Killer Chameleon (31 page)

“No time to explain,” I said softly, attacking the cord with the knife, listening as she stormed around to the rear, made a complete circuit of the deck, then took the stairs to the upper unit and down again, sounding as if she weighed a ton. “I'm trying to get this door open. When I do, go into the utility room and hide in the stairwell with Clarissa.” I doubted Michelle would leave, not with all her belongings in here. I'd have to deal with her, but I wanted him out of the way first.

Meanwhile, I wasn't having much luck. Either the manufacturer of the blinds had used quality cord or all those nice, shiny blades were just that, nice and shiny. This one damned sure wasn't sharp. I was barely halfway through the cord.

Michelle was back at the door, and my stomach plummeted as my ears detected a sound I hadn't anticipated.

“She has a key?”

“Mine,” Granddad responded. I hadn't realized I'd voiced the question.

But thank God. With all the keys he carried, she would have a hell of a lot of them to try before she found the right one. And I was getting nowhere fast with the knife. Decision time. Go or stay?

The upper half of the front door was glass covered by blinds, partially open. She, however, was engrossed with Granddad's collection of keys, eliminating those that were clearly not for doors. Using these last remaining seconds wisely was imperative. Once she got in, she would search this floor from front to back and I couldn't chance her finding the interior stairwell. She would take out her anger on Clarissa, and I couldn't ask that sweet little lady to endure any more than she already had.

Decision made, I abandoned my efforts to cut through the cord and moved quickly from the hall to the wall behind the door. I had no illusions that I'd be there for very long. I eased the knife up my sleeve again, far less concerned about slitting my wrist, now that I knew better. It probably wouldn't even break skin. Thinking fast, I unbuckled my belt, pulled it free of the loops, and draped it around my neck.

The fourth try and Michelle had caught the golden ring. She pushed the door ajar, yelling as she tried to extricate the key from the lock. “All right, where are you, goddammit?”

I yanked it open, pulling her in. “Right here, Michelle.”

 

I looped an arm around her neck as, off balance, she hurtled into the room. Pulling her upright, I slammed her face front against the wall, my shoulder pinning her as I yanked her left arm behind her and groped for the other, the more important of the two, since the hand on the end of it held the gun.

“Drop it!” I yelled.

“Not before I
kill
you!” Grunting, she tried to hook her foot around my ankle, but couldn't gain purchase. I ignored the footwork. I had to get rid of the pistol. She held it stiff-armed, for the moment, aimed toward the floor.

“Drop it!” Gripping her wrist, I twisted the extended arm a hundred eighty degrees so that her palm faced away from her body, making sure the barrel remained pointing down. “Either you drop it or I'll wrench your arm out of its socket.”

She winced with pain. “Fuck you!”

“Suit yourself.” I slammed her hand against the wall, doing a number on my knuckles as well.

The pistol dropped. I kicked it aside, one eye on it as it slid across the polished wood, coming to rest against the base of the stone hearth. Relieved, I wrestled her arm up behind her back.

Now came the tricky part. Cuffing someone who would rather you didn't is usually a two-person maneuver, and trying it solo is flirting with one's mortality. Trying it solo using a belt instead of cuffs was ludicrous, but it wasn't as if I had any other choice.

“On your knees,” I said. “Slowly and carefully, girl, or I'll break your arm—accidentally, of course, but it'll hurt just as much as intentionally.”

“I
hate
you,” she spat at me, sliding down the wall, leaving a smear of dark chocolate makeup on the white walls.

“No kidding.” I moved with her, lowering myself awkwardly. Putting my weight on the bad knee was something I usually avoided, but I gritted my teeth, settled behind her, then shifted my shoulder to bring my belt within reach of my hands.

She snapped her head back, butting me full in the face.

Stars erupted behind my eyes and my nose seemed to fill, a sensation I'd experienced on the two occasions I'd taken blows to the head. My grip on her wrists loosened, and before the fireworks subsided, she'd dropped onto her side and was scrambling to get up.

I grabbed for her hair, a stupid move, since her wig came off in my hand as she bucked, dislodging me. On all fours now, she started toward the fireplace and the gun. I grasped an ankle and tugged her back toward me. She lashed out with the free foot and clipped me on the ear. Got news for you, not only are old lady shoes ugly, they hurt.

The polished oak planking afforded her little or no resistance as she slid toward me on her face, winding up practically at my side. I hooked a leg around her and literally crawled up her backside, but she bucked me off again, and the main event began, a no-holds-barred free-for-all.

Michelle was manic, clawing, cursing, kicking, spitting, raging. It was like going up against a well-oiled octopus on PCP. She raked her nails across my cheek, went for my eyes. I drove my fist into her nose, split her lip. A new sound from outside, something completely familiar yet incongruous, penetrated my consciousness but I was too busy to identify it.

I might have kept my head if she hadn't connected with my kneecap as we tussled, the toe of her shoe slamming into it as if it had a bull's-eye painted on it. In that instant I knew she had caused serious damage. The pain was searing, intense. Everything that had gone into whipping that joint into reasonable shape, the surgery, the weeks of physical therapy, were now wasted. Not only had this woman stolen my identity, my credit rating, my wedding suit, my peace of mind, she had just stolen my future. The knee felt worse than it had when I'd injured it the first time. My days as a cop were over once and for all.

I lost it. The pain meant nothing. The cold, calculating inner being was back. I was ready to kill.

I have no idea how long the battle lasted; time had no meaning. I have no idea how we wound up on the back side of the fireplace either; we had covered a lot of territory. And I have no idea how she finally managed to get to the gun. All I know is that I was astride her, she was on her back, and suddenly the damned thing was aimed at a point between my eyes.

“Get off me, bitch. Now!”

I held her gaze, my mind clear, untainted by fear or any other emotion. “Not gonna happen.”

She propped herself on her free arm. “I'm gonna kill you. I've dreamed of this for months. You ruined my big chance, the break of my life. You sided with that fat, pasty-faced bitch over me. Over me! A sister!” Her hand shook, but not enough to matter.

I grabbed her wrist, tried to shove her arm to one side or the other. Nothing doing. This girl was strong. I guess there's a lot to be said for carrying trays of food.

“Skip the race card bullshit,” I said as I wrestled with her arm. “What color was that poor old woman in the trunk of my car?”

Her eyes hardened. “What difference does it make? She got out, didn't she? I could have sworn she was dead.”

Her arm was trembling, weakening. “She is. That was her twin you were slapping around a few minutes ago.”

She froze, and I slammed her onto her back, pinning the arm to the floor, the other one flailing.

“You killed an old lady and a sister, any way you mean it. What color was your cousin and the other man? What did you say his name was? Bubba? A sister
and
a brother. You killed them anyway.”

“Yeah,” she snarled, “and I'm gonna kill me one more.”

She twisted onto her side, clipped me on the ear with her free hand, stunning me. Suddenly she had me in her sights again.

Time became elastic, drawn thin. She pulled the trigger. Nothing. She pulled it again. We both watched as the hammer moved back, the cylinder rotated, the hammer slammed forward. End of sequence. With no effect.

I grabbed her wrist, pried the thing from her grasp. “Forget to load it?” I panted. It was lighter than I'd expected.

I looked at it, really looked at it. And shook my head, disbelieving. “You were going to shoot me with a stage prop?”

I began to laugh, I couldn't help it. It began somewhere below my rib cage and trickled out, gaining velocity and volume until I was howling.

“Stop laughing at me!” she yelled, reaching for my throat. “You have no right to laugh at me!”

Outside, the sound I'd heard earlier registered: one of the bands marching past, the bass drum pounding as the horns slaughtered “Deck the Halls.”

It was a sign, had to be. So I did. I drew back and whacked the living hell out of her with her beloved stage prop.

It felt
good
. She was down for the count.

22

“BABE?”

I opened one eye. Then the other. I smiled at him. Closed them again. I was so sleepy. It wasn't time to get up yet, couldn't be. It was still dark. If I could snooze for just a few more minutes . . .

“Babe?”

Okay, if he was going in early, I could have breakfast with him and come back to bed after he'd left. “I'm up, I'm up. You want coffee? Bacon and eggs? What?”

“I've eaten. How do you feel?”

“Like donkey doo. Jeez, my knee's killing me. Guess it's gonna rain.” I forced my eyes open, convinced them to focus by sheer force of will. It was light, in fact, glaringly bright, both indoors and out. And this was not my bed. Correction, our bed.

Confused, I tried to sit up. Wasn't gonna happen. What the hell? Then I remembered. Where was she? For that matter, where was I?

“Duck. Michelle, she's—”

“Easy, babe. She's behind bars, out of your hair once and for all. You got her.”

“Granddad? Clarissa?” The fog was lifting.

“Fine, in better shape than you are by a long shot.”

“Give me a minute,” I said, and fixed my gaze on the ceiling, trying to remember what had happened when. But all I had were snippets of events, pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and no idea what the big picture looked like. “I hit her—”

“More than once, from the looks of her.” Smiling, he pulled a chair next to the bed and perched on its edge, folding his hands around mine.

“A band was playing. Then Granddad came roaring into the room and I got off her and stood up. Or tried to, anyway. That's all I remember clearly. How did he get out of the bathroom?”

“You had weakened the cord around the doorknob just enough. He kept yanking until it finally gave.” Duck chuckled. “A bloodthirsty old dude, your grandfather. He's still fuming at missing the big fight. It must have been a championship bout. The place was a mess. So are you.” He reached to smooth my cheek.

“Ow! I'd say you should have seen the other guy, except I don't remember how bad she looked.”

“Worse than you,” he assured me. “The broken jaw is the deciding factor.”

For the first time I was fully awake. “I broke her jaw?” I thought about it. “Good. Where am I? Did she hurt me that badly? I think I remember being in an ambulance.”

“Washington Hospital Center. And congratulations on your new knee.”

“What?” I yanked the cover aside. No wonder the thing hurt. The top of a bandage two inches thick was all that was visible under wraps around both legs that expanded and contracted periodically to prevent blood clots. A tube snaked from under the throbbing knee and disappeared over the edge of the bed. I became aware of a slight discomfort in my back, remembered my previous experience with an epidural. I hadn't even noticed the IV in my arm.

“When did this happen? In fact, what day is it? When did you get back?”

Duck laughed, concern finally leeching from his features. “You don't remember? Your granddad said you probably wouldn't. It's Tuesday. The surgery was early this morning. I got here just before they wheeled you in. And if I'm ever hurt again, I want whatever the hell they gave you. You were one happy chick, babe, singing ‘Deck the Halls' all the way. Evidently you've been caroling practically nonstop since you arrived.”

I'm glad he thought it was funny. I didn't. I was missing almost a day and a half. It had to be the morphine or whatever they'd used.

A nurse who looked too young to be trusted with a thermometer came in and smiled. “Ms. Warren. You're awake. I'll go find Dr. Brady.” She grinned. “I'll be sure and tell him you're not singing.”

Things were beginning to make sense. Dr. Brady had pieced my knee together the first time.

“Okay, I give,” I said, in surrender. I located the controls, elevated the head of the bed, and raised it. “Fill in the gaps for me before Dr. Brady gets here. After the fight is pretty hazy. How did Michelle get in in the first place?”

“Your cousin—what's her name, Amalie? She closed the door but didn't realize you have to lock it from outside with a key, like our place. Michelle had been there since she split from the Trilby. She'd been looking for you most of the day and took a chance you might have gone to Ourland again. And she'd seen you out on the deck the other night. When she found the door unlocked, she simply took advantage of it. Your grandmother's threatening to burn the bed she slept in.”

“No kidding.” I couldn't imagine Elizabeth getting that steamed over anything. “They have the gun, right? One more of her dirty tricks. It fooled me, all right.”

“You aren't gonna believe this, babe. She didn't know it wasn't real. And there are bullets in it, but they're fake, too. It's all in her journals, three-ring binders. She lifted the gun from a box in the manager's office of one of the theater companies she worked with. And she's used it a couple of times in hold-ups when she was low on money, a couple of liquor stores and a 7-Eleven. She's lucky she didn't get shot herself.”

“Depends on your point of view,” I said, wondering how much of my skin wound up under her nails. “To hell with her. How'd I wind up here? Oh, my God, Janeece's Cadillac!”

“She's got it. Tank and Tina came out, and Tank drove it back to D.C. As for you, according to Dr. Ritch, when you stood up, your leg went out from under you and you passed out from the pain. So there he is, still gimpy himself, with two unconscious females on his hands. He went outside and yelled for someone to call nine-one-one, which, I understand, put an end to the parade, then used the cord from the doorknobs to tie up Michelle. By this time, Clarissa had come out, so she was able to help keep an eye on her while your granddad examined you. You were bloody and bruised, but the only real problem was your knee. I'll let him describe it for you with all the technical stuff, but he could see that it was serious.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. The career-ending kind of serious.

“Chin up, honey,” Duck said, perhaps sensing my nosedive into the toilet. “It'll be fine, in time. Anyhow, the EMTs took you to the local hospital. In the interim, Clarissa called Tank, and he called me in Seattle. I told him to ask your granddad to arrange for you to be transferred here, since I figured you'd want Doc Brady to do whatever had to be done. I took the next flight I could get, checked with Tank when I got in, and he told me you were about to go into surgery. Ten minutes later and I'd have missed you. You're gonna be fine.”

Yeah, right. “And Michelle?”

“In custody of Anne Arundel county until the paperwork's done to take her back to the District. They've got her for the murders at Celebrations, found her prints on one of the wastebaskets and the heavy-duty stapler she bludgeoned her cousin with. It's all in her journals.”

“Hope it's enough to hang her,” I said, elevating the head of the bed even more. “Wait a minute. She killed her cousin with a stapler?”

“Heavy-duty, evidently heavy enough to do the job. She took out the other cleaner, Borden Something-or-other, with a carving knife.”

“Lordy, how awful. They didn't deserve that. What's her journal say about Claudia?”

“She knew it was the day Clarissa usually came to clean and she planned to return the box and leave. After she found out last Monday that you were still living with Janeece, she hoped you wouldn't realize the box had ever been removed, and would never be able to figure out how she'd gotten your Social Security number and all the other personal information she used. Only she and Claudia arrived about the same time and got on the elevator together. Evidently Claudia went off on her as they were going up, told her she'd lied about who she was. Michelle pulled that stupid gun on her, and took her back down to the garage. All she wanted to do was stash her somewhere, keep her quiet until she could get away. She was wearing rubber gloves so she wouldn't leave any prints on the box, and there's some guesswork from this point. Evans has had to piece it together by reading between the lines. It looks like the gloves got in the way when Michelle was trying to gag Claudia with the scarf she was wearing, and she must have taken them off. There's powder from her hands all over it. With the gag in place, Claudia inhaled the particles and went into anaphylactic shock almost immediately. Michelle thought she was faking, pushed her into the trunk, and left her.”

A tightness filled my chest as I imagined what Claudia must have gone through.

“In the interim,” Duck said, “Clarissa leaves, figuring her sister's forgotten to come get her. Michelle's just about to make her escape in her car, and who shows up? You, Tank, and Tina.”

“So she just waited, followed us around and then out to Ourland?”

“You got it, babe. Once you saw her, she hightailed it back. Then she realized she was missing one of the gloves. She had to find it, so she came back to check around the Chevy. She opened the trunk, saw that Claudia was dead and assumed she'd suffocated. She decided the best thing to do was move the car, park it in Northern Virginia somewhere, only Grandison came down to leave for work and saw her. You know the rest.”

“In other words, manslaughter's probably the most she could be charged with for Claudia's death, but the stapler and the carving knife will put her under the jail for a good long time.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Wait,” he said, knowing full well I was about to blow. “She is mentally ill, babe, diagnosed as a schizophrenic in her teens.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm afraid not. Her family—and she's lived with every relative she has—says she'd be fine for a while, then stop taking her medication. She missed her voices, the ones that told her she's a star, destined for big things. Your grandfather says that from the time the Anne Arundel boys showed up to take her away, she's been raving about how it was all a mistake, that she was a serious actress just working up a part for a play.”

“Yeah, right.”

“She's been going through different characters ever since. In handcuffs, and with a broken jaw, even. Dr. Ritch says she became an old crone, a Southern belle, a gospel-spouting minister, and Lady Macbeth one after the other, all in the space of five minutes, and she was astonishing. Then she went off on you, ranted about a conspiracy between you and Bev Barlowe, and the next thing she's Blanche in
Streetcar,
‘relying on the kindness of strangers.' ”

“Sounds like the old multiple-personality scam to me,” I protested.

“Maybe, but that's not the impression I got from talking to your grandfather. He went to the lockup to check on her. He thinks she's grounded in a different reality, fighting to survive as what her voices have told her she is, a supremely gifted actress. Survival to her means eliminating anyone in her way.”

“For instance, me.” Call me a poor sport, I don't care. After what she'd put me through, I wasn't feeling generous.

“Not just you,” Duck said, his voice gentle. “That business in the Silver Shaker? She was working on a character, a prostitute. The auditions were last Monday morning, and she didn't get the part, just the usual kiss-off, a ‘thank you for coming.' She freaked, tried to attack the director. They should have reported it. They didn't.”

“So that might have been another ‘gotcha' that sent her further over the edge.”

“Oh, yeah. And she takes getting into a role seriously. During that rant against you, she told your granddad it took her hours to perfect your walk.”

All for nothing, I mused, since I'd never walk that way again.

“Well, it's nice to see you awake.” Dr. Brady strode in, a sweet, teddy bear of a man. “But don't ever let anyone tell you that you can sing. How's the pain? Manageable?”

Duck stood, shook his hand, thanked him, then excused himself. “I'll be back,” he assured me. “Got a couple of things to take care of.”

With his departure, I began a slide into the doldrums again. “So what's the verdict, Doc? Will I have to use a cane from now on?”

He lowered his head, peered at me over his glasses. “I'm insulted. You doubt my work? That's a state-of-the-art knee you've got there, young lady. With physical therapy and a decent exercise program afterward, you'll walk without an aid of any sort. Not immediately, but eventually. You'll be fine, Leigh. You have my word on it.”

He became a blur behind a sheen of tears. I knew him well, knew he wouldn't bullshit me. “Honestly? I can still be a cop?”

He snorted. “You can be any damned thing you want to be. I tried to avoid total replacement before because of your age. No way around it this time, so resign yourself to going through this again in about ten years. Now let's take a look at my superior workmanship.”

 

It's no news to anyone that they don't coddle you after surgery. I dozed most of that day but by the next day, they had removed my catheter, epidural, and the drain from above the site of the surgery and had walked me slowly but steadily to the bathroom, where getting on and off the toilet proved to be an adventure in itself.