in various ways. She had her mother’s brunette hair, her father’s slim nose. The shape of her eyes was more her father’s, while the color was a tad darker than her mother’s.
He wondered what it had been like growing up with two parents. Two parents who cared.
He shook his head to dispel that mistruth. His mother had cared before she’d died. His father...not so much.
Thoughts of his past had no place in this assignment. He turned from the portrait and moved to look at more framed photos gracing the cream-colored wall leading to the hallway. Each photo was posed, with perfect lighting and perfect expressions. Not one candid shot among the lot.
In fact, he couldn’t remember seeing anything in the apartment during his security check that wasn’t perfectly arranged, perfectly ordered.
Very little to suggest someone actually lived here.
His gaze made a slow sweep over the condo. Except for her purse sitting on the little stand by the door, there was nothing personal in view. The place reminded him of a hotel suite.
Something was off here. From all accounts, Dr. Brenda Storm was a highly skilled surgeon sought after by the best hospitals in the world. She was paid well for her work and had prestige most would envy. Yet, she lived like a guest in her own home.
A door down the hall opened and Brenda emerged from her bedroom. She’d changed from the austere black outfit, which she’d put back on after discarding her operating scrubs, to a fitted navy skirt that showed off her curves admirably and white sleeveless blouse that made her look delicate. Her idea of casual?
A knock sounded on the door.
Kyle stilled, his senses at attention. “Expecting someone?”
Brenda shook her head, her eyes growing round. “No.”
Kyle motioned her back toward the kitchen. He approached the door from the side and peered through the peephole. An array of pink and purple flowers blocked the view. Whoever was on the other side of the door was holding a bouquet of flowers in front of his or her face.
“Know of anyone who would send you flowers?” he asked.
“No one.”
Kyle withdrew his gun.
Time to meet this threat head-on.
TWO
Kyle pressed his back against the inside wall next to Brenda’s front door. Nerves stretched tight, he regulated his breathing. Brenda’s life was at stake here. He needed to keep control of the situation. “What do you want?”
“Floral delivery,” came the muffled reply. “For Dr. Brenda Storm. Is she here?”
Wariness narrowed Kyle’s focus. She didn’t need to be home for the flowers to be delivered. He could have left them at the front desk. How had the guy slipped past the doorman?
Brenda moved forward. “Who—”
Kyle lifted a finger to keep her quiet. He waved her back again. She nodded and stepped closer to the kitchen archway. “She’s not available. Take them back.”
“I can’t. I’ve got a schedule to keep. My boss will have my head if I return to the shop without delivering them. Guy paid to have them delivered pronto.”
“Guy?” Kyle wasn’t sure he bought the story. “You have the name of who sent them?”
“Yeah.”
A heartbeat of silence passed. “Well, what’s it say?”
“You gonna open the door, or what?”
“No, you’re gonna tell me through it.”
“My hands are kinda full here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Obviously, he knew Kyle was watching through the peephole. If he were an assailant, he knew he wasn’t going to have an easy time of it today. “Leave the flowers on the floor and back up ten steps.”
Kyle watched through the peephole. The flowers were lowered. A man wearing a black fedora perched low over gray eyes stepped back. He was older than Kyle would have thought, given the job. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, making an odd contrast with his hat. He held a clipboard and flowers.
“I said flowers on the ground,” Kyle repeated.
The vase of the flowers lowered to the floor.
Cautiously, Kyle opened the front door, careful to keep his weapon at the ready yet out of sight. One wrong move...
The delivery guy moved closer.
Kyle countered with a step forward, drawing on the guy.
“Whoa! Dude!” He raised his hands in the air. Fear widened the man’s gray eyes. “I need your John Hancock on the last line.” He lowered the clipboard slightly.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.” Kyle grabbed the clipboard and inspected the form. It looked legit. So did the flowers. The name of the flower shop was emblazoned across the top of the form.
“How long have you worked for this store?” Kyle asked.
The guy swallowed. “A few weeks. I’m lucky to have a job in this economy.”
True enough statement. The state of the job market had hit everyone hard. Kyle signed for delivery. “So who sent them?”
The guy shrugged and gestured with his chin to the vase. “There’s a card.” He tried to peer over Kyle’s shoulder. “Is the doctor home?”
Shoving the clipboard into the guy’s chest and pushing him back another step, Kyle replied, “She’s not available.”
“You her boyfriend?”
Kyle narrowed his gaze on the man. “Time for you to go.”
The guy held up his hands. “Hey, man, just asking. Didn’t mean anything by it.” He retreated, going down the hall to the elevator, then disappearing inside.
Kyle stared down at the array of bright flowers. A small white envelope peeked out among the blooms. Squatting down, he inspected the water-filled, fluted clear vase. He scrutinized the blossoms, looking for anything suspicious. There didn’t seem to be any substance coating the petals. He didn’t see any hidden items that would suggest the flowers had been tampered with. He carefully ran a finger around the rim of the vase to check for wires or anything that would indicate the bouquet was rigged with an explosive device.
When he was satisfied that the arrangement wasn’t fitted to detonate, he lifted the vase and carried it inside the condo. Brenda stood stock-still in her kitchen, her hands gripping the marble counter, her knuckles white.
Her upset had his insides knotting. He wanted to ease her fears. “It’s okay. Guy’s gone.” He set the vase on the counter. “Nothing dangerous here but flowers.”
Wariness crossed her face. She backed away. “Who sent them?”
“There’s a note card,” he said. “Do you have a plastic baggie?”
She opened a drawer. Inside were neatly placed boxes of plastic bags. “Which size?”
“Sandwich.”
She withdrew one and handed it over. He tore off a paper towel from the dispenser near the sink and used the sheet to protect the tall plastic cardholder from his fingerprints as he lifted the thing from the flowers and set it on the counter. He’d worked long enough with several ex–law enforcement personnel to know how to be cautious and preserve possible evidence. Still using the paper towel, he removed the envelope from the prongs and flipped up the seal.
He slid the card-stock note out and read the scrawling words out loud. “Hope your day will be better now. Are we on for next Friday? It’s signed Sam.”
A