by Koontz, Rena
The idea of staying with him appealed to her for several reasons. First and foremost, she felt safe with him. Their connection went beyond the incredible sex they shared. They talked about social issues, world events, and news bulletins when they were together. When they were joined as lovers, they shared dreams worthy of Dorothy’s Oz. In his arms she was beautiful, sexy, and empowered. She shared his confidence that together, as Clay recited over and over, together they could beat Tony DelMorrie.
“Can I ask you something, Cass?”
She looked up to see Clay regarding her with hooded eyes.
“What?”
“You told me you were from a suburb outside of Pittsburgh. Was that a lie?”
“No. That’s where I was born and raised.”
“So how’d you end up in Arizona?”
A sigh escaped her. The similarities hadn’t occurred to her until just now.
“I followed someone there, a man. Someone I thought was the guy for me. Mr. Right. Just like you, he wanted us to stay together, offered to take care of me, said he loved me.”
Her words straightened Clay’s spine.
“He wasn’t as handsome as you, not as muscular, not even as strong in character. But he swept me off my feet and, just like I’m trusting you, I trusted him.”
“I’m not sure I like the comparison you’re drawing,” Clay said softly.
“Sorry. It didn’t dawn on me until this minute.”
“So where’s this guy now? Why didn’t he help you? Are you still in touch with him?”
The heartbreak she’d felt the day he moved out seemed a lifetime ago. She’d vowed never to trust a man again, never to live with someone without marriage vows. But she doubted marriage vows would have kept him out of that other woman’s bed.
And yet, here she was, packing to move in again with another man. Apparently, she hadn’t learned much from the betrayal.
She clutched the bundled clock to her chest. “Maybe staying with you isn’t a good idea, Clay. Maybe I should call Amber.”
• • •
Clay opened his hand, letting the duffel slide to the floor. He walked toward her but stopped and sat on the edge of the sofa. “Are you still involved with this guy?”
He was certain his blood pressure spiked to stroke level. The ringing in his ears had to hint of an impending seizure or something fatal. If she said yes, he’d be crushed. He flexed his hand and studied Cassidy.
She half smiled and moved to balance on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, sitting between his knees and clinging to her mother’s clock.
“You’re wondering how I could make love to you if I’m involved with someone else, aren’t you?”
He couldn’t move, didn’t blink.
“That’s not it at all. We were over long before I witnessed Jill Diamond’s murder. I was on my own, not making a whole lot of money but doing okay. Saving to move back to Pittsburgh.
“The thing is, I trusted him, just like I’m trusting you. I believed him and moved in with him, just like I’m doing now. It was a horrible mistake. I can’t make it again.”
Okay, his heart restarted and his lungs resumed expansion and contraction efforts. This wasn’t about him and her, it was about some asshole who’d hurt her.
“You think all men are alike?”
Her focus dropped to her feet. “I’m not sure I can afford to find out,” she whispered.
“And if we have a fight, do you think I’m going to shoot you dead?”
She gasped as her head snapped up. “No! No, why would you say something like that?”
He reached out, laying his hands on her knees and moved his thumbs in a gentle caress. “If you can compare me to some butt wipe who hurt you, you can compare me to Tony DelMorrie who shoots women when he gets mad at them. If you paint all men with the same brush, that has to include me. Or, you could look only at me, see only me, and give me the benefit of the doubt. Do you think I’m like those other guys?”
“I know in my heart you are not.” She looked down again, her voice quivering as she spoke.
He reached and gently raised her chin, forcing her to see him. “What else does your heart tell you?”
Now, he watched tears pool in her eyes. “It’s a pretty scary thing you want me to do, you know.”
“What’s that? Give a guy a chance? Maybe knock down the walls once and for all?”
One tear escaped and made a slow descent down her cheek. “No, silly. This isn’t about you. I’m scared about going back to testify.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Cass. This is all about me and what you feel for me. You have to start by trusting me. If you do that, everything else will follow. If you aren’t going to trust me, this isn’t going to work. We’ll probably both get killed.”
Her shoulders lifted and she leveled her gaze at him, making good eye contact. The cop in him liked that.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I know this is different, that you are different. It was unfair of me to say what I did. You couldn’t make love to me the way you do if you weren’t sincere. I won’t doubt you again.”
Relief washed over him. She had no idea the extreme danger they were heading for. Without total trust, he couldn’t protect her. “Thank you. C’mon, I have to work tonight. Is there anything else you need from here?”
She shook her head. He retrieved the duffel, locked the door behind him, and held her hand as they walked to his apartment.
• • •
Clay’s home stunned her. It was designed identically as his sister’s and as clean and bright. Even the sofa pillows were plumped.
“Wow!”
Carrying her bag into the bedroom he said, “Make yourself at home. I’ve got to change and get moving.”
She surveyed the room and stepped into the kitchen. Tentatively, she opened the refrigerator, finding it chock full of food and beverages, making her smile. Her voice could echo in the emptiness of her refrigerator shelves.
Clay returned from the bedroom, dressed in his uniform and her stomach did a happy dance. He looked totally edible and she told him so. He grinned as he reached to the top of the china hutch and retrieved his gun. She came to him and he planted a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “I’ve got to get to the station so you’ll have to explore on your own. Help yourself to anything you need. Don’t hesitate to call me or Maggie if there is a problem. You should be fine.”
She walked beside him to the door and he took her in his arms. “I can’t tell you how good it feels knowing you’ll be here, kinda like you’re at home, waiting for me. I’m gonna like playing house with you. What time do you work tomorrow?”
“I start at ten. Amber opens.”
“Good. I’ll come home first and pick you up. I can drop any samples for shipment when I take you in. I’ll call and check on you later.” He kissed her sweetly. “I hope you are as happy as I am that you are here.”
“If you didn’t have to go to work, Officer Cestra, I’d show you how glad I am to be here. Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting for you to come home to me.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
His smile was lecherous. “Seal it with a kiss.”
Cassidy rose on her tiptoes and locked her lips with his, plunging her tongue into his mouth and pressing her body into his for a long, slow kiss.
“Jesus,” Clay whispered, releasing her and stepping back. “Keep kissing me like that and I’ll have to call off.”
She was pleased the kiss had the effect she’d hoped. He picked his keys off a decorative hanger beside the door, removed his hat from the wooden hall tree and dropped one final kiss on her lips.
“See you tomorrow morning, hon.”
• • •
Lauren walked confide
ntly into The Drip Stick, her head held high. This was the seedier side of town, but Barbie had warned her not to appear nervous or the neighborhood delinquents would be all over her. A group of them were leaning on the building, clucking their tongues and howling when she walked by, and she ignored them, realizing that, in actuality, she was excited by this adventure into the underworld, titillated by the danger. She strode to a round table for two, wiped the chair with a napkin and sat.
She stood out like a Cartier watch in a K-mart, in her two-piece red designer suit and matching pumps. Red was the color of power and she exuded it.
She regarded a stocky, dark haired man with bulging muscles and a towel in his hand who approached her, one of those all brawn no brain types.
“What’ll it be for you tonight, ma’am?”
“I’d like an espresso with a shot of Bailey’s, please.”
“One carajillo, coming up. Anything else?”
“Yes. My friend told me I should try the red velvet cake that Mittens makes. She says the frosting is to die for.” She recited the phrase exactly as Barbie had instructed, wondering if the stooge standing in front of her knew the code. Surely, people who dealt in this kind of thing were smarter.
The waiter’s eyes roamed from her face to her hands, assessing the rings on her fingers and the gold dangling from her wrist, evaluated the designer clutch on the table and returned his gaze to hers. “I’ll see if we have any in the back.”
Heat engulfed her when she looked around to find the other customers staring at her. She was the center of attention and it turned her on. Somewhere behind her, the espresso machine hissed and she visualized warm, milky froth spilling down her breasts and pooling beneath her waist, firing up a sensory awareness she hadn’t known since Clay held her. She wanted him back. There were no two ways about it; the little girlfriend had to go.
The waiter placed a cup and saucer in front of her and a plate with a red wedge of cake and a fork beside it. “See if you like this, ma’am.”
Crap. Maybe he didn’t understand the message. She’d expected to be whisked into a back room to meet some toothpick chewing bald guy who would wink, shake her hand conspiratorially, and question her about the cryptic message. Wasn’t that how code words worked? Barbie had been specific about what to say but Lauren hadn’t anticipated getting an actual piece of cake. She hated cake, but she ate it, barely keeping the sugary icing down, waiting for some kind of signal regarding the real reason she was there. The waiter cleaned various tables but kept his attention on her, finally returning when only crumbs littered the plate to stand in front of her.
“Would you like something else?”
“Yes,” she said, recalling Barbie’s directions to ask for the recipe, “it was the best I’ve ever tasted. I’d love the recipe.”
He smiled. “Who told you about our cake?”
“Barbie Trumbolli.”
He furrowed his brow. “How do you know Barbie?”
Smiling as she checked the nearby tables to see who might overhear, she said, “Barbie and I were roommates together last year at an all girls’ extravaganza. I believe Barbie liked it so much she is still there. I need something for a special occasion and she suggested I come here for your cake recipe.”
He regarded her for one long minute, finally nodding. “I’ll speak to the chef in the kitchen. Maybe he’ll share the recipe with you.” He yelled for another waitress to cover his tables and disappeared behind a swinging door. Time crawled to a standstill while she sat, watching the other customers and wondering what she should do next. This plan did not seem to be working.
She jumped when the waiter’s voice cut through her thoughts. “C’mon in the back, ma’am. The chef is always interested in meeting fans of his cake.”
She’d imagined meeting a Jimmy Cagney character like in the movie White Heat or a Clyde Barrow gangster type, not someone who looked like he stepped off of a Disney soundstage. Mittens was a little man with tiny hands, and she immediately wondered if gloves were too big for him, hence the moniker. He should have remained seated behind the table, where she wouldn’t have realized his lack of height, instead of jumping from the chair like a jack-in-the-box and extending his miniature hand for a shake. She towered over him by more than a foot.
He grinned widely and bobbed his head like an animated cartoon character. Nothing about him threatened her and now she wondered if Barbie had misinterpreted their conversation.
His office was little more than a pantry, his desk a folding table situated in front of shelves lined with baking supplies. He’d jumped out of the only chair in the storeroom. “Hello, hello. I understand you know my cousin Barbie. How’s she doin’? When’d you see her last?”
She recounted her visit and Barbie’s suggestion that she contact Mittens. “I spoke to Barbie about a problem I was having with, um, an ingredient in a cake recipe and she thought you might be able to help. She mentioned your killer icing. I can pay whatever the recipe costs.”
Mittens flashed nicotine-stained teeth. “You’ve come to the right place. Icing is a specialty of mine.”
Chapter Fourteen
Clay sauntered into the police station twenty minutes before his shift began. He marveled at the bounce in his step and the lightness in his heart. Christ, he was as giddy as a girl and Cassidy was the reason. Just thinking about her, he grinned like a dope.
He’d have to deal with the Lauren issue tomorrow, but that was nothing more than a mosquito that needed another swat. At least he hoped all it would take to back her off was a call from his lawyer. After all, she was still on probation and he doubted she wanted to lose her freedom again.
Mentally, he dismissed her. She wasn’t going to douse his smoldering thoughts about Cassidy tonight.
“You look happy to be here,” Pat Tatman quipped, while he pecked the computer keyboard with two fingers.
Clay’s grin widened. “Not happy to be here, just happy. You can take off if you want to get out of here a few minutes early. I’ll cover the last fifteen of your shift.”
Pat didn’t look up when he spoke. “Thanks but I’ve got to finish this report before I leave. Another shooting on Fortieth Street.”
Clay checked his mailbox, removing two pieces of junk mail. “Drugs?”
“Probably.”
He reached for a clipboard to sign out his patrol car for the night. Car twelve-thirteen wasn’t back on station yet.
“Is Wilks running late?”
The springs squealed when Pat leaned back in his chair. “We need an ID on the shooting vic. Had to rouse the apartment manager to get the rental records. He’s not back yet.”
“No big deal,” Clay responded. He wandered into the break room and poured a cup of coffee, then sat at a computer station and plugged in a search for The Arizona Republic. Probably too much to hope that Tony DelMorrie had been apprehended. That kind of arrest would make national news.
Absorbed by the newspaper search, he was vaguely aware of the arrival of two fellow officers. Their words trickled into his concentration, “ … facial identity impossible … ” “ … couple hours before they found her” “Hoake, H O A K E.”
He cocked his head toward the conversation in the next room, then rose and walked to the doorway, listening as the patrolman shared additional information with Pat. “ … dental records won’t work.”
An uneasy feeling suddenly soured the freshly consumed coffee in his stomach. “Who are you talking about?”
“My shooting vic,” Pat said. “There’s going to be a problem with confirmation.”
He moved toward the trio. “How so?”
Pat removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. “Four shots. Two above the neck, one facial. She’s unrecognizable. The apartment manager wasn’t much help. Said it didn’t seem like it was the tenant of record. But the sight of her m
ade him puke so who knows?”
Clay glanced down at the pages spread on the desk in front of Pat, his eyes searching for the Victim ID block. The print was too small to decipher.
“What’s the preliminary ID?”
Pat returned his glasses to his face, picked up one of the sheets, and read out loud, “Hoake. C. Hoake. Age unknown.”
The coffee threatened to come up. The warmth drained from his face and that buzzing in his ears resumed, the same noise he’d heard hours ago when he feared Cassidy was in love with another man.
“You okay, Clay?”
He reached for the report sheets. “May I see these?”
The details were minimal. A neighbor walking to her own unit passed the opened door of the apartment and saw the body. She screamed, ran to her apartment down the hall, and called police. A weapon lay at the woman’s feet, its identifying serial numbers removed. Ballistics would likely find nothing.
The apartment number jumped off the page — one twelve.
“Your ID isn’t correct,” he said, swallowing bile that threatened to gag him. “C. Hoake is Cassidy Hoake. She wasn’t in apartment one twelve last night.
“How do you know?”
His eyes dropped to the box on the report marked physical description and his heart thudded. Dammit. The height and weight were estimates, which would be confirmed or corrected by the coroner. The blocks for the facial description — eyes, identifying scars, or piercings — remained blank. But the hair, the description of the hair was there despite the massive amount of blood matting it. Long and dark, highlighted with purple and green streaks.
Why was Amber there? “Son of a bitch,” he whispered. “Son of a fucking bitch.”
“Clay?”
Clay’s emotions flooded his senses, drowning him in a genuine numbness of loss. Anyone who thought cops weren’t affected by the daily incidents they handled was a fool. Why her? He’d really liked her.