Authors: Lisa Logan
With the car in park but still running on idle, he thumbed through a stack of papers lying on the seat beside him. The day’s efforts had netted him nothing up to this point. After nosing around town, his partner had balked at the idea of coming back. The long trip down from the city notwithstanding, Warren saw nothing wrong with diligence. Nothing except the hour had grown late, and he’d neglected to eat dinner. Diligence could wait until morning. He’d eat, drink, and be not quite merry, then see about a cheapie motel nearby. Tomorrow, he’d be up with the roosters to dredge this town for information on the Harrison murder.
It was possible that whoever had answered Lanie’s cell phone call had merely been passing through on the road to Anywhere Else. That seemed most likely. Still, it made sense to do his blood hound thing, see if anyone had seen, heard, or hell, felt anything. Every hour that went by found the murder scene colder and the trail more muddied. A man had to eat, though.
On a legal pad at the top of the pile, he’d jotted a series of notes to himself—questions that needed asking, puzzles that needed unpuzzling. With the overhead interior light flipped on, he browsed the list one more time.
Acting alone?
Cell phone, the killer’s or another’s? What’s the relation?
Set up? Why?—Motive: jealousy vs. money/life insurance, the usuals.
Quakertown—driving on the way out of state? Or resident?
The list went on to detail a series of public establishments, moving out in concentric circles from the point of origin where Lanie’s call hit the nearest cell tower. The highway ran through this, so it was possible that the recipient was just passing through. Some on the list were checked off—places he and Liebowitz had already checked out.
Reaching over to flip off the ignition, he abandoned the list for now and pocketed the keys as he slid out of his seat. When his brain went this fuzzy, it was time to take off the detective hat and get some sustenance.
* * *
Ridelle sat at the counter of the neighborhood brew-and-stew, smashing a breaded zucchini spear into a cup of Ranch dressing with little attention. Halfway to her mouth, a crumble of batter fell, dressing and all, into the lap she’d neglected to cover.
“
Fuckin’ brilliant.”
Grabbing a napkin, she shoved the offending batter onto the floor and swabbed at the greasy white goop left behind. Luckily, her cheap bar attire didn’t include anything dry clean only. Tan, fitted slacks and a white sleeveless shell could survive the mishap. Considering Ridelle was in a crappy mood, however, she wasn’t one to take such mishaps gracefully. Too much thinking about too many things topped off with alcohol—or, perhaps, not enough of it—made her rather cranky.
The nice thing about moods like this was the automatic “Don’t Fuck With Me” shield they erected around her. No guys hit on her, and no boozed-up women tried to make inane girl talk. Even the bartender steered clear after dumping a tall beer and the basket-o-grease. The message was clear, and patrons gave Ridelle a two-stool distance on either side so she could brood in peace.
Then someone had the nerve to enter the ‘no fly’ zone and sit down on her left. “Man, haven’t I been there before.”
She glanced sideways enough to fix him with a get-lost stare. “Excuse me?”
“
Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you from your troubles,” the man said. “I just recognize that look intimately. Weight of the world.”
Her intent to shoot a stream of acid his way evaporated at his blue-eyed gaze, which pierced the shield around her resolve to sit alone and brood. Square shoulders spanned beneath an equally square chin nicked in the center. Close-cropped hair was peppered with shades of brown and rust, as if it couldn’t quite decide which to be. Still, it was the smile in the midst of this handsome melee that undid her. Smoky, knowing, and sincere all rolled into one skirt-raising package.
Despite herself, her mood lifted into a half smile. “Just call me Atlas.”
He held a hand out to her for a firm, yet supple shake. “Pleased to meet you, Atlas. I’m Warren. Warren Ross.”
“
Ridelle Walters.”
The sizzling touch of his hand partnered with that smile to instantly unlatch her virtual chastity belt. Shifting sideways on his stool, he rested one elbow on the bar and the other on his chair back, hands folding in front of his torso. “Live here in Quakertown?”
“
Yeah. I’m not a native though. I’m a transplant from the Poconos. You?”
A quick shake of his head tousled the sheen of reddish-brown. “New York, as I’m sure my dashing lilt gives away. I’m here on business.”
“
What kind?”
“
The stressful kind.”
“
Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”
“
You aren’t. I just don’t find shop talk very useful when trying to dazzle a beautiful woman.”
The word
beautiful
danced through her midsection. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“
That depends. Is it working?”
Ridelle gazed in front of her, twirling the stem of her empty glass between her fingers. “It’s not failing.”
“
That settles it. You’re obviously a skilled diplomat. White House publicity rep?”
A grin twisted one corner of her mouth. “Hardly.”
“
Professional schmoozer, certainly.”
She laughed, offering a small shrug. He sat as she twirled, obviously waiting for an answer she couldn’t give. There was the truth, and then the stylized version she told her family. But hell, this was just a stranger in a bar. Besides, hadn’t hecleverly dodged the same question?
Abandoning her thoughts and the glass, she turned back to him. “So, Warren. Do you dance?”
His smile lit all the stars in her heaven. “Willing to risk finding out?”
Their turn around the intimate scrap of dance floor was an odd blend of comfortable and electric. He lead them through the sultry rhythm with little difficulty—what little there was due to Ridelle’s own propensity for trying to take over. Soon, his motions had her feeling as they they’d been melded in each other’s arms for a lifetime. Every glance smoldered, every brush of his legs shot molten flame straight to the join between her thighs. Hell, under his sexual scrutiny even the seam of her pantyhose rubbed a maddeningly erotic pulse against her crotch. Her cheeks burned with a flush that had little to do with dance exertion.
With a slow bass-pounding beat in the background, he drew her close and dipped his head so his mouth hovered by her ear. His breath against tender flesh sent a thrill through her. “Would it be too forward to say I’m dying to kiss you?”
Ridelle would have replied had her heart not been thudding so hard against her throat. Instead, she let her lips brush the answer against his cheek. When he turned to claim her, the kiss was tender and none too brief. Her groin flooded with sensation, heavy with a desire that the position of their bodies told her he was feeling also. He smiled down at her, cradled her hand against his chest, and took her on a starry-eyed exploration of how sexual an art dance could be.
In what seemed a matter of moments, two hours had passed and they’d moved off to a small corner table. Ridelle alternating between studying a tiny flame dancing in the red glass holder between them and admiring the way it reflected the heated glow in his eyes.
Finally, Warren glanced regretfully at his watch and broke silence. “Well, I’ve got an early start in the morning.”
Ridelle offered a wan smile. “I should go, too. But I enjoyed tonight.”
“
Enough to give me your number?”
Enough to give him more than that, right outside in her backseat. “Do you come down from the city often?”
He shrugged. “I’ll be back and forth for a bit. I’m…” he paused, as though gauging whether to continue. When he continued, his tone was serious. “I’m following some leads on a case.”
She blinked. “Case?”
“
I’m a homicide detective.”
Homicide detective. The words sank like lead in her gut.
He caught the look on her face. “Sorry. I warned you about my shop talk. Hope that doesn’t scare you off?”
She fought to keep stress and quiver out of her voice “Was someone around here murdered?”
“
Not here—this isn’t my jurisdiction. There was a motel shooting up in my neck of the woods.”
Holy God. She swore her heart beat stopped, and expected herself to slump over dead at any second. “I think I read something about that in the paper. The wife did it, I thought?”
He shook his head. “Possibly, but we’re looking at other possibilities.”
Her heart restarted, hammering against her ribs as though they were a panic button.
Stay calm, Ridelle. Shut up.
Nervous words babbled out despite the warning. “You think someone in Quakertown was involved?”
“
I can’t really discuss specifics. I’m just following all possible leads. Which for now,” he said as he stood up, “means I’ll be around. So if you have that number?”
With that, the serious tone was gone and the heavenly smile back.
What now? Cough up her home number to the last man she wanted knowing anything about her? Damn, if living in a podunk of eight thousand wasn’t turning into quite the bitch. If only she’d lived in the Big Apple, they’d have drank the night away with five thousand other bars between them.
Of course, she wasn’t obligated to give him the number. But if she balked, would it look suspicious?
She hoped the hesitation wasn’t obvious as she snatched the pen and business card and scribbled her number on the back. She considered the time-honored bar tradition of giving a phony number. Of course, that would look suspicious to a cop, too. Besides, she’d given her full name like an idiot. And she was listed. Also like an idiot.
She handed over the goods, thinking how convenient it would be for him to ring her up should his “leads” somehow cast an eye her direction. Why were all the good ones bad ones for her? Shit.
He offered her another card as he tucked the damning information away. “Here’s my card, so you know I’m legit and not some crazy stalker.”
Ridelle would have preferred “crazy stalker” on his calling card to the NYPD logo she glimpsed. Warren walked her out to the parking lot, waiting as she climbed inside her car. Leaning down, he took her hand in both of his, and to his credit the warmth that flooded into her made a damn admirable attempt at dethroning her guilt-laced nerves. Almost.
“
Thanks for helping me pass an otherwise dull evening,” he said. His lips brushed the back of her hand, the bare tip of his tongue sending a stab of lust straight through and into the seat beneath her. “I’ll call you.”
With that he closed her car door and wandered to a dark sedan. She watched him go, willing her pulse to steady enough for the drive home. While she’d have felt quite different about things a few minutes ago, she couldn’t help but feel his final words sounded like a threat.
Or worse, a promise.
You’re sure he was talking about the same case?” Fran asked. “There isn’t exactly a shortage of homicides in New York.”
The quartet, minus one, huddled at her townhouse, sipping coffee to ward against the few effects of the late hour Ridelle’s panicked phone call hadn’t chased away. Missing was Twyla, who hadn’t been able to get away.
“
I’m sure.” Ridelle sat cross-legged on the floor, too numb for her usual back-and-forth routine. A persistent wind moaned outside, adding to the general unrest and sense of peril headed their way. “He said motel shooting, and when I mentioned the wife being involved, he knew what I was talking about. What the Hell is he doing here?”
“
Maybe Lanie followed you guys. You know, the day you went up there to meet her?”
“
How? She doesn’t have a car. You had to pay a cab to drop her at the bar.”
“
Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” Dominique said, almost as if to herself.
“
Yeah, sure. A hundred mile coincidence,” Ridelle said. “We’re not exactly in The Apple’s back yard, you know.”
Fran stared into her coffee cup. “Lanie must have told.”
“
Told what?” Dominique smoothed hair tied up into a hasty bun. “She didn’t have our names or a location.”
“
Actually, she thinks Cindy and Angel are big-city girls,” Ridelle said. “So how would that lead them downstate?”
“
The wife, then,” Fran said. She thought for a moment, then nodded. “She knows enough to know we’re local.”
“
But not who was involved,” Dominique said, “or even what counties we live in. We’ve been careful about that.”
“
I thought she supposedly had too much to lose to say anything anyway?”