For Her Eyes Only

* * *

Horror shattered the joy in Olivia Stuart’s eyes as a hand clamped across her mouth and she was shoved forward, pinned between the table and the unyielding body of her attacker. The overpowering scent of gardenias mingled with a sudden pain in the back of her leg. Moments later, another pain, different and more threatening, mushroomed in the center of her chest. Her arms flailed outward and upward. She would never see her son again.

* * *

Jessica woke with tears streaming down her cheeks and the scent of gardenias swirling around her. She sat up with a jerk and took a long, deep breath.

“Why,” she whispered, and buried her face in her hands. “Why is this happening?”

She crawled out of bed and walked through her house toward the kitchen, comfortable in the darkness and with the familiarity of her own things. She poured herself a cold drink of water and drank it from start to finish without pause. When it was empty, she set the glass in the sink and then looked out the window to the night beyond.

Moonlight bounced off the nearby hedge, coloring the neatly clipped branches in a cold, silver glow. She shuddered as echoes of the last three days crept back in her mind.

Olivia Stuart’s attack.

Her sister’s lost keys.

Olivia Stuart’s attack.

The fire at Sheila Biggers’s house.

Olivia Stuart’s attack.

Something she hadn’t considered suddenly occurred. She hadn’t been wrong about where Brenda’s keys had been. She hadn’t been wrong about the fire at Sheila’s house. She started to shake.

Then, what if I’m right and they’re wrong about the reason for Olivia Stuart’s death?

The longer she stood, the more certain she became of what she must do. Like it or not, she had to talk to the authorities. If she didn’t, someone would be getting away with murder!

Chapter Four

Stone Richardson’s day was already screwed when he walked into the precinct on Wednesday morning. Thanks to the massive storm, there was a backlog of cases they might never get through. And when a handcuffed hooker called out his name and then winked, he muttered beneath his breath in disgust. There was a real good chance that the day might never get better.

Ready to get down to work, he draped his sport coat on the back of a chair and reached across the permanent stack of files on his desk for his coffee cup.

Stryker, who sat across the aisle, was on the phone. When he looked up and saw Stone, he put his hand over the receiver long enough to give Stone a message.

“There’s a man waiting to see you. He said Dr. Howell sent him.”

Stone nodded. “Tell him to have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

He headed for the break room, moments later, pouring what was left in the pot in his cup, dregs and all. When some of it splattered on the toe of his boot and the edge of his jeans, he frowned, then took a quick sip on the way out the door, thankful it had missed his white shirt. It was the last clean one he had.

On his way back to his desk, he glanced into the hall at the brawl in progress. Two men were trading blows while a woman stood nearby, screeching at the top of her lungs. In the midst of it all, he got a glimpse of red hair and a dark blue uniform, and grinned. Delancey, a beat cop and a nineteen-year veteran of the force, had it under control. The complainants just didn’t know it yet.

As Stone reentered the room, he paused in the doorway, taking careful note of the man sitting at his desk. He was lean and looked unnaturally pale. His blond hair had recently been cut. His jeans and shirt were unremarkable in style, but clean. As Stone neared his desk, the man suddenly stood, and the cold blue intensity of his gaze, as well as the way he waited without moving, gave Stone an impression of military bearing.

“Have a seat,” Stone said.

They both sat, and Stone took a last sip of his coffee before shoving aside a stack of papers to make room for his cup.

“So, what can I do for you, Mr.—?”

The man shifted nervously. “You can call me Smith. Martin Smith. However, I seriously doubt that it’s my name.”

He had Stone’s attention. “Excuse me?”

The man took a deep breath. “I don’t know who I am. My entire memory consists of the past few days. I don’t remember anything before Friday evening, when I wandered into the emergency room of your local hospital.”

Stone gave him another glance, this time more thorough.

“Were you injured?”

Smith shook his head. “Yes, but not much. They guessed I probably suffered a blow to the head. I had some cuts and bruises, but I’ve had worse.” The moment that came out, he looked startled. “How did I know that?” he muttered, then sighed in frustration.

Stone picked up a pen and started making notes. “Friday. That would be five days ago.”

“During the storm.”

Stone nodded. Another set of troubles to add to the mess they were already trying to unknot.

“And you hadn’t been in an accident?”

Smith shrugged. “I don’t know. All I remember is that my head hurt. I’d been walking for some time, through mud and debris. Most streets were blocked off. Everything was dark. And then I saw lights in the distance and headed toward them.”

Stone remembered what Vanderbilt Memorial had looked like that night. The lights had been weak and flickering, but the security they represented had been comforting, even to him.

“So, what do you want of me?” Stone asked.

Smith hesitated briefly, then his jaw squared and he leaned forward. “Maybe you could check missing persons reports. And I want you to fingerprint me. See if I have an identity on record. See if I’m—” He paused and then looked away, unable to finish the horror of what he was thinking.

Stone finished it for him. “See if you’re in our database or if there’s a warrant somewhere for your arrest?”

He looked up. “Yes. No matter what, I want to know.”

“Okay,” Stone said, and turned a fresh page on the pad. “Let’s talk. We might get some answers from you that you didn’t know you had.”

Smith began to talk while Stone asked the occasional question, making notes in between and trying to make himself heard above everything else that was going on.