With Deadly Intent

by Louise Hendricksen

  She followed him to the door and stuck out her hand. When he clasped it, she said, “Sorry I was so touchy last night.”

  He gripped her hand hard. “My fault. I'm an insensitive bastard these days. I didn't mean to insinuate that you pick up men all the time.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Did you think I brought you here to seduce you?”

  “It happens a lot when you bum around the world.”

  She scarcely heard his comment. “Me? Seduce a man?” She made a harsh, bitter sound. “That's a laugh.”

  He cocked his head and peered down at her. “Why not for God's sake? You're an attractive woman.”

  Without any warning at all, her carefully glued edges came unstuck. A terrible quivering began inside of her, her face wobbled, her bottom lip trembled. “I have to go very soon,” she rasped. She managed to get him outside and the key turned in the lock before the first sob tore loose from her aching chest.

  Others followed as she slid down the door and put her head on her bent knees. She clutched her stomach as sobs convulsed her. They doubled her over in repeated spasms so excruciating she half expected some vital organ to burst and erupt through her mouth.

  At last, drained dry as ashes, she blew her nose and struggled to her feet. As she started toward the bathroom to bathe her swollen eyes, someone tapped softly on the door. She steadied her voice. “Who is it?”

  “Simon. I forgot my raincoat.”

  She opened the door a few inches and thrust out the coat. Simon stuck his foot in the gap and shoved. “I'm coming in.”

  “Go away.” She pushed with all her strength, but proved no match for him.

  He eased the door open and she turned her back to him. “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone soft.

  “You heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of it?”

  “I'm afraid so.”

  “I guess you loosened a chink in the dam.”

  “Shrinks tell me it's good to let go.”

  “A lot they know. I feel like I've been run over by a truck.”

  He cleared his throat and patted her shoulder. “People need you, Amy—your father, your aunt, and especially Oren.”

  His awkward attempt to comfort her only made her more aware of her shortcomings. She wagged her throbbing head. “I don't know, Simon. I bolstered Mitch until he sapped all my strength. I'm not sure I can do it again.”

  He turned her around and gave her a stern look. “I may not know you well, but I'd bet money you'd never let a friend down.”

  “I already did. I should have gone to Elise and Oren's apartment Friday night, then all this might not have happened.”

  “And if I'd stayed in town six months ago and done what I should have, Elise might still be alive. We can't change all that, Amy. Still, if we can find the reasons behind what's happened, we might help ourselves ... and Oren.”

  She managed a half-hearted smile. “I'll do my best, Professor Kittredge.”

  He laughed out loud. “I do tend to lecture, don't I?” He grazed her shoulder with a gentle cuff. “Socks up, partner.” He snatched his raincoat from the floor where it'd landed and strode out. In a few minutes, his cheery whistle spiraled up the stairwell.

  That evening as she and Gail Wong were leaving work and getting off the elevator, Simon dashed up to them. A green wool driving cap was cocked at a rakish angle atop his head and excitement glowed in his face. “Let's go grab a hamburger,” he said. “I've got lots to tell you.”

  Gail glanced from Simon to Amy and her mouth rounded into an “O.” Her thoughts showed so plainly that Amy smiled and introduced her to Simon. “We're working on a private project,” she said, feeling she had to explain his presence. Too late, she realized her words would only pique Gail's interest more.

  “Call me,” Gail said. She shot Amy a threatening look and scooted out the door.

  Amy and Simon located a hole-in-the-wall diner and huddled over a clean but age-yellowed table splotched with cigarette bums. “A Mrs. Michaels is filling in until the doctor finds a replacement for Elise,” Simon said. “Evidently she's been with the doctor for years and practically runs the office single-handedly.”

  Amy nodded. “She's the one Elise phoned the night she disappeared. According to her, Elise sounded terrified of Oren. And she claims Oren had beaten Elise in the past.”

  Simon's mouth twisted. "Yesterday, I might have believed her story. Today, I have my doubts. I asked her if Elise made a habit of associating with abusive men. She said, ‘Oh, yes. One by the name of Simon Kittredge not only abused her, but cleaned out her bank account and left her with a pile of bills.'” His fingers curled into a fist. “I did not mistreat her, and I paid the bills—all of them—from the day she moved in.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Michaels is one of those women who likes to create juicy gossip.”

  “Maybe.” Simon narrowed his eyes. “Either way, I don't like it.”

  Amy shifted her position to allow a pony-tailed young man with a dishtowel tied around his waist to set bacon-cheese burgers and cups of coffee in front of them. Silence fell between them until she roused herself enough to ask his impression of the doctor.

  “Nervous.” Simon took a swallow of coffee and set down his cup. “I'd better start at the beginning. He's one of those dark-haired, melancholy-eyed men that women find so attractive. Has a trace of an accent. Pakistani, I think.”

  Simon took a bite of his hamburger and chewed it thoughtfully. “I try to sense people's moods, to watch for any inconsistencies that'll give me an edge. The man kept repeating questions. Never flickered an eyelash when I told him my condition had begun while in pursuit of a yeti in Tibet.”

  Amy giggled. “What condition is that?”

  Simon's lips twitched. “Elephantiasis congenita cystica.”

  “He really must have been out of it. Any second year medical student knows that's a tropical disease.”

  “Right.” Simon picked up a french fry and used it to accent his words. “Why, I asked myself, should he be so distracted? I decided a frontal attack might shake loose something of interest.”

  He dunked the french fry in a glob of ketchup and bit off a piece. “I plopped my friend's press card on the doctor's desk and asked him how well he knew Elise. The man's face turned the color of wet putty. He said she'd been his nurse for three years, otherwise he knew nothing.”

  A sudden hope electrified Amy. She leaned toward Simon in eager anticipation. “Do you believe him?”

  He shrugged. “Something had him uptight. He kept fussing with the things on his desk and repeatedly touching a photograph of him, his wife, and six daughters.”

  Some of her enthusiasm dwindled away. This wasn't a movie where a new suspect came on scene just when the star's situation looked hopeless. “Doctors get nervous about publicity. If it shows him in a bad light, it could affect his practice.”

  “Hm-m-m, that could have been his problem. Still, he refused to let me copy Elise's personnel records, until I pointed out the court would probably subpoena them anyway. Finally we struck a bargain—the records for my word that he'll not be mentioned in the article he thinks I'm writing.”

  Amy scooted her chair closer. “Anything in the records we can use?”

  “Not much. You might be interested in knowing her blood is type B, Rh positive. Seems one of the doctor's daughters had surgery and all of his employees donated blood. Elise was thirty-five, I didn't know that. She looked much younger.”

  Amy smiled to herself at his remark—applying the right make-up to look younger was a talent women learned when they saw thirty approaching. “Dad'll be happy to learn her blood type. He has a number of stains to analyze.”

  “Good, that's one small victory.” Simon raked his fingers through hair that was already wind tousled. “Her file says she was born in White Bird, Montana and worked at the Marchmont Hospital there before moving to Seattle. Looked up the town, it's out in the middle of nowhere.” He frowned. “How the
hell did someone as sophisticated as Elise ever spring from a place like that?”

  Amy smiled faintly. “Personality and circumstances have more affect than the size of the town.”

  “Yeah, I guess you're right.” He gnawed his lip and glanced across at Amy. “I still want to check out Tambor. Make sure he's not hiding anything.” He regarded her intently. “I've got a plan. Only thing is, I need someone to drive the getaway car.”

  She set down her coffee mug. “The getaway car? Good grief, what've you got cooked-up this time?”

  He inched closer and lowered his voice. “The disposal truck empties the doctor's dumpster tomorrow.” He cocked his head and grinned. “So I want to steal his trash tonight.”

  Five

  Simon herded the rented van down the suburban street at a crawl that caused Amy to grind her teeth. She'd endured the repeated honking of the drivers behind them as Simon plugged along the freeway at a sedate pace while everyone else was going sixty plus. Her impatience finally got the better of her. “Speed up a little, or you'll get a ticket for impeding traffic.”

  “Don't bug me. Dammit, I haven't driven on the right hand side of the road for months.”

  “Oh ... sorry. I guess that would muddle a person's mind.” She tried to concentrate on the scenery.

  Bruised-looking clouds pressed down on the roof tops of the village as if to blot it out. On either side of the broad thoroughfare, warehouse-type buildings were scattered in a hodge-podge fashion over wide sweeps of black asphalt—Payless, Pay'n Save, Pay'n Pak, liquidators, bargain marts, and thrift stores.

  Sodium flood lights edged the street giving buildings, cars, and anemic shrubbery the sharp, hard-edged clarity of an operating room.

  A brisk wind had sprung up, and as they passed a fast food drive-in, gusts swirled soft drink containers and hamburger cartons into the air.

  Amy prayed the weather would keep people inside. Probably a law against garbage-napping hadn't yet been enacted, but if someone caught them, she'd be darned embarrassed.

  “They've got medical buildings all over the place in this part of town.” Simon signaled, took a right, drove half a block and made an abrupt left into a narrow alley that ran behind an oblong, four-story building.

  He gestured to the right. “That's Dr. Tambor's. His office is on the top floor. It's a new building and the other offices are still vacant.” He backed up to a large, blue, metal bin, stopped and shut off the motor.

  Darkness settled around them. Only the whoosh of the wind and the tick-tick of the cooling motor broke the silence. A shiver coursed through her. As a member of the mobile crime lab team, she'd been to scenes of robberies, murders, and assaults. Yet each time she found herself quivering, her senses as touchy as an exposed nerve.

  “Won't you have to crawl inside the dumpster?” she asked.

  “Probably. I'll load the bags I can reach first.” He zipped his jacket. “Slide behind the steering wheel soon as I get out.”

  “I will. Be careful.”

  “Don't worry. My friends on the P.I. and Times would love to run a story about me getting hauled in for malicious mischief or some other such charge.” He pushed open the door, stepped out, and eased it closed until the catch snapped.

  She heard the crunch of his footsteps, then he yanked open the rear doors and a blast of cold air struck her neck. Seconds later, white plastic bags began to thud onto the carpeting behind her. After a few minutes, all was silence. She pictured Simon hoisting himself over the rim of the bin.

  A moment later, a tossed bag thudded on the pavement, something inside “popped” and glass clattered. She jumped out of the van and ran to the dumpster. “Hand them to me,” she whispered, grabbing the bag he was about to drop over the side. “I'll do the loading.”

  She moved rapidly between him and the vehicle, until her breath wheezed and her perspiration-dampened clothing stuck to her skin. A searchlight brushed the trees bordering a side street and she crouched down. “Quick, Simon, a patrol car.”

  “Go start the motor.”

  She'd just hoisted herself into the front seat and started fumbling for the key when a thump and a muffled oath came from the dumpster.

  She turned the key in the ignition. The motor ground, but didn't catch. The arching lights came closer. Damn. She rubbed sweat-slicked fingers on her jeans.

  Behind her, the loaded sacks gave a rustling, scritchity sound as Simon gave them a shove, and slammed the rear door. An instant later, he tumbled into the seat beside her. “Hurt my ankle,” he gasped. Down the alley a car turned in and came toward them, its headlights growing brighter by the second. “Get going, Amy. We gotta get out of here.”

  She gave the key another twist and held her breath. The motor roared to life. She fed in the clutch, shifted gears, jammed her foot on the accelerator and rocketed into the doctor's parking lot. Spying an outlet, she swerved around a concrete barrier, plunged between a row of bare limbed oaks, and hit the side street going fifty. She braked, fish-tailed and spun sideways. “Hang on.” She steadied the van, double-clutched and peeled out leaving a patch of rubber half a block long.

  “Jesus Maria,” Simon breathed. “I've taken up with a female hot-rodder.”

  Amy glanced in the rearview mirror, saw no one in pursuit, switched on her headlights, and slowed to a legal speed. “Just a little something Oren taught me,” she said, and turned to grin at Simon. “Did I scare you?”

  “Oh, no, I always go around with my heart in my mouth.” He rubbed his ankle. “We'll off load at my condo. He glanced sideways. “If we get there.”

  She delivered him, nervous but unscathed, and was glad to find the condo had underground parking. They'd attracted enough attention for one night.

  Simon hobbled from van to elevator carrying four bags to her two until they had the six by eight foot space crammed full. Upstairs Simon flipped a switch to hold the elevator on his floor and led the way to his apartment.

  After the traumatic discovery the night before, Amy dreaded going inside. When he swung the door inward, her mouth nearly dropped open. The room had been stripped clean. All the furniture, pictures, drapes, even the elaborate chandelier and white carpeting were gone. She felt sick and could scarcely bear to think what this new blow would do to him. “Oh, Simon, you do have the worst luck.”

  His chuckle surprised her. “Frankly, I think it's a vast improvement.” She pivoted to stare at him, and he laughed out loud. “Soon as I left your place this morning, I commissioned some people to clear out the stuff Elise bought and sell it.”

  “You didn't get rid of the things in your study, did you?”

  “No, but if I don't start doing some decent writing soon, that's going too.” He started back to the waiting elevator and its bulging contents. “Let's put the sacks in the kitchen.”

  She followed him out and noticed his limp had grown worse. After they dumped the first load, she said, “You'd better let me take a look at your ankle.”

  “I'm okay”

  As he started out after another batch, she planted herself in front of him. “Like hell. I'll get the rest of the sacks. You can start going through the ones we've brought in.”

  He scowled at her, his face closed and resentful. “I'll do as I damn please.”

  She didn't budge. “You had any first aid training, mister?”

  “So what if I haven't?”

  “I've been to medical school and I know what I'm doing.” He didn't unbend an iota, so she went on, “A sprain's nothing to mess with; So stop being so blasted macho.”

  His eyes shifted and he shrugged. “All right, all right. Have it your own way.”

  “Sit down, please.” She gave an inward sigh as he sank down on the white, gold-flecked linoleum. She removed his shoe and sock. His ankle had already begun to swell. She gently palpated the bones. “Don't feel a break,” she said at last. “But soon as we're through here, we'd better get it x-rayed. You could have a hairline fracture.”

  He reached for h
is shoe. “Knock it off. We've got work to do.”

  “Sit still, I'm not through.” Luckily, someone had filled the refrigerator's ice trays. Aware of his eyes following her, she tied several cubes in a plastic bag and dropped them into the toe of his navy blue sock. “Got a safety pin?”

  He scrutinized her with a blank expression. “What would I be doing with a safety pin?”

  She found one in her purse, fastened the makeshift cold pack around his ankle and sat back on her heels. “That ought to do until we can get you to the emergency room.”

  He peered down at her handiwork. “That's it?” His lips twitched. “You went to medical school to learn how to do that?” He let out a howl of laughter.

  She smiled, then began to chuckle. Each time they glanced at each other their laughter grew in volume until both of them lay limp and gasping on the floor.

  Finally, Simon sat up and wiped his streaming eyes. “God, I needed that. I really, really needed to let go.”

  Amy struggled to her feet. “Me too.” She tossed him a sack of trash to start on. “Do you have any plastic gloves? You never know what might end up in a doctor's waste can.” He pointed to a drawer. She brought him a pair, stuck another in her jeans pocket, and went to bring in the rest of the bags.

  Soon both of them were at opposite ends of the kitchen transferring wads of crumbled paper—gowns, drapes, sheets, table covers—from a full bag to an empty one.

  They worked quickly, each scrabbling through the mounds of litter like dogs after a bone. Amy had labored through ten sacks when Simon let out a long, “Ah-h-h.” She straightened and massaged her aching shoulders. “Find something?”

  “Maybe. I'm not sure. Don't get your hopes up.” He pushed himself upright and teetered on one foot. “I need some paste and a desk to work on.” He grinned at her. “Carry on, doc,” he said, and hopped off toward his study.

  She toiled through two more sacks, pausing from time to time to glance toward the study and wonder what Simon had found. She untied the last bag. Inside were copies of Medical Economics, Physician's Management, and dog-eared issues of The New England Journal of Medicine.