An Eye for Danger (19 page)

I nodded and stepped back, bumping my doorframe. However unpleasant being watched felt, I no longer doubted Troy's ability to find me. Or Stone's need to be officious.

As Stone scanned my kitchen of dirty dishes and liquor bottles, I felt strangely embarrassed and less obstructionist. "I'd offer you a drink, Detective, but I know you're on duty."

"Don't suppose you've been drinking, Miss Larson."

"So it's 'Miss Larson' now."

"Or that you took any of those pills you picked up for your headache."

"Toothache actually. One was causing the other." I spun the bottle in my pocket, the pills rattling like my nerves. "So yes, one drink, one pill. Separate days."

His head bobbed in practiced fashion, as he re-scanned my apartment. "I suspect that anyone in your position might ingest several pills to settle their nerves. Add a couple drinks, and we get a call for a bus to the morgue. And you're the last person I want to see that happen to, Julie." His eyes returned to rest on mine.

A ruckus behind me broke my attention, and I turned to see Officer Houston trying the guestroom door. Every muscle in my body froze. That memory chest had remained untouched and silent for three years.

Stone cupped my shoulder. "We'll need the key."

Do it for Sam, I told myself, do it for the living. My palm opened, offering my keys to the detective. Stone tossed them to Houston, who made a clumsy, two-handed girl catch.

I crouched next to Max, hugging him tightly, my back to the guestroom door as it squeaked open. Max whined. "We'll be okay, buddy."

Houston uttered some words of disgust, and I could imagine the bedspread of dust, windows full of cobwebs, and general decay greeting him. For a guy paid to dig through people's dirty laundry and body parts, Houston seemed squeamish of dust mice. He probably lathered his entire body in hand sanitizer.

Stone leaned his head into my apartment. "Take you up on that drink." He stepped over me before I could retort, his fancy leather shoes clacking the checkered linoleum with confidence. "Join me, won't you."

He fetched two glasses, slid them next to the liquor bottles on the counter, and poured a delicate balance of gin to tonic. With a chef's knife from the butcher block, he shaved two slivers of rind from a lime, twisted the peels and dropped them into our drinks.

"Former bartender," he explained, grinning at his creations. Gauging the near-empty bottles, he asked, "Just one drink?"

"I broke the first glass and started over. But a few sips made me sick to my stomach, so I poured it out." Suddenly, I wanted to gulp every drop of the cocktail he set before me.

The chair squealed as he dragged its feet across the linoleum and sat at my dining table, spinning his cocktail, which was already half gone. "If I count the pills in your pocket, I wonder how many I'll find missing."

"Two." Or maybe four, since Sam had made a meal of them.

"Two pills and maybe one, maybe two drinks. Pretty dangerous combination."

"So that's what this is all about." I pulled out the search warrant, realizing too late why Stone had brought a CSU officer who specializes in evidence, not fugitives. But I kept my voice low enough Houston couldn't hear, just in case he wasn't in on Stone's game. "A pretext to check on me because you think I'm suicidal."

"Are you?" He cocked his head.

"Try again, Detective. If I survived the accident, I can survive one lousy cocktail and one headache pill."
And two nosy detectives.

"Don't suppose you read those papers I left for you."

"I tore them up. I never revisit the past." I nodded toward the recycling bags, and Stone looked long and hard in their direction. My blood pressure jumped when I remembered Sam's clothes and vest were sealed in one of the bags, so I grabbed my glass and took a swig to appease my nerves. At least I'd hung Sam's gun behind the washer in the laundry room.

Stone leaned back in his chair, broadening his shoulders with a small stretch. "I'm worried about leaving you here alone, Julie."

"Like you said, I'm not alone. I've got Max. And I can't seem to get any privacy from NYPD." I held my drink at my chest. I couldn't skirt the truth much longer with a practiced unraveler of nerves like the detective. "First I get held hostage, then you send me a reminder of the most horrible day of my life, and now a warrant to search my home. Forgive me, but this is as pleasant as I get, considering."

He grinned, nodding at my glass. "How's my cocktail treating you?"

"This? This is delicious." I raised the glass in toast fashion, pretending to let his charm get the best of me. "But I'm a reluctant drinker, despite what you think of me."

"I don't think ill of you, Julie. I just don't want to see you crash, because I know what you've been through. This week and three years ago. I know where you landed then, and why you're a recluse now, so no, I don't believe you're okay. Let me help you avoid repeating that reality."

I got to my feet, escorted my glass to the sink and dumped it. He couldn't know about my hospital stay. No one knew but Doctor Ramsey, and only because she forced my admittance papers. Yet his words sounded too close to a threat for my comfort.

"Just tell me what you're looking for, Detective, and we can be done with this charade."

Setting his glass in the sink beside mine, the cocky SOB chuckled, like I'd told a good joke.

"I'm glad you're amused by all this. You seem to enjoy harassing me."

"Just appreciating a woman who speaks her mind. Especially a woman with a bite. And you've got real bite, Miss Larson."

I stepped to the front door, opening his exit, since I didn't want to get arrested for assaulting a cop.

Stone sauntered over, slipped his card into my pocket. "I want to believe you're safe, but you're showing all the signs that tell me you might not be breathing next time I visit. And I'd like to call again, knowing you'll answer that door for me."

A long, deep gaze underscored his message. He'd played me well, yet the smile lines at his eyes said he was sincere. I found it hard not to stare at a man as striking and as beguiling as he, or as close.

Houston emerged from the back room. "Nothing else to search," he said, rather shyly for a cop, "unless you want the safe opened."

I swallowed. Sam's recording device was in that safe.

"Seriously, you think I hid your mystery man in a two-by-two box?" I rolled my eyes back to Stone and held up the warrant. We both knew the search wasn't about a manhunt, but Houston didn't seem clear on the warrant's real purpose. And Stone wasn't about to lose face by admitting the farce in front of his own man.

"We're done here," said Stone with a sweep of his arm to scoot Houston out of my home. "Miss Larson's been very cooperative. She needs her rest now."

When Houston exited, Stone hung by his arms on the door frame, like a gorilla establishing territory. A bit smug for a man who'd just come up empty-handed.

"Call me in the morning," he added, "to let me know you're okay."

If that would prevent your coming to my apartment again... "Fine."

"I didn't want to visit you like this today. I'd rather have a drink somewhere more interesting, more relaxing. Maybe when the investigation clears, I can set aside the badge, and you can set aside that armor." His blue-eyed gaze was so mesmerizing, I found myself nodding. "Great. I look forward to getting to know you better, Julie."

When he closed my door, I threw the bolts. But relief escaped me.
What the hell did I just agree to?
By now, I could use a few of those pills to settle my nerves, but when I checked my pocket, the bottle was gone.

CHAPTER 14

A knock at my door, but Max didn't bark. He never barked for Howard. Just waited at the threshold, salivating like a leaky faucet for the bone Howard always brought him.

"They bought it." Howard, not a dark hair out of place, held up two paper bags with tops rolled down and stapled shut. With his tan velvet coat and stripped green button-up shirt, he looked like Christopher Robin from
Winnie the Pooh
: perpetually nine years old. "Orange chicken, four stars, just the way you like it. Volcanic. How you can eat that and not get an ulcer is beyond me." He held up the other bag. "Rice, hum bao, salad, and spring rolls for me."

"If the cops think you're the delivery guy, they'll expect you to leave. Soon," I said, taking the bags.

"And Max's special treat. Can't forget the man of the house." Howard pulled another bag out of his coat pocket and made goo-goo eyes at Max, whose tail wagged against the chair, striking a beat akin to my heart rate. Bringing Howard into this mess was the last decision I thought I'd make, but I'd grown desperate to remove the evidence from my home before Stone's next house call.

Max latched onto one end of a cow bone and played tug-of-war with Howard, who chanted, "Who's the biggest bad-ass doggie in town? You're the biggest bad-ass doggie in town."

"This should cover what I owe you." I shoved money into his pocket.

Howard removed the three crumpled twenties and frowned. "Hello, cheap tipper."

"Blame the recession." I unloaded food cartons onto the table, and then stuffed an envelope with memory chips into Howard's pocket. "Only print the images I listed. Archive the rest. They're mostly junk shots and my audio notes, but you know me."

"Hello, hoarder," he muttered to Max and started pulling on the bone again.

"That's Mrs. Memory Keepsakes to you, mister."

I couldn't afford to keep Sam's recording here, and Sam couldn't afford for me to lose it. Whatever this investigation was about, that file was the only evidence clearing his name. Supposedly. Despite my burning curiosity, I'd transferred the file to my computer without listening to it, then onto my camera's memory chip. Know more, risk more. Fortunately, I had a habit of recording MP3 files with my field notes, so no one at work, including Howard, would think to look twice at them.

"I'll call you for your next mission," I said.

"Got it. Shaken, not stirred." He cupped his mouth with his hand and deepened his voice. "This message will self destruct in thirty seconds."

"Not funny,
Assistant
Photographer."

"Thanks for reminding me of my lowliness,
Diva
Photographer." Howard had been passed over twice for promotion—budget cuts, our stingy editor claimed—but he was more competent and had a better eye than most senior editors I'd worked with over the years. "As if my dating life wasn't insult enough."

"Come review time, I'll give you a reference the boss can't refuse. Can't help your love life, though."

"You said that last year." Howard's cute button-nose scrunched up. "And as for love, it doesn't exist. My first date in a year and the guy wants to make out in a Central Park bathroom. That's so 70's gigolo. I must have 'floozy' emblazoned on my forehead. I have a brain as well as a perfect body, you know." His hand swiped the air down his front half.

"So you keep telling everyone."

"Anyway, your week is so much more interesting than mine. Under house surveillance. How sexy is that! Next time you get abducted, can I come too?" He unzipped his coat and started to sit.

I hooked his arm and raised him to his feet. "You're the delivery boy, remember, not a dinner guest. Now scoot." I zipped his coat and pushed him toward the exit.

His eyes went wide when I swung the door open and pointed the way out. "Hello, Miss Manners."

"Goodbye, Mister Gigolo." I shut the door in his face.

From the other side he called, "You forgot my spring rolls."

"And you forgot who paid."

***

"Sure, I remember you," said Officer Houston. "The lady with the dog. The one that bites." His voice was timid, as if Max was listening on the other line and might bite him psychically. "Your dog bites, I mean, not you."

"Yeah, I got that. So, Stone told me to call if I remembered any details."

My offering a theory about Sam's Kevlar vest to explain a bullet hole with no blood seemed innocuous enough. Why I really called was to discover how the how much evidence existed against Sam.

"Sure, let me transfer you." He sounded relieved to get rid of me.

"No, wait. I'd feel more comfortable speaking with you. Cat guys tend to, you know, be better with women." I rolled my eyes at myself. "Probably nothing important anyway."

"Look, I'm off the case, so I can't help you."

"But you just came to my home yesterday." I waved at my neighbor, Cicily, whose phone I was using. I couldn't be sure my line wasn't being recorded. Stone's paranoia was contagious.

"Detective Stone transferred me to another case the minute I stepped out of your building, empty-handed." He said the words like it was my fault. "And I can't speak to anyone who is part of an ongoing investigation."

My hackles rose. "I can't imagine why they wouldn't keep you on the case, when you're so thorough. And so patient, especially with a nervous witness like me." Silence. Maybe too much sugar-coating. "Forget I called. I'm sure I'm just imagining things. You know, since I'm here alone. And they think the murderer has my address since they matched his prints and the bullets at Officer Petosa's murder scene."

"Who told you that? Ballistics can't be determined at a scene, and I hadn't even processed the prints... yet." He audibly gulped, as if he'd just leaked the safe code to Fort Knox.

So Stone had played me better than I'd thought
.

"Now I don't know who to trust with this information." I paused a few seconds for effect. "If not you."

Houston cleared his throat, then whispered, "Let me call you back on another line."

***

The phone rang at midnight. Again. At least Stone's nightly check-ins had taken on friendlier tones the last couple of days, as our conversations veered off the case and covered
The New York Time
s' book list and local celebrities' antics. He'd even sent me take-out pasta the third night I'd stayed locked indoors. At least his unrelenting calls, as well as the patrol car parked below, gave me peace of mind while Troy was still on the loose.