Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [27]
The phone immediately went dead.
The caller ID displayed two words. Unknown number.
He hit the buttons for the return call feature.
“The number of your last incoming call is unknown,” the recording announced.
“You get a lot of those?” Mercer asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“When did they start?”
“A few days before Derek was killed.”
“Any thoughts on who the caller could be?”
“No. I called the phone company and they said they couldn’t trace the calls. That they were most likely being made from a cell phone using a phone card.”
“Did it occur to you to report this to the police?”
“No, frankly, it did not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve made it clear that I’m your number one suspect in Derek’s death. How seriously would you take me? Besides, the last time—” She stopped in midsentence.
“The last time?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, come on, Chief.” She ran an agitated hand through her short spiky dark hair. “You’ve been here long enough to have heard the story about how I was stalked and attacked. An attack which was followed by your predecessor’s being fired, as I’m sure you know.”
She turned on her heel and went back into the kitchen, where she ran water in the sink and filled a glass, which she drank down.
“I did know that you had been attacked, but I wasn’t familiar with all the details. Since it was a closed case, I didn’t look at the file. This is how it started, with heavy-breathing hang-ups?”
“Yes.”
He leaned back against the counter. “The man who attacked you went to prison.”
“He’s still there.”
“Do you think it’s him making the calls?”
“Not a chance. He’s been ordered to have no contact with me. Ever. Even a phone call to me will cost him more time.”
“That’s no guarantee that he isn’t making the calls.”
“No, but the timing is wrong. The calls come at all hours of the day and night. Inmates don’t have such free access to phones. I admit that I’ve been thinking about calling the district attorney about it, but I just haven’t gotten to it, with all . . . everything . . . Derek . . .” She shook her head.
“I’ll look into it tomorrow.”
“I said I’d do it.”
“A phone call from you will not have the same effect as me showing up in the warden’s office first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Of course I do. It’s part of the investigation.”
She looked at him quizzically.
“Someone killed your partner. Now someone appears to be harassing you. Coincidence?”
Amanda frowned. “That wouldn’t make any sense.” She shook her head. “There isn’t any reason.”
“No reason that you can see. Maybe someone sees something you don’t.”
“Are you still thinking there could be some connection to the goblet?”
“There could be. Maybe someone’s figured out that it went directly to you.” He picked up the gun that he’d earlier placed on the counter. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
She shook her head.
He nodded at the rose he’d left on the table. “Most women love to get roses. You went white when you saw that on the porch. Any particular reason why?”
“Archer Lowell—the man in prison for stalking me last year—used to leave red roses in that same spot near my front door.”
“And now someone else is doing the same thing? And you didn’t think it was important enough to report?”
“I found the first one the day after Derek was killed. One every day since. At first I thought that maybe a neighbor had left them. As you said, an expression of sympathy.”
“Where are the others?”
“I stuffed them down the garbage disposal.”
“Even though you thought they were innocent gifts from a neighbor?”
“Since . . . since before, I can’t stand to see or smell them. Regardless of where they come from, or from whom, or the sentiment intended.”
He looked around the room, then, locating the roll of paper towels that hung from the end of the counter, tore off a sheet and wet it at the faucet before wrapping the stem in the damp paper. “I’ll take this with me, since you