“Hit my head. Can’t get out of the car. Door’s stu… stuck.” He forced the word.
A chill raced down Noah’s spine. “You’re in Eve’s car.”
“Exactly. Find her.”
“I’ll make sure she’s in class, then I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Fine.” Hunter’s voice sounded thinner. “Damn, this hurts. I think my arm is broken.”
“Stay on the phone with my partner while I call her. Keep talking, Hunter.” Noah handed his cell to Jack. “Somebody ran Hunter off the road,” he said, fury roiling within him. “It was supposed to have been Eve.” Somebody tried to kill Eve. Buckland, or whoever he was. “Give me your phone. I need to find her.”
They switched phones and Noah dialed Eve, but her phone went to voicemail. If she was in class, she’d have turned her phone off. If she was hurt… “I need to get to Marshall,” he said to Jack. “I need to make sure she’s okay.”
Jack hesitated, then grasped Noah’s arm in a brief squeeze. “Try not to worry. I’ll call you when I’ve talked to Larry Millhouse.”
“Thanks.” Noah took his phone back and kept Hunter talking as he headed toward Marshall where he prayed Eve was where she said she’d be.
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday, February 24, 3:10 p.m.
That’s him,” Eve said, looking at the police artist’s computer screen.
“I’ll get this out,” Olivia said, taking a copy of the assailant’s face from the printer.
“Your sketch made my job a lot easier,” the artist said. “It’ll give us an edge.”
“If Looey’s still alive.” Eve’s blood went cold whenever she thought about the look in his eyes as he’d come across the bar. It could have been me.
Officer Michaels had found blood in the real Kurt Buckland’s apartment. He’d called it in as a possible homicide and Olivia had picked it up.
Olivia’s partner Kane was taking Rachel Ward’s picture to the late-closing area bars alone. While Eve knew the murder investigation should be the highest priority, she couldn’t help but feel relieved that Olivia was handling Kurt Buckland’s case.
“Eve.” Olivia walked across the bullpen with an ashen older man. “This is Jim Rosen, Kurt Buckland’s boss. Come on, let’s have a seat in here where we can talk.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rosen said. “The paper had no knowledge of this man’s actions.”
“You printed his story about Martha’s suicide on Monday,” Eve said. “Why?”
“Kurt called me on Sunday. Said he was following up on a tip, that there was a large police presence at the home of a woman who’d hung herself and that one of her neighbors, a Sarah Dwyer, said the police indicated it had been more than a suicide.”
That had been the article that had first pushed her across Noah’s path. “But you only printed that it was a suicide, and back in the Metro section.”
“Kurt’s Metro editor and I agreed that without formal police corroboration we’d print it as a suicide. Then Monday, Captain Abbott gave a statement that Martha Brisbane had been murdered. By then Kurt had sent me emails saying he had proof on two other victims, Samantha Altman and Christy Lewis, statements from their parents saying the police had spoken with them. I’ve known Kurt for years and I trust him. I ran the story.”
“Did he bring the story to you personally?” Olivia asked.
“No. He emailed it as an attachment. But like I said, I’ve known Kurt for years.”
“Did you talk to him after Sunday about the Brisbane murder?” Olivia asked.
“No. I thought he was sitting at his desk in Metro. His Metro editor thought he was with me. I can’t believe this.” He looked genuinely devastated. “Is Kurt dead?”
“We’re investigating,” was all Olivia would say. “Have you seen this man?” She showed him a copy of the man Eve had described to a sketch artist.
Eve’s cell vibrated in her pocket, but she ignored it, waiting for Jim Rosen’s answer.
“I don’t think so,” he finally said. “I’m sorry.”
“If he contacts you again,” Olivia said, “play along. Then call me, right away.”
“I will.” He rose and gave Eve a pained look. “I understand this man hurt you last night. The Kurt Buckland I know never would have hurt a fly. He didn’t have an aggressive nature. We certainly don’t condone tactics of that kind for any reason.”
“Thank you,” Eve said. “I hope Mr. Buckland is found, safe.”
Rosen nodded stiffly. “If you’d like, we’ll put that sketch on the front page.”
“Let’s keep it quiet for now,” Olivia said. “If he knows we’re on to him, he’ll bolt. If he thinks we still believe he’s Buckland, he’ll get bolder. If I hear anything, I’ll call you.”
When he was gone, Eve searched her face. “Buckland is dead, isn’t he?”
“Based on the amount of blood we found in his apartment? Yeah.”
Eve shuddered. “I didn’t feel scared last night at Sal’s. Not with so many cops around. But I feel scared now.”
“Good. You should feel scared. I don’t want you going anywhere alone, okay? I don’t care how much of a pain in the butt it is.”
“I’m not arguing with you. Did you get any usable prints from his business card?”
“Not yet. I asked Micki to send somebody from Latent to Sal’s to dust the bar. If he touched it, maybe we’ll get something from there.”
“I polished it last night, like I do every night. I doubt you’ll get anything.” Eve stiffened when her cell vibrated again. She pulled it from her pocket. “It’s Noah.”
“Take it,” Olivia ordered.
“Hey,” Eve said, injecting a bright note in her voice. “I’m fine.” Then everything inside her went cold once more as she listened. David. “Where did they take him?”
“Northwest General,” he said. “I talked to the paramedics who responded. They say he’s stable, he just took a hard hit to the head. Eve, he was driving your car.”
Eve sucked in a breath and seemed incapable of forcing it back out. Breathe. “I know. I’m here with Olivia at the station. They think the real Kurt Buckland is dead. They found blood in his living room. A lot of blood.” Her voice was shaking and she couldn’t make it stop. “Noah, he killed Buckland. He just tried to kill me, too.”
“Let me talk to Olivia,” he ordered tersely.
Wordlessly Eve handed Olivia the phone. David was hurt. Stable, but hurt. He was in my car. He’s hurt because he was in my car. That was supposed to be me.
She could hear Olivia’s voice, steady and capable, but it had faded to a whisper, overwhelmed by the pulse pounding in her head. “It was supposed to be me,” Eve said.
Olivia squeezed her arm. “I know. Get your coat. I’ll take you to Northwest General.”
Wednesday, February 24, 3:45 p.m.
He sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his own car, having parked the SUV. He’d have to get that headlight repaired forthwith.
He’d missed. It hadn’t been Eve Wilson in her car. It was Hunter. He hadn’t known until he was right up against him. He’d been so surprised, he’d jerked his hands on the wheel, keeping him from delivering the ramming blow he’d planned.
The small car had veered off the road, flipping once, but it hadn’t been the fiery ball it should have been. I missed. The only bright spot was that Hunter wouldn’t be able to identify him. The tinted windows of his SUV had prevented his face from being seen.
Now getting to Eve would be impossible. He doubted the police would let her out of their sight. So now he’d have to resort to a more tried and true method.
He’d have to shoot her. Webster wouldn’t like that. If the rumors were to be believed, there was a great deal more going on between Webster and Wilson than met the eye. Webster wouldn’t rest until her death was avenged. No matter. He’d shoot Webster, too, eventually.