Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [43]
So here he had a prime suspect. She had motive. She had opportunity. After all, he had only her word that Derek had not arrived at her house that night.
He heard his name and snapped out of the zone he’d drifted into.
“Chief Mercer, since you’re here, perhaps you’d like to add something to what I’ve said?” She stood with her hands on her hips, her voice just slightly mocking, as if confident that she knew as much—maybe more—about this particular crime as he did.
“No, I think you’ve about covered it all.” He nodded. “I can’t think of a thing to add.”
“Perhaps you could run through the process by which a victim might obtain a protection from abuse order?”
“Oh. Well, sure . . .”
She gestured for him to join her at the front of the room. He cursed her silently as he made his way up the aisle. He really hadn’t been prepared for this, had wanted to attend tonight only to watch her, see what he could learn about her. He didn’t appreciate being pulled into the spotlight.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you can add to what we’ve already discussed about what you should do if you suspect you’re being stalked?” She smiled sweetly. “After all, you are the expert.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, I think the advice you gave—document the incidents—is really important.”
“And if one were interested in obtaining a protection from abuse order, how would one go about doing that?”
“You come right on down to the station, bringing everything—tapes, photos, whatever you have—and I’ll get in touch with the district attorney’s office. We’ll help you put the wheels in motion.”
“But what if you don’t have any documentation? What if there are no answering machine tapes, for example?”
“You can always record the dates and times you received the calls. Use the return call feature on your phone to see if the number can be traced. Make a note of it. In some areas you can report the call directly to the police by dialing a specific number. And if you haven’t done any of those things, just bring yourself in and tell me what’s been going on. We’ll do our best to help you. Of course, it’s easier if we know who the stalker is.” He looked directly at Amanda. “Things get a bit dicier if we’re starting from scratch, trying to figure out who an anonymous caller is, for example.”
“Questions for the chief?” Amanda moved right past that last remark.
Q and A ran out the rest of the clock. Some were starting to get a little antsy to leave, and Amanda had announced they’d run past time by twenty minutes. She closed by reminding them that if they suspected that someone’s attention was becoming a bit more than they could deal with, they should talk to someone.
“If there’s no one else, you can always talk to me,” she assured them. “My phone number is right there at the top of the first sheet.”
Several of the women in attendance stopped on their way to the door to tell Amanda how informative her talk had been, or to relate a story, or just to thank her for giving them a way to fight back through the legal system. When the last of the group had filed out, Amanda turned to Sean and said, “I’m assuming that you didn’t hang around because you wanted some tips on what to do if someone starts leaving unwanted gifts in your mailbox.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, she said, “I know that you talked with my friends today. With Iona and with Marian. I know what they told you. I’m not going to deny it, so leave them both out of it, okay? I mean, Iona is so upset. She’s positive I’m going to be arrested for Derek’s murder because of what she said.”
Her hands shook slightly with barely repressed anger. “I understand why you spoke with them. I understand why you felt it was necessary to lean on them. My brother’s a cop, remember? I know the drill.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “But don’t upset them anymore, all right? You have the voice mail I left for Derek. You know what I said.” She slammed her leather binder that held her notes and extra copies of her handouts on the table and glared at him.