Out of the Shadow (23 page)

           Investigate. What a funny word. She had begun to sound like the detectives on the case. Shows what eight months of being a "person of interest" could do for your vocabulary. She laughed to herself, just in time to catch the curious stare of a man she passed on the second floor landing.

At Evan’s door, she scanned the hallway, then reached up to retrieve the key hidden above the jamb. To her relief, her fingers collided with cold, hard metal and she was able to coax the key into her hand. The click of the lock was a sweet sound. She replaced the key and slipped into the condo unseen, quietly closing the door behind her. Smooth. With a sigh, she leaned back against the closed door, waiting for the hammering of her heart to subside.

With no time to lose, she strode directly to the bathroom medicine cabinet. Inside, she discovered his toothbrush and mouthwash below row upon row of vitamins and minerals in containers of all shapes and sizes. She picked up one and read the label, L-Tryptophan. Whew. What the heck was that? Another read Beta Carotene. One was vitamin E, another fish oil. The list of supplements was dizzying.

She pushed a number of the bottles aside, feeling guilty for going through Evan’s home uninvited, but spied no sign of anything suspect. No cologne. No contacts. Nothing.

In his bathroom closet, she searched under and behind fluffy white terry cloth towels, but came up empty-handed.

The top of Evan’s dresser supported a few bottles of cologne and massage oil, but still no
Aramis
. So far she had struck out. No evidence. No culprit. No go.

Then she spotted the picture of Evan as a boy half-hidden behind the cologne bottle. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, but the picture remotely resembled the one Dorothy had shown her. A few years had passed between this picture and the one of Adam in the yearbook, but this could be the same kid. When she picked up the photo to study it, a school ring with a large blue stone was next to it. Exactly like the one she remembered. Her hopes dimmed.

She had lingered in the condo too long to be on the safe side. She double-checked the premises, making sure to put every single item back where she had found it. Evan’s hairbrush lay next to a box of coins and paraphernalia in his top dresser drawer. She removed a handful of hairs from between the bristles and placed them in an envelope she had brought along for the occasion with Evan’s name scribbled on the back. With the envelope sealed, she put it into her jeans pocket.

She wandered back into the living room, but instead of finding what she sought, all she discovered were shelves of self-help and spiritual books, stacks of new age and ethnic music discs and, on the bottom shelf, a box of audio-visual equipment that looked like something out of a spaceship cockpit. The directions on the back of the box said it could be used to create a state of mind referred to as "alpha, where you will experience deeper peace and more focused awareness." Exactly what she needed at the moment.

For good measure, she took one last glance in his coat closet before leaving and was about to shut the door when she caught sight of a black sleeve behind a brown wool coat. She pushed the wool coat aside to reveal a black trench coat. Her gut wrenched at the sight.

The turn of the doorknob startled her into a state of intense alertness without the use of expensive mind-altering equipment. The front door began to open and Becca bolted for the bedroom, stole behind the door and prayed she hadn’t been witnessed. The sound of someone moving about the condo was drowned out by the pounding of the pulse in her head.

Who could be here and what did they want? If it was Evan, what could she tell him in explanation? Instead of trying to figure out what to say when she didn’t know to whom she’d say it, she peered around the door and saw a woman with black hair in a ponytail placing a mop against the far wall. The cleaning lady. While able to breathe freely again, Becca realized she still had a dilemma. How to explain her presence in Evan’s typically empty, but now overcrowded, apartment?

Since the truth would never do, she had to come up with a big fat lie. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, she waltzed into the living room. "Good morning," she announced breezily. "Evan told me you’d be here. I told him I would leave after you arrived." She marched out the door before the woman could ask her any questions.

Back in her apartment, Becca slumped into a dining room chair and lowered her head into her hands. The class ring and trench coat had certainly cemented her suspicions about Evan. She would drop off his hair sample with Mills on the way into work, but she already suspected what the analysis would show.

Mentally she placed a checkmark beside Evan's name on her list of potential suspects, believing she had found her man. Too bad. She was so fond of him, it was hard to admit she had been wrong. A deep sense of regret nagged at her.

She glanced up at the clock. She’d have to leave for work soon. Everything in her rebelled against the idea of leaving her nest just yet. She was in too much emotional distress to take care of anyone but herself.

On impulse, she called Drew, knowing it would be useful to talk things over with a friend. Communication had always been her way of problem-solving her disappointments, her rejections, her lapses of judgment. She could add this one to her growing list.

Later that day at an intimate Queen’s Village tavern, Drew sipped on a martini and listened with apparent interest to Becca’s tale. Occasionally he would interject a thought or opinion, but for the most part, he merely served as an attentive ear - the way she liked it. Only by listening to herself could Becca discern what was going on inside her own head. Otherwise, all the multiplicity of errant pixels would never come together and form a coherent picture in her mind.

When she finished updating Drew on what happened in Evan’s apartment, he shook an index finger at her. "Now that you’ve found your man, why don’t you turn it over to the police and give this thing a rest? I mean, you go over it all the time, clogging your mind with unanswerable questions to insoluble problems. A few days off to let everything percolate wouldn’t hurt one bit, and it might help you to see things in a different light." He took another sip of his drink and put the glass down. "Want another wine?" He signaled for the barmaid.

Hadn’t she made herself clear on the seriousness of her situation and the necessity of doing something sooner rather than later? Was he listening as attentively as he led her to believe? "I don’t think this can wait."

"Nonsense. It’s time for you to take a break." The waitress came by and he ordered another drink.

She declined, surprised to hear him request a second martini. She had never seen him drink more than a beer before.

He turned back to her. "Let’s have some fun and take your mind off of your worries. They’ll still be there when you get back to them."

She shook her head with vigor. "I can’t do that. The fact there’s a killer on the loose won’t change because I need a break. I have to do everything in my power to tie this up as quickly as I can."

He sat back and leaned the chair onto its hind legs, a small smile creasing his lips. "Come on. There’s nothing more you can do. Besides, what’s going to happen if you lighten up a little except you might be happier. Maybe Becca will have a good time for a change. Relax a little. Scary thought, huh? Might be a trifle too much for her to handle."

She hated when people referred to her in third person, but she had to concede his point in spite of her resistance. Solving these crimes had become her
raison d'être
; her motivation for climbing out of bed in the morning and for everything else she did throughout the day. The thought of a time-out scared the living daylights out of her. And it was more than simply fear of the killer’s next move—it was also fear of hers.

"Say I do that— I mean take time off for a couple days—"

"A couple days is hardly enough."

"Wait a minute. It’s my life and I’m going to set the agenda." Where did that come from? She marveled at her gutsiness. "But say I go along with your scheme and something awful happens. Where would I be then?"

His drink served, he paid for it and took a gulp. "Exactly where you are now. Trying to figure out ‘who done it’ and how it was done."

He might have that right. "Okay, so from this moment on for the next two days, I’m going to put this crime to bed and trust that the police will do their job. Then what?"

He sat upright and reached across the table. "Come with me. Let me show you the best time you’ve had in months—maybe years. Let’s dance, play, howl at the moon. Whatever we can do to take your mind off your troubles."

"What about work?"

"You are a party pooper, Becca Rosen. Okay, we’ll follow my prescription only after we're finished working. Does that make you feel any better?"

She rolled her eyes. "All right... I’ll do it, but where do we start?"

"Let’s start with a real date, movies, dinner, the works. What do you say?"

She didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to sit around and fret over the loss of her blossoming relationship with Evan, but she knew she’d be better off without him, even if it hurt. "When do you want to do this...date?"

"How about right now?"

She hadn’t had a moment after leaving St. John’s to even powder her nose or reapply her lipstick. "I’d say okay, but I need to wash up and refresh. Don’t you live nearby? Why don’t we go by your place."

Drew looked perplexed. "I don’t know... I haven’t cleaned all week. I’d hate you to see my townhouse in its present condition."

"Don’t worry, I can look past the clutter. You only moved in a few months ago, I don’t expect the Taj Mahal. I’m excited to see it."

"It’d be a lot more thrilling if I had the time to pick up my underwear first. Are you sure you want to see my skivvies? Perhaps we can postpone your visit until another time when I’m more prepared."

She laughed at his modesty. "Nope. We’re going now. Don’t be self-conscious. I won’t judge you on the brand name of your briefs." She stood. "Let’s go."

He grasped her arm. "All right...it’s your funeral."

She took his arm and pulled him upright. "Come on. There’s no backing out now."

For either of them.

Chapter Seventeen

Becca stood at the bottom of the landing leading up to Drew’s townhome and admired the lovely two-story structure. A boxy building made of brick with a small front porch, it had multi-paned windows with mint green trim surrounded by forest green shutters and a dark green porch with mint green railing. She squeezed his arm. "You’ve been holding out on me, Drew. This house is darling."

He ruffled her hair. "Almost as cute as you."

For the first time that day, she could sense the tension lose its grip on her muscles; could breathe deeply. "I can’t wait to see what’s inside."

He gave her head a gentle rap with his knuckles. "Me, too."

He led the way inside, flicked on a light and illuminated a large living room with a stately brown leather sofa and an oak rocker. It looked a little like she would imagine a lawyer’s office might.

"Nice." She strode over to the fireplace with a large mantel covered with pictures of Drew and his parents, Lisa and Sam. Her eyes alighted on a family portrait, which must have been taken when Drew was an adolescent. He had on glasses and a self-conscious grin. "Is that you?"

He came up beside her and turned the picture toward the wall where she could no longer view it. "Lousy picture. I’m embarrassed to have anyone see it."

"Why? You were cute."

"More like a nerd. Come with me. I’ll show you around."

He led her into a small but adequate kitchen, with a large old-fashioned gas stove that took up most of one wall, and into a conventional dining room with French doors. Beyond the doors was a courtyard.

"Oh, you have a garden,” she said. “I love gardens. May I see yours?"

“
Sure.” He opened the door and a cold blast of winter rushed in. "Are you certain you want to go out in this?"

"I haven’t removed my coat yet. Let’s go." She stepped into another world outside the French doors. A world of flowerless roses strangled by spindly vines; large lifeless azaleas beside straggly evergreen bushes. A gray, dreary world of death and dying. The decrepit little garden gave her the creeps. She hugged herself. "Burr, it’s cold out here. How about if we go back in?"

"What did I tell you?" he asked, not putting up any resistance. "As much as I love gardening in the spring, it’s not one of my winter sports.

He loved gardening? Where did she hear that one before? Wasn’t it from Angela about Elliot? She would be worried, if she hadn’t already pinpointed the perpetrator.

On her way into the house, she passed a couple sacks of potting soil leaning against the wall. Half-hidden behind them, sat a large container of
Diazinon
. Again she was reminded of Angela.

Back inside, Drew helped her out of her red wool coat and tossed it over a couple of other items of his clothing on a ladder-back dining room chair. She had to admit he had been truthful. The place was in shambles. Not out of the ordinary for a single working man.

"How about a glass of red zinfandel?" he asked her.

"Okay, I guess. It might warm me up?"

He left to fetch the drinks and she took a seat on the sofa, attempting to read an article on biofuels in a
New Yorker Magazine
that had been tossed to the ground. He returned with two glasses and a bottle, poured her a glass of deep burgundy wine and set the bottle in front of her on the coffee table.

"If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back," he said.

Right back was more than ten minutes, according to her watch, which she consulted innumerable times. He took the seat beside her on the couch.

"Sorry I took so long, but I needed to straighten up. Now the skivvies are where they belong."

"No problem. I’ve been reading an interesting article on global warming. Guess it’s something we need to pay more attention to."

"I’d say. It’s certainly hotter in here since you arrived."

A heated look filled his deep blue eyes, giving her the shivers. Why? Something felt wrong, but she wasn’t sure whether it was real or her typical response to an available and attractive man.

He slid a little nearer to her, but she backed off. "I’ve wanted to get to know you better for a long time. You have no idea what this means to me."

He moved closer still and she could go no farther with the sofa arm scraping her thigh. "You know I’m not ready..."

"Don’t be silly— we’ve seen enough of each other. What are we waiting for?" With that, he lowered his lips to hers.

Instead of passion all she could feel was panic. His taste, his smell, his touch...Everything about him disturbed her. She pushed him away. "No. Not now."

He watched her through half-shut, hungry eyes. "When then? You can’t keep putting me off. You know how crazy I am about you. It’s not fair for you to play hard-to-get any longer. Come here."

He grasped her arm and drew her toward him, but she broke away.

"Don’t be ridiculous, Becca. You know we were meant to be together. Loosen up and relax. Don’t be so formal."

At those words a siren went off in her head. Sick to her stomach, she gulped down the bile that rose into her throat. "I’m not feeling well..."

He eyed her suspiciously. "What’s the matter?"

"An upset stomach. You have to understand, I had a stressful day. I’m under a tremendous amount of strain." Nausea stopped her words. "I have to use your bathroom." Again he gripped her arm and this time she couldn’t break away. She had to make her point. "If I don’t go soon...I’m going to be sick all over your carpet."

With an angry frown, he grudgingly let go of her arm. "It’s through the bedroom, but don’t take too long."

She heard a menacing tone in his voice. "I won’t. I promise."

Before he could stop her, she hoisted her purse and took off for the bathroom on quivering legs. Everything at the moment spelled disaster to her. Perhaps it was intuition. Perhaps it was something more. Her instincts told her she was in deep danger.

She swiftly closed and locked the bathroom door behind her, sprinted over to the medicine cabinet. With no time to lose, she shoved aside shaving cream and a container of contact lens solution and came upon a bottle of
Aramis
tucked away in the back of the cabinet. It had a tiny corner of the label torn off. Identical to the one missing from Angela’s apartment.

She rummaged through a stack of blue and green towels in the linen closet and then, on a hunch, dug into a hamper full of dirty clothes. At the bottom of the pile, her fingers felt silky material. She pulled out a pair of her missing panties. The ones stolen from her laundry. She was in serious trouble. Her hands trembled when she replaced them in the heap.

Jesus. What was he doing in here for so long? Covering his tracks?

She had found enough evidence to satisfy her, but with hair taken from the brush resting on top of the toilet tank, perhaps she could make a solid case with the police. She coaxed the hairs from the bristles, placed them in her pants pocket and readied herself to face Drew.

A knock at the door made her heart lurch. "What’s going on in there? Are you okay? You’re taking an awfully long time."

She watched the knob turn with terror—then it stopped. "I’m fine," she said, but her voice quacked with fear. "I’ll only be a couple more minutes."

She waited breathlessly, watching while his shoes blocked light beneath the door. Like in her nightmares. Finally the shoes moved away. She heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, willed herself to stop shaking. She couldn’t face him in her present condition and would have to wait out her reaction.

A plan. She needed a plan or she would never get away from him.

She thought about calling the police, but what could she tell them that they might take seriously. She was with a drunk man. He had weed poison on his patio. He had her stolen panties, which they'd probably think she planted anyway to make him look like the guilty party and throw them off her trail. They never believed anything she told them, and she suspected Drew would exploit their doubt and convince them she was fabricating the entire story.

And what if the police presence
really
pissed Drew off? What would happen to her then?

           
Without fully thinking it through, she whipped the cell phone from her purse and dialed Julie’s number. Luckily Julie answered on the second ring. "Mom," she whispered. "I need your help."

‘
What?’ Julie asked. "What’s going on?"

"I can’t explain right now, but I need you to call me in five minutes. Do you understand? Five minutes. No more. No less."

"What are you up to now, Becca?"

"Just do as I ask. My life depends on it." She hung up before her mother could ask any more questions.

Drawing a number of deep breaths, as she did in therapy, helped her to compose herself enough to face Drew. She abandoned the sanctity of the bathroom, trudged past Drew’s dresser, where she noted a couple pieces of jewelry carelessly strewn on top. Upon closer inspection, one of them turned out to be a school ring with a large blue stone. She couldn’t go any further. Everything added up to danger. Drew looked more and more like the man behind the mystery. She was in grave jeopardy.

In the living room, Drew was pouring himself another glass of wine—or was it his third or fourth? Her palms moistened at the thought he might be tipsy on top of terrorizing. A lethal combination.

He looked up with a scowl. "You sure took your good ol’ time." Rage rimmed his words.

She wanted to defuse his anger or she’d never make it out of there in one piece. "Sorry. I’m not doing well. I didn’t mean for my problems to come between us."

"Well, they have," he said in a petulant voice.

She took a seat on the nearby chair, purposely not sitting too close to him. "I’m ready to go out now."

He poured wine into her glass to top it off. "There’s no rush. Finish your drink."

He raised his glass and she reluctantly raised hers. "To Becca. The love of my life." He spat out the words sounding inebriated as well as pissed off.

She half-smiled. "What a thing to say."

"If you don’t believe me, look at what I bought you. I was goin’ to give it to you later, but it seems like I should do it now." He lifted a gift bag from under the coffee table and handed it to her.

Inside was a bottle of
Raffinée
. Stunned, she stared at the bottle a long time. Since he hadn’t been to see Julie since the party, how could he know of her preference for the perfume, except from Angela? Her stomach turned sour again. "My favorite. How did you know?" 

"I didn’t, but it’s my favorite, too. Why don’t you put some on for me?"

The phone rang. Grateful to Julie for following directions, Becca answered it with a trembling hand. "Yes... Oh no... How bad is it? How soon do you want me there? Okay."

On the other end of the line, Julie kept asking her what the hell she was doing, but Becca ignored her mother’s questions. "All right. You don’t have to call back. I’ll be right over."

She flipped the cell shut and glanced over at Drew. "That’s the hospital. One of my patients has made a turn for the worse, and he’s asked to see me. If I don’t get there within the hour, he’ll be gone."

Drew sneered. "I’ve never heard of a nurse on duty. You’re not on-call. Let the doctors take care of him."

"You don’t understand. He’s been in and out of the hospital for years, and he’s dying now. I need to be by his side at this time. If I don’t do this, I’ll feel guilty for the rest of my life. I know you wouldn’t wish that on me."

"How do you know what I want?"

She didn’t respond, but instead shrugged into her coat in an attempt to scoot out the door before he could stop her. But the moment she started for the door, he put himself between her and it.

"You’re not going anywhere without me."

With legs wobbling beneath her and blood pulsing through her veins, she couldn’t conjure up an immediate rebuttal. She racked her brain, but before she could piece together an argument, he said, "I have an idea. How ‘bout I come with you."

What could she do with him in an unreasonable state of mind, physically blocking her escape? "All right, but they won’t let you onto the ward. You’ll have to wait for me in the waiting room."

"I can do that." He grabbed his coat and followed her out the door. "I’ll drive."

She had to think fast. "But you’ve had more wine than I did and you don’t know the way. Why don’t I drive?"

He looked at her through hooded eyes, suddenly appearing sober. "Don’t you worry. I know how to go."

She shuddered, but not out of surprise. Of course he knew the way. He had been there before, incognito. And he never intended it to be a friendly visit.
 

At the entrance to St. John’s, Becca raced ahead of Drew to put a barrier between him and the new receptionist. The white-haired, heavy-set woman looked up with a start at Becca’s brusque approach.

"What are you doing here? Isn’t it your day off?"