feel for a pulse. The etching on the band looked familiar. Hallie pulled the featherweight shirtsleeve away from the inch-wide bracelet and took a closer look. Every muscle went rigid.

She knew the unique markings on that brass and copper armband. The Nigerian artisan had been dead for over two decades, since Hallie was eight years old. But the woman had never in her life sold her work commercially—only given it to people she regarded as special.

Why was Alicia Drayton wearing a bracelet fashioned by Hallie’s mother?

Hallie sucked in a deep breath, and then let the air seep from her lungs. Her hand dug for the camera phone in her purse’s outside pocket. This was going to be the most distasteful thing she’d ever done in her life. But she couldn’t step away without a clear record of her mother’s work, and she couldn’t make off with the bracelet. Blanking her mind and moving quickly, she snapped several shots of the dead woman’s arm.

“The cops and the paramedics are on their way.” Stan’s voice came from the doorway.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted an eight-by-ten photograph lying face-up on the floor. The glass inside the cherry-wood frame was cracked in a crazy pattern that suggested someone had stepped on it, but she could still make out a man’s smiling face. No taller than average, with hair touched by gray and a middle displaying a small paunch, his confident presence overshadowed the women in the photo. He stood between them with an arm around each of their shoulders.

One of them could only be Alicia, just a few years younger. Her full lips pouted beneath a bored green gaze. Typical teenager. The other woman, Alicia’s decades older mirror image, stood stiffly and a bit glassy-eyes, as if the camera made her nervous. The man—Alicia’s father?—grinned like he’d won the lottery. And why not? His wife was stunning and his daughter even more so. Correction. The daughter had been stunning. These parents now had horrible news coming to them. A whimper squeaked out Hallie’s tight throat.

Nausea squeezing her stomach, she stood and picked her way toward Stan. How could he hover there, calmly panning his video camera over the room?

“Remind me,” she said as she brushed past him into the foyer, “never, ever to volunteer for the police beat.”

“You couldn’t guess in a million years the trouble Hallie walked into this afternoon.”

The tense words brought Brody Jordan’s head around from the sports highlights he was editing in the video room. Vince Graham, the crime reporter, stood in the doorway, craggy face drawn into those taut planes that made his mug so compelling on the air. Brody clicked off the video and waved Vince in.

The crime reporter shook his head. “No time for a chat. Stan called the story in, and I’m headed for Alicia Drayton’s house. The woman’s been beaten and strangled, and Hallie caught Damon Lange in the act.”

Brody stiffened, nostrils flaring. “I don’t believe it.”

Vince frowned. “Hallie’s not given to hallucinations, Jordan. The cops and the medical examiner are already on the scene, and they’re taking the whole thing very seriously.”

“No, I didn’t mean Hallie imagined a murder, but there’s no way Damon hurt Alicia.”

The ends of the crime reporter’s mouth twisted upward. “Enjoy your illusions, buddy. One thing I’ve learned on this beat is anyone’s capable of anything.”

“Have they got Damon in custody?”

“Naw. He skedaddled. There’s an APB out on him.”

“I’m coming with you.” Brody rose.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Brody narrowed his eyes at his smirking coworker.

“The six o’clock news broadcast? You can’t be in two places at once.”

Brody checked his watch. “It’s later than I thought. This is one time in a million I could do without being the evening sportscaster. Just let me know if Damon is arrested, okay?”

“You got it.” Vince strode away.

Brody grabbed his suit coat from the back of the chair and headed up the tile-floored hallway toward his office. Should he call Hallie and get the story firsthand? He could find her cell number on the interoffice list. Arriving at his desk, he opened the top drawer then froze, hand on the internal directory.

No, getting her on the phone was a bad move. Not only would she be up to her neck in police questions right now, but he didn’t want to have this conversation long distance. He had to look her in the eye and make her repeat the claim that Damon killed Alicia. Even then he wouldn’t buy it. He knew the young basketball player too well. In his experience, Hallie told the news with integrity and enthusiasm, but maybe her crusading nature got things exaggerated or misconstrued this time.

Brody frowned. Then again it was kind of hard to misunderstand a dead body. He sank into his desk chair, tugged at his left earlobe, and ruffled his fingers through his coarse brown hair.

A few months ago, Brody hosted the Golden Gophers star basketball player for a live interview, and the young man had brought Alicia along to watch. Yes, she sometimes treated Damon like gum under her shoe, but that day she’d been in a good mood, playful even. She teased the ball player about his “camera presence,” green eyes sparkling in that cameo-perfect face. Damon adored her. He would have given his life for her, not snuffed hers out.

Brody bent and pulled his trash can from under his desk. If he could get Hallie to himself for a few minutes and ask his questions, maybe he could start to understand. Fishing amongst crumpled papers, he came up with an invitation he’d chucked a couple of days ago. The rectangle of card stock showed a multi-colored cake with many candles on top and read: Guess Who’s 29. For Real!

The decision not to attend the surprise party thrown by Hallie’s two best friends had been a no-brainer—even though everyone at Channel Six was invited. Hallie and he hadn’t exactly hit it off in the three years since she’d joined the staff. Not that he didn’t find her attractive. Who wouldn’t? The camera loved that glossy, raven hair, those big, brown eyes and the gleaming, white smile against her smooth caramel complexion. She was all grace and wit. She was also openly disdainful of sports figures she considered “arrogant jocks.” And according to the cameraman who’d quit the station before Stan came on, she expected the moon from herself and everyone who worked with her.

Exactly the kind of high-maintenance trouble this thirty-five-year-old divorcé needed to avoid. After his experience with Deborah, only God’s unexpected grace saved him from becoming a bum on skid row rather than a man with a career he loved.

Brody flipped the invitation over and read the details about when and where. He’d really rather stick his hand into a piranha tank, but it looked like he was going to a party after all.

TWO

“Vince is here to do the story.”

Stan’s voice brought Hallie’s head up from the backrest on the news van’s passenger seat. A metallic blue sports coupe glided into a spot at the curb in front of the van. The crime reporter thrived on drama, even in his choice of vehicle. She flipped down the sun visor and used the attached mirror to help her readjust the enameled pins that partially tamed her mop of black waves, and then refreshed her Perfectly Plum lipstick. She frowned. Her eyes were almost as red as they were brown.

Giving a statement to the police had about turned Hallie into blubbering mush. In her head, Teresa’s dead white face kept popping up alongside Alicia’s battered features. Could she get through this TV interview with the tiniest shred of dignity? I’m going to need a boatload of strength, Lord. Grimacing, she climbed out of the van and smoothed her mocha colored pantsuit.

The sun shone just as warmly as it had when she and Stan first arrived at the house, so why did a quiver shoot through her stomach. Maybe it was the sight of a white-sheeted gurney being wheeled out the front door. The outline of the human form beneath the covers betrayed its grizzly burden. Stan was busy capturing the moment on film.

Hallie turned away toward the WDJN crime reporter.

“Busy afternoon for the cops in the Twin Cities metro area,” Vince said. “Three-car pileup on I-94, a convenience store robbery on Highway 100, a gang shooting near Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, and an apparent suicide in south St. Paul. But our top story—Golden Gophers star strangles girlfriend.” He let out a low whistle. “You ready to give Channel Six the scoop before every media hound with a police scanner descends on us?”

Hallie’s manicured fingernails jabbed her palms. “I need to do whatever I can to make sure Alicia Drayton’s killer gets what he deserves.”

Vince winked then motioned toward Stan, who took up a place in front of them, headphones on and camera ready. The crime reporter looked at his watch. “This’ll be live feed as the lead news story for the six o’clock broadcast.”

Hallie gasped. “Is it that late already?”

“Why? You got someplace else to be?” He shot her a one-sided grin.

“I do, but I’ll just have to be late, as usual.”

Stan began counting off seconds with his fingers. Vince squared his shoulders, and Hallie cleared her throat. Stan signaled they were on.

Iron-faced, the crime reporter introduced the location and the situation then turned toward Hallie. “When you came here today to interview Alicia Drayton for a story on Minnesota fashion models, you hardly expected to find yourself in the midst of a murder.”

“That’s very true, Vince.” Hallie’s voice cracked, and she swallowed. “Today was supposed to be a good publicity break for a young woman with talent, intelligence and a life of endless prospects before her, not her last day on earth.”

Vince’s hazel eyes glinted approval of her dramatic answer. “Tell us what you saw.”

Hallie opened her mouth, closed it, and then licked dry lips, tasking her lipstick. She could do this. The soft whir of the camera, the familiar microphone near her mouth, Stan’s homely, expectant face—this was her life, her career, and a fresh chance to use it to right a wrong, just as she’d intended when she became a reporter. A knot unraveled in the core of her being, and she lifted her chin.

“I’ll share with our viewers the same information I gave the police. When I approached the house, I heard strange noises from inside. I thought maybe someone was hurt and needed help. Since the front door was ajar, I hurried inside. Alicia lay on the living room floor, dead, and Damon Lange stood over her with a braided rope in his hand. A curtain tie, I think. The police will probably discover it was the murder weapon.”

Vince pulled the mic away from Hallie’s mouth and put it to his own. “There you have the testimony of Channel Six’s own feature reporter, Hallie Berglund, who this afternoon was an eye witness to murder. Golden Gophers player Damon Lange is currently being sought in connection with the death of his girlfriend, college student and fashion model Alicia Drayton. Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should call the number on your screen.” Vince turned toward Hallie again. “What went through your mind when you walked in on such a tragic situation?”

“Disbelief…Horror…Fear for myself.” Hallie crossed her arms, barely containing a shudder. “Lange chased me, but Stan, my cameraman, came into the house so Mr. Lange only shoved us down and escaped. I don’t know what he would have done if Stan hadn’t been there.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Ever since I confirmed Alicia was dead, I’ve been furious and…and just sick. I despise abusers. It looks like another life has been lost to one today.” Hallie blinked against a prickle behind her eyelids.

“Thank you for so candidly sharing your traumatic confrontation. I suspect you could use a little R & R right now.” A sympathetic smile crossed his face.

“That’s right, Vince. I plan to spend a quiet evening with friends, but I won’t rest easy until Damon Lange is in custody.”

“Understandable, Hallie.” He turned his face toward the camera. “This is Vince Graham of WDJN News reporting live from the scene of the crime.”

The red light flashed on Stan’s camera, and they were off the air. Weariness flowed through Hallie’s limbs. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she told the guys.

“Let’s boogie.” Stan lowered the camera from his shoulder.

The crime reporter leaned close to Hallie’s ear. “Brody’s on the warpath over Damon.”

Hallie suppressed a snort. Of course, that man would be. What was this? Some kind of sick jocks-must-stick-together thing?

Vince waved and headed toward the perimeter of crime scene tape where forensic technicians and police officers worked. The screech of brakes and the slam of doors announced the arrival of three news vehicles, adding to congestion on the road. Slipping away in the WDJN van was going to be tricky. Hallie recognized logos from two newspapers and a rival television station. In seconds, she was swarmed by microphones and questions shouted from eager faces.

Hallie lifted a hand for silence. “I saw Damon Lange holding what I believe to be the murder weapon and Alicia Drayton lying dead on the floor. Mr. Lange is currently on the loose. Anyone who knows where to find this man should contact their local police department. That’s all I have to say. Exclusive details have already been given to Channel Six news.”

She barged between the microphones and lunged through the van door that Stan had thoughtfully opened. They eased away from the scene, the cameraman threading the van between vehicles with inches to spare.

Hallie slumped. “Now I know what it feels like to be the media entrée du jour.”

Stan chuckled. “Things have just started to get interesting. Wait until the case goes to trial, and you’re the main witness.”

“They have to catch Damon Lange first. The world will be a safer place when he’s behind bars.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot behind WDJN’s headquarters in downtown St. Paul. The four-story building blended in with other early 1800s brick structures in the renovated neighborhood of restaurants, condominiums and businesses a few blocks from the Mississippi riverfront. The granite and glass face of the bank up the street announced that time had marched into the twenty-first century, but few would guess that the Channel Six building from a bygone era housed the latest gizmos and gadgets for electronic communication.

“You coming in?” Stan shut off the engine.

Hallie shook her head. “Places to go and people to see.”

“Oh, yeah, that ‘quiet evening with friends.’” He snickered.

She punched his shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’ll be addressing wedding invitations. Wonderful, boring job, and that’s about all I can handle right now.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “You’re getting married?”

“Not me, goof. One of my best girlfriends, Samantha Reid, is tying the knot with a great guy in five weeks. I’m the maid of honor…well, one of them. You see, Sam couldn’t possibly pick between Jenna and me so—”

“Spare me.” Stan presented his hand, palm out. “Wedding stuff gives me the willies.”

“How come? You’ve never been married.”

“My point exactly.”

A tiny laugh seeped between Hallie’s lips. “Well, when the love bug bites, you’ll make a beeline for the altar.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Uh-oh!” Hallie’s gaze narrowed on the dark head that had popped out the back door of the WDJN building. Brody was looking for something…or, more likely, someone.

“What?” Stan looked around.

“I so cannot handle a grilling by the champion of all things jock and jockette. See you tomorrow.” She slipped out of the van and hurried across the lot, keeping vehicles between her and the hunter sniffing her trail.

Every once in a while, Brody’s wry humor at a staff meeting surprised a laugh out of her, but most of the time he seemed to make a project out of establishing fresh roots as a nettle in the garden of her life. Female viewers might go gaga over those storm-gray eyes and the trademark one-sided dimple, but the charming facade didn’t work on her.

She never forgot what she overheard him say to the station manager about her the day she started at WDJN. Cheerleader type, indeed! He might as well have pasted a couple of pompoms to her hands, because she’d been doing mostly feature fluff ever since—such as the Minnesota model story she was working on today. She had become so well-known for that type of reporting that the modeling agent who had intrigued the station with the story idea had asked for her by name to do the coverage.

Scowling, she continued up the sidewalk toward the corner of the block, heels clickety-clacking against the cement. A year ago she’d landed a big story about labor union corruption, but she’d had to freelance that one on her own time. She got the scoop, all right. Then Brody had the gall to seem mad at her about it. Okay, so maybe he’d been a little right. She should have arranged backup for herself when she went undercover, but everything had turned out great anyway. She’d do it differently now if the station would give her more hard-hitting stories. Not likely if Brody kept using his influence against her with his buddy Wayne Billings, the station manager.

Hallie joined a group of people at the crosswalk. A few of them glanced at her and sidled away. She probably looked ready to take a bite out of someone. Smoothing out her expression, she nodded to several who lived in her building. The signal changed, and the group surged across the street in a tight little herd that dispersed as soon as their feet touched the sidewalk. Hallie trailed a pair of chatting women carrying briefcases and a man with an iPod in his hand up a set of stairs onto a wide, cement landing shaded by a canopy. They skirted a cast-iron sculpture of a boy and a girl playing leapfrog. The man pulled out his building key, opened the front door, and they all filtered inside, Hallie bringing up the rear.

The still coolness of the lobby welcomed her. The rent rate insured that she drove an economy car, but living across the street from work was priceless in her business when time often counted in getting the scoop. Right now, she’d just as soon close the blinds and take the phone off the hook for about the next decade. Maybe she should forget about addressing invitations tonight. Jenna and Sam would understand better than anyone why today’s tragedy turned her inside out. Then again, maybe she should be with close friends.

The elevator door whispered open in front of the little group just as Hallie’s cell phone vibrated inside her blazer pocket. She checked the caller ID and smiled. Letting the others board the elevator, she turned away and sat in a lobby chair.

“Hi, Jenna. No, I haven’t forgotten. It’s been a day like you wouldn’t believe.”

A laugh trilled from the other end of the connection. “What’s new in the life of Hallie Berglund?” The clatter of dishes in the background entered Hallie’s ear. Jenna must be calling from the kitchen of her restaurant.

“You haven’t seen the news tonight?”

“No way in this mad house. You’ll have to fill us in. But I wanted to let you know that we’re set up in the private dining room, and Sam’s here already, chomping at the bit.”

Hallie worked the high-heeled pump off her right foot and massaged her instep. A soft groan left her lips. “You’ll have to get started without me.”

“Pleeease don’t tell me you’re not coming. It’s so important to—”

“What? You want me to break tradition and be on time? I just need to change clothes and freshen up.”

“No problem. If it seals the deal, I made tomato and portabella quiche in pepper pots.”

“Woman, don’t bother to bar the door, I’m busting in.”

They broke the connection, laughing. Hallie pocketed her phone. Maybe getting out would do her good.

She rode the elevator up to the third floor. Her hallway was empty but the muted strings and woodwinds of classical music drifted out from her neighbor’s apartment. Stepping inside her unit, the scent from her blooming frangipani plant greeted her. The fluffy throw pillows on her tan-and-olive couch beckoned, but she breezed past into her small bedroom, where she changed into jeans and a blouse and comfy cross-trainers for her feet. In the bathroom, she took out the enameled pins that kept her dark hair away from her face for work and ran a comb through the thick strands. The shag cut feathered around her forehead, cheeks and jaw, before falling in tousled waves below her shoulders. Good enough. Teasing with the brush, curling iron and hair spray sounded like too much work. After all, it was just the girls tonight.

Twenty minutes later, she was on the interstate heading south toward Jenna’s restaurant in Lakeville. She turned up the CD player. Belting out a few praise songs with Point of Grace should keep images of death out of her head. The Highway 42 exit came up as the third song was finishing. She glided off the freeway with a deep green Impala in her wake.

Her gaze narrowed on the rearview mirror. Hadn’t that car been behind her when she left St. Paul? The temporary dealer plates were distinctive. It had to be the same car. Somebody was driving new wheels. Her heart rate quickened. She must have been in la-la land during the trip not to notice the green car had stuck with her. Of course, with several lanes of freeway traffic going in the same direction, the tail might not have been too noticeable until now.

The Impala hung back several car lengths, making it impossible to see the driver’s face. Could Damon Lange be hunting her? She swallowed a bitter taste. No, that was silly. The college ball player couldn’t afford a new car. He was squeaking through school on a sports scholarship. Her grip on the steering wheel eased, then tensed until her knuckles were white. If a man could commit murder, he could steal a car!

Ahead, a traffic light turned amber, and Hallie gunned through the intersection, heedless of a possible ticket. The green car was caught by the red light. Pulse washing in her ears, Hallie took the next turn, and then zigzagged around the area until she was sure the Impala hadn’t found her again. The dashboard clock told her she was very late, rather than just sort of late by the time she pulled into a space at The Meridian, but at least she wasn’t about to be accosted by a killer in a restaurant parking lot. She slumped and let out a breath.

Maybe she was making too much out of an innocent coincidence of two people from the same place headed for the same area at the same time, but better to be paranoid than sorry. She’d have to report this incident to the police tomorrow, and see if any green Impalas had been stolen recently. Maybe by then they’d have Lange in custody, and she could relax.

Scrounging up her last scrap of energy, Hallie got out of the car and trod into the stucco and half-timbered restaurant. Laughter, the hum of voices, the clink of silverware and a mingling of divine food odors greeted her senses. People sat around cloth-covered tables under the mellow light of chandeliers hanging from exposed roof beams. Some patrons wore jeans, others suits or dresses. At The Meridian, no one felt out of place and everyone was pampered. Jenna and her business partners had a great thing going here.

Carla, a hostess Hallie recognized, rustled toward her, dressed in a modest, yet form-fitting black dress. “They’re waiting for you in the back. Dr. Pepper, right?”

“Thanks, but no caffeine and sugar tonight. I’ve had enough stimulation for one day. Ice-water with lemon would be a life-saver.”

“I’ll send a tall glass your way.” Carla smiled and glided toward the server’s station.

Hallie threaded between full tables and busy wait staff on a circuitous route toward the private dining room. Peace and quiet in sympathetic company beckoned. She opened the door…and stepped into a carnival.

Balloons. Brightly colored banners. Flashing cameras.

“Surprise! Happy Birthday!”

The joyful din assaulted Hallie from dozens of grinning people. Her feet rooted to the spot, and her mouth fell open. A steel band wound around her chest, and pressure flooded behind her cheekbones. Tears burst their banks.

THREE

Whoa! The birthday girl was about to fly apart. Brody shot up from his chair while everyone else still cheered and laughed. He put his wide shoulders between Hallie and her well-wishers. “Hang in there, trooper. You can handle this.” He dabbed at her cheeks with a linen napkin.

She sniffed a long breath, gazing at him with teary sable eyes. The air stalled in his lungs. She curled her fingers around his. He took in the contrast between their skin—his lightly tanned, her deeper tone natural and exotic. She slipped the napkin from his hand and finished wiping her eyes. Then she stuffed the piece of cloth into his suit coat pocket and stepped around him, a brilliant smile on her face.

“I’m—” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I’m overwhelmed.”

Hallie’s friends who were throwing the party, slender Samantha and full-figured Jenna, hustled forward and gathered her in hugs then whisked her into the crowd, chattering away. So much for “Thanks for the quick thinking, Brody.”

A chuckle next to him drew his attention. It was Ryan Davidson, the tall guy who had introduced himself as Samantha’s fiancé when Brody arrived.

“Quite the trio, eh?” Ryan jerked his chin toward the three women who stood practically joined at the hip as guests greeted the birthday girl. “I never know what they’re going to come up with next. Hallie thought this was going to be a work night, stuffing and addressing wedding invitations. It’s not really her birthday until tomorrow.” He tucked a hand in a jeans pocket. “Sam and Jenna did the invites yesterday, but saved a couple for Hallie to do tonight so they can claim they didn’t lie to her.”

Brody laughed. “Clever. I take it the ladies have known each other for a while.”

“Since forever. They went to high school together and belonged to the same youth group in Hallie’s uncle’s church.”

Brody stared at Samantha’s fiancé. “I didn’t know Hallie was a Christian.”

“I don’t suppose faith is a common topic of conversation where you work.”

“You mean amongst the liberal media?”

The man opened his mouth, shut it, and then shook his head. “I guess that’s what I was thinking when I said it. Sorry if I was out of line.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Brody let Ryan off the hook with a grin. “I’m a believer myself.”

“No kidding! There’s at least two at Channel Six then. Must be why WDJN is my preferred station for the news.”

Brody studied his loafers to hide his frown. If he and Hallie were on the same page spiritually, how come they’d never sensed the connection? Maybe because they went out of their way to avoid one another. He needed to alter that habit if he expected her to be open to a discussion with him about what happened today. “Come to think of it, I don’t know much about Hallie. What do her folks do?”

Ryan’s brows lifted. “I guess you are in the dark. Her parents were killed on the mission field a long time ago.”

“Oh, man, that’s tough.”

“Sam says Hallie was a little girl when she came to the States to live with her father’s brother’s family. I don’t suppose she remembers much about Nigeria. Sam and I are having our wedding ceremony in Hallie’s uncle’s church.” The blond man rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning like his face would split.

Brody looked away. Here was one guy charging gleefully into matrimony. He’d been a starry-eyed groom himself once. Hopefully, Samantha and Ryan would make a better job of it than he and Deborah had. They could hardly do worse.

Ryan slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s grab some of that awesome buffet spread before the rest of this bunch gobbles it up.”

“I’m right on your heels, buddy.” Brody smiled. He could sure like Hallie’s friends. Too bad she was such a prickly rose.

As he piled fresh fruit and veggies, cold canapés and steaming gourmet concoctions onto his plate, he studied her. She stood flushed and laughing amidst faces he knew from work and many he’d never seen before. Hallie stood half a head taller than most of the women and at least as tall as some of the men. Brody only topped her by a couple of inches himself. With her brand of class, she could walk the runway as easily as Alicia had done.

By the unclouded expressions on everyone’s faces, she was keeping mum about her experience this afternoon. A movement by the door caught his eye. Uh-oh, peaceful ignorance wasn’t going to last long now. Stan sauntered into the festivities. The lanky cameraman was never one to hang onto juicy information, at least not after it had already been reported.

Brody looked around. Vince Graham wasn’t here at all. Probably wouldn’t make it since he’d be haunting the police for breaking developments on the Drayton case. And none of the other evening news staff was present. Since the rest of the guests seemed to be ignorant of events, there was no reason for Hallie’s party to be darkened by murder talk, unless…Stan’s gaze stopped on Hallie’s group, and he headed that direction like a man on a mission.

Brody intercepted him. “Here you go, Stan the Man.” He held his brimming plate toward his coworker. “Chow down.”

“Helloooo delicious sustenance.” The cameraman took the plate. “Thanks. How did you know the smells were already driving me crazy? I haven’t eaten in at least…” He glanced at the wall clock…“four hours.”

Brody chuckled. “That’s forever to you.”

“I’m hypoglycemic.” He bit into a seafood and veggie wrap. His freckled face went slack and he moaned. “Whoever made this must be a five-star chef. Believe me, I know good eats.”

“Around here, a food aficionado should have no problem satisfying the beast. Though the way you eat, you should be a heavyweight not a welterweight.”

“Don’t begrudge me my great metabolism.” Stan looked up from the plate. “Maybe I’d better say happy birthday to Hallie before I get lost in gourmet-land. It practically killed me to keep quiet about the party when I was working with her today.”

“Between you and me, I think she’s more than a little shook up about her experience this afternoon. We’d probably be doing her a favor to let her enjoy the party without any nasty reminders.”

Stan bobbed his head. “Gotcha! You can count on me to zip my lips—especially when I’m filling them with stuff like this.”

“Hi, guys.” Jenna wandered up to them. “Are you finding everything to your satisfaction?”

“Stan here fell in love at first bite,” Brody said. He performed introductions between the cameraman and one of Hallie’s best friends. “I’m told that Jenna’s the lead chef and part owner of The Meridian.”

“You made this ambrosia?” Stan gestured with the piece of seafood wrap between his fingers. “The touch of cumin draws out the natural sweetness of the crab meat. Perfecto!”

“Spot on.” Color tinted the woman’s cheeks. “What an amazing palate you have.”

Stan’s face lit like she’d handed him an award. She gazed back, a tiny, bemused smile playing around her mouth.

Okay, third wheel here. Brody turned away, shaking his head. Did Hallie notice how he ran interference for her? He looked her direction and found her staring at him, the corners of her lips turned down. She might as well have shouted at him—what are you up to? Brody sighed. He’d known thawing the Queen of Sheba would be a tough task.

He kept his distance through the birthday song, the cake and the cards, but as people began to leave, he edged closer to his target. At last, with only a couple of die-hard guests left, he noticed Hallie stifling a yawn.

Nearby, Jenna laughed, Stan at her elbow, where he’d hovered most of the evening.

“Tough day?” Jenna asked.

“And then some.” Hallie’s gaze met Brody’s then darted away.

That determined smile materialized. Was he the only one who picked up on the shadows in her eyes? Or maybe he only imagined the hovering hurt because of his own concerns. He should wait until another time to ask his questions…No, he couldn’t. Damon was out there, a fugitive, and this woman’s testimony could end his freedom and his career.

“This was great.” Hallie swept a hand around the room. “I can’t believe you guys went to all this trouble.”

Samantha walked up, and threaded her arm through Ryan’s. “Just wait and see what we do for the big three-oh.”

Hallie planted a hand on her hip. “You have a death wish?” Everyone laughed, but Hallie’s chuckle cut off short. “Methinks it’s this old woman’s bedtime.”

“That statement coming from the night owl?” Samantha shook her head, grinning.

“We’ll walk you to your car,” Ryan said. “It’s dark now.”

“No need.” Brody stepped forward. “I’m heading out anyway.”

Hallie blinked like he’d snapped his fingers in front of her face, but didn’t object when he took her elbow and guided her to the door amidst a chorus of goodbyes. Outside the private room, she disengaged herself from his grasp and walked ahead of him through the restaurant. Male heads turned as she went past. Brody drew himself up taller and stayed close on her heels.

They exited into the halogen-lit parking lot, and Hallie glanced over her shoulder at him. “Thank you.” The words came out pinched, but at least she said them.

Questions pooled behind his lips as they crossed the asphalt, but he held them in. The darkness smelled of car exhaust, cooking fumes and cooling tar.

She walked around to the driver’s side of her coupe and gazed over the car roof at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Cruise me around to my car. It’s on the other side of the lot.”

She grimaced, but the sound of electronic locks releasing met his ears. He hopped in on the passenger side before she could change her mind.

“Don’t start it,” he said as she inserted the key into the ignition. “We need to talk. Damon didn’t kill Alicia.”

“So that’s what this was about. Attending the party. The emergency napkin. Walking me to the car. You want a private interview with the witness to a crime involving a sports figure.”

Her cynical snort sent his nostrils flaring. The woman could rile a sleeping turtle. “Sure, I came to the party to talk to you, but I don’t care about an interview. Vince is handling the story.”

Her brows disappeared beneath groomed bangs. “Then what’s your interest?”

“The police are looking for the wrong man. Damon’s no murderer. I need to know exactly what you saw in that house.” Did he sound as frustrated as he felt? Why had he thought Hallie might spill her guts to him, of all people?

Hallie’s shoulders slumped. “I keep replaying that scene in my head.” Her gaze was fixed straight ahead. Weariness hung on her like an old coat.

Brody’s conscience stirred, but now was not a good time to go soft.

She turned her face in his direction, chin jutting out. “I walked in on Damon crouched over Alicia’s sprawled body. He was moaning and carrying on like someone who’s done something terrible and can never take it back. When he heard me, he leaped up with a braided cord in his hand. Alicia was strangled, so don’t tell me Damon didn’t kill her.”

“You didn’t actually see him put that cord around her throat and pull it tight.”

She shuddered visibly. “If I had, I would have clobbered him.”

“I can believe that.” Brody let out a dry chuckle. “But I still don’t believe Damon killed Alicia. Did you notice anything about the scene that didn’t add up?”

“We-e-ell.” Hallie frowned and looked way. “I don’t suppose these things are ever neat little slam dunks, but there were a couple of things.”

Silence fell for several heartbeats. “What things?” Brody prompted.

She met his gaze. “I did wonder why bits of glass were scattered on top of the body. If there was a struggle before the murder, why wasn’t all the debris under the body? And why didn’t she have defensive bruises on her hands, which she would have used to shield her face? I think somebody stronger than she was sat on her, beat her and strangled her, and then they trashed the room in an excess of fury. Anger followed by regret is Damon’s modus operandi, considering the numerous times he’s blown up and apologized later on the basketball court.”

“Impressive. Even the assumptions about Damon are detective level observations.”

“More than you expected out of someone like me?” Her tone had an edge he couldn’t define.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that question, but Vince would probably tell you it’s amazing for anyone unused to dealing with crime scenes to keep so much presence of mind.”

Her eyes widened. “Thank you.”

Brody’s insides warmed. Mark this one down in the history books. Hallie Berglund expressed sincere gratitude to Brody Jordan. He opened his mouth to ask what more she’d noticed, but his cell phone began to play. He popped the phone open and answered. Heavy breathing came over the line, and his belly muscles tensed.

“You’ve got to help me,” a familiar voice whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Damon?”

Hallie gasped and her huge, dark eyes riveted on him.

FOUR

How could Brody sit and talk so calmly to a brutal murderer? Oh, that’s right. Hallie curled a lip. He didn’t think a talented basketball star could also be a supreme creep.

“That’s not an option, Damon.” Brody’s fingers drummed against the console between the driver’s and passenger seat. “You can’t run from this. You’ve got to—” Paused. “I know it, and you know it, but now we need to convince the police.”

Shouted curses from the opposite end of the connection carried to Hallie. She winced. Creep, all right. Kills a woman and then only cares about saving his own skin.

“Get a grip!” Brody’s icy tone sliced through the heated explosion. “There’s only one right alternative at this moment, and you’d better take it.” Pause. “When and where?” Pause. “I’ll be there.” Brody snapped his phone shut then turned toward Hallie. “I’ve got to go. We’ll have to finish our chat later. Can you swing around to my car?”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to meet with a wanted fugitive. You could get in big-time trouble. Not to mention, since he’s capable of murder, you’re risking your life.”

One side of his mouth lifted, and the trademark dimple flickered. “Thanks for your concern. I appreciate it, but this is something I have to do.”

Hallie shrugged, bitter protest burning on her tongue, but what was the point of wrangling with this stubborn man? “I hope it’s not your funeral…literally.”

Brody laughed. “I think you’re doomed to see me in the office tomorrow, not a casket.”

Gritting her teeth, Hallie started the car and backed out of her space. She should boot him out and make him walk, but she was raised to be Minnesota nice, a code of courtesy that had trickled over the border to her Eau Claire, Wisconsin family address. “Where’s your vehicle?” She guided the compact around The Meridian.

“It’s the Impala right there.”

Her gaze followed the direction of his finger, and she punched her brakes. They lurched forward against their seatbelts. “You’re the one who was following me in a new car.” She skewered him with a glare.

Brody’s storm-cloud eyes studied her like she must’ve fallen off the turnip truck. “Is there something criminal about trading fresh every couple of years? Lots of people do it.”

“That’s not the point. You scared—I mean I thought…” She trailed away on a huff. Nothing like making an idiot of herself in front of a guy who already considered her little better than window dressing at the station.

“Ahhhh.” That viewer-popular dimple took up residence in his right cheek.

Would Aunt Michelle approve if she slapped it off? She looked away and scowled out her window toward a young couple leaving the restaurant hand-in-hand.

“Given what you believe about Damon,” Brody said, “you thought my car might contain the killer looking for the only witness.”

She turned a hard gaze on him. “So I’m a little skittish after what I saw this afternoon.”

“Actually, I don’t blame you. Under the circumstances, that was sharp thinking and a good reaction to ditch me. Though I did wonder where you disappeared to when I arrived at the party, and you weren’t here yet.” He laughed.

The tension in Hallie’s muscles eased. The guy could be charming. Not that she cared about that, but maybe he was starting to get that she wasn’t a total airhead. “I had intended to report the incident to the police tomorrow. Guess I won’t have to now.”

Nodding, Brody climbed out of the car, then bent and poked his head inside. “Rain check on our conversation.”

“You’re not the only one with questions to ask. I want to know what makes you so sure your golden boy’s not a killer. And it better be good.”

He smacked the top of her vehicle with his palm. “Deal. And it is.”

Her car door thunked shut, and the sportscaster strode into the dusk. She’d find those broad shoulders appealing if they didn’t bear that “I’m all it” swagger she’d detested in Teresa’s fatal tormenter. Hallie shook her head. She thought she’d come so far in erasing those images from her mind—getting on with her life—but they’d only been hiding. Lurking for an opportunity to pounce. She had to put the memories back in their cage. How would she cope if she started having those nightmares again? A shudder rippled up her spine.

She needed to make sure today’s monster was taken off the streets as quickly as possible. No way could she trust Brody to do the hard thing with his Wunderkind. She slipped her vehicle into an empty spot near the restaurant exit but behind the cover of an SUV. A few seconds later, Brody’s new car cruised past and turned onto the road. Hallie maneuvered out of the parking lot and crept up behind him, allowing a car between them. Shortly, all three of the vehicles glided onto the interstate going north. Hallie took a different lane than Brody and stayed behind the other car as a buffer.

Minutes ticked past. Was it stifling in here, or was she just nervous? She turned up the air conditioning and repositioned her sweaty hands around the wheel. Find out where Brody was meeting Damon and call 9-1-1, that’s all she had to do.

But what if the killer spotted her? He’d know for sure she wasn’t going to back off from her testimony. Did that matter? He’d be behind bars. Unless, of course, they let him out on bail. They wouldn’t do that, would they—not after he’d already run once?

Hallie slid her cell phone from her purse and placed it at the ready in the cup holder on her console. Doubts and fears made no difference. She had to do this.

For Alicia. For Teresa.

What did that woman think she was doing? Brody checked the driver’s side mirror again. It wasn’t so pitch dark he couldn’t make out the shape of her little car a couple of lanes to his left. When she’d followed him from the restaurant onto the interstate, he hadn’t thought much about it since their routes coincided for the moment, but she should have veered off on 35E toward St. Paul instead of tailing him on 35W toward Minneapolis.

One thing he’d observed from afar during their time together at WDJN, Hallie Berglund chose the high road toward whatever she perceived as truth and justice, regardless of personal risk. He’d admired her more than once for putting action to her convictions—and wanted to shake her more than twice for the chances she took. Like the time she didn’t tell a soul at the station before she posed as a waitress and sneaked into a backroom meeting between high-level management of a major corporation and top union representatives. Her story had exposed corruption on both sides of the table, and big heads had rolled. If she’d been caught pulling that stunt, she’d probably be wearing a cement straightjacket at the bottom of the Mississippi River.

A familiar chill flowed through Brody’s veins. Yes, a reporter sometimes needed to take chances to get a story, but they also needed to make sure their backside was covered if things went south—not go freelancing after a dangerous scoop without someone in the know.

Tonight, she no doubt figured on catching herself a murderer. He’d have to disappoint her. He was going to see Damon alone and without interruption. What happened after that was up to Damon. If Brody had done half the job he hoped with the kid, the young man would make the right choice.

The exit to France Avenue came up, and he took it. Hallie’s car lurked behind a Lexus sports coupe that would have had his ex shooting him eyeball daggers because they couldn’t afford one on a sportscaster’s salary. Like she couldn’t get a job? Brody shrugged off the residual resentment. Deborah was no doubt driving whatever she liked ever since she’d snagged the sort of sports idol she craved. The guy was rich and famous…and headed either for a breakdown or the hoosegow, from the inside information that had come to Brody’s ears.

He glanced at his rearview. Yep, Hallie was still back there. Now she’d put a Papa Morelli’s Pizza delivery car between them. If she could lose him on the mildly busy road in suburbia on the way to the restaurant, then turnabout was more than fair play. She didn’t stand a chance of staying with him in the downtown Minneapolis maze of stoplights and one-way streets. Brody grinned and pointed his vehicle into the heart of the city.

Forty-five minutes and one phone call later, he pulled the Impala over to the crumbling curb in front of a seedy stucco home in a rundown neighborhood. A single light glowed in a front window. Brody stepped out of his car. Garbage smells assaulted his nostrils. He looked upward and stars sparkled back at him, visible only because most of the streetlights were out. From a house across the street, rap music thumped through quality speakers. A car belched smoke and screeched away from in front, leaving two junkers at the curb and a low-slung sedan in the driveway. Drug house.

Brody headed up the walk toward the stucco dwelling. The doorway eased open several inches, and a narrow pillar of light spilled onto the tiny ragweed lawn.

“That you, bro?” Damon’s voice quavered toward him.

“In the flesh.”

The door opened wide, and Brody stepped into a musty-smelling foyer that barely contained the two of them. The towering basketball player wrapped him in a bear grip and dropped his head to Brody’s shoulder. Sobs shook Damon’s whipcord frame.

“I shouldn’t have done it…” Gulp. “But that woman, she—”

“What are you talking about?” Brody shoved Damon against the wall. “Don’t tell me—”

“You didn’t see Alicia. You don’t know anything!” Damon’s muscled shoulders drooped. If despair had a face, Brody was looking at it. “That other woman,” Damon continued. “The way she looked at me made me want to hurt her, but I just—”

“Brody Jordan.” The hoarse words brought both of their heads around. In an interior doorway stood a rail of a woman dressed in a stained T-shirt and dirty jeans that sagged around bony hips. Thin lips stretched away from yellowed teeth, and the acrid taint of cigarette smoke, mingled with a harsher kind, wafted from her body. But Brody’s stare riveted on the .45 pistol she clutched in white-knuckled hands. “I never thought I’d say this to you, but get out of my house. You’re not taking my boy to jail. They’ll never let him out.”

Brody gazed into Meghan Lange’s dilated pupils. Here stood the reason that Damon was born and raised an emotional yo-yo, but the woman loved him the best she could. There was no doubt about that. And right now, there was no more dangerous creature in the world than a terrified mother on drugs.

Hallie stopped her car behind Brody’s and sat squeezing the steering wheel. Did she dare step foot outside in this neighborhood? She glanced around the area. Had Brody gone inside the house where the music blasted or this other one where the door stood open? Under her rearview mirror light, she checked the address Vince had given her over the phone after she’d lost Brody. She looked at both homes, but couldn’t read the house numbers in this darkness.

Well, she was always one to take a chance on the open door. She tucked her cell phone into her jeans pocket. As soon as she confirmed Damon was present, she’d make her call and scoot. Gripping her car keys in her fist, one key poked outward for a quick jab into an eye if necessary, she hustled up the chipped and weed-ridden sidewalk. Somewhere in the shadows to her left, a snap sounded. Hallie froze, muscles wired for flight. For long seconds, all she heard was her own pulse. Then a woman’s voice grated from beyond the doorway ahead. Brody’s tones answered, smooth as butter. Placating.

“Mom, put that thing away,” a third voice rasped. Damon? “You’re so wasted, you’re as likely to shoot me or yourself as anyone.”

Shoot? Hallie’s heart fluttered. Brody was in danger, just like she’d warned him, but not from the source she’d anticipated. What could she do about it?

Her hand closed around the phone in her pocket, but that wasn’t the whole answer. The police couldn’t get here fast enough to stop the tragedy that could occur at any second. Maybe there was a rear entrance. If she could sneak inside and create a distraction, Brody might get the gun away without anyone being hurt. That was a big “if,” but better than walking inside and giving the crazed woman another target.

Hallie darted across the lawn toward the left side of the house. Her peripheral vision caught Brody backing out the front door with his hands in the air. She reached the narrow strip of ground between houses and plunged into darkness. A low growl ahead stopped her in her tracks. Then a hiss and rustle indicated a retreating feline. Who knew what else lay ahead of her? What was she thinking trying to creep around the dark in this neighborhood? She needed to call the police right now! Hallie yanked the cell phone from her pocket, and her fingers found the keys. 9-1—

Crash!

That was no gunshot. Male voices shouted, one of them Brody’s, and a woman started crying. Hallie backpedaled and poked her head around the corner of the house.

A scarecrow woman stood on the front lawn, wringing her hands. “My window!”

The front window sported a jagged hole, Brody now clutched the gun, and the lanky Damon wrapped his mother in his arms. No one else was in sight, but from somewhere nearby, tires screeched on pavement.

Gaze darting from side to side, Hallie hustled up to Brody. “What happened?”

“What are you doing here?” He glared at her.

“I was trying to save your bacon, but then this.” She gestured toward the shattered pane.

“You didn’t throw a rock?”

“No, I was sneaking around back.”

Brody scowled. “You win the Girl Scout badge for tracking me, but you need to get out of here. Now!” He turned toward the noisy house across the street.

Her gaze followed his. A pair of dark figures lurked by the fancy car in the driveway. Their unseen stares crawled beneath her skin. “What about you?”

“I’m not a beautiful woman, and besides, Damon and I are leaving, too. I called and got police blessing for me to bring him in, rather than them coming for him. Now go!”

Hallie glanced across the street and gulped. The watchers had moved to the end of their driveway. Brody took her elbow and steered her to her car. She hopped in, slammed the door and locked it, then lowered the window a crack. “Aren’t you leaving now, too?”

Brody stood on the street with his back to her, eyeing the observers, Damon’s mother’s gun in plain sight. “You’re the spark that could set this situation off. I’ll be fine. Trust me, please, and get moving.”

Hallie started her car. A hasty retreat could be a wise thing once in a while. She peeled out. The rearview mirror showed Brody walking back toward the mother and son on the lawn. The other two men were retreating to their own domain as well.

Invisible clamps loosened from Hallie’s chest, and she took in a deep breath. Was Brody really going to bring Damon in, or was he playing her?

“Trust me,” he’d said. That was a novel idea where the WDJN sportscaster was concerned. Still, Brody had called her beautiful a few minutes ago. Her skin warmed. Humph! Like that compliment meant anything. In the breath before that, he’d equated her with a Girl Scout. He might as well have patted her on the head and offered to buy a box of cookies. But then, he had looked pretty impressive standing there with a gun between her and those thugs across the street. Of course, he was thinking about his own hide at the same time, not to mention looking out for that slime Damon and his wigged out mother.

Reaching a main thoroughfare well away from the shady neighborhood, Hallie popped open her cell phone and dialed. “Hello, Vince? Remember that favor I owe you?”

“What? I’m about to collect already?” The crime reporter chuckled.

“Brody says he’s going to bring Damon in. If you get down to police headquarters with a cameraman, you could get footage that’ll scoop the other media again.”

A low whistle sounded in her ears. “That tidbit is worth another favor back at ya.”

“I warn you, I don’t forget things like that.” She laughed.

They ended the call. Now Brody had better come through.

A little while later, Hallie let herself into her apartment and pulled off her shoes near the hallway closet. In socks, she padded into her living room and touched the button to boot up her laptop sitting on the coffee table. Then she went to the kitchen and put the teakettle on to boil. Some folks nuked their tea in the microwave, but her mother had taught her from a little girl that the old-fashioned way is best. Of course, Yewande Berglund’s tea had been made with native roots and barks. Tonight called for double chamomile. The natural relaxant had a way of warding off bad dreams. She didn’t need those after today. Hallie put two scoops of crushed leaves into the strainer.

While the water heated, she went to her bedroom and changed into pajamas. Then she opened the lacquered wood jewelry case on her mirrored dresser and took out a shiny child-sized bracelet. The solid circlet of copper fit on her palm. Engraved elephants, linked trunk to tail, marched around the circumference. On the right rear foot of the hindmost elephant stood the Yoruba tribe’s symbol for blessing, Hallie’s mother’s signature.

The same symbol she’d seen on the bracelet that adorned a dead woman’s wrist.

The teakettle screamed, and Hallie jumped. Man, she was keyed up. Time for that tea…and a little research while she sipped. She checked the bedside clock. Too late to call home and ask Uncle Reese and Aunt Michelle a few questions about the time in her life they rarely discussed—her Africa years. That conversation would have to wait until tomorrow evening after her full day of interviews for her modeling story, which would include plenty of questions about Alicia while she was at it.

“I’m coming,” she called to the whining teakettle as she headed back to the kitchen.

Soon she carried a steaming mug into her living room and perched on the edge of her couch. Savoring the pleasantly pungent taste of chamomile, she transferred her cell phone photos to her computer. Alicia’s bracelet filled the screen. This circlet also featured elephants, but these stood nose-to-nose. Hallie zoomed in until she came to the pivotal part.

The Yoruba symbol for blessing on one of the elephant’s hind feet was clearly visible. Hallie’s mother had made this bracelet. The confirmation raised a million more questions, each more puzzling than the last.

How and when did Alicia get the armband? Had she purchased it by chance at a flea market, a rummage sale, a pawn shop? If so, how had the piece come to be on the market? Yewande Berglund had never sold her work, only gave it to those who would treasure the items. So who had passed the bracelet to Alicia? The model couldn’t have been a year old when Hallie’s parents were killed. Had that person known her mother and father? How? Why?

Was there some mysterious connection between her and the woman she’d found murdered only hours ago? Could more than publicity have been on Alicia’s mind when she requested that Hallie do the interview? What would she have told her if they’d had the chance to talk?

Hallie surged to her feet and marched her empty mug into the kitchen. Those were questions that demanded answers, and as a reporter she was equipped to find them—for herself not the station.

Only one question remained. Hallie leaned on her palms against the countertop. Did she have the courage to face the shadowed fears in her own mind that those answers might disturb?

FIVE

Hallie awoke with an ache throbbing behind her eyes. She shut her alarm clock off before it could shriek at her. At least, she hadn’t been pursued by nightmares. Probably because she’d tossed and turned most of the night, despite the chamomile. Impressions from family life in Africa had haunted her mind. Her mother’s dusky smiling face, displaying the little gap between her top front teeth Hallie’d all but forgotten. The cozy warmth of sitting in her father’s lap while he read her a story. The images were welcome, not frightening, but so fleeting they brought frustration instead of satisfaction.

And questions piled on questions. Why did Uncle R and Auntie M so seldom speak of her parents? Their words were positive—almost reverent—but they were few, careful. Why had she never insisted they discuss her family and Africa…and even that last tragic day? How come she had allowed herself to assimilate so quickly into American life and lose the Nigerian part of her heritage? Was that neglect the source of the confusion she sometimes felt about who she was and where she was headed in life?

Hallie slammed the side of her fist onto her mattress and flung off the covers. Way too many deep questions for a fuzzy-headed morning when she had tons to accomplish. She rolled out of bed and plodded to the shower.

A half hour later, she flipped on the television to catch the morning news. Her hand, bearing a strawberry cream cheese bagel, froze halfway to her open mouth.

There he was! Brody Jordan in the flesh, following a slump-shouldered Damon Lange into the police station. The clip had been filmed late last night. Vince got his scoop, Brody kept his word, Lange was off the streets. This day might not turn out to be such a trial after all.

Humming, Hallie got ready for work. She’d have to compliment Brody on his accomplishment. He’d taken the tough route and seen it through. It’d be even tougher on him when the ball player was found guilty. Note to self: Cut Brody a little slack at the office. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to implement her new benevolence plan until late this afternoon. Brody’s hours didn’t start until midmorning because he worked into the evening, and she had interviews to conduct all day. Hopefully, nice meaty ones, with lots of good dope on Alicia and maybe even Damon Lange—anything she could get to help insure a killer went away forever.

As was her habit on sunny summer days, she ignored the enclosed skyway route to the WDJN building and went out the front door of her apartment complex for the short walk to the station. A tall, solidly built man in a rumpled suit loitered near the sculpture of the leapfrogging boy and girl. His gray gaze lit when she appeared.

“Brody, what are you doing here?” She stopped in front of him. “I thought you’d still be catching some zs after your late night.” She looked him up and down. “Have you been to bed at all? You’re still wearing what you had on yesterday.”

“Haven’t even been home yet.” He fingered his chin and grimaced. “I suppose you can tell I haven’t shaved, either.”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, though 8:00 a.m. shadow doesn’t look half bad on you.”

He grinned, and Hallie glanced away, sobering. She didn’t need to get carried away with the be-nice-to-Brody project. Comments on his personal appeal might give him the wrong idea.

She cleared her throat. “You haven’t answered my original question.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “What am I doing here? Waiting for you. I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?” Uh-oh. This didn’t sound good. Not when she and Brody were on opposite sides of the Damon issue. She wrapped a hand around the shoulder strap of her purse and narrowed her eyes.

“Please don’t look at me in that tone of voice.” A thready chuckle punctuated his lame attempt at humor. “You and I both want the same thing—the truth. Wayne tells me you’re going to interview Alicia’s modeling agent this morning. I’d like to tag along.”

The purse strap dug into Hallie’s tightened fist. “So you’ve been to the station manager about this, and I’m being ordered to cooperate in your quest to clear a killer.” Why had she ever for one second entertained the notion that she should warm up to Brody Jordan? He was just as arrogant and manipulative as she’d always thought.

He lifted placating hands. “There’s no mandate here. I went to see Wayne at his house early this morning to arrange for the next couple of days off. As a side note, he said it would be okay for me to ask you for permission to go with this morning, but it was up to you if you wanted me underfoot.”

Hallie let out a soft huff, and her shoulder tension eased. “Not looking like yesterday’s leftovers, you’re not.”

The dimple ghosted across Brody’s cheek. “I’ll clean up at the station. Be ready in twenty minutes.”

“Give it half an hour. I need to check my e-mail and organize my notes before we leave. We’re not due at the agency until nine-thirty.” She led the way down the steps and to the intersection, Brody trailing.

“I really appreciate this,” he said as he came up beside her in the crosswalk.

Hallie focused her gaze straight ahead. “Don’t thank me too soon. I suspect you’re headed for a world of hurt when your protégé gets convicted.”

“I’m willing to take that chance, if you’re willing to hear evidence that suggests he’s innocent.”

Hallie humphed. “That’ll be quite a trick to come up with evidence that convinces the witness not to believe her own eyes.”

“I’m a man of faith, not sight. I hear tell you’re of the same persuasion. A miracle could still happen.”

“Isn’t that just like you to play the faith card like some quarterback sneak.”

Brody chuckled. “You never fail to surprise me. Quarterback sneak? You know more about sports than I would have guessed.”

Hallie gritted her teeth. Maddening jock!

Brody hustled through his shower and shave in the men’s room set up for busy reporters needing to get presentable at a moment’s notice. Then he changed into the suit he kept at the station for emergencies.

Gazing into the bathroom mirror, he rubbed his smooth chin. So Hallie didn’t find him utterly unattractive after all. What a surprise! A pleasant one. He grinned at himself, then sobered, thick brows drawn together. Watch it, buster. No way could he allow himself to enjoy that woman too much.

“She’s poison to you, man, and don’t you forget it.” He spoke aloud and then left the men’s room in search of Arsenic Hallie. Too bad he was looking forward to his next dose.

He rounded a corner then did a two-step dodge. “Oops! Didn’t mean to almost bowl you over.”

Vince stopped and laughed. “We need traffic lights around here.”

Brody scowled and poked the man’s thick chest. “I’ve got a major bone to pick with you. You told Hallie how to get to Damon’s mom’s house.”

“So?” Vince shrugged. “She’d have found out some other way if I didn’t cough up. Besides, her return favor got me to the police station in time to catch you escorting the prize of the day into the slammer. You know how these favor things work in this business.”

“Yes, I know how things work, and yes, she would have found the address on her own eventually, but not in time to drive into that neighborhood after me in the dead of night. Do you have any idea how badly that could have turned out for her?”

“She didn’t!”

“Next time you carelessly give her the means to put herself in danger, I will personally wring your neck.”

Vince leveled an assessing gaze on Brody. A sly grin crept over his rugged mug.

“What?” Brody crossed his arms.

“You got it bad for our lovely feature reporter. Can’t say I blame you. If I wasn’t happily married—”

Brody stalked off, trailed by a spurt of hyena laughter from that off-base crime reporter.

He didn’t find Hallie in her cubicle and wandered the halls until he came upon her in the lobby, talking to Daria, the receptionist. As he approached the tall reception counter, Rick, the security guard, looked up from his kiosk opposite the front desk and nodded. Brody returned the gesture and kept going. The hushed conversation between Hallie and Daria seemed animated, with the receptionist gesturing so that the many bangles on her wrist flashed under the fluorescent lights. Other than the raised hand, the flame-topped head was the only part of the woman visible behind the high counter with the huge letters WDJN embossed across the outside. Hallie leaned toward her, elbows on the desktop, as if hanging on every word. Brody came within hearing range and caught a few words from Daria.

“We’re already getting phone calls from irate basketball fans.” The woman looked up, spotted him, and shrank back against her seat.

“Hey, don’t worry about me,” Brody said. “I want to hear whatever you know.”

Hallie glanced over her shoulder, and her darkened gaze speared through him. “People don’t want to admit that their sports idols could be lousy human beings.”

He pressed his lips together against a sharp retort. Hallie was doing him a favor today. He didn’t need to screw it up with his big mouth.

“Oh, most of them aren’t defending Lange.” Daria fluttered red-painted fingernails. “They feel betrayed by him. Folks do care about their Golden Gophers. Hits ’em hard when one of their heroes goes down.” She pursed a rouged mouth in Brody’s direction. “I’m not too surprised tragedy happened between Damon Lange and Alicia Drayton, considering what I saw.”

Hallie leaned closer. “You knew them?”

“No, not personally. Lange brought her with him when he came in to tape a segment a while back. The lovebirds were going at it tooth and nail when they left here.”

Brody groaned. “They were so good together during the session. Must not have lasted much past the studio door.”

“They were fighting?” Hallie asked.

“Raised voices, nasty words, threatening gestures. My heart galloped sixty miles an hour.” Daria pressed a hand against her chest. “I thought things might get physical. Rick started coming toward them, but they charged right through and took it outside. Isn’t that right, Rick?”

The security guard looked up from his screen. “Just about got me my first collar in this tame joint.” He grinned and went back to his monitor.

Hallie frowned toward Brody. He kept his expression noncommittal, but on the inside, his heart sank. Oh, Damon, when will you ever learn to rein in your temper? Of course, Alicia could be quite the piece of work, but neither of these ladies had any way to know that yet.

“What was the fight about?” Hallie nodded toward Daria.

“From what little I could make out,” she glanced from Hallie to Brody and back again, “Damon was steamed that Alicia was late for his championship game because she was ‘too busy batting her eyes at runway groupies.’”

“Runway groupies? Hmm.” Hallie tapped a manicured nail against the marble counter. “Jealousy. That’s a powerful motive for murder. Maybe this Minnesota model story has more to do with the killing than I expected.” Her glance grazed Brody and continued toward the wall clock. “We need to leave soon if we’re not going to be late for our appointment.” She returned her attention to the receptionist. “Has Stan come in?”

“Bright and early. He went off to polish up Norman.” Daria snickered. “He should break down and adopt that camera. The way he babies it and even has the thing named, no judge in the world would deny his request.”

Brody chuckled and Hallie laughed. “He should get hitched and have a human baby,” she said. “Life would get into perspective awfully quickly.”

“Says the pot to the kettle, Miss Workaholic. Happy birthday, by the way. Time turns backward for no one.”

Brody smacked his forehead. “I should have been the first one to say that to you today.”

Hallie shot him a lopsided smirk. “You’re excused. You’ve had a few things on your mind.”

“There you are.” Stan stepped into the reception area, camera case in one hand and accessories bag hanging from a shoulder. “Thought maybe you’d sleep in after yesterday’s excitement, Hallie.”

“Not hardly.” Hallie shook her head. “Places to go, people to see. Remember?”

“Always! We keeping on with that Minnesota model story? Norman sure won’t mind filming a few beautiful women.” He grinned and patted his camera.

“We are, and we’ve got company coming along.” She jerked a thumb at Brody.

Stan’s eyes widened. “Well, well, there’s a new team at WDJN.”

Brody frowned, and Hallie’s expression mimicked his. At least they were in agreement that there was no agreement.

SIX

“Thank you for showing us around the training center.” Hallie followed Monique Rimes, head of Monique Modeling Agency into her thickly carpeted office. Brody and Stan followed behind. “The career of a model looks fascinating and challenging.”

If one liked being poked, prodded, contorted, barked at, dressed and undressed like a fashion doll, and starved half to death. Not that she’d voice that personal opinion. Ms. Monique, as she invited them to call her, had been all that was gracious in showing them around the academy and agency headquarters located in Plymouth, a western suburb of Minneapolis. Stan had gotten some nice footage of models in training.

“My pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves.” The silver-haired agent executed a model-style pivot and rested the pads of long fingers against the top of her desk. “Is there anything more I can do for you?” The print on her silk, button-up dress consisted of swatches of wide charcoal-gray-and-white stripes traveling in opposing directions, set off by an oversized collar and cuffs. The getup might have looked ridiculous on another figure, but the style added softness and curves to an angular body. The woman did know fashion.

“Just a few words with you. Perhaps we could stand over there.” Hallie pointed toward a case containing trophies and plaques.

Ms. Monique’s smile bloomed around impossibly white teeth. “Excellent idea.”

They took up positions that allowed the camera to catch most of the awards as well as the two of them. Brody stood back next to Stan, arms crossed. Hallie couldn’t fault the man’s behavior this morning. He’d been quiet and unobtrusive throughout the interview, even though he must be bursting with questions he’d been hoping to ask the agent.

Hallie faced Ms. Monique, and the camera rolled. She asked about the contents of the case. Ms. Monique gestured extravagantly and gushed on for ten minutes about the agency’s accomplishments over the years.

Hallie inserted appropriate exclamations then touched Ms. Monique’s animated arm. “Before we wrap this up, I think we’d be out of line if we didn’t address the pink elephant that’s been following us around all morning.”

A delicate moue flitted over the agent’s narrow mouth. “You mean about the untimely—er—loss of one of our models?”

“Exactly. How will Alicia’s sudden absence affect your schedule?”

A slight frown hinted at wrinkles lurking beneath the artfully applied makeup. “Those who knew her and worked with her are very saddened by her death. She was a tremendous asset to this agency and to the modeling profession.”

“So she will be difficult to replace.”

Ms. Monique huffed and met Hallie’s gaze beneath lowered brows. “Could we take this conversation off the record?”

Hallie hesitated. Maybe cooperation would yield surprising dividends. “Certainly.” She turned toward her cameraman. “Stan, could you stop the film?”

“Sure thing.” Stan lowered his camera.

Brody dropped his arms to his side and straightened. Hallie met his gaze, and he nodded in support of her decision.

Ms. Monique issued a pained grimace in Hallie’s direction. “You must understand that this is a very fluid business. Highly competitive. Many talented individuals are after the limited slots offered for television and movie spots, catalogs and runway models. Any individual, even one as gifted as Alicia, is only a drop in the sea. Remove that drop, and others instantly rush in to fill the void.”

Brody took a step forward, and Hallie moved aside. Might as well see where this new direction was going.

“Did she have any enemies that would want to hurry that process along?” he said.

The agent’s nostrils flared. “No more than anyone else who naturally excels at what they do in a competitive field. And certainly no one who would have beaten and strangled her merely to wear her outfits at the next fashion revue.”

“So you’re implying there was rivalry,” Hallie said, “but not deadly rivalry.”

“Who felt the most threatened by her talents?” Brody added.

Ms. Monique curled her upper lip and glared first at Brody and then at Hallie. “I am not going to dignify either of those questions with an answer. The point is that a beautiful young woman is dead.” Her mouth drooped and she sighed. “I can hardly believe she’s gone. And that her young man—” The woman shook her head. “Inconceivable that such a thing could have happened.”

“Inconceivable?” Hallie said. “I thought everyone knew Damon and Alicia had a troubled relationship.”

“What I mean is a person never thinks that someone they know is going to be murdered. And I’m not sure I would have characterized the relationship between those two as ‘troubled.’ More like…unusual.”

Brody nodded like he knew exactly what the agent meant.

Swallowing irritation, she smiled at Ms. Monique. “How so?”

The agent went to her desk and settled into her leather chair. At the woman’s gesture, Hallie took a seat opposite the desk, and Brody appropriated the other guest chair.

Ms. Monique cleared her throat and steepled her fingers in front of her. “Alicia was a highly disciplined young woman, as you need to be in order to last long in this business. A model must pay constant attention to diet and exercise and training. She was scrupulously punctual for every appointment, analyzed each paycheck to the last decimal point and gave a hundred and ten percent to every client. If Alicia had a fault…”

She pulled off her glasses and tapped the frames against her desktop. “See, I don’t care to criticize the dead, at least not for public consumption.” Her gaze swept toward the dormant camera and back to Hallie and Brody. “Other than a few freckles on her nose that we covered with makeup, our biggest issue with Alicia was getting passion out of her. If anything, she was too cool, too controlled. When we wanted an ice queen look, she was our go-to model. If we needed heat, we…well, perhaps an illustration might tell the most compelling story.” The agent reached for a portfolio on the corner of her desk, opened it, and pulled out a short stack of eight-by-ten photos. She selected two from among them and laid them out on the desk.

Alicia filled both pictures. Her rich, auburn hair floated around her exquisite face. Her smooth skin glowed fresh and peachy. The sleek lines of her neck and arms flowed gracefully in differing poses against dissimilar backgrounds. But that wasn’t the contrast that arrested Hallie.

In the shot on the left, every elegant plane of Alicia’s face, the form of her full lips, and the expression in those vivid emerald eyes screamed, “Do not touch!” In the photo on the right, the mouth softened, pouted, sassed, and her eyes sparkled like every facet of a finely cut gem exposed to light. Both photos were arresting, but only one exuded zest for life.

Hallie looked up at the modeling agent. “What made the difference?”

Brody made a humming sound. “I may have a glimmer what it was.”

Hallie frowned at him and returned her attention to Ms. Monique.

The agent smiled. “Whenever we needed fire out of Alicia, we invited Damon to the shoot. He’d walk in and—” She spread her hands toward the picture on Hallie’s right. “Sometimes, when he wasn’t available to come in person, we’d just get her started talking about him, and the same effect would happen. Sure, they fought epic battles, but without him, Alicia was a masterpiece carved in stone. With him, she softened into flesh and fire. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Brody chuckled. “I was only around Alicia when she was with Damon, so I guess all I ever saw was the fire.”

Hallie touched the picture on the right. “It almost looks like Damon was good for her. How can that be when there was something so sick about the relationship that he turned around and killed her?”

“I don’t believe he did,” Brody said. “But I would have to admit that the fire wasn’t always to the good. She could be a real dragon-lady.”

Ms. Monique chuckled as she gathered up the photos. “Seems like you two have a major difference of opinion about who did what.” The agent lifted penciled brows in Hallie’s direction. “You’re the eye witness. Do you have any doubt about what happened?”

Hallie lifted her chin. “No. No, I don’t. I know what I saw.” Of course she did. Why did her stomach give that little flutter? Brody’s assertions about Damon’s innocence must have gotten to her more than she’d realized. She smiled at Ms. Monique, smirked at a tight-faced Brody, and crossed her legs. “I have a couple more questions, but these are of personal interest, so they need to remain off the record, too.”

“You’d like to become a model?” Ms. Monique beamed. “You’re starting late in life. I like to get them going in their teens or even younger, but nowadays there are more and more opportunities for the mature models. With that stunning complexion and the way you carry yourself, you certainly have po—”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.