“I’m sure you have ways of getting all that information,” she answered.
She does not know. If she did, he’d be sitting in a jail cell right now.
So chill. Enjoy your beer. Find out when her friend gets off work. Because he was going to follow the unfortunate waitress and find out where Eleanor lived.
He frowned. Wait a minute. Radio chick? He restarted the video on his phone and held it up to his ear. Aha. That’s where I heard her voice before. She’s the radio chick on The Big Bang with TNT. Who’d been a royal dick that morning.
Poppy Frederick, the reporter called her. That’s her. Excitement had him sitting a little straighter. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to find Eleanor’s address. Maybe she went by Poppy. Although Eleanor was a much nicer name.
Whatever. He turned off his phone, slid it in his pocket, and proceeded to enjoy his beer. Soon he’d know everything he needed to know about Eleanor Dawson, a.k.a. Poppy Frederick.
Everything was going to be just fine.
TWELVE
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1:30 A.M.
Finally the waitress was going home. He’d been waiting across the street from the bar in his car for two hours. Covering his head with the hood of his slicker, he locked up his car and followed her. It was still raining cats and dogs, which worked in his favor because the waitress kept her head down the whole way. She never looked up, never noticed him.
He waited until she’d entered the apartment building, relieved that there was no lock on the door. There was a plate glass window next to the entrance and he stood there, watching as she checked her mailbox before starting up the stairs, her head still hanging low. He slipped through the door and followed her as she trudged up three flights of stairs, a heavy backpack on one shoulder. Staying back a flight, he waited until she’d unlocked all three locks and pushed the door open before making his move.
Sprinting up the remaining stairs, a wadded-up cloth in hand, he shoved her inside and in one move stuffed the cloth in her mouth and wrapped his arm around her throat. She hadn’t had time to scream.
Quickly he bound her hands and feet with zip ties and rolled her to her back. Her eyes were wide with terror. Good. He wanted her to be very afraid.
“This is how this is going to go,” he murmured, leaning close. “You’re going to tell me where your friend lives. You know, the blonde who was with you last night.”
Her eyes grew even wider.
“Nod if you understand,” he commanded, and she jerked a fast nod. “Trish, right?”
Another nod as her eyes began to fill with tears.
Sydney’s eyes did that. Filled with tears that meant nothing. Tears were manipulative. He’d learned never to be moved by a woman’s tears. They just made him angrier. Crouching beside her, he flicked his switchblade open and pressed the tip to her throat. He cautiously removed the gag, ready to shove it back in if she made a sound.
“Where does she live?”
“I don’t know,” Trish rasped. “I really don’t.”
“You’re besties. You don’t go to her place? Ever? You expect me to believe that?” He pressed the tip of the blade a little harder, and she cried out. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” she insisted, but she was lying. He could always tell.
They always lied.
He shoved the gag back in her mouth and dumped the contents of her purse on the floor beside her, sorting until he found her phone. It was unlocked, so he opened her contacts. No Eleanor Dawson. But there was a Daisy Dawson.
There was only a phone number next to her name. No address.
He clicked on the call log. Trish had received a call from Daisy a few hours before the attack, but the only texts were from earlier in the day when the two agreed to meet at the community center for their AA meeting.
He glanced at the bound woman, whose eyes were closed, tears steadily sliding down her face. That was why she and the blonde had been at the community center. AA.
Wish I’d known. I’d have brought booze as a little temptation.
She might have a bottle stashed somewhere, though. Some alcoholics did. Leaving her on the floor, he went into the kitchen and riffled through cabinets and the small pantry, looking for her emergency stash. Then he stopped when he passed the refrigerator, where a flyer was attached with a magnet. At the top of the flyer was the grainy photo of a woman.
It was her. Poppy Frederick a.k.a. Eleanor a.k.a. Daisy Dawson. He leaned closer and scanned the flyer. It was for a pet adoption clinic that Poppy was “hosting” at Barx and Bonz. That meant she’d be there in person. Tomorrow, from ten to two.
I can take it from there. Relief rolled over him in a wave. That took care of that concern. Now he could finish what he’d started Thursday afternoon. When he’d stumbled into the bar, full of rage, after getting the news that Paul was selling the company.
When he’d first laid eyes on the waitress who should have been nicer to him.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 3:05 A.M.
He slowed his step, tugging on Mutt’s leash when the dog would have kept walking. Because they were here. A pretty Victorian house in the middle of Midtown.
Trish had never divulged Daisy’s address, claiming until the bitter end that she didn’t know where her friend lived. He had to admire that kind of loyalty.
Too bad she’d been a bitch to him on Thursday. The bitter end for her had been bitter indeed. And he felt so much better.
Lady Luck had smiled on him. Twice.
The first time had been when he’d taken a break from his work, sitting on her sofa to watch her writhe on the floor. To give her an opportunity to reconsider her lie about not knowing where Daisy lived.
He’d picked up her backpack, curious as to why it was so heavy. It had been filled with textbooks. She’d been a student, it seemed. He’d taken each book from the backpack, stacking them on the coffee table next to some magazines. He’d been pretty sure which trinket he was going to take to remember her, but sometimes he found the coolest things in the bottom of a woman’s purse—or backpack.
Unfortunately, the only thing at the bottom of Trish’s backpack was a bunch of pencils and pens. He’d tossed the backpack aside—and that was when he’d seen it.
A magazine on her coffee table. But it wasn’t the face of the celebrity du jour that had caught his eye. It was the mailing label. Eleanor Dawson. With an address. And now he was standing in front of this pretty little Victorian.
Which—second stroke of luck—was only three blocks from his own house.
He’d taken the magazine with him, ripping off the mailing label before tossing the magazine in his fireplace. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know he’d seen Daisy’s address, or they’d be back on their guard.
He studied the three-story Victorian. He’d wanted one like that, but they’d been too expensive. This one, though, had a trio of mailboxes out front. So the place was separated into apartments. Daisy’s was number 1. So perhaps she was on the ground floor? That made it more convenient. He hated climbing through second-and third-story windows.
At that moment a car stopped in front of the house. He turned his back, pretending to be watching Mutt, but a glance over his shoulder revealed a woman getting out of the car and jogging up to the front door. She was tall with a long blond ponytail. Definitely not Daisy. This woman moved aggressively, even though she was clearly inebriated.
She also sang aggressively, he thought, wincing at her butchered tune. Queen. “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Her serenade abruptly ended as she switched to calling out, “Sasha’s home!” Then she slammed the front door.
He’d been tempted to peek in the lower windows and see if Daisy was in her apartment, but he feared the drunk songstress had woken her up. The last thing he wanted was for her to report a Peeping Tom to the police.
He tugged on Mutt’s leash. “Come on, Mutt. Let’s go home.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 4:00 A.M.
Daisy woke slowly, her neck slightly sore from falling asleep on the sofa, but she didn’t care because her body was weighted down by Gideon’s, his even breaths warming her breast. Her arms tightened reflexively around his broad shoulders, but he didn’t respond. He was solidly asleep.
She didn’t have to check the time to know that it was about four A.M. Her body had become accustomed to waking at four within a week of her starting with the morning show. Tad had complained about it every day and he’d been doing the show for five years. She had to wonder now if he was trying to get her to complain as well so that he could report her to the station manager.
Asshole. Spreading lies that she’d faked the attack for ratings. Bastard.
But she wasn’t going to think about Tad the Bastard now. Not when she had her arms full of a sleeping Gideon Reynolds.