Desperate to the Max (17 page)

“Like Helen.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” Still she didn’t want to contemplate what Witt—or her boss Sunny, for that matter—would say.

“So why’s your tone defensive?”

She drummed her fingers on the plastic face of the machine. “We were talking about the dream, not my message.”

He laughed. “First you use the message to sidetrack me from the dream. Now it’s the other way around. You’re so damn transparent, and I love you for it.”

“Prunes and shale,” she whispered, pretending his words hadn’t made her eyes sting.

“Prunes and shale,” he repeated, a wealth of understanding in his matching tone.

It was the most bizarre of her dreams yet. The others, while sometimes absolutely terrifying, still contained a semblance of reality. Not this one.

“Dreams can be allegories,” Cameron went on, “sometimes even clichés. There’s a hidden meaning here.”

“Maybe I think she’s two-faced. Or two-skinned, as the case may be.”

“Prunes-n-shale.” He slurred the words together. “Doesn’t it sound familiar?”

Well, it did. Somewhat. She still couldn’t place it. “Prunes-n-shale,” she tested the sound, climbing from her bed and moving to the small refrigerator. Bethany was suddenly ravenous.

“Prunes-n-shale,” Max said as she grabbed a bag of frozen pot stickers. Not a completely unhealthy meal. Except that she’d popped the entire bag into the microwave.

“Prunes-n-shale,” she experimented with the accent on different syllables as she opened a can of cat food and plopped the whole thing on a chipped saucer for the buzzard. “Prunes-n-shale,” she chanted as she pulled her white shirt from the waistband of her slacks and started to unbutton it.

Her fingers stilled on the first button.

“Prunella Shale.”

Cameron gave a small whoop that swirled around the room.

“She was Wendy’s psychiatrist,” Max went on as if Cameron had asked. “I never talked to her, but she was on my list.” She pulled her organizer from her purse, and there, on that fateful page she’d filled out almost two months ago, was a series of names and numbers she’d copied from Wendy Gregory’s DayMinder.

Dr. Shale was the second name on the list, Prunella written in parentheses beside it. Max had learned her first name later.

“I’d be willing to bet she also works with Jada.” Forgetting everything else—except the pot stickers, Bethany would never forget the now-steaming bowl of food—Max flopped down on the edge of the bed, pulled the phone close, and dialed the number from her organizer. She got the doctor’s voicemail. She left a message saying she needed an urgent appointment, could the good doctor please call her back first thing in the morning.
Please, please, please call me in the morning
. She added the extra
pleases
to emphasize her supposed desperation. The doctor would
have
to call her back.

It was just shy of midnight. She might have time to finish the pot stickers before her first call of the night.

“She’s not going to tell you anything about another patient. So how’s that going to help you get closer to Jada?”

“Because anorexics move in packs. Don’t you know that?” She shoveled another pot sticker into her mouth and chewed.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know you knew that either.”

She breezed right past what he was saying without thinking about the implications. “Psychiatrists love group therapy, especially for eating disorders. They pack ’em in like sardines.” She waved a hand.

“So you want to join the group?”

“Yeah. All I have to do is hint I feel the intense need to starve myself, and good old Prunella will ship me right over to Group.”

“You should know.”

She stopped, really hearing him for the first time. “Hey, I was never anorexic. I just don’t feel hungry when I’m stressed.”

He sighed, but didn’t push. “What exactly is your plan here, Max? So you get close to Jada. Then you do ... what?”

“Haven’t I gone over and over all that?”

“Not with me.”

“Fine. At the risk of repeating myself ...” She waited for him to stop her. He didn’t. “I’m going to gain Jada’s confidence. Once I’ve done that, I’ll get her to admit both she and Bethany were molested by Traynor. Uup”—she held up her finger at Cameron’s little snort of interruption—“you lost your chance to say anything. To go on, once I’ve got her to admit that, I’ll turn to Traynor’s part in Bethany’s death.”

This time she couldn’t stop him. “You have no perspective where he’s concerned.”

“I have perspective,” she snapped.

“Listen to me, Max. Watching your back when he’s around might save your life some day, but you shouldn’t let him blind you to other possibilities either.

“I can feel Bud Traynor’s hand in what happened to Bethany. My bet’s that he somehow manipulated Jada into killing her sister. As soon as I get close enough to Jada, I’ll prove it, too.”

The phone rang. Damn. She was only halfway through her bowl of Chinese dumplings.

Max looked at her watch. Midnight. To hell with Traynor for the moment. She had other fish to fry, Bethany’s night freaks.

* * * * *

Max picked up the phone, but Bethany was with her, inside her, when she spoke. She remembered Cameron’s words the last time a dead woman had tried taking possession of her: “
Roll with it, Max, let yourself go.
” This time, she did. Almost willingly.

“Hi, this is Helen. How can I do ya?” Literally. She thought it was quite catchy.

“Suck my cock, bitch.”

Ooh, a tough guy. Voice low, throaty, breathless. Like Bethany’s, she was sure, Max egged him on. “Fuck you, asshole.”

“I’ll ram it right down your throat, you cunt.”

“I’ll bite the fucking thing off.” Crude words, but Bethany had always made them seem erotic, powerful. Max did, too. Didn’t she?

“You know you want it, whore.”

“You think you’re man enough to give it to me?” Damn, she was getting good at this. No one would know the difference between her and Bethany. The thought should have raised her hackles.

“I’m more than man enough. You’ll be begging me to fuck you up the ass.”

Then he cried out, and the phone went dead. 30 seconds down. One hour, 59 minutes and 30 seconds to go. God, Bethany was a natural. She’d known exactly what the guy wanted and exactly how to give it to him. Max opened her mouth, and Bethany’s words and voice came out of her. Witt would pop a blood vessel when he realized his cop buds had heard it. Max smiled. The guy was getting too sure of himself. This would do him good.

She pushed back the covers and climbed from the bed, unbuttoning her shirt. Then she shoved off her wrinkled slacks and threw them in the corner. The phone rang again. This time she described her imaginary crotchless panties and let the voice on the other end remove them with his teeth. It was so easy, so simple. All she had to do was talk. Power pumped through her veins when she heard his first and last moan. Bethany’s voice. Bethany’s power. The woman fairly sizzled inside Max, pent-up emotions ready to burst out. She was waiting. Waiting for
him
.

The phone rang again. And again. And again. Max gave up trying to change clothes and flopped back on the pillow with the lights still out, only the street lamps shining through the leaves illuminating the bed.

Still they waited to hear Achilles’ voice. Bethany wet and panting for him, Max ready to slip the noose around his neck.

“Hi, this is Helen. You want me to blow you, suck you or fuck you?” She felt the slightest twinge at her newest variation on the theme.
Going too far with the game, Max?
she asked herself. Cameron hadn’t spoken in over an hour, but it was exactly what he would have said.

“Tell me a story.” A familiar voice, not Achilles, but someone who made Bethany preen.

“What kind of story?”

“How about a bar pick-up story.” A soft yet deep voice. Sexy. With a hint of Witt in it.

Bethany had loved playing this guy. He always started it, and it was up to Bethany to keep him entertained. So far she hadn’t failed.

“Hmm. Well, a bar story. Okay. I’m dressed in a real short jean skirt and high-heeled boots. And one of you cowboys parked a taste too close to my red Mustang. I can’t get the door open.”

“You need a man to help you get out of that tight ole spot.” He affected a Texas-boy inflection.

“Not just any man,” she cooed. “I need the man who drives that enormous Dodge Ram parked right next to my little old Mustang. You know, that big black Ram with the red lettering.” Closing her eyes, she stretched, the edges of her white shirt falling open across her belly, the material tantalizingly coarse against her nipples. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t worn a bra today. Dear God, Witt was gonna squirm if he heard this one. Her heart kicked up the pace contemplating it.

“I’m your man, ma’am. I got the biggest Ram you ever seen.”

“I’ll bet you do.” She imagined the caller had blond hair. And a dimple in his chin. Like Witt’s.

“Now maybe what you need is to climb up in that big ole Ram o’mine while I move it so you can get your door open.”

“Ladies first. I do so love a Ram truck. I’m climbing right in. Oops, I think you see a little too much underneath my skirt.”

The guy was a quick study. Like Witt. He picked right up on her theme. “Ya mean like the fact that you got no underwear?”

“Yeah. No underwear, not even a thong. Oh my goodness, there’s a lot of room up here in this cab. Why a girl could climb right on your lap.” God, this talk was kinky, but it was so ... damn ... sexy. Despite the phony accent, he really did sound the tiniest bit like Witt. Except for the pronouns.

“Yeah, baby.”

She could almost feel Witt’s hot breath in her ear. It was strange. It was kind of dirty. It sent a lick of desire straight to her breasts.

“You want me to ride ’em cowboy?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It’s so easy to straddle you right here in your big front seat. Push my skirt up.”

“It’s up all the way.”

“Now let me undo your little old zipper.” She could almost hear the metal teeth. “Ah, come to mama.”

“Oh God.”

“Slide that Ram of yours right in, big boy.” She bit her lip, feeling Witt, scenting his aftershave.

“Oh yeah. Oh God, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.”

“Atta boy.”

He was done. So was the call. Max was left dizzy and wanting.

She leaned over to put the receiver back on the hook and shrieked at the dark shape standing at the top of her stairs.

“Hello, Max. You didn’t return my calls.”

Shit.

Witt.

Chapter Twenty-One

“How long have you been there?” she squeaked.

“Long enough.”

Shit again. “How’d you get in?”

“Shouldn’t leave your door unlocked, Max. ‘Specially when you’re home alone.”

“You could have knocked first.”

“Did. No answer.”

She couldn’t see him in the dark, but his voice had flat-lined. Turning on the light might have been a good idea, but then, of course, there was the state of her unbuttoned shirt and the fact that she was wearing only panties. She looked down. The street lamps and moonlight shimmered through the leaves, casting fingers of light across her bare belly. He’d already seen that, too.

Max cringed inwardly, but rose from the bed and took two steps closer to him. Maybe if she could see his face, his eyes ... “I was busy.”

She could see now he wore his work clothes. His anger vibrated in the unnatural stillness of his body, but his cop persona shouted through his implacable reply. “So I heard.”

Okay, so he wasn’t going to make this easy. Oh Jesus. Did his cop buddies know he had a Dodge Ram? Would they put two and two together? Why hadn’t she thought of that? Her face flamed as red as the digital numbers on her clock, shining brightly in the dark. Just gone two o’clock. Bethany’s shift was over and inside her, the woman mourned it. Max wished hers had never begun. “Her Achilles didn’t call.”

“Figures.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, but refused to do up her blouse. That would have been admitting she’d done something wrong. “No one else seemed threatening. Or familiar.”

“How many calls you take?”

“Eight. Maybe nine.” She had no idea. One had slipped seamlessly into the next. “Don’t you ever sleep? I mean, you were tracking me last night. Then you work all day. Then tonight—” God, she was rambling to fill the silence.

“Vampire.”

“Huh?”

“You asked me once if I was a fucking vampire. Maybe I am.”

He’d spoken calmly, his voice mild. Yet, there was that word. The
F-word
. Which he didn’t use in front of her unless he was really pissed. She raised a hand, pointed off to her right, shaking her finger at the phone. “Were they able to trace any of the calls?”

“Certainly kept ’em on the line long enough.”

Even over the distance and in the dim light, she saw the sparks. “That’s what I was supposed to do.”

He ignored that. “Don’t need a trace anyway. It’s a 900 number, get ’em through the billing. Cleaner that way. No black-and-white rushing off to find an empty phone booth, receiver dangling. It’s not the movies.” He ended with a note of disdain. For her and her Columbo mentality, Max was sure.

She wondered how to placate, wondered further why she even needed to try. “Look, about the stuff I had to say to—”

“Don’t explain.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

This time he took the two steps forward, stopping an arm’s length away. She could now see his unreadable eyes. Fat lot of good it did her. “You were,” he said ever so softly.

Max dropped her hands to her side, her shirt sliding down across her breasts, leaving Witt with a view of pale skin but little else. “I wanted to—”

“You were going to say that you had to do it to find Bethany’s killer.”

“That’s right.”

“But you liked it a little too much, didn’t you?”

She jumped in a little too fast and a little too loud. “I was acting.”

“And such a fucking good job you did.”

Goodness, there it was again. Same mild tone, lips even, expression deadpan. Speaking that word.