Dying Breath--A Heart-Stopping Novel of Paranormal Romantic Suspense Page 8

  He joined her in the hallway. “Special Agent Pryce?” he repeated, glancing at her as they headed to the elevators. “We used to be friends.”

  “Were we? Not that I mean to be rude or offensive in any way,” Vickie said. “But I’m not sure we were friends. You saved my life—and Noah’s. And then you came to my house and checked up on me a few times. And then I graduated and went to college and never saw you again. Until now. I mean, we’re not not friends, but...you have a very formal job now. I think I’m being rude. Or babbling. I may just be tired...forgive me.”

  He wasn’t looking at her as they stepped into the elevator. She thought that he was subtly smiling. “Of course,” he said. “And, you know, of course, that we—the FBI and the police—are indebted to you.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Honestly—I’m so sorry about the other women. The two who died before they were found,” she added softly. “But for me, it’s over now. I just want to go home and maybe have an early glass of wine and start working on some of the materials on my desk.”

  “Working at your desk. That’s good. You don’t have to be with your kids today, working for Grown Ups, right?”

  She looked at him as the elevator door opened. “How do you know about my kids?”

  “Obviously, once your name was mentioned in a clue and it had to do with the Ballantine family? Our office immediately pulled up all kinds of information on you.”

  “Great. You thought I was somehow involved?”

  “Nope. We just needed to find you. And we did, at your parents’ house.”

  She laughed suddenly. “I must be tired. It just now occurred to me how easily you found me. I wasn’t at my own apartment, and my parents have moved since...since that night.”

  “We are the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said with a shrug. “It would have been sad if we hadn’t been able to find you. Neither you nor your parents were in hiding.”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “That’s our black SUV there,” Griffin said, indicating a vehicle that was double-parked.

  “You have a driver.”

  “At the moment.”

  “You have come far.”

  “I’m in the right place,” he said simply.

  “And, of course, you know where my apartment is,” Vickie murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I won’t have to give anyone directions,” she said.

  He opened the back door of the big black vehicle for her, and Vickie slid in before he walked around to the other side. He quickly gave directions to the driver.

  When they reached the front of her building—another brownstone she had found in the downtown district; she did seem to have a thing for brownstones—he asked the driver to wait.

  “I’m okay to go on my own, really,” she told him, surprised. “You must be very busy right now.”

  “We are busy, but I’ll see you up. And, for the next few days at least, don’t worry—you won’t have an officer breathing over your shoulder, but you will have a patrol around the building.”

  Vickie decided not to argue.

  Actually, she wasn’t against some kind of protection.

  Although... She hadn’t really considered herself to be in danger! Her name had been used as a clue. It was like sports stars or actors or actresses being used in trivia games...wasn’t it?

  Deadly games.

  “You’re on the ground floor,” Griffin commented, looking up at the building.

  “Yes, I am. Well, almost. The basement rises above the street level a bit, so technically, I’m a bit off the street. And the basement is finished with apartments as well,” she told him.

  Vickie didn’t know why she was so nervous as she slipped her key into the main door. She seemed to be fumbling with it. She opened the front door, and crossed the small entryway to her own inner door. It was located to the left of the stairs that led to the apartments on the second and third floors of the old building, two on each floor.

  Griffin was still right behind her.

  “I’d ask you in, but—”

  “I’d love to come in.”

  He followed her into her apartment. Once inside, she realized that he was instantly assessing it.

  “Alarm system?” he asked her.

  “I haven’t been here that long. I’m in a pretty popular area, lots of people—”

  “You should have an alarm system. Everyone should.”

  “Well, I don’t at the moment...”

  He moved through her apartment. It wasn’t small—and it wasn’t especially large. She had a full parlor that stretched into a dining room; the kitchen was visible over the counter that separated it from the dining and living area. There was a hallway that led to her bedroom in the back, and the guest room—which she used as her office—just across from the kitchen.

  He didn’t ask permission; he walked through the place.

  Back in the parlor, he looked at her and said, “At least you have storm windows and they have sound locks.”

  “That was the first thing I looked for when I came up here to rent a place,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  He laughed out loud at that; he wasn’t the entirely severe man he had seemed when she had first seen him again at her parents’ apartment. But then, at that time, a woman’s life had lain in the balance.

  “Would you like coffee or tea, a drink, soda...a bottle of water?” she asked.

  “Coffee would be great.”

  “Um, it’ll just take a minute. I like a Hawaiian bean. Is that okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Black?”

  “Yep.”

  She headed into the kitchen, wondering what had made her ask him to stay. He would have left, gone back to do his job. Then she wouldn’t have seen him again.

  It wasn’t as if they had really been...anything. He’d come to see her after the Aldridge attack. He’d been a good cop; he’d made sure she was doing well. He’d wanted to see how she had been dealing with the events that had occurred. And then, he had disappeared from her life.

  She’d been an adolescent, of course—not quite eighteen. He’d been in his early or midtwenties. She’d had something of a man-who-saved-me crush on him back then—as had her friends. Griffin Pryce was very good-looking. Tall and broad-shouldered. Great eyes. Great body. Yep, at the time, all of her friends, including Roxanne, had dreamed about him a little, giggling—they’d giggled a lot at that age. They’d liked to tease one another. Imagine love—and sex—with just such a man.

  She managed to make coffee without her hands trembling or giving any other indication of where her thoughts had strayed. She prepared herself a cup as well. He took a seat at one of the stools by the counter.

  She kept the counter between them, leaning against it from the other side.

  She was glad Dylan wasn’t there.

  “Other than all that’s going on, it’s really good to see you,” Griffin told her. “You’re doing well?”

  She smiled at that. “Define well! I’m happy to be home in Boston. The Cradle of Liberty, and all that. College was great—New York is amazing, too. I enjoy what I do. They aren’t exactly bestsellers, but my history books do okay and... I honestly love the work I’m doing with Grown Ups. So many kids just need a chance, someone to care, someone to open doors in their minds. I hope I make some kind of difference.” She paused for a breath. “I may be answering you with way more than you were asking. You. What about you? I mean, patrolman to agent. Special Agent.”

  He laughed. “We’re all ‘Special Agent.’ But I love my unit and I love what I do.”

  “You were a good cop.”

  “Hopefully I’m a good agent.”

  “Ob
viously, you are. Strange, I’d just finished with the kids when we heard all the commotion over by the cemetery. I’d heard about the other women who were kidnapped, but...that was terrible and unusual, wasn’t it? Two women taken...just hours apart?”

  “Strange and very scary. Barbara Marshall was taken at night—Chrissy Ballantine the following afternoon—in broad daylight.” He looked up from his mug, pinning her with his dark eyes from across the counter. “We need to get him.”

  “Was Chrissy Ballantine any help? What about the other woman?”

  “Neither has been much help—not yet. Chrissy doesn’t remember anything. She never saw her attacker. He came from behind. We’re hoping she’ll get some kind of memory back, think of something.”

  “Yes, hopefully. And the other woman?”

  “Barbara Marshall. She’s taking a little longer to come around. Hopefully, too, one of them will think of something that might be helpful.”

  “Not that I know a lot about forensics, but...what about DNA? Fingerprints? Footprints?”

  “Nothing so far. Fingerprints are easily obscured. This person is wearing gloves. Still, we have good teams. Maybe they’ll come up with a hair or a fiber or something that will help. Then, of course, you have to have something to match your evidence to... But we’re on it.”

  “Two women died,” Vickie said, remembering the news. “But another one lived, right?”

  “Yes, Angelina Gianni, very sweet woman,” he said. He looked at her steadily, sipping his coffee. “Very interesting case. Local police were frustrated and the different cities and townships involved—along with the state—decided it was time they brought in the FBI. Anthony Gianni—Angelina’s husband—believed that he was visited by Angelina’s late mother.”

  And was she?

  Vickie was so tempted to say the words.

  She didn’t.

  “And you found her—because of the clues, though, right?”

  “We found her,” he said, watching her closely.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Vickie asked nervously. “Do you guys take time to eat? Well, you must, of course. But I have the feeling you’re hanging around because you’re worried I’m not all right. I’m fine. Truly. I’m a lot older than when you last knew me. Much steadier! Hey, some of the kids I work with barely made it out of juvenile hall, and they have tales to tell that would make the hair at the back of your neck stand up. I’m good. I’ll be okay, really. Except, of course, I could make you something to eat.”

  He was smiling.

  Still older, wiser, more experienced. Comfortable with himself. Confident as hell.

  “I’m good,” he told her. “They do let us eat.”

  She started to speak; she was saved as she heard a buzzing and he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jacket.

  There was no way of telling who he was talking to or what was going on. His responses went from “Pryce, here” to “good” and “I’ll be right there.”

  He rose, still looking at her. “Hopefully, we’ll get something soon. I can keep you in the loop, if you want.”

  “Please,” she told him.

  He was heading to the door. He paused there, looking back.

  “There will be a patrolman around your door. If you have any trouble...if you’re frightened in any way...”

  “I’ll run out of the apartment screaming blue blazes,” she promised him.

  He was about to go out when he paused again.

  “You have my number?”

  “Number? What? Oh, phone number. No, I...”

  “Here’s my card. Please, put it in your phone right away. And call me—that way I’ll have your number in my phone.”

  She would have laughed if it weren’t for the rugged contours of his face and the intensity in his dark eyes. No one had ever asked for her number so seriously before.

  This wasn’t a pickup line.

  He was all business.

  “In case you need me,” he said.

  “Um, thank you,” she murmured. “But really, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure this case is really time consuming and...remember, they do let you eat.” She tried to smile and add a little lightness to the conversation.

  She failed miserably.

  “I’ll be fine,” she told him.

  He was still looking at her.

  “But,” she promised, holding the card and her phone. “I’ll put the number in right away. See? Dialing you already.”

  He nodded, stared at her a moment longer—thinking God alone knew what.

  And then he was gone.

  The minute he was out the door, she felt oddly alone.

  And ever-so-slightly afraid.

  * * *

  Taker stood on the sidewalk just down the street from the old home-turned-apartment-building where Vickie Preston lived.

  He stood in the shadows, pretending to give his attention to his phone.

  He watched as the FBI guy came and went.

  He noted the patrolman on the street, keeping careful guard. The patrolman was worrisome, but not too much so.

  The FBI guy.

  Taker knew all about him. Bizarre that he was back; bizarre that he’d been the cop on patrol duty in the Ballantine neighborhood the night Bertram Aldridge had been caught—and now he was back. No matter; obstacles were just things to be overcome. They were challenges. In fact, he was a good challenge.

  Like Victoria Preston and the kid, he deserved to die.

  Patience, control and care.

  Taker turned and headed down the street. He glanced at his watch. Time was everything; he still had a little time tonight. But time was also put best to use in planning.

  He loved the game; the cleverness of the game. Deciding whom to take, and how and when, and finding each nook and cranny where he’d do his hiding. He loved the clues, thinking of just what he wanted to say. So few words, yet each one important.

  He wasn’t much on torture. It was the glee that followed a successful maneuver that was the high for him.

  No, he wasn’t much on torture, although, of course, there were those who might think that being buried alive was a form of torture...

  But, it wasn’t. Not compared to what torture might be!

  And in Victoria Preston’s case...

  He just might change the game.

  4

  Anthony Gianni was waiting for Griffin and Jackson to arrive, standing in front of the cannoli shop that took up a large portion of the ground floor of his apartment building.

  Griffin was in the lead and Anthony took his hands first, thanking him for coming.

  “She’s home now, my wife, my poor Angelina, she’s home again. And I wouldn’t have called you, wouldn’t have bothered you, if I hadn’t thought we might help. I knew you had the police watching our place and I was so grateful. And the officer, he was so fine—he got us to the hospital right away when she started having the asthma attack... I’m still so worried. I want you to speak with her, but you must understand—she’s still having trouble breathing. Whatever she inhaled...she’s still having trouble. The doctors let her come home, but she has to be quiet, you know, let all the medicines work?”

  “We will leave the minute your wife appears to be in the least distressed,” Griffin assured him.

  “I want to help, we want to help. Angie wouldn’t be alive without you,” Anthony told him.

  Anthony Gianni was a first-generation American—as was his wife. Sixtysomething now, Gianni was a tall broad-shouldered man who moved with dignity. While he’d been born in the United States, he’d grown up with his heritage here in Little Italy and his first language had been Italian. His English was just as fluent, but had an accent which slipped into his conversation at times. Whe
n he was emotional—as he was now—he seemed to speak volumes with his hands, as well. Griffin and Jackson had both liked the man since they had met him. Even when he was desperate to find his wife—and was thinking that he was going crazy—he had been courteous and helpful in every way. Now he kissed his fingers and shook his hands into the sky and spoke in Italian before adding, “Holy Mother Mary, I pray that I remain sane in all this!”

  “You’re fine, sir. Dreams work in mysterious ways,” Griffin said.

  “So, I was dreaming. Hmm. I tell you, she was as real as flesh in my dreams, but there she was, Mama D’Onofrio, there before me, telling me what I must say to you! And yes, sir, Special Agent Pryce, you knew Lexington, Massachusetts. I’d have never thought. You—you two.” He looked from Jackson to Griffin. “How you knew...”

  “I guessed,” Griffin said.

  “Special Agent Pryce does know the state,” Jackson added.

  “And to watch for dug-up ground, thanks to your dream,” Griffin said. “But you’ve called us because of something that Mrs. Gianni said.”

  Gianni nodded. “Come in, come in, please.”

  There was a door to the apartments above the cannoli shop. Anthony Gianni led the way.

  They found the apartment was surprisingly plush, once they reached it. Tastefully decorated, it boasted a very large living room and fine art on the walls. Anthony didn’t stop in the living room and they followed him down a hallway, past a few doors and to a large bedroom at the end with picture windows and a view of the city beyond.

  Angelina Gianni was a slim woman with narrow features and a beautiful smile. She lay in a hospital bed, raised so that she could breathe more easily.

  “Agents, thank you for coming, thank you for...thank you for believing,” she said, reaching out a hand to greet them. “I’m sorry to greet you from a bed again, but...it seems that my asthma has come back.”

  “She was buried, in a basement by a coal vault,” Anthony said. “Her breathing...it still hasn’t recovered. The doctors though...they are good. She can be home, as long as we keep a good eye on her! But last night, we had to head to the emergency room. Now we have breathing treatments; she is doing much better.”