With Deadly Intent (28 page)

She edged sideways. “Yes. Yes, of course. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll try another
shop.” She darted between the display counters and dashed through the front door.

Once outside, she slowed and sauntered toward the parking lot. Darryl was definitely, the
flakiest character she'd encountered, but that didn't make him a killer. As she walked
along, she mulled the matter over from several angles.

By the time she reached the car, she'd made her decision. Muddy-gray make-up base with
deeper age lines and wire-frame glasses changed her appearance. A voluminous black coat,
wool head scarf and thick muffler completed her transformation. Pleased with her
handiwork, Amy lifted a bulging shopping bag from the back seat.

Head down, her shoulders bent, she trudged to the opposite side of the once-proud street
and squeezed into a roofed, bus shelter. Behind her, spray-can graffiti decorated
boarded-up windows of a store. In front of her, pink-haired punk rockers in black
nailhead jackets, mothers with clinging children and suited-business men stood shoulder
to shoulder.

Traffic hurtled by. Grit and scraps of paper swirled in the metallic, carbon monoxide
breeze while the pallid afternoon sun crept down crumbling walls, brick by brick.

She'd been watching the pet shop forty-five minutes when the clerk came out, locked the
door, and crossed the street at the corner. While following him at a discreet distance,
she noticed he guarded his left arm from the bumps of passersby. On First Avenue, he
made his way to the bus stop and boarded the Metro bound for Judkins Park. By
lengthening her stride, she managed to scoot on at the last minute.

Bounding like a scared jack rabbit, the bus traveled south on First and turned up the
hill on Spring Street. She tucked her chin inside her muffler, grabbed the overhead bar
to hold her place in the crush of homeward bound commuters and tried to keep her quarry
in view. Her venture might lead nowhere, but Salgado wouldn't listen unless she had more
than intuition to go on.

The bus wound up Seneca and started south on Boren disgorging passengers along the way.
Suddenly, she noticed Darryl's frizzy head among the disembarking throng at the back
exit. She clawed her way to the door and leaped off.

Up the block, Darryl caught the green light, ran across the street, and entered a
cocktail lounge called Pandora's. As soon as the signal changed, she charged after him.

A raucous happy-hour crowd packed the place. Music blared and strobe lights flashed in
sync on silver foil walls. Couples danced with arms locked in tight embrace.

She set her bag on a chair upholstered in lavender with teal velvet trim and gazed around
the shadowy interior. A number of the patrons wore elaborate dresses and had
meticulously coiffed hair.

One of the women drifted by and Amy's gaze fastened on something a few inches above her
remarkable cleavage.
Black chest hair!
Good grief,
she
was a man, and so
were most of the others.

She glimpsed Darryl heading in the direction of the men's room and positioned herself so
she could watch the door. Men and “women” entered and left, but the clerk remained
inside. An hour passed and waiters began to give her hostile glances. She shifted to
another spot and waited another thirty minutes. No one stayed in a restroom that long.
He must have gotten by without her seeing him.

Pursued by a compelling sense of haste, she grabbed a bus and returned to her car. During
the short drive to the Public Safety Building, and while she removed her disguise in the
restroom, a vague notion nibbled at her mind. Sometime in the past few hours she had
learned something important, only she couldn't pin it down. She shoved the matter to the
back of her mind and hurried out.

Upstairs in the Crime Lab, she met her director. He peered down at her and frowned. “You
look terrible. Your vacation doesn't seem to be doing you much good.”

She scrubbed at the age lines she'd forgotten to remove with a piece of tissue. “Would
you mind if I took a few more days off?”

His frown grew more pronounced. “I know what you're doing, Amy, and I don't approve.” He
sighed and ran a hand over thinning brown hair. “I'll check the schedule and let you
know before I leave.”

She flung him a grateful look. “Thanks. I'm hoping my investigation will pay off soon.”

“Watch yourself. We need you around here,” he said and wandered off.

The instant she was alone her disturbing anxiety returned and she began to scurry about.
After numbering the day's collection of scratch pad sheets, she checked the printed
headings with the note she'd found tucked under Cleo's collar, and analyzed the paper
content. From time to time she stopped to massage her aching neck muscles, then rushed
on.

She was down to the last of the batch when the director came by to okay her extended
vacation. She explained what she was doing.

“Hm-m-m-m.” He stared at the off-white page that had Rasmussen's Pet Shop printed across
the top, then over at her note. “Both are Times Roman typeface.” He placed the original
sheet over the newly acquired one and carefully aligned the letters that remained on the
torn upper edge. “They're a perfect match, Amy.”

Her heart gave a thump and for an instant her chest felt too small to contain it. She
steadied her voice. “I'd better check the paper before I start celebrating.”

He patted her shoulder. “I'm going home. It's been a long day. Don't stay too late.”

“I won't.” Her right eyelid twitched and she squeezed her lids together a couple of times
before she mixed a small section of the paper with sodium chloride and formed it into a
disk. Scarcely daring to breath, she focused the infrared light onto the mixture, and
turned on the spectrophotometer. She waited while the machine produced its graph of
peaks and troughs, then compared it with the one from the note.

Hallelujah! The pattern of the absorption bands corresponded with those of the note.
Darryl must be the culprit!

She scowled and pulled at her lip. How could he be? She'd never seen the man before. What
possible connection could he have with her and Simon and her father?

She sat with slumped shoulders trying to fit him into the puzzle. Only one concrete fact
had been confirmed—someone who had access to Rasmussen's animals had strangled Cleo, put
the rats in her apartment, and had very likely brought the snakes to the cottage.

Could the clerk's connection to them be through Elise? Amy found a pad of paper and began
to jot down notes. If Darryl was gay, surely he wouldn't have killed Elise and the
doctor because of jealousy. Whoa, now, maybe he would. What if Dr. Tambor had had a male
and
a female lover?

From what Amy had learned so far, Elise thought little of two-timing a man. However, she
didn't sound like a woman who would tolerate being treated in a similar manner. What if
she found out about the doctor's duplicity and decided to get even by blackmailing him
and his lover. That would explain the money the doctor withdrew from his account.

She stared at the scribbles she'd made. Suppose Darryl resented the doctor's betrayal
and
the doctor felt equally betrayed by Elise? Such a scenario would give
each of the men a good reason to do away with Elise. It would also give Darryl ample
reason to harbor a smoldering anger against the man he'd thought loved him alone.

Amy shoved the notepad aside—speculation wouldn't do. Quickly, she recorded the results
of the tests she'd run and dialed Lt. Salgado's number. She'd established a link between
the pet shop and Cleo's death, that should be enough to warrant keeping the place under
surveillance.

Much to her exasperation, she found Lt. Salgado had gone out. Despite her protests, no
one would tell her where he could be reached.

The needling anxiety at the back of her mind grew stronger. What if she'd tipped Darryl
off? Would he leave town, or ... or would he ... Oh, dear Lord. She grabbed her coat and
hurried out.

Twenty minutes later, she brought the car to a squealing stop in the hospital parking
lot. She dashed inside and caught the elevator. On the way up, she took slow, deep
breaths and forced herself to be calm.

Her fears for Simon's safety were silly. She glanced at her watch—a half hour before
visiting hours ended—plenty of time to rehash what she'd learned with Simon. Perhaps, by
now he would have gotten over his resentment, and they could be friends again.

When she got off the elevator and started down the corridor toward his room, she noticed
a uniformed policeman strolling up and down but ignored him. Friday and Saturday nights
always brought an influx of crime victims and wounded criminals to the trauma center.

She stopped at Simon's door and was about to turn the knob when someone grasped her
shoulder.

“What're you doing on this floor?” the pudgy, young officer asked. “Why are you trying to
get into Mr. Kittredge's room?”

The blood drained from her face. “Has something happened to Simon?” The officer's blank
stare infuriated her. She grabbed his coat with both hands. “Tell me, dammit. Is he all
right?”

Her shrill voice raised heads and brought Cam running. Suddenly, the door beside her
opened and Simon stood there in his rumpled pajamas. He regarded each of them in turn.
“What the hell's going on out here?”

A singing sound erupted inside her head, the room tipped, and her legs gave way. Cam
helped her to a chair in Simon's room and held a crushed ammonia ampoule under her nose.
The fumes made her eyes water, but her stomach returned to where it belonged.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Cam said.

She forced her brain back through jumbled time. “A piece of toast.”

Cam smacked his forehead. “What am I going to do with you?”

She bristled. “I had more important things on my mind.” She glanced around for Simon and
found him leaning against a nearby wall. His face seemed strained and his eyes held a
bleak expression.

The police officer, his arms folded, his features grim, guarded the doorway. Her
attention swung back to Simon. “Why is he here?”

Cam left the room and Simon started to move to the chair next to her, but changed his
mind and sat on the bed. “At dinner, we had cherry cheesecake for dessert. I didn't want
mine, so I set it on the window ledge for the pigeons. Naturally they ate it. Thirty
minutes later all four of them were dead.”

“Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid?” She stumbled into the bathroom and lost what
little food she'd eaten.

After sponging her face with cold water, she joined the others. “Sorry,” she said.
“Nervous reaction I guess.”

Cam, who'd returned with a cup of soup, patted her shoulder. “Sit down. I'll get
something to settle your stomach.”

A muscle along Simon's jaw bunched, otherwise his expression remained wooden and
unreadable.

The policeman came over to her. “I'm Officer Sampson. May I see some I.D. please?”

She fished her wallet from her purse and blurted out how she'd followed the edgy pet shop
clerk to a gay bar only four blocks from the hospital. “He may not be the guilty party,”
she said. “But someone around that store is. My tests prove Rasmussen's scratch pad
paper is identical to the note I got when—” Simon's accusing look brought her up short.
Damn! She'd blown it.

“What note?” he asked in a steely voice. “You never mentioned a note.”

She swallowed. “I got it the day Cleo died.” She turned to the officer. “Cleo was my
dog.” She swung back to Simon. “I didn't want you and Dad to worry.”

“What did it say?”

She carefully avoided meeting his blazing eyes. “About the same thing as the message on
my apartment mirror.”

“Don't try to feed me that crap, Amy.”

She jerked her head up. “It said, ‘You're next, Amy.'” She thrust out her chin. “What
could you have done if you'd known?”

He stared her down. “So you decided not to tell anyone and play Joan of Arc instead.” He
glared at her. “Who the hell gave you the right?”

“That's not getting us anywhere, Kittredge,” Officer Sampson said. “Have you reported
your findings to Lt. Salgado, Dr. Prescott?”

“I tried, but couldn't reach him.”

“I'll take care of it right now.” He marched out the door.

Cam came in with a glass of lemon-lime soda. “This should do the trick. Sip it slowly.”

She thanked him and leaned her head against the chair cushion. What a ghastly, ghastly
day. She studied Simon over the rim of the glass and could find no trace of the man
who'd looked at her with such desire a few nights ago.

“How soon can I get out of this zoo?” Simon asked suddenly.

Cam's dark-eyed gaze shifted from Simon to her and back to Simon. “It's imperative your
eye drops be administered as instructed.” His lips twitched ever so slightly. “And the
antibiotic injections must be continued. However, I'd consider discharging you tomorrow,
if
you had some qualified person to look after you.”

“I could do it,” Amy said.

“No way!” Simon slid off the bed and paced back and forth, his trim new cast slipper
scuffing the linoleum. He came to a stop in front of Cam. Feet spread, hands on his
hips, he barked, “I'm sick to death of being taken care of.”

Cam stared back at him, his face stern. “It's either my way, or not at all. Your sight
and health are at risk.”

Simon glowered at him. “How long would I have to have her around?”

"Have to have her around.” He sounded as if he'd been sentenced to share a cell with
her. She had to restrain herself to keep from flinging something at him. She
certainly hadn't reacted in such a surly manner when her father insisted Simon stay
at the cottage.