The Perfect Man

by Kristine Dexter

  “That’s not the most efficient way of doing things.” Tasha wasn’t looking at him, but she hadn’t removed her hand from his.

  “No,” Rick said, “this isn’t the most efficient way. Once we have your car, we can even stop back at the hotel if we need information.”

  She smiled at him, then she moved her hand. “I hope you know I need to resolve this quickly.”

  “Not more than I do,” he said.

  ***

  Beebe’s fury hadn’t dissipated by the time he reached his apartment. But he had to be careful. He didn’t want his neighbors to see.

  He parked the car in its spot, and tossed the axe under the seat. Then he grabbed his binoculars and got out of the car.

  The apartment building was thirty years old. It had windy wooden staircases that sagged under extreme weight, and thick concrete between the entrances. On the so-called decorative sidewalk were shrublike evergreen plants he’d never seen before and hoped to never see again. They smelled faintly of cat pee. At first, he’d thought one of the many strays sprayed the damn shrubs, but then he sniffed the plant himself and realized that horrible smell was native to it.

  What was worse was that some idiot had planted it outside a place where people lived.

  His apartment was on the first floor, with an outdoor access under the stairs. He rarely saw his neighbors, unless he was getting his mail or doing his laundry. Then he tried hard to be nice. He didn’t want them to notice him. He didn’t think it was appropriate. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway.

  He let himself in, not stopping to pick up the circular flyer that had landed on the mat left by the previous tenant. He hated this apartment. It was dark and cramped. The entry was small—there wasn’t even enough room for the table he always placed near the door—and the tile was a brown so dark that it never felt light here.

  The living room was square and opened onto a U-shaped kitchen. The refrigerator groaned, and the stove didn’t heat evenly. When he stood at the sink, he could look out his window, which had a great view of the slime-covered pool or if he turned around, he could see into the apartment’s only bathroom—a tiny thing that had room only for the essentials—a toilet, a sink and a small shower.

  The bedroom was dark and indistinct. He kept the only window shuttered. Most of his stuff was in there, and he didn’t want anyone to see it.

  He slammed the door closed with his foot and leaned on the plaid couch he’d bought at Goodwill. Maybe it was better that Jessamyn hadn’t seen this. All of his good furniture was still in storage in Chicago. After that home of hers—of Chance’s, really—this would not have impressed her.

  Where was she? Was she even still alive?

  Beebe couldn’t imagine that Chance would kill her. He’d have no reason to, right? Unless he felt he’d finally gotten enough out of her.

  Beebe kicked the box he’d been using as an end table. It slid across the room and slammed into the thin wall beneath the living room’s only window—a view of the sidewalk behind the buildings.

  He hurried over and closed the curtains. No sense having someone peek in. His neighbors were problem enough, all chatty and interested, even the twentysomethings who lived upstairs. They were thin, but they walked like they weighed three hundred pounds. When he spent a day indoors, they drove him crazy with their thud-thud-thudding. He thought about complaining to the management, but realized that would draw too much attention. And he hadn’t planned on being here that long anyway.

  Although it looked like he’d be here longer than he wanted to.

  Damn Chance. He’d squired her away, and no one was the wiser.

  Maybe he hadn’t even moved her from Chicago.

  That thought sent panic through Beebe’s stomach. He hurried into the kitchen, pulled open the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. Then he made himself set it down. No alcohol until she was safe. That was a promise, one he’d keep. He knew how she felt about drinking. Her books had told him. Alcohol in moderation was good, as a celebration or a simple accompaniment to a nice dinner. But as a cure-all it was bad. It would only lead to bad things.

  He set the beer back in the refrigerator, and took out a piece of chicken instead. He’d bought a bucket of cold fried at the grocery store the day before and had only eaten a piece. In fact, that was the last solid meal he’d had. He’d eaten a banana for breakfast before heading over to Chance’s house to watch for the flower delivery.

  That felt like it had happened days ago.

  Beebe’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to bite off the crunchy skin. If she was in Chicago, she was dead. He couldn’t accept that. She had to be here. Chance had to be hiding her. But where? He rarely left the house, and when he did, he went to the same old places.

  Except this weekend, when he’d been gone for nearly two days straight. Beebe hadn’t investigated where Chance had gone because it had seemed unusual—and the tuxedo implied an occasion of some sort. Instead, Beebe had used the time to figure out how to get into the house.

  But what if Chance had done all this to lead him off the trail? What if Chance had been tending to Jessamyn all weekend, while Beebe was trying to talk to her through the basement windows?

  He made himself finish the piece of chicken, then washed it down with some orange juice. He felt a little clearer after that, not quite as shaky.

  He had to think.

  He’d watched the house after Chance had left, hoping to rescue Jessamyn. He hadn’t thought to follow Chance. It probably would have been Beebe’s best, easiest route to Jessamyn.

  He’d go back in the morning, and catch Chance in the predawn hours. The man always slept late anyway. Then he’d make Chance tell him exactly where Jessamyn was.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT FELT LIKE a date. Tasha had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t. She had picked the restaurant because she wanted to go to a place Rick didn’t frequent. They ended up at a trendy hotspot that Rick said he’d never been to.

  Tasha picked it because it had high booths which made for private dining. She didn’t want any casual eavesdroppers to make the wrong kinds of connections.

  She had changed out of her work clothes into a loose cotton top and a pair of jeans. She wore running shoes, figuring she might need them. She brought a jacket to cover her gun holster, and made sure her badge and cuffs were in her purse. In the car, she had two other changes of clothing and her overnight bag. She wasn’t sure when she’d get home again.

  Rick had smiled appreciatively when she had emerged from her bedroom. He’d been investigating the books she had in her wall-to-wall bookshelf in the living room.

  She had been embarrassed to bring him inside; the place hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. It showed all the signs of a busy single woman’s life, a crumpled blanket on the couch in front of the television, empty pop cans on the coffee table, and shoes strewn all over the place.

  At least she was neat enough to drop her clothes in a hamper in the bathroom and to hide her dirty dishes in the dishwasher. But that was about it. Living alone had been quite an adjustment, especially for a woman who’d never learned domestic chores. Her mother had always said that’s what maids were for. Once Tasha had cooked a meal—an assignment for the home economics class she had taken rather defiantly as a teenager—and her mother had refused to eat it. You’ve practiced, dear, now let’s let Elsie cook something proper for dinner.

  Tasha shuddered. She didn’t know why that had come up—probably because she rarely let people into her house. She understood Rick’s need for privacy perhaps better than he did. She’d had the same need since she was a little girl.

  “Chilly?” he asked.

  Maybe she liked his voice the best. It was deep and sexy and warm all at the same time. But those eyes were wonderful too—so dark and mischievous. Not to mention the mustache which added dimension to his face, or that square jawline that most men wanted and never had.

  “No,” she said, managing to keep her voice as cool as possible
. “I’m fine.”

  She’d been brusque with him all day. It was the only way to keep this professional—and even that wasn’t working. She was not looking forward to spending the night in his hotel.

  Lou had known that, dammit. Even if there were a concert—which she doubted—he would have stayed if he felt he needed to. Instead, he’d made Tasha do it, perhaps as punishment for dodging the Pfeiffer case, perhaps as a way of proving to her that her attempts at professionalism were fooling no one. Least of all her.

  If she had to, she’d stay up all night tweaking the police database and using their account to access FBI files. She’d find this creep just to prove to everyone she could do it—raging hormones or no raging hormones.

  “Well, you look like you’re concentrating pretty hard.” Rick had one hand around a sweating water glass. The other rested on the very edge of the table.

  The waitress had brought some sourdough bread and olive oil, then had made a show of teaching them how to dip the bread in the oil. Personally, Tasha preferred a thick slab of butter if she was going to smear extra fat on her food, but she didn’t say anything. Rick didn’t seem to mind the unusual topping. He’d torn through half the loaf, then offered her a piece in mild embarrassment.

  Apparently, he had been as hungry as he had said he was.

  “There’s a connection, Rick. We just have to find it.”

  “You know, Tasha,” he said, “I’m convinced we will find it. But we are going to spend the evening together. It’s okay to relax just a little bit and talk about something else.”

  “No relaxing, Rick. At least for me.” Not just because she was his protection, but also because if she relaxed, the date feeling would get even worse.

  And then she wouldn’t be responsible for her behavior in that hotel.

  He grabbed another piece of bread. She noticed he wasn’t dipping either.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s leave my secretary out of it for a bit. Let’s think about who else knew I was moving here.”

  “Moving company, real estate agent.” Tasha reached for a piece of bread before Rick ate all of it.

  “This started long before I hired any of those people,” Rick said.

  “Did you use the same company when you moved to Chicago?”

  He laughed. “I lived out of my car for the first month. I couldn’t afford to hire a moving company, and even if I could I wouldn’t have.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wanted to get out of here fast, and I drove until I felt like stopping.” His tone was bitter. He set his piece of bread down.

  She let out a small breath. He clearly didn’t want to talk more about the rift with his family. And she could understand it, especially after all of the things that they seemed to believe about him. “All right. How about everyday people you dealt with?”

  “Me, myself and I mostly,” he said.

  “But you mentioned your agent—”

  “No one in New York would have done this,” he said.

  “Not a disgruntled former assistant?”

  “Why go for Jessamyn when they all had to know she wasn’t real?” He shrugged. “It’s a tightly guarded secret, but I’m sure that there are a number of professionals there who know I’m the writer.”

  At that moment, the waitress brought their meals. Tasha’s was grilled pork in marionberry sauce, and Rick had the ahi tuna special. Tasha’s meal was purple. The sauce had even leached into the garlic mashed potatoes. It was pretty, but not all that appealing.

  Still, she dug in.

  Rick cut into his tuna. “Oh, this is rich.”

  “The tuna?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I meant, after today.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tasha said. “I’m not following.”

  “The only people I can come up with are delivery people. You know, package services and—god forbid—postal employees.”

  “I thought you didn’t use any forwardings.”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “But sometimes I get special delivery packages.”

  “And they’d be addressed to Jessamyn?”

  “They’d be addressed to me. But sometimes there are giveaways. You know, something in the memo line on an air bill or even on a box of books.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stamped on the side of a carton of books is the name of the book and its author, and usually the ISBN. It’s a system for bookstores—they can see what’s in the box without opening it. But those are the boxes I get for my own books, and I’m clearly not a bookstore.”

  “You don’t get anyone else’s books that way?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Most of my other packages come from the same publisher. If the Creep is smart—and you keep telling me that he is—then he would have been able to put two and two together.”

  “So your subconscious was telling you to attack delivery people?” She couldn’t resist the question.

  He stared at her a moment, apparently to gauge whether or not she was serious, and then he smiled. “I guess so. I’m so smart I’m ahead of myself.”

  “Or behind yourself as the case may be.”

  “Cruelty thy name is woman.” He took another bite of the tuna. It was mostly gone.

  Tasha was having trouble finishing her meal. It was all right—not nearly as good as the restaurant critics had made it sound. There was too much sauce and the marionberries were tarter than usual. The pork was good, but not spectacular, and there was too much garlic in the mashed potatoes.

  Or so she told herself. The problem with finishing her meal might have been the Whopper she’d had only a few hours earlier.

  “Delivery people,” she said, “could transfer pretty easily.”

  “Or quit one company in one town, and apply to another in a different town without attracting any suspicion.”

  “But he’s been watching your place.”

  “We don’t know how many hours he’s there,” Rick said. “Besides, wasn’t there some kind of flap a year or so ago about delivery services making most of their employees part-time so that they wouldn’t have to pay benefits?”

  Tasha set her fork down. “You’re right. How do you remember things like that?”

  “It’s my job,” he said. “The more trivia I know, the better my books are.”

  “There must be logic in there somewhere,” she said.

  “Oh, there is.” He finished the tuna and shoved his plate aside. “That’s how Jessamyn gets her ideas. She puts one piece of trivia with another, and voila! a book.

  “As if it were that easy,” Tasha said.

  “If it were that easy, everyone who won on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire would be a novelist.”

  “How do you know they aren’t?” she asked and then felt her grin fade. “Don’t tell me you watch that?”

  His smile was sheepish. “A person has to do something between writing sessions. I prefer Jeopardy!, but I take what I can get.”

  She shook her head. She was enjoying this too much. It was feeling date-like again. “I don’t know how we’ll track the delivery guys tonight. That’ll take phone calls bright and early tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Rick said.

  He had an odd look in his eyes. She frowned. “Why not?”

  “Well, detective. If I had certain skills that allowed me to do certain things with my computer that would get us certain types of information quickly, would I get in trouble for doing it in front of a police officer?”

  “You aren’t suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

  “I probably am,” he said. “But since you made it clear that any other suggestion of, say, a more suggestive nature, would be the wrong kind of suggestion, well, then I simply had to suggest something else.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “What?” he asked. “My first suggestion, my allusion to a suggestive suggestion or the fact that I can use suggestion ad nauseam in a sentence?�
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  “The latter.”

  He grinned. “Words is my business.”

  “I remember that from the wedding.” She instantly wished she could take the sentence back. She hadn’t wanted to mention the wedding or anything surrounding it.

  His grin had faded. “I told you I wrote at the wedding?”

  “No, but I noted several times that you were good with words. It always seemed to disturb you.”

  “When people say things like that, it feels like I’m giving myself away.”

  Tasha pushed her plate away. “I don’t think most people would look at you and think Jessamyn Chance.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said. Somehow he had already managed to take the check. He slipped a credit card in the little folder and put it outside her reach at the end of the table.

  She wondered which credit card it was—the black AmEx with no limit or the platinum Visa which he could charge up to 100K.

  She wished she could ask him. She hated knowing more about him than he knew she knew.

  And then she shook her head. He even had her thinking in word play.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he said. “About my ability.”

  She was so deep into flirtation that for a moment, she didn’t follow what he was asking. And then she remembered how this little playful interlude started. He was telling her that he could hack into systems.

  “However did you learn that skill?” she asked, letting the playfulness go—a bit more reluctantly than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

  “I was a teenage boy raised in the Northwest. If you didn’t know how to break into a few systems, you weren’t cool.”

  “I thought only nerds knew how to do that.”

  He grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I trust you haven’t done it in years.” God, she sounded prim. Almost like a schoolmarm.

  “Trust what you like,” he said. “All I did was ask you a simple question.”

  “You’re putting me in an ethical quandary, Mr. Chance. Do I allow the committing of a crime in order to stop a criminal, admittedly a more dangerous one? Or do I go by the book?”