Nobody Lives Forever (12 page)

Alex now saw what the big attraction was. The place was not just a gym, it was a fucking fantasy factory. The dudes in the Nautilus room flexing and straining on gleaming metal machines were pumping up their imaginations as well as their bodies. He watched their eyes, riveted to the mirrors, staring at their own images. He felt certain they saw Rocky or Rambo instead. And the women, prancing about in their pricey exercise togs, stretching, bending, entranced by their own reflections, had to be envisioning themselves as Bob Fosse dancers. Oh yeah, he saw exactly what he had been missing, skimpy little leotards stretched taut across throbbing pudenda. Hints of pubic hair curling around those narrow little all-cotton crotches. That perspiration could be so provocative, depending on who wore it and where it dripped, had never occurred to him before.

Today was an event, the first time he had been out here. It would not be the last, he decided. Aside from a few flabby fannies hit hard by gravity, the specimens were incredible. All the limber bodies, the deep breathing, the muscle control, the protruding nipples. The girls who work the hardest at this, he thought, are the ones who need it the least. The instructors were something to see. Barry, wearing a knowing grin and tights that looked painted on, and the women, tan and beautiful, supple and well toned, running and dancing. Alex didn't know which one was more of a turn-on, the little Latin girl who made up her face like she was about to step on stage at Vegas, squealing like a baby pig during her high kicks and hip tosses, or this one, Tawny Marie, apparently the chief instructor.

What a body! She looked as strong and sleek as a panther, and as agile, with the discipline of a marine drill instructor. Her voice was warm, throaty and full of vitality, urging everybody to push just a little harder. Sounds like a Lamaze class, he thought. Looking at her, he knew what he would like to push. Lithe and muscular, her long dark hair streaming, she looked like a wild Indian. She can attack my wagon train any time, he thought. He imagined what she would be like; all that strength, endurance and control. The possibility made him even more breathless than trying to keep up with her. Damn, he thought. He could find out where she lived. Pay her a little surprise visit. Take some private instruction or give some. He loved it. This had become more fascinating than his initial reason for coming out here, which was to see what the bitch was up to now.

He kept trying not to watch her; seeing her filled him with such fury that he lost his train of thought and messed up his footwork. It would not do to crash clumsily into anybody during the aerobics. Damn, he thought, Aerobics III. Survivors of this class deserve a purple heart. All this was supposed to be good for the cardiovascular system. He hoped the effort was worth it.

Before he emerged to join the class, he had watched Laurel and Dusty in the same room. So aware of each other, yet unaware of him. Careful to ignore each other, he thought, when they were really curious and hell and sisters under the skin. How stupid they both were, to be taken in by the same man.

It had been difficult, almost impossible, not to stare at them in the mirrored room. They were everywhere he looked. Hundreds of them, rows of those same insipid faces and pale hair. The rage they sparked had made him dizzy. Taking a deep breath, he had tried to think clearly and coolly as their images surrounded him, a hundred, a thousand mirror reflections.

Dusty and Laurel share one consolation, he thought. When together in the same room, each knows that the other is not with Rick at the moment. He smiled. It probably never occurs to them to wonder what other cow he is with at this very moment. That man would screw a snake if he could hold onto it.

Cops are not exactly famous for their monogamy, Alex thought. He wondered at the endless supply of women eager to lie down for a good-looking cop like Rick. Is it his penis or his gun that attracts them? Definitely not his brains. Maybe they're simply fascinated by death and danger. That must be why lowly flatfoots on the beat have as many eager groupies as rock guitar layers who make big bucks, he concluded. They love it. Guns, the symbols of sex and death, do attract women.

He looked at Dusty, thinking she probably sleeps with her piece. This woman loves guns so much, he thought, maybe he could use one to show her a few tricks she might like. She was getting down and into it now, exhaling hard through her round pink circle of a mouth. The woman has got a great set of lungs, he thought. They seemed about to pop out of her leotard. He liked those damp spots, those circles of sweat, one growing at the small of her back, the other spreading between her breasts. The muscle definition in her calves and her shoulders might be called sexy by some men. He thought it a bit much. These women were rugged. He would love to see some two-bit street thief try to put the snatch on one of their purses. The punk could be in for a nasty shock.

Trying not to think about Laurel was impossible. Thoughts of her body filled him with instant outrage and anger. He wanted to rip her apart, to tear out the bloody organ that Rick loves in every woman and then watch her die. Sex, then death. He wanted to see the look on her face when she knew. Somehow he had to let her know he was there. He could not resist. Maybe a little love note. That would get her attention and stir up the pot a bit.

The class was winding down. Thank God, he thought. Tawny Marie must be trying to kill us all. He would return the favor some night when she least expected it. She was not even winded. What a woman. They should send her on a mission to rescue the hostages, he thought. She would bring them back, and pity the poor soul who got in her way.

They went to mats on the floor, just in time, Alex decided. When he tried, he could see them both, flat on their backs, legs apart—their favorite position, the stupid twats, grinding and bouncing their hips up and down. Dusty's face was flushed from exertion and concentration. Laurel's was pink but peaceful, as if in a coffin.

Maybe a little note would do the trick, set events in motion.

He wanted to scare the hell out of her before she died.

Scrawled in red ballpoint pen on the back of a membership form, the note had been slipped into her canvas Jane Fonda gym bag. Laurel kept her driver's license and car keys in the same pocket.

I AM GOING TO KILL YOU, BITCH.

The large letters at the bottom leaped out at her first. The writer had pressed so hard that the pen tore the paper.

I hope you are reading this in front of your locker. The one with the picture of you and the asshole taped inside.

Her eyes rose to the photo on the open door beside her. She and Rick at the beach on the fourth of July, playing and laughing as he dragged her toward the surf.

This time you're not going to fuck anybody. I am going to fuck you. Beating the shit out of you will be just the start. When they lay you out at the morgue even the doctors will wonder who could do this to another human being. Imagine what it will be like on that cold slab at the morgue with your eyes bulged out, bruises all over your tits and blood coming out of your pussy. I am looking forward to it so much that I had trouble keeping it in my pants when I saw your bouncing little ass in class today. Soon.

The signature was a single initial: A.

She spun around to see if anyone was watching. No one, except Dusty, emerging from the shower room, looking relaxed, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet. She looked startled at Laurel's intent expression, then smiled. Laurel whirled and rushed out as Dusty stared after her.

She pounded the gas pedal, roared into the driveway, scattering gravel, and burst through the front door. Her entrance sent Chuckles, the usually imperturbable Siamese, slinking to safety under a chair. Laurel's hand trembled a she showed the note to Rick.

“Damn,” he said sleepily. “Who the hell…?”

“You're the detective,” she said, pacing the floor quietly in her Reeboks and gnawing a thumbnail. She looked frightened. “First Rob, now this.”

“What's going on over there? Are there other complaints?”

She shrugged and shook her head.

“Damn,” he said again, rubbed his eyes and reached for a pair of Levi's. “Let's go find out.” He drove. She sat quietly, her body tense, her lips pressed tightly together.

“This happens to good-looking women all the time,” he said to comfort her. “But,” he grumbled, “I don't like it happening to you. Some smart ass is gonna get burned when I catch up with him.”

They met Dusty, just leaving the fitness center, gym bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair, still wet, was combed straight back. She looked strong and beautiful in a white Police Olympics T-shirt and shorts. “Rick! Are you finally going to exercise those bones? This I have got to see.”

“What did you make of this?” He gestured with the note in his hand.

She looked puzzled, and he turned to Laurel.

“You showed it to Dusty?”

“No, I didn't.” Her voice was low, as she shook her head. She had discerned a trace of impatience in his voice. “I didn't show it to anybody.”

Dusty scanned it and rolled her eyes. “Where did you find this, on your car?”

“No,” Laurel said coldly. “In my gym bag.”

“Hummph,” Dusty said thoughtfully, and reread it. She studied Laurel, her expression hard to read. “Any skirmishes lately with the man at the front desk or the guys in the parking lot? Did you shoot down somebody who made a pass? Another member, an instructor?”

There was nothing, Laurel said.

“You hear any other complaints from the women here?” Rick asked.

Dusty shook her head. So did Mark Hamilton, manager of the club. A short, stocky man who looked anything but fit, he sat behind a big desk in the center of his narrow, all-white, Danish modern office. He chewed his lower lip and screwed his face into a scowl as he perused the note. “There's been nothing like this,” he said. “And we've got no new staff on payroll.” He got to his feet and squeezed by his visitors, patting his protruding belly as he excused himself. “This place keeps me too busy to get any exercise myself,” he said sheepishly, and called in Tawny Marie.

She pranced into the room like a long-legged thoroughbred entering the winner's circle. A white togalike minidress covered her bright leotard and shiny tights. Her long hair was pulled back and held by a butterfly clip. Her glowing skin bore no trace of cosmetics, and her smile was toothpaste-ad perfect.

“Where have you been working out, Rick? You're a total stranger here lately.” She glanced at the other faces in the room and then back at his. “Is this business?” Her warm brown eyes grew larger as she read the note.

“Boo, hiss,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Sicko alert.”

Rick explained. “It isn't just obscene,” he concluded. “Because of my job and the fact that we have a recent unsolved homicide in our neighborhood, I have to take this seriously. Especially since nobody else seems to be a target. I'd be more comfortable if this freak had a scattergun approach and everybody here had little love notes in their gym bags. That's why I want to know who did it, and why. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out. It had to be somebody in your class this morning. That narrows it down to one of the guys in that group…” His voice trailed off as Tawny Marie and Dusty exchanged glances.

“There were no men in that class, Rick,” Tawny Marie said.

Rick was irritated during the drive home when Laurel pointedly asked how he happened to know Tawny Marie. He played dumb, his voice casual. “Strictly from the center, sweetheart. I helped organize arrangements to have the guys train there for the Police Olympics. She coordinated it at that end. Did a good job.”

“Did you ever take her out?”

His eyes closed in a moment of exasperation. “Nope,” he lied, recalling his conversation with Jim. “I think I bought her a drink once…”

“Did you…?”

“No way.”

Neither spoke again until they rolled into the white gravel driveway and the shade of the canvas carport. “You have any ideas about the note, hon? I felt kind of stupid. Why didn't you mention that you were in an all-girl class?”

“I didn't remember that there were no men.” She sounded vague and looked confused.

“Have you seen anybody acting strange, giving you the eye?”

She turned to him. “You mean you haven't figured it out yet?” Bewilderment no longer clouded the green-gold eyes. They were gray, with granitelike certainty. Her voice was razor sharp and crisp with conviction. “You
are
the detective.” She studied him boldly, her chin held at an arrogant angle.

“I wish everybody'd stop saying that,” he said ruefully, only half joking.

“I know who did it. I know who's trying to scare me.”

“Good,” he said. “Now we're getting somewhere.” He shifted the car into park, left the engine running to keep cold air blasting from the air conditioner, and half turned toward her on the leather seat, looking expectant. “Who, babe?”

“The only person in that class who knows me and has anything against me.” She paused for a moment. “Dusty.”

“You mean you think she … oh, come
on!
She wouldn't do a thing like that, babe. Count on it. You can take that to the bank. You can't really believe that.”

“I don't want to, but I do,” she said emphatically. “You always talk about motives and opportunity. Nobody else has a motive. She certainly had the opportunity. She was right there.”

“That's ludicrous,” he said sharply, and switched off the ignition. “A lot of weirdos out there see somebody and don't even need a reason. Or they know I'm a cop.”

Her face remained closed.

“Why?” he asked. “She wouldn't do something that stupid. She's a police officer, for God's sake, and a friend.”

“Not my friend. She's jealous of me because this is my home now.” The voice was slightly louder and higher-pitched.

“I never heard anything more off the wall. She's my partner, we work together,” he said flatly, as though that were the bottom line. He opened his door to the moist summer heat that overwhelmed the car in seconds, clasping them both in its breathless embrace.

She still sat, looking petulant. He walked around, crunched open her door and rested his left hand gently on the back of her neck. “Come on, babe, there's gotta be some other answer.”

She stepped out, glancing up into his eyes with a small smile. “I'll fix you an omelette. Then I really have to get busy. I need to do the baking and then start work on the garden.”

He stood staring after her, his hands on his hips, then shook his head and followed her slowly into the house.

Rick thought the accusation forgotten, but that night at the station he could not help but notice that one of the three pens always clipped to the outside pocket of Dusty's big soft leather handbag was missing. He saw only two. Was the missing pen red? He tried to recall. If the note was a bizarre practical joke that had backfired, he thought, she would be smart enough to toss the pen. He was annoyed at himself for even considering such a possibility. More serious was the possibility that the note might somehow be linked to the Thorne murder.

The homicide file Mack Thomas had compiled in the convenience-store killing of the Pakistani clerk had finally arrived on Rick's desk. The contents were disappointing.

“There's nothing in here,” Jim said, disgusted, shaking an empty manila enveloped marked “Evidence.”

“They didn't even interview the guy who worked on the victim's night off, to see if anybody had been hanging around or if there had been any arguments or unreported holdup attempts. I don't believe this guy. I've seen misdemeanor investigations that were more thorough than this fucking first-degree murder case.”

The wind pounded like frantic fists on the windows. Stormy weather was always more fierce on the bay islands. Laurel slammed doors and sobbed out loud. Alone, she thought only she could hear. There were clothes in her closet that she could not remember buying, in styles she would never wear, shapeless cotton housedresses and a leather miniskirt, too many events she did not remember, puzzles she could not explain, gaps in time, missing hours. She had tried to call a dozen times during the past two weeks. Something had always stopped her. Now she managed to dial the number.

“Mother?” She could barely speak the word, her voice breaking.

“What is it, Laurel?” The voice echoed trepidation.

“It's happening again. I can't remember. I'm losing time.” The hand that held the telephone was trembling.

There was silence.

“Mother?”

“Are you sure?” The voice sounded resigned and weary.

“Of course I'm sure!”

“What does Rick say?”

“He doesn't know!” Shrill and hysterical, she was crying now.

“You must try to stay calm, Laurel. Don't let yourself get upset. You know that makes it worse. Perhaps,” the tone was hopeful, “since Rick doesn't know, it's not serious this time.”

“It
is
serious. Terrible things are happening. I'm going crazy,” she moaned, rocking back and forth in her chair.

“Don't use that word, Laurel. Never. Especially not to Rick. Try to stay strong and catch hold of yourself. How bad is it?”

“I'm not sure, but I'm scared. Shall I tell Rick?”

The voice was uncertain. “I don't think it wise. Do your?”

“He'll hate me, and I don't want to lose him.”

“Well then, I wouldn't. If you were married…”

“We're not! What am I going to do?”

“Your father is not all that well. To be truthful, I'm not in the best of health either. It would be a real hardship for us to come down there now, but,” she sighed, “I'll tell him, and we'll try to come soon.”

“Soon, mother. Please! I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” The older woman sounded exhausted. “We thought you were happy.”

“I was, then all these things started happening, like before, only worse.” Laurel said good-bye, put her head down and sobbed.

The tears slowly subsided.

Several minutes later Alex lifted his head and dialed the same number. Laurel's mother answered on the second ring. He told her to butt out and mind her own goddamn business. “Just stay up there, outta our hair. Got me?”

Harriet called again, a few minutes later. She cheerily explained to Mrs. Trevelyn that everything was just fine and that there was no point in a visit now.

“If you're truly certain that you don't need us…” There was hesitation, but obvious relief in the worn-out voice.

Harriet reassured her, saying a pleasant good-bye. Then she called a conference with the others. Laurel's precarious state of mind could adversely affect them all. “She's becoming unhinged. She realizes she's losing more and more time. We must try to confuse her as little as possible.”

“So what? I could care less.” Marilyn snapped her gum and crossed her legs. “After all we've done for her.”

“It's for our own good,” Harriet persisted. “If she becomes any more frightened, she'll have those meddling parents down on our necks, or she'll go crying to Rick that she's nuts. Either way, we wind up back at the shrink, Rick will dump her and we'll lose this house.”

“That son of a bitch better not try anything funny,” Alex said malevolently. He paced the room. “I didn't like that fucking doctor either.”

“She wouldn't even have Rick if it wasn't for me,” Marilyn said, flaunting the fact. “I was the one who met him.”

“Only because I was driving the car.” Alex jabbed a thumb to his chest, full of his own importance. “Don't forget that.”

“Yeah, but the minute you heard the siren, you took off and left me in the driver's seat,” Marilyn said. “I was the one he liked. I'm the one who called him. Laurel never even met him until we were already out on a date.” She smirked. “I wish I could have seen her face when she suddenly found herself feeding Rick oysters in a restaurant and couldn't remember how she got there.”