Killer Chameleon

by Chassie West

  “I didn’t. I just wondered why all but one shelf had one-by-three anchors. I looked to see what was holding it up and spotted the faceplate on the lock. Jensen’s got a lock like that on the door of his gun closet.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Tank said. “Sneaky, but smart.”

  We’d left the lights on up here and now it was my turn to cross my fingers. This floor was much more to Duck’s taste.

  Bypassing the bathroom and guest room, which were serviceable but also boringly pedestrian, he headed toward the front and stopped dead at the entrance to the great room.

  “Wow,” he said softly.

  Tina, second in line, turned to me and Tank and pumped her fist in a silent “Yes!”

  I pointed toward the sectionals, and the three of us plopped down on them while Duck gave a repeat performance of the one he’d made downstairs. I swear he didn’t miss a thing, going over every piece of furniture, every painting, rug, cabinet, appliance, faucet, as if he was expected to pay for them and had no intention of being cheated.

  He took the steps to the loft, stopped at the top, and looked down at us. “You’re kidding.”

  “Keep looking,” I said, hoping the bedroom wouldn’t foul up the works.

  He opened the closet doors and began to hum. “Practically a walk-in.” He tested the drawers, took one out and checked the construction. He stepped outside onto the tiny balcony, examined the lock on the door, closed it. He stooped and fingered the wall-to-wall carpet. Then he went into the master bath, and I held my breath.

  I heard a low whistle of admiration, the toilet flush, the bidet swish, water run in the his-and-hers washbasins, cabinet doors under them open and close, the spray from the shower, the gurgle of water in the Jacuzzi. Finally, nothing.

  Tina looked as if she might scream with impatience. I gulped in a deep breath, my body reacting to having been oxygen deprived from the moment Duck had walked up into the bathroom.

  He came out, leaned over, elbows resting on the railing. “The bed’s gotta go. When do we move in?”

  There ensued a good five minutes of shouting, squealing, back-pounding, hugging, and kissing, in which I took little part. I couldn’t. Too shocked to move, I just sat there. It wasn’t that he had agreed that we should accept the house, he’d said “When do we move in?” the word of note being “move.” I wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

  “What’s the problem, babe?” Duck asked, pulling me to my feet. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but . . .” I tried to figure out how to phrase it to find out what I needed to know. “I guess you surprised me. I thought you might argue that two households was a bit much since we—”

  He pressed a finger to my lips, silencing me. “Not two households. One. This one. This floor. We’ll rent the lower.”

  “We’ll take it!” Tina bellowed.

  Tank ogled her. “Say what?”

  She rounded on him, chin raised, eyes narrowed. “I want to rent it. I like it out here. What’s the problem, Chuckles? We can afford it.”

  For the second time in less than five minutes, I was rendered speechless. Part of my brain considered it a dynamite idea, the other part warned me about familiarity breeding contempt.

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.

  “She’s right,” Duck said. “Ourland’s a nice town, and this is a terrific house. But another reason I say let’s go for it immediately is that I want you out of reach of your she-devil. At least I know that you’ll be safe here.”

  Tank, Tina, and I exchanged a pointed glance.

  “What?” Duck demanded, immediately suspicious.

  We were saved from having to respond by a bell. The door. W. Two.

  After the “how’re ya doings” and “glad to meet you’s,” he got down to business. “The SUV’s in the driveway down there. Who gets the bill? I only charged for a one-way tow.”

  “Dead battery?” Duck asked, amused.

  Tank scowled at him. “No. Someone let the air out of the tires while we were inside talking to Mrs. Ritch.”

  Duck’s brows flipped in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  “And it wasn’t Grady’s boys.” W. Two looked from one to the other. “Turns out they don’t get home from college until the nineteenth.”

  “Well, hell.” Tank shrugged in defeat. “Might as well tell him. We think Leigh’s mystery woman tailed us out here,” he said, digging in his back pocket for his billfold.

  “Put that away.” Duck, veins throbbing in his temples, removed his own and handed over a credit card. W. Two, clearly sensing trouble of some sort, made short work of the transaction. “What’s this about y’all being tailed?”

  “Some woman’s been making a nuisance of herself,” I said. “Tank saw an old model Honda behind us most of the way here.”

  “And Leigh went out there to try to talk to her,” Tina chimed in, spilling the rest of the beans, “and almost got herself hit.”

  I glared at Tina.

  Duck glared at me.

  “The Honda that was parked outside the gate?” W. Two asked. “What’s that old biddy got against you?”

  That got our attention. “You saw her?” Tank demanded. “Close up?”

  “Well, yeah, on my way to get the Explorer. I mean, she’s sitting out there with her blinkers on and I’m driving a tow truck. You figure I’m gonna pass up potential business? She said she was fine, just waiting to meet someone, and she appreciated my checking.”

  “What did she look like, W. Two?” I asked.

  “Black, older than me, say in her sixties from all the gray hair. Shorter than yours, Leigh. Hell, shorter than mine. About your color, maybe a tad lighter; it was hard to tell. That’s the best I can do.”

  This was ridiculous. How could I have aggravated someone this woman’s age without knowing it? “Did she have an accent? West Indian, perhaps?”

  “Nope, sounded like a regular American to me.”

  Scratch Nell Gwynn.

  He promised to call me if he remembered anything else, and left.

  “All right, let’s hear it,” Duck said, closing the door. “From the top.” To say his jaws were tight would be an understatement.

  We were repeating the story for the second time for him when my cell phone burped. I glanced at my watch. It was past nine. If someone was calling this late on my cellular, something must be wrong.

  “Leigh, where are you?” Janeece, sounding slightly frazzled.

  “Ourland. What’s up?”

  “The police were here looking for you.”

  “Willard? He found out who made the call?”

  “These guys didn’t know anything about that. They wouldn’t tell me what they wanted, either. We’re talking some tight-lipped sons of a gun, Leigh, dead serious. They gave me a number to call if I heard from you.”

  I repeated it, committing it to memory. “Thanks, hon. Got big news but it can wait until tomorrow. Go back to bed.”

  Duck didn’t recognize the number but to my surprise, suggested that I wait and call once we were back in D.C. “If it’s trouble, we’ll deal with it when we get there.”

  “We’ve got to go.” Tank pulled Tina to her feet. “I’m on the early shift, and my sweetpea here has a doctor’s appointment in the A.M.”

  Tina rubbed her tummy. “Just making sure everything’s back to normal down here. Hell, we forgot all about Chet and your car, Leigh. I’ll have him call you first thing tomorrow. My shift ends at four if you need me to take you somewhere.”

  We agreed to wait and see what Chet had to say and decide from there.

  The two T’s departed. Duck and I weren’t far behind, but they lost us once we reached the highway. I settled back in Duck’s oil-guzzling clunker, relieved to be alone with him. As much as I liked Tank and Tina, they had a way of sapping my energy. Somehow they seemed to take up more room than most, used up more oxygen or something. Which did not bode well if they were to be weekend neighbors. Which
also brought me back to the subject of the house.

  Duck’s ready acceptance of it struck me as something to be examined more closely, in spite of his initial declaration that he wanted me out of reach of the she-devil. He was a home boy in the most literal sense. He loved D.C. Besides, members of the District’s police force were required to live there. So his wanting to move was inexplicable.

  “Duck, about the house. I want it, yes; it’ll give me a home base while I’m working there, a local address in case there’s a county residency requirement. But moving lock, stock, and barrel never entered my mind because you can’t. Your job, remember?”

  He reached over and gave my thigh a squeeze. “Don’t sweat it, babe. It would solve a lot of problems for me. I’ve been thinking about making a change, and tonight may help me get off the pot.”

  “A change?” This was new. It was also unsettling in that he’d never mentioned it before. “What kind?”

  He slowed to let a low-slung sports car cut in front of us. “I’m considering leaving the job.”

  “What?” I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told me he was going into a monastery.

  “It’s a long story. Let’s just say that September eleventh made me begin to wonder about the value of my contribution to the District, to the country, for that matter. And before you say it, I know I’m too old to join the service.”

  Well, I wouldn’t have said it, even though I was thinking it.

  “I’ve been nosing around, trying to get a feel for what else I could do. There are a couple of opportunities out there—well, more than a couple, actually. And somehow, word got out that I might be open to making a move, I still haven’t figured out how. All of a sudden, I’m being courted by federal investigative agencies and private industry. And I’m definitely interested. It would mean more money, and that’s nice, but it would also mean making a bigger contribution, a bigger difference. And that’s important to me.”

  I let him talk. Even though I had never imagined him as other than a detective with the D.C. police, I’d sensed a certain level of frustration but considered it an occupational hazard. Everyone in the department became frustrated at some point. Most got over it. Those who didn’t left. It never occurred to me that my Duck would join the latter.

  “I haven’t been ready to talk about it,” he explained, “because I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I remember the big deal it was to you when I made detective.”

  I removed his right hand from the steering wheel and kissed the back of it. “Duck, I wouldn’t care if you wanted to run away and join the circus as long as you took me with you.”

  “Really?” he asked, an impish gleam in his eyes. “I mean, I’d love to be one of those clowns that climbs out of one of those little bitty . . . Oh-oh.”

  I’d been so engrossed in our conversation that I didn’t realize we were pulling into his underground garage. Turning to see what had interrupted his ridiculous train of thought, I saw a cluster of uniforms and plainclothes types milling about in the far corner near my old Chevy. A cruiser idled about a third of the way from the entrance, chase lights ablaze. Not only was it blocking several others if they wanted to leave, it was also in our way.

  “Looks like trouble for sure.” Duck slowed, shifted into reverse. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he said, “Guess I’ll have to park on the street tonight.”

  “There he is!” A lanky, middle-aged man in green hospital scrubs separated from the crowd and pointed toward us.

  All heads swiveled in our direction. Two of the uniforms began trotting toward us, arms outstretched in the universal signal for “Halt,” one of them reaching for his service revolver in the process.

  “What the hell?” Duck shifted into park and lowered his window. Sticking his head out, he called, “Hey, guys, what’s going on? Adams, is that you?”

  The stockier of the two slowed to a walk, shading his eyes against the overhead lighting. “Duck?” He waved for his companion to relax. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  “I didn’t know you’d been transferred to this district,” Duck said, getting out.

  I released my seat belt and scrambled out, too. “Hey, has something happened to my car?” I grabbed my purse and hurried toward the gathering. “What’s going on?”

  A pair of plainclothes moved toward me, their expressions slammed close, official masks in place. “You’re Ms. Warren? Leigh Warren? We’ve been looking for you.”

  “Evans, Thackery,” Duck said, in greeting. Stopping beside me, he draped an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t tell me somebody tried to heist this thing. It can be driven, but it’ll cut out on you in no time. Did you catch the bastard?”

  Their faces relaxed a bit but they still wore an air of caution. “Bastardess,” one responded. “Female. Mr. Grandison here saw her trying to hide behind it and started over to investigate. She spotted him and hauled ass.”

  “Had she broken into it?” I asked, wondering about my sudden possessiveness over a car I no longer owned.

  “She didn’t need to,” Evans said, watching me. “When’s the last time you drove it?”

  “Uh—sometime in October. I hit a tree and . . .” They didn’t need the details. “It’s been in the shop. You had it towed back in here when, Duck? About ten days ago, right?”

  “And an old pro like you would never leave the keys in the ignition, right, Kennedy?”

  “You’re kidding.” Duck stepped to the front passenger side and looked in, then back at me. “They’ve been hanging on the pegboard in the kitchen. How . . .? You and Clarissa are the only ones who’ve been up there.”

  “Clarissa?” Thackery prompted.

  “Cleaning lady.” Duck shook his head. “She would have no reason to take them, and I can’t imagine her giving them to someone else. She knew it still needed work and was risky to drive. Someone must have broken into my unit, dammit.” He turned on his heel, heading for the elevator.

  Thackery cleared his throat and Duck stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

  “It’s not quite that simple, Kennedy. We’re waiting for forensics and someone from the coroner’s office.” Eyes still glued on us, he reached down and lifted the lid of the trunk.

  The odor hit me first, one I wasn’t likely to forget. It was faint but memorable under any circumstances, and my stomach lurched. Cradled inside the trunk on top of the spare, assorted tools, a defunct flashlight, and a ratty old blanket, Clarissa lay curled in a fetal pose staring into nothing, well and truly dead.

  10

  “OH, NO. GOD, NO. CLARISSA.” DUCK, ANGUISH mangling his features, moved as if to reach in and touch her, but caught himself. “How the hell did she wind up in the trunk?”

  “This is your cleaning lady?” Thackery asked, his face thawing a little. “We could use a positive identification. No purse in there, unless she’s lying on it. We don’t want to move her before forensics shows up.”

  “Her name is Clarissa Farrell. But . . . but I just talked to her,” Duck said, then flushed, undoubtedly realizing how many times he’d heard the same after breaking the news of someone’s demise.

  “When?” Evans demanded. “Tonight?”

  Duck turned to me. “Seven-thirty, somewhere around there, you think?” Evans frowned and glanced at Thackery, an exchange Duck missed. “She called me looking for Tank and Tina,” he continued, “thought they might have stopped by. I was just about to phone Leigh, since I’d asked them to drop in on her, when she called.”

  “She knows Younts?” Evans asked Duck, not me.

  “Clarissa’s a relative of Tank’s wife,” I said. “Lord, Tina’s gonna have a fit. Should I call her?”

  Duck shook his head, his gaze riveted on the body. “Clarissa cleaned my toilet, changed my sheets. It’s my obligation.” He reached for his cell phone and started back toward his car.

  I stepped closer to mine and peered in. “I don’t see any signs of trauma. Wonder what . . .” Frowning, I knelt at the b
ack bumper. Something wasn’t right. “Duck, wait a minute,” I called.

  “What?” He turned around, the pain on his face making me flinch.

  “Just . . . just don’t call yet.”

  “Something we should know?” Evans asked, coming up behind me.

  I shook him off, signaled for him to wait. “Let me borrow your flashlight.” He placed it in my hand, a whopper compared to mine. Holding my breath, I leaned in and played the beam along the still figure from head to toe.

  Horn-rimmed glasses lay at an angle across her nose. Lividity had set in, just barely visible on her left cheek and leg because of her position. But by the time I’d reached her feet, I was sure. “Duck, this isn’t Clarissa.”

  “What the hell!” Evans and Thackery glared at me, then at him, as if we’d pulled something over on them.

  Duck bounded back to the car. “What do you mean, it isn’t Clarissa? Wait. Her sister, maybe? But they weren’t twins.” He stared in. “Were they?”

  “Must have been. But look, her ears are pierced. Clarissa’s weren’t. The day I stayed to let her in, the first thing she did was yank off her earrings and massage her earlobes because the earrings pinched.”

  “I guess I never noticed. Are you sure, babe?”

  “You don’t yank earrings off pierced ears, Duck. And Clarissa had . . . has,” I amended stubbornly, “fat feet. This woman’s are delicate in comparison. And her hair isn’t as brassy.”

  He stooped, examining her with narrowed eyes. Finally he rose. “You’re right. Thank God. I never met her, so I didn’t realize . . . Poor Clarissa. This will kill her.”

  I could have pointed out that it was a poor choice of words but kept my mouth shut because I might also have blurted out the fact that he had just fibbed. I was trying to figure out what to do about it when Thackery derailed the effort.

  “So what’s her name?” he demanded.

  Duck shrugged. “I don’t know. All I ever heard Clarissa call her was Sister.”

  “And Tina called her Aunt Sister,” I added. “She can fill you in on whatever you need to know. She talked to Clarissa after Duck did.”

  “How do you know?” Evans challenged me.