Killer Chameleon (19 page)

“Keep them there,” I said. “I'm on my way. I got lucky too, thanks to a couple of smart thinkers here at the Bridal Bower. She screwed up, Eddie, and now I have
her
face.”

13

I WAS TOO CLOSE TO GRAYSTONE'S NOT TO STOP
so I zipped around several blocks and lucked out on a parking space across the street from the travel agency. Didn't even have to feed the meter; there was more than enough time left on it. The face of my nemesis in my pocket, an open spot within a few yards of my destination, and a half hour on the parking meter? Hey, things were looking up! Buoyed by this turn of fortune and a decent break in traffic, I jaywalked across the avenue, feeling better than I had in days. Granted that wasn't saying much, but you take what you can get.

I recognized the willowy blonde with the curly hair and no hips immediately. Dolly, sans jacket and absolutely stunning in a coral knit dress that fit her like a coat of paint, stood at the curb in front of Graystone's in animated conversation with a tanned hunk of masculinity in a UPS uniform. He took the package she extended to him, his expression making it clear he could eat her alive without benefit of knife and fork. She shooed him across the avenue to his truck, double-parked on the other side, then saw me approaching.

Her first reaction was to turn the color of a sheet of twenty-weight bond, her second to lose control of the bottom third of her face. Her eyes, a robin's egg–blue, widened.

“
You're
Ms. Warren! I remember you now. Oh, I'm so sorry about my mistake. But I just realized why I assumed the other woman was you. It's your walk!”

“My walk.”

“You have a very distinctive stride,” she said, her cheeks flushing with excitement. “I'm a runway model, part-time, of course, and one of the things they yell at us about is our walk, so I notice other people's. Some sort of stroll or lope, some slam down on their heels or bounce up onto their toes with a lot of head-bobbing. Your stride is smooth and energetic and long, as if you have places to go and look forward to getting there. Your head doesn't move at all and you've got dynamite posture. It makes you seem taller than you really are.”

I can't say it was the first time I'd heard this or variations on the theme. It was one of the reasons I made such an effort to walk without a limp, even on days when my knee was raising hell. Duck claimed he loved to watch me, coming and going, and my Aunt Frances said she'd have recognized me as her sister's child because I walked just like my mom.

“And this other woman?” I asked, guiding Dolly back inside the store. Just looking at her without a coat made me shiver.

“She had the same walk. I could see her from my desk, coming across the street like you did just now, and I knew I'd seen that arm-swinging stride before. Then when she said she had come to cancel the reservations for the Kennedys' trip to Hawaii, I remembered you'd been in a while ago, put the two things together, and just assumed she was the same person. Does that make sense?”

Unfortunately, it did. “Is this the woman?” I showed her the photos.

“Yes! It's funny. Now that I see these I realize you don't look that much alike, feature for feature. You're just similar in type, close to the same coloring, same shaped face and eyes, close to the same height and build, similar hairstyle. But the walk's what fooled me. I'm really sorry.”

I told her to forget it since there was nothing to be gained by stringing her up by her bra. I asked about Margie, hoping there'd be good news in regard to reservations for our honeymoon. No such luck. Margie wouldn't be in for another hour and, as far as Dolly knew, was still working on it.

Deciding I'd be wasting valuable time by waiting around, I left and this time crossed at the light. At the Corvette, I folded myself into it and headed for Southeast Washington.

I'd left a message for Duck about the pictures—to which he hadn't responded—and blessed my luck again when I spotted him outside the Sixth District substation in conversation with a kid in a Boy Scout uniform. I spotted a space around the corner, eased into it and reached him just as the scout was leaving.

No “hello,” no “hi, cutie.” “Where's the Corvette?” he asked, glancing up and down the block.

“Never mind the Vette,” I said. “I left a message for you. Look what I've got.”

I waved the photos under his nose and he grabbed them.

“This is the woman? Terrific, babe! Where'd you get them?”

“She walked into the Bridal Bower yesterday with the receipt for my suit. They caught her on their hidden cameras and made these copies for me.” I swallowed around the lump in my throat, determined not to cry.

He must have sensed how close to the edge I was and folded me in his arms. He still smelled good, fresh, soapy, and woodsy, as if he'd just stepped out of the shower.

“I'm sorry, Leigh. She's really hitting you where it hurts, isn't she?”

“Duck, she got the receipt from your apartment. I'd left it on the desk in the living room.”

He stiffened, leaned back, and looked down at me, Mount Vesuvius rising in his eyes. “You're sure?”

“Yes.” I reminded him of the day I'd been going over expenses, knowing he'd remember since we were both nude at the time. “She must have lifted it the same day she took the box.”

“And the keys to the Chevy. I guess I really should have removed that miniature license tag on the key ring. I'm sorry, babe. It led her right to it. I'm just glad I didn't have an extra set of keys to the place on that pegboard.”

Letting me go, he focused on the two blow-ups. “How the hell could anybody mistake her for you?” he demanded. “She's not even pretty!”

I could have kissed him but there were too many guys in uniform coming and going. “That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. Thank you. The receptionist at Graystone said she walks like me and that's what fooled her. The fitter at the Bridal Bower realized it wasn't the same person she'd altered the suit for but since the woman had the damned receipt, there was nothing they could do but give it to her.”

“Well, in a way this makes me feel better,” he said, still scrutinizing the shots. “I don't know her. There is something familiar about her but I sure as hell never dated her. Look, babe, I'm running late. Get Eddie to make copies of these, enough for Tank and Tina too. And you might want to show these to Ms. Poole, see if she remembers seeing her at all.”

I hadn't thought that far but agreed it was a good idea. “I'm on my way to see Eddie. He's rounded up a couple of the guys who were in the Silver Shaker, so they can take a look at these, since I've got them.”

“Yeah, I've already chewed him out for believing it was you.” He leaned down and kissed me, obviously less concerned than I was about his image as the consummate professional. “Good luck. Keep me posted. I'll see you later. Gotta go.”

I watched as he hopped into the car and pulled into traffic. It occurred to me that running into him had been a stroke of luck for him too. He could scratch finding the two old girlfriends off his list.

 

I found Eddie squinting at a monitor over the rim of the biggest thermal mug I'd ever seen.

“Want some coffee?” he asked, after we'd dispensed with the amenities. On the surface, he was his usual model of sartorial splendor—blinding white shirt, not a wrinkle in sight, navy and blue striped tie, navy slacks with a crease so sharp you could slit your wrists on them. His jacket, which matched the blue in his tie, hugged the back of another chair.

In spirit, however, he seemed to be dragging, Samsonite luggage under his eyes.

“No, thanks.” Squad room coffee could be used to strip paint. “You okay? Nunna would say you look kind of peaked.”

“No sleep. The kids are sick. We were up all night with them. So, let's see the pictures.”

I passed them over and waited while he switched glasses and stared at the photos with narrowed eyes. Behind us, a scuffle broke out, a hefty woman objecting, as far as I could determine, to her arrest on charges of prostitution, maintaining that she'd been giving the man she was with a freebie. He was, she allowed, a gentleman.

Eddie seemed oblivious. “These were taken in the shop?” he asked.

I went through my tale of woe again and added the saga of the canceled reservations and the woman's involvement in Claudia's death.

“Yeah, Duck told me. This is way more serious than I thought.” Deep ridges lined Eddie's forehead. “And you have no idea why she's pulling these stunts?”

“None. I thought for a while she might be one of Duck's old flames out for revenge, but I ran into him outside. He doesn't know her.”

“Me neither, but there is something familiar about her.” He stared at the face a little longer, then shook his head. “Can't put my finger on it. Don't worry, it'll come. Let's find Marshall and Billings.”

Eddie was right; I had never met these two but remembered them from Jensen's wedding, only because Marshall reminded me of Tom Selleck and Billings was a clone of Donald Trump. They looked me over openly and grinned.

“A dead ringer for the woman we saw,” Billings announced. “Lady, you've got a twin walking around out there.”

I swallowed my disappointment. “Then you won't recognize this woman,” I said, and handed them the blow-ups.

“Uh-oh.” Marshall grimaced, peering over the other's shoulder. He looked up at me, down at the photos, then up and down again. “It is her, Bill. Look at the profile. That's where we made our mistake. From the side, you two are a lot alike. And from where we were sitting, that's pretty much all we saw, her profile.”

“I'm not sure,” Billings said, clearly undecided. “What about when she was up dancing?”

“Well, I don't know about you but between that strapless dress and the moves she was making out on that dance floor, I wasn't paying all that much attention to her face then.” He flushed. “I'm sorry, but it's the truth.”

“Did she at any point tell anyone her name was Leigh Warren?” I asked.

“We wouldn't know.” Marshall glanced at Billings for confirmation. “We were in the corner, too far away to hear anything she said. She was just part of the scenery. We were watching the bartender, at least most of the time. That's why we were there.”

“What it is,” Billings said, giving the snapshots back to me, “is one of those cases where two people look alike when you see them separately but not when they're together. Know what I mean?” he asked me, his face intent.

I acknowledged that I did, remembering a pair of fraternal twins in Sunrise who fit that description to a T.

“We're really sorry.” Marshall tucked his cap under his arm. “I hope we didn't cause any trouble between you and Duck. It was an honest mistake.”

“Forget it. And thanks, both of you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” they said together and headed toward the locker room.

“Well, that was certainly enlightening,” Eddie grumbled, as I trailed him back to his desk.

“It really was. What they said made perfect sense and it explains how she's gotten away with things. Besides, there's no proof that she gave my name, and she couldn't have known there would be cops on the scene.”

Eddie slouched in his chair and extended a hand for the photos again. He stared at them intently. “I still say I've seen her somewhere, and it's gonna drive me nuts until I figure out where.”

He made copies for me and kept a set for himself. “You watch your step,” he advised as we parted. “Marilyn and I want you and Duck to be Pat's godparents—”

I squealed, surprising both of us, him because he wasn't expecting it and me because I'd never imagined myself as a squealer. “You do? Honest? Oh, Eddie I'd be honored.”

“That's all well and good, but I want you honored and in one piece. So you take care of yourself, hear?”

I floated out of there. Me, a godmother. Now, all I had to do was stay sane so I could enjoy it. That meant getting this woman off my back once and for all.

It occurred to me that I should check on Clarissa, but had no idea where she lived. I darted back into the station, borrowed a phone book from a harried desk sergeant and found her listed on Holly Street in Northwest Washington—in other words, not that far from where I'd lived for almost ten years.

It was one of those old, white clapboard houses, two-stories, black shutters at the windows, and surrounded with azaleas that would enrich the small yard with color come spring. There was an aura of permanence about the whole block, the sidewalks lined with trees that probably predated the houses they would shade in summer. This was truly representative of the heart of the city, the one rarely seen by tourists. There were hundreds of such old neighborhoods where residents had lived and thrived for decades in quiet stability, far from the monuments and white marble institutes of government and the hordes alighting from chartered buses at the Mall. Yet the most the public ever saw on TV and in newspapers were the recognizable symbols of government and memorials or the seedier areas of the city where crime and poverty thrived. A shame, and a disservice to the rest.

Once on Clarissa's front porch, I hesitated. From the number of voices clearly audible even through the closed door, it was apparent she had a houseful already. I might be intruding, especially if they were all family.