“Get those taillights fixed?” he asked, and was rewarded with a harsh glare.
“As a matter of fact, yes, I did.”
“Glad to hear it.” Waving her toward one of the chairs facing his desk, he said, “Have a seat.”
She dropped into a side chair as she tugged off a wool cap and her gloves. A long braid of black hair fell past her shoulders. “Look, I really hate to bother you. Really. I know you’re busy. It’s got to be a madhouse here with the storms.”
“We’re holding our own.”
“Good.” She sighed, tugged nervously on the gloves in her hands, and beseeched him with those famous green eyes. “I’ve got a problem.”
Haven’t we all, lady? “More missing props at the theater?” he asked, half joking and not even scaring up a hint of a smile on her often-photographed lips.
“I wish.”
Fishing in her oversized purse, she shook her head. There was a tension about her he hadn’t noticed before, a hardness to her mouth, tiny lines of worry visible between her delicately arched eyebrows, a nervousness as she dug into the bag. “It’s a little more serious than the stolen things, I think. Rinda said I should tell you about it as I live out of town and am therefore in your jurisdiction. Lucky, you, huh?” Still no smile as she looked up at him, then retrieved a plastic Ziploc bag and dropped it into the middle of his desk. “I received this in the mail, at my personal post office box.”
“What is it?” he asked, picking up the bag. “Fan letter?”
“Oh, it’s way beyond a fan letter.” Her voice was brittle with sarcasm as he picked up the bag and studied the note written over the picture of her.
He scanned the words through the thin plastic sheath. With each obsessive line, his gut tightened. No wonder she appeared about to jump out of her skin.
You are every woman.
Sensual. Strong. Erotic.
You are one woman.
Searching. Wanting. Waiting.
You are my woman.
Today. Tomorrow. Endlessly.
I will come for you.
“Who sent this to you?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.”
She had his attention now. “You have no idea who would send you something like this?” He held the bag more closely to his eyes and examined the envelope. Same type as in the letter. Postmarked in Portland—on the east side, he thought.
“That’s right, none.”
“Ever happened before?”
She let out a small sigh and lifted a shoulder. “Well, yes. Once.”
He dropped the plastic bag onto the desk, grabbed a pen from a cup on his desk, clicked it, and slid a notepad closer. “Go on.”
“The other time was a while back when I was still living in L.A. There were always obsessive fans, of course. Always. But…” she gnawed on a corner of her lip, then caught herself and met his gaze steadily again, “…but I thought I was safe here.”
“Anyone ever stalk you?”
“Not recently.”
“In the past?”