Simon glanced up. “Oh? In what way?”
“Seems to me most of them go in for expensive jewelry.” She smoothed a wrinkle in the table cloth. “Elise had only cheap junk.”
“Junk! Elise never wore anything that didn't have a three figure price tag. Good God, I gave her a square-cut emerald ring and bracelet that set me back six month's pay.” His eyes narrowed. “She had cases crammed with necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires.” He cleared his throat. “She expected men to give her costly presents.”
In her mind, Amy dug through the tiny cardboard box that held her stuff. She found two broken watches, a locket her father had given her, and a charm bracelet she'd had at age fourteen. Perhaps her expectations hadn't been high enough. “Did she make a good salary as Dr. Tambor's nurse?”
“She didn't say. I know she had a charge account at a couple of shops on Fifth Avenue.”
“Hm-m-m.” Amy speared a clam and chewed as she thought over his remark. “Maybe she got overextended and had to cut back. Most of her clothing came from K-Mart.”
Simon choked on the swallow of water he'd taken and began to cough. When he regained his breath, he said, “Something's haywire here. We're not talking about the same woman.” He pushed his plate to the side and tossed his napkin on the table. “Look, maybe we can help each other.”
“Oh...” she said on a rising note. “In what way?”
“You want to know more about Elise, right?”
“Learning a homicide victim's habits and lifestyle is always helpful in solving a case.”
He blew out his breath. “I own a condo on Western Avenue. Elise and I lived there.” He passed both hands over his face as if he were doing a dry wash. “I haven't been inside the place since I walked out six months ago and went to London.”
He glanced at the check the waiter had laid on the table and pulled several twenties from his wallet. “Elise wasn't very organized, she's bound to have left some of her things behind.”
His gaze lifted and caught hers in a silent plea. “To be honest, I need the moral support, and you might find something helpful. What do you say? Are you game?”
Amy contemplated his offer. Was the man on the up-and-up, or could this be a ruse to get her into his apartment? The absurdity of her question nearly produced a snicker. A man with Simon's sex appeal wouldn't need to concoct excuses. Most women would come running at a crook of his finger. Still, she'd better take a few precautions. “Mind if I call my father first?”
A smile spread across his face. “No, of course not. Tell him hello for me.”
She used the pay phone at the back of the restaurant. “Got any encouraging news about Oren?” she asked, after they'd greeted each other.
“His attorney entered a ‘not guilty’ plea at the hearing,” her father said. “Helen and I are trying to arrange bail.”
“Have you had a chance to talk to him?”
He made a sound of disgust. “The sheriff's not letting anyone near him except his lawyer. What are you up to this evening?”
She told him about Simon and his suggestion. “What do you think? Should I go?”
“Sure. Why not? We need to find out all we can about Elise.”
He paused for a double beat and she could almost hear his brain cells enumerating the possibilities. He longed to see her married and happy so he could look forward to a grandchild. This impromptu dinner was the nearest she'd been to a man in over a year.
“Simon's intelligent,” her father said quickly. “And ... and personable too as I recall. This may be a real lucky break, Amy.”
“Don't count on it. Dad.” She berated herself for being so abrupt with him. The mess she'd made of her life wasn't his fault.
“Oh? Well, a change of pace never hurt anyone. Right?”
“Look who's talking. You're the-closest thing to perpetual motion I know.” She wished him a good night and returned to the table to gather up her things. “Let's go.”
The cab driver acted as if he'd taken his training at the Indianapolis Speedway. He jetted down Columbia spraying gutter water over a gray clump of street people huddled in a debris-strewn doorway. Sheeting rain filmed the windows and she recognized only a few of the weathered brick buildings they zipped past. Fifteen minutes later, the cab skidded to a stop in front of a tall building.
An uneasy silence prevailed as the elevator whisked them upward and deposited them on the sixth floor. Simon fumbled through his keys. After two attempts, he managed to find the right key, trigger the lock, and wave her inside.
He slammed the door behind them, setting into motion dozens of crystal teardrops that hung from the cobwebby chandelier overhead. Each facet caught the light, spreading shimmering shafts over stark white walls.
Simon glanced around as if surprised. “Never saw it so clean. Elise must have had someone come in and do the cleaning,” he said, his voice unnaturally gruff. Squaring his shoulders, he strode across jet black carpet, and threaded his way between a white satin sofa of Olympic proportions fronted by a glass coffee table of equal size. On the table, dust filmed artificial fruit spilling artfully over the edges of a pedestalled lead crystal bowl—grapes carved of polished jade, amethyst plums, carnelian peaches.
“Elise redecorated the apartment when she moved in.” He went to a window spanning the living room's end wall, and drew back variegated gunmetal drapes. Amy joined him; and caught a blurred glimmer of lights reflecting off Elliott Bay's inky waters.
“Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains must look spectacular from here.”
His inner stress cut furrows in his cheeks and pulled his features out of line. “Yes ... yes, they are. Julie and I couldn't afford the place, but after we saw the view...” He spread his hands. “When she got pregnant, we used to sit here in the evenings and ... and make plans for us and the baby.” His Adam's apple jerked convulsively. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he said in a strained whisper, “We were going to call him Jason, after my father.”
Amy touched his arm. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.”
“No, I've spent a helluva a lot of money on psychiatrists just to learn I'm badly in need of some therapeutic exorcism.” He turned toward the hall. “Come along. I'll give you the ten cent tour.”
He opened the door of a room containing an ancient oak desk, an equally battered file cabinet, and shelves loaded with books. “Once upon a time, I intended to write a novel. One that'd make the publishing world forget all about Hemingway.” He laughed—a bitter, humorless sound. “That was back when I could honestly call myself a writer.” His mouth twisted. “Foolish dream anyway.”
He pointed to the next door. “That's the bedroom. You might find something of Elise's in the closet.”
Amy looked up at him. “Aren't you coming?”
He shook his head. “I can't ... not just yet. I'll wait in my study.”
Amy pushed open the door and entered a white-walled room dominated by a king-sized bed. A photograph album lay open on the black satin spread. Ragged edged pages were strewn in every direction. Snapshot after snapshot of Simon and a slender woman lay scattered about. In each picture, someone had torn off the woman's head and tossed the scraps into a pile.
Although Amy didn't remember making a sound, she must have. The next thing she knew Simon stood beside her. He stared down at the desecrated photos of the woman who must have been his beloved Julie, and his face paled.
“Bloody bitch!” He ripped the spread off the bed, showering fragments of paper onto the white carpet. “Dirty, conniving, black-hearted bitch.” He flung the wadded fabric into the farthest corner, and clenched his fists at his sides. “I should have killed her.”
Four
Amy urged Simon out of the condo. He came, stumbling like a man gone suddenly blind. Through the thin fiber of his raincoat, she felt his muscles quiver and tense, quiver and tense. Once on the street, she found a diner, steered him inside, and ordered coffee.
He gripped the thick, brown mug tightly but his hands shook and hot liquid splashed his skin. “It's no use,” he muttered, and lowered the mug to the table. “Why don't you go on home? I'll work my way through this.” He grimaced. “I always do.” His gaze met hers for an instant, and in the depths of his soft hazel eyes, she glimpsed a bleak, heart-rending sadness.
“Humph!” she said, memories of her own sleepless nights bringing a bitter taste to her mouth. “Don't try to kid someone who's been there.” She got to her feet. “Besides, there are times when a person shouldn't be alone.”
She ordered a cab, insisted he get in, and gave the driver her address. We're just off Broadway, Mitch had always told his friends, giving their four-story walk-up a New York panache the crumbling, red-brick building didn't rate.
When they reached her three-room apartment, she poured him a healthy shot of bourbon and clamped his fingers around the glass. “Drink up. You need something to warm your insides.” She smiled faintly at the constant reversals in their roles. Poor Simon was a natural born caretaker, too—a trait that had wounded her so deeply, she wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy.
She took sheets and a blue print comforter from the hall closet. When Mitch had moved out, she'd insisted he take the Lucite chrome and marshmallow Naugahyde furniture he'd liked so much. She replaced them with a comfortable blue-gray corduroy hide-a-bed couch and matching overstaffed chair from the neighborhood thrift store.
After making Simon's bed, she turned to look at him. His shoulders were bent and his head hung loosely as if the effort of holding it upright were too much for him.
She moved to Simon's side and took his empty glass. “Would you like to tell me about Elise?”
He jerked erect. “No! I wished to God I'd never met her, that I never had to think of her again.” His body went slack, and he sighed. “But it looks as if that's not possible.” He stood and took off his raincoat. “Go to bed, Amy. It's late and you need your rest.”
She started out, then came back. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”
A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I've been fairly self sufficient for most of my thirty-four years.”
Amy grinned. “Yeah. Sure. That's two of us—and we're both damn liars. Get some sleep, you look like a beached jellyfish.” She took a few steps and turned once more. “If you can't sleep, and want to talk, just knock on my door.”
“I'll be fine.”
She was halfway down the hall when he called her name. She rejoined him. “Thanks.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Just being here is a big help. This"—he waved his arm—"reminds me of my parents’ home.” A wan smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “There were six of us kids.”
“Must have been nice. I was an only child.”
“You can still get lonely.” A frown creased his forehead. “There's five years between me and my brother. When you're a kid that's too wide a gap to breach. By the time you're grown, it's too late.”
“Maybe that's why you're a writer.”
His eyes widened. “How'd you know about writers?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I grind out a poem now and then.”
“Publish any?”
“A couple back in college. Haven't had time for such stuff lately”
“I see...” He stretched out his long legs, settled his head on the chair's backrest and closed his eyes.
She turned on a table lamp and switched off the ceiling fixture. “I'll put a toothbrush and a disposable razor in the bathroom.”
He roused himself. “You must make a habit of picking up strays.”
She swung around and gave him a frigid stare. “Sure I do. At least three or four men a night.” She turned on her heel and left the room.
Tuesday, October 25
Early the next morning, the sound of water drumming on the shower walls brought her upright in bed. Mitch? She remembered Simon and lay back down. After her exit last night, she was surprised he was still there. An image of him drying his lean, muscular body on her towels drifted unbidden into her mind and gave her a peculiar feeling in her midriff.
She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. She didn't need a man. Hadn't Mitch taught her marriage wasn't the answer to loneliness?
She grabbed the phone receiver and punched in her father's number. “Morning, Dad,” she said, when he came on the line. “Were you able to get Oren out of jail?”
“Yeah. He's staying at Helen's.” He let out a noisy breath. “The prosecuting attorney says his apartment is off limits. My house is too since I have physical evidence pertaining to his case in the basement lab.”
“How's he holding up emotionally?”
“Depressed. And I sure as hell can't blame him for that. He resigned from his job. Said he didn't want to hurt Senator Halliday's election chances.”
“It's not fair.” She fished an antacid from a bottle on the nightstand. “Simon says even if he's proven innocent, his career in public relations is over.”
“He's probably right. Worse luck.”
The muscles at the back of her neck drew tight. “Have you processed any of the physical evidence yet?”
“Not a lot. I have a case waiting on San Juan Island and another on Shaw.” He grunted. “I have a hunch Tom's farming me out. He figures this case will make him a star. And he doesn't want me to find anything that'll prove he's all wet. Did you learn anything from Kittredge?”
As she was about to answer, her alarm went off. She punched the alarm button and got out of bed. “I have to get ready for work.” She cradled the receiver between cheek and shoulder and began to pull the blankets into place. “Don't be surprised if you see my car go down the drive late tonight or early tomorrow. Personnel's been bugging me to use my vacation time. Think I'll take a couple weeks and come help you.”
“Hallelujah!” B.J. shouted. “Honey, when Tom finds out he's going to turn six shades of purple. But everybody in this county knows damned well I need an assistant, and they sure as hell can't object if you're willing to work for free.”
His delighted chuckle bubbled over the line and she smiled. He loved to topple pompous, self-important people. “See you when I get there,” she said, and hung up.
By the time she'd showered and dressed, the odor of fresh-brewed coffee filtered into the bedroom. She dabbed on make-up and gave her hair a twitch or two with the curling iron. When she could think of nothing else to delay her, she squared her shoulders and marched down the hall. This was her apartment—hiding in the bedroom because of some man was pure nonsense.
“Good morning,” Simon said, as she appeared. “Sit down. Breakfast's all ready.” His eyes were clear, his face clean-shaven, his damp hair neatly combed.
“But I don't usually eat...”
“Please.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Consider this a peace offering. After you've eaten maybe you'll feel mellow enough to forgive me for my big mouth.”
She perched on the edge of the chair, her back ramrod stiff. He must want something, otherwise why had he stuck around?
He poured coffee for both of them, then opened the oven, took out a saucer-sized cinnamon roll with melted butter dripping down the sides and set it in front of her.
The spicy fragrance started her mouth to watering. Blast the man, by some strange coincidence he'd chosen her favorite confection. She took a quick gulp of coffee to stem sudden hunger. “Mrs. Magee's Bakery is a ten-block round trip. Were you up all night?”
“Nope. Slept good, for a change.” He brought a roll for himself and sat down opposite her. “I took an early morning run. Haven't felt like it in quite awhile.” He cut off a piece of the caramelized crust with his fork, took a bite, and a blissful expression settled over his face. “Just like my mother used to make.” Laughter glinted in his eyes. “Trite, but true.”
They ate in silence for several minutes. Occasionally, Amy glanced at him through lowered lashes and caught him doing the same. She almost giggled. Their stiff, standoffish manner remi
nded her of her cat, Marcus, when he met up with another tom.
Simon swallowed the last of his coffee and set down his cup. “I've decided to do a run-down on Elise.”
Amy studied him over the rim of her cup. “You think that's a good idea?”
He leaned forward. “I have to, Amy. She ... she's messed up my head.” The skin of his face whitened over his cheek bones and around his mouth. “I can't remember Julie right anymore.”
Amy's throat closed up. Mitch had never loved her like that. Never. Not even in the very beginning when he'd been so full of pretty words and promises. “Where are you going to start?” she asked, when she got her voice under control.
“With Dr. Coskun Tambor. I'm going to pretend I'm a patient—at first. If he knows I'm a reporter, he might not see me at all.”
“What if Elise has told him about you?”
He smiled. “I'm going to use a friend's name and press card. People are strange. Some will babble away to a reporter when they wouldn't give anyone else the time of day”
Laugh lines fanned out from his eyes and an unexpected dimple appeared in one cheek. “I'll go early and try a little charm on the ladies in the staff.”
Amy smiled faintly. “Is that ethical?”
He sobered. “I'm prepared to do whatever it takes.”
“Does that include having your blood drawn?”
He looked startled. “My blood! What for?”
She concealed her amusement. “Endocrinologists treat glandular problems. Their tests are usually done on blood.”
Simon shook his head. “No way. Not on me. I detest needles.”
Amy shrugged, gathered up the last few cinnamon-coated crumbs and licked her fingertip. “Would you call me, if you learn anything helpful?” She found one of her business cards. “You can reach me here at the apartment or at the beach house on Lomitas.” She wrote the number on the back of the card.
He got to his feet. “Thanks for everything, Amy. I'll keep you posted.”
With Deadly Intent Page 4