No Place To Hide

“So I hear,” she acknowledged, turning to Layne Crawford.

Layne scared Anthony to death. She was a tiny little thing, sixtyish, with brilliant blue eyes that never stopped watching. Jim had summoned her a week ago and Anthony still knew nothing about her. He didn’t even know what position she held in the Bureau, if she even held one. All he knew was that she loved to make people talk.

Not a big fan of talking himself, Anthony avoided her at all costs.

He waited for Layne to introduce herself by title, but she gave only her name and stepped back in deference to Walter Hornsby. A giant in his mid-thirties, his job was to coordinate the practical aspects of the investigation—security and communication with the police.

Hornsby gave his usual muttered greeting while Anthony watched Emma. She was an expert at reading people, but this time he could see her struggling. Good luck. He would enjoy watching her realize these three lived to annoy.

Jim began. “Do I need a warrant to look at your computer?”

“Not necessary,” Emma responded. “Be my guest.”

While Jim clicked through messages, Layne’s eyes burned into his skull. Silence thundered through the room until she finally glanced at Emma.

“Miss Toliver, is there somewhere I can speak to Mr. Bracco in private?” she asked.

“No one will disturb you in the boardroom,” Emma said, “Anthony knows where it is.”

He led Layne from the room like a man leading his own executioner to the gallows. Two doors down on the right was the boardroom, brightly lit by wide, paned windows and dominated by a long walnut table. The room smelled of aged wood, and the old leather chair he slumped into creaked beneath his weight.

Layne sat primly, ankles crossed. She stared at him awhile before saying, “You were placed in protective custody for your own safety. I thought that was understood.”

“It was.”

“Interesting, as you completely disregarded our cautions this morning. Jim said you were already halfway here by the time he called you with the Internet service info, so I’d dearly love to hear how you knew about Emma’s e-mails before we did.”

“I’m psychic?”

Layne smiled. “She’s a beautiful woman. Lovely bone structure, and all that delightful blond hair. Given your rather…colorful past together, I would assume there’s unfinished business.”

Anthony bobbed his chin, neither denying nor admitting anything.

“You’re right,” Layne said. “It doesn’t matter, does it? But I must insist you share your insight with me. Frankly, I’m concerned I might have missed something in your e-mails.”

Knowing he was being played with, Anthony lied, “It wasn’t anything concrete. There was a lot of publicity on what I did to Emma, and Doppelgänger could have seen it. Then Jim was talking about sympathetic symbols, someone this guy might relate to as one of my business victims, and it got me thinking. That’s all.”

Layne shocked him by uttering two syllables that crisply defined her disbelief. “Pardon my French,” she added as an afterthought. “But I wasn’t born yesterday. Tell me the truth or I’ll start digging. You know I’ll find…something.”

Purposefully mirroring Layne’s speech patterns, minus the French, he asked, “Hypothetically speaking, if I admitted I’d found out about the e-mails in a less…intellectual manner, would you find it necessary to inform Emma?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Why are you threatening me? I’m not the criminal in this equation. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Excuse my need to poke holes in your reasoning, but there’s a very dangerous man out there who disagrees,” Layne said. “In his mind you’ve done many things wrong. Now, I fully appreciate the fact that you’ve turned your life around, and believe me, I applaud and respect you for it. But if you hide things from us we can’t move forward.”

With a sigh of defeat, Anthony said, “I have an insider here at the store. Charles, Emma’s goldsmith.”

Layne’s brows shot to her hairline. “Dare I ask why?”

“I tried to call Emma about four months ago. She was out so I got Charles instead, and we talked. I told him the truth about what really happened back then, and it sorta developed into something else. Anyway, Brady told him about the e-mails this morning, and Charles called me. You were gone. Jim was out. I panicked.”

Ignoring his admission, Layne asked, “Sorta developed into what, exactly?”

Anthony rubbed his eyebrows. “Emma didn’t have enough capital to get this auction lot of metals and stones she needed for Beautiful Things, so Charles and I rigged her bid. I’ve got about half a million sunk into her design label and she doesn’t know.”

Layne was silent for a decade or so, then observed, “You can’t help yourself, can you? Emma’s a proud woman. If she finds out she won’t be amused.”

“No, she won’t. After what happened two years ago you can imagine what she’ll think, but I took measures to make sure she’d never find out.”

“Is there a chance she’d understand why you did it?”

“Are you kidding?” Anthony asked. “I had my reasons, but at the time I didn’t know any of this would happen. So what’s done is done. There’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“Agreed. However, we have a problem. If we’re to continue baiting this Doppelgänger creature—”

Anthony interrupted, “No way. Forget it. I may not care much for the woman, but I can’t condone using her as bait. Besides, sooner or later her temper will take over and she’ll run for the hills. Maybe that’s for the best.”

“You cannot allow that to happen. This is a game for him, Anthony. A sick, twisted game. He’s become fixated on Emma and we need to maintain his target area—the store—in order to trap him. If it closes or she leaves, he’ll believe we’ve cut off access, and I don’t want to imagine what might happen next. However, Jim, Walt and I have better things to do than play referee between you and Emma. That means you have an occupation now—to ensure the store stays open and she stays here, come hell or high water.”

“I can’t!” Anthony argued. “She hates me.”

“Then I guess you’d better remedy that, hadn’t you? Whatever you have to do to keep her here, you’ll do.”

“No way. It won’t work. You haven’t witnessed her in action, Layne. If you want my honest opinion, Emma might be put to better use. Get her talking to this guy on the Internet. She’ll have him crying for his mommy inside of an hour.”

“Interesting, but let’s put it this way. Either you keep Emma here or I’ll tell on you.”

Anthony ground his teeth. “Speaking of sick, twisted games…”

Layne smiled.

Left alone with Jim and Walter, Emma worried at a thumbnail while the two men crowded over a file on her desk.

This was insane. Absolutely insane. One minute she was stressed over business and now this. And no one seemed too interested in telling her anything.

Taking matters into her own hands, she slipped behind the agents to see what was in that file.

Neither of them objected as she watched them flip through printed-out e-mail photographs of Anthony. There were twenty or so, and it turned Emma’s stomach to see the big black Xs over his back in every shot.

Don’t think about it. If she thought about it, she’d lose more than her cool.

But she couldn’t believe her eyes. Not a single suit in any of them. And in all the pictures, Anthony’s hair was much longer than it was today. He hadn’t shaved, either.

Anthony scruffy? What the heck was going on?

She had to admit the fresh-out-of-bed look was no insult to the eye, but back then, Anthony had always been preening, his appearance like an arsenal for corporate warfare.

The smile was his nuclear warhead and the scruff would steal some destructive force.

The scruff was gone now, but her curiosity was on full alert. If he was gearing up for a return to Bracco Inc., his father’s Chicago-based acquisitions company, he wouldn’t be running around looking like that. And Toliver’s Treasures was gossip central. It seemed inconceivable she wouldn’t have heard he was back in St. Paul after his highly publicized disappearance.

But with Anthony looking like that, no one would have recognized him. He’d better not be up to something. If he was, he’d have much more urgent problems than a stalker.

And she couldn’t get that scar out of her mind. The sight of it was burned indelibly on her brain, and a very unwanted pang of sympathy whispered to the surface.

Stop it, she scolded herself. Don’t let him get to you again. Even in the throes of an unhappy reunion he still had that annoying aversion to explanations, and the live-wire quality was so subdued she could hardly believe he was the same person.

And what was that apology about? It was two years late but she suspected he’d actually meant it.

Something was wrong with him. Something more than a scar.

“You keep at this,” Jim told Hornsby. “Write down anything that strikes you even if it seems coincidental. I’m off to depose Miss Toliver.”

“Depose?” she repeated. “Will I need an attorney?”

“Nah. Is there another private space available? Someplace comfortable. We probably won’t take that long but you never know.”

Emma led him up a discreet staircase tucked in one corner of her store office. They emerged into what used to be a guest room but was now her design office. Passing through it, they entered a hallway and finally convened in her living room.

“Colorful place,” Jim said. “Jewel tones. No surprise there, I guess.”

Emma shrugged. “I love shiny things.”

He sat in a Queen Anne armchair, spreading a file open in his lap. He scanned a few pages and Emma stole the opportunity to examine him more closely. Not what she might have expected an agent to look like. He was way too young, for one thing, and handsome. Not quite in Anthony’s league, but handsome.

“All right,” he said, catching her staring.

He raised his eyebrows and she crossed her arms over her chest. If he planned to grill her she should at least be allowed to stare.

He began again. “I’ll just index the info we already have. If we need to make corrections, go ahead and stop me. Emma Rae Toliver. Age, twenty-six. Five foot ten and I’ll spare you the weight estimate. Blond hair, green eyes. Owner, Toliver’s Treasures. Beautiful Things, too. Started the design business three years ago. No siblings. Mother, Meredith Sullivan-Toliver, deceased—let’s see. Twenty-two years ago. Aneurysm?”

Emma nodded.

Jim continued, “Father, Marshall Toliver, no middle initial. Remarried one, two, three times. Deceased four years ago. Passed in his sleep. Cardiac arrest at age fifty.”

She nodded again and Jim scratched his cheek before saying, “Says here the final Mrs. Toliver, Vivian, retained the family residence upon his death. How’s your relationship with her?”

“Fine. We don’t see each other much but we’re very close.”

“What about the other two wives?”

“We talk once in a while, exchange Christmas cards. That’s about it.”

“It doesn’t say if there were any children,” Jim stated.

“There weren’t any.”

“Why not?”

Emma fought a rising tide of irritation and answered, “My father didn’t want more children.”

“Is Vivian remarried?”

“Excuse me.” Emma stopped him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s just a question. I might ask a lot of seemingly irrelevant things, but please answer anyway.”

“Why? Trying to catch me in a lie or something?”

The agent gave her a tolerant look. “Can I do my job without the hostility, please? I understand you’re less than thrilled to be involved in all this, but the sooner you cooperate, the sooner it’s over.”

Emma sat back in the chair, unrepentant but answering, “Yes. Vivian is remarried. Twin boys, obviously quite young. I baby-sit for them occasionally but I don’t know her husband very well.”

“Better,” Jim said. “Toliver’s Treasures. Opened 1876. Hasn’t changed much. China, silver, art and books still on the main floor, jewelry on the second floor balcony. Famous for its loyal clientele and architectural features like original oak paneling and staircase. Very beautiful, by the way. I was impressed.”

“Thank you.” Emma said. “Now will you humor me by answering a technical question?”

“Maybe.”

“If you didn’t know I was getting e-mails, why do you know so much about me?”

Jim gave her a long look. “Shouldn’t be a surprise that you were a suspect until this morning. Never our chief suspect. You don’t fit the profile. Too much to lose.”

Emma absorbed that as Jim went on. “Next, the security system. Major upgrade when you expanded the workroom for the design business. Many a service call since then. What’s the problem?”

“If the roof component’s set to full sensitivity, it goes off all the time. Thunder, planes, anything can trigger it.”

“Risky. I’ll have Hornsby take a look. See? Something positive. You’ll get your security system fixed for free.”

“Be still my heart,” Emma muttered. The security system worked just fine the way it was.

Jim watched her down the length of his nose. “Sarcastic, aren’t you?”

“Not usually. It’s been quite a morning.”

“Well, we’ll try to keep this as painless as possible. And I should bring you up-to-date quickly….”

He hesitated at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

“That would be Brady,” Emma explained, just before Brady hollered.

“Emma? You up here?”

She said, “He’s my right hand, so I’d appreciate it if he’s allowed to hear whatever you have to say.”

“Saves time.” Jim shrugged.

Emma got up to meet Brady in the doorway. Seeing Jim, he asked, “What’s going on? Who’s that? And who’s the guy in your office?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Brady, this is Jim DeBerg, FBI.”

“That was fast,” Brady said, crossing to shake Jim’s hand. Emma watched them size each other up. Jim calmly scanned Brady’s dark features as Brady disguised his wary expression.

As the department manager headed for the couch, she caught Jim’s eyes on his ponytail. It stretched halfway down his back, just a few inches shorter than Emma’s hair. Over the years they must have gone fifty rounds about the danger of long hair in a jeweler’s workroom, but Brady refused to cut it off.

Too bad his wife liked it or Emma might actually have an ally in harping about safety.

The two men muttered social niceties while Emma sat down next to Brady, groaning as Jim produced another file.

Same drill as last time. “Brady Edgar Wilson. Age, thirty-eight. Married to Tanya. No children. You manage Toliver’s Treasures’ jewelry department. Supervisor for Beautiful Things. I see that your father, Edgar, worked as a goldsmith here as well. Fifty years? Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Brady answered. “He was very happy here.”

“Must have been. Anything to add before we get started?”

“Nope.”

“All right then, here’s the deal.”

Jim proceeded to explain that their suspect referred to himself as “The Doppelgänger,” a German word meaning a ghostly double that haunts its earthly counterpart. They’d taken to calling him simply “Dop.”

The situation began when Anthony was attacked just over three weeks ago, on June fifteenth. Dop claimed responsibility the next day, telling them in a virtually untraceable e-mail that Anthony was evil and Dop had marked him so the world would beware.

“But it’s been two years since Anthony was fired from Bracco and no one’s heard a peep from him since,” Emma said. “Why now?”

Jim said, “We’re guessing Dop couldn’t find Anthony before he came back to St. Paul. Very few people knew where he was and they weren’t real likely to share.”

“Any guess why this person’s after Emma now?” Brady asked.

Emma frowned at him. Jim might be young but at least he was finally giving them details. And she couldn’t help but be impressed when Jim took Brady down a couple pegs with, “Let me be honest. We’re not dealing with your garden-variety stalker. It would be irresponsible on my part or yours to assume there’s a logical reason for what Dop does. So what I need you to do right now is listen. Let me get through the facts and maybe something will ring a bell with you. Until then, bear with me.”

Brady relaxed while Jim backed up to clarify a few things. Anthony hadn’t had any warning. No e-mails like Emma was getting. They hadn’t started until afterward but the pictures had been taken beforehand, showing them that Dop had been following Anthony for at least two weeks prior to the attack.

Emma couldn’t help it. “Where was he when it happened?”

“At home. But he’d spent most of the night at his parents’ house. Well, his mom and stepfather’s, actually. I understand you’ve met Sophia and Geoff?” Jim asked.

“Yes,” Emma said. Geoff Turner was a thoracic surgeon at the hospital where Sophia was Director of Nursing, and they’d gotten married shortly after Anthony disappeared. “We’re on a charity board together. American Red Cross.”

“Oh yeah.” Jim nodded. “You have a fund-raiser this Thursday night, right?”

Emma looked at Brady again. The Red Cross charity auction was a loaded topic around here. During the festivities, she was supposed to meet with Trenton Neville, one of the world’s most influential jewelry merchandisers. He needed to be in St. Paul that day and he’d added the auction to his agenda so they could discuss Beautiful Things.

And he wasn’t messing around. Neville planned on bidding upward of twenty-thousand dollars on whatever she’d donated.

But last week, Brady had accidentally sold the gardenia necklace earmarked for the auction, forcing Emma to sacrifice a piece she cherished. Not only was the rose necklace the first piece Charles, her master goldsmith, had ever crafted for Beautiful Things, but it held other, more personal and private meanings.

Thanks to Brady and their material shortage, she had to give it up.

And now it seemed all the arguing and juggling might have been unnecessary. With this psycho on the loose, they probably weren’t going anywhere Thursday night and it was to be hoped Trenton Neville had a heart. Or a really good sense of humor.

Her temper meter nudged upward a bit. She’d seen Anthony’s mother, Sophia, a week ago at a fund-raiser planning meeting. All things considered, Emma understood why she wouldn’t have said anything. But if Sophia had, the Creep’s e-mails would have been reported instantly to the proper authorities.

She turned her attention back to Jim, who told them Anthony had stuck around after his parents’ party, talking with his stepfather into the wee hours. He went to sleep there for a while, but around four-thirty in the morning he drove home.

Anthony remembered seeing movement in the backyard as he pulled into the garage and was jumped almost the second he stepped outside to investigate.

Dop made the first slash immediately from Anthony’s neck to the base of his shoulder blade. Blood trail evidence showed Anthony had fought for an extended period of time before blood loss and a blow from his attacker rendered him unconscious.

Anthony couldn’t remember Dop finishing the X. The working theory was that the second cut had been made after he’d gone down.

“Dop’s calling card, presumably,” Jim said.

Listening in horror, Emma felt her stomach begin to churn again. Even if Jim was an agent and had probably told worse tales, she couldn’t believe his nonchalant delivery.

But she’d seen Anthony with her own two eyes. She knew the outcome, so there was no reason her stomach should be performing acrobatics.

“Problem,” Jim said. “It was a new moon, and Anthony’s yard light was out. Probably not a coincidence. At any rate, the only physical description he can give us is that Dop is fast, taller than himself, and wore black clothes and a ski mask. Finding someone taller than six-two does narrow the field, but that’s all we’ve got for a physical description.”

Still in gruesome narrative mode, Jim explained that Anthony had been found two hours later by his housekeeper. The X itself hadn’t been deep enough to damage bone or muscle, and the EMTs didn’t find another knife wound. But time had been Anthony’s enemy. The fight had cost him copious amounts of blood and his prognosis at the scene had been “grave.”

Emma’s stomach seized. Thank God she’d skipped breakfast. Her entire mind was flooded with a vision of Anthony lying helpless on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. He might have been ambitious and unethical, but no one deserved that.

This couldn’t be happening.

And then Jim said, “The worst part was, those people who’d been at that staff party were on duty when Anthony was brought in. So everyone was shook up and Sophia was a wreck. Luckily, Geoff kept his head and was calm enough to resuscitate him.”

Emma covered her mouth, feeling bile rise into her throat.

“Emma?” Jim asked sharply. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, no.” Brady panicked, dragging her off the couch and explaining, “Weak stomach.”

Emma stumbled along after him, limp as a rag doll. Her mind seemed to have exited stage left with the word resuscitate.

Brady herded her into the hall bathroom, propped her against a cool tile wall and asked, “Are you gonna throw up?”

Unsure of the answer, Emma bobbed her head vaguely and closed her eyes to avoid his inspection. The last thing she needed right now was Brady asking why she was so completely shattered.

But that’s exactly what she was. Horrified. And eaten alive by guilt and shame.

Her stomach lurched again at the thought that the only thing separating her from Dop was a push over the edge of sanity. They both hated Anthony Bracco with a passion, but she wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Anthony was just a man. A bad man, but she should have listened to her therapist. It was time to let go. If she didn’t, ancient history would taint the rest of her life and she’d never get rid of her temper.

“Deep breaths,” Brady ordered. “As soon as they’re gone I’ll get you the biggest cheesecake I can find… Oh. Sorry. We’ll wait until your stomach calms down. But for now, sit down, and for once in your life, let someone else take the wheel.”

He stopped to wet a washcloth and press it to her forehead. They’d spent so much of the last three months arguing over the business that Emma almost started bawling at the simple act of kindness.

“I’m gonna go speak with what’s-his-name out there for a few minutes,” Brady said soothingly. “I’ll give you time to pull yourself together, but don’t leave this room until I come back.”

Emma nodded, hoping he was aware that Anthony was in the building. She could read between the lines. Brady looked calm, his square face stoic and watchful, but if he came across Anthony, his perpetual bad mood might turn ugly.

Chapter 3

The boardroom had fallen quiet. Only the sound of Layne’s pen scratching on a legal pad could be heard while Anthony stoically picked at a brass rivet on his chair arm. He didn’t know what came next, but the day had to take an upward turn soon.

But not quite yet. The door opened for Jim and Hornsby, followed by Brady Wilson, who hadn’t changed one bit. He still had that snooty demeanor. Anthony had no idea why Emma put up with the guy.

“Where’s Emma?” Layne asked after chilly introductions.

“Upstairs,” Brady answered. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Bracco.”

“Mr. Wilson,” Jim cautioned, “Your personal grievances with Anthony can wait. Right now we have business to discuss.”

Brady sat down at the head of the table, the snootiness evaporating before their eyes as he said to Jim, “Look. Let me be straight with you. There’s a lot going on around here that you don’t understand, and I’m not at liberty to share. But I have to ask that you keep Emma out of this. She’s got enough on her plate.”

“What do you mean?” Jim asked.