Sketcher in the Rye: (10 page)

When Rory reached the main bank of doors, she checked the busy concourse around her. The man was nowhere in sight. Satisfied, she joined a knot of shoppers who were leaving the mall. Outside, darkness had come down like a final curtain. After the bright lights and festive ambiance inside the mall, the scattered lights in the parking lot seemed to be losing their battle to hold back the night. Although Rory wasn't a great fan of the cold, what she hated most about this time of year was the loss of light. She had no idea how the good folk of Alaska made it through six months of nearly total darkness without losing a substantial part of their minds.

She was barely a quarter of the way to her car when she found herself walking alone, the other shoppers having already reached the warmth and safety of their vehicles. She certainly hadn't thought about that earlier when she'd parked in the hinterlands of the lot. She wasn't even sure why it was bothering her now. It wasn't as if she was walking alone at one in the morning in a crime-riddled neighborhood. She was in the crowded lot of a crowded shopping mall at dinnertime. She squared her shoulders in an effort to shake off the uneasiness that was stirring wormlike in her gut. She was a big girl. A big girl with a gun in her purse, which she unzipped just in case. There, that was better. Or it was until she heard the slap of other feet on the macadam. Purposeful feet somewhere behind her. Feet where there hadn't been anyone seconds ago. She quickened her pace, resisting the urge to turn and look. That would only slow her down as well as hasten a potential showdown. Until she knew differently, she had to assume it was the man from the mall, and by extension, the driver who'd been following her. Mr. Average Joe must have left the mall before she did and hidden among the parked cars to wait for her. She slipped her hand into her purse and grasped the gun, flicking off the safety in one smooth motion. The footsteps were closing the distance. At this rate, he would reach her before she reached her car. If she tried to run, there was a good chance he would overtake her. But she had to do something proactive, and she had to do it now. There were two oversized SUVs parked ahead on her right. At the last second, she dove between them. Gathering herself into a crouch, she positioned herself for a shot. It wasn't going to be easy. She couldn't risk hurting an innocent person. She had to be absolutely certain that the owner of those footsteps intended to do her harm. The footsteps stopped. She strained to hear her stalker's movements over the thudding of her heart and the hum of traffic from the nearby road, but it was as if the predatory darkness was swallowing sound as well as light. Was he moving slowly and silently around the SUVs to come up behind her? She flattened herself against one of the vehicles so that she could look in both directions. Her muscles were bunched with tension, but her mind was focused and clear. When a sudden bleat of raw terror shattered the silence, she jumped, nearly dropping her gun. What was that? Had another shopper come upon the man and been menaced with a weapon? Both hands gripping the pistol, her finger poised over the trigger, Rory peered around the front end of the SUVs and found herself face-to-face with the marshal. Beyond him, she saw her stalker racing away as if he'd just seen a ghost.

Chapter 11

“How did you know?” Rory asked as she drove home. The fear-spiked adrenalin was subsiding, leaving her relieved but rattled.

“I'm not exactly sure,” he replied from the passenger seat. “There I was, back home mindin' my own business, when I just felt it in my bones, if you'll excuse the expression, that you were in danger. I tried to ignore it, knowin' how much you hate bein' rescued and all, but in the end I decided I'd rather put up with your hot temper than blame myself for not takin' appropriate action.”

“Thank you,” she said, eyes straight ahead on the road. If he was going to gloat, she didn't want to see it. Although she could have defended herself, having the marshal there had made short work of it and probably spared her any number of abrasions and contusions, not to mention the possible discharge of her Walther PPK and subsequent police involvment. From the corner of her eye she could tell Zeke was frowning at her.

“Now I'm not complainin', mind you,” he said, “but what happened to that woman who's always gripin' about how she doesn't need my assistance?”

A smile tugged at Rory's mouth. What
had
happened to that woman? “Maybe she doesn't feel the need to prove herself anymore,” she murmured, coming to that surprising conclusion herself as she said it.

“I see. Sounds to me like she's done some maturin' of late.”

“Watch it, cowboy,” she said, “before you talk yourself right out of her unusually good graces.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said with a sharp salute. “This is one federal marshal who knows when to zip his lip.”

She suppressed a sigh. If only.

“Any idea who that guy was or what he was after?” Zeke asked.

“I'm pretty sure he was following me from the time I left BB, though I thought I'd lost him in traffic. It's got to be related to the case. Either the sabotage or the murder, or both.”

“Odds are he was followin' you from the time you left the house. You didn't happen to get a look at the car's license plate, did you?”

“No, he made sure there were always other cars between us.” It occurred to her that they might still glean something useful from the incident. “Any chance you could describe the guy well enough for me to sketch him?” she asked. At least then she would know for sure if it was the same man she'd seen inside the mall.

Zeke shook his head. “It was too dark and he was wearin' one of those ski-mask things.”

“So much for silver linings.”

“You're one hard woman to please. I'd say walkin' away from an attacker without a scratch ought to be enough of a silver linin' for anyone.”

“I meant with regard to our investigations,” she said. “What did you do to scare the guy off like that?” she asked to change the subject.

“I popped up in front of him. Didn't even have to draw my gun. As you may have noticed, I seem to have that effect on people. Good thin' I don't take it personally or I might have developed a serious complex by now.”

An image flashed through Rory's mind of the marshal lying on a psychiatrist's couch. “I just hope he doesn't feel the need to confide in anyone about the experience,” she said, battling a sudden case of the giggles.

“I don't think we have anythin' to worry about. If he's a hired gun, he won't breathe a word about his little adventure or he can kiss his career good-bye.”

“And if he's not?”

“Without other witnesses, he'd still be a laughinstock.”

Rory supposed that was true. Besides, she already had enough on her plate without cramming in any extra what-ifs. There was the dual investigation, her parents' move and her brand-new relationship with Aaron. Since he was the most pleasant topic at hand, she focused her mind on him.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Zeke said when they were nearly home. His voice jarred Rory out of her reverie. She'd actually forgotten the marshal was still beside her in the passenger seat. No way was she going to tell him the truth. Not for a penny, not even for a cool million. Well, maybe for a million.

“I was thinking about Thanksgiving,” she said, grabbing at the first idea that didn't involve Aaron. “It'll be the last one before my parents sell the house.” Talking about it brought on a wave of melancholy.

“Based on the faraway expression you had, I was hopin' for somethin' a mite more interestin' .”

“Marshal,” she said, “didn't anyone ever tell you to be careful what you wish for?”

***

“James is in the clear,” Rory said, setting the phone back in its base. She refilled her coffee mug, hoping the additional caffeine would clear the cobwebs from her head. She'd had trouble falling asleep, and when she finally did, she dreamed of faceless men hunting for her. It didn't take a doctorate to figure out that her subconscious was trying to deal with her experience at the mall.

“Was that Maxwell?” Zeke asked. He was at the table, practicing to raise a mug to his mouth without spilling its contents or smashing it into his imaginary teeth. Rory didn't see the need for him to master that particular skill, since he could always decline the offer of a beverage, but the marshal liked to challenge himself.

“Yup, Artie Maxwell makes it unanimous,” she said, leaning back against the counter. “All three of James's friends, plus the manager of the ski resort, are willing to testify that he was out in Colorado the night Matthew was killed.”

Zeke made the mistake of trying to speak with the cup too close to his mouth and wound up spilling the water in it all over himself. His body wavered, looking like a warped image in a funhouse mirror, but he managed to restore himself in a few seconds.

“Aren't you glad I told you not to practice with hot coffee?” Rory asked, trying not to laugh. They actually didn't know what effect hot liquid would have if it spilled on him, but she'd pointed out that it might do more damage than tepid water.

The marshal set the cup down hard on the table. “Why in thunderation am I botherin' with this nonsense? Nobody's ever goin' to hold a knife to my throat and demand that I drink somethin',” he said, as if he'd come to that profound conclusion on his own. When he saw the smile hitching at Rory's mouth, he added gruffly, “Shouldn't you be gettin' dressed? Or are you plannin' to interview Lacey in your nightgown and robe?”

James had piqued their curiosity when he'd mentioned Matthew's high school crush on Lacey. According to Gil's info sheets, the twenty-seven-year-old woman lived in an expensive townhome in Huntington. Her parents had offered to buy her a house after she graduated from Yale with a double major in communications and philosophy but no discernible employment skills. Lacey had opted for a townhome where she wouldn't have to deal with outside maintenance. She was, if nothing else, a clever girl. But then, Yale wasn't known for admitting fools. When other corporations failed to scoop her up, Harper Farms hired her part-time as its public-relations administrator. Rory found it interesting that Gil and Ellen had never seen the need for such a position during all the years of growing their business into the lucrative enterprise it had become. Silver spoons were mighty handy utensils.

When Rory had called Lacey to set up an appointment, they'd settled on a Tuesday, one of her days off, at ten in the morning. Zeke had campaigned to accompany Rory as her partner, instead of going as the invisible fly on the wall. She had no idea why he was so adamant about it this particular time, but since he was generally willing to stay behind the scenes, she decided to grant his request. She should have known what was going on when he showed up that morning wearing chinos with a pale-blue V-necked sweater, his hair stylishly layered and his moustache trimmed into submission. “I copied a page out of one of your magazines,” he said when he saw the quizzical look on her face. “How'd I do?”

Rory was momentarily at a loss for words. He cleaned up really well. Not only did he seem as three-dimensional as any man alive, he was also a lot better looking than most of them. And thanks to his modern grooming, he finally appeared to be in his late thirties, which Rory had had trouble accepting when he was scruffy. “Fine,” she said, “but most people wear coats when it's this cold out.”

“So,” he shrugged, “folks will think I'm hot-blooded like the men on those romantic book covers.”

“When did you start reading romances?”

“I've seen them in the grocery stores and other places we've been. Do you intend to spend the mornin' interviewin' me or are we goin' to do some real investigatin'?”

Rory suspected there was more to it, and as soon as Lacey Harper opened the door, she had her answer. In person Lacey was even more dazzling than she looked in the portrait hanging in her father's office. The marshal must have Googled her and been smitten by her image. Apparently not even death could keep a man from lusting after a beautiful woman. And Lacey played her looks to the hilt. No comfy sweats on her day off. She was clad in skin-tight jeans, knee-high boots with stiletto heels and a pink semi-sheer blouse and camisole. Her hair and makeup were perfect, down to the last detail. She smiled pleasantly at Rory but turned it up to a high beam for Zeke.

“Please come in,” she purred, stepping aside.

The marshal seemed so transfixed by Lacey that Rory worried he might walk right through
her
in his eagerness to get inside. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief once they'd negotiated the doorway without disaster. They followed Lacey into a great room that included a French country kitchen and a den that had been decorated with as much attention to detail as Lacey herself. To Rory the decor reeked of pink. There were soft pinks, hot pinks and every shade of pink in between. She glanced at Zeke to assess his reaction, but he didn't seem to have noticed the ambiance. Great; he was going to be completely useless.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Lacey inquired after she'd taken Rory's coat and deposited it on a pink-and-white-striped chair. If she was wondering why the marshal had no coat, she didn't mention it. “Coffee, tea . . . ,” her voice trailed off. Either she'd run out of options or couldn't remember them all. She appeared to be almost as distracted by the marshal as he was by her. Boy was she in for a surprise if she was angling for a date. Rory had to suppress a giggle at the thought. But if Zeke could mesmerize Miss Harper, having him there might be an asset after all.

Lacey told them to make themselves comfortable. Rory chose the mate to the striped chair that held her coat. The marshal sat at one end of the couch, lowering himself gingerly so he didn't miscalculate and wind up inside the couch instead of on it. Judging by Lacey's expression, she didn't notice that he was moving in slow motion. Aside from a leather ottoman the size of a small coffee table, Lacey was obliged to sit on the couch as well. Not that she appeared to mind. “Okay,” she said, looking at Zeke. “I'm at your disposal.” Lacey was apparently not a big fan of subtlety, at least when it came to men.

Rory rummaged in her handbag to retrieve her pad and pen. “How would you describe your relationship with Matthew Dmitriev?” she asked, addressing the back of Lacey's head.

Lacey dragged her eyes away from Zeke to look in her direction. “We grew up together, so I suppose you could call us friends.”

“You considered yourself his friend?” Rory rephrased her statement.

Lacey shrugged. “I guess.”

“You're not sure?”

“No, I mean yes, I thought of him as a friend. I just don't know how he thought of me.”

“He never told you?”

“Not really.”

“Your brother seems to think Matthew had a serious crush on you in high school. Weren't you aware of that?”

“Why look at you, Ms. McCain,” she said, her smile tighter, barely a smile at all, “trying to trip me up.”

Rory produced her own phony smile in response. “An investigator has to sort through discrepancies to get at the truth.”

“Let me give you a hand with that,” she said oozing condescension. “Of course I was aware of Matthew's feelings for me back in high school.
Everyone
was. It was actually quite embarrassing. But that's ancient history. For all of our grown-up airs, we were just kids. If Matthew still carried the proverbial torch for me, it wasn't shining brightly enough for me to see it.”

“So he never asked you out in the years since high school?”

“I think he understood there was no point.”

“He wasn't your type?” Zeke interjected, just when Rory had begun to wonder if the blonde bombshell had also rendered him mute.

Lacey turned back to him. “Did you ever meet Matthew?” she asked.

“Can't say that I did.”

“He could have been the poster child for nerds. Now, Zeke, do I look like someone who would find that appealing?” She reached out to touch his arm as if for emphasis. Rory held her breath. But the marshal pulled his arm away in time, using his fingers to rake back his hair.

“No, ma'am. You surely do not,” he said with an appreciative laugh.

That was close, way too close. Rory would have liked to give him a good smack to jolt him back to reality. Of course that was out of the question on several levels, so she directed her attention back to Lacey. “You don't seem at all shocked by your
friend's
death,” she said, to get things back on track.

Lacey swiveled around to her again. “Actually I was at first. I mean who would even care enough to bother killing the guy?” She sounded positively incredulous.

Rory was taken aback by the comment, not only because of its cruelty but also because she suspected it was the most genuine feeling she'd heard Lacey express. Or had she said it precisely because she knew it would ring true and sound like a perfect defense? Rory decided to go with the latter. Miss Harper might just be the sharpest knife in the family drawer, in which case anything she said ought to be taken with a shaker full of salt. “Please don't take offense at my next question,” Rory went on, “I have to ask it of everyone. Where were you the night Matthew was killed?”