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She peeks into the hallway bathroom, and I glance at the door to Sky’s studio. A sense of betrayal hits me, letting someone see it without his consent.
“This is where he works.” I swing the door wide, and her face doesn’t change as she surveys the costumes and changeable backgrounds.
“The camera’s on.” She strides over and examines it. “Where does the feed go?”
“His laptop.” I point it out, a foot from the camera.
“Password,” she barks at me. I rattle off my birthday and pray. I’m not religious because my parents’ views have soured my perception, but if there’s a higher being, I pray with all my might. “In,” she says.
Air rushes to my lungs, and I sink to sit on the matted floor.
“Your boyfriend is a genius.” She grins over her shoulder.
The next couple of hours are a blur as law enforcement officers take fingerprints from each door handle, surface, and the mail. A computer specialist watches hours of video from Sky’s recording.
He high-fives the cop who found the camera, and she brings me the laptop. “Do you recognize this guy?”
I stare, stunned. “He’s… He was at… He’s stalking Sky.” They’ve given up confirming I’m talking about Lark Angel, his legal name. “He tried to get Sky alone at the Enforcers’ charity gala and again at St. Mary’s hospital. The guy didn’t call Sky by name. Only his screen name.”
“Are you sure it’s the same guy?” She prods because his hair’s disheveled and his clothes don’t fit right.
“I saw him at the gala, and Sky said the same guy found him at the hospital. I wasn’t there, but my teammate, Theo O’Keefe, was. It made Sky nervous that the guy found him in random places.”
“We’ll run facial recognition software, but he’ll only match if he has a criminal record.” She spins and pulls out her phone.
Our home is a full-blown crime scene complete with cops in shoe booties and fingerprint powder. I check my cell out of habit rather than hope that Sky’s messaged. Nothing. I check his location for something to do and see his phone isn’t active but had a ping since it was turned off.
“Hey,” I yell, holding up my phone. “His phone was on at…the subway station a few blocks away.”
The computer expert takes my cell and hooks it up to his computer.
“They got on the subway, heading into the city. Where would Lark go?” he barks.
“I…I have an apartment in the city, but he hates it.” I crack my neck, my mind spinning with possibilities.
“Address?”
Rattling off the address, I add, “But it’s the last place he’d go.” He flat-out said he never wants to set foot in the place again.
“We’ll check to be certain.”
A set of feet thunders on the stairs. “I got a partially filled-out power of attorney form.” He waves it as he enters the kitchen.
Computer guy gives me a questioning glance.
“It’s not mine.” I hold up my hands, suddenly afraid I’m the prime suspect. They always suspect the boyfriend or significant other first.
“Relax.” The cop smiles. “It’s giving power of attorney to Lark Angel for Maria Russo. It’s not valid because it’s not notarized. You have any knowledge of her assets or bank accounts?”
“None,” I answer honestly. “He told me they talked about who could make decisions for her if she can’t,” I offer as if I’m giving relevant information.
“You should get some sleep. We can take you to a hotel,” she offers.
Mr. Dimon stands from the island. “I can take him to the team’s suite at our downtown hotel.” He rattles off the name and address for the officers, taking a card from the woman in charge. “I’ll have him call you with a room number.”
A Town Car waits, running and warm at the curb for us.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize for ignoring him and staring at my screen.
