by Linda Turner
Grinning at the thought, she stepped into the gallery, only to stop short at the sight of Susan standing in front photographs, talking to a tall, thin older man who was impeccably dressed in a navy-blue suit. He had an umbrella, even though there was no sign of rain, and pointed at the subject of the photo—a jogger running through the park in the rain—as he talked enthusiastically with Susan.
They were talking about her work! In the time it took to draw in a quick breath, her heart was pounding with excitement. She told herself not to jump to conclusions. Just because the two of them were discussing the picture didn’t mean the man wanted to buy it. He could just be one of those people who visited galleries like they were museums and had no intention of purchasing anything.
“Lily! Just the person I wanted to see.” Spying her in the doorway, Susan crossed to her with a wide smile and took her arm. “Come,” she said eagerly. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Lily, this Julian Edwards. Julian was just admiring your photographs,” Susan told her, her blue eyes dancing with excitement behind the lenses of her glasses. “He’s an interior designer.”
For a moment, Lily was sure her heart stopped dead in her chest. A designer! How had Susan gotten a designer interested in her work so quickly? Her pictures had only been hanging in the gallery for twenty-four hours.
Her imagination going crazy and her fingers not quite steady, she smiled and held out her head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edwards.”
“Oh, no, my dear, the pleasure is all mine,” he assured her. “I was just telling Susan how talented you are. I’ve been a decorator for thirty years and I’ve never seen anything quite like your pictures. It’s amazing how much they look like paintings. The lighting’s perfect. How long did you have to wait to catch it just that way? It must have been hours. And did you know the runner or did he just come by by chance? He looks so mysterious, shrouded in the drizzle the way he is.”
Lily grinned. “He does, doesn’t he? I couldn’t believe it when he came running out of the trees just as I was about to snap the shutter. The picture would have been good without him, but there’s just something about the way he appeared out of the mist that grabbed me. I’m so glad you like it. It’s the best picture I’ve ever taken.”
“They’re both excellent,” he said, studying the second print, which was of a mother and small daughter laughing together as they ran for cover from a sudden unexpected shower. “I have several clients who would be thrilled to have your work hanging in their offices. Especially The Runner,” he added, naming the piece that Lily had yet to name. “Technically, it’s not a sports photo, but that’s what makes it so effective. It would look incredible in the lobby of Harold Sergeant’s corporate offices.”
Stunned, Lily nearly dropped her camera bag. “Harold Sergeant?” she gasped. “The owner of Titan Sporting Goods?”
“The one and only,” he replied, smiling. “He commissioned me to decorate his offices three weeks ago.”
Her head reeling, Lily couldn’t believe this was happening. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I can’t make any promises yet—”
“I know,” she said quickly. “I’m just thrilled that you’re even considering my work. I never expected a response this quickly.”
Smiling at her like a proud grandmother, Susan said, “I told you you were good.”
The taste of panic sharp on his tongue, Sly Jackson darted through the first doorway he came to, only to curse when he saw the dozen or more people mingling in what he realized with a scowl was a gallery. There was nowhere to hide.
“Damn!” Swearing under his breath, he whirled to face the broad windows that gave a clear view of the street outside, and even though it was far from hot in the gallery, he could feel the sweat popping out on his forehead. In the pocket of his khakis, the cocaine he’d bought only moments before seemed to flash like a neon sign, drawing all eyes.
Don’t be an idiot, a voice in his head growled. No one saw you make the deal, especially the idiot cop walking his beat down the street. All you have to do is act cool, blend in and kill some time. No one will suspect a thing.
Normally, he could have pulled off cool without a blink of an eye. He was a stockbroker and a damn good one—he could handle pressure. Or at least, he had until two weeks ago.
Stiffening, he told himself not to go there, but it was too late. Stark, violent images played in his head, haunting him, tormenting him. Swearing, he reached for the coke in his pocket and would have sniffed it up his nose if there’d been an opportunity. He needed a line, dammit! For the last two weeks, he’d acted like a scared little boy cowering in the closet, hiding out from the bogeyman, and he was sick of it. The drugs would give him back his edge.
But even as he considered finding the restroom, he knew the policeman he’d seen down the street was slowly making his way toward him. And he had coke in his pocket. He had to get the hell out of there!
A red Exit sign glowed in the back lefthand corner, but when he turned to run, the thunder of his blood loud in his ears, he never even saw it. He took two steps, only to freeze as his gaze fell on a picture on the wall.
What the hell! No! It couldn’t be, he thought wildly. There had to be some mistake.
But as much as he tried to convince himself that his eyes were playing tricks on him, there was no denying what was hanging on the wall right in front of his nose. The black-and-white photo had been taken near the duck pond in the park on a drizzly afternoon two weeks ago. The old-fashioned streetlights glowed in the mist, and the photographer had captured on film forever the single jogger who came running out of the misty rain.
The play of rain and shadows on the runner’s face partially concealed his features, but Sly would have known him in the black pit of hell. Because he was the jogger, and when the unseen photographer had snapped his picture, he’d been running away from the scene of a murder.
How had this happened? he wondered, enraged. When he’d picked up a hooker on the street, then taken her to a secluded place in the park, he’d made sure there was no one around. He’d wanted to have sex with her, but all she’d wanted to do was talk about how much she charged. Irritated that she demanded to be paid ahead of tihe’d grabbed her, forced her to do as he’d wanted, then taunted her by threatening not to pay her a dime. That’s when she’d threatened to turn him in to the police.
Even now, two weeks later, the memory made him livid. No one threatened him. No one! He’d slapped her, and that’s when she’d started to scream. The only way he’d been able to shut her up was to strangle her.
He’d run then, his only thought to pretend to be a jogger out for a run. Concentrating on keeping his pace unhurried, he hadn’t seen anyone with a camera, and with good reason. That particular day had been foggy as hell. The photographer could have been twenty feet away and he wouldn’t have seen who it was.
“Your first sale is a done deal, Lily, my dear,” a cultured feminine voice said happily, carrying across the room to interrupt his silent raging. “Julian just told me that if Harold Sergeant didn’t buy The Runner, then he would. That’s how much he loves it. So congratulations are in order. You just made your first sale.”
His head coming up sharply, his eyes searching, Sly immediately found the woman who had just spoken. Decked out in jeans and a green sweater, her white-blond hair twisted up on top of her head, she stood with another woman in front of the picture of the runner, beaming at his photo as if she’d just won the lottery.
His gaze shifting to her companion, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the mysterious Lily at her side was, in all likelihood, the photographer who’d taken his picture. She, too, was studying the photo, and she was far too excited for someone who didn’t have a vested interest in it.
Bitch, he thought bitterly. She was probably the only person in the world who’d seen him in the park that day, but maybe she hadn’t heard about the murder on the news. The police had no leads, no one had seen him pic
k up the hooker on the street that day, and after the story of her murder hit the news, it quickly fell from the headlines. The media and the public showed little interest in a prostitute murdered by an unknown john in the park.
He planned to keep it that way, he thought grimly. The only one who could place him anywhere near the murder scene was the woman standing across the gallery from him, and she had yet to make the connection. He had to find a way to eliminate her before she did.
Chapter 3
Outside, the policeman walking his beat strolled past the gallery with only a cursory look and continued down the street. Trying to appear nonchalant, Sly watched him disappear from view and soundlessly released the breath he’d been holding. At least he’d avoided one problem. Now it was the bitch Lily’s turn.
He liked to think of himself as a civilized man. He always kept a tight rein on the rage that burned in his gut like an eternal flame—until he was crossed. That damn prostitute had threatened him and lived to regret it. That should have been the end of it. He’d been sure he was safe. He should have been, dammit! But now the oh-so-pretty Lily threatened him by her mere existence, and she didn’t even know it. Stalking her, killing her, wasmake up for all the grief she had unwittingly caused him. Now he just had to decide how he was going to do it. He preferred choking the life out of her, but he wasn’t a man who limited himself. He’d do whatever he had to to make sure she was never a threat to him again.
A tight smile of anticipation curling his mouth, he would have liked nothing more than to eliminate her right there and then, but he could hardly do that in a gallery full of people. So he forced himself to be patient and blend in with the other people milling about, studying the art. Ducking his head and praying no one recognized him as the man in the photo, he gradually made his way closer to his own picture. All he needed was Lily’s full name, and he could track down where she lived. Then, sometime next week, he’d slip into her place while she was sleeping and take care of her. It was that easy.
An uncomplicated plan was always the best, but when he was finally able to stroll close enough to the photograph to see the name of the photographer on a little plaque next to the blown-up image, there was only one name printed there. Lily. Infuriated, he swore under his breath. Bitch! Still, no matter. Not knowing her last name was only a minor setback.
Quietly slipping out of the gallery before anyone had a chance to notice the resemblance between him and The Runner, he quickly crossed the street and found a hiding space in the alley directly across from the gallery’s front door. All he could do then was wait.
Fifteen minutes passed, then another ten, and with every tick of the clock, Sly felt his rage grow. Damn her, what the hell was she doing in there? Had she somehow recognized him and put two and two together? Was she even now calling the police to tell them that she suspected he was the murderer who’d been in the park that day?
His paranoia building like lava in a volcano that was about to burst, he started toward the entrance to the alley, his only thought to get away before the cops arrived. He’d only taken two steps, however, when the door to the gallery opened and the woman he was quickly coming to hate stepped outside. She had her camera bag slung over her shoulder and didn’t even look his way as she turned to the right and started walking down the street. With a tread as soundless as a panther’s, he slipped out of the alley and quietly followed her.
Walking on air, Lily couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this happy. She had a sell! Grinning, she still couldn’t believe it. When she’d decided to quit her job and really make a living from her photography, she’d thought it would be at least six months before she’d be able to generate any kind of income at all. Even then, she’d worried that she was being too optimistic. Never in her wildest dreams had she dared to imagine that her new career would take off so quickly. And this was just the beginning. Susan had told her that once Julian Edwards used a photographer or artist’s work, he had a tendency to buy their pieces again and again.
Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, she wanted to laugh and dance and hug the entire world. Her father, however, had taught her to show more decorum. So she restrained herself and headed for the duck pond at the park instead. The sun might be high in the sky and the shadows short, but she didn’t care that the lighting wasn’t the best. It was Saturday and a beautiful late-summer day. She had her camera and all was right with the world.
When she reached the pond, it didn’t take long for her to lose all concept of time. There were mothers there with their babies while the fathers tended the older kids and directed miniature sailboat races on the pond. Giving out her business card to parents who expressed an interest in getting copies of the pictures she’d taken of their children, she spent hours snapping shots of everything that moved.
The afternoon was gone before she realized it. Suddenly out of film, she glanced up with a frown, wondering how she could have possibly used all her film, only to gasp at the sight of the sun sinking low in the sky. “Oh, no!”
Glancing at her watch, she swore softly and hurriedly began gathering up her equipment. How could she have forgotten the time? Abby Saunders was in town for a convention and they were supposed to have dinner together at seven. She had to hurry or she was never going to make it.
Wondering if their high-school reunion had affected her old classmate the way it had her, she made one last check around the area to make sure she hadn’t left anything, then strode quickly toward home.
A dozen yards behind her, Sly hurried to keep up. What the hell had gotten into her? he wondered with a scowl as he tried not to look as if he was running after her. One minute, she’d been taking so many shots, he’d been afraid she’d get another picture of him, and the next, she’d stuffed her camera in its case and rushed toward the park exit. What the devil was going on? Had she remembered something? His blood running cold at the thought, he followed at a quick pace, his expression grim. If she even thought about going to the police…
All his attention focused on keeping her in sight, he didn’t notice that she’d reached her destination until he was within twenty yards of her and closing fast. Biting off an oath, he quickly stepped into a recessed doorway, but he needn’t have worried. When he cautiously peeked around the corner a few seconds later, she was slipping a key into the lock of a door halfway down the block. She’d hardly turned the key in the lock when she disappeared inside.
Swearing, Sly darted after her, but it was too late. The door swung shut behind her and locked. Irritated that he’d lost her so easily, he peered through the glass door and saw a narrow hallway and a flight of stairs that obviously led to apartments that were located above the Italian restaurant that appeared to occupy most of the lower floor of the small, old building. Outside, next to the private street-level entrance that gave access to the second floor, there were three mailboxes. None of them were labeled, but Sly wasn’t concerned. If there were only three apartments, Miss Candid Camera wouldn’t be hard to find. Now that he knew where she lived, all he had to do was bide his time, wait until the conditions were right, and she’d be history.
The minute she entered her apartment, Lily took time only to store her camera case in the closet in the apartment’s small entry hall, then headed for the bathroom. She had only thirty minutes before she was supposed to meet Abby. She’d have to hurry, and the apartment didn’t have a shower. Quickly putting the stopper in the old-fashioned claw-foot tub, she turned the water on full blast, poured in her favorite bath oil, then rushed to the bedroom and laid out some clean clothes.
She would have loved nothing more than a long soak, but there just wasn’t time. Peeling out of the T-shirt and capris she’d worn to the park, she tossed them in the hamper, set a cleanel on the old vanity stool she kept in the bathroom and stepped into a tub of cold water.
“Aaagh!” Screeching, she hopped out like a scalded cat. “What the—”
Quickly turning on the hot water, she groaned when nothing but cold water
gushed out. No. When she’d rented the apartment, Angelo had warned her that the pilot on the hot-water heater was sensitive and sometimes blew out if the wind even thought about blowing. It couldn’t have gone out today, she thought. She didn’t have time for this.
But when she once again tested the water running out of the spout, it wasn’t even close to being warm. Grabbing her terry-cloth robe from where it hung on the back of the bathroom door, she shrugged into it and strode into the kitchen to the phone.
“Angelo,” she said thankfully when he answered the restaurant phone a few seconds later. “This is Lily. I know you must be busy getting ready for the dinner crowd, but I don’t have any hot water.”
“I told you the heater was finicky,” he said apologetically. “I’ve had it repaired twice already, and it still keeps blowing out. I guess I’m going to have to bite the bullet and buy a new one. Hang on, and I’ll be up in a minute to relight the pilot for you.”
“I don’t mind doing it—”
“Oh, no, no,” he said hurriedly. “It’s too dangerous—it’s a gas heater. I’ll do it.”
Promising to be right up, Angelo hung up, then turned to find his head chef, Stephen Talerico, standing in front of him, looking not only disgusted but decidedly green around the edges. Frowning, he said, “Are you all right?”
“I’ll make it,” he retorted. “We’ve got a problem.”
Angelo wasn’t surprised. It had been one of those days when everything that could go wrong had gone wrong; and the look on the other man’s face told him he wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “Don’t tell me,” he growled. “Let me guess. We’re out of mozzarella.”