The First Wife

JANE WASN’T OUT of her art meeting five minutes before Marge Davenport, her senior editor, was at her office door with an envelope in her hand.

“We got another one,” she said, her face pinched.

Jane stared at the envelope in Marge’s hand, but didn’t reach for it. “What does it say?”

“Same as the others. ‘Do the right thing, or else.’ That’s it.”

“Has Walt Overmeyer seen it?”

The private security guard had started that morning.

“Yeah, he’s outside waiting to speak with you.”

“Did you call Detective Thomas?”

“He’s on his way over.”

Jane cursed the fear that raced through her, making her weak.

“I WANT TO ASSURE YOU, Ms. Hamilton, we’re taking this issue very seriously.” The middle-aged detective stood with Jane just inside her closed office door, holding the newest threat letter in a ziplock bag.

Jane focused on the bisque-colored plaque hanging above the doorway. Bright flowers rimmed the ceramic piece, but they weren’t why she’d purchased it or hung it there.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Franklin Delano Roosevelt, March 4, 1933.

“I’ve been in publishing long enough to know that you’re never going to please everyone,” she said now, glancing back at Detective Thomas. “You speak out against emotionally charged issues and there’s always going to be someone having a bad enough day to need to have their grievances heard.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not like this is the first threat we’ve received.”

“But it’s the only one that’s been repeated. Three times now.”

Jane grew cold. “So what are you telling me? I can’t stop living. I can’t let some anonymous coward run me out of my world.”

“I’m just saying that you need to proceed with extreme caution,” Detective Thomas said. “If you’ve got vacation time, take it.”

“I don’t. And even if I did, where would I go? For how long?”

“I understand how difficult this is,” the detective said. “Believe me, we’re working as quickly as we can, trying to trace this. Unfortunately we’re dealing with computer-generated messages on generic paper. We know from the postmark that whoever is sending these is mailing them from somewhere here in Chicago—probably from the same place each time. And based on the repetition, I’m guessing that this guy’s serious.”

“He might not be targeting me. They’re addressed to the editor in chief.”

“We are considering that he’s angry with the magazine itself. But it would appear that he believes that you control whatever comes out of here. We have to assume that whatever it is he wants done is, in his opinion, under your control, as well.”

Jane focused on the plaque.

“The guy’s sending the letters here. What if this escalates and he targets the building?”

“We’re posting extra people around the premises. A uniformed officer will be on guard at the security screening station at the main entrance. And screening officers are being assigned to the two private entrance doors, as well. They’ll hand search everyone who tries to enter there.”

The other tenants were going to love her.

She told Detective Thomas about her encounter with Kim Maplewood that morning and about Shawn’s conversation with his pastor. He told her again to be careful.

“Don’t go anywhere you don’t absolutely have to go,” he said. “Especially here in the city. And don’t go anywhere alone.”

“I’ve hired a private security company….”

“I’ve already met with Walt Overmeyer,” the detective said. “He or one of his associates will also be walking you to and from your car and the building every day for the next little bit. I recommend that you hire them to watch your house at night, too. And in the meantime, we’ll be doing all we can to get this guy.”

Before he gets you, Jane finished silently, thanking the officer as she ushered him out.

She hadn’t liked anything the man had to say.

He was there to help her. To protect her.

So why didn’t she feel protected?

BRAD WAS BACK IN HIS OFFICE after an emotionally charged settlement conference when Jane called late Monday afternoon.

He answered the call on the first ring. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again so soon.

“There’s been another threat.”

All thoughts of Saturday—and sex—flew out of his mind. “What does it say?”

“Same thing.”

“So what in the hell does this guy want you to do?”

“He might be a woman, for all we know.”

“Fine, what could this person possibly want you to do?”

“I have no idea.” Jane’s troubled sigh made it harder for him to stay detached. “Believe me, I’m driving myself crazy trying to figure it out,” she continued. “I mean, how can I possibly do what this person wants if I don’t know what it is?”

“What about nonthreatening letters to the editor?” Brad asked, hating this new feeling of helplessness he had where Jane was concerned. “Is there anything there that might tie in?”

“The police took everything we had and haven’t found a connection. I’ve personally gone over every issue we’ve published in the past six months, tried to piece them together with a note or letter or phone call, but I can’t come up with anything.”

“But this person must think you know what he or she wants or why put on the pressure?”

“Detective Thomas suspects we’re dealing with a narcissist. Or at least someone unhinged enough to overestimate their importance to me. The police are doing all they can, but how much time do I have before this person decides I’m not going to do what’s right?”

“I guess that depends on what they want you to do.”

“Right, and if I don’t do it, what’s the ‘or else’?”