Tonight You're Mine

by Carlene Thompson

  “I was trying to contact Sergeant DeSoto.”

  “Business or personal?”

  “Business,” she replied briskly.

  “You can tell me.”

  “All right. My daughter and I stayed at a motel last night. Some time around one-thirty in the morning I received a crank call.” Silence. She forged ahead. “The voice sounded like Luis Magaro. He called me…” Her voice broke. She took a deep breath. “He called me ‘little bird,’ just like he did the night he raped me. He called my daughter a puta. He said he hadn’t forgotten anything I put him and Zand through. He said, oh God, I can’t remember his exact words, but something about getting me and Shelley.”

  She could barely get her breath when she finished. For a moment Cy Waters said nothing. Finally he asked, “You say Luis Magaro called you?”

  “No. Magaro is dead. Someone was doing a magnificent imitation of Magaro, someone who knew what Magaro said to me the night of the rape.”

  Some of the stiffness left Waters’s voice. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

  “None. I can’t imagine who could capture that voice so accurately, much less know his words to me that night.” She paused. “Will Sergeant DeSoto be in later?”

  “Mrs. Chandler, last night Ray felt uneasy about you. He sat outside the motel for hours. Then he said he saw something suspicious. He was pretty vague on that point for some reason. Anyway, when he went to investigate, someone bashed him on the head.”

  “Good lord!” Nicole exclaimed. “Is he badly hurt?”

  “Slight concussion. Drove himself to the hospital when he came to, which was a damn-fool thing to do. Did you hear any commotion in the parking lot?”

  “No, I didn’t.” The police are going to think I need a hearing aid, she thought. I never seem to hear anything. Nothing except the scratching of Jordan on the door. But she wasn’t going to mention that. If Jordan was there, Paul probably was, too. Had Paul attacked Ray?

  “Is Ray all right?” she asked, forgetting formality and using his first name. “Is he in the hospital?”

  “Should be, but he insisted on going home. You could probably reach him there.”

  “All right,” Nicole said, suddenly realizing she had no idea where Ray lived. She hoped his phone number was in the telephone directory.

  “Mrs. Chandler, give me the name of the motel and the room number.” Pause. “Time of the call again?”

  “Approximately one-thirty.”

  “Okay. I’m going to check this out. And by the way, we’ve finished with your house. You can return this afternoon.”

  “Great,” Nicole said flatly.

  “Thought doesn’t thrill you? I don’t blame you. If anything else happens, let me know.”

  “I will, Sergeant Waters,” she said, thinking that if something else happened, she’d probably have a nervous breakdown.

  4

  Cy Waters leaned back in his chair. He knew from Ray that someone bearing a strong resemblance to Paul Dominic was following Nicole Chandler. He also knew Ray believed it was Dominic. He wasn’t so sure. He’d thought for years Dominic was dead. But both Nicole Chandler and Ray were right—they had no definite evidence of his death. Even Aline agreed when he’d discussed the case with her last night.

  Now Nicole said she’d received a call from someone imitating Luis Magaro. Cy was relieved there was no doubt in her voice on this point. She didn’t believe it was Magaro, a man they knew to be dead—shot in the temple, hooded, and hanged exactly like Izzy Dooley.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Cy muttered to himself, tapping his ballpoint pen against his teeth. Nicole’s father’s suicide, the reappearance of someone who both Ray and Nicole were convinced was Paul Dominic, Nicole’s prowler wearing a wolf mask, the murders of the young patrolman and Izzy Dooley. Izzy’s girlfriend claimed Izzy had been paid to kill someone’s wife. If this were true, it appeared the “wife” was Nicole Chandler, and Roger Chandler was the most obvious suspect. But Cy believed everything that was happening now was tied to what happened fifteen years ago. That’s what he’d told Aline last night. “You weren’t satisfied with that investigation,” she’d reminded him, and he’d told her why.

  “One, Dominic was brilliant,” he’d explained. “Not just about music, Aline. Do you know he went to Juilliard when he was fifteen? Now, would a brilliant guy just dump a gun and his bloody shirt in a trash can in his mother’s yard? He could have dropped the gun anywhere and burned the shirt. Instead, he might as well have left that stuff on his mother’s front porch.”

  Aline frowned. “You’re right. What’s your second point?”

  “Who was the anonymous informant? To my knowledge, no one knows. They had no idea about the credibility of this person. To me the whole thing had the feel of a setup, but Judge Hagan issued a search warrant anyway. I think the guy was getting senile.”

  “And your third point?”

  “The gun. The serial number had been filed out, but they can usually bring that back with nitric-acid etching.”

  “And they didn’t?”

  “They said they tried, but the filing was too deep. If it had been drilled, I would have believed them. But filed? I was never convinced they tried hard enough to bring the number back. That serial number could have told us a lot.”

  “But what if Dominic just bought the gun from someone on the street?”

  “That’s possible. But as far as his defense went, at the very least, bringing back the serial number could have shown it wasn’t registered to anyone in the Dominic family. At the best, it could have been traced to someone connected with Magaro and Zand. Hell, Aline, it was only because of the stuff found at Dominic’s that everyone thought their murders were related to what happened to Nicole Sloan. But those guys were slime. You can bet she wasn’t the only girl they’d raped, maybe even killed, not to mention all the other dirty stuff the guys in the band were into.”

  “All of them?”

  “Oh, I don’t think the others were as bad as Magaro and Zand, but they weren’t choirboys. Anyway, maybe their murders had nothing to do with Nicole Sloan.”

  “But Dominic ran. Why would he do that if he were innocent?” Aline asked.

  Cy leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “Because the system doesn’t always work. Sometimes innocent people get convicted. I’m sure Dominic knew that. Now can I have my dinner?”

  “On one condition,” Aline said firmly. “You watch out for that girl, Cy.”

  “I think Ray’s doing his best to make that his job,” Cy had said dryly. “Besides, she doesn’t even like me.”

  “That’s because you played your hard-nosed, crusty cop routine with her. But I’m not kidding. You look out for her.”

  “I will,” Cy muttered now, a ringing phone bringing him out of the remembered conversation to the squad room. He leaned forward to pick up the phone. “Don’t you worry, Aline, I will.”

  5

  Nicole was exhausted after her first class. She felt as if she hadn’t slept for a week, and the weekend seemed like a shimmering oasis she would never reach. She had an hour break between classes, and when she returned to her office, she put on a pot of coffee, mocha-flavored to wash out the taste of the abominable cup she’d had at breakfast. As the delicious smell of gourmet coffee began to fill the office, she downed two aspirin, sat down at her desk, and laid her head on her folded arms. She was almost asleep when the phone rang.

  “Boy, I do need that coffee,” she mumbled as she picked up the receiver and said in a thick voice, “Chandler.”

  “Good morning, Chandler,” Carmen laughed. “You sound full of vim and vigor.”

  “I’m dead on my feet.”

  “You didn’t sleep well at the motel?”

  “No.” Nicole stood and stretched the phone cord to the table where the coffeepot sat. She poured a full mug. “Someone who sounded like Luis Magaro called last night.”

  “Magaro?”

  “Yes. He said he
hadn’t forgotten what I’d done to him and Zand. He threatened Shelley and me.” She sat back down at the desk. “Carmen, are you still there?”

  “Yes.” Carmen paused. “Nicole, you do remember that Magaro is dead, don’t you?” she asked carefully.

  Nicole almost choked on her first sip of coffee. “Carmen, of course I know he’s dead.”

  “But you think he called you.”

  “I didn’t say Magaro called. I said someone who sounded like him called.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “Yes. Ray’s partner. Ray’s out today. It seems he decided to watch my room for a while last night. His partner, Sergeant Waters, said Ray saw something suspicious, got out of his car to check it out, and someone hit him on the head. He has a mild concussion.”

  “How awful! Did Ray see who did it?”

  “I haven’t spoken with him, but I got the impression from Waters he didn’t know.”

  “Or Waters isn’t telling.”

  “Maybe. At least Shelley and I get to go home tonight. I guess it’s a mixed blessing. I can imagine what the place looks like after the police finished with it. Then there’s all that blood in the hall…”

  “Are you afraid to go back there alone?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “If you change your mind, I’ll spend the evening with you. You just call.”

  “I will,” Nicole said, knowing she wouldn’t. All Carmen needed was abuse from Bobby for spending more time with her.

  After she hung up, she remembered the things Shelley said Bobby had yelled at Carmen—that he’d only married her because of “the kid.” Bobby and Carmen had married just a month after Zand’s and Magaro’s deaths. Nicole had been unable to attend the modest wedding because she was recovering from the first of her plastic surgeries, but she understood the haste. Within two months, Carmen’s pregnancy became visible. Four months later, Robert Vega, Jr., was born. In less than three months Bobby Junior died of crib death.

  Although Nicole had always known Carmen was pregnant when she married, she never knew Bobby resented marrying her. They’d dated for two years. Carmen told her they’d always planned on marriage. But maybe marriage was only on Carmen’s mind. After all, Nicole had heard the rumors of Bobby’s indulgence in drugs and groupies while he was with The Zanti Misfits. At the time of the Vegas’ wedding, though, The Zanti Misfits were nonexistent. The band died with Ritchie Zand.

  “You’re not looking up to par today.” Nicole glanced up and saw with a silent groan Avis Simon-Smith standing in her doorway regarding her with her large, dark, baggy eyes. “Being a bachelor girl again getting to you? Too many late nights?”

  “Good morning, Avis,” Nicole said evenly. “And I have lost a lot of sleep lately, but unfortunately it hasn’t been because of romance.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Avis said, snapping her fingers as if she’d just remembered. “You had a couple of murders at your place. I must say, Nicole, you do lead an exciting life.”

  “That depends on your definition of exciting. Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?” she asked reluctantly.

  Avis raised her head and sniffed loudly. She wore huge, dangling earrings that suddenly reminded Nicole of floppy ears, and she had an abrupt mental picture of Avis as a bloodhound. Next she’ll throw back her head and howl, she thought and promptly burst into badly concealed giggles.

  Avis’s head jerked toward her. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” Nicole gasped, unable to get a grip on herself as the huge earrings swung an inch above Avis’s shoulders. “Nothing, really.”

  “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” Avis demanded.

  “No, honestly, I just thought of something—” At that moment Avis’s large nostrils flared and she stepped forward. Nicole had never noticed how big and wide the woman’s feet were, completely out of proportion with her body. Big paws for running through the woods after ’possums, Nicole thought, and lost the last of her control. She tried with all her will to stop the laughter, but it bubbled forth, loud, uncontainable, causing her to choke and tears to stream from her eyes.

  “You are such a bitch!” Avis hissed, then vanished.

  Oh, God, oh, no, Nicole thought, full of remorse although she was still laughing uproariously. Was she losing her mind? She didn’t like Avis, but she knew the woman was troubled and suffered from a battered ego. The last thing she needed was to be laughed at, and Nicole would never have intentionally laughed in her face—no matter how outrageous her behavior—if she’d been herself. “But I’m not myself,” she muttered, reaching for a tissue. “I’m exhausted, I’m baffled, and I’m terrified, both for myself and Shelley.”

  She wiped away the last of her tears and her laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. She would apologize to Avis. She would explain to her the strain she’d been under. Not in detail, of course, but enough so that Avis would understand. “And maybe she’ll forgive me,” she said aloud.

  But Avis didn’t seem like the forgiving type. Nicole sighed and rubbed her temples, her head beginning to pound, when the phone rang. She picked it up and said hello. “Is this Professor Nicole Chandler?” a chirpy voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Mindy down at Dr. Linden’s office.”

  Nicole frowned. “Who?”

  “Mindy. Dr. Linden’s receptionist.”

  “I don’t know a Dr. Linden.”

  “You don’t? Well, I don’t understand that. Please don’t tell me you don’t know a Jesse Chandler.”

  “Jesse?” Nicole repeated blankly.

  “About twenty-five pounds, most of which is unruly black hair, slightly crippled, a bark that could shatter your eardrums, under the impression he’s a Rottweiler?”

  “You have Jesse?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was brought in yesterday morning, and we were told to call your office and remind you to pick him up today. He had a checkup, a penicillin shot for a bad scratch on his side, and a bath, which he didn’t like one bit. We’re open until seven this evening, Professor Chandler.”

  “You say he was brought in?” Nicole asked, dumbfounded. “Who brought him in?”

  “Just a minute. I’ll check the record.” Mindy was beginning to sound exasperated with Nicole’s ignorance of the situation. “Here it is. Jesse Chandler. Brought in yesterday morning with a request for checkup, bath, medical attention, and boarding until today, when you were to be called.”

  “Mindy, who brought Jesse in?” Nicole persisted.

  She heard Mindy’s frustrated sigh. “The dog was brought in by your friend Mr. George Gershwin.”

  Eighteen

  1

  Nicole had hoped to get home a bit early and do a little scrubbing on that blood in the hall before picking up Shelley, but the news about Jesse couldn’t wait. She drove directly to the school and went to Shelley’s classroom. When she looked through the narrow window in the classroom door and saw Shelley’s head drooping, her eyes full of sadness and worry, she knew she couldn’t wait another thirty-five minutes until class ended. She opened the door and told the teacher Shelley must come with her now. Apparently the teacher had read about the murders because her eyes became large and she said simply, “Of course. Shelley, go along with your mother immediately.”

  Shelley, too, looked frightened until they got outside the door. “Mommy, what is it?” she said, her voice quavering. “Did the dead man call again? Did someone else get murdered?”

  “No one got murdered, and I’ve told you no dead man called. This is good news.” She smiled broadly. “I know where Jesse is.”

  Shelley’s mouth dropped. “Really and truly?” Nicole nodded. “He’s all right?”

  “He’s fine. He just wants to come home. I’m sorry to pull you out of class, but—”

  “Come on!” Shelley called joyfully, running down the hall. “We’ve got to get him!”

  When they arrived at Dr. Linden’s office, the waiting room wa
s crowded. Shelley marched up to the desk and said, “We’re here for Jesse Chandler.”

  Mindy, pert, pretty, and not over twenty-one, smiled at her. “Are you Jesse’s mommy?”

  “Yes, I am. Has he been asking for me?”

  “Constantly,” Mindy said with a straight face. “Do you have a leash?”

  Shelley held up the leash they always kept in the car. Mindy took the leash and in a few moments returned with Jesse. He promptly pulled from her grip and ran to Shelley, yipping until Nicole thought her eardrums would burst.

  A few moments later an older, graying man in a white lab coat walked out. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked.

  “Jesse is a little carried away with himself,” Mindy told him.

  The veterinarian smiled at Shelley. “Looks like he’s glad to see you.”

  Shelley beamed. “Why don’t you take him out to the car, honey?” Nicole said loudly over Jesse’s barking. “I’ll settle the bill.”

  Immediately after Shelley had dragged Jesse, still yapping shrilly, out the door, the doctor asked, “Mrs. Chandler, did Jesse escape or do you let him run loose?”

  “I never let him run loose. My house was broken into the other night while I was out. Whoever did it let Jesse out.”

  “I see.” She noticed the doctor frowning slightly. Then his eyes met hers, and she knew he’d finally connected the name Chandler with the murders. No wonder. The story, along with her picture, had been splashed all over the news. “Do you know how Jesse was found?”

  Nicole shook her head. “I didn’t even know he was here until Mindy called my office about an hour ago.”

  “It seems he’d gotten his collar caught on a fence he was trying to slide under. He was frantic and desperately thirsty when he was brought in, and he had a nasty scratch on his side, but otherwise he was unhurt. If he hadn’t been found for a couple of days, though, he would have died of thirst or strangulation.”

  “Oh, thank goodness he was found.”

  “Mr. Gershwin seemed awfully worried about him,” Mindy chimed in.