With Deadly Intent (16 page)

“I was thinking of sweet talking Calder into letting Oren stay at the house.”

Her lips tightened. “With sensitive evidence on his case in the basement? No chance,
Dad.”

Simon stood up. “I could do it.”

She swung to face him. “You have a job and responsibilities of your own.”

He met her level gaze. “Let me worry about that.”

B.J. beamed at both of them. “Now that that's settled, let's get on to more important
matters. Did Tom mention the name of the person who bought Elise's car?”

Amy shook her head and sank onto a chair. “I doubt he even asked. If it threatens to
shake his case against Oren, he's not interested. You should've heard him howl when I
told him about Elise's jewelry.” She grimaced. “But, he is going to contact the pawn
shops.”

“Hm-m-m.” B.J. punched a pillow into place and raised the head of his bed. “If the guy's
a pro, he'll fence the stuff and it will never be found.” He turned toward Amy. “Would
you contact the Department of Motor Vehicles about the car?”

She nodded. “Did you get a chance to go over the material from Oren's van?”

“Yep. Nothing worth pursuing.”

Simon rested one hip on the edge of the bed. “How about me going to see Dr. Tambor
again?”

B.J.'s gaze swung from Simon to Amy. “Tom show any interest when you told him about
Tambor and Elise?”

Her lips tightened. “None. The jerk figures we're digging up dirt to muddy his case.”

“Then go to it, Simon. Just be sure you get the interview on tape. Looks as if it'll be
up to you and Amy to do the leg work if we're going to clear Oren.”

Amy tucked her purse under her arm and got up to leave. “Well, Dad, since you're set on
going home, I think I'll head for the island this afternoon. There's lots to be done and
the animals need to be fed.”

“Amy, you can't,” Simon said.

He flushed when she turned and stared at him. “Why not?”

“Your place is so isolated. It's not safe for you to be out there all by yourself.” He
shifted his feet. “Can't you wait until B.J. and I go?”

She lifted her chin. “As I told you earlier, I don't need a keeper.”

“Now, now, kitten,” B.J. said. “Simon has a point.”

She eyed him sternly. “I'm going. End of discussion.”

She stomped out of the room. Men. They thought you couldn't survive without them.
Dangerous or not, it'd take a tidal wave to keep her off that island now.

From the hospital, she drove downtown and asked one of the officers in the traffic
division to run a make on Elise's license plates.

After a long wait, he returned. “Owner's name is Roger Norman. No traffic or criminal
offenses on our books.”

He scowled. “And no record of a Washington State driver's license.”

The piece of paper he handed her listed Roger Norman's post office box and social
security number. She thanked him and asked to use a phone book. When she didn't find the
man listed, she turned to the City Directory. He wasn't there either. She filed the
information in her purse. Roger Norman would have to wait. A fall scale search would
take time and she didn't have any to spare right now. She phoned her father and passed
on the few bits of information she'd learned.

“Things are beginning to move,” B.J. said. “Simon just called. Dr. Tambor's agreed to see
him. They're going to meet in the doctor's office at eleven on Sunday morning.”

Her stomach went suddenly hollow. “Sunday morning! Has Simon gone nuts? The place will be
deserted.” She pressed her hand against the widening void in her midriff. “Dammit, Dad,
the man could be a killer.”

“My words exactly. Simon claims he'll take a friend along.” B.J began a long list of
precautions for her to follow when she got to Lomitas.

“Yes. Yes, Dad, I'll remember.” She hung up and tried to dismiss Simon from her mind.
Nevertheless, as she traveled to her apartment, pictures of a guilt-crazed man attacking
Simon filled her mind. Blast it, Simon had no business making her worry. She had enough
troubles without him adding more.

She caught the three o'clock ferry from Anacortes. As soon as they were under way, she
left the car and climbed to the upper deck. She bought a sandwich and settled herself at
a window seat.

The sky had cleared, but a cold wind scuffed the green quartz sea into white-tipped
waves. With only an occasional shudder, the ferry threaded its way through Thatcher Pass
where breakers bunched and rolled. Swells built and struck Blakely Island's steep, rocky
sides, exploding in salt white plumes that soared forty feet, drenching a fringe of
evergreens. Off to the northeast, the day beacon on Lawson rock blinked a warning.

She finished her sandwich and sat back to observe the other passengers. A man and his
young son occupied the booth across from her. The man had taken off his shoes, pillowed
his head on his packsack and closed his eyes. The little boy smiled to himself, slipped
his feet into his father's shoes and clumped up and down the aisle.

As she watched, her mind returned to the plaster footprints in her father's basement. An
idea popped into her mind and a tingling sensation went through her. It would have been
so simple—so devilishly simple such a thing hadn't even occurred to her.

With an effort, she reined in her soaring spirits. She'd have to enlist Oren's help, make
more casts, and do some complex calculations. But maybe, if she could prove this one
point, it'd be the breakthrough they needed.

When she disembarked at Faircliff, she stopped to buy groceries and a copy of
Global
News
. She told herself she only wanted to read the article Simon had written
about her father. Way down deep she admitted to a more selfish reason. What had he said
about her? Did he think her chosen profession diminished her femininity? The errant
thought surprised her. In all her years of training, she'd never considered such a
possibility—nor had she really cared. She squared her shoulders. That kind of thinking
had better stop right here and now. She put the station wagon in gear and started for
home.

Along Westridge Avenue, whorls of mist coiled in lochs and estuaries and long, murky
strands interlaced the thoroughfare like a massive web. When she passed by, the skeins
trembled as if a giant spider lay waiting in the gloom.

She made a left hand turn and slowed as she passed her father's house. He had been gone
only a day and already the old place looked deserted and forlorn.

With a heavy sigh, she parked in her own driveway, got out of the car, and set her
groceries inside the screened back porch. “Cleo,” she called, and expected to see the
small, black cocker come leaping out of the underbrush with her ears flopping and her
tongue lolling.

She walked around to the front veranda, and whistled. No answering sound except the roar
of the surf. A faint uneasiness gathered at the back of her mind. Cleo seldom ventured
far on her forays. Stopping to whistle and call every few steps, she circled the
mist-smudged cottage.

Shadows deepened at the edge of the woods. “Cleo,” she called again and heard a creaking
sound. She turned, saw something dark swaying in the wind, and the hair rose on the back
of her neck. Slowly, fearing what she might see, she moved forward.

“Cleo.” Her voice broke. From a thin wire twisted around a maple tree limb, the dog's
body swung lazily in me evening breeze. “Bastard,” she shouted. “You dirty rotten
bastard!”

She rushed to the house for the wire cutters and lowered the cold, stiff body to the
ground. “Cleo, Cleo,” she moaned and stroked the little dog's head.
I'll get him. If
it's the last thing I ever do, I'll get him
.

Her fingers touched a scrap of paper tucked under the leather collar. She unfolded it,
peered at the printed scrawl and her chest squeezed tight.

You're next, Amy.

Amy wrapped Cleo in a rug and buried her on the slope below the cottage. By the time
she'd finished, night had fallen. A thick gray mist shrouded the trees and muffled all
sounds except the fog horn off Shag Reef.

She trudged into the dark, cold house. In a numbed daze, she turned on all the lights,
locked the doors, and checked the windows. Then she huddled in a chair.

I should call and tell Dad
. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She
couldn't. He'd insist on her returning to Seattle. If she phoned Helen she'd be there
within minutes, but she and Oren had enough burdens to bear.

Simon? She hugged her chest tighter and rocked back and forth.
He'll tell me I should
have had better sense than to come here by myself
.

She pushed herself out of the chair and turned on the furnace. Maybe she shouldn't have
been so stubborn, but she was here and she'd handle it. One thing for sure, the note and
how Cleo had died would have to be kept secret. If anyone found out her life had been
threatened, she wouldn't be free to do what she must do.

She made tea and forced herself to drink some of the hot brew. A weapon, she thought
suddenly. Her cup clattered against the saucer. She must have some means of protection.
Several years ago, at her father's insistence, she'd learned to use a pistol. After
completing her training, she'd put the holster and .38 in her father's closet and hadn't
thought about it again. She picked up the poker and went upstairs.

After a quick shower, she put on pajamas, got under the covers and rolled up—knees to
chest—in the middle of the double bed. Despite her bravado she felt the dwelling's
emptiness and at the base of her consciousness lay an unnerving awareness of the
distance between her cottage and the nearest neighbor. Every creak and pop of me house's
old timbers caused her heart to leap and set her pulse racing.

She pulled the blankets over her ears. The person who'd killed Cleo had left the note to
warn her off. He probably wouldn't actually do anything—unless he discovered she
intended to finish her father's work.

A sudden chill shook her and in the midst of it she recalled how Simon's body had
surrounded her with warmth two nights ago. Sweet, gentle, Simon. For an instant the
gnawing ache inside her swept aside all else. Careful, her more sensible self cautioned,
he could hurt you much worse than Mitch did. She pummeled her pillow, settled her head
on it and did deep breathing exercises in an attempt to relax her muscles.

A soft tapping at the window brought her upright. She sat stiff and alert, clutching the
comforter to her as if it were a body shield. When she thought her nerves would surely
snap, a gravely mee-o-o-w sounded and she sagged with relief.

She turned on the lamp, jumped out of bed, opened the window and took Marcus in her arms.
She hugged him to her and buried her face in his fur.

“She's gone, Marcus. Our Cleo is gone.” Her tears overflowed and Marcus bumped his head
against her cheek as if he understood.

Sunday, October 30

Next morning, she automatically reached for her glasses on the night stand. After groping
around for several minutes, she remembered she'd lost them in White Bird. She muttered
an oath. Contacts might be more flattering but they didn't mix well with blowing sand.
Venturing out of her warm bed into the early morning chill, she located another pair of
dark-rimmed glasses and went into the bathroom to wash her face.

The phone rang as she was combing her hair. She answered and found her father on the
line.

“Just thought I'd give you a jingle,” B.J. said, his tone carefully casual. “How're you
doing?”

She cleared her throat and hoped her voice wouldn't shake. “Cleo got hold of some
poisoned food. She ... she's dead.”

“Dead! Good God ... What's the matter with that vet? Why didn't he ... You did take her
to the vet, didn't you?”

Her mouth went dry. Lies. They always got her into hot water. “She'd been dead for quite
awhile when I found her.”

“How long, Amy?”

Damn, she should've known he'd try to pin her down. “Come on, Dad. You know rigor mortis
varies depending upon conditions.”

“I don't like it, Amy. Awful fishy her getting poisoned just after the hit and run. You'd
better do an autopsy. Or have the vet do it. Her liver, kidneys, and stomach contents
should be analyzed.”

Amy searched her mind for a believable excuse, found none and decided to be halfway
honest. “Dad, she's already buried. Let her rest in peace.”

“That's sloppy investigating.”

“Maybe, but she's my dog and that's what I want to do.”

“Well, you be damned careful. Hear?”

She promised, bid him goodbye, and hoped he'd given Simon the same precautions. Tension
gathered at the back of her neck. Simon may have said he'd have a friend accompany him
to his interview with Dr. Tambor, but knowing his go-it-alone attitude, she doubted his
word.

She dressed and went down to the kitchen. Keeping her eyes averted from Cleo's dish, she
made coffee. While waiting for it to perk, she stood at the counter and read Simon's
article.

Even if Dr. B.J. Prescott hadn't been her father, she wouldn't have been able to lay the
magazine down. Simon grabbed her interest in the first sentence and never let it lag for
a second. The man was good, damned good. Anyone who could turn out such a superb story
in a few hours had to be a top-notch writer.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped it as she scanned the article again. Simon
had talent, no doubt of that. If he put his mind to it, his name could be up there with
the rest of the literary giants.

After breakfast, she set a tote bag on the counter. Inside, she stuffed the packaged and
labeled evidence she'd gathered the night before: Cleo's collar, the threatening note,
and the wire she'd cut from around me spaniel's neck. Her preparations completed, she
left the cottage and started up the hill to use her father's lab.