She pressed her fingers against the ache in her forehead. What rotten, rotten luck. With all her expertise, she had only helped to further incriminate Oren.
Taking a tissue from the pocket of her lab coat, she cleaned her glasses, and focused on the scrap of yarn under the microscope. If she expected to live up to the lab's credo of maximum production and maximum accuracy, she'd have to keep her mind on her work.
“Psst.” Her friend and fellow employee, Gail Wong, swiveled her lab stool farther to the right and cupped a hand around her mouth. Her eyes glinted with humor and a dimple appeared in one cheek as she grinned. “Who's the enticing VEEP?”
Amy glanced over her shoulder. At a far door, their white jacketed director stood talking to a man who looked to be in his early thirties. Amy shrugged. “Must have pull to wangle his way past our tight security.” She went back to her microscope.
“Geez, Amy. Have you gone blind?”
Amy turned slowly. “Not that I'm aware of. Why?”
Gail flipped her short, wavy bob and frowned. “When are you going to wake up and rejoin the living? That is one beautiful hunk of man and you didn't even give him a second glance.”
Amy smiled, swung around on her stool, and started going through the basics of a police description. “The subject is approximately six-feet tall with medium build. Ruddy complexion, thick, auburn-colored hair, with eyebrows to match. Nose—straight, but a trifle large. Wide mouth with a genial upturn at the corners.”
She paused to seriously scrutinize the man for the first time, and something fluttered in her chest. Such a gentle looking mouth. She filed the errant thought under “N” for nonsense and faced Gail. “I suppose he'll do.”
The young woman shook her head. “You're hopeless.”
“Yep, I guess I am.” But not completely. She'd felt a flicker of interest, hadn't she? For her, that in itself signified progress. Dismissing the man from her thoughts, she concentrated on the material she'd been trying to study before Gail's interruption.
After noting her findings, she mounted two strands of hair on a slide and moved to a comparison microscope. Soon she became totally absorbed and started when she heard the director's voice.
“Here's the young lady you should interview,” he said. “She's determined to become proficient in all of the forensic sciences and she's almost achieved her goal.” He touched her shoulder. “Amy...”
Irritated at the interruption, she pivoted on her stool. “Yes ... ?” The director's stern countenance cut off the protest she wanted to make.
“I'd like you to meet Simon Kittredge, investigative reporter for Global News Magazine. Simon, this is Dr. Amy Prescott.”
She gave a curt nod. “Mr. Kittredge.”
The man's deep-set hazel eyes met hers in a steady, thoughtful gaze. “Read the article about your cousin. Damn shame. Oren's a good man.”
She tensed. The morning Times had printed the news of Oren's arrest in two-inch headlines. She'd expected reporters to track her down, but not this soon.
Kittredge proffered his hand. She hesitated until she heard the director cough. Not wanting a lecture on the importance of maintaining good public relations, she reluctantly let him envelope her slender fingers with his.
He smiled warmly. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Prescott.”
“Oh? Why is that?” At her suspicious stare, he released her and moved back several steps. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her lab coat and balled them into fists. A nosy reporter was something she could do without right now.
The director cleared his throat. “Amy's been processing material found on the body and clothing of a male homicide victim. Have you learned anything helpful?”
She nodded. “His assailant, or someone he knew may be Asian, blood type A, group M, Rh positive. The person works at a metals trade specializing in aluminum and he, or she, may own wearing apparel containing dark green wool.”
Kittredge turned a page of his note book and came closer. “Could I ask how you arrived at your conclusions?”
“I had three strands of hair two inches long. The short, sharply clipped length indicates they probably came from a man. The hair shaft's circumference measured more than that of the average Caucasian, which makes me suspect the person may be Asian. The hair roots enabled me to determine the blood group and Rh.” She shrugged. “That's about all I know at the moment.”
“You mentioned clothing.”
“Oh, yes. A scrap of wool one-thirty-second of an inch in length had gotten caught on the victim's jacket zipper. It may, or may not have come from the assailant.”
He gave a low whistle. “One thirty-second! Good Lord, how'd you find it?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “With a magnifying glass.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Just like Sherlock Holmes.”
He flushed. “What about the man's trade?”
“No magic there either. All three hair strands showed traces of aluminum dust.” She fiddled with a button dangling by one thread and glanced at her watch. “If that's all, I'd better get on with my analysis.”
“Yes, of course.” He chewed his lower lip. “Perhaps another time. How about ... ?”
“No.” She slid off her stool and left the room without looking back.
When she returned, the reporter had gone, but just before noon one of the secretaries brought her a message. Simon Kittredge wanted to meet her in the coffee shop for lunch. She wadded up the note and flung it into the waste basket.
He had some gall, thinking she'd help him pick Oren's life apart so he could have a story. Anger churning inside her, she went to the women's lounge and wolfed down her tuna sandwich and apple. The food landed in a lump in her stomach and she spent the afternoon chewing Rolaids.
That evening, she came out of the elevator and started along the crowded double-wide corridor. Before she reached the two guards stationed by the front door, the man who had ruined her day materialized at her side.
“Amy ... uh—Dr. Prescott,” he said quickly. “I wanted to talk to you about Oren.”
“Leave me alone,” she said, and kept on going.
In two strides, he was in front of her. “But, you don't understand ... Please, let's have dinner. I need to...”
She dodged past him, and made it to the door. Rain struck her in the face as she rushed outside. Neons touting bail bond companies and Spin's Friendly Tavern tinted the swirling fog a blush pink.
Snatching off her glasses, she shoved them into her tote bag and headed up Third Avenue. At the Arctic Building, she turned the corner and started up the hill. For once she didn't pause to study the sculpted walrus heads circling the white stone structure's midriff. First she would lose the reporter in the crowd of homeward bound commuters. Then it would be safe to grab a bus to her apartment.
Breathless from the climb, she threaded her way through the crush on Fourth Avenue. Halfway up the block, she got a catch in her side and had to stop. She peered through a steamy window at diners seated at tables inside McCormick's Fish House & Bar. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She started, and spun around to find Kittredge standing behind her.
“Please, I must speak to you,” he said.
She scowled at him. “I'm not talking to you or any other reporter. Now, shove off, or I'll call a cop.” He made no move toward her, so she unfurled the umbrella she should have used much sooner and set off again.
“I ... knew ... Elise...”
His words, spoken as if he'd ripped them from his throat one-by-one, turned her around. “When?” she began, then stopped. The man had his arms wrapped across his chest as though holding himself together. One glimpse of his misery-etched face erased the rest of her questions.
Water from her drenched hair dripped down her neck as she studied him. Could he be putting on an act to get her attention?
He stared back at her with pleading eyes. “You'll catch cold standing out here.”
She flung up her hands. “Oh, what the hell? Is Italian okay
with you?” She handed him the umbrella so both of them could take advantage of its shelter.
“Any place you like. I've just returned to Seattle after a six month absence, so I'm practically a stranger.”
“It's a five-block hike, but worth it.” She took his arm so she could match her stride to his. “Where've you been?”
“Working out of the London office.”
She indicated a left turn. “When did you get back?”
“Three days ago.”
“Oh...” Letting go of his arm, she strode along in silence, her mind teeming with the possibilities his chance remark had opened up.
Obviously the man had been in love with Elise. Why else would he have reacted as he did to the mere mention of her name? He could have gone to Lomitas Island, learned Elise was living with Oren, killed her in a jealous rage, and made it look as if Oren had done it.
She walked faster and her mind kept pace. If she phrased her questions subtly enough, perhaps he'd give himself away. She shivered. Then, both of them would know he was a murderer. Another chill climbed her spine. How far did she dare go to free Oren?
Down the block, she glimpsed the red and white striped metal canopy that shielded the entrance to Maria's Pasta House. She pointed. “There it is.” With Simon loping along at her side, she made a dash for it.
Inside, subdued lights and stubby candles in circular, red containers on white-clothed tables provided the only illumination.
A rotund man clad in black pants and a pink shirt with flowing sleeves bustled up to them. “Good evening, Amy. It's a pleasure to see you.” His welcoming smile broadened as Simon emerged from the shadows. “Ah, how nice. You have a gentleman friend.” He arched an eyebrow and sidled closer to Simon. “Often, I have told her that brown eyes as beautiful as hers were made for smiling, not sadness. Don't you agree?”
“Hm-m-m?” Simon stared blankly, as if the man had spoken in some foreign language, then he blinked and said, “Oh ... yes. Yes, of course.”
Amy gave her umbrella a threatening shake. “Cut the sales pitch, Errol, and find us a quiet table where we won't be disturbed.”
His hearty chuckle jiggled his three chins. “Right this way. I have just the place for you"—he chuckled again—"and your friend.” He hung up their coats and led them to the back where a lattice screened them from the rest of the patrons, handed them menus and left. A few minutes later, he put his head around the edge of the screen. “Victorio has arrived. I could have him serenade you with his violin.”
Amy glared at him. “You do and I'll brain him with it.”
After the man retreated, Simon said, “Isn't Errol an unusual name for an Italian.”
Amy put on her glasses and opened the menu. “His mother never missed an Errol Flynn movie.” When the waiter came, she chose Fettuccine Alle Vongole. The baby clams simmered in cream sauce and topped with grated cheese were the best in town. Simon selected the fettuccine also, and a bottle of Zinfandel.
When the waiter brought the wine and started to fill her goblet, she shook her head. After he left, Simon picked up the bottle. “You'd better have some of this.”
“No, thanks, I seldom drink,” she said primly. What a whopper. While married to Mitch, she had had to drink. If she didn't, he accused her of spoiling his good time with her holier-than-thou attitude.
Simon still held the bottle. “Try a few swallows, Amy. You're probably chilled clear through.” He drew his brows together in a concerned frown. “If you don't get warm, you'll be sick.”
For no accountable reason, her throat filled. She blinked fast to keep from disgracing herself in front of a stranger. “All right, but take it easy.”
She took a swallow and regarded him over the rim of her glass. His damp hair had just enough wave to curl into wispy duck tails above the neck of a white, cable knit sweater that stretched tight over muscular shoulders and chest.
She clamped her teeth together, hard. A person like her would give Freud a nervous breakdown. First, she chose a man to play the villain. Then, knowing he was off limits, she felt “safe” and started getting romantic twinges.
Dumb. Real dumb. She tossed back another gulp of Zinfandel and immediately regretted it. If she kept on at this rate, she'd soon be chattering like a chipmunk—and that's just what he wanted. Well, two could play that game.
The arrival of the waiter with their salads delayed her next move. She waited until Simon began to eat before she leaned forward and asked, “Were you in love with Elise?”
His lettuce-laden fork halted on the way to his mouth and he set it back on his plate. “I thought I was. And for all the wrong reasons.”
“Wrong reasons? I don't understand.”
He picked up his fork and made roads through torn bits of romaine. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “I met my wife, Julie, just after I graduated from college. We were married five years.” He frowned. “Five good, happy years.”
He drained his wine glass, refilled it, and downed another swallow. “I was on assignment in Africa. Julie decided to join me for a visit. The plane crashed...” He swallowed and continued in a flat, emotionless tone. “She and our unborn son were killed.”
Amy drew back. “How terrible.”
He carefully aligned his knife and spoon with his plate. “My work kept me from going completely out of my mind.” He ran his hand over his face. “But even so, I'd find myself listening for Julie's step outside the apartment door, or I'd run after some woman on the street, thinking it was her. I couldn't believe someone as vital and full of life as Julie could be dead.”
Amy put out her hand to touch his arm, but drew it back before he noticed.
Simon lapsed into silence while the waiter removed their scarcely touched salad plates. “Ten months ago, while doing an article on the Empty Space Theater, I met Elise. She was helping with props, make-up, and wardrobe. She had Julie's silver blonde hair, the same sapphire blue eyes—she even resembled her.”
He looked directly at Amy for the first time. “Three weeks after we met, I asked her to move in with me.” He shifted in his seat. “It didn't work. I expected her to have the same sweetness, the same warmhearted nature as Julie.” He shook his head. “Stupid of me.”
Their fettuccine came and for a time they concentrated on their food. As she ate, Amy decided to take a roundabout route to gain the information she needed.
“My father is medical examiner for Lomitas Island,” she began.
“Yes, I know.” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “As a matter of fact, I met him when I visited Lomitas.” He regarded her for a moment. “And I know quite a bit about you too.”
She stared at him, unable to believe how easy he'd made it for her. “So you were on the island this weekend.”
A puzzled expression came over his face. “No, this happened several years ago. I'd been assigned to do a profile on Senator Halliday. He referred me to Oren who invited me to stay on Lomitas Island with him and his mother while I worked on my story.”
Amy felt like a child holding a popped balloon. “You came to the lab this morning to get a story on Oren, didn't you?”
“Not exactly. I knew you worked there and decided we should talk about the charges brought against Oren.”
She listened with growing frustration. “Someone else could have killed her.”
He frowned. “According to the paper all the evidence indicates...” He pointed his finger at her. “You think I did it, don't you? No way, lady. And I can prove it.”
Eyeing her, he knocked back a healthy draft of wine. “But, I can understand how Oren could have been driven to it.” His fingers gripping the wine glass whitened at the knuckles. “Elise did ... things.”
“Things ... ? What kind of things?”
He wet his lips. “I'd rather not go into the specifics.”
Amy crumbled a piece of bread stick. “A number of details in this case don't jibe.”
“Like what?”
“We didn't find any finge
rprints, not even on Elise's purse or billfold.”
“Don't most criminals know enough to wipe everything they may have touched.”
“Generally. But Oren and Elise had had that island apartment for several months and people leave their prints on surfaces they don't even think about.” She picked up another bread stick and nibbled the end. “How would you describe Elise?”
His eyebrows shot up. “'You've never met her? Oren gave me the impression you and he were very close.”
She hesitated, not wanting to reveal her past to a stranger. After an instant, she gave an inward sigh. If she expected to get information, she'd have to make a fair exchange. “I got married five years ago.” She creased her napkin into tiny pleats. “Afterwards, Oren and I didn't see much of each other.”
Simon glanced at her bare ring finger. “Oh, I didn't realize you were married.”
She lifted her chin. “Following my divorce a year ago, I took back my maiden name.” The clink of their eating utensils sounded loud in the tight silence that followed. After an awkward interval, she gathered her thoughts and went on. “Dad says even Oren's mother didn't know Elise well. She had come visiting with Oren only a few times. Aunt Helen said Elise seemed to resent her for some reason.”
Simon's lips thinned to a taut line across even teeth. “Elise resented all women.” His gaze dropped and he seemed to have gone off into some other world of his own. After awhile, he added, “Living, or dead.”
Amy waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she said, “Do you think she could have defended herself against an attacker?”
“Possibly. Elise was five-eight and well built, but her Dresden-china type of beauty"—he paused for a moment, his brows drawn together, then went on—"made you think she was fragile ... and she wasn't.” For a second, it seemed as if he was about to elaborate on his remark, but he turned his attention to his food instead.
Amy repressed an urge to shout at the man. One minute he told her more about his life than she wanted to know, the next he turned into the proverbial sphinx. “Her beauty must be natural. We found no make-up except a lipstick in the apartment.” She twirled strands of fettuccine around her fork. “Evidently, she was different from the beautiful women I've known.”
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