With Deadly Intent (7 page)

“Good, that's one small victory.” Simon raked his fingers through hair that was already
wind tousled. “Her file says she was born in White Bird, Montana and worked at the
Marchmont Hospital there before moving to Seattle. Looked up the town, it's out in the
middle of nowhere.” He frowned. “How the hell did someone as sophisticated as Elise ever
spring from a place like that?”

Amy smiled faintly. “Personality and circumstances have more affect than the size of the
town.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” He gnawed his lip and glanced across at Amy. “I still want
to check out Tambor. Make sure he's not hiding anything.” He regarded her intently.
“I've got a plan. Only thing is, I need someone to drive the getaway car.”

She set down her coffee mug. “The getaway car? Good grief, what've you got cooked-up this
time?”

He inched closer and lowered his voice. “The disposal truck empties the doctor's dumpster
tomorrow.” He cocked his head and grinned. “So I want to steal his trash tonight.”

Simon herded the rented van down the suburban street at a crawl that caused Amy to grind
her teeth. She'd endured the repeated honking of the drivers behind them as Simon
plugged along the freeway at a sedate pace while everyone else was going sixty plus. Her
impatience finally got the better of her. “Speed up a little, or you'll get a ticket for
impeding traffic.”

“Don't bug me. Dammit, I haven't driven on the right hand side of the road for months.”

“Oh ... sorry. I guess that
would
muddle a person's mind.” She tried to
concentrate on the scenery.

Bruised-looking clouds pressed down on the roof tops of the village as if to blot it out.
On either side of the broad thoroughfare, warehouse-type buildings were scattered in a
hodge-podge fashion over wide sweeps of black asphalt—Payless, Pay'n Save, Pay'n Pak,
liquidators, bargain marts, and thrift stores.

Sodium flood lights edged the street giving buildings, cars, and anemic shrubbery the
sharp, hard-edged clarity of an operating room.

A brisk wind had sprung up, and as they passed a fast food drive-in, gusts swirled soft
drink containers and hamburger cartons into the air.

Amy prayed the weather would keep people inside. Probably a law against garbage-napping
hadn't yet been enacted, but if someone caught them, she'd be darned embarrassed.

“They've got medical buildings all over the place in this part of town.” Simon signaled,
took a right, drove half a block and made an abrupt left into a narrow alley that ran
behind an oblong, four-story building.

He gestured to the right. “That's Dr. Tambor's. His office is on the top floor. It's a
new building and the other offices are still vacant.” He backed up to a large, blue,
metal bin, stopped and shut off the motor.

Darkness settled around them. Only the whoosh of the wind and the tick-tick of the
cooling motor broke the silence. A shiver coursed through her. As a member of the mobile
crime lab team, she'd been to scenes of robberies, murders, and assaults. Yet each time
she found herself quivering, her senses as touchy as an exposed nerve.

“Won't you have to crawl inside the dumpster?” she asked.

“Probably. I'll load the bags I can reach first.” He zipped his jacket. “Slide behind the
steering wheel soon as I get out.”

“I will. Be careful.”

“Don't worry. My friends on the P.I. and
Times
would love to run a story about me
getting hauled in for malicious mischief or some other such charge.” He pushed open the
door, stepped out, and eased it closed until the catch snapped.

She heard the crunch of his footsteps, then he yanked open the rear doors and a blast of
cold air struck her neck. Seconds later, white plastic bags began to thud onto the
carpeting behind her. After a few minutes, all was silence. She pictured Simon hoisting
himself over the rim of the bin.

A moment later, a tossed bag thudded on the pavement, something inside “popped” and glass
clattered. She jumped out of the van and ran to the dumpster. “Hand them to me,” she
whispered, grabbing the bag he was about to drop over the side. “I'll do the loading.”

She moved rapidly between him and the vehicle, until her breath wheezed and her
perspiration-dampened clothing stuck to her skin. A searchlight brushed the trees
bordering a side street and she crouched down. “Quick, Simon, a patrol car.”

“Go start the motor.”

She'd just hoisted herself into the front seat and started fumbling for the key when a
thump and a muffled oath came from the dumpster.

She turned the key in the ignition. The motor ground, but didn't catch. The arching
lights came closer. Damn. She rubbed sweat-slicked fingers on her jeans.

Behind her, the loaded sacks gave a rustling, scritchity sound as Simon gave them a
shove, and slammed the rear door. An instant later, he tumbled into the seat beside her.
“Hurt my ankle,” he gasped. Down the alley a car turned in and came toward them, its
headlights growing brighter by the second. “Get going, Amy. We gotta get out of here.”

She gave the key another twist and held her breath. The motor roared to life. She fed in
the clutch, shifted gears, jammed her foot on the accelerator and rocketed into the
doctor's parking lot. Spying an outlet, she swerved around a concrete barrier, plunged
between a row of bare limbed oaks, and hit the side street going fifty. She braked,
fish-tailed and spun sideways. “Hang on.” She steadied the van, double-clutched and
peeled out leaving a patch of rubber half a block long.

“Jesus Maria,” Simon breathed. “I've taken up with a female hot-rodder.”

Amy glanced in the rearview mirror, saw no one in pursuit, switched on her headlights,
and slowed to a legal speed. “Just a little something Oren taught me,” she said, and
turned to grin at Simon. “Did I scare you?”

“Oh, no, I always go around with my heart in my mouth.” He rubbed his ankle. “We'll off
load at my condo. He glanced sideways. “If we get there.”

She delivered him, nervous but unscathed, and was glad to find the condo had underground
parking. They'd attracted enough attention for one night.

Simon hobbled from van to elevator carrying four bags to her two until they had the six
by eight foot space crammed full. Upstairs Simon flipped a switch to hold the elevator
on his floor and led the way to his apartment.

After the traumatic discovery the night before, Amy dreaded going inside. When he swung
the door inward, her mouth nearly dropped open. The room had been stripped clean. All
the furniture, pictures, drapes, even the elaborate chandelier and white carpeting were
gone. She felt sick and could scarcely bear to think what this new blow would do to him.
“Oh, Simon, you do have the worst luck.”

His chuckle surprised her. “Frankly, I think it's a vast improvement.” She pivoted to
stare at him, and he laughed out loud. “Soon as I left your place this morning, I
commissioned some people to clear out the stuff Elise bought and sell it.”

“You didn't get rid of the things in your study, did you?”

“No, but if I don't start doing some decent writing soon, that's going too.” He started
back to the waiting elevator and its bulging contents. “Let's put the sacks in the
kitchen.”

She followed him out and noticed his limp had grown worse. After they dumped the first
load, she said, “You'd better let me take a look at your ankle.”

“I'm okay”

As he started out after another batch, she planted herself in front of him. “Like hell.
I'll get the rest of the sacks. You can start going through the ones we've brought in.”

He scowled at her, his face closed and resentful. “I'll do as I damn please.”

She didn't budge. “You had any first aid training, mister?”

“So what if I haven't?”

“I've been to medical school and
I
know what
I'm
doing.” He didn't unbend
an iota, so she went on, “A sprain's nothing to mess with; So stop being so blasted
macho.”

His eyes shifted and he shrugged. “All right, all right. Have it your own way.”

“Sit down, please.” She gave an inward sigh as he sank down on the white, gold-flecked
linoleum. She removed his shoe and sock. His ankle had already begun to swell. She
gently palpated the bones. “Don't feel a break,” she said at last. “But soon as we're
through here, we'd better get it x-rayed. You could have a hairline fracture.”

He reached for his shoe. “Knock it off. We've got work to do.”

“Sit still, I'm not through.” Luckily, someone had filled the refrigerator's ice trays.
Aware of his eyes following her, she tied several cubes in a plastic bag and dropped
them into the toe of his navy blue sock. “Got a safety pin?”

He scrutinized her with a blank expression. “What would I be doing with a safety pin?”

She found one in her purse, fastened the makeshift cold pack around his ankle and sat
back on her heels. “That ought to do until we can get you to the emergency room.”

He peered down at her handiwork. “That's it?” His lips twitched. “You went to medical
school to learn how to do that?” He let out a howl of laughter.

She smiled, then began to chuckle. Each time they glanced at each other their laughter
grew in volume until both of them lay limp and gasping on the floor.

Finally, Simon sat up and wiped his streaming eyes. “God, I needed that. I really, really
needed to let go.”

Amy struggled to her feet. “Me too.” She tossed him a sack of trash to start on. “Do you
have any plastic gloves? You never know what might end up in a doctor's waste can.” He
pointed to a drawer. She brought him a pair, stuck another in her jeans pocket, and went
to bring in the rest of the bags.

Soon both of them were at opposite ends of the kitchen transferring wads of crumbled
paper—gowns, drapes, sheets, table covers—from a full bag to an empty one.

They worked quickly, each scrabbling through the mounds of litter like dogs after a bone.
Amy had labored through ten sacks when Simon let out a long, “Ah-h-h.” She straightened
and massaged her aching shoulders. “Find something?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. Don't get your hopes up.” He pushed himself upright and teetered on
one foot. “I need some paste and a desk to work on.” He grinned at her. “Carry on, doc,”
he said, and hopped off toward his study.

She toiled through two more sacks, pausing from time to time to glance toward the study
and wonder what Simon had found. She untied the last bag. Inside were copies of
Medical Economics, Physician's Management,
and dog-eared issues of
The New
England Journal of Medicine.

After tossing the magazines aside, she sorted through messages from doctors, patients,
and pharmacies. Under these, she came upon some torn fragments of paper. She picked them
out, lay them on the counter and went to borrow Simon's paste.

“Take a look at this,” Simon said, as she came in. He wore amber-framed glasses that
added new dimensions to his sturdy features.

She leaned over the desk. Scraps of a colored photograph lay scattered in all directions.
On a sheet of paper, he'd put together enough of the bits to produce the upper portion
of a woman's face.

“It's Elise.” He pushed back strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

Amy's dampened optimism gave a gentle shake and began to unfurl. “Her and Oren's
apartment didn't have any photos at all. Although Oren might have had some at his
office.” She mulled the thought over for a moment. “Did Elise give you a picture?”

“Nope. She didn't like having her picture taken.”

Amy bent and studied a jagged fragment, then fitted it into an empty space below Elise's
cheek bone. “So why would she give an eight by ten photograph to someone in Tambor's
office?”

“That, as they say, is the sixty-four dollar question. Did you come up with anything?”

“Pieces of torn paper. Got any more paste?” She took the paper and glue stick he handed
her and returned to the kitchen. The task proved difficult until she established the
approximate size; after that the whole thing went together easily. When fully
reassembled, she found it to be a master charge slip from Sibleys on Fifth Avenue. The
slip had been imprinted October third and listed the purchase of a coat and some
jewelry.

With reserved anticipations, she took her handiwork in to Simon. “What do you think?”

He looked at the listed prices and whistled. “The man's certainly not cheap.” He folded
his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Tambor's wife and daughters are small and
slender. If that coat turns out to be a size ten, we've got a real lead.”

Amy chewed the inside of her lip and frowned. “Elise and Oren were to be married in
December. Surely she wouldn't have accepted an expensive gift from another man two
months before her wedding?”

Simon raised his shoulders in an elaborate shrug and shook his head. “Sibleys' accounting
department would have the coat's size. Rotten part is, they won't give out the
information to just anybody.”

Amy glanced at her watch. “I know a detective or two who might be able to find out for
me. Your phone hooked up?” At his nod, she made a couple of calls and found a man who
promised to see what he could do. When she finished, she turned back to Simon. “How's
your project coming?”

“Nearly finished.” He swabbed the remaining three pieces with glue, stuck them in place
and wiped his fingertips on a rag. “Well, there she is.”

“Can I pick it up?”

“Sure, go ahead.” He folded his hands behind his head and tilted back his chair.

She held the picture at arm's length and ran through her usual routine. Blonde hair, high
forehead, thick eyebrows, round blue eyes, straight nose, and fall sensual lips that
drooped at the corners. “Did she have periods of depression?”