Dance of Deception

by Trish Reeb

  Alex, get real! Taryn bailed on you after she met Jordan.

  Not true.

  The time she spent with you diminished significantly.

  But they talked on the phone and engaged in girl fun every couple weeks. Taryn and Jordan even invited Alex to join them for dinner or a show at times.

  You put your life on hold for her. All or nothing, that’s your M O. Same reason you avoided serious male relationships for ten years.

  Having a legitimate reason for the decision, she had no regrets about that.

  The good guy vs. bad guy routine went a couple more rounds until Alex sounded the bell in her head, sending them off to separate corners of her mind. The gap between the drapes brightened. Alex sat up. She'd be going home in a few hours. She slipped the idea on for size. The fit was not as comfortable as the frayed bathrobe she couldn’t bring herself to throw away but better than the toe-biting shoes she bought online. Big mistake and not one she'd repeat.

  Breakfast came and went as did the doctor who discharged her. Tired of channel surfing, Alex decided to get dressed. Her friend, Bobbi, would be picking her up following the interview with the police at school. She swung her legs around until her feet dangled over the side of the bed. The room spun in circles. She grabbed the railing on the side of the bed and squeezed.

  When the vertigo passed, Alex eased off the mattress and scuffed to the closet for her stuff. She opened the plastic bag and jerked her sweatshirt loose from amidst her other clothes. The side seam had been ripped open at the bottom, leaving inches of loose ends dangling like unfinished business. A dark red stain splotched the ribbing along the back neckline.

  She wanted it gone.

  Alex shuffled to the bathroom and twisted on the cold water. Using a washcloth, she scrubbed at the blood. The stain stayed. She dropped the sweatshirt to the floor. It formed a puddle of Lincoln High blue at her feet. She tentatively kicked it twice, scooped it up with her toes, and flung it into a corner of the hospital room.

  Alex inch-wormed her way back to the bed. Her head hurt from the exertion. Exhausted, she leaned back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

  "Alex, are you awake?"

  She opened her eyes to Bobbi’s face pinched with worry and scrutiny.

  "Shouldn’t . . . have . . . tried . . . to . . . ." The words came out in soft puffs.

  Bobbi tucked a long strand of blond hair behind an ear. "Tried to what?"

  Alex lacked the energy to finish. She sighed. "Nothing."

  "Can you sit up?" Bobbi helped her to a sitting position. "Let’s get you dressed."

  Alex swiveled to the edge of the bed. "I need half a minute."

  Bobbi glanced at her before retrieving the bag from the floor. "Sure, take all the time you need. There’s no rush." She handed Alex her black jeans and underwear. "While you’re changing, I’ll go to the nurse’s station and order an attendant."

  Alex flashed a crooked smile. "Sounds like he’s an entrée on a menu."

  Bobbi laughed. "A spoon man."

  When Bobbi returned, her gaze wandered the room. "I know you wore more than a blue lacy bra."

  Alex pointed to the clump in the corner.

  Bobbi went to the sweatshirt, picked it up. "It’s wet."

  "And ripped. Throw it away. "

  "You sure? I can slip it into this plastic bag for you to take home."

  Alex shook her head. Wincing, she pressed the bandage. "It’s ruined and reminds me of him."

  Bobbi stared at her thoughtfully. She stripped off her coat, slipped out of the sweater she wore over a white and yellow striped shirt, and handed it to Alex.

  Alex slid the yellow crew-neck over her head. It hung on her like her mother’s clothes had when she dressed up in them as a child.

  Bobbi laughed. "And all this time we thought we couldn’t swap clothes." She snatched up the sweatshirt. "Last chance to change your mind."

  "Trashcan it."

  Bobbi aimed and shot the bundle into the wastebasket.

  An orderly arrived a few minutes later, pushing a wheelchair. Not a spoon man. In fact, he was a she.

  "I’ll bring the car around to the entrance," Bobbi said, hurrying off.

  The attendant wheeled Alex out and helped her climb into the passenger seat of the blue van. Settled in, Alex waved her thanks. A toy dug into her thigh. She reached under her leg and yanked out Spiderman.

  "Amanda’s." Bobbi said, tossing it in the backseat. "Sorry."

  "Don’t you mean Jeremy?"

  Bobbi chuckled. "Nope. Spidey’s Amanda’s boy."

  Alex fastened her seatbelt and stared at the tiny snowflakes landing on the windshield.

  After driving a mile or two, Bobbie asked, "Now are you ready to hang it up?"

  "Hang what up?"

  "Quit. You don’t need the money."

  They’d had this discussion before. Bobbi's toleration of Lincoln had diminished to the point of wanting to leave. She often projected her own feelings onto Alex. "Can we talk about this later?"

  "Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. You must be exhausted. I’ll be quiet."

  Alex bit her tongue. She hated being called ‘sweetie’ as if she were five years old. She couldn't muster the energy to remind Bobbi for the umpteenth time that she didn't appreciate the endearment. For the rest of the trip, including a detour to the pharmacy to fill her prescriptions, Alex dozed off and on.

  When they arrived at her condo, she reached for her handbag. "My purse!"

  "I don’t think you had it," Bobbi said. "Want me to take you back to the hospital?"

  Alex’s hand went to her heart. "No, I just remembered. The ghost stole it." She reached for the door handle.

  "Ghost?" Bobbi eyed Alex.

  Alex shivered. "The nutcase that attacked me." She opened the door.

  Bobbi reached over and grasped her arm. "He has your purse, your keys? Jeez, he knows your address. You need to change your locks."

  "I will, but not today." Alex exited the car and trudged over to the garage door keypad and punched in the numbers. The door hummed open.

  "Let me take care of it," Bobbi said, raising her voice above the noise.

  "Would you?"

  "How are you going to get in without your key?" Bobbi’s eyes widened. "Don’t you know it’s not safe to leave your back door unlocked?"

  Alex waved a hand. "Pop taught us to keep a key hidden in case we locked ourselves out." She opened the toolbox on the shelving unit and scraped around. "See?" She waved a key and closed the lid.

  They stepped into the detached condo to the beeping alarm announcing all was well. Alex punched in the code, silencing the staccato signal.

  Bobbi led Alex into the bedroom. She handed her Calvin Klein all cotton pajamas from the designated drawer. After removing the bag of two prescriptions from her purse, she went to the bathroom for water.

  "Take," she said, placing the glass on top of a coaster on the table. "Where’re your yellow pages?"

  "In the kitchen cupboard below the white microwave."

  She disappeared.

  While Alex changed into her night clothes, she heard her friend's one-sided conversation with the locksmith. Seconds later, the tinkling of cat food falling into metal dishes sounded from the laundry room. She gulped down the meds and climbed into bed.

  "They’ll be here at four," Bobbi said when she reappeared.

  "Thanks for feeding Sid and Sami. They must be starved."

  "My pleasure. Take your pills?"

  Alex nodded.

  "Good. I’ll be in the living room waiting for the locksmith."

  "No way. Your family needs you more than I do."

  "T.J. can handle the kids. Besides, he told me to stay as long as you need me. Now go to sleep."

  Bobbi’s purse played The William Tell Overture.

  After an intense conversation on her cell phone, she disconnected and said, "TJ. His mom’s in the hospital. She fell at work. I’ve gotta—" She paused. "No, I can’t leave. The locksmith'
s coming."

  "You need to go. He’s scheduled for four? I’ll set the clock radio for three-thirty." She reached for it on the nightstand and made the adjustments, rotating the volume knob up a notch or two.

  Bobbi stood with hand on hip. "That’ll work. Are you going to be okay?"

  Alex smiled. "Yes, thanks to you." But would she? At the moment, she cherished Bobbi’s take-charge personality. She wanted to cry out, 'don’t go.'

  She stretched out her arms and Bobbi leaned into them for a hug. "Call if you need anything," she said, "if you want to talk."

  "I will. Let me know how your mother-in-law is." Alex's gaze followed her to the bedroom door. "How will I ever repay you?"

  Bobbi swiveled to face her. "Do as the doctor ordered." She shook her finger. "Don't forget to activate the security alarm after I leave."

  The front door closed, leaving Alex alone with her cats. She threw off the covers and painstakingly inched to the front door to lock it and set the alarm. Edging her way to the bed, she leaned on the furniture feeling for the first time the full extent of her injuries—her head, bruised ribs, and stomach. She was on her own to manage the physical as well as the emotional damage she'd incurred, like it or not.

  Sid, part Siamese, sprang onto the bed. Purring softly, he circled her head and padded across her abdomen twice—ouch—ouch—before nestling into the crook of her arm. Well, maybe she needn't manage alone after all. Soon, Sami joined them, nudging Alex’s hand with a whiskered face. Alex petted the black cat until she lay next to her on the other side.

  She clicked on the TV, thumbing her way through the channels on the remote control. Nothing appealed. Exasperated, she punched off the power button and snatched Poets & Writers from the bedside stand. After flipping through the pages, she tried reading an article, but gave up after rereading the first paragraph three times.

  Alex eyed the bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand. Should she take another? The first one didn’t seem to be working. What the heck, she'd sleep longer and that would be a good thing, right? Ignoring the nag in her head telling her not to do it, she swallowed a pill. Sliding back under the covers, mindful of her cats, she closed her eyes. Her mind jumped around like a hyperactive three year old from one thing to another—the stolen journal, Cole Grant, Jordan’s appearance, Taryn.

  The drug took effect, slowing down her thoughts until they blurred. Alex floated along with them, thankful for the haze, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Cole drove to Ann Arbor, home for the University of Michigan, to question Jordan Whitfield. In his younger years, he hung out in the college town’s avante garde restaurants and pubs. Now his life revolved around the City of Detroit. He’d been asked many times why he didn’t escape to the 'burbs, why he stayed. Detroit’s status as one of the nation’s major cities had long ago slipped off the pyramid as its problems soared and population shrunk. When the city lifted the residency requirement for cops, many of his colleagues hotfooted it out of town. He, on the other hand, plodded on determined to see the rusty star shine again. A corny sentiment maybe, but one in which he believed.

  He reached Jordan’s street. The houses set back from the road made it difficult to read the addresses. Turned out it didn’t matter. Channel 7, The Detroit News, and WJR vehicles parked in the long driveway of a contemporary house with squinting windows. Three more, their tires infringing on the snow-covered lawn, formed a queue in front of the house. Cole coasted to the side of the road opposite the house and braked.

  A half dozen media hounds, wielding microphones and cameras, left the warmth of their vehicles, ready for him to vacate his car. Someone shouted his name.

  A skinny Black dude reached him first. "Hey, Detective, care to comment?" he asked.

  "Not now, man." As he approached the house, a number of reporters acknowledged him, but none threw questions his way. Over the years, he’d established ground rules. No questions without his permission or a prearranged press conference. He’d learned the hard way his first year as a detective. A couple of reporters railroaded him into making a premature statement causing a young boy to seek revenge on his sister’s killer. Fortunately, no one had been hurt. But he vowed never to let that happen again.

  Jordan Whitfield, dressed in jeans, a button-down collar shirt, and tan blazer, opened the door. He escorted Cole to the living room in the back of the house where a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the snow-covered yard, a frozen Huron River beyond it. "Picture-postcard scene, isn’t it?"

  "Yeah," Cole said, admiring the view.

  "I bought the property a few years ago, long before I met Taryn. Sold the house for a buck to a guy whose wife loved its 1920’s charm. He paid to transport it elsewhere and I built this place," he said. "Finished most of the inside myself. Taryn. . . ." Jordan shook his head. His dark eyes assumed a far-off look and he said nothing for a good dozen seconds. "Taryn loved it here. We talked of kayaking when the weather . . . ." Rotating, his back now to the windows, he led Cole to a pair of black leather sofas sitting perpendicular to the hearth. The blazing fire and crackling logs might've sent good cheer on another day. Cole sat on the cushion farthest from the heat.

  Jordan aimed the remote at the plasma TV and the screen went blank. "I’ve become a news junky. Can’t seem to tear myself away. Afraid I’ll miss something." He drifted to the mantel and fetched a framed snapshot, handed it to Cole. "We'd been invited to a Halloween party. Surprised us when we showed up at a wedding. Taryn and I met as Cruella De Vil and Vlad the Impaler." He stared into space. "The bride and groom dressed as Romeo and Juliet. The best man, a big guy, wore a Santa suit, and the maid of honor decked out like Glinda the good witch in Wizard of Oz."

  Cole smiled. "Must’ve been quite a marriage ceremony." He stared at the couple dressed for Trick or Treat. Taryn with a hand on her hip, fingers clamped on a long cigarette holder, raised an eyebrow for the camera. At her side, Jordan smiled at her, his red-tipped fangs belying the enchantment in his eyes.

  Cole handed him the photo.

  "Never forget it," Jordan said, replacing the photo on the mantel. He sat across from Cole and dropped his face in his hands. "I can’t believe she’s gone." Raising his head, after a few seconds he said, "In my business, I’ve heard enough to know anything can happen. But Taryn? She’s the last person I’d figure for a murder victim. If you’d met her, you’d know what I’m talking about." He smiled sadly. "The girl lived life. Know what I mean? Everything she did, an adventure. Hell, a flower poking out of the snow could send her into squeals of delight." He wiped his eyes. "Never met anyone like her."

  He stared past Cole. The lines on his dark face were far more pronounced than they should be for a man his age. Cole guessed him to be thirty, thirty-two years tops, which made them close in age and too young to lose the women in their lives. Cole understood his pain. He felt himself getting caught up in the memory of Desi. Harden up, man. This was no time for him to lose his objectivity.

  Jordan sighed. "How could this happen? I’ve been over it a million times. It doesn’t make sense." He leaned forward, legs apart, and propped his elbows on each bent knee, clasping his hands between them.

  "I’m sorry for your loss," Cole said. "Unfortunately, there’s no good time for this, but I do need to ask some questions." He pulled his notebook from his pocket. "How long had you known Taryn?"

  "We’ve, we’d," he corrected, "been dating almost four months."

  Cole nodded and wrote Jordan's response. "Where were you Thursday night from approximately five until nine?" Taryn’s body, in full rigor mortis at five thirty-seven a.m., the time of discovery, indicated she’d been dead for about ten hours.

  "I left work at six for a business meeting at Weber’s in Ann Arbor. Arrived at six forty-five. Stayed until nine. Went to my folks from there to drop off some papers for my dad. Headed home around ten." His monologue sounded memorized, if not rehearsed. Had Jordan not been a lawyer, it might have raised a red flag.


  Cole flipped to a clean sheet of paper and handed his notebook and pen to him. "I’ll need the names and phone numbers of your dinner associates as well as your parents."

  Again prepared, he reached for the blackberry on the table, accessed the information, and copied it.

  After Jordan finished, Cole asked, "When did you last see or talk to Taryn?"

  "Thursday. A phone call around noon. We usually touched base about then. Sometimes, if I could get away, we’d meet for lunch." Jordan paused. His eyes filled. "I got tied up Thursday." He dropped his head. "I can’t believe we’re having this conversation."

  "How’d she sound?"

  Jordan didn’t answer immediately, as if he needed to think about it. "Like herself."

  "That would be?"

  "Upbeat, funny, looking forward to our date Friday night." After a long pause, he lifted his anguished face to Cole. "Is it true?" He swallowed. "The news . . . said she'd been stabbed."

  How the heck had that gotten out? Cole spent time formulating his response. "Those reports are premature. I won’t know the COD until I get the autopsy results."

  "Please. I have to know."

  "Once, through the heart," he said, watching Jordan closely.

  "Oh, God, oh, God." Jordan sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

  Cole waited for him to recover.

  He lifted a tear-stained face. "Anything else I should know?"

  Cole understood his persistence. When Desi collapsed, he'd been desperate for answers, too. "Sorry. That’s all I can tell you."

  Jordan wrenched his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, blew his nose.

  Cole consulted his notes. "You said she sounded like herself the last time you spoke. What about before? Did you notice anything unusual, say, in the past couple weeks?"

  Jordan stared at the fireplace. "She did seem abnormally quiet Monday night. And she didn’t order dessert."

  Cole shifted in his seat. "Is that unusual?"

  Jordan smiled sadly. "For Taryn? Damn straight. She seemed worried. When I asked her about it, she smiled, said not to worry." His lips quivered. "Why didn't I press more?"