Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [43]
“Summers, when I’ve finished with you—and you, too, Baumgarten—I’ll—” Richards sputtered, “I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” the detective inquired. “I’ll stand on my record any day of the week. If push comes to shove, can you say the same?” Eric said harshly. Richards shook his fist in the air and muttered a few choice obscenities that followed Baumgarten and Summers back to Harold’s office.
“He’s losing it, big time.” Harold smirked.
“Dolph Richards may be in charge, but he never was a leader and never will be,” Eric retorted.
Harold chuckled as he opened a drawer and pulled out a small laptop, setting it on the desk. He opened it with a confident gesture and sat down.
“Progress reports on the hour, Summers,” he said briskly.
“Yes, sir.” Eric gave him a mock salute as he closed the door behind him.
Charlie Roman almost fell against the back of Santa’s throne when he heard the announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention. At the present time we are conducting security drills for your safety and testing the alarms. But keep right on shopping, please. Enjoy the displays and have a happy holiday.”
So he wasn’t the only one who knew something was up. High-level management was on it.
Chapter 8
Angela steered the Porsche down the dark, winding road, peering intently through the windshield. Was it safe to switch on the headlights? The visceral roar of the engine was enough to wake the dead. What time was it? The digital clock on the dash read 2:12. Almost the middle of the night. It didn’t look as though there were any cops on her trail. She was going to be a lot more careful in the future. The Porsche was a dead giveaway; there wasn’t another like it in the area.
Her nerves were still rattled from before when the police car had blared its siren and pulled her over. She had known immediately that this was no ordinary speed check. The young officer hadn’t asked for her license or registration and he had called her by name. It was when he had physically tried to remove her from the car that she had panicked and begun to struggle against his grip. A well-aimed kick had worked, though it would count as assaulting an officer, a serious charge.
All the same, they’d have to find her first.
Angela had scrambled back into her Porsche and roared away. She pressed her foot down and the car took wing, up one street and down another. A good thing she knew where West End Avenue was. Cross over the highway, forget the light. There weren’t any cars out anyway. Another mile or so and she would be at Charlie Roman’s place. Did he live in the house by himself? She was about to find out. What if his mom was on the premises? That would put her mind at ease, but she just didn’t want to deal with anyone else. He was a weird kind of guy but nice. Maybe he’d be more at ease once they got to know each other a little better.
It was really strange the way she felt drawn to him, almost close. They were two lonely people who recognized one another, she guessed. Whatever. She couldn’t be picky about where she hid out. And she was almost there.
The Porsche slowed as Angela looked over her shoulder, not trusting the rearview mirror. The street was quiet, deserted at this late hour. A blue bulb burned high on a telephone pole at the end of the street, casting a kind of graveyard light over everything.
Angela cut the engine and coasted to the curb. Thank God he had a garage. It looked like a nice house. She slid from behind the wheel and ran up to the door. She jabbed her finger against the bell and waited, all the while casting quick looks over her shoulder. The street remained quiet, its occupants asleep.
A light went on inside the house and a few moments later Angela heard the soft click of a deadbolt being eased. The door was opened a crack, the chain clearly visible. A single eye peered at her and then the chain was removed.
“Hi,” Angela said. “I, uh, was in the neighborhood and . . . well, here I am. I really do