The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 33

I caught another Uber, briefly eyeing the driver for suspicious intentions; still, my other options could be worse. I had the rideshare drop me a block from where I'd left my car. As I approached my Toyota, I carefully scrutinized the cars and trucks on both sides of the street. There was no sign of the Dodge or the other two vehicles I'd caught watching me before. I walked around my car, looking for bystanders that were perhaps too close.

Then, as I reached for the door handle, I suddenly froze. Could someone have planted a bomb? Stooping down with my purse cushioning my knee, I peered under my car to see if anything was amiss. Then I realized I wouldn't recognize a bomb unless they left a prominent red LED timer on it, as they do in low-rent action movies. I got up off the pavement, feeling slightly foolish but still worried. Anyone following me would more likely have attached a GPS tracker—something else I wouldn't recognize—than a bomb. And they could have done that back at the apartment.

Still, I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and gritted my teeth, first as I opened the driver-side door and then again as I pushed the Toyota's Start button. The engine cranked and hummed to life, and nothing exploded. I backed up slowly, testing the brakes a dozen times, then tried them again with several taps as I slowly pulled forward, increasing my speed.

As I headed home, I checked my mirrors frequently for a tail. I made a hard left turn from the far-right lane when I saw an opportunity that wouldn't get anyone killed or injured. I made a few random trips around the block. I saw no clear signs anyone was following me. But as my apartment complex's parking lot was coming into view, I noticed that black Transit van with the side windows tinted nearly the same color. It had parked in a slot assigned to a fellow tenant I knew well, one who drove a gray Nissan Sentra and wouldn't be home late afternoons. The rest of the lot was almost empty, with a few vehicles scattered here and there.

Dammit, this will not turn out well.

Driving past my apartments, I continued for two blocks and turned left, parking on a side street. I walked around to the sidewalk that passed in front of my complex. I checked for observers on the walkways or occupied vehicles on either curb. Then I snuck into the building from the visitor's entrance on the opposite side of the structure from the parking lot.

When I entered my apartment, I didn't turn on the lights immediately. Instead, I closed the doors to the bedroom and bathroom, which had windows opening to the parking lot side. That prevented the Transit van from seeing any light from the rest of my apartment. The other side of the flat was a windowless wall to a hallway between neighboring apartments, so that wouldn't be a problem. Once it was dark, I would need to turn off all the lights in the apartment, close the blinds in both rooms on the parking side, and pull the drapes fully closed. Then I could shut those doors again and turn the lights back on. No one from the parking lot could track my comings and goings.

I checked my messages—Doug had called while I was driving, and I'd let it go to voicemail. "Debra Ann, that plate comes back to Strike Response. Call me as soon as you get this message."

I typed "Strike Response" into the search bar of my browser. The home page it pulled up was heavy on armed security and defensive and retaliatory investigations. They specialized in divorce, labor disputes, oppo research, background, internal theft, insurance, undercover, and investigating the investigators as well as business competitors—hence the name, I presume. The page content was riddled with Trumpie racist and gender-biased dog whistles, and all the photos featured angry-looking white males, most of them armed to the teeth, in forearm-crossed poses backed by American-made muscle cars.

Hearing the urgency in Doug's voice on the message, I dialed his number, and he picked up immediately.

"Hi, Doug, I got your message, and it sounded serious...."