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I want to go home.
She couldn’t remember her address.
She was lifted off the ground. She thought she heard her name from far, far away…
A female voice calling, “Lucy? Lucy, where are you?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sean and Kate pounded on the glass door of the florist shop. It was five after seven and they had closed.
He’d screwed up. Why hadn’t he pushed the florist earlier for a positive ID? He could have come back with Lorenzo’s picture and verified the receipt that showed that he’d bought the roses. Why had he believed it so readily? Because Lorenzo was obviously still in love with Lucy? Because he was her ex-boyfriend?
Mallory could be lying through his teeth about not being Lucy’s stalker, but Sean wasn’t taking any chances. There was too much doubt, and far too much at stake.
Kate called out to the woman behind the counter. “FBI—we have an emergency.” She held her badge up to the glass.
Lucy hadn’t answered her cell phone, but she’d probably silenced it during Mass. He sent her a text message and hoped she’d read it.
Dillon is on his way to Holy Trinity. Don’t leave the church under any circumstances. Text me back, let me know you’re okay.
If Noah had called thirty minutes earlier, Sean wouldn’t have left Lucy at the church. He’d have stayed with her, even though she told him not to. But he’d thought she was safe. Mallory and the others were behind bars and no one was going to hurt her.
He pictured her hurt and scared, and his mind snapped into focus. Self-pity wouldn’t help.
He needed to think clearly.
“Dammit,” Kate muttered when the woman frowned at them and didn’t come to the door. Kate pounded harder. “Police! Emergency!”
“Maybe she doesn’t speak English,” Sean said.
“She speaks English,” Kate said. “She just doesn’t want to be bothered.” She hit the door one last time. “Police!”
The woman shuffled to the door. She unlocked it and cracked it open. “We’re closed.”
“FBI, we have some questions about a customer.”
The woman frowned. “I can’t help you.”
“Yes you can. You have security tapes.” Kate pointed to the cameras. “Were you working Monday morning?”
“Yes, but—”
“I have a couple of pictures for you to look at. Please let us come in.” It sounded more like a command than a request.
The woman hesitated, then sighed and let them in. “My daughter said someone was asking about a delivery. She’s not supposed to talk about our customers.”
Kate strode to the counter. “On Monday, you had a customer calling himself Cody Lorenzo, who ordered a dozen red roses to be delivered to Lucy Kincaid on Volta Place.”
“Yes. He paid cash.”
“I need you to look at some pictures and tell me if one of these men said he was Cody Lorenzo.”
She frowned. “I don’t know if I can help you…”
“You can,” Kate said. “This is important.”
The woman shrugged, and Kate showed her first the picture of Lorenzo. The woman showed no sign of recognition and shook her head. “No,” she said. “The guy who came in here was white, not a Mexican.”
