out speeding tickets.
In twenty minutes flat, she was out of the shower and pacing the hall, waiting for him.
By the time he rang the bell precisely half an hour after their phone conversation, she’d had ten minutes to get all hot and bothered.
Sheesh.
At this rate, she’d need another shower.
Fluffing her hair, she took a deep breath . . . peered through the peephole to confirm the identity of her visitor . . . and opened the door.
He gave her a swift head-to-toe—and the quick glint of appreciation in his eyes put her doubts to rest. Brent might be here on business, but he was glad to have an excuse to see her.
Maybe she hadn’t scared him off after all.
“Come on in.” She stepped back and waved him through the door. “As you can see, the living room floors have been stripped. That accounts for the dust motes floating through the air and coating every available surface. I’ve kept them under control in the kitchen—sort of. I’d suggest we move there as fast as possible.”
“I’m right behind you.”
She led him back, shaking her head at the surface of the table as they approached. “I wiped this down ten minutes ago. So much for the plastic shield in the doorway that was supposed to keep the dust in the living room. Give me a sec.” She retreated to the sink, retrieved a dishcloth, and dispensed with the new layer of fine powder.
He claimed one of the chairs and set the bag on the table, along with their drinks. “Do you want to eat first or hear my news?”
“News first—unless you ordered a hot item that will get cold.”
“Nope. I got a sandwich.” He removed the lemonade she’d ordered from the tray and set it in front of her.
“No coffee tonight?” She indicated the large, clear cup of amber liquid he put in his own place.
“After spending several hours questioning a suspect in an apartment building with temperatures approaching sauna level, I was in the mood for iced tea. The plain version, not mango.”
“I wish I could convince Grace to settle for that. It would be much less expensive.” She sat and pulled the paper off her straw. “Tell me you have good news.”
“I consider it good.”
Curious answer.
“You mean I won’t?”
“I’m not certain.” He stuck his straw through the opening in the lid and took a drink. “We were able to identify the person whose hair our CSU tech found beside your car.”
“How can that be anything but good news?”
“The person has an indirect connection to you.”
She squinted. “You mean he’s more than a listener?”
“He may not be a listener at all—but he’s married to someone who works on your program at the station. Steve Jackson.”
Eve’s jaw dropped.
Meg’s husband was the person who’d been plotting against her? Planting fake bombs, calling in during the program with exposés about her past, slashing her tires?
“Are you certain?”
“DNA databases are pretty accurate.”
“Does he have a criminal background?” Somehow that wouldn’t surprise her.
“Nothing serious, as far as I can tell. We made the connection through the military DNA database.”
“So he’s a vet.”
“Yes. What do you know about him?”
“Very little.” She relayed the few pieces of information Meg had shared with her.
“Have you met him?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“What did you think?”
“I hate to pass judgment on someone I’ve only seen twice, at work-related gatherings.”
“I hear you. But you seem to have excellent instincts. I’m after impressions, not facts.”
She played with her straw. “We didn’t talk long. He was cool. Abrupt. I got the feeling he didn’t want to be at the events. He was also short with Meg, which I found offensive.” Eve explained the connection between her and the administrative assistant. “Those meetings, and a few comments from Meg, gave me the impression he’s selfish and thinks the world should revolve around him.”
“Any idea why he’d target you?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think he’s crazy about Meg working at the station, but I can’t believe anyone would go to such extremes for something like that.” She exhaled. “This is going to devastate Meg. I know you have a DNA match—but are you sure he’s the one who’s been doing all this?”
“My gut says yes—but I can’t definitely prove it . . . yet. The hair is circumstantial evidence. However, it seems too much of a stretch that it would just happen to be beside your car on the night the tires were slashed. On the other hand, if he has an alibi for that evening, we’re sunk.”
“Have you questioned