ANXIETY ATTACK: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANXIETY ATTACK

  A Kate Huntington Mystery

  by Kassandra Lamb

  a misterio press publication

  OTHER BOOKS by KASSANDRA LAMB

  The Kate Huntington Mystery Series:

  MULTIPLE MOTIVES

  ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS

  FAMILY FALLACIES

  CELEBRITY STATUS

  COLLATERAL CASUALTIES

  ZERO HERO

  FATAL FORTY-EIGHT

  SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS

  ANXIETY ATTACK

  POLICE PROTECTION

  (coming in late 2017)

  ~~~

  The Kate on Vacation Novellas:

  An Unsaintly Season in St. Augustine

  Cruel Capers on the Caribbean

  Ten-Gallon Tensions in Texas

  Missing on Maui

  ~~~

  The Marcia Banks and Buddy Mysteries:

  To Kill A Labrador

  Arsenic and Young Lacy

  The Call of the Woof

  (coming Spring, 2017)

  Published by misterio press

  http://misteriopress.com

  Cover art by Melinda VanLone, Book Cover Corner

  E-book design by Kirsten Weiss

  Copyright © 2017 by Kassandra Lamb

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/authors’ express permission is illegal and punishable by law.

  Anxiety Attack is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or the events in their lives, or to any businesses or organizations, is entirely coincidental. Some real places are used fictitiously.

  The publisher has no control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites and their content.

  PROLOGUE

  He plugged in the password he wasn’t supposed to have. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose onto the keyboard. His heart rate, already racing, kicked up another notch.

  Not worth it. Never again!

  He willed his hand steady on the mouse as he copied another file.

  Just get it done.

  Click, copy file, click, paste, click.

  This was taking too long. The night guard would be making his rounds soon. Would the bluish glow from the monitor show around the door?

  Hurry!

  Click, copy file, click, paste, click.

  A subtle shift in the air.

  No. It’s your imagination.

  Click, copy file, click, paste, click.

  The slight whoosh of a door opening.

  He froze. That hadn’t been his imagination. He whirled around.

  No one was there.

  But the door he’d propped slightly ajar when he’d entered the room was now halfway open—the automatic closure mechanism slowly pulling it shut behind whoever had just entered the lab.

  He struggled to hear past the pounding of blood in his ears. Hitting the power button on the computer, he yanked out the flash drive. Then fumbled it. A metallic sound as it hit the workbench.

  He should try to find it, but someone was in the room with him, hiding in the darkness. Panic overpowered all else.

  He bolted for the door, grabbing its edge as it was about to close.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The police radio chattered with unintelligible codes. Kate shoved a dark curl out of her eyes and stifled a yawn.

  From the driver’s seat, Officer Peters glanced her way. A corner of his mouth quirked. “Don’t know who said it first, but it’s true. Police work is mostly boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  What have I gotten myself into?

  “All available units,” the radio squawked. “Shots fired. Armstrong building.”

  The officer sat up straighter.

  Kate couldn’t make out the address the dispatcher rattled off. All she caught was “…third floor.”

  Armstrong building. Why does that sound familiar?

  “Unit 12 responding.” Officer Peters hit the siren and lights. The cruiser surged forward.

  Kate’s heart went into overdrive.

  At nine o’clock on a cold and rainy Sunday evening, the business district of Towson was relatively quiet. The few cars on the roads quickly got out of the way. Kate suspected it wasn’t nearly as easy to get to a crime scene during a weekday, when these streets would be teeming with cars and pedestrians and delivery trucks.

  They careened around a corner onto York Road. Her heart rate kicked up another notch. “Remember to call me once you have the scene secured,” she yelled over the wail of the siren.

  Officer Peters nodded slightly without taking his eyes off the slick road in front of him.

  He pulled into the parking lot of a high-rise office building. Braking to an abrupt stop, he killed the siren and unhooked his seatbelt. The actions seemed to happen all at once.

  Impressive, Kate thought.

  “Stay in the car until I call,” he said.

  The order was unnecessary. She had no desire to end up in the middle of a gunfight.

  He was out of the car and running toward the building, one hand on his holster, the other keying the radio on his shoulder. No doubt checking on backup.

  She transferred her phone to her left hand and made a note on the pad in her lap. Going into an ongoing crime scene by oneself would definitely heighten the stress level of the officer.

  She’d no sooner finished the note than two more cruisers screamed into the lot. Their sirens ceased with a dying screech, and two officers—one female, one male—bolted from their cars.

  Peters had reached the front of the building. He grabbed the handle of one of the big glass doors and pulled it open.

  That was odd. Wouldn’t an office building be locked up tight at night?

  The other officers were hard on Peters’s heels as he bolted into the building.

  Kate scratched out the note she’d just made.

  Temporarily, her moments of sheer terror were over. She sat in the cruiser, its motor humming, blue lights reflecting off the wet pavement in fr
ont of it.

  Minutes ticked by.

  Mist swirled around the car, adding to the eeriness of the night. The yellowish glow of the streetlights surrounding the parking lot created mini rainbows.

  Kate studied her reflection in the side window—her pale face, the dark mop of curls, sprinkled with gray and frizzy from the dampness, crow’s feet around blue eyes dull with fatigue. What she would give for a good night’s sleep.

  She willed her face muscles to relax, smoothing out the worry lines on her forehead.

  Butterflies danced in her stomach. What was going on in there? Her phone chirped in her hand. She jumped.

  “Hello?”

  “We have a gunshot victim up here,” Officer Peters said. “Ambulance is on the way. Come inside and hold the elevator on the ground floor for the EMTs.”

  “Sure, okay.” She fumbled with her seatbelt release, got out of the car.

  Another siren in the distance, a different pattern to the sound. The ambulance.

  She jogged to the building and entered the lobby. Stopping for a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she willed her heart to slow its pounding. It didn’t listen.

  She located the elevator in the shadows of the lobby and punched the up button. The wail of the ambulance’s siren was growing louder.

  A ding and the doors opened, the light inside the elevator blinding. She stepped in and squinted to find the open-door button.

  Her finger was numb from keeping it on the button by the time the EMTs were maneuvering their gurney and equipment into the cramped space.

  “Okay,” one of them said.

  A frisson of panic ran through her. Which floor?

  The older of the EMTs reached past her and punched the button for three.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I couldn’t remember.”

  “Ride along?” the EMT asked.

  “Yeah.” She considered explaining further but suddenly felt exhausted.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The EMTs hustled across a carpeted space to double glass doors.

  A security guard held one of the doors open for them. Kate grabbed the other one and shoved.

  The EMTs hurried past her. The guard gestured toward a lighted hallway. It was one of many, like spokes in a semi-circle off the oversized reception area, but it was the only one that was well lit. The others had dim lighting along the floor on each side.

  Kate started to follow the EMTs, her heart in her throat. She’d seen the aftermath of crime before, but she wasn’t sure she was up for this tonight.

  The guard held up a hand.

  She stopped. “I’m with Officer Peters, doing a ride-along for the governor’s task force on PTSD in police officers.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. This is a restricted area.”

  “But I need to observe the officers in action. I won’t do anything to contaminate the crime scene.”

  “That’s not my worry, ma’am. We have top secret projects here.”

  Movement in the corner of her eye. She turned her head.

  A stocky man pushed through the glass doors. He wore a brown business suit and carried himself like a police officer. Stopping in front of the guard, he pulled back his suit jacket to expose a detective’s shield attached to his belt. He was only a few inches taller than Kate’s five-seven but his broad stance conveyed authority.

  “Detective Russell.” He looked from the guard to Kate and back again. “What’s going on?” He glanced past her to the lit hallway.

  The guard opened his mouth but Kate jumped in. “I’m with Officer Peters. I need to be at the crime scene.”

  Detective Russell raised an eyebrow. “You a witness?”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t a total lie. She’d witnessed the call.

  He took her by the elbow. “Come with me.”

  The guard seemed to hesitate, then stepped aside.

  They walked briskly down the hallway. Rounding a corner, they entered a long room. Its walls were flanked by metal workbenches, with computer monitors scattered along them, all dark.

  Officer Peters stood at parade rest just inside the room, holding a small book.

  The detective let go of her arm, held out his hand to indicate she should stay back and again flipped his jacket aside to show his badge. “Russell.”

  Peters wrote in the book, checked his watch. Wrote the time.

  “What’s the deal?” Russell said.

  Kate took a step to the right to see past the detective and Officer Peters, who was giving his report in a low drone.

  She froze, her heart skittering around in her chest.

  She blinked and stared in horror at the man lying on the floor, the EMTs working with quick, efficient movements to stop the blood oozing from his side. A scream erupted from her throat.

  Officer Peters pivoted toward her. “Mrs. Huntington, please. Go out in the hall.”

  His words barely registered in her brain, which was still trying to process what her eyes were seeing. “My God, Manny!” Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle another scream.

  “You know him?” Detective Russell said.

  She nodded, willing herself not to faint. “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “He’s M-manny. Manuel Ortiz. He works for my husband.”

  ~~~~~~~~

  A sharp January wind rattled Kate’s office window.

  Her client jerked in his chair.

  Kate didn’t react. She was used to this man’s hypersensitivity to loud noises.

  Hal Murdock ducked his head. Dark hair, slightly too long, flopped down over his forehead. It reminded Kate of her husband’s unruly hair, only Skip’s was lighter, a medium brown.

  She gritted her teeth behind neutral lips. She was having trouble focusing. The events of the previous evening were more than distracting. And she hadn’t slept well when she’d finally gotten home.

  I’m a great one to be on the governor’s PTSD task force. She couldn’t even control her own traumatic stress responses.

  She tried again to zero in on the client’s words.

  “I’m sorry.” He pushed the hair back with a slender hand that shook slightly. “I lost my nerve.”

  A lump grew in her throat. He now had her full attention. She felt so bad for this young man who struggled so with the simplest of human interactions.

  “I couldn’t do it, Kate.” A pink tinge colored Hal’s cheeks, made pale by too much time spent inside, in front of a computer monitor.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see if we can break it down a little further. Instead of introducing yourself, just ask her to recommend a dish on the carryout menu.”

  Hal had been trying for weeks to date a young woman he admired, who frequented the same Chinese carryout place he often stopped at on his way home from work. He was a good-looking man, slender and tall, with a boyish face, but he suffered from avoidant personality disorder, the most extreme version of social anxiety there was. The very thought of asking a woman out sent him into a full-blown anxiety attack.

  “Maybe. Yeah, I can try to do that.” His words implied more confidence than his tone.

  He looked up at her. “I’m thirty-two.” His voice was desperate. “What if I never…” He ducked his head again and stared off to his left, at the subtle pattern in her office carpet.

  She knew what he meant. He desperately wanted to marry, to create the happy family he’d never had. It was a common goal for survivors of highly dysfunctional families.

  And his was definitely that. His father had beaten his mother every Friday, after he had spent most of his paycheck at the local bar on his way home. His mother had stayed “for the sake of her kids,” but Kate couldn’t help wondering how much the woman’s own insecurities had to do with it.

  Kate couldn’t fault her for staying. She knew how abusers manipulated their victims, tearing them down, convincing them that they couldn’t survive on their own, doling out minimal housekeeping money so there was never enough to finance an escape.

  Hal’
s older brother had survived their childhood better. He was married with kids and seemed to be okay. The key word was seemed.

  But Hal had been born with a different genetic makeup. His predisposition toward shyness had combined with the abusive environment to produce an incredible level of social anxiety. It was amazing that he managed to work. Some people with avoidant personality disorder became shut-ins, living on disability payments.

  Kate spent the last few minutes of the session helping Hal devise a game plan for his seemingly spontaneous conversation with the woman at the Chinese carryout place.

  She worried what would happen if this woman suddenly stopped craving Chinese food. No doubt Hal would assume it was because she didn’t like him, and it would set him back weeks, maybe months, in his therapy.

  Her shoulders drooped with the weight of concern. She sighed.

  I’m beyond burned out.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Skip Canfield stood in the middle of the hospital corridor, his jaw clenched. He ought to move somewhere out of the flow of traffic. Visitors eyed him—tall, broad-shouldered, tense—and edged nervously past him. Nurses gave him sympathetic glances.

  He was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that one of his best operatives, a man who had worked for him for years, was still unconscious, in critical condition.

  Skip swallowed down the bile in the back of his throat.

  Manny didn’t have any family. His life was his job—that and the AA program that only he, Rose and Kate knew about.

  Skip rubbed his aching chest. Should he call Kate?

  She would most likely be with a client, but he knew she was worried sick about Manny. He opted to text her.

  At hospital. Manny still unconscious. Serious condition. How u doing?

  No response. She must be in session.

  Sitting down on a chair in the ICU waiting room, he tried to gather his thoughts. He needed to decide what to do about this case.

  He’d been hesitant about taking it in the first place. But he’d been going over the books that day, and things hadn’t been looking all that great.

  He and his partner, Rose, had an agreement. She handled the personnel—the hiring and firing and scheduling of their investigators—and he did the bookkeeping and recruiting of new clients. He particularly hated scheduling, and up until recently, he’d felt he had the easier end of the deal.