The Damsel in This Dress (14 page)

“I understand you found the body, Ms. . . .”

“Tate. Simone Tate.”

“Ms. Tate,” he repeated. Simone Tate had that hard, fit, competitive look about her that he had occasionally found interesting. She was more than attractive, had sharp brown eyes, and an air of unmistakable confidence that said she usually got what she went after. As he took his note pad from his jacket pocket, she blatantly checked him out, lifted her chin and shifted her weight from her right leg to her left, tilting her slim hips a bit.

“What do you do, Ms. Tate?”

“Real estate. Condos, preconstructs, properties, houses.” She grinned. Nice smile. Strong teeth. “I bet I have just the thing for you and your family. A little three-bedroom in the U-district.”

“I’m not married, ma’am, and I live in an apartment.”

Her eyes glistened. “Well then, Detective, perhaps you’re looking for a new place to hang your hat?”

He scribbled into his note pad. “Not just at the moment, Ms. Tate.”

She was trolling, and he would be crazy not to take the bait. She was good-looking, built, smart, and it was beyond obvious that she was interested. He must be nuts to reject her offer out of hand, he told himself. There had been a time, not too long ago . . .

But something had happened over the last couple of days that had dramatically altered his taste in women. He knew what that something was, or rather who, but he didn’t want Betsy’s lush image in his brain while he was trying to do his job.

“Tell me what happened this morning, Ms. Tate.” He flipped to a new page in his note pad.

Simone Tate crossed her arms under her nicely shaped breasts and pursed her full lips. “I was taking my morning run through the park before work. It was a few minutes after six.”

“Dark?”

She nodded. “Yes, but the park is well lit, plus I have a can of mace, a flashlight, and a cell phone in my fanny pack.”

Soldier studiously avoided looking at the fanny in question.

“Go on.”

“Not much to tell,” she said with a shrug. “I was heading up this path toward Sixth when I saw the body. Well, the foot. At first I thought it was a bag lady or somebody crashed out like they do, you know?”

“Homeless person.”

“Right. Well, I got closer, and realized what I was seeing, so I called 911.”

“Did you go near the body? Touch it?”

She gave him a look of disgust. “Why would I do that? It seemed pretty clear she was dead.”

Simone Tate was definitely not the nurturing type. Betsy not only would have gone near the body, she would have tried to stop the bleeding with every item of clothing available to her. Of course, she would have contaminated the hell out of the crime scene, but that was beside the point.

“Did you see anybody else? Anybody running away, maybe getting into a car?”

She shook her head. “No. No one.”

He asked her a few more questions, then closed his note pad and smiled. “You’ve been a big help. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

“Anytime at all, Detective.” She slid him a catlike glance. “You have my number?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “I believe I do.”

By the time Soldier returned, it was nearly three o’clock. He came in and headed directly for the bathroom.

Betsy had paced the hotel room the entire time he’d been gone, waiting, wondering. The look on his face when he’d come back had been grim. What did it take to be a cop, to see on a daily basis the worst humanity had to offer?

Perhaps she should have made a break for it while he was gone. She could have gotten a taxi and had it take her all the way to Port Henry no matter how much it cost. At least she’d be home. Home, where she could lock her doors and not come out until all this was over.

Soldier was still in the bathroom when the phone rang.

Sitting on the side of the bed, she quickly picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

A muted laugh, barely audible, emanated through the line.

“Mr. Lemsky? Is that you?”

Breathing. No words. Betsy’s blood turned so cold, she shivered. Her stomach felt hollow. Her fingers went numb and she nearly dropped the phone. She wanted to call out to Soldier, but didn’t want the caller to know how terrified she was. The best defense was a good offense, she’d heard it said.

“Speak up, you coward!” she blurted. “Come on out and fight like a—”

“Did he fuck you last night, Betsy? Did you like it, Betsy? I’ll bet you didn’t. Just laid there like a slug. How very like you.”

The words were electronically altered, but Betsy tried desperately to memorize every intonation she could. “Who is this? What do you want from me?” Her voice was more breath than words as she fought to stay calm.

“I’m somebody who’s going to play you for a while, like you played me. Then,
wham!
Bye-bye, Betsy.”

At the caller’s words, Betsy felt her spine straighten. Her breathing steadied as anger and fear thickened her blood. No anonymous creep was going to threaten her and get away with it.

“Oh, yeah?” she cracked. “Well go for it, you son of a b-bitch! M-Make my day!”

Silence, then a snicker. “Ooh, look who grew a backbone all of a sudden. Too late, Betsy,” the voice jeered.

What could she say next? How could she make the caller betray himself and give her a clue as to his identity? She fought down the panic in her brain and tried to come up with something, but failed. “I’m not going to play your game,” she said quietly. “You don’t scare me. You’re going to get caught, and when you do . . .”

At the other end of the line, the caller began to cackle like a witch. When he spoke again, the words were raspy and threatening, made all the more bizarre for their electronic buzz.
“Ah, ha-ha-ha-ha. Oh, I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!”

The phone line went dead. Silent. No static, no hum, just dead.

Her heart racing, her breathing accelerated into rapid pants. She gulped down a glass of water to soothe her parched throat and lips.

Soldier opened the bathroom door. “I heard the phone. Was it Lem—” Taking in her appearance, he snatched his cell phone from his pocket.

As he punched in the last number, he crouched before her, taking her shaking hand in his.

“He just called. Did you get it?” He spoke into the phone, but his eyes never left hers. “Shit. No, never mind.”

She felt like an idiot. A scared, mindless, brainless idiot. Why hadn’t she kept her senses about her and tried harder to find out who was on the phone? Instead, she had yelled the usual hysterical female stuff in his ear.
Who is this, what do you want with me?
Oh, sure. Like a stalker murderer was going to tell her.

Soldier sat next to her on the bed. “We didn’t get the trace, but we can check the phone records. It’s slower, but at least we’ll come up with a number and a location.” He paused, giving her time to calm down a bit. Then, “Tell me exactly what he said.”

She shook her head.

“Pretty bad?”

She nodded.

Did he fuck you last night, Betsy? Did you like it, Betsy? I’ll bet you didn’t. Just laid there like a slug. How very like you.

She remained silent while Soldier sat there, obviously trying to figure out how to coax her into revealing the caller’s remarks. But it was too embarrassing. How could she possibly repeat those words to Soldier, the man who had rejected her last night?

Betsy felt his warm knuckles under her chin, nudging her face toward his. He smiled reassuringly at her.

“Take it slow,” he said softly. “Close your eyes. Forget I’m here. Just say the words and trust me. They were only words. They can’t hurt you. I’m going to get this guy, honey. Help me get this guy.”

She nodded, lowered her head and closed her eyes. When the words came, so did the humiliation.

S
oldier stood motionless as he watched Betsy turn away from him. Padding softly across the carpet, she entered the small bathroom. The slight sound of the door clicking shut behind her stirred to motion the small dog curled up at the foot of the bed.

Repeating what the caller had said had unnerved Betsy, and with good reason. Soldier was more convinced than ever that she knew the stalker, and knew him well. His words had been calculated and cruel. He’d struck at her most vulnerable spot, and the blows had done some damage.

He felt his anger rise not only at what the caller had said, but at the fact Betsy was exposed enough in the first place to let the words affect her.

Self-esteem had never been an issue with him, but it obviously was with Betsy, and somebody knew that big-time.

At the foot of the bed, Piddle stretched his toothpick legs, yawned and blinked his dark marble eyes. He focused on Soldier for a second, then his long lashes swept down and he returned to Slumberland.

Soldier shook his head and nudged the mutt with his fingers. “Hey, sombrero butt, shake a leg.” The dog growled but made no move to shake anything. Blowing out a heavy sigh, Soldier came to a decision.

There was a ferry out of Seattle in two hours. If they hurried, they could make it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair while he concentrated on planning their escape and how he could keep Betsy safe.

Betsy.

God, what that woman did to his insides. If women only knew how they stirred a man, how they made a man get hard just thinking about them. Betsy had no idea how close he’d been to throwing his ethics out the window just for the chance to make love to her last night. It would have been good—hell, it would have been great. It would also have been dead wrong.

He was doing everything he could to concentrate on her predicament, but all he could think about was sleeping with her. She’d gotten to him. With her glowing skin, her plush lips, her intelligence, her sweet-natured innocence, her feistiness, she’d gotten to him like no other woman he’d ever known.

Gotta watch out for dem cute ones, pal.
Lemsky’s words elbowed Soldier’s conscience.
Twenty years, three kids. Life’s good.

Soldier shrugged. Yeah, sure. It had worked for the tough Chicago cop, but it wouldn’t work for him. He was too set in his ways, too independent. Besides, look what had happened to Marc. A beautiful wife, couple of great kids. Alone now, thanks to him.

That alone proved his point, didn’t it? What if he did go ahead and get married someday? And what if he had a couple of great kids? And what if he, like Marc, someday walked into an ambush that took his life? Or what if he wasn’t killed outright, but only disabled? He’d have to be taken care of for the rest of his goddamned life.

It turned his stomach to think of himself helpless as a baby with his family tending him. Of him not being able to work, to provide, to protect. Of not being able to make love to his wife.

Solider shoved the sickening images from his head. No, his original decision had been a good one. He was a loner, and he’d stay that way.

All this maudlin thinking had to stop, he told himself. What he really needed was to get laid. Damn. It’d just been too long since he’d had sex; that was it. A couple of nights of clean-out-the-barrels, head-banging sex, and he’d be just fine.

An image of Simone Tate slipped uninvited into his brain. No. Not Simone Tate, nor any of the Simone Tates out there. Only that little blond bombshell would do, and until that issue was settled, he’d just have to find a way to cope.

Opening his suitcase, he began tossing his stuff inside. He crammed his dirty socks and underwear in a plastic bag, and forced his mind to the case at hand.

Betsy was in big trouble. She’d had a series of hang-up calls over the last couple of months that she’d thought meant nothing. And there had been some rumors at work that didn’t make sense. Maybe they were about her, maybe not. Not being suspicious by nature, she’d ignored them. But the note in her dog’s collar, the break-in of her room, and that last phone call . . .

Nope, this guy was no stranger to Betsy. Somebody she
knew
was stalking her, and last night had committed murder; Soldier would bet his last Historic Americana Series Colorized Washington State quarter on it.

Kristee Spangler’s skull had been crushed. No witnesses, no murder weapon, and a contaminated crime scene. Obviously, the killer was finished with Kristee’s services. Any connection between the two of them had been severed last night at two in the morning.

As he snapped the suitcase closed, it occurred to him that the stalker-turned-killer wasn’t new at this game. If the guy fit the profile, he’d stalked before, but had he murdered?

His instincts popped up with the answer. Yes. The perp had stalked before and had killed before. The Spangler murder was too clean, too neatly planned, and too soon after Kristee had done her job. She could not be tailed or questioned, and the crime scene was a blank. As for Kristee’s past, she had not been staying at the hotel, so they had no room or personal effects to examine.

With no evidence and no leads, all roads pointed to Port Henry. That was where it had started, and that was where it would end.

It was nearing five o’clock when Soldier, Betsy, and Piddle, asleep in his dog carrier, boarded the passengers-only ferry, bound for the upper reaches of the Olympic Peninsula.

Quietly flashing his badge and explaining the situation, Soldier obtained permission to board first. He settled Betsy next to the window in a seat that had a clear view of all the passengers who came through the gates and climbed the stairway to the observation deck.

“When they start boarding the other passengers,” he instructed, “take a long hard look at each person. Let me know if you even vaguely recognize anybody. It doesn’t matter how long ago or how briefly you may have met them. They needn’t look the way you’re used to seeing them, either. Check out the way people walk, the shape of their heads, their hand movements. Those are things that aren’t easily disguised. Even if you only get a sense of familiarity, point them out.”

Betsy’s pretty mouth was set in a determined line. “Okay,” she said. “I know what to do.”

Reaching over, he raised her chin with his forefinger until he could make eye contact. Her green-hazel eyes were huge with anxiety, but she hadn’t complained or argued with him when he told her they were going to have to sneak out of the hotel. She’d simply nodded, packed her things, gathered her dog and settled him in his carrier, then followed him out the door.

She trusted him. Soldier didn’t think Betsy trusted all that easily, so it made him more determined than ever to protect her, to not let her down, to be worthy of that trust.

Looking now into her troubled eyes, he renewed his vow. Betsy would get hurt only over his dead body.

The observation deck was as wide as the ferry itself, its low ceiling only a foot or so above Soldier’s standing height. Even with the aid of fluorescent lamps, the interior seemed dim, thanks to the graphite clouds scudding across the dull surface of the water, thwarting the sun and heralding the approach of another autumn storm.

The entire deck was encased by huge, rain-splattered windows, outside of which hung squawking white gulls, their wings outstretched, greedy eyes searching for a tossed crust of bread or abandoned Frito. The center of the cabin held straight-back benches painted in nautical orange, decorated with the occasional forgotten newspaper, area map, or crumpled paper cup. Built-in tables and seats clung to the inside perimeter, enabling passengers to eat, play cards, chat, or simply sit back and watch as camel-backed islands dense with evergreens floated by.

As people reached the top of the stairs, they dispersed, taking seats, grabbing a cup of coffee from the snack bar, sitting with an open book, or talking on a cell phone. None glanced at Soldier or Betsy, none made any overt actions that would draw attention to them.

“Complete strangers,” Betsy said to Soldier after everyone had boarded.

“That’s okay, actually. Now we can relax.”

“I feel too tense to relax.”

Visions of how he would help Betsy relax if they had the time and space flitted through Soldier’s mind, making him set his teeth against a lustful grin. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Mm, let’s see. I’d like a sixteen ounce, single-shot orange latte. Oh, no, wait, make that a twenty ounce, double-shot raspberry mocha, nonfat. . . . No, make that one percent, no-whip, extra sugar, extra hot, with a single straw. Please.” She smiled up at him as if what she had just said made some kind of sense.

He stared at her.

“I asked you if you wanted coffee,” he groused. “
Coff
. . .
ee
. What you want is . . . ludicrous, is what it is. It’s not even in the same league as coffee. If you wanted all that other crap, why in the hell don’t you just have a candy bar with a cup of coffee on the side?”

“Ha, ha, and ha. What are you going to have?”

He straightened his spine, put his fists on his hips and spread his stance. Tucking in his chin, in his best, deepest John Wayne voice, he said, “Well, pilgrim, I’m havin’ coffee. A cuppa Joe. Coffee, the way a
man
drinks it. Plain. Black. Hot. It’ll put hair on your chest, ma’am.”

“Well, pard, I don’t want hair on my chest. I’m sure you have enough for both of us.”

When Soldier returned with the coffees, he settled across from her, but remained turned in the direction of the doorway. “Here’s your so-called
coffee,
” he said as he handed her the tall paper cup. Moving next to her, he asked, “Are you anxious about going home?”

Instead of answering, Betsy lowered her lashes and took a sip of her drink. The scent of sweet raspberries and chocolate reached his nose and he fought against asking her for a sample.

She ran her fingers through the soft curls that framed her face. With a tired sigh, she let her head fall back against the padded vinyl seat. Somehow, with her head on it, it looked like a plump silk pillow.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Anxious, and apprehensive. I don’t know what will happen once I get there.”

“We’ll catch a murderer, Betsy. That’s what will happen.” He took a swallow of his very hot, very black, very plain coffee.

“Explain something to me,” she said. “I mean, how can you just stop your life and take off for Port Henry like this? Don’t you have a girlfriend or a family or a cat or some plants that need watering?”

He took another swig of coffee. “I live alone in a small apartment in north Seattle. I don’t have a cat. I do have a black thumb, so my plants died a long time ago.” He sent her an intense gaze. “I’m working on the girlfriend part.”

A soft blush tinted Betsy’s cheeks. “So, what do you do for fun?”

Soldier watched as a gull dipped in front of the window, then lifted away again. “You mean besides writing Pulitzer prize–winning quasi-fiction?”

She stiffened, then relaxed a bit and gave him an overly sympathetic smile.

“Oh, that can’t possibly be what you do for fun, you poor dear,” she crooned, feigning compassion. “I mean, your prose is so twisted and tormented, it’s as though you were in terrible pain when you wrote it. Or was it that somebody was holding a gun to your head, forcing you to crank out overwrought, inflated hyperbolic epistles?” Betsy blinked at him with wide, fake innocent eyes.

“Well,” he drawled, “I suppose you’re the expert, having written so many best-sellers yourself.” He arched a brow and took another gulp of coffee.

She glared at him as she nibbled on her straw. “Okay. Tell me, O Wise One, when was the last time you actually heard anybody use the word ‘
empyrean
’ in casual conversation, let alone in a crime drama?”

“Is that what’s bothering you about my books? You don’t like my choice of nouns?”

She shrugged. “Among other things.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, placing his knuckles against his mouth in a theatrical gesture of distress. “I obviously didn’t take your reading level into account. I promise, my next book won’t be any problem for you.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Betsy looked bored, but Soldier wouldn’t give it up.

“All right,” he grumbled. “This ought to work for you.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “See Spot run.”

She clicked her tongue. “Oh, puh-leeze,” she said, and looked away.

He sat up. “See Spot run into the convenience store, grab the cash and shoot the owner. Oh, oh, oh. See Spot run away. See the Detective chase Spot. Run, Detective. Run fast. Run after Spot.”

Betsy rolled her eyes and took a big sip of coffee.

Soldier put his hands on his knees and widened his eyes. “See Sally walking down the street with her groceries. See Spot take Sally hostage. ‘Beat it or I do the bitch!’ growls Spot. The Detective is worried.”