Died to Match (24 page)

Then he returned to the kitchen and unscrewed the head from my dust mop. He laid the mop handle down where the dowel had been, brushed off his hands, and sat down on the couch. His poker face was back in place, his hazel eyes expressionless.

“Well!” I said brightly. “Well, thanks. That takes care of that. Now what?”

“Now we wait.” He pulled out a sheaf of official-looking paperwork, and a pair of wire-framed reading glasses.

“But don’t you have to station your men? Or are they already out there?”

“What men?”

“Your officers. For the stakeout.”

Graham smiled mirthlessly. “There is no stakeout. I can’t just whistle up surveillance units because someone has a hunch.”

“But did you talk to Corinne?”

“I did.” He sighed, a deep, disappointed sigh. “Ms. Campbell is a remarkably vague witness. She saw a man in the Market. She is ‘pretty sure’ he was Foy and she ‘could swear’ he was following her. He didn’t speak to her, or even get close enough to do so. And so far we have no other witnesses to the incident. Such as it was.”

“So you’re here on your own?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh.”

“I had theater tickets, too,” he said.

“Oh.”

Another sigh. Graham began reading in disciplined stillness, while I wandered the room, fidgeting and checking my watch. I should have said eight o’clock, not nine. I shouldn’t have done this at all. What was I thinking? It began to rain. By seven-fifteen, my stomach was growling worse than Eddie, and I recalled that I hadn’t eaten lunch. No wonder my head hurt.

“Do you mind if we wait in the kitchen?”

I nuked a box of frozen lasagna and made a spinach salad.

Graham unbent enough to eat with me, though he declined a glass of Pinot Noir. I made stilted attempts at conversation, speaking in low tones that wouldn’t carry through the front door. Over the thin hissing of the rain, the scrape of our forks on the plates seemed unpleasantly loud. Neither of us actually ate much.

Finally I got up to make coffee, eking out a half-pot from the last handful of beans in my cupboard. Murder really screws up your grocery shopping. Behind me, Graham cleared the table with quick, economical movements.

“What if Skull doesn’t show up at all?” I asked, pouring coffee for him and more wine for myself. Might as well drink for both of us.

“If he doesn’t show up, we have a problem,” said Graham. “I can request ongoing protection for you, but we’re short of people and it’s not automatic. You haven’t actually been threatened.”

“No, I’ve just been stupid, haven’t I?”

He looked at me with those intriguing, disillusioned eyes. “Yes. Very.”

We took our beverages back to the living room and waited some more. Eight-fifteen came, and eight-thirty Eventually Graham loosened up a little, and even asked me about life in my floating home.

“I love it. It’s a nuisance in a lot of ways, but I swear, regular houses seem landlocked to me now. I always want to get back on the lake.”

“Is this where you met Lily James? On her houseboat?”

“No, Lily’s got a house near Woodland Park. It’s a great location for her kids.”

We chatted on aimlessly, about kids in general and Lily’s in particular, then fell silent. Nine o’clock. No sound. Nineten.
Nine-thirty. I had picked up a book at random, and as I turned the pages, that same sense of unreality settled over me again, of idling in the shallows while a deadly, invisible undertow slides silently past. The wine didn’t help.

I noticed Graham glancing at the photographs on a side table. “That’s Lily with Ethan and Marcus, on a camping trip we did to Deception Pass.”

“And who’s this?”

“My mother, back in Idaho.”

“I can see the resemblance,” he said. “Your eyes—”

A double knock, so sudden that I bit my lip and let the book fall in my lap. Another knock, faint and somehow furtive. It was past ten o’clock. Graham motioned me to keep still and stepped silently to the front door, pulling out a gun as he went. It looked huge in his hand. I waited a moment, then tagged along behind him. I couldn’t help it. I had put this thing in motion. What if something went wrong and he needed me? I couldn’t catch my breath, and a pulse was thudding in my ears.

Graham leveled the gun at the door, then stretched his hand slowly for the knob. He wrenched the door open, sidestepping quickly as he did, and aimed the gun straight at the chest of the man standing in my doorway.

“What the hell?” said Aaron Gold.

“A
ARON, WHY DIDN
’
T YOU
CALL
?”

After an exchange of explanations and apologies, Lieutenant Graham left us to keep watch in the parking lot for another hour before heading home. Not that he thought Lester Foy would show up this long past the appointed time, and after all the commotion at the front door.

So now Aaron was standing in my living room with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, looking haggard and disgruntled. He wore rain-spattered khaki slacks and jacket, and there was a Rorschach blot of airplane coffee on his yellow oxford cloth shirt. Zorro was having a bad night.

I should have been grateful for his arrival—he had caught the first flight north when Paul called his Portland hotel room with the news about Angela—but my nerves were flayed by hours of tension, and the near-disaster in the doorway was the last straw. All I felt now was unreasoning resentment, and Aaron was the only target within range.

“Why didn’t you call me from the airport, or from your place?”

He threw up his hands. “I didn’t stop at my place. Why are women so fixated on the telephone, anyway? ‘When are you going to call me?’ ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ It’s like a hobby, nagging men to call.”

“But Graham could have shot you!”

“You think I don’t know that?” He closed his eyes and kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. “I felt like an idiot, charging in here to protect you and getting scared out of my wits. Can’t you at least offer me a drink?”

“Of course.” I looked doubtfully back toward the kitchen. “I think the Pinot Noir is gone, but there’s some white wine I could open?…”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “I mean a drink. As in Scotch?”

“Sorry.” I almost laughed at his woebegone expression, but caught myself in time. I really should be grateful, having Zorro gallop into the hacienda to rescue me. “Please, sit down. You look exhausted. Was it a hard trip?”

“No, I just stayed up late with some friends, and did an interview early this morning. It’s no big deal.” Still, he slumped onto the couch and let his head fall heavily back against the cushions.

“Have you eaten? I could make you an omelet.”

“Scotch would be better,” he said to the ceiling, more in sorrow than in anger. “But an omelet would be nice.”

I bustled into the kitchen, wondering belatedly if I had any eggs. There were just two left, small ones at that, but I searched further and exhumed a weary half of an onion and a stub of cheddar. It took only minutes to sauté the one and grate the other, and slice the last of the French bread. I even arranged the omelet and toast on a tray, and added a glass of Chardonnay in case Aaron changed his mind. I finger-combed my hair, put on a gracious smile, and carried my handiwork into the living room.

Zorro was deep asleep.

I stood irresolute, listening to the whisper of rain on the lake, wondering whether to wake him. Aaron was always so
animated, hectoring me with questions and wisecracks, that I rarely just looked—really looked—at his face.

His lips were parted slightly now, showing neat white teeth, and his hair, shiny-straight and almost blue in its blackness, tumbled across the high forehead and nearly touched the smooth, arched eyelids. His exposed throat made him seem young and vulnerable.

But only briefly. With a gasp and a snort, my handsome houseguest began to snore, which pretty much killed the mood. I shook my head, smiling, and bore the tray back to the kitchen. The omelet smelled wonderful, so I ate it, and tossed off the wine as well. Then I covered Zorro with a blanket and went to bed.

I was a long time drifting off. Questions kept marching through my mind, relentless ranks of soldiers on parade. Was Skull ever going to show up, or would I have to look over my shoulder for days on end? Or more than days? What if my call stampeded him into attacking one of the other women? Would Tommy Barry pull through, and would he be safe if he did? What if the guard at the hospital slept at his post… slept…

I slept at last, fitfully, plagued by dreams. In the midst of one nonsensical nightmare—something about a thunderstorm, and being clawed by a cat—somebody slid a hand up my leg, from ankle to knee. I gave a little screech and sat up, clutching the comforter around my bare shoulders.

“Leave me alone!”

“I’ve been trying to, Sleeping Beauty.”

It was Tuesday morning, and Aaron was sitting on the edge of my bed with a Cheshire-cat grin. His jaw showed a heavy stubble and his clothes were a crumpled mess, but aside from that, he was repellently brisk and bright-eyed. “I gave it my best shot, but I can’t stand it any longer.”

“Stand what?”

“Starvation. There’s nothing in your kitchen but Zack’s pineapple and a bottle of cheap white wine, and they both smell rotten. I’m perishing out here! Get your clothes on and we’ll go out for breakfast.”

I sank deeper under the covers, whining. “It’s too early for breakfast. I’m not hungry.”

But the issue wasn’t hunger, it was hangover. Unconsciousness, I was sure, would be infinitely preferable to this all-too-familiar combination of flannel mouth, sledgehammer head, and remorse. Did I really drink a whole bottle of Pinot Noir?

“I’m going back to sleep. Go away.”

“No deal, Stretch. Come on, up and at ’em. Or would you rather I joined you under there?” The hand slid under the comforter, higher this time.

“Cut it out, Aaron! Can’t you wait a while?”

“You’re awfully crabby for a damsel in distress, you know that? Here I came all this way for a false alarm, and you—”

“What false alarm? Skull is after us! He killed Angela.”

“That’s not what Graham seems to think.” Aaron began to pat his pockets, hunting for cigarettes.

“Well, Graham is wrong, and so are you. And don’t you dare smoke in here. Go outside.”

“Not unless you get up.” His dark eyes held a spark of irritation now. “I mean it. If you want a bodyguard, you’ve got to feed him.”

“I don’t want a bodyguard!”

“Well, what do you want?” He stood up, rifling his pockets in earnest.

“I want you out of my bedroom. And then—”

The phone rang, which was just as well since I didn’t
really know how to finish my sentence. And then what? Hide out from Lester Foy forever? Aaron left the room and I grabbed the receiver.

“Ms. Kincaid? Graham. There was another sexual assault last night, right near the Sims woman’s building.”

“Not a murder?”

“Not this time. We’ve got a chance to make an arrest today, so I can’t spare the time for your…”

“My hunch?”

“Exactly. Just take sensible precautions, and stay in touch with my office, all right?”

“Of course. Lieutenant, about last night, I really appreciate—”

“Got to go.” And he hung up.

When I emerged from the bedroom, dressed but still cranky, Aaron was out on the deck in his shirtsleeves, grinding one cigarette underfoot while he lit another. Last night’s rain had emptied the lower clouds, and the sky showed a high, faded blue streaked with fast-moving mares’ tails. His khaki windbreaker was lying on the couch, so I carried it out to him, holding it distastefully with two fingers.

“This smells of smoke.”

“Excuse me for living. Who was that on the phone?”

“None of your business.”

“Come on, Stretch, I can read you like a book. Something’s happened.”

I related Graham’s call about the rapist downtown, and as I did, I felt a sneaking qualm of doubt to go with the queasi-ness in my stomach. Was I wrong about Skull after all? Maybe Angela’s death was unrelated to Mercedes’.

“You see?” said Aaron triumphantly. “That’s who killed Angela Sims, not your phantom Dracula. And I bet I was
right all along about Corinne. She was telling tall tales again, looking for sympathy.”

“But she saw Skull in the Market!”

“No law against being in the Market. Maybe he’s a big fan of vegetables. Come on, let’s get going.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said stubbornly. “I… I’m not feeling well.”

I went back inside and he followed, his thin East Coast voice raised in protest. “Look, Stretch, don’t be embarrassed. You just got carried away with your serial-killer theory, that’s all. This kind of violence would make any woman paranoid. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”

“I’m not paranoid!” I snapped. “And I don’t want any food.”

“Well, I can’t just leave you here.”

“Why not? According to you, I’m not in any danger, I’m just a hysterical, paranoid woman.”

“Calm down!”

“I am calm!” I shouted. “Stop patronizing me, and go get your damn breakfast.”

“Fine.” He shoved his arms into the tangled sleeves of his jacket, got one arm stuck, struggled a bit, and yanked the jacket off again, glaring all the while. Then he stalked through the kitchen and out the front door, banging it behind him and leaving me with the world’s worst headache.

“Fine!” I said to the door. Then I flipped the dead bolt and glared around the kitchen. That pineapple smells perfectly nice, I thought defiantly. I returned to the living room, sniffing the air. The reek of cigarettes was even stronger than I thought. Where does he get off complaining about smells—

“Who the fuck is Angela?”

The reek was coming from Lester Foy, who was standing
just inside the glass door to my deck. He wore motorcycle leathers and massive boots looped with silver chains, and his face held an expression of such brute malevolence that meeting his gaze felt like warding off a blow.

I opened my mouth, but nothing emerged except a feeble gasp. Then last night’s omelet tried to follow the gasp out, and I felt the cold sweat of nausea on my face. The room seemed to tilt.