With Deadly Intent (26 page)

At last, he fell into a restful slumber, yet worries continued to flood her mind. The
venom might affect his eyesight, his heart, his lungs. He hated being dependent on
anyone else. Ill health could shatter him, and his dream of being a novelist.

She sighed and rested her head on the bed.

Thursday, November 3

It seemed to her she'd just closed her eyes when someone shook her shoulder roughly. She
straightened and her startled gaze took in the big clock on the wall—6:30 a.m. Good
Lord! She reached to check Simon's pulse.

“What are you doing here?” a stocky nurse hissed. She grabbed the back of Amy's chair and
tried to wrest it from under her. “This sort of thing is not allowed in ICU.”

Amy stood and fixed the granite-faced woman with an icy stare. She detested doctors who
pulled rank, but sometimes circumstances made it necessary. “
I
am Dr. Prescott.
Mr. Kittredge is a special patient, and he's going to get special care. If you have a
problem with that, call Dr. Nguyen.”

The woman's cheeks turned a mottled purple. “Humph! We'll see.” She marched off muttering
about officious doctors.

“Go get 'em, tiger,” croaked a voice behind her.

She bent and clutched him to her. “You made it through the night.” She kissed his
forehead, his cheeks, and finally his fever-parched lips, wetting him with tears in the
process.

He brushed her face with shaky, translucent-appearing fingers. “Go home.” His hand
settled back onto the sheet and he slipped into deep sleep again.

She made her way to the apartment. The last time she'd been here the rooms had been
filled with the stench of death. Fortunately, her bone weary tiredness kept her from
dwelling on the fact. She undressed, flopped into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

When she awakened around noon, her first concern was Simon's welfare. After the head
nurse informed her he seemed to be stabilized, Amy's thoughts turned to her father. Last
night, Helen had stayed with him. Today, Arne Olafson, the gillnet fisherman would take
over.

She dialed and got her father on the line. “The nurse says Simon has...”

“I know, I called.” His tight, keyed-up voice betrayed his agitation.

“What's wrong, Dad? Didn't they tell me the truth?”

“The Seattle Police arrested Oren this morning.”

“Arrested him?” She clung to the telephone receiver as if it were a life line. “Why? What
possible reason could they have?”

“They found a baseball bat behind Dr. Tambor's building.” B.J. let out a trembling sigh.
“Oren's fingerprints were on it.”

“No!” The harsh cry wrenched from her throat. “Not Oren. He's not—” She curbed her angry
frustration. “What're they charging him with?”

“With...” B.J. cleared his throat. “With Dr. Tambor's murder.”

“They can't! He's innocent, Dad. Did you tell them about the footprints?”

“Of course, but Lt. Salgado scarcely listened. He thinks Oren blamed the doctor for
everything that's happened to him. He stole Elise's love, and that drove Oren to take
her life.”

“If that's true, then who set up the frame, and why?”

“Are you certain of your findings, Amy? I sure as hell wish I could get downstairs. I'd
like to go over your calculations.”

Suddenly, she felt fragile as blown glass. Keeping her tone as steady as possible, she
said, “Are ... you ... questioning my ability?”

“We—ell ... no, of course not. I ... uh ... I'd just like to ... check for myself.”

“I see.”
He didn't trust her.
She swallowed but couldn't dislodge the
golf-ball-sized lump in her throat. Now she had to prove her skill to him as well as
everyone else.

B.J. coughed and broke the stiff silence. “Someone opened a big gash in Marcus's head
last night.”

“Yes, I know. I forgot to tell you.”

“The vet says the cat evidently got in some good licks too. He had several badly torn
claws.”

“He killed one of the rattlers. It might have happened then.”

“Possibly, but he also could have scratched the person who hit him. Scratches from cats
who kill and eat wild animals can cause serious infections.”

“I hope so, Dad. The person deserves to get sicker than hell.”

“I have to agree with you on that.”

In her mind, she pictured snakes slithering through the deserted cottage, hiding in all
the narrow inaccessible places. “What're we going to do about the beach house?”

“A herpetologist from Seattle's zoo will be out today. He says rattlers should be in
hibernation this time of year. He thinks they've been kept warm so they'd stay active.”

“Does he know any local dealers?”

“He gave me the names of the reputable ones. He says some pet shops are fronts for
thriving black markets in exotic animals of all kinds. It won't be easy to track down
the person who bought the snakes.”

“I'll find him.” She clenched her fist. “I'll find him if I have to hit every outlet
between here and the island.”

“Easy, kitten, don't go off half-cocked.”

“My brain's never been more clear. Did Calder find any evidence?”

“Fresh tire tracks in Prescott's Byway. I told him to make some casts.” He let out an
exasperated breath. “But I doubt he'd know a clue if he fell over it.”

“Has Elise's jewelry turned up yet?”

“Calder and Salgado both come up with zilch. I do have one piece of good news though. The
medical examiner who's going to take my place will be here Monday.”

“Finally! The very idea of not letting bloodstains be examined until two weeks after a
crime—it's dictatorial, totally unprofessional, and absolutely absurd.” She got the wild
animal dealers' names from him and said goodbye.

She drove to the Public Safety Building and found Gail having lunch at her favorite
restaurant. When Gail spotted her, she beamed and waved.

“You must be psychic. Boy have I got news.”

Amy took the chair opposite her. “Great, I could sure use some,” She motioned to the
waitress, asked for a cup of coffee, and ordered a roast beef sandwich.

Gail's smile faded. “What now?” She shuddered when she heard of Amy and Simon's
horrifying experience. “Good God, Amy, somebody better find that psycho before he wipes
out you and your family.”

“Lt. Salgado will probably blame Oren. He's charged him with Dr. Tambor's murder.”

“Yeah, we were discussing it at the lab.” Gail crushed her paper napkin into a ball, then
without looking at Amy carefully began to smooth out the wrinkles. “What do you think?”

“Oren isn't capable of—” Gail's steady-eyed gaze stopped Amy's blustering outburst. She
pressed her fingers against her aching head. “Hell, I don't know what to think anymore.
Tell me your news.”

“I ran those paint chips through the NAP file. Your father was struck by a Mazda RX 7
that had recently been painted a metallic blue.”

“The same make and model as Elise's.” Amy lowered her cup to the table and leafed through
her note book. “You did say me car was once cherry red, didn't you?”

Gail nodded.

“It's gotta be the car Elise sold to a man named Roger Norman.” Amy leaned forward. “He
and Elise are both from Montana. What if—?” She paused, unsure whether to reveal that
the woman she called Elise might not be the “real” Elise at all. Better not, she had no
proof. “What if Norman had been her lover and she moved to Seattle to get away from
him?”

“Hey, terrific.” Gail shoved her fingers through her short-cut hair. “The guy comes here,
finds out she's engaged to Oren, and kills her.” Her dark eyes widened. “And it might
have been him, not Oren who clubbed the doctor over the head and shoved him down the
elevator shaft.”

“You're forgetting the baseball bat had Oren's prints on it.”

All the animation left Gail's face. “Sorry.”

Amy lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Did anyone process the rats from my
apartment?”

“Oh, yeah.” Gail held her nose and acted as if she were about to throw-up. “Cause of
death—strangulation. Probably a fine wire by the way it cut into the animal's skin.”

Strangulation.
The same method used to kill Cleo. The hair rose on the back of
Amy's neck. “Any fleas on the bodies?”

Gail tapped her forehead. “Smart thinking, old girl.” She grinned. “Nary a one and their
stomach contents bears out our conclusion—they weren't alley rats.”

Amy drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Whoever did it has easy access to
animals.”

“And hates them,” Gail added. “Rats aren't exactly appealing, but geez, what kind of a
person could...” She grimaced. “Gives me the chills just thinking about it.”

Could Oren?
Amy's appetite vanished. She wrapped the remainder of her sandwich in
a napkin and stood up. “I've a lot of leg work to do.” She gazed down at Gail with an
earnest expression. “Thanks. You've been a big help.”

Gail rose and walked to the door with her. “Watch your step. This character may already
have committed two murders. He knows who you are and where you live. A third killing
wouldn't faze him.”

Amy touched the slight bulge underneath her arm. “Dad insisted I pack some fire power and
I thought I'd figure out some sort of disguise.”

“Not a bad idea.” She patted Amy's shoulder. “Take care.”

Amy found a print shop that'd give one day service. She chose Emily James as her name,
Animal Supply Inc. as her business, and made up a California address.

Next, she bought a wig, a beige blonde one streaked with gray. In the dressing room, she
added age lines under the eyes and around the nose and mouth, as she'd learned to do
when she'd acted in a college play.

Still not quite satisfied with her appearance, she took off her dark framed glasses and
put in her contacts. A few more details and her disguise would be complete. A thrift
store provided her with two changes of clothes and several styles of glasses. When she
came out, she looked twenty years older and a good deal fatter.

Pleased with her transformation she set off for the animal supply houses. She could have
phoned them, but she had an ulterior motive for wanting to visit each establishment in
person. Although it was definitely against standard protocol, she'd brought the note
left by Cleo's killer to Seattle. Now, she intended to find the scratch pad from which
it'd been torn.

By late afternoon, she'd seen everything from tarantulas to Tasmanian tigers and an acrid
odor of animal dung clung to her clothing. Unfortunately, none of the people she
questioned had cobras or rattlesnakes for sale, nor had they sold any recently.
Nevertheless, her time hadn't been entirely wasted. She'd managed to leave each supply
house with a sheet of their scratch pad paper.

After talking to the last dealer on her list, she returned to the car and removed her
disguise. With her sheaf of pad samples in hand, she hurried to the Crime Lab to analyze
the paper and check their lettering against the fragments left on the torn top edge of
the killer's note—none matched. She curbed her disappointment. Tomorrow, she'd start
canvassing the pet shops.

Amy showered, changed clothes and went to the hospital. She inquired about Simon at the
information desk and learned he'd been moved from ICU. Humming a joyful tune, she
entered the elevator. Simon had weathered the critical phase, now if he could cope with
the aftermath, he'd be home free.

The door to his room stood open. Inside, the lights had been dimmed. Simon was propped up
in bed, but he wore dark glasses so she couldn't tell if he was awake. As she hesitated
in the doorway, someone called her name. She smiled when she saw Cam coming toward her.

He grasped the hand she extended. “I think he's over the hump, Amy. We're not sure about
his eyes yet, but aside from some residual muscle weakness, he's managing well
systemically.”

“Thanks to you, Cam.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “Payment in full for the night calls
I took while you were out romancing Mai.”

He laughed out loud and slipped his arm around her waist. “How're you doing these days,
old buddy?” His fingers probed her ribs, and he frowned at her. “When are you going to
learn to stop and eat occasionally?”

She grinned and shrugged. “Can't be helped, I don't have you around to nag me.” She
jerked her head toward Simon. “Is it all right if I go in?”

“Sure. He's awake. I was just in there.”

She smiled and went to Simon's bedside. “How're you feeling?” She stretched out her hand
to touch him, and tell him how happy she was to have him alive.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a sharp tone without turning to look at her. “Who's
taking care of B.J.?”

She recognized the voice, the stiff set of his features, and snatched back her
out-stretched hand. He'd crawled into his icy cocoon again. “Arne Olafson will be
staying with him.”

“Fine. Now each of us can get on with our own lives.”

Her insides began to quiver and she slumped onto a chair. Silence, taut and uneasy
stretched between them. She squared her shoulders. She'd not make it easy for him to get
rid of her. “Would you like me to read to you?”

He snatched off his dark glasses and glowered at her. “I don't need you, or anyone else
babysitting me.”

She came to her feet. “You're right. A good boot in the rear would do you more good.” Hot
tears ran down her face. She brushed them away as more took their place. The
exasperating show of weakness made her even angrier. “Damn you and you're hard-headed
independence. It wouldn't hurt you to lean on someone for a change.”