“Just hold on, okay? Let me see what this is first.”

Wells stopped. There was something to be said for career soldiers, they took instruction well.

Baldwin went to the pantry and took out a small toolbox, one equipped for a rudimentary forensic investigation. A to-go kit. He withdrew fingerprint powder and a brush. Prepped the jewel case, then brushed the powder over the slick casing. Nothing. He used a scalpel to slice through the tape that held it open, then took up a fresh brush and followed the same procedure on the inside. It was too much to hope that there would be prints… Disappointed again. Clean as a whistle.

He took the CD from the case and read the letters. It was gibberish. A bunch of numbers and letters, which meant nothing to him. He was decent at codes, it was one of the weird little things he’d picked up, but nothing was leaping out, announcing itself. He ran it through his mental ciphers, still nothing.

He carefully copied the letters and numbers into his notebook, then left the kitchen for the living room. They had a Bose stereo system. He popped the CD in and hit Play. Turned the volume down so whatever was on the CD wouldn’t go booming out into the world and wake Taylor.

The strains of some familiar music started, and Baldwin shook his head. What a crude, silly attempt to send a message.

It was a song from the fifties, by the Platters. He’d never thought of it in this context. It was perfect for a stalker.

“Oh, yes, I’m the great pretender…I’m lonely, but no one can tell…you’ve left me to dream, all alone.”

Jesus. He was overcome with rage. This goddamn freak was getting on his nerves.

“What’s it mean, sir?” Wells asked. He and Rogers had come into the living room, obviously concerned. Baldwin realized he’d been clutching the jewel case so hard that it had shattered. A small drop of blood dripped off the end of his finger onto the hardwood floor, followed by quicker, more insistent drops. Crap. He’d cut himself badly.

He pushed Stop on the player, ignored Wells and Rogers’s offers of help, and went to the kitchen. Grabbed a towel from the drawer and wrapped it around his hand. Stalked back into the living room to see how much blood he’d spilled on the floor. Wondered how many more chances he was going to get.

Thirty-Five

Taylor heard voices, then music. What in the world? She forced her eyes open. Good. She’d slept. She sat up, surprised at how refreshed she felt. Just a couple of hours of rest, but rest it was. She’d dreamed heavily, not her usual dark, murky nightmares, but of a happy, smiling man wrapped in a rust-colored sheet. A monk. Holding out a small, thin piece of string for her to tie around her wrist, his toothless smile engaging and encouraging. “Protection,” he’d said.

Protection. Her hand went to her wrist. It was bare.

If only dreams were capable of such powers.

She pulled back the covers, dressed and hurried downstairs. Baldwin was standing in the middle of the living room, bleeding, and two very large men were standing on either side of him. What in the hell were they doing in the house? And why was Baldwin bleeding? Damn it.

“Gentlemen?”

All three of them started. The two bodyguards’ hands instinctively strayed to their weapons before they caught themselves. Baldwin gestured to the men.

“Your guards,” he said.

She was struck by the coldness of his tone. Something had happened while she was asleep, that was obvious.

She met his eyes for a moment, tried to ignore the frustration and questions in them, then addressed the guards. “Wells, Rogers, we’re fine here, as you can see. Why don’t you wait outside. We’ll be heading back to the CJC shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wells said. They turned and went to the front door, slipped out quietly. Stealthy, for such large men.

When they were finally alone, Taylor turned back to Baldwin. “What happened?”

“They got the drop on me. I was getting the mail. They seem very capable.” He shrugged, she could read the embarrassment in the line of his shoulders. There was more he wasn’t saying, but she didn’t push. He’d tell her when he was ready; she could feel him struggling with something. When he turned and went to the kitchen, she followed behind. A change of subject was in order.

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“It’s fine,” he said, but let her glance at it to prove he was okay. She ran the water in the sink, let the blood wash down the drain. It was a shallow cut, but a bleeder. The gaping edges were already starting to clot and crust.

“I think you’ll live, but let me put some alcohol on it, just in case. How did you cut it?”

“We received a gift in the mail.” She retrieved the first-aid kit from the cabinet and went to work. He hissed as she dosed the cut in alcohol, then let her slowly wipe the excess off, apply Neosporin and close it with a large Band-Aid. Echoes of the ministrations that had been performed on her back in Forest City.

“How’s your leg?” he asked automatically. Reading her thoughts again.

“It’s fine. I haven’t thought about it in hours.” Which was true, but now that she remembered, her shin gave a throb. “I’ll change the dressing on it later.”

She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the bandage.

“All better?”

“We’ll see,” he said, and the obliqueness of his tone made her take a step back. He really was upset, just keeping it hidden, right below the surface. Was he mad at her? Or was it something else?

“What came in the mail, Baldwin?”

He flexed his fingers a few times, as if testing the binding. He made a fist and didn’t grimace. She knew he was okay.

“Our friend sent us a message. Though I’ll be damned if I know what to make of it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The Valentine’s card was on the counter where he’d left it. She opened it with a pen, read the words. Was surprised at how little they affected her. She was becoming inured to his threats. This was just a game to Copeland, just a stupid game. No wonder Baldwin was so peeved. He was poking at them, just trying to get a rise.

She let the card close.

Baldwin led her back to the living room and pressed play on the stereo. Music streamed from the speakers.

After a moment, she said, “The Platters?”

“Yep. There’s more. Writing on the disc. He burned it himself, it’s not an original recording.”

“Let’s see it.”

Baldwin ejected the CD midwail and handed it to Taylor.

“It’s gibberish to me. I don’t see any rhyme or reason to it.”

At first glance, she had to agree. There were just a bunch of numbers and letters, none that spelled out anything obvious.

“White board,” she said, heading up the stairs to her office. She erased everything that was on the board, then wrote down the numbers and letters at the top, enjoying the strange scent of the erasable marker and its small, squeaking scratches as she wrote. She loved her white board.

When she was finished, she stood back and looked at the string.

148NAD77HCBOTM4482901QRE

“What about a VIN?” Taylor asked.

“Nope. Vehicle Identification Numbers are only seventeen digits. That’s twenty-four.”

“You remember when we used to get actual airline tickets? There was always that huge long string at the bottom that didn’t make sense, but it was really the codes for the airports, and the equipments, dates and seat numbers. Maybe that’s it.”