Into the Devil's Underground Read online

  “No, thanks.” Emilie crossed her arms and glared out the window. Hot tears built in the corners of her eyes. Sitting at home with only her thoughts was worse than going back to the bank.

  “You’ve been through something horrible.” Jeremy’s voice sounded like he was talking through a tube. He sniffled. “No arguments. And I know this will piss you off, but do you think Evan would want to know?”

  Her nails dug into her arms. Even after all the efforts she’d made to put the past behind her, hearing Evan’s name was still like pouring acid on an open wound. She had wasted years of her life on that selfish, manipulative jackass. Catching him in their bed with a barely legal brunette had been the clincher. “I don’t give a damn what Evan wants. My life is no longer his business.”

  “I just don’t want you to have the same problems you did after the divorce,” he said gently. “You’ve come too far to end up back in that miserable place.”

  Her throat ached. She didn’t want to go back to that horrid place, either. Stuck in the dark whether it was day or night, trapped in the misery of her mind. “I’m fine, really. Will you let me know when I can come back to work?”

  “Of course. And you’ll be paid for the time off.”

  Awkward silence hovered between them until Jeremy pulled into her condominium community. “I’ll walk you up.”

  Tucked between Las Vegas, Lake Mead, and the Hoover Dam, Henderson was only a twenty-minute commute from downtown and a popular retreat from the rowdy lifestyle of the city. Emilie had lived in a second-floor, two-bedroom unit in Big Horn Condos since her divorce. She enjoyed the peace and quiet and the incredible view of the Black Mountains.

  Her fat, orange tabby greeted her with loud yowling, demanding food. While she fed Otis, Jeremy checked the apartment and then pleaded again with Emilie to stay with his family. Half an hour later, Emilie shoved him out the door. Alone. Finally.

  The condo waited in silence. Anxiety washed over Emilie. The door’s gold lock suddenly looked flimsy. Maybe I should reinforce it.

  Emilie’s sore shoulder screamed in protest as she grabbed the side of the oak table standing along the west wall. She heaved it across the hardwood floor until the heavy wood rested firmly against the door. Better. At least I’d hear the table crash to the floor if someone tried to break in. She left the entryway light on and headed for the master bath. Behind her, something scuttled across the kitchen floor. Emilie froze. Her heart pounded in her ears. The sound came again.

  Sickness built in her gut. Emilie forced herself to face the dark kitchen. “Hello?”

  Stupid. As if Creepy Guy would answer her.

  As if he could even get inside my apartment.

  But he got inside the bank.

  Otis meandered out of the kitchen carrying his frayed, toy mouse. The cat stared at her with unblinking eyes.

  “God, Otis. You scared me to death.” Emilie turned on the standing lamp in the corner and headed for her master bath. Cold sweat broke out across her upper lip as darkness engulfed her. She slammed the light switch on.

  Otis promptly jumped on the edge of the large garden tub, prancing across like a fat acrobat.

  “Time to assess the damage.” She stared at the oval mirror in horror. Her already fair skin looked sickly, making the bruises stand out. A large, purple contusion covered her left cheek, and a smaller discoloration adorned her temple. She touched the spot with trembling fingers. The man had hit her with the gun. Another inch to the right, and I could have ended up blind.

  Her gaze traveled to her exposed left shoulder. It, too, was bruised, courtesy of the concrete floor. Two of her fingernails were broken, and her knee was skinned.

  Otis hopped onto the porcelain sink and appraised her.

  “You didn’t tell me I looked this bad.”

  The cat blinked his large green eyes.

  “Well, it could have been worse. At least I’m here to feed you, right?”

  She ran a hot bath in the hopes of relaxing. Otis sat on the edge of the tub and swatted at the bubbles as she tried to clear her head The heat helped her aching body but did nothing for her racing mind. Carefully, she dried off and slipped into a t-shirt.

  Padding across the plush carpet, she made sure her blinds were closed before climbing into her queen-sized bed.

  Deep breaths. Focus on your breathing.

  Nothing worked.

  She reached for the faded picture on her nightstand, cradling it to her chest. It was one of the few treasures she possessed from childhood. She missed her grandmother so much her heart actually ached. “I wish you were here, Mémé. You would make it all better.”

  8

  EMILIE EXPECTED THE squad room of Las Vegas Metro’s downtown command to be dank and grimy, full of grouchy cops talking to foul-mouthed criminals. Instead, the bland room was well organized and clean, with a wall of windows providing plenty of natural light. A hum of conversation hung in the air along with the sounds of hunt-and-peck typing, fax machines, and ringing phones.

  Detective Avery had called an hour ago and informed her she needed to come to the station. Emilie barely kept her temper. She didn’t know why Avery treated her like she was the bad guy, but she’d already had enough of his attitude.

  A baby-faced cop led her to an office on the far side of the room. “Agent Ronson and Detective Avery are working in here.”

  Emilie knew at once the space belonged to Avery. Several certificates and awards hung on the wall behind his desk, all arranged so that when Avery sat in his enormous leather chair, the accolades were just above his head.

  Agent Ronson greeted her at the door. “How are you?”

  “Okay,” Emilie lied. She took off her sunhat and sat down.

  “Did you get any rest?” Dark circles rimmed Agent Ronson’s eyes. She clutched a cup of coffee.

  “I think I got more than you did.”

  “Well, some of us have a hard time leaving the job when a case is fresh.” She glanced at Avery reclining God-like in his ridiculous seat. “And some of us can sleep like babies no matter the circumstances.”

  Avery tossed his Styrofoam coffee cup into a steel wastebasket.

  “Agent Ronson never stops. That’s why she’s got one of the best records in the Las Vegas field office.” He looked at Ronson and adjusted his gaudy red tie. “I’m honored to work with her.”

  Ronson ignored him. “Emilie, have you remembered anything else?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Ronson said. “Working with the sketch artist may help you remember more.”

  “I didn’t see the man’s face, just his eyes.”

  “We need something to distribute among area commands on the off chance he’s committed other crimes and is in the system,” Avery said. “It’s a long shot, but we have to do everything possible.”

  “Did the search teams find anything?” She knew they hadn’t. The man just vanished until the next time he decided to try to snatch her.

  “No.” Avery played with a crystal paperweight. “We did manage to locate his point of entry into the tunnels from the refurbished sewer pipe, but he was gone by then.”

  “You couldn’t follow his trail?” Emilie asked.

  “What trail?” Avery snorted. “The two inches of standing water washed away any footprints, and police aren’t exactly equipped to go trolling in the tunnels. We don’t know the system very well. We focused the search on the culverts and washes—the drainage ditches—in hopes of catching him or finding a witness.”

  “And you found nothing?” Emilie couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.

  “I promise we’re exhausting every resource to find this man,” Ronson said. “The sketch is the first step. I’ll go get Officer Mallory.” She left, and Emilie was stuck alone with Avery.

  He hefted the crystal paperweight off his desk and rolled it around in his hand like a squish-ball. “Let’s talk about past acquaintances. Is there anyone you can think of that made you feel
uncomfortable? A customer that acted inappropriately? A date you refused?” The detective’s gaze slipped to Emilie’s bare calves. “A man you may have shunned at some point?”

  “No.” She stood up and walked to the window. “There’s no one like that.”

  “You weren’t seeing anyone? What about the bank president? Lisa Craig said you two are close.”

  “Excuse me?” Emilie tried to remember she was speaking to a person with authority, but she was at the point of not caring.

  “What’s your relationship with Jeremy Vance?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “That’s not what Ms. Craig thinks.”

  “She’s a vindictive bitch.” She’d known Lisa would say something about Emilie’s relationship with Jeremy. The woman is a narcissist carrying around a chip bigger than Las Vegas on her shoulder.

  “So you’re not having an affair with your boss?” Avery grinned like a peeping tom camped out in a tree.

  Emilie couldn’t believe the detective’s brazenness. She snapped her head back and forth, unable to speak.

  Avery set the paperweight back down and folded his hands in his lap. “We need to know about your relationships.”

  “Jeremy’s a good friend. So is his wife, Sarah. I’m not sleeping with her, either.” To hell with showing this man any sort of respect.

  “We can’t help you if you don’t cooperate. Acting like a smart-ass isn’t going to get you anywhere. Is this part of your psychosis?”

  “What are you talking about?” Emilie ground her teeth in an effort not to shout.

  Avery rolled a pencil through his fingers. “We got a warrant to pull your financial and medical records yesterday. Protocol since you were in charge of the bank—you could have been an accomplice. You had a stay in a psych ward shortly after your divorce. Care to elaborate?”

  “I spent three days in a psychiatric ward, self-admitted.” Emilie felt violated. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She loosened her clenched fists. “And no, I don’t. It’s none of your business and irrelevant to the case.”

  “On the contrary, it’s very relevant.” Avery’s pencil-thin lips hinted at a mocking smile. “You were in a psych ward exposed to individuals with serious disorders. Any one of them could be a suspect. And of course, we have to consider your mental health now. Are you currently seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “No.” Emilie barely got the words past her pinched lips. She wasn’t ashamed of her previous mental health issues. But Avery made her feel like she was some sort of a freak, a bad person who needed to be watched at all times instead of a severely depressed woman who’d suffered a breakdown. “But you already know that since you’ve no doubt scoured my charts. And I wasn’t in the part of the facility where they were treating the most serious patients. I was depressed, not psychotic.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “You were there. We’ll be tracking down as many people as we can, but you need to think about the people you came in contact with there.”

  “Easy. The staff. A therapist and I talked about my divorce.” She wasn’t going to talk about her experience to this man. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly she’d felt about herself. “That’s it.”

  “I’ll need the therapist’s name. You didn’t fraternize with any other patients?” Avery tapped his index finger on the desk, his raised eyebrows matching the smug slant of his mouth.

  “No.” Emilie fumed. “Why are you treating me like I’m suspected of some wrongdoing?”

  “Just doing my job.” His tone was light, as if they were talking about the weather. “I don’t think you’re telling me everything. You sure none of your cohabitants in the psych ward could have come looking for you? Maybe you got close to someone, they misunderstood. Nothing to be embarrassed about, but you need to come clean so I can find this man.”

  “I have been honest. And Agent Ronson had better be good because I don’t think you’ll find him at all.” Emilie imagined choking Avery with his designer tie. He glared back at her, nostrils wide enough to jam in a large black olive.

  “Everything okay?” Ronson stood in the doorway.

  “Perfect,” Avery said. “Emilie was just answering a few more questions.”

  Emilie’s skin was hot with anger. “Detective Avery is a pompous ass.” She brushed by Ronson and stomped out of the office. “Where’s the sketch artist?”

  Agent Ronson led her past a row of closed doors. “What did Avery say to you?”

  “He accused me of deliberately holding back information. I’ve got no reason to do that.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Don’t bother.” It wouldn’t do any good. People like Avery revel in others’ misfortune because they’re insecure and miserable in their own lives. “Just find the bastard who tried to kidnap me.”

  The young sketch artist waited in a conference room. Emilie sat down across from her. Ronson took the seat to Emilie’s left.

  “I can’t tell you much,” Emilie said. “All I saw were Creepy’s eyes. And I’m not sure how much a sketch of his eyes will help.”

  “It may not,” Ronson said. “But it’s worth a try.”

  “That’s fine.” The artist brushed her wavy, brown hair out of her face and slipped on a pair of glasses. “What did his eyes look like?”

  Remembering was easy. The man’s eyes haunted her dreams all night. “His brows were kind of thick but feminine. They had a nice arch. Dark eyes, but they had another color in the light. Green, maybe. I couldn’t see his nose. His skin had some color to it, but I couldn’t tell his ethnicity.”

  She looked at the half-finished sketch. “No, his eyes were more oval-shaped, and his eyelids were a bit darker than the rest of his skin. No, no, that makes him look lazy-eyed. He was the opposite. His eyes were wide and alert at all times. He saw everything.”

  The artist erased and began again, leaning over her work with intense concentration. “Like this?”

  Gooseflesh erupted on Emilie’s arms. Creepy’s strange eyes stared back at her. Part of her wanted to vomit into the trash can, but the stronger side, the one that crawled out of the black hole of depression, wanted to put her fist through the wall. “Yes, that’s good.”

  “Let’s pass this around to known informants, have uniforms get into the tunnels with it,” Ronson said. “We might get lucky.”

  The sketch artist nodded and hurried out of the room.

  “We’re bringing in all current and former bank employees today,” Ronson said. “Anyone who worked in the new building and could have possible knowledge of the door.”

  “I doubt any of them knew,” Emilie said. “Jeremy and I didn’t even know about it.”

  “Last night you immediately thought of Lisa Craig.” Avery snapped as he entered the conference room. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Emilie. “You listed all the issues you’ve had with her and explained why she’s a viable suspect. Have you changed your mind? You realize that wastes our time, right?”

  “I said you should start with her.” Emilie wanted to punch Avery in the neck. “I also told you I didn’t know if she was capable of such a thing.”

  “And you sound even less sure this morning.”

  “Well you see, Detective Avery, there’s this thing called shock.” Emilie reached the end of her frayed rope. “It happens when people have had a traumatic experience. I have to admit that while Lisa is a grade-A, first-class bitch, I’m not sure she would do such a thing. Make sense?”

  “That’s great. Now we start from scratch—again.”

  “Lisa is still a viable suspect.” Ronson stared fiercely at Avery. “I can finish with Ms. Davis. Would you make sure the sketch artist gets the composite distributed? We need it out there now.” Her tone left no room for argument.

  Avery hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Ronson watched him leave. Her jaw was clenched, her mouth pressed into a straight line.

&n
bsp; Emilie was grateful to see the agent’s anger. At least she had someone on her side. “Thanks for getting rid of him. Now what?”

  “We’re also looking at people who worked at the Wildwood Hotel and would have knowledge of the bank foundation,” Ronson said. “But those interviews are going to take time. You’re sure you won’t stay with a friend?”

  Emilie felt like she needed to be alone, even if it scared her. Involving anyone else meant possibly putting that person in danger. “I’m sure.”

  Ronson walked to the door and shut it. “Have you ever read a blog called Hunter’s Happenings?”

  The hairs on the back of Emilie’s neck bristled. “No.”

  The agent pulled a rumpled paper from her leather bag. “It’s run by a former reporter for the Sun. She likes to troll the high rollers at the casinos and publish dirty details of their lives. And when a big name celebrity comes to town, she’s all over it.”

  “So she’s a gossip blogger?” She stared at the copy, suddenly feeling as if it might bite her.

  “Yep. She interviewed your parents and ex-husband.”

  Her stomach dropped faster than a roller coaster and then jammed her throat. No. Not Evan, and definitely not Claire. Claire, who would revel in Emilie’s failures. She coughed and nearly threw up the bagel she’d forced down an hour ago. “Excuse me?”

  “Passageway to Hell Discovered Beneath WestOne Bank”

  Emilie skimmed through the details of the hostage situation and the man’s attempt to take her. She didn’t need to relive the night in print.

  Her eyes stopped on two words. “The Subterranean Stalker? Really?”

  “It’s ridiculous. Nothing but sensationalizing a terrible crime get hits.”

  Emilie read further. The female blogger was in awe of Creepy’s scheme. Paragraphs of the blog were devoted to his brilliance.

  The paper rustled in Emilie’s shaky grip. The blogger had spoken to her mother.

  The victim is the daughter of Claire and Sam Davis, an upper-middle-class family from Portland, Oregon. She and her husband haven’t had a relationship with their daughter since Emilie Davis ran away sixteen years ago with her now ex-husband, Evan Randall.