Killer Chameleon (4 page)

Neva and I exchanged expressions of alarm. Everyone who knew Janeece well also knew she never imbibed during the week, except on special occasions. She maintained that considering the number of drunks on her father's side of the family, she might be genetically disposed to join their ranks. She usually restricted herself to the occasional snort anywhere from Friday after five to Sunday before six. And she stuck to it.

She returned to the living room and passed the glass in her right hand to Neva and a ragged sheet of paper to me while she got rid of her coat.

I scanned it, barely able to decipher her writing, which bore no resemblance to her usual elegant scrawl. “What's this say? Duck's been in a what?”

Retrieving the glass, she tossed the contents down in one gulp and shuddered, her face in a knot. “Gawd, this is nasty stuff. Okay.” She pulled in a deep breath, straining the delicate fabric of her blouse. “I decided to take half a day's leave,” she said, pacing the length of the room. “Got here and the phone was ringing off the hook, some woman saying that Duck had been in an accident in Baltimore and—”

“An accident? That's ridiculous. And in Baltimore? What would he be doing in Baltimore?”

“How the hell would I know? Anyway, she said he was being taken to shock trauma and you should come immediately because he was critical.”

“Now, that's downright mean,” Neva said, wiggling to get more comfortable on the arm of the futon.

“I called your cell phone but you didn't answer, so I left a message. I called your aunt in the Shores, no answer. I couldn't figure out where else you might be, so—”

“It wasn't on,” I said. “The battery's low, and I . . . Never mind, go ahead.”

“I didn't know what else to do, so I drove into Baltimore. At least someone would be there who knew him. I kept trying to reach you every time I got stuck at a light.”

“And of course you couldn't find him,” I said.

“Right. I figured maybe I'd gone to the wrong hospital, so I got directions to the one on South Hanover. When I didn't find him there, I got smart and used the Yellow Pages. Have you any idea how many hospitals there are in that city? Finally, I gave up and came home.”

“Oh, Janeece.” I rose and gave her a bear hug. “I'm so sorry. What else can I say? Duck will be touched that you went all that way to be with him.”

“Yeah. Well.” She moved from my embrace, looking wrung out. “I'm glad he's all right.” Equanimity restored, she spotted the boxes. “What's going on?” Her features drooped. “You're moving out?”

This wasn't quite the way I'd planned to tell her. “It's past time, Janeece. I've imposed on you long enough.”

She threw herself into an easy chair. “It hasn't been an imposition. It's been fun. I really hate to see you go. Shit. You know what this means, don't you? I'll have to find somebody and get married again.”

“But you'll still stay here, won't you?” Neva asked her. Vacant apartments meant someone new, someone she felt might not be up to her standards.

“One never knows, do one?” Janeece grinned. “Quit worrying, Neva. You couldn't get me out of here with a keg of dynamite. Oh, well. I've got to get to the dry cleaners before it closes. Guess I'd better stop at the liquor store, too. I'm out of white Zinfandel, and we've got to have a farewell drink. Promise you won't leave before I get back.”

I promised. She collected her coat and purse and hauled Neva off the arm of the futon. We all left together, Neva to check on the decorating downstairs, Janeece to her weekly run to the cleaners, and me back down to the catacombs.

There were no sounds from the laundry room this time. Nothing unsavory had ever happened down here as far as I knew, but the thought of being alone made me twitchy. I returned to the storage unit, taped a new box together, and set about filling it with the flotsam from Janeece's.

It was like a print version of
This Is Your Life.
Baby pictures, report cards, school photos, family snapshots, tons of them. For the second time today, I wrestled with a bout of envy, and regret that I would never have a cache of memories like this. I'd been orphaned at five when my parents had been killed, victims of arson. The conflagration had eliminated any keepsakes my parents might have collected. I was left with the clothes I was wearing and a few wisps of memories of them. The new family I'd discovered recently made up for a lot, but not entirely. Fighting a pale blue funk, I dug into Janeece's box.

I don't know how long I sat there completely enthralled by the young Janeece, thin as a number two pencil, all arms, legs, and teeth. I didn't read the letters but I'd glanced my way through at least half the box and dozens and dozens of old snapshots and fading Polaroids when I became aware that something had changed down here. It was harder to see. In fact, outside the open door of the cubicle was nothing but pure darkness, the fifteen-watt bulb above my head too weak to throw light beyond the confines of this space. The hall light must have burned out.

I dropped the photo I'd been holding and got up, stiff from being in one position so long. Maglite illuminating my path to the door, I looked out. The entire corridor was pitch black, no light outside the laundry room, no fluorescent glow from its interior or thump-thump from the dryers. Goose bumps rose on my arms, nudged from under my skin by a seismic muscle spasm.

Then I heard it. A sound, just barely audible, not quite a footfall so much as the crunch of grit on concrete from somewhere along the darkened hallway. No doubt about it. I was not alone.

3

STEPPING BACK INTO THE CUBICLE, I REACHED
up and turned the light off, wincing at how loud the chain sounded as it moved in the lamp housing. Dreading the result, I doused the Maglite. Darkness seemed to swallow me whole, and in an instant, I was five again, waiting for the monsters that lurked in unlit rooms. Breathing deeply, I gave myself a good talking to. I was an adult, with damned near nine years of experience as a cop. If I was in trouble, it was up to me to get out of it.

It came again, a scrape, a soft squeak somewhere near the elevator and stairwell just beyond it. Definitely someone there trying unsuccessfully not to give themselves away.

My pulse rate had tripled, my heart pounding so hard I was sure it could be detected from the other end of the hall. I had a decision to make: stay or go. Neither option was particularly appealing. I'd be vulnerable either way. If I left I'd be approaching whoever was out there in the dark. But remaining here left me little protection. I couldn't just pull the door closed; Janeece's shoe rack held it open. If I tried to hide, the wardrobe bags might camouflage the top two-thirds of me, but I'd be visible from midcalf on down. Besides, there was no guarantee they wouldn't cave under my weight. The bottom line, however, was that I did not want to be trapped in this little room.

Grateful for my soft-soled slippers, I inched my way toward the door, senses on full alert, flashlight held in position to be used as a weapon. Mentally I rehearsed what parts of the body to aim for. I tested my knee, shifting my weight to my right side. This had been a good day on it so far, all things considered. I'd been neglecting the exercises my physical therapist had recommended. Lord, I vowed silently, get me through this and I swear I'll go back to the gym and—

Suddenly a din erupted, scaring my pants off until I realized what it was. The fire door. Whoever was down here had pushed it open, and it had hit the wall behind it with explosive force. The corridor erupted in a blaze of light streaming toward my end. No twenty-five-watt, this one.

“Police! Slide your weapon outside the door, then follow it with your hands up! Now!!”

Police? Thank God! They'd take care of the intruder. All I had to do was stay the hell out of their way. My bones melted with relief.

“We're not playing games here, lady! Drop your weapon, kick it out hard, all the way across the hall! Then step out slowly, hands above your head!”

Lady? Second thoughts slithered under my moment of gratitude. They couldn't mean me. Could they?

I started to move, then stopped, caution gluing me where I stood. No way was I falling for this. “What district do you work out of? I want to see a badge.”

“And I want to see your hands. Lemme see your hands, Valeria. NOW!!”

Valeria? Who the hell . . .?

The ball dropped into the correct hole. Jesus! They thought I was Valeria Preston? The one who'd blown her husband's head to smithereens in a restaurant full of witnesses and had walked out unmolested? Vince Preston had been a cop, and the whole city had been looking for her ever since. With a vengeance. In other words, I could be in deep doo-doo.

“All right, now listen,” I called, stooping to send the Maglite skittering into the hallway. “I'm coming out and I'm unarmed. You've got the wrong person. I'm not Valeria Preston. My name in Leigh Warren. I used to be a cop, worked out of the Third District.”

“Yeah, right. I wanna see those hands out that door, then you. I'm counting to three, then we're coming in. One. Two.”

This was no time to test his knowledge of basic arithmetic. I stuck my hands beyond the cubicle and wiggled my fingers. “No weapon, see?” Stepping out, I raised my arms, blinded by the high-powered light someone held, definitely not the one doing all the yelling.

I sensed movement, then felt myself flattened roughly against the wall, my arms yanked behind my back. Cuffs snared my wrists, and I fought an instant of panic. I'd never imagined how vulnerable one felt cuffed like this.

Beyond me, someone began the Miranda bit. Submitting to a none-too-gentle frisking, I willed myself still and my temper quiescent. One move and I wouldn't live to regret it. Besides, this guy was only doing his duty.

He spun me around to face him. “Oh. Oh, shit,” he muttered.

“Oh, shit indeed,” I erupted, free to vent my anger now and unable to contain it. “Do I look like Valeria Preston?” Granted, she was African American and wore her hair cropped like mine, but from her picture and the info in the
Washington Post,
it was obvious that she was several inches shorter than I am. But of more importance, to me anyway, she had an unsightly birthmark under her jaw down onto her neck that he had to see was definitely not on mine.

“Uncuff her,” a voice directed from the darkness. “I recognize her. Pass the word back up the line that this is a false alarm, somebody's idea of a joke. Whoever that somebody is is in big trouble with the department.”

Perhaps they were, I thought, steaming, but not nearly as much as with me.

 

There was procedure to be followed, so it was a good half hour before they were satisfied that I was who I said I was, my identity confirmed by the powers-that-be, my driver's license, union card, along with the other cop who recognized me, and Neva, more interested in how the uniforms had gotten into the building than by what was happening to me.

“Dammit, that button outside the door is for calling the management in an emergency,” she fumed. “Might as well disconnect it for all the good it's doing.”

“I want to hear it again,” I said to Willard once we were upstairs in 503. In plainclothes, he was evidently the spokesperson for the cadre of uniforms that had filled the basement corridor. “You got an anonymous call saying Preston was hiding out downstairs, armed and dangerous?”

“Someone on a cell phone. We're still trying to trace it but it's probably one of those throwaways. We apologize again, but you've been there. You know we couldn't afford to take any chances.”

I grudgingly allowed as how, no, they couldn't.

Willard scowled. “Even a blind man could see there's no resemblance between you and Preston. This was a waste of time and manpower.”

“Didn't do my blood pressure any favors either,” I grumbled. “What gets me is that the only people who knew I was downstairs were the ones in the lobby decorating the tree. They saw me on the elevator and must have heard me talking to Mr. Stanley. I don't understand why anyone would do this. They're all neighbors,” I protested.

“Not all of 'em,” Neva reminded me. “Miz Donovan's son was there, him and his daughters, and Mr. Bean's family. And Gracie Poole invited all them women from her arts and crafts group. They made most of the ornaments.”

“How many outsiders are we talking about here?” Willard asked.

Neva's frown deepened, her lips pursed. “Not sure. A couple of dozen or more. Gracie's bunch is probably in her apartment, three-seventeen, for hot chocolate and cookies if you'd like to talk to them.”

“Oh, I do. I definitely do.” Willard pushed himself to his feet with effort. Sit in Janeece's living room chair and your butt is scant inches off the floor.

He cast a jaundiced eye in my direction. “You don't have a beef with one of your neighbors, do you?”

“Good Lord, no!”

“Our residents are quality people,” Neva came to their defense. “Teachers, social workers, and the like. And retirees. We all get along like one big family.”

That was a bit of overstatement, if not an outright lie, but now was no time to quibble, so I kept my mouth closed.

“Well, someone in that lobby had to make that call to us,” Willard said, “someone who saw you on the elevator because she described what you're wearing right down to the slippers.”

“Definitely a she?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. The question is whether or not this was an honest mistake, and my gut says it wasn't. Looks to me as if someone thought they'd have a little fun at your expense. Only it was at the city's expense too. I'll follow up on this, talk to the ladies in—” He squinted at his notebook.

“Three-seventeen,” Neva supplied.

“Thanks. And, Mrs. Burns, if you'll make a list of the residents you remember seeing down there. One of my men will stop by for it. I doubt anyone will admit to anything, but whoever it is needs to know how seriously the department takes false reports. Well, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Oh, thanks loads,” I said, and opened the door for him. “Will you let me know what you find out?”

He hesitated. “Maybe. Guess it wouldn't do any harm if you took a look at the list Mrs. Burns makes, see if it rings any bells. We'll get one from this Ms. Poole, too, make some comparisons. That's all for now.” With a brief excuse for a smile, he was gone.

Perched on the arm of the futon again, Neva eyed me. “You all right? You looked kinda shaky for a while.”

“I'm fine. Mad, though, so mad I could spit. And if Willard's coming back, my plans for tonight are shot. This was supposed to be my first night at Duck's.”

“There's always tomorrow night. I wouldn't put it off any longer than that, if I were you. That Mr. Duck's a stone hunk,” she said, her grin suggestive of what she'd like to do to him or, perhaps, with him given the chance. She stood up and massaged her back. “Miz Holloway's gonna miss you, though.”

“Likewise. She's been a good friend. She'll hate having missed all the excitement.”

I'd barely finished the sentence when we heard her key in the door. “Who was that just left here?,” she asked, balancing dry cleaning and a bag from Lexxon's Wine and Spirits. “You having gentlemen callers in behind my back? And Duck's?”

Neva chuckled and got up. “Reckon she could have done without this one. Miz Warren,” she said, on her way to the door. “You need to think real hard about who you've pissed off. Seems to me with two dirty tricks in one day, somebody's tryin' to tell you something. Y'all have a good evening.” And she was gone.

“Two dirty tricks?” Janeece demanded. “What's she talking about? What did I miss?”

Uh-oh. I should have told Willard about the call Janeece had intercepted earlier. I'd fill him in when he came back with the list.

I jerked my head toward the easy chair. “I think you'd better open the Zinfandel and sit down for this one.”