Sandman (22 page)

She glanced up and noticed Thomas waiting for her. He did not look happy. Meagan walked back to where he stood.

“Who were you talking to?”

“My girlfriend, Katy. She listens to a police scanner; it’s kind of a hobby of hers. Anyway, she heard my address and was worried about me.” She felt like a child in the principal’s office.

He glared at her. “What did you tell her?”

Meagan tried to keep her cool.

“I just told her I had a break-in and that I was all right. I didn’t want her to worry. It’s a good thing too because that freaked her out enough.” She laughed trying to get a smile out of him. It didn’t work.

“Good. We don’t want her unknowingly tipping off this guy. He could be in contact with someone in your inner circle, so whoever she tells could tell someone else and so on. We can’t risk anything about this case getting out.”

“But I don’t know anything.”

“You know more than any other civilian and you need to keep a lid on it for now. Do you understand?”

Meagan nodded.

“We’re going to spend the night at my house. Let’s go inside so you can pack a bag. We better hurry before everyone gets here, because after that we’ll be barred from the residence.”

He went to the open trunk of his car were the rest of the groceries waited to be unloaded. He reached into a box and pulled out two pairs of latex gloves, handing her one. “I know your prints are all over the house, but we can’t risk smudging any he may have left behind. So remember to touch as little as possible.”

“But he was wearing black leather gloves,” She countered.

“When you saw him, but who knows, he could have taken them off at some point so he could feel the silk or lace of your garments.” He put his gloves on.

Meagan shivered. “That’s just plain creepy.”

“Yes, it is, but you never know what’s going to get some of these guys off.”

She scrunched up her face and put on the gloves.

***

It was after nine when they pulled into Thomas’ garage. They entered the house to a set of stairs that led to the kitchen.

They passed what she thought was the living room on the left, the English Tudor home was filled with antiques and tapestries. Not what she expected to find in a cop’s house.

Meagan followed him up another set of stairs, then down a long hall to the last door on the right. He opened the door, switched on the light, then motioned her to go in before him.

Meagan entered the room and stopped.

“This will be your room.” He set her bag down on the inside of the door, then pointed to a closed door on the right. “You have a private bath through that door over there.”

She wandered over to the window framed by chintz curtains and peered down. The tumultuous sea crashed below; the white caps glowed in the moonlight. She took in the canopy bed with its matching bedspread and curtains.

“Some investments,” she said with awe.

“I’ll start dinner. You should find fresh towels and everything you’ll need in the bathroom. In case you don’t, just let me know.” He left the room closing the door behind him.

Meagan ambled over to the window and cranked it open. A cool breeze rushed in and filled the room with the wonderful scent of the ocean. She took a deep breath and sighed. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below was amplified. In the distance she heard a foghorn. This was the home she’d always dreamed about.

She unpacked her bag and hung what little she’d brought in the closet, then changed into a caftan. She put her hair up and washed her face. Feeling half-human again, she went in search of her host.

When she turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs she found herself in the warmest, most enticing room, lit by a crackling fire. There was an overstuffed couch and matching chairs, each with its own ottoman, all upholstered in the same English rose material. She imagined herself curled up in one of the chairs in front of that fireplace, engrossed in a gripping novel.

The floors were a dark hardwood, so shiny they looked wet. A large square area rug in deep burgundy, forest green vines, and pink roses covered a giant portion of the floor. The antique furnishings were all mahogany. Paintings surrounded the room, each with its own special light above. They were not pictures, but actual paintings. She had no doubt they were worth a bundle.

Meagan ogled each one as she made her way around the perimeter of the room. Her favorite was a ship being tossed about on the waves in the middle of a bitter storm. It reminded her of the picture in her room,
Miranda-The Tempest
by John William Waterhouse. It had the same moody vibe.

After making the full circle, she found herself in front of the fireplace again. She gazed up at the portrait of a beautiful woman holding a violin. Her long straight hair flowed over one shoulder; it was too dark to tell if the shade was black or brown. Her velvet gown was a deep forest green that brought out her exquisite green eyes. Her ears sparkled with diamond and emerald earrings. She was the most stunning woman Meagan had ever seen, and she just couldn’t take her eyes off her.

When she was finally able to tear herself away, Meagan wandered into the kitchen where she noticed an open bottle of wine with an empty glass next to it. She poured herself a glass, and gazed out to the deck where she spied Thomas in front of a barbecue grill.

She opened the sliding glass door. The aroma of the steaks on the grill filled her senses and made her stomach grumble. He was just turning them when she walked up beside him.

“Your home is
amazing
.”

“It was my wife’s home. It’s where she grew up.”

She hoped the shock didn’t register on her face.

“Where is she now?”

“She’s dead.” His tone was hard and flat.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mind if I ask how she died?” The second the words flew out, she wished she could take them back. She scrunched up her face, covered it with her hands. “I’m so sorry. Forget I said that.”

The silence was deafening.

She braved a look, the muscles in his jaw clenched. Then he shocked her with his words. “She was a gifted violinist, she’d played her entire life. It’s all she’d ever wanted to do.

“Then she began having problems with her fingers. It got to the point where the pain was so great, she finally went to the doctor. She was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, the kind that cripples you. Her hands would eventually turn into claws. She was only thirty-eight.

“I took her to countless specialists, for second, third, even forth opinions. Her depression was so great, she wouldn’t leave our room. She withdrew from the world, withdrew from me. She slept all the time. I felt helpless, nothing I said or did made a difference. I begged her to seek help, to see a psychiatrist. She argued that a psychiatrist couldn’t fix her hands.

“Then one night I came home and found her on our bed. She had swallowed an entire bottle of Xanax. The note she left simply read
I’m sorry
.”

Stunned, Meagan focused on his profile. Thomas stared straight out at the sea. Unshed tears stood in his eyes. She put her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry. When did this happen?”

“Two years ago last month.” He swiped a hand across his eyes and cleared his throat. “How would you like your steak cooked?”

“Well done, thanks.”

Silence ensued. Meagan hung over the railing, sipped her wine and watched the waves below while she figured out a way to change the subject. Then it came to her. “What does the J.J. stand for?”

He looked at her and smiled. “Jesse James.”

“I can see why you’d go by your initials then. Sandra Bullock’s ex-husband pretty much sullied that name, huh?” Meagan laughed nervously.

“Actually, I’ve been J.J. my entire life. It was a nickname that kind of stuck. My dad was a big fan of the Wild West. All my siblings are named after famous people: Wyatt, for Wyatt Earp. Annie, for Annie Oakley. Billy, for Wild Bill Hickok. And Cody, for Buffalo Bill Cody.

Meagan got a sudden attack of the giggles. It really wasn’t that funny, but she couldn’t stop herself. Chalk it up to stress or lack of sleep. Whatever it was, it felt good to laugh. The levity seemed to relieve the tension hanging in the air.

When her laughter finally died, she wiped the tears from her eyes, cleared her throat and patted him on the back. “I like it. Jesse James Thomas, it’s a good solid name for a good solid guy.”

His warm smile made her tingle down to her toes, as did the grateful expression in his eyes. For what she wasn’t sure. But after the loss of his wife, it was a wonder he could smile at all.

THIRTY-SIX

The phone woke Thomas early the next morning. His hand shot out and fumbled around until it closed on the receiver, then he answered without opening his eyes.

“Thomas.” He cleared his throat. “What’s up?”

“It’s Cooper. The husband just pulled up.”

“What time is it?” Thomas looked around.

“It’s six-fifteen. What do you want me to do?”

“Just stay put. Where’s James?”

“He left about ten minutes ago.”

“Okay, I’ll get there as soon as I can. Call me on my cell if he moves.”

Thomas hung up and scrambled to get dressed. He was pulling on a pair of pants when it struck him: what was he going to do about Meagan? Then the answer came: nothing. No one knew where she was. She should be safe. He tied the second shoe, then rushed to her room. After a couple of swift knocks, he threw the door open.

Meagan bolted straight up. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Thomas was speechless. Her hair was wild and extremely sexy. The white tank top she wore was practically sheer, he could see her erect nipples right through it. Instantly he was aroused. He noticed the chill in the room and looked toward the window. It was wide open.

Mentally he shook his head, then found his voice.

“I’ve got to go interview the guy we’ve had under surveillance. I’m going to leave you here. You’ll be safe. I have a state-of-the-art alarm system. I’ll arm it when I leave.” Thomas flew out of the room as quickly as he’d entered. After he closed her door he took a deep breath, then looked down and adjusted himself.

By the time he’d arrived at the apartment complex, the rain was coming down in sheets. He parked his car next to Cooper and quickly jumped in beside him. “Bring me up to date.”

“The subject pulled in around six-fifteen in that old beat-up Ford LTD over there.” He pointed to a car on the left. “DMV records show it’s registered to the wife, as is the Mini Cooper that she drives.”

“Is the wife home?”

“Yes. James recorded she pulled in at three-ten, alone. Do you think she was expecting him?”

“She claims she’s not privy to his schedule. But your guess is as good as mine.”

“I talked to a couple guys at the station who’d been out here a few times for domestics,” Cooper said. “Seems that twice the neighbors called 911 because of some horribly loud fights. The third time, the wife called claiming he’d roughed her up.

“When they got there, it looked like it was the other way around. Jenks, one of the officers at the scene, said the husband was pretty docile. The wife didn’t have a mark on her. But Roberts had a bloody nose, black eye and scratch marks down his left cheek. He wouldn’t press charges. Jenks said he thought the wife was an attention-seeker,” Cooper said in disgust.

“Everyone I’ve talked to so far acts like this guy’s a real saint. I called Shadowhawk. She should be here any minute. I want to see what her take is on him,” Thomas said.

Cooper nodded.

As they waited, Thomas brought Coop up to date on the case. By the time he’d finished, Shadowhawk had arrived. He got out of the car to greet her. The rain had calmed to a heavy drizzle. The detectives made a run for the shelter of the overhang outside the Roberts’s downstairs apartment.

Most of the residents were bustling off to work, or school, but no one stirred in the darkened apartment before them. Thomas knocked on the door, waited. When there was no sound from within, he rapped again with more purpose. Before long he was pounding on the door when it was finally yanked open.

“What!” Sharon Roberts stood in the doorway in an oversized T-shirt with a picture of a rubber duck floating upside down. Her features softened when she noticed Thomas.

“Oh, it’s you, come on in.” She moved away from the door.

The moment Shadowhawk appeared from behind him, her expression turned to a scowl.

“This is my partner, Shadowhawk. We’d like to talk to your husband,” Thomas said.

“Whatever.” She slammed the door then yelled toward the back of the apartment. “Jordan, get your ass out of bed. You got company!” She left them standing in the doorway and disappeared into what he could only assume was the bedroom.

A minute later the same door opened and a man wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt shuffled into the room scratching his butt.

He stared at them through sleepy eyes. “Who are you?”

Thomas made the introductions. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“‘Kay,” he said, groggily. He opened the fridge, then glanced back. “Want something to drink?”

“No thanks, we’re fine,” Thomas said.

He grabbed a Coke, slammed the door and popped the top.

“So, what do you want?” Jordan Roberts led them into the living room and plopped down into a chair. He drank half the Coke before he looked at them.

His curly dark brown hair hung past his shoulders; his beard was closely cropped and his brown eyes were sad like those of a basset hound. His manner was docile.

“Can you tell us about your relationship with Cindy Gross?” Thomas asked.

“I worked with Cindy
years
ago at a clothing company up north. Why?”

“Have you seen her or been in touch with her at all since you left that job?” Shadowhawk asked.

“No, I have no idea what she’s up to. We weren’t that close, didn’t keep in touch.”

Thomas took out his notebook. “Can you tell me where you were on—” Thomas read a string of dates.

Jordan stared at him a moment. “No, can you tell me where
you
were on those dates?” he countered. “What the fuck is this about?”