The SUV swiveled sideways and there was a terrible noise of metal scraping on metal and pavement. The back of our car fishtailed and the second tire went over the edge. I felt the cab pitch straight up into the air, and if I hadn’t been holding on to the little handle above my head I would have toppled to the back of the SUV. I held on to it and Candice for dear life.
I thought for sure the next thing I would feel would be the pain of impact as we tumbled over the side of the bridge into the gorge below, but time seemed to stand still as we dangled there in space, teetering back and forth.
I was breathing hard, my eyes wide with panic as I waited for the fall, but the seconds ticked by and we continued to hang there. ‘‘What’s happening?’’ I finally said.
‘‘I think we’re hung up on the guardrail,’’ whispered Candice.
‘‘Where’s the Hummer?’’
‘‘Gone.’’
Neither of us spoke for several seconds. Then, in a soft voice I said, ‘‘How do we get out of here?’’
‘‘Very slowly and very carefully,’’ said Candice. ‘‘My driver’s side window is probably our best bet.’’
I looked over her shoulder and noticed that the Glock had done a nice job of clearing out most of the glass. The rain was still coming down hard and heavy outside, but right then I’d have given anything to be drenched and cold outside. ‘‘Can’t we just sit here real quietlike, until someone comes by?’’
‘‘You want that someone to be the Hummer again?’’
‘‘Good point,’’ I said, trying hard to calm my rapid heartbeat. ‘‘You first.’’
Candice gave my arm a pat and very carefully pushed herself away from me. ‘‘You follow right after me,’’ she instructed.
‘‘Don’t you worry about it,’’ I said, holding my breath and watching as she reached up to grab the armrest of the driver’s-side door. ‘‘You’re doing great,’’ I said encouragingly. ‘‘Keep going.’’
Candice paused for a second and used her gun to knock the rest of the glass out of the frame. ‘‘Watch yourself on the glass, Abby,’’ she said as she tucked her gun into her waistband, then moved up level with the window.
‘‘That’s it,’’ I coaxed. ‘‘You can do this, Candice!’’
As she eased one leg out of the SUV, there came a groaning sound and Candice stopped moving. We both held our breath again and listened. ‘‘Abby!’’ she squealed as she pulled her head up to look over the dashboard.
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘The guardrail is giving way!’’
I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Crap. I’d survived a friggin’ bullet to the chest and this was how my life was going to end? Just then my crew came into my head loud and clear with an urgent message. Snapping my eyes open, I said sternly, ‘‘Candice, the guardrail will hold, but we have to move. Now!’’
Without a backward glance, Candice shimmied as carefully as she could out of the window. I saw her drop out of sight and heard her call, ‘‘Come on, Abby!’’
I didn’t need the added encouragement, as I was already up and pushing myself toward the window. There was more groaning outside, but I ignored it and grabbed the door handle with one hand and the window frame with the other. There was a slicing pain in my hand, but I didn’t pause as I pulled hard and got my head and torso free. I felt Candice’s arms reach around my chest, and I let go of the car as she pulled me through the window and free of the SUV. Not even a split second later the guardrail squealed and snapped and Candice’s car dropped out of sight. Time seemed to stop as I blinked, once, twice, three times, and we heard an awful crashing noise from the ravine below.
We both stood there panting hard in the rain, looking at the spot where there had just been a car. ‘‘Christ,’’ I said with chattering teeth as I realized I was shivering from head to toe.
‘‘He might have had something to do with getting us clear in time,’’ Candice said as she placed an arm across my shoulders. ‘‘I was definitely sending him a thought or two there before we got out.’’
‘‘Now what?’’ I asked, turning to her.
Candice reached for the cell phone clipped at her waistband. ‘‘We get the hell outta here.’’
Chapter Eight
A county sheriff’s deputy showed up within about ten minutes of our 911 call. After viewing Candice’s crumpled SUV at the bottom of the ravine he quickly called for backup, then offered us blankets and the back of his patrol car to warm up in. I continued to shiver long after we’d warmed up. I couldn’t believe how close we’d come to looking like compacted trash.
After backup arrived, the deputy took us to a highway station and got our statements. It was while we told our story that Candice and I realized we knew very little about our assailant. The only relevant information we were able to give was that we’d been rammed several times by a black or dark blue Hummer and neither of us knew why. At least, that’s what we told the deputy.
After we gave our statements, Candice called her grandmother for a lift, then her insurance company. ‘‘They are so going to drop me,’’ she muttered after she’d hung up the phone.
My right side felt light. ‘‘Yep,’’ I agreed. ‘‘Time to start looking for another carrier.’’
We sat in stunned silence for a while, each of us lost in our own thoughts. It would be at least an hour and a half before Madame Brijitte Dubois—Candice’s rather eccentric grandmother—could get to us, so we had time to ponder things.
Finally, after almost an hour, Candice said, ‘‘I think we were tailed from the prison.’’
‘‘My thoughts exactly,’’ I said. ‘‘Did you notice the Hummer at any point on the drive?’’
Candice sighed heavily. ‘‘Nope. I blew it. I was concentrating so hard on seeing the road in front of us that I wasn’t even looking in the rearview mirror.’’
‘‘Kinda tough to see anything in that rain,’’ I offered.
Candice nodded and was silent for a few beats before she said, ‘‘The real question is, who did we piss off?’’
I scoffed and rubbed my neck, which was starting to stiffen. ‘‘Someone who owns a Hummer.’’
‘‘How’s that hand?’’ she asked, looking down at my crudely wrapped right hand.
‘‘I think there’s still some glass in it. I’ll need to go home and soak the heck out of it.’’
‘‘Might want to see a doctor,’’ she offered helpfully.
‘‘No thanks,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ve seen enough of them for a while.’’
We waited in the lobby of the sheriff’s station, listening to the rain outside, for nearly two hours. Finally the doors opened and a beautiful elderly woman toting a bright pink umbrella entered. ‘‘Bonjour!’’ she said as she spotted us, her voice thick with an authentic French accent.
‘‘Bonjour, Nana!’’ Candice said, getting to her feet and looking at the clock on the wall. ‘‘I was beginning to worry about you.’’
Madame Dubois gave her a wink. ‘‘Ze traffic! C’est horrible!’’
‘‘May I drive us back?’’ Candice asked, reaching for the keys.
‘‘Mais oui,’’ Madame Dubois answered, giving them up easily. ‘‘ ’Ow is your car, Candice?’’
Candice glanced at me and gave me a guarded look. ‘‘Fine, Nana. Just a little fender bender, but enough that I didn’t want to risk driving it any farther in this stuff. Thanks so much for coming to get us.’’
‘‘Oui, oui,’’ Madame Dubois said. ‘‘Shall we bee off, zen?’’
We exited the station and I followed numbly behind Candice and Madame Dubois. I was tired, still a little damp, and becoming stiff and sore all over. All I wanted to do was get the hell home and climb into a tub of hot water. We got to Madame’s car and piled into her powder pink Volvo—Madame is big on the color pink—and headed for home.
I fell asleep before we’d gone ten miles, and the next thing I knew I was being gently shaken. ‘‘Abs,’’ Candice said. ‘‘C
ome on, girl, time to get in your own car and go home to bed.’’
I opened my eyes and blinked a few times. ‘‘We’re here?’’ I mumbled.
‘‘Yep. That’s your car right over there,’’ she said, pointing out her window. I nodded and said my good-byes to her and Madame as I got out of the car. Shuffling painfully over to my Mazda, I hopped in and started the engine. Candice waited for my car to start before she gave a wave herself and exited the parking garage.
I drove home in a stupor. My eyelids felt like lead and my body ached so much that I tried to move as little as possible. I arrived not ten minutes later to see a black Range Rover in my driveway. ‘‘Great,’’ I muttered. ‘‘Ricky’s home and Lucy’s got some ’splainin’ to do.’’
I parked next to the SUV and headed inside. Dutch was sitting in my living room cuddled up with Eggy, and it dawned on me as I entered that I’d forgotten all about the little guy; but then, I had rather expected that I would have been home long before now.
‘‘Hey,’’ Dutch said, watching me closely as I dropped my purse on a side table and walked stiffly over to the couch.
‘‘Hey, yourself,’’ I said. ‘‘Been here long?’’
‘‘A while,’’ he said. ‘‘Good thing too, ’cuz your little guy was hurtin’ for some supper and a chance to water the lawn.’’
I smiled as I reached over to pet Eggy. ‘‘Thanks for taking care of him.’’
‘‘No sweat. Mind telling me what happened to you?’’
I leaned forward and rested my head on Dutch’s shoulder. ‘‘Candice and I are working a case.’’
‘‘I figured as much.’’
‘‘And we had to go visit one of the witnesses today, but on the way home it started to rain really hard and Candice was trying to pull over when...’’ My voice trailed off as I thought about a way to explain what’d happened that wouldn’t get him too worked up.
‘‘When what?’’ he asked, cocking his head to look me in the eye.
‘‘When she lost control of her car and we had a little accident.’’
‘‘You okay?’’
I sighed. ‘‘I’m sore and a little bruised, but I’m okay.’’
‘‘Is Candice all right?’’
‘‘She’s the same.’’
Dutch set Eggy to the side and pulled my bandaged hand forward to inspect it. ‘‘What happened here?’’
‘‘Cut my hand on some glass. I think there’s still a little glass in it.’’
‘‘Come on,’’ he said. He got up and eased me to my feet. ‘‘You need a bath.’’
A little while later I was soaking in soothing bath-water while Dutch worked on my hand by the side of the tub. He had a pair of tweezers, a magnifying glass, and some peroxide. As I watched him work I noticed that his long hair looked pouffy. Apparently he’d taken my suggestion about the hair mousse seriously.
He glanced up as he caught me looking at him. ‘‘What’s up?’’ he asked.
I grinned. ‘‘Just remembered that John Oates called for you. He wants to know when the Hall and Oates reunion’s going to take place.’’
Dutch rolled his eyes. ‘‘I haven’t had time to get to the barber, okay?’’
‘‘I can tell,’’ I said. ‘‘Pretty soon you’ll be trying out for Flock of Seagulls.’’
Dutch gave a patient sigh. ‘‘Now that I know about the car accident, you mind telling me about the guy you were with this afternoon?’’
I gave him a narrowed look. ‘‘Methinks you could tell me more about him than I could tell you.’’
The corner of Dutch’s mouth curled up slightly. ‘‘Darren Cox, the guy whose lap you were inspecting today and the guy you played single white female with the other night, is thirty-three, resides on Glengary Road in Bloomfield Village. Has a PI license that’s up for renewal in January.’’
I shook my head. ‘‘Heaven forbid I should ever step out of line with you around,’’ I said.
‘‘Oh, you step out of line all the time, Abby. I just let you get away with most of it.’’
I rolled my own eyes. ‘‘Darren is an old coworker of Candice’s. He’s helping us with this case.’’
‘‘This case, this case,’’ Dutch mimicked. ‘‘Who and what is this all about, Edgar?’’
I squirmed uncomfortably as he dug around in my palm for the shard of glass I could still feel there. ‘‘It’s confidential,’’ I said with a wince.
‘‘Maybe I could help,’’ he said. ‘‘I do have some pretty good resources at my disposal, you know.’’
I reached up with my other hand and ran my fingers along his sideburn. ‘‘I know,’’ I said softly. ‘‘But until Candice gives the okay, I can’t divulge anything.’’ I hated that I was putting Candice in the middle of this, and I really hoped that Dutch didn’t get a chance to approach her directly with his offer for help—she’d have to give him a solid reason why she couldn’t accept.
‘‘Okay,’’ Dutch said as he pulled up with the tweezers and smiled triumphantly. ‘‘Got it.’’
He showed me the shard and I made a face. ‘‘That little bugger was driving me nuts. Thanks for working it out.’’
‘‘No sweat,’’ he said, dousing the wound with peroxide.
‘‘Yikes!’’ I said as my hand burned.
‘‘That’s for the Flock of Seagulls comment,’’ he said with a smile. ‘‘Now stay there while I go heat you up something to eat.’’
‘‘There’s no food here,’’ I admitted.
‘‘None?’’
‘‘I ran out of eggs this morning.’’
‘‘How do you live?’’ Dutch asked me seriously.
‘‘I take it day by day, cowboy.’’
Thirty minutes later, I was just rubbing myself dry with a towel when I heard the doorbell ring. I dropped the towel, got into my robe, and gave a contented sigh when I smelled the delicious scent of fresh pizza. ‘‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’’ I said to Dutch as he set out a plate and napkin for me on the coffee table.
‘‘Not really. I suggest that you say it more often and follow it up with a lot more sex.’’
I giggled as I sat down and took a huge bite. ‘‘Mmff... it’sh good!’’
‘‘Little hungry, are we?’’
I nodded, then noticed that the file I’d been working on for Dutch was open on the coffee table next to the pizza. ‘‘I’m still working on that,’’ I mumbled, motioning to it.
‘‘I can tell,’’ he said. ‘‘Have you figured out what ‘postcards from the edge’ means?’’
I shook my head. ‘‘No, but I know it’s important. All of the contexts that I want to put it into feel wrong to me. The only thing I can think of is that it’s a clue that hasn’t surfaced yet—but when it does, we’ll know.’’
‘‘So for now we just have to wait, huh?’’ he said.
‘‘ ’Fraid so, cowboy.’’
‘‘Well, I brought you the other one, too, just in case you felt like switching to a new case.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ I said. I set down the pizza and picked up the folder. Flipping through it, I remarked, ‘‘This thing’s almost older than I am.’’
‘‘I know,’’ said Dutch. ‘‘Each agent gets one cold case to work on with their regular caseload. This one’s a real dud. I’ve been over it and over it half a dozen times and nothing’s jumping out at me.’’
I scowled as I read out loud, ‘‘Cynthia Frost, age forty-one. Divorced and living with her six-year-old daughter on the seventeen-hundred block of Fourteen Mile Road. Found dead from a broken neck in her home on September Twenty-second, nineteen seventy-eight.’’ I read on silently for a bit, then turned back to Dutch and asked, ‘‘What makes this a federal case?’’
‘‘Cynthia was CIA.’’
‘‘Get outta here!’’ I said as I glanced back to the photo of Cynthia, which was likely taken from her driver’s license. ‘‘But she looks so matronly.’’
Dutc
h nodded. ‘‘Which was why she was so good. She was an operative during the Cold War, and from what I’ve been able to ascertain, she was one of the best in the biz.’’
‘‘You think she was killed by another spy?’’
‘‘That was the prevailing theory for a while, but no leads ever developed. This was with the CIA until about ten years ago, and that’s when we got it.’’
‘‘Why’d it flip agencies?’’
‘‘Frost’s boss switched houses. He got out of the spy business and into more domestic interests. He’s now the SAC for all of Michigan.’’
‘‘SAC?’’ I asked.
‘‘Special agent in charge,’’ Dutch explained. ‘‘Anyway, he gave it to my boss, the ASAC.’’
‘‘Let me guess,’’ I said, interrupting him. ‘‘That would stand for assistant special agent in charge?’’
‘‘Bingo,’’ Dutch said with a wink. ‘‘So the ASAC has been giving it to every new agent for the last couple of years, thinking that a new set of eyes might help spot something someone else missed. The rookie who investigated it before me worked it hard, trying to impress the brass, but he got bubkes.’’
‘‘Ex-husband?’’ I asked going back to the word ‘‘divorced.’’
‘‘Was giving a speech at a convention in Hawaii. Had two hundred eyewitnesses to place him eight thousand miles away.’’
‘‘Ex-boyfriend?’’
‘‘Nope—looked into it and nothing.’’
‘‘Angry neighbor?’’
‘‘Double nope.’’
‘‘Did the daughter see anything?’’ I asked, noting that the report mentioned that the six-year-old daughter was at the house when the crime took place.
‘‘Asleep upstairs, and was grilled repeatedly by both the police and the federal agencies investigating. Doesn’t remember anything beyond coming downstairs in the morning and finding her mom dead in the kitchen.’’
‘‘Have you talked to her recently?’’
‘‘No. The last time an agent interviewed her was three years ago, and the interview was pretty thorough. The record shows she works for some attorney in Birmingham. I suppose I could track her down and do one more follow-up, but I really don’t think she’s got any more to give us, and I don’t see the point of having that girl relive the worst day of her life over and over.’’