maybe the guy in the brown Caprice
had
been following her.
“That’s not a bad theory,” Michael said. “I know long-distance access codes have been stolen that way. Bring it up during your questioning. Anything you can inject to stir up doubt will help.”
Was Michael Taggert coaching her on how to get through an interrogation? Interesting. He’d gone from browbeating, sneering bad cop to cheerleader good cop in less than twenty-four hours. The change was welcome, but she didn’t entirely trust it—or him.
Her car phone rang. What now? She punched the button for the no-hands speaker phone. “Wendy Thayer.”
“Wendy, I’m so glad I caught you!” It was Jillian, her office manager. “Maggie Courtland just called. She has an appointment with her doctor, and her car won’t start. Can you take her?”
“A lot of that going around,” Michael murmured.
“For heaven’s sake, why doesn’t she call a cab?” Wendy asked.
“I asked her the same thing, but she doesn’t like cabs. She had a bad experience once with a driver who took her out into the boonies and mugged her.”
“Oh.” Wendy could understand the woman’s reticence. She’d encountered a scary cab driver or two in her time.
“She’s on the other line,” Jillian said. “Please, can I tell her you’ll come get her? She sounds desperate, and you know she’s about ten months pregnant.”
“Can’t someone else do it?” Wendy asked, a little desperation creeping into her voice. She would have to level with Jillian eventually, but she didn’t want to do it now, with Michael listening in.
“Everyone else is frantic and running late, what with all the extra errands you stuck on everybody this morning. You don’t have to wait for Maggie at the doctor’s or anything.”
Wendy put Jillian on hold and looked over at Michael. “Would you mind? Mrs. Courtland lives right off Oak Lawn near Brighton. It’s only about ten minutes away.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “The day is shot anyway. Sure, why not?”
“Great.” Wendy confirmed with Jillian that she was on the way, then hung up.
Maggie Courtland lived in a huge house—a mansion, really—on wooded, hilly St. Johns Street. Michael gave a low whistle as Wendy pulled into the driveway. “I’m surprised this Mrs. Courtland doesn’t have a chauffeur-driven limo.”
“Actually she does,” Wendy said. “But the driver keeps pretty busy shuttling Maggie’s husband around.”
Wendy didn’t even have to honk or go to the door. Mrs. Courtland was waiting. Pretty, blond, and about Wendy’s age, she scurried out the door and duck-walked toward the waiting van amazingly fast for a woman who looked as if she’d swallowed a watermelon.
“Good Lord, she looks like she should have had the kid last month,” Michael said under his breath before hopping out of the van to help the woman into the back seat.
“Would you be more comfortable in front?” he asked when Maggie was halfway in.
“Oh, no, I like it back here. I can stretch out a bit.” She sounded out of breath, and her face was pale. “Wendy, hi. Who’s your friend?”
“New employee,” Wendy answered before Michael could tell her the truth. “I’m training him. You’re due in a couple of weeks, aren’t you?” she asked as Maggie got situated and Michael took his seat in front.
“Yes, mid-April. But I think the doc got the duedate wrong. This is my fourth baby, and I’ve learned to tell … well, there are signs, you know?”
“Mm,” Wendy said noncommittally. She knew next to nothing about having babies. “Where’s your doctor?”
“In Preston Center. On Luther and—oh!”
“Luther and what?” Wendy asked as she pulled out of the driveway.
“Luther and—omigod!
Omigod? She’d never heard of that street.
“Uh, Wendy, I think we have a problem,” Michael said. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a definite note of panic there.
Wendy stopped the van and turned to look at her back-seat
had
been following her.
“That’s not a bad theory,” Michael said. “I know long-distance access codes have been stolen that way. Bring it up during your questioning. Anything you can inject to stir up doubt will help.”
Was Michael Taggert coaching her on how to get through an interrogation? Interesting. He’d gone from browbeating, sneering bad cop to cheerleader good cop in less than twenty-four hours. The change was welcome, but she didn’t entirely trust it—or him.
Her car phone rang. What now? She punched the button for the no-hands speaker phone. “Wendy Thayer.”
“Wendy, I’m so glad I caught you!” It was Jillian, her office manager. “Maggie Courtland just called. She has an appointment with her doctor, and her car won’t start. Can you take her?”
“A lot of that going around,” Michael murmured.
“For heaven’s sake, why doesn’t she call a cab?” Wendy asked.
“I asked her the same thing, but she doesn’t like cabs. She had a bad experience once with a driver who took her out into the boonies and mugged her.”
“Oh.” Wendy could understand the woman’s reticence. She’d encountered a scary cab driver or two in her time.
“She’s on the other line,” Jillian said. “Please, can I tell her you’ll come get her? She sounds desperate, and you know she’s about ten months pregnant.”
“Can’t someone else do it?” Wendy asked, a little desperation creeping into her voice. She would have to level with Jillian eventually, but she didn’t want to do it now, with Michael listening in.
“Everyone else is frantic and running late, what with all the extra errands you stuck on everybody this morning. You don’t have to wait for Maggie at the doctor’s or anything.”
Wendy put Jillian on hold and looked over at Michael. “Would you mind? Mrs. Courtland lives right off Oak Lawn near Brighton. It’s only about ten minutes away.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “The day is shot anyway. Sure, why not?”
“Great.” Wendy confirmed with Jillian that she was on the way, then hung up.
Maggie Courtland lived in a huge house—a mansion, really—on wooded, hilly St. Johns Street. Michael gave a low whistle as Wendy pulled into the driveway. “I’m surprised this Mrs. Courtland doesn’t have a chauffeur-driven limo.”
“Actually she does,” Wendy said. “But the driver keeps pretty busy shuttling Maggie’s husband around.”
Wendy didn’t even have to honk or go to the door. Mrs. Courtland was waiting. Pretty, blond, and about Wendy’s age, she scurried out the door and duck-walked toward the waiting van amazingly fast for a woman who looked as if she’d swallowed a watermelon.
“Good Lord, she looks like she should have had the kid last month,” Michael said under his breath before hopping out of the van to help the woman into the back seat.
“Would you be more comfortable in front?” he asked when Maggie was halfway in.
“Oh, no, I like it back here. I can stretch out a bit.” She sounded out of breath, and her face was pale. “Wendy, hi. Who’s your friend?”
“New employee,” Wendy answered before Michael could tell her the truth. “I’m training him. You’re due in a couple of weeks, aren’t you?” she asked as Maggie got situated and Michael took his seat in front.
“Yes, mid-April. But I think the doc got the duedate wrong. This is my fourth baby, and I’ve learned to tell … well, there are signs, you know?”
“Mm,” Wendy said noncommittally. She knew next to nothing about having babies. “Where’s your doctor?”
“In Preston Center. On Luther and—oh!”
“Luther and what?” Wendy asked as she pulled out of the driveway.
“Luther and—omigod!
Omigod? She’d never heard of that street.
“Uh, Wendy, I think we have a problem,” Michael said. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a definite note of panic there.
Wendy stopped the van and turned to look at her back-seat
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