A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) (13 page)

“A what?”

“Swatting,” said Zack. “It’s when someone phones in an anonymous tip to the police that there’s a hostage situation or a violent crime in progress.”

Zack’s explanation triggered a vague memory of a news story I’d heard on the radio a few months ago about such malicious pranks. The callers had targeted several high-profile Hollywood actors. However, my family and I were as far from celebrity status as Westfield, New Jersey was from Hollywood, California. “Why would someone target us?”

Spader shrugged. “Could be for any number of reasons. The practice is becoming more and more common throughout the country. We’ve had a spate of incidents in New Jersey over the last few months including a state assemblyman from down in Gloucester County who was swatted after he introduced legislation to toughen penalties for swatting. But we have to take these calls seriously because we have no way of knowing which are hoaxes and which are real.”

“Someone could get killed,” I said.

He grimaced. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Why didn’t you surround the house and call in a hostage negotiator if you thought we were being held captive?” I asked. I’d seen enough instances of that on the news to know such tactics were standard operating procedure in hostage cases.

“Given the recent murders on the street, we thought our best option in this case was the element of surprise,” he said.

Mama had come to, thanks to Lawrence tossing half a glass of ice water on the back of her neck. She stared wide-eyed at Spader and asked, “What happened?”

“You fainted, Mama.”

“I remember now. Men with guns. They swarmed into the house.” She swiveled her head, her gaze darting across the room and into the living room. “Where are they?”

“Gone, dear,” said Lawrence, patting her hand. “Everything is fine.” He grabbed a napkin and began wiping pizza sauce from her cheek.

“Why were they here?”

Spader repeated his explanation.

“What sort of sick individual would do something like that?” she demanded.

“It’s often online gamers who swat their rivals, especially if the rivals are winning.” Spader turned to the boys. “Either of you participate in online gaming?”

“No, sir,” said Alex.

“Same here,” said Nick.

“Any problems with someone at school? Any bullying going on?”

“No,” they both said in unison, shaking their heads.

Spader turned to me. “What about you, Mrs. Pollack? Have you had any problems with anyone at work?”

“No, we all get along.” Well, all except for Tessa, but I doubt she has the skills to pull off such a complicated prank. Besides, as diva fashion editors go, Tessa is fairly benign compared to her predecessor. I could definitely see Marlys Vandenburg orchestrating a swatting of certain staff members, and most likely, I would have topped her hit list. But Marlys was dead, and I didn’t know anyone else who hated me to the extent that she had.

“Why didn’t you call first?” Mama asked Spader. “We’d have told you everyone was safe.”

“Because the police would have no way of knowing whether or not someone was being coerced into saying there was no problem,” said Lawrence. “They have to take every call seriously.”

“That’s right,” said Spader. “And given the murders that occurred on the street this week, we figured this call wasn’t a hoax.”

“Well, thank goodness that’s all it was,” said Mama. She placed a shaky palm across her décolletage. “As it is, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

For once I couldn’t accuse Mama of over-dramatizing the situation. I was still waiting for my own adrenaline to descend from the stratosphere. “What happens now?” I asked Spader.

“We’ll investigate, of course, but I doubt we’ll turn up anything.”

“Why is that?” asked Mama. “Can’t you trace the call you received?”

Spader shook his head. “These guys use computers to hack into phone lines to make it appear the call is coming from the residence where the event is occurring or from a concerned neighbor. In reality, the caller is often hundreds or even thousands of miles away. The worst part is that anyone can search the Internet to learn how to swat someone. It doesn’t take a computer genius to figure it out.”

“So these reprobates could send you here again?” asked Mama.

“It’s possible, but they usually move on to another target.”

“Usually?” Mama’s eyes grew wide.

“Celebrities are often the victims of multiple swattings.”

Mama turned pleading eyes toward me. “A serial killer on the street isn’t bad enough? Now you’ve got cops with guns blazing breaking into you house. You aren’t safe here.”

I knew nothing I said would appease Mama. She’d made up her mind. If we didn’t move out of the house, one way or another, we’d all come to a gruesome end. But before I could answer her, Lucille lumbered back into the dining room.

“Where are they?” she demanded to no one in particular.

“Who?” I asked.

“All those cops.” She waved a pad of paper and a pencil in the air. “I want their names and badge numbers.”

And I want a month on a white sand beach in Aruba. I took a deep breath. “They’ve gone, Lucille.”

She shoved the pad and pencil at Spader. “Write them down. All of them. Names. Badge numbers. This minute.”

He placed the pad and pencil on the table. “The county police legal department will contact you with that information, ma’am.”

“They’d better. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Spader grimaced as he turned to me. “I’ll make sure someone gets out here right away to fix the damage to your door, Mrs. Pollack.”

As I walked him to the splintered front door, he said, “And again, I’m sorry for what happened, but you do understand we had no choice, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Meanwhile, if you think of anyone who might have a beef against you or one of your kids, contact me.”

I glanced over toward where Lucille still stood under the archway separating the living room from the dining room. In a voice soft
 
enough that she wouldn’t hear, I asked Spader, “Have you considered the person might be someone who has a beef with my mother-in-law?”

He scowled in Lucille’s direction. “The thought definitely occurred to me. I know the Westfield police have a long list of complaints against her. We’ll investigate all leads.”

“And you don’t think this is connected in any way to Betty’s or Carmen’s deaths?”

He scratched at the five o’clock shadow covering his jaw. “Anything is possible, but since the two murders don’t appear connected, I fail to see how the swatting factors in to either.”

“My mother insists I should pack up and leave until the killers are caught.”

“I take it, you don’t agree?”

“Do you?”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Mrs. Pollack, but no one else on the street is panicking. If it would make you feel more comfortable, by all means, pack your bags and take a vacation. I’m certainly not ordering anyone out of their homes.”

“A vacation is financially out of the question. And leaving would create a logistical nightmare for me and my kids.”

However, I couldn’t help but feel there are a lot of coincidences suddenly floating around. “I was willing to accept coincidence when it came to the murders, but after this swatting incident, I’m finding it hard to believe something larger isn’t at play here.”

Spader rubbed his jaw again. “If you can figure out how to connect the dots, Mrs. Pollack, you know where to find me. Right now I’m proceeding with the assumption that we’re dealing with three separate crimes until I have proof otherwise.”

He heaved a sigh. “And here I thought biding my time until retirement in Union County would be a piece of cake compared to the crime-infested streets of Newark.”

~*~

It took me nearly an hour and the combined efforts of Lawrence, Zack, Alex, and Nick to convince my mother we wouldn’t be murdered in our sleep that night. She didn’t believe us, but she finally gave in and allowed Lawrence to take her home after a carpenter had arrived to repair my front door.

Mama tried one last parting shot as she left. With hands on hips, she stood on the front porch and declared, “I won’t get a moment’s sleep tonight, thanks to your stubbornness, Anastasia.”

“I’ll fix you a warm toddy before you go to bed,” said Lawrence. “That will help you sleep.” He looped his arm through hers and urged her down the walkway. Mama continued to glance over her shoulder at me as Lawrence half-dragged her toward his car.

To my shock, the carpenter handed me a bill once he finished the repairs. “This should go to the police,” I said. “They broke the door.”

“In the course of doing their job,” he said. “The homeowner is responsible for paying for the repairs.”

“But—”

He held up his hand. “Sorry, ma’am. That’s the law. I accept cash, checks, and credit cards.”

I stormed off to grab my checkbook, muttering a string of words that would shock my sons. “Spader breaks down my door, and I have to pay? How fair is that?” I asked Zack after the carpenter departed, check in hand.

“You of all people should know life is rarely fair.”

Once my temper cooled, I slept soundly for the first time since Betty’s murder on Monday, but I’m sure that had everything to do with the warm body snuggled beside me. Unfortunately, a phone call woke me the next morning an hour before the alarm was set to go off.

I glanced at the clock, groaned, then groaned again as I read the display on the Caller ID. “Good morning, Mama,” I mumbled into the phone.

“Good. You’re not dead. I was just checking. Maybe now I’ll be able to sleep for a few hours.” She hung up.

Zack rolled over as I placed the phone back in the cradle. “What did she want at this hour?”

“To make sure I was still alive.”

“Thoughtful of her. Should we go back to sleep for an hour or fool around?”

I snuggled into the warmth of his body. “What do you think?”

~*~

Friday passed without any further murders, swattings, or visits from either Mama or Ira. I’m not sure Mama had given up so much as she’d gone into pout-mode. Every half hour throughout the day I received a call from her, only to have her hang up as soon as I answered and assured her I was still very much alive.

My phone’s battery was draining power faster than a drought-stricken riverbed sucks up a summer rainstorm. By the sixth call that morning only fifty percent of the charge remained. Luckily, Zack had reminded me to take my charger before I left for work that morning.

“What’s with all the calls?” asked Cloris. She’d been at a meeting earlier, so I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about the swatting. “You don’t normally receive this many calls in a week.”

“Mama being Mama.”

“Do I want more of an explanation than that?”

“Just her usual craziness. She’s checking to make sure I’m still alive.” I suppose I was lucky she’d waited until five-thirty that morning to begin her barrage of calls.

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Bring me something chocolate, and I’ll explain.”

A moment later Cloris stood in the entrance to my cubicle, half a chocolate fudge brownie in her hand. “It’s all I have at the moment.”

I grabbed the brownie and sunk my teeth into it. Once I washed the mouthful down with a swig of tepid coffee, I caught Cloris up on the events of last evening.

“Mama in one of her moods does have an upside, though,” I said.

“What’s that?”
 

“Chances are slim she and Lawrence will drop in at dinnertime this evening.”

~*~

Not only did Mama and Lawrence stay away that night, but my evening’s prospects improved even more when I arrived home to find Lucille and Mephisto nowhere in sight.

“They drove off this morning in a rusted-out circa 1960’s Volkswagen minibus packed with angry-faced octogenarians,” said Zack. “The driver could barely see over the steering wheel. She jumped the curb and sideswiped the oak tree at the end of the driveway.”

“That would be Harriet Kleinhample and the other Daughters of the October Revolution. If we’re lucky, Lucille won’t return until after we’ve finished dinner.”

As for Ira, since he didn’t petition very long or very hard the day before, maybe he’d come to the realization that having me and the boys move in with him and his juvenile delinquents wasn’t the best of ideas. I could only hope.

That night Alex, Nick, Zack, and I enjoyed a semi-peaceful, non-dysfunctional family dinner together, interrupted only every half hour by calls from Mama.

“What if we don’t answer next time?” asked Nick after I hung up from the second call.

“Bad idea,” said Alex. “She’ll rush over here to make sure we’re okay.”

“We could leave the phone off the hook.”

“She’d only call my cell phone,” I said. “And if I didn’t answer that, she’d call Zack. Putting up with her calls is far better than putting up with her in person right now.”

“She means well,” said Zack, always the voice of reason.