Authors: Elizabeth Adler
“I hope you’ll still feel that way when I tell you I have to get back to town.”
“You mean now? Right away?”
“Well, after the scrambled eggs.”
“Uh-oh, the eggs.” She snatched the pan from the stove and stared horrified at the solidified mass.
“Good thing I remembered the bagels,” he added, “And the muffins. All you’ve got to do is brew the coffee, Malone.”
“And then we’re on our way.” She sighed gloomily.
“Like I told Squeeze, it’s a cop’s life,” he said. But he kissed her before he went back upstairs to take a shower.
Two hours later, they were at Logan Airport and he was saying good-bye to her. He glanced around the crowded departure lounge and the staring strangers, then he said what the hell and kissed her anyway.
“They’ve read it in the papers. Now they’ll know it’s true,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll call you later tonight.”
“I’m not going to complain,” she said. “I know it’s a cop’s life.”
“Not all the time, it’s not.”
Mal watched him walk quickly away from her. She knew his mind was already back on the serial killer. Her heart gave a little leap as he turned and met her eyes. Then he lifted his hand in farewell and disappeared around the corner.
She was smiling as she boarded the flight to La Guardia. And she smiled again, later, back in the safety of her apartment, when she picked up his message on her answering machine.
“It’s just the walking wounded, checking in to make sure you arrived home safely, Malone. Sorry about this weekend, and about the tabloids—though the picture of you isn’t bad. I’ll see they do it better next time. Call you later.”
She had just kicked off her shoes when the phone rang. It was Beth Hardy.
“I see you and the Handsome Detective are hitting the headlines,” she said. “In a
love nest
, no less.”
“It’s going to get worse.” Mal told her quickly about the previous night. “So you can expect more headlines, and I guess more pictures in the future. But not at the ‘love nest,’ because the Handsome Detective, as you call him, is back on the job. And you know the old saying.”
“Out of sight, out of mind? Somehow I doubt it. The HD was certainly most attentive on Thursday after the show. My advice is to roll with the punches. Anybody who says anything bad about you and Jordan is just jealous. See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
Mal was taking off her socks when the phone rang again.
“I was just wishing you and I were back at the love nest,” Harry said.
Mal felt that little quiver in her heart again. She sank onto the bed, smiling. “Oh, sure,” she said. “You can invite the paparazzi, and we can do a few retakes for them.”
She heard him sigh. Then he said regretfully, “It might almost be worth it. A few stitches, a wrecked classic Jaguar, shotguns, notoriety—what more can a guy expect from a nice weekend away with his woman?”
“Your
woman
, detective? Aren’t we being a little presumptuous? I mean a couple of dinners, a party, a little hugging and kissing here and there?”
“Hardly amounts to much, huh?” he said gloomily. Then he laughed. “Malone, I don’t know why I bothered to call. I can tell you’re back in form.”
“I’m glad you did, though,” she said in a voice like a caress.
“Me too,” he said gently. “Take care, Malone. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”
The line went dead, and she lay clutching the receiver
to her ear, reluctant to leave him. No matter how they bickered, life seemed emptier when he wasn’t there.
She showered and put on a robe. Suddenly exhausted, she remembered she had had only a couple of hours of sleep. Yawning, she fixed herself a cup of tea, then wandered into the study to pick up the rest of her messages. There was another envelope waiting on her desk.
She opened it, sipping wild berry tea as she read the one-line message. It said:
WELCOME HOME, MARY MALLORY
The hot tea slopped over her trembling hand, scalding her as she sank into the chair, but she hardly felt it. She stared mesmerized at the flimsy piece of paper. A shiver rippled coldly down her spine, and goose bumps sprang up on her skin. The note wasn’t from Harry. It wasn’t the paparazzi.
There was only one other person besides Harry who knew her real name.
T
HE MAN WAS OUT IN HIS GARDEN
, tending his roses. Some were already in bloom—tight exquisite blossoms in deep burgundy and crimson. He thought they were as perfect as roses should be, controlled in their beauty, unlike blowsy cabbage roses and unruly climbers, which he hated. He examined each fresh bud carefully, frowning as he saw clusters of greenfly sucking the juices from his carefully nurtured plants.
He hurried into the garage where he stored his gardening supplies and quickly mixed the chemicals. Then he sprayed each leaf, each plant, each bed, meticulously. When he felt sure he had annihilated all the aphids, he went back into the house, locked the doors, and washed his hands carefully.
He glanced at his watch. It was seven
P.M.
He wondered if Mary Mallory Malone was home yet, and he smiled, imagining her face when she found his welcoming little message. It had been quite a coup, getting hold of her address and her telephone number. In fact, he was astonished at how easy it had been. Sometimes he surprised even himself.
He put on a clean shirt and a good jacket, combed his hair, and inspected himself in the mirror. Taking a cloth from the drawer, he dusted his black Gucci loafers. Satisfied with his immaculate appearance, he drove into town to the bistro he favored on Sunday nights.
It was quiet. They gave him his favorite table near the window, and he ordered his usual roast chicken and mashed potatoes. This time he asked for a half bottle of wine instead of the single glass he normally drank. After all, he thought, as he unfolded the newspaper and stared at the picture of Mary Mallory Malone with Detective Harry Jordan at their love nest, he had a lot to celebrate tonight. They did not know who he was, and they would never find him. He was on the winning edge again—and this time he meant to enjoy it.
He was going to play a little game of nerves with Ms. Malone, before he declared war on her. Shake her up a bit, like this weekend for instance. Those damn fool photographers had acted like amateurs, shooting out of there with no headlights like Russian spies. All they’d had to do was put on their high beams. Jordan would have been so dazzled, he wouldn’t have been able to see the car—or anything else—for a minute, and by then they would have been past him and gone.
He sipped the wine appreciatively. It tasted particularly good tonight. Then he went to the pay phone in the entryway and dialed her number. He smiled when she answered immediately. He could recognize fear in a woman’s voice—after all, he had heard it many times before.
He replaced the receiver and returned to his table, made pleasant small talk with the waiter for a couple of minutes, then ate his meal in a leisurely fashion. Afterward he ordered the apple pie with vanilla ice cream and enjoyed every mouthful. Then he paid his bill and drove sedately through the city to the pied-à-terre he kept in Cambridge. It suited him to have two addresses. He often used this apartment when he had to get an early start on a work day. Besides, you never knew when it might come in handy for other reasons.
* * *
Harry was sitting in his office playing the tape of Suzie Walker’s last words over and over again. He knew the tape by heart. Each time he played it, he asked himself why she had said “What are you doing here?”
He played it again, listening intently for the inflection on
you
. The emphasis was so minimal, it was almost imperceptible, and her voice was choked up, so it was difficult to be certain. It might be nothing, as they had all at first assumed. But Harry couldn’t be sure. There was just a chance that Suzie had recognized her killer.
He thought about what her sister Terry had said: that the boyfriend had done it. They had questioned the young intern. He almost looked the part—short, stocky, and dark. But he was too young to have gray hair, and he had an unshakable alibi. He had been on duty at Beth Israel Hospital and both his colleagues could vouch for his whereabouts that entire night. So the intern was definitely out as a suspect.
Besides, there was too much evidence for it to be merely coincidence; Harry knew in his gut this was the serial killer. But if Suzie had known the killer, that narrowed the field considerably: her family, her friends, her colleagues at work. It could be a guy at the gas station where she filled up, or someone at the coffeehouse, or at the café where she ate, or at a bar she frequented, or a club or shop.
He sighed, thinking of the amount of work it would take. Then he talked with Rossetti, called the chief at home, and got permission to get extra help in tracking down every friend, acquaintance, and passing casual encounter in Suzie Walker’s life.
He looked at the photo-fit again. He took a couple of pieces of paper and covered the lower and upper parts, leaving only the eyes. The artist had done a good job in capturing the menacing stare. He could only imagine the terror of the poor young women who had confronted it.
He glanced at his watch, wondering if he should call Mal again, but it was eleven thirty and she would probably be sleeping. Instead he brought up her file on the computer.
He reread her résumé with its simple listings of birth, home, school, and jobs. Mentally, he filled in the spaces with the tragic events he knew about. He stared at the screen, puzzled.
Mal had told him she had attended Washington State in Seattle, and that’s what it said on the résumé that records had obtained for him. But the dates didn’t tally. He made a mental note to check with the college the next day and find out why Mal had taken five years instead of four to complete her studies. And then he wondered exactly where she had disappeared to, in that missing year.
Mal was not sleeping. She was pacing the floor trying to understand what was happening. She told herself she was being foolish. Someone obviously was playing a trick on her.
But still she couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, New York was hot and humid. She was too weary to tackle the gym, so she dressed and walked to the office. Waiting impatiently for the traffic light to change, she shifted from foot to foot, skimming a hand over her hair, already feeling sticky and wishing she hadn’t decided to walk. Suddenly she had the uneasy feeling she was being watched. The hairs at the back of her neck stood up. She swung around angrily. Half a dozen innocuous-looking people were behind her. Their eyes were glued on the light, willing it to turn green and willing the traffic not to overshoot it so they could dash across.
Fool, she reprimanded herself angrily. This wasn’t Jordan’s Farm, she wasn’t alone, and nobody was following her. Nevertheless, she glanced uneasily over her shoulder
several times as she hurried along Madison, and she felt relieved when she finally swung through her office door to safety.
“Seen the morning papers?” Beth greeted her with a grin. “The Handsome Detective and Mallory Malone are all over the place. Those paparazzi are onto a gold mine. It’s a good thing the HD returned to Boston before the pictures got even more revealing.”
Mal snatched the newspaper from her, scanning the caption over a photo of the two of them sitting by the stream, fishing. “Country Idyll For Mallory Malone and Boston Heartthrob Cop.” She flung it down, disgusted, imagining the paparazzi with their long-range lenses. Stealing their privacy, their intimacy.
“At least they ended up in jail,” she said angrily. “But Harry ended up with nineteen stitches in his head.”
“Spoiled his beauty, huh?” Beth said, sighing. “Nah, nothing could do that. So how are things between you and the HD, anyway?” She twisted a strand of dark hair round her finger, looking expectantly at Mallory.
Mal thought moodily. “Combative, I would say,” she decided. “And—well, kind of fun.”
“And sexy,” Beth added.
Mal threw her a startled look, and Beth laughed. “It’s written all over you, sweetheart. You are positively glowing. Besides, you look exhausted.”
“I look exhausted because I didn’t sleep last night,” Mal confessed. Then she told her about the Welcome Home note.
“It has to be some joker,” Beth said calmly. “I mean, those tabloids are even better than we are at getting addresses and telephone numbers. They’re probably delving into your past even as we speak, looking for dirt.”
Mal stared apprehensively at her. “You really think they’re delving into the past?”
“Yours
and
Harry Jordan’s,” Beth said firmly. “The
two sleuths are being sleuthed, is my guess. And what you got was just a warning shot.”
Mal hoped Beth wasn’t right. She went to her office and closed the door, then called Harry at the precinct. He wasn’t there, of course, but she left a message for him to call her. Then she tried to switch her mind back to work and this week’s show.
Harry parked the Jeep outside Mass General. He ran up the steps and through the swing doors.
Dr. Waxman was on his way out. He threw Harry a startled glance, then retraced his steps.
“What the hell happened to you, detective?” He leaned closer, inspecting Harry’s head. “You here on police business? Or do you need my services in the emergency room?”
“Not this time, doc, thanks. It was just a minor fracas with an automobile. No bones were broken, and my brain seems intact.”
“Don’t worry about the hair—it’ll soon grow back in,” Waxman said with a grin, unconsciously smoothing back his own thick dark locks. “By the way, I saw your picture in the paper this morning.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Harry replied gloomily, and Waxman laughed.
Harry glanced down at Waxman’s feet—he was wearing black Gucci loafers. A warning tremor fizzed up his spine. “Nice shoes, doc,” he commented casually.
“Expensive but comfortable,” Waxman said. “When you’re on your feet as many hours a day as I am, you appreciate every bit of comfort you can get.”
“Dr. Waxman, you’re just the man I came to see.” Harry grabbed his arm before he could walk away. “It’s about Suzie Walker. I need to know who she worked with. Who her colleagues were, her friends. Anyone who knew her.”