The Wharf

by Carol Ericson

  “I’m glad you had the foresight to get my purse. I swear, I don’t think these people would’ve treated me without a copy of my insurance card.”

  She ripped open the plastic bag and dumped her pajamas onto the bed. She snatched up the bottoms and wriggled into them beneath the sheet. Then she shrugged out of the paper gown and pulled her top over her head.

  He averted his gaze from all that creamy white skin, but she’d had it right. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. And felt. And tasted. And enjoyed.

  Tossing off the sheet, she said, “I guess I’m ready.”

  He stood next to the bed and offered his arm, which she took. She rose to her feet, leaning heavily against him.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Sure.” She took a few shuffling steps to prove her point.

  “Hang on to me, and I’ll get you out of here. I parked my rental car right in front, if they haven’t towed me.” He curled his arm around her waist and tucked her against his side as he maneuvered through the chaos of the emergency room.

  His new rental welcomed them from exactly where he’d left it. He helped Kacie into the passenger seat and then dropped onto the driver’s seat.

  “You need some food.”

  “I need a shower first. I haven’t had a shower since...” She trailed off, her cheeks sporting two red spots.

  He got it. She hadn’t had a shower since the day before, when they’d made love. Since before he found out her mother was one of the Phone Book Killer’s victims.

  “Shower first, then.”

  In less than an hour they were safely ensconced in her room. This time he didn’t leave her alone and wouldn’t—no matter how many lies she’d told him.

  She stacked a pile of clean clothes in her arms and headed for the bathroom. “Make yourself at home. There’s no telling how long I’m going to take in the shower.”

  “Take as much time as you need, and let me know if you feel dizzy or weak. I’m going to order some room service. Any preferences?”

  “Food.”

  Kacie snapped the bathroom door closed and leaned against it. Where would she be right now if Ryan hadn’t saved her? Getting tortured? Beaten like Cookie? Dead? What did that man want with her? He could’ve killed her in the hallway. Why hadn’t he?

  It couldn’t just be another warning. She and Ryan had gotten that warning the night before in the car—stay away from this case or else.

  She dragged the dirty pajamas from her body and tossed them into the corner of the bathroom, then cranked on the water and stepped into the tub, grabbing the shower curtain as she swayed. Maybe she did need Ryan’s help, but he’d probably see it as another ploy to seduce him.

  Despite her lie, he had to believe everything she felt, that everything she did with him the previous two nights had come from the heart. He had to believe it, even though she’d given him every reason not to.

  She turned her face to the warm spray and let it soothe her skin. He must have felt it, too, that connection between them. Maybe in some weird way, their connection had come from both of them having their lives upended by a serial killer.

  She washed her hair and massaged some conditioner into it. Then she soaped up a washcloth and circled it on her skin.

  “Are you okay in there?” The knock on the door made her drop the washcloth.

  “Yes.” She bent over at the waist to retrieve the washcloth from the tub and lurched to the side. “Oh!” She made a grab for the shower curtain, popping a few rings from the rod.

  The bathroom door flew open, and Ryan emerged through the steam like some avenging god. “Did you fall?”

  He flung back the damaged shower curtain and dropped beside the tub.

  Kacie glanced at him from her embarrassing position of all fours in the tub, her hair still goopy with conditioner.

  “I—I just dropped the washcloth and had a little trouble picking it up.”

  “You shouldn’t be making any quick moves. And on top of it, you’re probably still sore from the wreck yesterday.” He placed both hands around her waist. “Sit down.”

  She rolled back to her bottom, folding her legs beneath her.

  Taking the washcloth from her hand, he tapped her knee. “Stretch your legs out so you’re flat in the tub. I don’t want you toppling over again.”

  She obeyed and uncurled her legs, stretching them in front of her and scooting back in the tub.

  He rose to his knees with the washcloth in his hands and finished the job she had started. She closed her eyes as he rubbed the washcloth across her flesh and down her back. He swirled it in circles down to where her backside met the porcelain. Then he swished it to her front, skimming it across her chest and beneath her breasts.

  Now she really felt dizzy and it had nothing to do with that drug.

  He dabbed her belly and flicked the washcloth between her legs and then swept it down the insides of her thighs.

  He finished with her feet, massaging each toe as if she were some great work of art that needed precise cleaning.

  “Can you stand up now to rinse off?”

  After that sensuous washing, the only thing she wanted to do now was lie down—with him, on a bed, naked.

  “Yes. Really, Ryan, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Yeah, I do. Hang on to me.”

  She grasped his arm and he helped her stand.

  He flicked up the lever for the shower and kept one arm firmly around her waist.

  “You’re going to get all wet.”

  “Too late. Rinse out your hair and I’ll keep hold of you so you don’t lose your balance again.”

  She let the water run across her body to rinse off the soap and then ducked her head in the spray.

  Ryan turned off the water for her and with one arm reached for her towel on the rack.

  Was he going to dry her off, too?

  He tousled her hair first and then rubbed and blotted the towel across the rest of her body.

  He could have taken her again, right against the wall. She wouldn’t have fainted or fallen or lost her balance, but she might have screamed.

  He flipped down the lid of the toilet and helped her from the tub. “Sit here and finish drying off—and leave this door open.”

  “You’re soaking wet.”

  He glanced down at the T-shirt clinging to his chest and peeled it off in a single motion.

  “There. Feel better?”

  Moisture glistened on his smooth skin, enhancing the hard planes of muscle that shifted across his chest.

  She swallowed. “Much.”

  “Holler if you need me. Room service should be here any minute.” He stepped out of the bathroom, his wet T-shirt flung over one shoulder.

  She finished drying herself and wrapped her hair in the damp towel. As she finished dressing, she heard a knock at the door. Ryan wouldn’t open it and had the waiter leave the tray outside.

  Did he think her abductor would try the same trick twice? After what had been going on, she’d been a fool to open the door to the waiter in the first place. She hadn’t been thinking straight. She’d been excited at the thought of Ryan sending room service to her.

  Heck, that shower scene had been a hundred times better than room service.

  He called out, “Food’s here. Are you doing okay?”

  She checked her reflection in the mirror and shoved her damp hair from her face. She’d dry it after she ate.

  She stepped into the room and spread her arms. “Presentable at last.”

  He grunted. “I thought you were damned presentable in the tub.”

  She ignored the comment. If they allowed this sexual tension to build between them again, there was only one outcome—bed. And she couldn’t go there with him, not now. Not until they squared things between them.

  “Smells good. What did you order?” She lifted the silver lid from a plate.

  “Hamburgers, French fries and some salad, because you’re always eating salad.”

  “The p
oint is to eat salad instead of hamburgers and French fries, not in addition to.” She snagged a French fry from the plate and bit into its salty, greasy goodness.

  “After what you’ve been through, you deserve hamburgers, French fries and salad.”

  He dug into his own food, and she layered her burger with tomato, onion and pickles and took a big bite.

  It tasted like heaven—calories be damned.

  “Did you get any ibuprofen in the emergency room?”

  “No. Don’t they charge about twenty-five dollars for one pill?”

  He shook a small bottle. “I have them for free. Aren’t you still sore from the accident last night?”

  She was sore from a lot of things. “I’ll take one with my burger.”

  Ryan tapped one onto her plate and continued destroying his cheeseburger.

  She finished her food and patted her mouth with a napkin. “I feel halfway human now.”

  “Good.” He stacked his plate and hers onto the tray and poured himself another glass of iced tea from the pitcher. “Now tell me about your mother.”

  Her eye twitched above her bruised cheek, and she rubbed it. Guess he hadn’t forgotten about her little lie.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Her name, for starters.”

  “It’s all in the file on the victims.”

  He shoved the tray out of the way. “I want to hear it from you—all of it.”

  “Her name was Layla French.”

  “Where’s your biological father?”

  The knife twisted in her gut. “I don’t know. His name was Russ Langford, and he wasn’t around. She’d always told me it was just the two of us. I always got the impression she’d never told him about me. Anyway, after my mother’s murder, he never stepped up and I never gave him another thought.”

  “And the Mannings adopted you.”

  “I had no other family after the Phone Book Killer took my mom away from me.” She sniffed but refused to let the tears fall. He’d see them as a ploy for sympathy. “The Mannings lived here, heard about my plight and petitioned to adopt me. Since there was nobody else beating down my door, Child Protective Services allowed the adoption. Then we moved to Seattle.”

  “Do you remember anything about your mother’s murder?”

  “She was here one day and gone the next. When my adoptive mom explained to me years later that Layla had been murdered, she told me that she’d been killed trying to help someone.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. The Phone Book Killer used plaster to put his arm in a cast and then pretend he needed help.”

  “I just always like to picture it that way—she went out thinking she was lending someone a hand.”

  “And you always believed that someone was Detective Joseph Brody.”

  “Everything I ever read pointed to his guilt. Why would he jump from the Golden Gate Bridge at the height of the investigation if he wasn’t guilty?”

  “I’ve wondered that a million times.” He rubbed his jaw and clasped his chin. “But why would someone threaten us for researching and writing this book if he were guilty?”

  “That’s what got me, Ryan. That’s what changed my mind.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me about your mother?”

  They were back to that. “Honestly?”

  “Let’s try that first—for a change.”

  She winced. “Because I wanted to protect myself. I knew how bad it would look if you found out.”

  “You figured I’d put the brakes on this project.”

  “I figured you’d put the brakes on us.”

  “And if there ever was going to be an us, exactly when did you figure you could safely tell me you’d believed at one point my father murdered your mother and you were out to prove it?”

  She twisted her wet hair around one hand and studied the ends. “Maybe when we were bouncing grandkids on our knees.”

  His phone began to ring beside the glass and she nodded toward it.

  “You’d better get that.” It would save her from explaining herself any further. She’d spent two nights with the man and saw grandkids in their future. The embarrassing part of all that was she meant every word.

  He looked at the lit display of his phone. “It’s my department. Hey, Paul, whaddya got for me?”

  His eyes narrowed to green slits and Kacie caught her breath. More bad news? Her aching body couldn’t take any more.

  “I see. Yeah, nothing we can do about that.”

  He ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin.

  “Well?” She sat on the edge of her chair, gripping the sides.

  “They did a trace on that blocked number on Cookie’s phone.”

  “Who is it? Who called Cookie twice before she was attacked?”

  “We don’t know.”

  She slumped. “That’s not helpful at all.”

  “We don’t know who called because the trace goes back to a protected phone number.”

  “A protected phone number? What does that mean?”

  “It’s like classified information. Whoever called Cookie that day is someone in a position of authority. Seems Cookie had friends—or enemies—in high places.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “That doesn’t mean this person in authority is the one who beat her.”

  “No, but it’s another puzzle piece. Why would someone like that be using a protected number to call a Realtor? You’d think anyone house hunting would want to make communication as easy as possible.”

  “What kinds of people have these numbers?”

  “Politicians, diplomats, police officers.”

  Kacie brushed some crumbs from the table and tipped them onto the tray. “I think we need to get to work on Christina’s research.”

  “Did I say I wanted back on this project?”

  “We can’t stop now, Ryan. Don’t give up on clearing your father’s name because I betrayed you. It looks like we both finally have an opportunity to bring justice to our parents. We can’t let that go, regardless of what is or isn’t between us.”

  He stood, hoisted up the tray and walked toward the door. Kacie darted ahead of him and opened it for him.

  As much as he wished there was nothing between them at this point, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. Hell, the smallest sound from the bathroom had him bursting into her shower. He knew what he’d find in there and he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d wanted her smooth skin beneath his hands again. He’d wanted to climb into the tub with her and hold her, keep her safe.

  He stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips. “Okay, let’s go through Christina’s research—together this time. I’ll run up and get the box and you stay here, behind a locked door. Do not open it for anyone. I don’t care if there are twenty room-service waiters outside bearing gifts.”

  “If I’m not opening the door, you’d better take this.” She handed him her key card and he slipped it in his back pocket.

  Five minutes later, he returned with the box in his arms and balanced it on his hip as he unlocked Kacie’s door. He held his breath as he walked into the room, but she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking at her phone.

  “Are you feeling up to this?”

  She dropped her phone and snapped her fingers. “Bring it on. I’ll be shuffling through some papers. It’s not like we’re doing hard manual labor.”

  “It’s hard psychological labor.” He tapped his head.

  He joined her on the bed but put the box firmly between them.

  “We can work at the desk if you like. I’m not so weak that I can’t sit up in a chair.”

  “You may not be, but I am.” He pinched his neck where it met his shoulder. “I’m still plenty sore from the car crash.”

  She reached behind him and plumped up an extra pillow. “Lean back.”

  Before he did, he grabbed a stack of files from the box and dropped them in his lap. “Let’s start with the first victim.”<
br />
  “That would be my mother.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, Kacie.” He reached across the box and brushed the back of his hand along her cheek. “I never even told you that. I was so outraged that you’d kept your identity a secret from me, I never expressed my sympathy for your loss.”

  “We both lost, Ryan.” She blinked her wide eyes. “I didn’t expect your sympathy under the circumstances.”

  “Well, you have it. I’ll take her case and you can look at the second murder victim, which is about the time the killer started contacting my father. Maybe a little distance and different perspective will do us both good.”

  He read through the file silently. Kacie’s mother had been a waitress in the Lower Haight, at a seedy joint called the Hippy Shake, where the waitresses went topless more often than not. He slid a gaze at Kacie, who was engrossed in her own reading.

  Layla French, if that was even her real name, had taken her baby daughter and left an abusive relationship with Russ Langford back home in Ohio. The cops contacted the ex-boyfriend, Kacie’s father, in Ohio. Once the second murder occurred, the police had dropped the abusive-boyfriend angle.

  This first case had seemed like a routine homicide investigation, with his father and his partner, Brett Stillwell, zeroing in on the fine clientele of the Hippy Shake. What had happened to the two Joes?

  “Kacie, who was my father’s partner on the second case?”

  She lifted up the corner of a piece of paper. “Detective Stillwell. Why?”

  He scratched his chin with the edge of the paper he was holding. “I always thought my father’s partner was named Joe, like him. They called my father Joey and his partner Joe to avoid confusion.”

  “Could be Joe Stillwell. His first name isn’t listed, or I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

  “I have. It’s Brett Stillwell.” He slid his phone from the nightstand and punched in Sean’s number. His brother answered after two rings.

  “What’s up, Ry?”

  Sean had given his department strict orders not to disturb him, so he knew nothing about the trouble—including the fact that Kacie Manning was the daughter of a murder victim—and Ryan intended to keep it that way.

  He cleared his throat. “We’re going through Christina’s files and I have a question for you.”