With Deadly Intent (20 page)

She sank onto the couch and waited for her pulse to return to normal. As she huddled
among the cushions, her thoughts battered her brain. He wanted her, but it meant
nothing. Men found it easy to desire a woman—any woman. Love and affection they gave
much more selectively.

She hugged a pillow to her. In White Bird, he'd made it clear he was unavailable. She
buried her face in the pillow's velveteen softness.
I don't need him. I don't need
him or any other man.
A sick feeling settled in her stomach. Perhaps, his rebuff
in White Bird was the real reason for the attraction she felt. Did she, for some
psychological reason, program herself for rejection? She made a face—considering the
outcome of her marriage, it would certainly seem so.

She heard Simon's chair scrape, then his footsteps as he went to the kitchen. Glass
clinked against glass. Water gushed from a faucet. Footsteps returned to the alcove. His
chair creaked as he sat down.

A long silence, then he got up again and came into the living room. He shoved his hands
deep in his pant's pockets and regarded her from beneath drawn brows. “We're friends.
Right? And ... and friends should be straight with each other. Shouldn't they?”

She felt a tightness in her chest and realized she'd been holding her breath. She found
her voice and spoke with careful phrasing. “It makes for less problems.”

He sprawled on the opposite end of the couch and an uneasy silence fell between them.
Finally, he exhaled and rubbed the palms of his hands on his pant legs. “I haven't been
able to forget that night we were together in White Bird. I've tried"—he ran his fingers
through his hair—"but when I'm near you, your smile, the fragrance of your hair, the way
you move gets to me.”

The sound of her pulse roared in her ears. She peered at him. “Gets to you?”

He frowned. “I haven't been with a woman in a helluva long time. Okay? And ... and you
turn me on.” He lifted his chin as if challenging her to debate the point.

Her thoughts skittered wildly. Was it better to be desired because of her body than not
to be wanted at all? She wrapped her arms around herself.
He could make me feel alive
again.

She stretched her lips into the semblance of a smile. “Why shouldn't you get turned on?
You're a normal, healthy male.” Her nails dug into her flesh—and she was a normal,
healthy female. She straightened her shoulders and folded her hands loosely in her lap.
“That monument you've erected to Julie won't crumble if you react to another woman.”

His features turned wooden. “Who says I've built a monument?”

She rose to her knees on the couch cushion and gave him a long level look. “I do. You've
made her into a saint. No live woman could possibly compete.” Their gaze locked in an
angry stare.

He sprang to his feet. “That's crap. Pure crap.” Holding himself ramrod stiff, he got his
notebook from the alcove and stalked up the stairs.

Tuesday, November 1

She caught the early morning ferry to Anacortes. In addition to her father's phone, she'd
brought along the gray fibers found in Oren and Elise's apartment. If she could complete
the errand for her father quickly, she hoped to go on into Seattle.

At Cellular One, Inc., the clerk said the phone looked as if someone had smacked it with
a hammer. He gave her a transportable unit in its place. Her initial goal accomplished,
she drove to Seattle and took the elevator to the Crime Lab.

She was hanging up her coat when Gail came in. After they'd exchanged greetings, she
asked Gail if she'd completed the laser analysis on the paint flakes found on B.J.'s
clothing.

Gail flopped into a chair. “Did it first thing this morning. The vehicle's had three
paint jobs.” She bent down a slim finger tipped with pink-pearl nail polish as she
ticked them off. “First navy, then cherry red, and finally metallic blue. I'll run them
through the National Automotive Paint File soon as I get a chance.”

“Nice going, Gail.” Amy jotted the information in her notebook. “If we're lucky, that'll
give us the year and make.” She flung her friend a pleading look. “We need a break right
now so speed it up if you can. Heard anything about the autopsy on Dr. Tambor?”

Gail jerked upright. “I read there might be a link between him and Oren's fiancee. Do you
think he tried to run your father down?”

Amy shrugged. “At this point, nothing would surprise me. What about the autopsy?”

“Haven't heard a whisper.”

Amy frowned. The paper trail usually kept them fairly well informed. “The M.E.'s office
must be hand carrying their reports. I wonder what they're trying to keep under wraps?”

“I'll give you a jingle if I find out.” Gail got up and started for the door. “You going
to be in the area at lunch time?”

“Depends on how long it takes to go over the physical evidence I brought in.”

In the lab, she mounted gray fibers found at Elise and Oren's apartment and slid them
under the polarizing microscope's objective. Hm-m-m, surface scales—that eliminated
wool. Long smooth sides on the filament suggested a synthetic. The infrared spectrometer
verified her hunch.

She had just finished writing down her conclusions when the director came up to her. “I
hear you're doing a bit of moonlighting for your father.”

“Only until Oren's case is cleared up.” She picked up her notes. “I brought in some
modacrylic polymer fibers. They're straight, a lustrous gray in color, and somewhat
thicker in diameter than Orion rug fiber. Got any ideas what they might have come from?”

He shook his head. “They're using synthetics for everything these days.” He patted her
shoulder. “Good luck, and tell your father I wish him well.”

Gail came over and leaned on the counter. “How about a wig or hair piece?”

Amy clapped her on the back. “You're a genius.”

“But of course.” Gail grinned and tossed her head. “Need anything else?”

Amy shook her head. “Not right now. After I talk to the detective in charge of the Tambor
case, I'm going to run by the apartment then dash back to the island. I hate that
evening traffic.”

Gail studied her with a concerned expression. “Try to get some rest, Amy. Remember,
you're on vacation.”

Amy twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “I'd almost forgotten.” She picked up the
receiver and dialed a friend in the police department. He gave her a number. She called
and reached Detective Lieutenant Joseph Salgado. She identified herself and asked what
she wanted to know.

“Can't tell you much, Dr. Prescott. They've put a tight lid on this one. And speaking of
lids, who the hell does that sheriff on Lomitas Island think he is? A guy has to pull
information out of him a strand at a time.”

She spent the next ten minutes answering his questions. When he'd learned all she knew,
he said, “Thanks, you've saved me a lot of foot work.” He tapped his pencil on the desk.
“I have only one good lead. On Friday, the doctor withdrew ten thousand dollars from his
bank account.” He made a sound deep in his throat. “Some messy can of worms, eh?”

“Cash or check?”

“Hundred dollar bills.”

“His wife know anything about it?”

“Nope. Didn't have an inkling.”

“Any trace of the money?”

“Negative.”

“Did it look as if he planned on leaving town?”

“No bus, airline, or boat reservations, but there are other ways out of this burg.”

“Perhaps the elevator shaft seemed easiest.” When the lieutenant made no reply, she went
on. “Do you know the time of death?”

“Late Saturday night or early Sunday morning.”

“Anything more you can tell me?”

“I've already said more than I should have.” His pencil began to tap again. “Keep me
posted, doc. I don't like surprises.”

On her way to pick up some extra clothes at her apartment, she pondered the bits of
information she'd accumulated. An illicit affair, a gray wig, and ten thousand
dollars—she could easily fit them into a scenario involving Elise's murder.

Whoa girl, enough of that kind of nonsense.
At the beginning of her training,
she'd often made assumptions on insufficient evidence. She tried not to fall into that
trap anymore.

When she arrived at her apartment, she fit her key into the lock. At her touch, the door
swung inward and a putrid odor assaulted her nostrils.

Death.
The familiar smell jammed her heart against her ribs. “Oh ... God.” Not
here. Not here too.

She forced herself to assume the observer mode she'd learned when she'd assisted with
autopsies. From this above-the-scene position, she could see, hear, observe, and catalog
without the odors affecting her as much.

But, despite her dogged professional approach, a chill climbed her spine. The building
hadn't had many burglaries. Few of the tenants had possessions worth ripping off.

She scanned the kitchen and living room and saw no one. Her muscles clinched tight, she
ventured a few steps farther. A wave of heat hit her in the face. Her gaze swung to the
thermostat. Someone had turned the switch as high as it'd go.

On the floor, a few paces away, her great grandmother's cobalt blue wine carafe lay
shattered into bits. Some of the pieces had been ground into fine glass splinters.

He always destroyed the thing she cherished most. Apprehension rippled along her skin.
How did he know?

She swallowed and the dry clicking noise sounded loud in the hot silence. On tiptoe, she
started down the hall. When she neared her bedroom, she wavered. Cornered burglars
killed.

Crouched in a ready-to-run stance, she listened. No sound. No sound at all.

The door stood ajar. She gave it a hard boot with her foot and flattened herself against
the wall. A foul repulsive stench belched forth nearly tilting her stomach.

Nothing in the room had been disturbed. Perspiration beaded her forehead, her upper lip.
Could he be in the closet? She plucked up her courage and yanked open the door. Empty,
except for her clothes.

The source of the odor must be in the bathroom. Clamping her jaws together to control the
waves of nausea, she headed for the half-open doorway.

The mirror came into view and she gaped at it. In red marking-pen, someone had scrawled
across the glass surface.
SNOOPERS GET DEAD. VERY VERY DEAD.
Below he listed
their first names: hers, her father's, and Simon's—each one with a slash mark through
it. She quivered. She'd nearly lost her father. Would Simon be next?

She moved closer and her scalp prickled. The same writing. The smeary letters slanted
erratically right and left as they had in the note she'd found under Cleo's collar.

On her left, a yellow flowered shower curtain screened the tub from view. The body must
be there. She braced herself and jerked open the curtain.

In the partially-filled tub floated three, very dead, hideously swollen rats.

She gagged, bent over the toilet, and lost her breakfast.

Grabbing a towel from the rack, she staggered out of the apartment. The police had to be
told. To protect the crime scene, she made her way to the public telephone on the first
floor and phoned Lt. Salgado.

“You'd better bring a photographer,” she said, after she'd explained her reason for
calling. “You'll need pictures of the message he left.”

“I know that. Believe it or not, the police department does manage to function without
supervision from the lab.”

“Oh ... sorry. I didn't mean to imply—”

“Forget it. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

When he arrived, she noticed Lt. Salgado's appearance didn't match his tough, hard-edged
voice. He was tall, stoop shouldered, and had thinning black hair. Pendulous bags under
his eyes spoke of sleep loss and chronic overwork. Earlier in his life, someone's fist
had redesigned his nose. It now meandered over his lined face.

He questioned her in the hall while his men dusted the apartment for fingerprints and
snapped pictures. This time circumstances compelled her to reveal the true facts of how
Cleo had died and about the threatening note left with the body.

After the technicians had finished and the dead rats were carted off to the lab, Salgado
motioned her into the bathroom. “We're dealing with a sick person here,” he said. “One
that knows you, your father, and Kittredge.”

She stared at the ominous message. “How do you figure that?”

“In each message he's left you, he's used only first names.”

“But I've never met Dr. Tambor. Neither has my father.”

He narrowed his eyes and his features took on a sly, secretive appearance. “I was
thinking of your cousin.”

“No, no.” She shrank against the wall. “No, not Oren. We're friends. True friends. Have
been since childhood.” Her voice gathered strength. “He couldn't have strangled Cleo and
he wouldn't have done a thing like this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That's an emotional opinion, Dr. Prescott, not a scientific one.”

She wrapped her arms across her chest and clutched her elbows as if she were freezing.
He's found new evidence. Something that links Oren to more than just Elise's
death.

His gaze probed hers. “A person in your profession should know people are seldom what
they seem to be.”

After he left, her stomach continued to churn, triggering jets of fiery acid. Oren
wouldn't do anything that'd hurt her, or her father. He ... he just couldn't have.

She rushed down to ask the apartment manager to have a new lock put in, then she hurried
back upstairs.
Keep busy, don't think.
When the shock wore off, she'd be able to
sort things out in a more rational manner. She telephoned the island and arranged for
installation of dead bolts on the cottage doors.