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He made notes in his notebook. “Do you remember when the phone calls came in?” he asked. “Was there a common number?”
“The calls came from a blocked number, and they started three days ago.”
Three phone calls and two written threats in the past three days. Hard to tell if the danger was escalating. He’d known some stalkers who called their victims twenty or thirty times a day. These messages seemed to be aimed at keeping Rachel off balance and afraid. “You haven’t noticed anyone following you? Or watching you?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Her gaze rested on her son’s photograph. “Right now, the threats are centered on me, but I called you because I need to be sure Joey is safe.”
“I understand. I’ll see what we can get from these letters, but at this point, our hands are tied.” As much as he wanted to order protection for her, they needed more than just her suspicion that the Mafia was behind the threats. He took out his business card and slid it across the desk. “I want you to be extra vigilant. If you see anything suspicious, please call me on my personal phone regardless of the time of day or night.”
She took the card and nodded. “Thank you.”
He rose to his feet, wishing there was more that could be done. After donning a pair of gloves, he placed both notes and the envelopes in a plastic evidence bag, even though he knew the odds of getting a decent set of prints were slim. And they’d have to get Rachel’s fingerprints as well as the receptionist’s on file to cross match them.
Having a new case to work on would help keep him busy. But first he needed to see what the forensic team came up with. Otherwise, he’d have nothing to go on, which wouldn’t help keep Rachel and her son safe.
And he wasn’t about to lose another mother and child on his watch.
* * *
Rachel managed to get some work done before heading out to take Joey to his last basketball game before the Christmas holiday. The drive to the school, located on the outskirts of town, was uneventful. The game turned out to be a lot of fun and her son scored four points, edging their team to a ten to eight victory. Joey and his teammates were loud and rambunctious as they celebrated, and Rachel felt more at ease as the night unfolded. But as she and Joey headed home, she noticed a big black truck keeping pace behind her. No matter what speed she chose to go, the truck remained right behind her.
Detective Butler had warned her to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. At the moment, the truck certainly seemed suspicious, but maybe she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She didn’t recall seeing a truck behind her on the way to the basketball game or parked anywhere along the long country road outside the school.
So how would the driver of the black truck know where to find her? How would anyone have access to Joey’s basketball schedule? Maybe this was nothing more than a coincidence.
She did her best to keep her expression neutral as Joey relived every moment of winning the basketball game.
“Did you see my last basket? The coach said it was amazing and that without my score we might not have won the game. Isn’t that awesome, Mom?” he asked for the third time. “I can’t wait until our next tournament. Coach said I can be in the starting lineup!”
“The game was awesome,” she agreed, looking once again in her rearview mirror. Was the truck gaining on them? Darkness came early in December so it was hard to gauge the distance. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and pressed down on the accelerator. For the first time she bemoaned the fact she’d traded in her high-powered sports car for a four-cylinder eco-friendly hybrid last year. The hybrid’s engine chugged as she fought to increase her speed.
The truck edged closer, and she glanced helplessly around at the winding country road she’d taken to avoid the traffic on the interstate. Was the driver of the truck behind her the same person who’d sent her the threatening letters? Was he working for someone linked to the Mafia?
Swallowing hard, she drew her cell phone out of the front pocket of her sweatshirt and pushed the preprogrammed number for Nick Butler. He’d told her to call day or night and, thankfully, seven-thirty in the evening wasn’t too late. She held her breath until he answered.
“Butler.”
“It’s Rachel. We’re being followed by a black truck license plate number TYG-555. We’re on Handover Road, just past Highway 12.”
“Mom? What’s going on?” Joey swiveled in his seat, finally realizing that something was wrong.
