“So you’re saying some guy was hanging out in a tree looking through binoculars into our house?” I asked.
“More likely from a neighbor’s house,” Jack said. “Not everyone has as good of a security system as we do. There’s only one spot I can think of that he would’ve been able to see into our entryway from.”
Heresy Road was a secluded street. We didn’t have traffic or trick-or-treaters. We didn’t do neighborhood barbecues, and there was a good bit of space between each of the houses that had a cliff view. But there was a three-story Victorian across the street from our house—set back from the road—and whoever lived there had let the hedges grow up so it wasn’t noticeable unless you were looking for it. I couldn’t even say who lived there or that we’d ever met.
“The team is going to meet us at home,” Jack said, moving into his office to grab his jacket and keys. “Whatever is in that letter is obviously important to whatever game Juliet’s killer is playing. Sheldon was the first one who mentioned he was a Jack the Ripper copycat. I did a little research. The police were sure he committed at least five murders in Whitechapel, but they suspected he was responsible for as many as thirteen. Who knows how many women he has on his agenda. But maybe me not reading the mail kept him from killing another woman last night.”
Jack locked his office and then told Betsy, “Let me know if any other calls come through. Someone from IT will be over to set things up so we can record and trace if he calls again. Maybe someone will recognize his voice.”
“Don’t see how,” Betsy said. “It sounded like he’d chewed up and swallowed a bunch of glass.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Jack said. And then he looked at me. “Let’s go.”
Jack was headed toward the back exit where the gated parking lot was, but I was still standing next to Betsy’s desk.
“Jack,” I called out, walking fast to catch up with him. I put my hand on his arm so he’d stop and listen.
“We need to hurry,” he said. “If he’s sending me letters and has a timeline then he’s got his next victim picked out. If he hasn’t already gotten to her.”
“Have you stopped to ask yourself why he’d send the letter to you? To our home?”
“Yeah,” he said, moving me toward the back exit. “The original Jack the Ripper sent letters too. He wants to get my attention. And now he’s got it.”
Chapter Eleven
Jack drove back to the house with lights and sirens. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but water was still high in places, and we took a roundabout way to get to Anne Boleyn. The water was almost even with the bridge, and Jack drove across it quickly, sending a spray of muddy water up to the windows when we hit a pothole on the other side. We turned right onto Heresy Road, and I noticed police cruisers and Cole’s truck pull in behind us and follow all the way to our gate.
Jack hit the remote button and the gate swung open, but I couldn’t help but try to get a glimpse at the house across the street as we turned into the driveway.
“Did you call Doug?” I asked.
“Yeah, while I was looking for you,” he said.
“I thought we were making things better for him, but now I’m starting to wonder if we’ve made them worse. This isn’t stability. He’s lived with us a week and look what’s happened. Is this the kind of life we’re going to bring our own children into?”
I could feel the tightness in my chest and I pressed a hand there and reminded myself to breathe.
“We’re safe here,” Jack reminded me. “No one has breached the perimeter and no one has tampered with the alarm or cameras. And Doug knows where the guns are and how to shoot if anyone did pose a threat. This is part of the job. You know that. When I took the oath to lead and protect and serve it automatically painted a target on our back. On yours too.”
I let out a slow breath. I knew this already. And it was a decision we’d made together, so I couldn’t even blame him for it.
“I know it,” I said. “I’m just tired of feeling like it’s open season on our home. It doesn’t seem to matter what we do to protect it.”
“Our home and everything in it are ours to protect. This guy might think he’s playing a game, but he doesn’t know who his opponents are.”
“Carver would normally be right in the middle of this,” I said. “Especially knowing that Doug is here.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, hitting his fist against the wheel. “I’ve already called him. He’s back in DC for a couple of days dealing with some things, but he knows Doug is safe with us. Michelle and the girls also conveniently left to go visit his parents in Florida.”
“What’s going on?”
“No clue,” Jack said. “But I’m afraid to dig too deep without stirring up problems for Carver. I’ve known him a long time and I trust him. He’ll talk to us when he can.”
We used the side entrance into the mudroom, and Cole, Martinez, Plank, and Chen followed us inside.
“I’m not going to lie, boss,” Martinez said. “Your house got bad juju.”
Martinez was a seasoned cop, and had earned the nickname of Mr. GQ because he was always polished up and slick with his clothes and looks. King George had a lot of rural areas and farmland, and there was also a lot of wealth. But you’d never know it by looking at the people. There were no pretenses in King George. We were a hardy bunch who worked hard and tried to make good lives for our families.
So to say Martinez stuck out was an understatement. He wore black slacks and expensive-looking loafers, and he wore a black leather jacket and a gray scarf tied fashionably around his neck. His black hair was well cut and his face was smooth. The ladies loved Martinez and he loved them.
I was starting to think Martinez might not be half wrong about the house having bad juju. Martinez’s partner, Lewis, had been killed in our living room by my father. Come to think of it, this was the first time Martinez had been back to our house since that day.
“Maybe we can give your address to the next serial killer,” Cole said. “I’m sure Doc would be happy for you to deflect some bad juju your way.”
“I don’t believe in bad juju,” I said, even though I wasn’t entirely convinced. “I’m not even sure what juju is.”
“I read about this cult the other day that specialized in bad juju,” Doug said, bounding down the stairs to meet us. “They ate animal livers and put curses on people. If something has bad juju, believe me, you don’t want it.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
“Biologically or locationally?” Doug asked, making everyone snicker. “I heard you guys come in and thought you might be bringing food.”
“Not this time,” Jack said, slapping Doug on the shoulder in greeting and then moving to the entryway table where he’d dropped the mail.
Cole moved to stand in front of the windows that flanked each side of the door. The house had been designed to bring the beauty of the outside to the inside as much as possible. There were windows everywhere, and the only ones that had shades were the ones in Jack’s office because the sun hit directly and the nature of our work called for privacy, whether we were at home or not.