in line, Josh grew up determined to do what he could to make sure no woman would have to endure the kind of hell his mother had. When Mitzi Harper, one of the clerks in the Public Defender’s office, had been beaten up by her soon-to-be ex-husband and had tearfully begged to find a way to be free of him, he’d guided her through the process of pressing charges against the man and filed a restraining order to keep him away from her and their children. Since then, he’d received two dozen peanut butter cookies, his favorite, every Friday from the grateful woman. He never dreaded seeing the cookies the way he dreaded seeing the flowers.
“Don’t ever hesitate to call me if there’s a problem,” he advised, standing by her small VW Bug while she bent down to unlock her door.
Her smile was filled with warm affection. “I will, Josh. Thanks.”
He stood there, waiting, until she drove away before heading to his own car.
By the time he walked into his house, he decided he wanted a cold beer. Jamming the small pile of mail in his mouth to free his hands, he pulled a bottle of Beck’s from the refrigerator. Dispensing with a glass, he drank deeply from the bottle as he headed for his office. The blinking red light on his landline phone indicated he had a voicemail. He punched in his code to retrieve the message.
“Hello, lover.” The woman’s husky whisper sent chills through him instead of warmth. “I saw you at Judge Collins’s retirement party a couple nights ago. That navy-and-gray tie you wore was quite a surprise, since it’s well known you hate ties. But the real surprise was seeing you talking to that forensics specialist, Dr. Hunter. Funny, I didn’t think you’d go for a woman who fondles dead men all day long. Especially since you’ve been screwing Carol for the last few months. Although I have heard she’s far from a cold fish in bed. But I doubt she’s better than me.”
Josh’s fingers hovered over the keypad, ready to delete the message as the voice taunted him. He thought about just turning it off, but he knew that wouldn’t shut her out of his mind. He set the bottle down as he forced himself to keep listening to the deadly whisper.
“Oh, that’s right. The lively Carol dumped you, didn’t she? I wonder if it had anything to do with the flowers you sent her. She always liked unique things, so you’d think she’d appreciate the black roses. Unless she was a tad upset because you didn’t go to her celebration party. I wouldn’t worry; she only wanted to show you off to everyone. She wanted everyone to see how lucky she was to have the assistant district attorney in her bed. Don’t worry, lover. She was a viper. You wouldn’t have been happy with her for much longer, anyway.”
Her whisper turned coarse. “Do us both a favor, lover. Don’t get any ideas about replacing that bitch Carol with the new doctor of the dead. Pretty Lauren might not end up as lucky as the others. I can’t allow you to hurt me anymore with all your affairs, lover. You’re all mine, no one else’s. Don’t you understand? I did everything for you!”
As the rage in her voice escalated, so did Josh’s tension.
He hit the off button and opened a nearby drawer, pulling out a small recorder. With distaste he replayed the message, this time recording it. He dropped the small cassette in an envelope and wrote across the front while punching out a phone number.
“This is Josh Brandon. Is Sergeant Peterson still around?” He sipped his beer while waiting.
“Peterson.”
“Kevin, I’ve got another tape for our private collection.”
“Your secret admirer strikes again, huh?”
Josh wasn’t amused by his friend’s black humor.
“Considering the number of murders committed because of fatal attractions, you’ll understand why I’m not all that flattered. Do you want to swing by the house tonight and pick it up, or I can drop it off tomorrow?”
“Is it like the others?”
“Pretty much. This
Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman