Dancing in the Dark

by Dee Davis

  “That's ridiculous. It never even occurred to me that you could have killed her.”

  “But you don't believe that I didn't meet with her?”

  “It's not like you didn't give me a reason.” He waved a hand at the pictures, wondering how the conversation had degenerated into a verbal battle. Personal feelings overcoming rational thought.

  “I never lied to you. I just didn't tell you about the pictures.”

  “Or your meeting with Lydia Wallace.”

  “There was no meeting.” Her voice had risen, each word carefully enunciated.

  Eric came around the desk, aware that others in the squad room were watching them. “Let's go somewhere we can talk privately.” He tipped his head at the people behind him, and she nodded, acquiescing, the line of her shoulders reflecting her anger.

  He led the way to the conference room, the staccato click of her heels the only sign she was behind him. He closed the door, working to bring his emotions back into check. He was overreacting, and he knew it. And quite honestly he hadn't any idea why.

  Well, maybe some idea.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus.” The words were low. A whispered plea.

  Eric swung around to look at her, concern washing away all traces of anger. She was standing with her back to him, her eyes locked on the white board, the dead women's pictures stark against the pale background. Sara swayed slightly, and he moved to support her, one arm circling her shoulders as he guided her to a chair.

  “I'm sorry, Sara. I forgot they were in here.”

  “It's okay, really. I've seen worse.” She nervously twisted the band of her wedding ring, her face a clear indication that she hadn't. Or at least not in quite so much detail. “I just wasn't expecting it.”

  “Here, take this.” He handed her a cup of water, grateful to see that her color was returning.

  “Thanks.” She sipped the water. “I'm usually not this squeamish. I guess maybe this one hit too close to home.”

  He had a feeling she was talking about more than Lydia Wallace, but he knew better than to push. It was better to let it come in her own time. Right now he needed to know about the meeting.

  Sara blew out a breath, putting the cup on the table, evidently reading his mind. “So what in the world makes you think I had a meeting with Lydia Wallace the night she died?”

  He sat across from her, purposely sitting so that his body blocked the photographs. “We arrested her pimp on a related charge and he told us.”

  “That I had a meeting with Lydia?” She was frowning now, obviously trying to digest what he was saying. “But that doesn't make any sense. Does he claim he was there?”

  “No. He had his own meeting with Lydia. At a bar called Roxie. He evidently roughed her up pretty good. Something to do with business on the side.”

  “She wouldn't have had time for that. The man kept her busy.”

  “And you know this because—”

  “Because I talked to her. Listened. She wasn't a risk taker.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, knowing his skepticism was painted across his face.

  “At least not the kind that would put her in danger. She knew what kind of man Ramirez was.” Sara reached for the cup again, finishing the water. “There are rules, Detective. Even on the streets.”

  So they were back to “detective.” He wasn't at all happy about the prospect, and the thought surprised him. “You got all this from talking to her?”

  “Some of it. Some of it I learned on my own. I wasn't exactly the poster person for happy childhoods. Foster care isn't all that different from the streets.”

  “I see.” He didn't, not really. But it was all he could think of to say.

  “Probably not. But that's okay. It was a long time ago.” Her smile was weak, but genuine. “So, in the middle of getting beat up, Lydia volunteered that she had a meeting with me?”

  Put that way it sounded ludicrous. Eric shrugged, suddenly tired. “That's what he said.”

  “So maybe it was a ploy. A way to get out of there without making him any angrier.”

  “It's possible, I suppose. But why pick you?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “I was safe. I mean, if she was meeting with me, then she couldn't be putting one over on Ramirez. Maybe it was meant as reassurance of a sort. In situations like that, you'll say whatever it takes.”

  Eric frowned, considering the idea. “So she just used the first name she thought of.”

  “She used someone she knew would keep her off the streets for a little while.”

  “So when was the last time you actually met with her?”

  “The day before she died. I needed a couple more shots, so we met at El Azteca and I bought her lunch, then we walked a bit and took some pictures.”

  “And you didn't see her or talk to her again.”

  Sara shook her head. “I had what I needed. And she really wasn't all that comfortable talking to me. I think she was having second thoughts.”

  “About the article?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I'm really not sure. I just know she was edgier than usual. And I got the feeling she was happy to see the last of me.”

  Eric sat back, trying to put the pieces together. “But if she wanted you to go away, then why mention a meeting?”

  “I don't know. Anything I say will just be speculation. But I promise you, I didn't schedule a meeting with her. I was home in bed.”

  “I believe you.” He did, too, but he wasn't as convinced that the use of her name had been strictly coincidence. “Sara, what time was your phone call?”

  “I don't remember exactly. It's in the journal. But it was sometime after midnight. Why?”

  “I was wondering if Lydia Wallace could have been the one calling. But according to the M.E., she died around eleven thirty. You're sure the call was after that?”

  “Yeah. Ryan came by a little after one and I hadn't been up that long. So that'd mean the call had to be after midnight. Besides, the calls started before I met Lydia.”

  Eric swallowed his frustration. “It was just a thought.”

  She reached over to cover his hand, the contact jarring. “You're going to find this guy. I know it.”

  “Yeah, we'll get him. But I don't know how many more women will die before then.” He sat back, trying to keep his focus on the case and not Sara Martin. It was damned hard. Especially when she touched him. “Was Lydia the only prostitute you photographed?”

  She glanced over his shoulder at the board. “Yes. She was all I needed. The original concept was to do a photo spread on the invisible population, people most of us cross the street to avoid. The homeless, runaways, drug addicts—”

  “And prostitutes.” He finished for her.

  “Exactly. But I got interested in Lydia. And switched the piece to her instead.” Her eyes locked on the dead girl's photograph. “Of course I never imagined it would end like this. Never.”

  “Did she mention her family? Next of kin?”

  “Nothing at all. I got the feeling she was on her own, though, and had been for a long time.”

  “How about friends? She hang out with any girls in particular?”

  “No. Not that I saw. Although she was friendly with people she saw on the streets. And several other girls knew her by name. You think maybe they can help you?”

  “It's possible. I'll look at the photographs you brought. Are there interview notes, too?”

  Sara shook her head. “My pictures are the only notes.”

  “But there is an article. Nate somebody.”

  “Nate Stone. He wrote the copy. But he was only there the last day I shot.”

  “All right. We'll go with what we've got, although I may have more questions later. And I may want to talk to Mr. Stone.”

  Sara leaned forward, her hands clasped together on the table. “I'm sure he'll help in any way he can. Everyone wants to find this guy, Detective.”

  Eric leaned forward, too, covering her hands with his. “Considering you're going
out with me tonight, don't you think calling me detective is a little formal?”

  She bit her lower lip, surprise flickering across her face, but she didn't move her hands. “I thought with all that had happened, maybe you'd rather not—” She broke off, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  “On the contrary.” He grinned, squeezing her hands. “I think it's imperative that I keep an eye on you. After all, you never know when you might remember something else you've forgotten to tell me.”

  “True. And if you weren't around when I remembered, well, I might just forget again.” The sparkle in her eye sent hot shards of desire flooding through him.

  Truth was someone needed to watch over her, and that being the case, he was more than ready to volunteer for the job.

  Sara stuck her key into the lock and opened the front door, her mind still on the conversation with Eric. The idea that Lydia had used her name wasn't all that surprising, but the thought that she'd needed sanctuary, even a fictional one, was heartbreaking. And Sara wished somehow she could have done more.

  She hung her coat on the hall tree, and started sorting through her mail. The house was quiet, the only noise the steady ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. Normally, the silence provided peace. But today, in light of all that had happened, she felt edgy instead. As if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  She tossed the mail on the credenza and walked into the living room, bending automatically to pick up a photograph that had fallen to the floor. Tom's face smiled up at her, and despite the fact that it was only a picture, her heart lightened. Tom had always made her feel so safe. So secure. What they'd lacked in passion, they'd more than made up for with their commitment to each other and to Charlie. He'd given her the family she'd never had.

  Which made it that much harder to have lost them both. In so many ways it seemed as if she'd died right along with them. But that was a cop-out, an easy way to deal with the pain. She put the frame back in its place on the wall. She was alive. And, if anything, the death of Lydia Wallace had crystallized that fact.

  Sara turned her back on the room, heading for the staircase, forcing her thoughts to the present. More specifically, her date with Eric D'Angelo. Except for Molly's setup, she hadn't been out with anyone since the accident. Add in ten years of marriage, and she wasn't even sure she remembered how it was supposed to go.

  One step at a time, no doubt.

  With a smile, she walked into her bedroom, stripping off her clothes, heading for the bathroom. Tossing her shirt on the bed, she noticed the Caller ID box. Squinting, she read the number, smiling. Molly had called.

  Southwestern Bell had obviously connected her service.

  Peace of mind in a little black box.

  Naked, she went into the bathroom and turned the taps, then reached down to close the drain. A hot bath was just what she needed. A little time to pull herself together before Eric arrived.

  Eric.

  Just the thought of him sent a wave of heat rippling through her. Her nipples puckered, and of their own volition, her hands traced the soft curves of her breasts. The water lapped around her body, caressing in its touch. She closed her eyes, giving into the heat and her imagination …

  A noise broke the stillness of the bathroom, jerking Sara from sleep, cold water sloshing over the edge of the tub with the movement. Straining into the silence, she waited, her mind working to put a name to what she'd heard. Intellectually, she knew it was probably nothing; possibly she'd even imagined it. But with everything that had happened, she was jumpier than usual.

  She stood up and grabbed a towel, wrapping it securely around her. Moving cautiously, she stepped into the bedroom, exchanging towel for robe. The floorboards in the hallway creaked ominously, and she reached for a candlestick, not certain what she was going to do with it, but positive it was better than nothing.

  Another creak, this one closer, set her in motion, and she scrambled across the bed, intent on reaching the telephone.

  “Sara.”

  The whisper stopped her short, and she turned, breath lodged in her throat, fingers tightening on the candlestick.

  “Jack.” She dropped the candleholder, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm. “What the hell are you doing up here? You scared the life out of me.”

  “I'm sorry.” He held up both hands in apology. “I rang the bell. But you didn't answer, and your car was in the driveway, so I used my key …” He trailed off looking miserable, relieved, and sheepish all at the same time. “Considering I scared you to death, not my best move, huh?”

  “No. But your heart was in the right place. I assume you had a reason for coming over?” She sat on the bed and picked up the towel, drying her hair with it.

  “Yeah.” He dropped down into an easy chair by the window. “I came by to bring you the results from the diagnostics I ran on your car.”

  She dropped the towel, turning around to look at him. “You find anything?”

  “No. The tests just confirmed what I already knew. The car is fine, Sara. You're as safe as anyone else is who drives around in a two-ton tin can.”

  “I know you think I'm being silly, Jack, but I'm just trying to protect myself.” She started to tell him about Lydia Wallace, the pictures, and the alleged meeting, but stopped. She wasn't ready to discuss it with anyone. Not even Jack. “And I've been a little distracted of late.”

  “Eric D'Angelo?”

  “God, does Molly ever shut up?”

  “Nope.” Jack grinned. “Although I'd rather have heard it from you.”

  She felt a tug of guilt. Jack fancied himself her protector. The big brother she never had. “It's really no big deal. He's just taking me to the party.”

  “The one you're not going to?” Jack's eyebrows rose with the question. “Must have been a hell of an invitation.”

  “That's not it at all. I just decided you were right. It is time for me to get on with my life. Eric's invitation just happened to come at the right time.”

  “Funny, from where I'm sitting, I'd say it's more about the man than the timing.”

  “Well, I say it's not.” Laughing, she lobbed the wet towel at him. “You're just imagining things.” But, of course, he wasn't. Jack always saw more than she wanted him to. More than she wanted to see herself.

  In truth, it was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent about the man.

  “I knew this was love the moment I found you.

  So I planned my life; it's built all around you.

  Give me this chance, darling, if you only would.

  I could make you care. I know I could.”

  Things were changing. But not as he'd planned. She was supposed to have chosen him. But she hadn't. She hadn't. Anger seared through him, and he fought for control. There was time, still. The game was not lost. He just needed to make her understand. Make her care. And until then, he'd simply have to make do.

  Lyrics blended with music, filling him from the inside out, soothing his tortured soul. There was something cleansing in the notes. Something beyond all reality: the past joining with the present, the future beckoning bright.

  He stroked her hair. Heavy like silk, golden in the soft light of the lamp. She struggled, trying to turn away, but there was no escape. She was his.

  At least for now.

  He picked up the knife, enjoying the wide-eyed fear it induced. She wasn't like the others, innocence combining with terror to produce an aphrodisiac beyond anything he'd experienced before.

  Punishment had its rewards. And hers would free him, allow him the time he needed to wait. To gain his ultimate reward. And in the meantime, he'd make do with the surrogate. A tribute. Testament to his power. Testament to all that was lost and all that was still to be gained.

  He stroked her hair again, this time lifting it high. It was beautiful. The color and texture a perfect match. With a smile, he raised the knife, and began to slice.

  Chapter 10

  “Hi, guys.” Bes
s Haskins' smile bordered on delight as she eyed Sara and Eric.

  Eric's hand tightened on Sara's elbow, and she reveled in the feel of his skin against hers. Silly, really. But sometimes in life it was the little things. And she'd forgotten how nice it felt to be part of a couple. At least for an evening.

  Bess stepped back, motioning them inside. “Come on in.”

  Tony and Bess lived in an older house in Northwest Hills. Bought when property values had plummeted in the late eighties, the house had more than doubled in value. Still, it had a decidedly suburban feel, with live oaks gracefully framing the stone house. The inside was as homey as the outside, Bess's quilts and French country furniture giving it a farmhouse feel.

  “I hope we're not too early.” Sara said, handing Bess the flowers they'd brought. “We actually drove around the block a couple of times.”

  Eric laughed, the warm sound echoing through her like a rumble of thunder. “Sara didn't want to be the first to arrive.”

  “You're not early,” Bess assured them. “But you are the first. The phone's been ringing off the wall. Seems everyone has been delayed. Molly's still at rehearsal, Ryan's stuck in traffic. And Tony's at Randall's buying more beer. Which means that I'm delighted to see you.”

  “So you can put us to work.” Eric's smile was wry.

  “Got it in one.” Bess laughed. “If you'd start the grill that would be wonderful. I've a feeling when people do get here, they're going to be hungry. Sara, you can help me in the kitchen.”

  With a squeeze, Eric released her elbow and headed for the backyard. Bess propelled Sara into the kitchen. “So tell it all.” Bess leaned back against the work island, eyes sparkling.

  “There's isn't anything to tell. Eric asked me to the party and I said yes. End of story.”

  “Hey, this is me you're talking to. Except for our misguided attempt to set you up, you haven't been out with anyone since Tom died, and Eric hasn't brought a girl over here since he and Lauren divorced. So you still going to try and tell me it's nothing?”

  Sara ducked her head, hot color flooding her face. “It's just a date.”