The Perfect Man

by Kristine Dexter

  THIRTY-ONE

  AT 3 A.M., Rick had a list of over fifty names from several delivery companies—people who had been fired or laid off or transferred to the Pacific Northwest. People who had retired or quit for any reason. People who were no longer on the payroll, the reason for their disappearance unclear.

  His back ached and his eyes were dry. He rubbed them, set the MacBook aside, and broke into the room’s fridge. It would cost him way too much money to drink the Diet Coke inside—much more than a Diet Coke was worth, no matter how tired he was—but Tasha would pitch a fit if she found out he left the room without her.

  She was still sleeping soundly on the couch. She hadn’t moved at all. He envied her the ability to sleep like that—his tired body would give anything to stretch out on the bed—and he also wondered how effective she would be if someone crashed through the door. Would she sit up, bleary with sleep, and not know what was happening? Or was she one of those people who could be wide awake instantly, completely alert and functional?

  He didn’t know, and he very much wanted to find out. He wanted to find out everything about her. Maybe that was why he had told her so much about himself.

  He hadn’t told anyone about Teri before. About the way she’d used him, the way she’d convinced his parents before he’d even had a chance to defend himself. The way she’d wormed her way into his life, and then destroyed it.

  And Tasha had understood. She’d read his book and she’d understood.

  The Diet Coke can was cold against his hand. It felt good. His right hand ached from manipulating the mouse with his thumb. He hadn’t been sitting in the proper position, and he would pay for it later.

  He brought the can up to his forehead, letting the condensation cool him. He hadn’t even told Rita about Teri. Rita. He had thought he might fall in love with her, given time. He’d actually wondered quite often if he had been on the precipice of it when the stalking started. Then their relationship had changed. The relationship had become about the Creep. Every conversation was about him, and how to avoid him, how to live with him, how to find him.

  By the time Rita had moved in, they weren’t even sleeping together any more. He had given her space in his home solely for her convenience, and because he was feeling guilty about the Creep. Not guilty enough to tell her that Jessamyn was his pen name, but guilty all the same.

  Then, of course, things got worse. He’d been happy when Rita had gone to France, and he’d wondered why he hadn’t felt more when he discovered that she had met someone new.

  He rummaged in the refrigerator for more food, found some kind of energy bar thing, and then went back to the bed. He’d pulled back the coverlet, and had bunched up the pillows, but not even that was making him more comfortable. If anything, it made him want to curl up and go to sleep.

  But he couldn’t. He needed to find this guy. If the Creep had escalated the way that Tasha said he had, then things could get a lot worse.

  The sooner Rick was back into his house, the sooner the Creep was gone, the better off they’d all be.

  So Rick grabbed the last pillow, put it high enough for his head to rest against it, and continued his search.

  ***

  Beebe sat in the hotel’s lobby on a comfortable oversized chair that leaned up against a pillar. His seat gave him the best possible view of both the elevators and the front door, but a fern blocked the front desk’s view of him, even though he could see the desk.

  A large tour group provided extra camouflage. They had been trickling down all morning, piling their luggage near the concierge, giggling and laughing about their trip to Spirit Mountain Casino and then the coast beyond.

  Casinos. A waste of time and energy. He wondered if Jessamyn liked them. She never mentioned them in her books. He used her books as a blueprint for all things. He knew what kind of restaurant to take her to (French or Continental cuisine only), what kind of flowers to put in her hotel room (daisies, catching the light), and how she liked to be seduced (sudden, quick, and impulsive).

  He had been studying her for years. And soon he would find her. He would save her.

  And she would be his.

  He would be her perfect man.

  He picked up a section of the Oregonian one of the tour members had tossed onto a nearby end table and pretended to study it. So few people noticed a well-dressed man reading a newspaper in the lobby of a hotel. The key was to make sure he looked like he belonged.

  That was easy. No one looked exactly like they belonged in a hotel. No one at all.

  Beebe was watching for both Jessamyn and Chance, although he had a hunch Chance didn’t let her out of the room. After all those years of imprisonment and abuse, Beebe wagered that Jessamyn probably didn’t fight Chance on anything. She probably wouldn’t even tell housekeeping she was in trouble.

  If Chance even allowed housekeeping inside.

  Beebe wondered if he’d been studying the page too long. He was trying to control his body. The worst thing he could do was fidget. But he wanted to go to the room. He had found the number during his late night search, and what he wanted more than anything was to go there now, break down the door, and snatch Jessamyn away from Chance.

  But Beebe knew better. Hotels were filled with security cameras and watchful guards. A hotel’s reputation was based on the way its guests were treated. The last thing the hotel needed was a news item about a man who broke into a room—even if it was to rescue an imprisoned woman.

  Beebe loudly turned the page in the newspaper, and resisted the urge to touch his gun. Normally, he didn’t like guns, but he was good at them. He’d spent a lot of time at the range with his father when he was a boy. His father had told him to never take a gun anywhere unless he planned to use it—and never to point it at anyone he didn’t want to shoot.

  His father had pointed that gun at his mother. His father had wanted to shoot her.

  And he had.

  Beebe shuddered, willing the memory to go away. He didn’t want a gun anywhere near Jessamyn, but it was the only thing he could think of. Chance was bigger than he was, and appeared to be stronger, and whether or not he wanted to admit it, Chance’s attack on the flower delivery guy the day before had frightened him.

  Beebe had spent half the night imagining what would have happened if it had been him.

  The thing he kept reminding himself of was that he needed to be strong for Jessamyn. He was her only hope—had been her only hope for years. And yesterday, he had come so close to failing her.

  Chance was moving her again, and that was a bad thing. Chance was tiring of her, and when men like that tired of women, they didn’t divorce them.

  They shot them.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Did you stop at the station before you came here?” Tasha asked Lou.

  He was seated at the table near the window, his gaze taking in the mess the room had become. Tasha almost felt as if he could see everything that had happened here in the past twelve hours. She tried not to blush as he stared at the couch.

  “No, I came straight here.” He threaded his hands behind his head. “Looks like you had a long night.”

  “It wasn’t what I expected.” Tasha sat down across from him, blocking his view of the couch. Her stomach was growling and she wanted a shower.

  “Oh?” Lou looked a little too interested.

  “He didn’t show. He didn’t make contact in any way. He’s quiet, and I don’t think that’s good.”

  “Our perp?”

  Tasha frowned. “Who’d you think I was talking about, Rick? I was with him the entire time.”

  “And how did he take to captivity?”

  She could feel the blush start to heat up her cheeks. “Well enough, I guess. But he’s sick of this whole thing, and who can blame him.”

  “Not me.” Lou let his arms fall, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning toward her. “Okay, I’ll be honest. I want the rest of the dish—”

  At that moment, Rick came out of the
bedroom. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all. He had changed into a polo shirt, a pair of jeans, and tennis shoes. If it weren’t for the bags under his eyes, he would look like a man who didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Anyone for breakfast?” he asked.

  “I’m starving,” Tasha said, “but I’d like to shower. What if I meet you and Lou in the restaurant?”

  “Good idea,” Lou said.

  Rick smiled at Tasha. His look was so warm that it heated her blood. The blush that had been threatening finally hit. “So,” he said teasingly, “I’m Lou’s responsibility now?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said. “Get him to tell you about the concert. He won’t say word one to me.”

  “You don’t tell a woman about a Santana concert,” Lou said, pulling himself out of his chair. “It’s just too mystical.”

  Lou seemed to be ignoring that blush—or maybe he would tease her about it later. She tossed a pillow at him. “Get out of here.”

  “My pleasure,” Lou said.

  “Want me to order you anything?” Rick asked.

  “Coffee,” Tasha said. “An entire pot.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he said, and bowed slightly. She wished he would stop, that was what she wished. If Lou hadn’t already figured out what had happened, he would shortly.

  “Go,” Tasha said.

  Rick rose and headed for the door. Then Lou grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows. So he had figured it out, dammit.

  “I said go.” She sounded testier than she wanted to. “The sooner you leave, the sooner I get my coffee.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lou said. He followed Rick out the door.

  Tasha ran a hand through her ruffled hair. It felt odd, suddenly, to have Rick out of the room. She had been hyperaware of him—partly because she felt responsible for him, and partly because she was so attracted to him, even now, after all that had happened the night before.

  She had been horribly unprofessional. The terrible part about it was that she didn’t care. Lou, she had finally realized, had expected it. Maybe he had set up his departure the night before to prove to her that she couldn’t fight her attraction. After all, he had moved from disliking Rick intensely to rooting for the man all in the same day. She wouldn’t put anything past Lou.

  She glanced at her clothes, still spread out along the sink. She had opted against a shower when she had realized what time Rick had awakened her, wanting to at least be dressed and presentable when Lou arrived. She had managed that—barely. But he had still given her a slight knowing grin which had annoyed her.

  Rick had left the shower stall door open. She reached inside and turned on the water, then felt a prickle of unease run down her back. What had caused that? She couldn’t tell. She went back into the main area, and saw nothing.

  Hyper vigilance had its price in paranoia. Still, she was glad she had come back out front. She had been about to make a rookie mistake.

  Her gun sat on the coffee table where she had left it. She picked it up and carried it into the bathroom with her. Rick didn’t strike her as the type to play cowboy, but if he were, she didn’t want to leave temptation there for him.

  Then she closed the bathroom door, pulled off her clothes, and checked the shower’s water temperature. She adjusted the hot slightly, and stepped in.

  ***

  The tour group was loud and obnoxious, swarming about Beebe like bees around a hive. He thought of moving, but didn’t want to give up his view of the lobby and elevators.

  Voices, laughing and talking, covered the soft mood music being piped in from the speakers above him. It seemed like the decibel level had risen in the past half hour. He could barely even hear the loud ping of the elevator doors as they opened.

  He had been staring at the sports section for nearly five minutes now, pretending to be an avid fan. Surely avid fans read every line in the sports section. Although he wasn’t reading. He was staring at the elevator around the side of the paper.

  Mornings were hectic in the Old Multnomah’s lobby. And apparently, there was some kind of conference going on here because the line outside the restaurant doubled all the way back to the gift shop.

  Milling people everywhere. They made him nervous. He set the newspaper down, brushing his forearm against the gun hanging from his hip. The suit coat concealed it. He almost wished it didn’t. He wanted to point it at the ceiling, shoot out a tile or two, and shout for quiet.

  But he didn’t. He would go through with his plan. All it took was patience.

  Then the elevator door opened and a crowd of people got out, dragging suitcases on wheels. More of the damn tour group. They marched to the front desk and got in line. He was so busy watching them that he almost missed the last two people to get off the elevator.

  A burly, familiar-looking man, and Chance. They were talking and laughing. The big man was all eyes, sweeping the room as if he were looking for something. Finally, he pointed at the restaurant. Chance frowned at it and shook his head.

  Together they marched toward it, looking purposeful.

  This was Beebe’s opportunity.

  He almost got up and ran toward the front desk. But he made himself wait. They might be here for just a moment. They might be ordering room service or getting muffins to take back to the room. He had to make sure they were not going back, at least for a while.

  Chance spoke to the hostess, who traced her finger down a sheet before her. Then Chance looked at his watch. The woman shrugged. It looked like an apology.

  Chance went back to the burly man, and they conferred. They went to the main doors and slipped outside.

  Now Beebe was ready.

  Carefully, he folded his newspaper and set it on the end table beside his chair. Then he went to the front desk.

  The line was ten people long. All of them were dragging suitcases and all of them were chattering and laughing like the people who had been surrounding him. Hadn’t anyone heard of automatic checkouts? He was in a hurry, and he didn’t want to wait for a group of idiots to complain about a five dollar phone charge on their already overpriced bill.

  He buttoned his suit coat and shifted from foot to foot, careful to keep his right arm over the bulge in his jacket. He should have bought a shoulder harness. He knew it, but he hadn’t done it. And now he would have to be very careful not to reveal his gun.

  Three extra hotel employees took spots at the check out desk. Two others finished with their customers, and suddenly, the line shortened by five.

  He stared at the backs of the departing guests, willing them to hurry. One was an elderly lady who seemed to want every charge explained to her. Another was a young man who was having some sort of dispute over parking.

  Beebe glanced over his shoulder at the main doors. No sign of Chance. Then Beebe scanned the lobby once again. The elevator doors opened, and he felt a stab of panic. He should have been watching them.

  What if Jessamyn had come down on her own?

  After all the years that Chance had beaten her down, she probably wouldn’t have hurried across the lobby. She would have hesitated, looked rabbit-like and fearful.

  She hadn’t come, at least not yet.

  Three of the hotel employees had finished with their guests and beckoned others. Four people walked to the counter. One of them was a couple. He felt blessed. Only one more person ahead of him, and he would be able to get to Jessamyn.

  Finally, the last of the original customers, the old lady, moved. The person ahead of him, a middle-aged woman wearing a shirt one size too small, took her place at the desk.

  Beebe glanced at the elevator doors. Still no Jessamyn.

  “Sir?” The voice came from the front desk. A perky looking woman, no older than thirty, smiled at him. “May I help you?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t have to work at sounding breathless and panicked. It came naturally today. “My name is Rick Chance. I lost the key to my room, and I need a duplicate.”

  “What
’s your number?” she asked.

  “Four-fourteen.” A hard-won number, found through a lot of database searching and ingenuity.

  She punched some keys on the hotel’s computer system. He rocked from foot to foot, hoping he had gotten it right. So much had gone wrong the last few days, that this might too.

  Oh, well. If it did, he had his gun.

  He shuddered. Using it here would make it that much more difficult to get to Jessamyn. He should have had a back-up plan. One more sign that he was getting careless. He usually had a back-up plan.

  “Here it is,” the front desk clerk said. Then she grabbed one of those white plastic room keys with the magnetic strip, put it in her little machine, and handed him the key. “Do be careful with this one, Mr. Chance. If you lose too many keys we have to charge you.”

  Beebe smiled at her. “I’m sure this will be the last one I’ll need.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  TASHA FINISHED TOWELING her hair, then peered at herself in the mirror. The hotel-provided blow dryer seemed to work only on fry mode, and she didn’t want her scalp to peel off. So she’d have to go to breakfast with wet hair. There were worse crimes.

  Still, she sighed. She was really gone. She wanted to look as perfect for Rick as possible. Her cousin Brooke would approve.

  Tasha put on her clothes, put her gun in the harness, and slipped it under her left shoulder. Then she put on her jacket, praying it wouldn’t be too hot today. She hated the stares she got when she peeled off the coat. Even if she explained to people that she was a police officer, she still got odd looks. And that was the last thing she needed today.

  Her shoes were missing. She went into the living room, and didn’t see them anywhere. She knew she had to have taken them off here. That was where she and Rick had... ignited. She grinned at herself. There was no better word for it. Except maybe erupted.

  She checked the bathroom. No shoes. How could she have misplaced them? Shoes weren’t something she normally lost.