All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  What’s going on? she wondered, as he sank down beside her on the sofa, still holding tight to her hand. Had Matt phoned him and boasted of their tryst? Was this sudden interest in her day part of some elaborate ruse, a prelude to his tossing her out on her sore back? “Well, I told you that Marsha Buchanan has been giving me a hard time lately…”

  He nodded, waited for her to continue.

  Which was definitely not the Noah she’d come to expect. That Noah was always interrupting her, correcting her, telling her to speed things up, that he didn’t need to hear every trivial little detail.

  “Well,” she continued, “she’s called for a performance review on Monday, which means if I don’t shape up, I’ll probably lose my job.”

  A look of genuine concern settled on Noah’s handsome face.

  Not that he was anywhere near as good-looking as Matt, Heather thought. But then, few men were. Few men were as arrogant either.

  “I didn’t realize things were that bad.”

  “She picks on me for every little thing,” Heather elaborated, warming to her subject. “Honestly, I don’t know what her problem is. I think she’s just jealous or something.”

  “So, what’d she pick on today?”

  “Same old crap. We have another presentation tomorrow, so I thought I’d better stay late, make sure everything was ready. I even had to cancel my hair appointment.” She motioned vaguely in the direction of her head, hoping this little ad lib would be enough to keep him from questioning what had happened to her hair.

  Noah’s hand reached up to tuck some stray strands behind one ear. “Looks nice,” he said.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does,” he insisted. “It’s sexy.”

  Why was he being so nice to her? Heather wondered. Was he setting her up?

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Else?”

  “You look like you’ve been crying.”

  Shit, Heather thought. When had he become so observant? Or she, so transparent? “I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed, I guess.”

  He drew her back against the pillows, began planting soft kisses along the side of her neck.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, Heather thought. Tonight? Of all nights?

  “You smell so good,” he said.

  Seriously? She felt his hand on her breast. Good God! She jumped to her feet.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I just feel kind of…I don’t know…grubby.”

  He smiled. “I like grubby.”

  Shit. What was she supposed to do now?

  “It’s okay,” he said, as if he could read her mind. “I know just the thing.”

  “You do?”

  “Don’t move.” He pushed off the sofa and left the room.

  Seconds later, she heard the bathwater running, and a few minutes after that, he was back in the living room. “Your bath awaits, milady.”

  “You poured me a bath? That’s so sweet.”

  “Yeah, well. I realized I haven’t been the greatest boyfriend in the world these last few weeks.”

  “You don’t have to be the greatest…” She felt an unfamiliar, and decidedly unpleasant, stab of guilt.

  “Sure I do. Anyway, go have your bath, and I’ll see you after.”

  “What about dinner? I’m starving.”

  “We can worry about that later. Go have your bath before the water gets cold.”

  She nodded, wobbling toward the hallway.

  “Love the shoes,” Noah called after her.

  * * *

  —

  She stayed in the bath for more than half an hour, topping it up with hot water regularly to soothe her sore back and wondering what to do about Noah. Clearly he was in an amorous mood. But what about her? Could she have sex with more than one man on the same night, within hours of each other?

  Not that she hadn’t done it before. She’d had sex with both Johnny Valente and his brother Vince at a frat party, but that was almost fifteen years ago and she’d been pretty wasted. Then there was that six-month period a couple of years back when she was dating three different guys and sleeping with all of them.

  Good times, she thought with a smile.

  Of course, none of those had been exclusive relationships, and she was pretty sure the men had been doing the same thing, so technically she hadn’t been cheating. Tonight was different. She’d definitely crossed a line. She felt another twinge of guilt. Damn it. Why had Noah picked tonight of all nights to turn into a knight in shining armor?

  Except he wasn’t exactly wearing armor, she thought as he walked into the room, carrying a tray, with nothing but a towel around his waist. The tray contained a selection of cheese and crackers and two glasses of champagne.

  “What’s this?”

  He perched on the side of the tub. “You said you were starving.”

  “So I did.”

  “There’s Brie, cheddar, and Cambozola, which, if memory serves, is your favorite.”

  “Wow.” She helped herself to a cracker with a thick slab of Cambozola.

  “Have some champagne.” He lowered the tray to the tile floor and handed her one of the glasses.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Does there have to be an occasion?”

  “No. It’s just that…” Dear God, was he going to propose?

  He bent toward her, covering her mouth with his. She felt his tongue slide between her teeth.

  “Careful,” she mumbled. “I have a mouthful of cheese and crackers.”

  “Move over.” He stood up, discarded his towel, and climbed into the tub. He raised his glass, clinked it against hers. “To you.”

  “Right back at you,” she said, taking a slow, careful sip of the bubbly liquid, wondering if she was going to find an engagement ring at the bottom of her glass. She’d have to be careful not to choke on it.

  Would she say yes?

  And was she seriously considering marrying a man she’d cheated on less than two hours ago? A man she’d been considering dumping?

  Why not? Heather thought, imagining the look of shock and dismay on Paige’s face at the sight of her new engagement ring. She hoped the ring would be at least four carats, big enough to make an impression. She hoped Noah wouldn’t demand it back in the event she called off the wedding somewhere down the road. Of course, if she were to marry him, then it would be hers to keep, even if she decided against keeping the groom. Heather took another sip of champagne, looking for the telltale sparkle at the bottom of the glass.

  But Noah was already removing the glass from her hand and depositing both slender flutes on the floor beside the tub. “Turn around,” he instructed.

  What now? she thought, scooting into position, waiting for him to surround her with his arms, hold a diamond ring up to her eyes.

  “Where’s the soap?” he said instead.

  “What?”

  “The soap,” he repeated. “What’d you do with it?”

  She fished through the water, finding the soap between her legs and passing it over her shoulder.

  “I’ll do your back,” he said.

  “No,” she began. But he was already running his soapy hands across her shoulders and down her spine.

  “What’s this?” he asked, stopping.

  Heather held her breath. “What’s what?”

  “There’s this big red mark.”

  “There is?”

  “Looks really sore. Can’t you feel it?” He pressed down on it with his thumb.

  Heather bit her tongue to keep from crying out. “I guess I must have banged into something at work.”

  “Looks pretty nasty. Poor baby,” he said, his hands leaving her back to massage her breasts. “How’s this feel?”
<
br />   “Not bad,” she said.

  “Just not bad?” he teased, pressing his erection against her.

  “Why don’t we go into the bedroom?” she suggested, swiveling back around.

  His response was to grab her legs and position them around his waist. “Why don’t we stay right here?”

  “No, I’d really rather—”

  “You’re always complaining I’m not spontaneous enough,” he said, his hands lifting her into position.

  Really? she thought as he entered her. What was it tonight with men and bathrooms? Was there a full moon?

  “You didn’t like that?” he asked when they were out of the tub and drying off.

  “It was okay,” she said.

  “Just okay?”

  “Except for the part where I almost drowned.”

  He laughed. “Sorry about that. Guess we should stick to dry land.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” A better idea would have been for you to propose, so that I could show off my new engagement ring at the party on Saturday night. Guess that’s not happening.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You seem a little distracted. What are you thinking about?”

  “Did you know that Paige is bringing a date to my father’s party?” Heather asked in reply.

  Noah stopped drying his legs and stood up straight. “No. How would I know that? Who is it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious.” He grabbed his bathrobe from a hook on the door. “I’m gonna go watch the game,” he said.

  “What about dinner?”

  “I think there’s some leftovers in the fridge.”

  Not to mention, the one standing right here, Heather thought as he walked from the room. She could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he was more than just curious about the man Paige would be bringing to the party.

  He was upset.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  He’s lying on top of his bed, his hand down the front of his pants, scrolling through his phone for pictures of his most recent dates. This is how he prefers to think of the women he kills. As dates, not victims. After all, he isn’t some cowardly stalker lurking in a dark alley, waiting to ambush whatever unsuspecting female stumbles into his path. He takes great pains to woo his women; he pours his heart out in texts and phone calls, suggests meeting up only when they feel comfortable, buys them drinks, seduces them with his charm and good looks, makes them feel special. He never resorts to threats or violence to get them to go with him. They follow him willingly, enter his apartment eagerly, their heads already spinning with thoughts of wedding bells and forever.

  They get forever, all right, although not quite the forever they had in mind.

  Forever dead, he thinks with a smile, stroking himself with greater urgency.

  He watches the women parade before his eyes, like contestants in a perverse Miss Universe pageant: Chelsea, with her long neck in a noose; Tiffany, tear-filled eyes wide with terror; Nadia, seconds after she drew her final breath.

  And then there she is, the woman who will be his crowning glory, his parting gift to the great city of Boston: Paige Hamilton, aka Wildflower. He’s snapped at least a dozen pictures of her in the last few days. In one, she is standing outside the building where she lives with her mother; in another, she is emerging from the towering John Hancock Building, brown hair blowing in the breeze; in yet another, she is climbing into a taxi on Commonwealth Avenue.

  He groans as his climax approaches, his body shuddering with the welcome release. He sits up quickly, wipes himself off, tucks himself in. It’s time to get this ball rolling. He’s been patient long enough. What was it his mother used to say? “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…”

  Time to go to the mountain, he decides, switching from photos to messaging on his phone, no longer annoyed that Paige has yet to contact him. She’s cagey, that one. He admires that. Hasn’t he known from the first night he saw her that she wouldn’t be as easy as the others, that she would be a true test of his skills?

  Hey, Wildflower, he types. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Really hoping we can try again.

  He is waiting for a response when he thinks he hears someone at the door.

  He clicks off the phone, listens as the knock becomes louder and more insistent. “Who is it?” he calls out.

  “It’s Jenna Lebowski,” a woman calls back.

  Jenna? She must be his landlady’s daughter, the one who wants to put Imogene in a home. What the hell does she want?

  “The police are downstairs,” she says, answering his silent question. “They want to ask you a few questions.”

  His heartbeat quickens. The police are here? What does that mean? That someone saw him dragging Nadia’s body to his car? That someone identified him as the man they saw with Tiffany Sleight on the night she disappeared? That there will be no more “dates”? That he will never get the chance to turn his fantasies about Paige into a reality?

  He checks his demeanor in the mirror on the wall by the front door, making sure he looks calm and presentable. Well, obviously way more than presentable, he thinks, noting the look of pleasant surprise on Jenna Lebowski’s face when he opens the door.

  She’s at least fifty, and round in the manner of sturdy Polish stock. Her hair is a touch too platinum for her black roots, but is otherwise nicely styled, and she’s neatly dressed in navy pants and a red blouse. She wears a crucifix around her neck. He wonders what it would be like to strangle her with it, to watch the tiny gold Jesus slice deep into her flesh.

  Blood of Christ, he thinks, careful not to crack a smile.

  Not quite what the church had in mind.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” Jenna Lebowski says, her cheeks blushing almost as red as her blouse.

  “Did you say the police are here?”

  “They’re downstairs talking to my mother now.”

  What the fuck? he wonders. Has the old bat lodged some sort of complaint against him? He should have finished her off when he had the chance. “Is this about last week? She was very confused and I was just trying to help…”

  “What are you talking about?” Jenna asks.

  “Your mother. I found her wandering around outside at about two in the morning. I managed to get her back into bed…”

  “Oh, God. No. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. No, this isn’t about that. I don’t know what this is about.”

  Apprehension mingles with relief. If the police weren’t here about Mrs. Lebowski, why were they here? He retrieves his key from the small plastic dish he keeps on the counter of the tiny galley kitchen, locking the door behind him and pocketing his phone as he follows Jenna down the stairs and around to the front of the house. A police car is parked on the street.

  Two officers, one male, one female, stand on opposite sides of Imogene Lebowski in the front foyer. They’re both young, late twenties or early thirties. The man is white, with reddish hair and a wide swath of freckles smeared like peanut butter across the bridge of his nose. The woman is black, her natural dark curls squeezed into a tight bun and sitting high on her head. She’s quite beautiful, he thinks, realizing that he’s never “dated” a black woman. Judging by the way she’s lowering her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze head-on, he knows she’d be open to it. And her being a police officer would definitely give their encounter some added spice.

  Providing, of course, that she isn’t here to arrest him.

  “Officers?” he says, acknowledging Mrs. Lebowski’s girlish wave with a nod. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I’m Officer Petroff,” the male officer says. “This is my partner, Officer Martell. You are?”

  “Steve Winniker,” he says, the name he gave M
rs. Lebowski, the name on the fake driver’s license in the wallet in his back pocket.

  “We’re investigating a shooting in the area that occurred last Saturday night,” Officer Petroff says.

  “A shooting?” He vaguely recalls reading something about a shooting near the harbor. What is the neighborhood coming to?

  Officer Petroff checks his notes, although he suspects this is all for show. “Victim’s name was Richard Ashenbrand. You know him, by any chance?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Happened around two A.M., a few blocks from here. It appears that Mr. Ashenbrand may have been targeted.”

  “I don’t understand.” He looks directly at Officer Martell. “How can I help?”

  “We’re canvassing the area,” Officer Martell tells him, still avoiding contact with his eyes. “Trying to find anyone who might have seen or heard anything.”

  He smiles at Mrs. Lebowski, wondering what she’s already told them. While it’s doubtful she recalls anything of what happened that night, he doesn’t want to be caught in a lie. And he’s just told her daughter that the two of them were together at precisely that time. He glances in Jenna’s direction, but her round Polish face reveals nothing.

  “I was awake,” he tells the police officers, “and I did hear something, now that I think about it.”

  Officer Martell’s large brown eyes instantly shoot to his.

  “I thought it was a car door slamming,” he continues without prompting, “but it could have been a gunshot, I guess. I looked down the street, but there was nothing, so I forgot about it.”

  “Your windows face the street?” Officer Petroff looks toward the ceiling, as if trying to get a feel for the layout of the house.

  “Uh, no. They don’t.” Damn it, he thinks. What’s the matter with him? He knows better than to volunteer information. All he had to say was, “Sorry, officers. Didn’t see or hear a thing,” and that would have been the end of it. “Actually, I wasn’t in my apartment. I was helping Mrs. Lebowski.”

  “You were?” asks Imogene.

  “At two in the morning?” The question comes from Officer Martell.

  He quickly explains the events of last Saturday night. “I got her back into bed,” he concludes, “and I was returning to my apartment when I heard what I assumed was a car door slamming. I looked, but, like I said, I didn’t see anything.”