With Deadly Intent (27 page)

“Yeah, look who's talking. Well, count me out.”

Her chest hurt, her body hurt, her throat felt as if a tight band had closed around it.
“You ... you bastard. You stubborn, arrogant, egotistical bastard.” Holding her head
high, she walked out.

When she reached her apartment, she prowled through the rooms. Finally, she pulled
everything out of the kitchen cabinet, filled a pan with soapy water, and began to
clean. Several hours passed before complete exhaustion drove her to bed. Even then she
didn't fall asleep until dawn.

Friday, November 4

Next morning, before leaving the apartment, she divided the city map into grids. Then,
with the Yellow Pages in one hand and a red felt pen in the other, she marked the
location of thirty pet shops within the city limits.

Her gut feeling told her the person she sought lived in the Seattle area and not one of
the nearby towns. She fervently hoped her hunch was right, if she didn't find him soon,
he'd strike again.

After picking up her phony business cards at the print shop and donning her disguise in a
public restroom, she started with the outlying stores and worked her way inward. She
soon devised a system. Following a walk through the store to size up the employees,
she'd present her card and start asking questions.

Hour after gray-filled hour, she kept at it and every step of the way Simon's words
throbbed inside her head like a sore tooth. She felt empty, cast adrift, and wished
she'd never let down her guard.

Finally, when her tortured nerves quailed at the thought of hearing one more screeching
parrot, or the frenzied barking of another Pompoo or Shih Tzu, she went home. As she
neared her apartment door, she heard the shrilling of the phone. She unlocked the door
and snatched up the receiver. Her heart plummeted when she recognized Cam's voice.
“What's wrong?”

“That's what I'd like to know. Did something happen between you and Simon last evening?”

“Why?”

“After you left, he spiked a temp and was restless all night. That shouldn't have
happened. He's been on antibiotics since he arrived. So there must be some other reason
why he suddenly started going sour.”

“We quarreled. He..."—her voice broke, she swallowed hard and went on—"he insists he
doesn't need me, or want me around.”

“And you believed him? Ah, come on, Amy, you've had enough psychology to know what's
bugging him. Sure the man acts macho, but my guess is, he's damned insecure. You saved
his life. How do you think that makes him feel?”

She flung her purse at a chair, missed, and swore under her breath. “He saved my life
once and I was damned grateful. Why should this be any different?”

“I shouldn't have to tell you the answer to that. How about the two of you trying a
reconciliation?”

“Why should I?”

“Because, I think you may love the guy. Love doesn't happen often, Amy. Don't toss him
aside lightly.”

Love Simon?
She sprawled on the couch. No way would she love another man,
especially one whose moods shifted as capriciously as Simon's. It hurt too much.

“What about it, Amy? His system can only stand so much. And you know as well as I do,
medicine's no cure-all.”

She sighed. “I'll give it some thought.”

“Don't let me down, old friend. I need your help.”

After Cam hung up, she lay staring at the ceiling. The thought of calling her father to
update him on her progress crossed her mind, but she pushed it aside. He'd question her
about Simon and if he sensed the two of them were having problems, he'd worry.

Why did everything have to fall apart at once? She went into the bedroom, undressed, and
stepped into the shower. Hoping to wash away her cares, she turned on a cold
needle-spray and let it beat against her skin. Her strategy didn't, work—an achy sadness
still weighted her down.

When she reached Simon's floor at the hospital, his room lights were off. Panic squeezed
her heart. Had they taken him back to ICU? Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the
darkness and in the glow from the street lamps she saw him sitting beside the window.

She went in, closed the door behind her, and eased into a chair near him. when he didn't
acknowledge her presence, she stirred uneasily and gave an anxious cough.

“B.J. told me about Oren,” Simon said quietly. “Do you think we're wrong about him?”

“I won't let myself even consider it.”

After several minutes, Simon let out a noisy breath. “So you're out there looking for the
crazy nut who dumped the snakes in your basement, aren't you?”

She thought of lying, but knew he wouldn't buy it. “Yes.”

He smacked the vinyl upholstered chair arm with his palm. “I knew it.”

“There may be two people responsible for what's been going on, Simon. I have to find out
who it is before someone else gets hurt.”

“God dammit, Amy, that someone else is you. Don't you realize that?”

She let the matter lay and briefed him on the information Gail had given her about the
hit-and-run car. “This Roger Norman could be a likely suspect,” she finished.

“It's possible,” Simon said. “I made some calls today. Montana's Department of Labor and
Industries has a file on him. He injured an ankle while working as an orderly at
Marchmont Hospital.”

“Marchmont! So he must have known Elise, or whatever her name is.”

“I suppose. Strange thing is, the IRS doesn't have any records for the last three years.”

“Not everyone files an income tax return.”

“No, but employers have to turn in employee deductions.”

“Maybe he was doing itinerant work.”

“Perhaps.”

Simon said nothing more, and since she couldn't think of anything that'd ease the cool
politeness between them, she got to her feet. “I'd better go. I don't want to tire you.”
She took her time going to the door, hoping he'd give her some excuse to stay.

Her hand was on the knob, when he said, “Amy...”

Now he'd tell her he hadn't meant what he said the previous night. “Yes?”

“Uh ... thanks.”

Her lip quivered. “For what?”

In the quiet darkness, his breathing sounded loud and agitated. “For ... for coming by.”

She waited, but he remained silent. “I was in the"—her voice trembled and threatened to
break—"I happened to be in the neighborhood,” she said quickly and left.

Saturday, November 5

The following morning as she was finishing her breakfast, a knock sounded at the door.
Surprised, she hurried to answer and found Lt. Salgado standing in the hall. Adrenalin
speeded her pulse. “Good grief what's happened now?”

“Let's talk inside.” He pushed the door open and walked into, her living room.

She gripped her elbows and pressed folded arms against an agitated stomach. “Tell me, for
God's sake.”

He tossed the paper he carried onto the coffee table, took off his tan raincoat, lay it
over the arm of the couch and sat down. “I'm here about you.”

She collapsed onto a chair. “Me? What're you talking about?”

He rested his hands on his thighs and leaned forward, squinting at her through narrowed
eyes. “Where do you get the idea you can do better than the police?”

She stiffened. “I don't happen to think my cousin is guilty. I'm not waiting until you
come around to my way of thinking before I do something. Has someone complained?”

“Yeah, Kittredge. He's been burning up my phone. Wants to know what the hell we're doing.
Says you're trying to track down a killer all by yourself.”

She felt a rush of elation. Simon cared. Her joy lasted only half a second, then
annoyance took its place. The last thing she needed right now was the lieutenant
hounding her. “Simon tends to get overly protective. I made inquiries at a few pet
shops, that's all.”

The lieutenant's stare didn't waver. “If you find where the snakes came from, then what?”

She drew herself up. If she let him intimidate her now, she'd never earn his respect. “I
figured if I could show reasonable cause, you might put the place under surveillance.”

Salgado threw up his hands. “Great. Just great. Before, I had just a screwed-up case.
Now, I got an amateur who's trying to play detective.” He wiped a hand over his face.
“What next, for Christ's sake?”

“I'm
not
an amateur
and
I'm not playing.”

He leveled a finger at her. “You stay the hell out of this, doctor, or I'll make it
damned hot for you over at the lab. You got that?”

Amy opened the folded newspaper Lt. Salgado had left on the coffee table. Centered under
the headline—JOURNALIST SURVIVES HARROWING ENCOUNTER—a picture of Simon dominated me
front page. “Blast it!” She flung the paper in the waste basket. Now, the sadistic freak
knew Simon was alive.

She hurried into the bedroom to finish dressing. As she started to slip her arm into her
shoulder holster, she stopped. Up until this moment, she'd avoided thinking too deeply
about the gun she carried. Now, her instructor's words came back to her, “Don't ever
carry a gun unless you're prepared to use it.”

She removed the .38 S&W Special and held it in her hand. Would she have the guts to
use it? After several minutes of soul searching, she returned the pistol to its holster.
She'd better make her first stop the police firing range.

By ten o'clock, she'd gone through ten rounds of ammunition. One of the officers she
frequently encountered while on duty in the mobile crime unit was practicing nearby.
When she finished and took off the hearing ear-muffs, he sauntered over.

“You aren't half bad, Prescott,” he said. “From now on I'll think twice before I make a
pass at you.”

She smiled broadly. “I even surprised myself. Haven't practiced in a couple of years.”

His holster creaked as he settled his revolver more comfortably on his hip. “Don't pay to
let yourself get rusty.” He cocked a knowing eyebrow. “In our business you never know
when some nut is gonna make you his target.”

She holstered her pistol and put on her jacket. “So I've found out.” She picked up her
sports duffel and made for the ladies room. Time she got into her wig and hit the
streets again.

Four hours and half a dozen shops later, she pulled into a parking lot on Union, pushed
money into a metal slot, and started walking south on Second Avenue.

In midblock, she entered Rasmussen's Pet Shop. A bell over the door tinkled and a
stoop-shouldered man looked up from his figuring behind the cash register.

“Something I can help you with, miss?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

“I'd like to look around a bit first, if you don't mind.”

“Look"—he made a sweeping gesture—"look all you like.”

She took a pen from her pocket and began to search through her purse. “You wouldn't have
something I could write on, would you?”

He handed her a scratch pad, then pulled a raveled stocking hat over his sparse gray
hair. “I go to my home now.” He waved toward the back of the shop. “Darryl, my clerk
will help you.”

She waited until the door closed behind him before she started her inspection of the
place. After spending the last three days in pet shops, she'd learned good lighting,
clean cages, and healthy animals were the mark of a thriving business. As she wandered
narrow, dimly lit aisles, she saw dull-eyed birds and monkeys in grimy cubicles and knew
Rasmussen's didn't fit in that category.

She edged around a reticulated python's glass container and nearly stumbled over a
slightly obese man who squatted in front of some shelves. Ah, this must be Darryl. He
sat on an unopened carton of dog food, beside him lay a wickedly curved box opener.

He shot a narrowed sideways glance in her direction and mumbled something she couldn't
catch. She leaned closer. “I beg your pardon?”

Dark, turbid eyes glittered in the clerk's flushed face. “You spying on me?” he asked in
a sibilant whisper.

She drew back. Did he know her? Had he seen through her disguise? Goose bumps prickling
her skin, she eyed the box knife and inched by him to a spot where the aisle widened.
“I'm Emily James.” She held out her card.

Darryl grasped it between thumb and slim forefinger. His nails were bitten and ragged.
With a noncommittal grunt, he bent his mop of frizzy brown hair over the card. After a
full minute, he cupped the elbow of his left arm and lumbered to his feet. “So?”

“We have a client who's starting a private zoo.”

He scratched the pustular red rash spreading outward from the edges of his mustache and
frowzy Van Dyke beard. “What they lookin' for?”

He had a low-pitched voice and she had to lean closer in order to catch the words. The
unwashed smell of him made her step back a pace. “He wants to begin with elapids and
crotalidae.”

Darryl pooched out his bottom lip and tossed his head in an effeminate manner. “Cut the
technical lingo, lady. I'm no zoologist.”

“Oh, sorry. He's interested in acquiring four cobras, some rattlesnakes and two
fer-de-lance.”

“Can't help you.” He returned her card and went back to moving cans on the shelf.

She thought fast. “One of the clerks at Pet World said Rasmussen's sometimes filled
special orders—if the price was right.”

Darryl hunched his shoulders, but didn't turn around. “He's off his trolley.”

She shifted her feet. “Why don't I leave my card. Perhaps, Mr. Rasmussen might...”

The clerk made a quick movement, and when he rose to his feet the blade of the box knife
pointed at her belly. “Leave the old man out of this.” He took a quick step forward and
she shrank against the gerbil cages behind her. “You got that?”