With Deadly Intent

by Louise Hendricksen

  “You just drape your slicker over that hanger up there, give the whole thing a good spraying and let it drip dry.” She stood by as he followed her instructions.

  “Works like a charm,” he said, when he finished.

  She handed him a towel to dry his hands. “Yep. The pit's ugly as sin, but using it sure saves your neck and wrists from getting chafed with hardened salt spray.”

  Simon's eyes glinted above wind-reddened cheeks. “You inherited good genes.” He followed her up the stairs. “It's spectacular out there with the great white plumes of sea water exploding against the cliffs. I could learn to love your island.”

  “You should see Otter Inlet by moonlight, or on a blue and gold day.”

  His expression grew solemn. “It's not good for a journalist to get attached to a place ... or a person.” He increased the distance between them. “I ... uh ... have to get to work. My head's teeming with words. I'd better get them on paper.” He ran up to his room, returned with a blue spiral notebook and disappeared into the dining alcove.

  She drummed the couch's wooden arm with her fingers. He wasn't what you'd call a stimulating companion. She picked up her book. At the end of half an hour, she found she'd read and reread the same page and couldn't remember a word. She gave up, and stacked the record player with some of her 1940's big band collection. The sounds of Benny Goodman, Jimmy Dorsey, and Harry James always put her in a dreamy, senior-prom sort of mood.

  Simon appeared before the first tune ended. He shuffled through the dust covers she'd stacked on the table. “You've got some great ones. I didn't know you were a collector too.” When the smooth notes of a Glen Miller classic began, he held out his hand. “Let's not waste this.”

  She hesitated. “What about your ankle?”

  “No problem. I'm practically pain free.”

  She lay her glasses on an end table and went into his arms. She'd done little ballroom dancing and she felt like a stick. Simon made no comment, and as she relaxed he maneuvered her into more intricate steps. However, the crowded furniture prevented him from doing anything too fancy so her lack of skill didn't matter.

  With each tune, the space between them lessened. His nearness muddled her thoughts and made her tremble inside. He rested his cheek on her hair, put both arms around her, and swayed to the music. She held him close, enjoying the wonderful warmth of his body, the thunderous beat of his heart against her ear.

  His hands slid down her back, pressing her into the contours of his body. So good. Her chest swelled until she could scarcely breath. She longed to belong somewhere, to feel needed. Could she make him care for her as he had for Julie?

  “Oh, damn.” He drew in a deep breath, then another and another, each more tremulous than the last. “Amy?” He moved her gently against him. Before she could react to his unspoken question, he put her from him. “I'd better get back to my writing.”

  She sank onto the couch and waited for her pulse to return to normal. As she huddled among the cushions, her thoughts battered her brain. He wanted her, but it meant nothing. Men found it easy to desire a woman—any woman. Love and affection they gave much more selectively.

  She hugged a pillow to her. In White Bird, he'd made it clear he was unavailable. She buried her face in the pillow's velveteen softness. I don't need him. I don't need him or any other man. A sick feeling settled in her stomach. Perhaps, his rebuff in White Bird was the real reason for the attraction she felt. Did she, for some psychological reason, program herself for rejection? She made a face—considering the outcome of her marriage, it would certainly seem so.

  She heard Simon's chair scrape, then his footsteps as he went to the kitchen. Glass clinked against glass. Water gushed from a faucet. Footsteps returned to the alcove. His chair creaked as he sat down.

  A long silence, then he got up again and came into the living room. He shoved his hands deep in his pant's pockets and regarded her from beneath drawn brows. “We're friends. Right? And ... and friends should be straight with each other. Shouldn't they?”

  She felt a tightness in her chest and realized she'd been holding her breath. She found her voice and spoke with careful phrasing. “It makes for less problems.”

  He sprawled on the opposite end of the couch and an uneasy silence fell between them. Finally, he exhaled and rubbed the palms of his hands on his pant legs. “I haven't been able to forget that night we were together in White Bird. I've tried"—he ran his fingers through his hair—"but when I'm near you, your smile, the fragrance of your hair, the way you move gets to me.”

  The sound of her pulse roared in her ears. She peered at him. “Gets to you?”

  He frowned. “I haven't been with a woman in a helluva long time. Okay? And ... and you turn me on.” He lifted his chin as if challenging her to debate the point.

  Her thoughts skittered wildly. Was it better to be desired because of her body than not to be wanted at all? She wrapped her arms around herself. He could make me feel alive again.

  She stretched her lips into the semblance of a smile. “Why shouldn't you get turned on? You're a normal, healthy male.” Her nails dug into her flesh—and she was a normal, healthy female. She straightened her shoulders and folded her hands loosely in her lap. “That monument you've erected to Julie won't crumble if you react to another woman.”

  His features turned wooden. “Who says I've built a monument?”

  She rose to her knees on the couch cushion and gave him a long level look. “I do. You've made her into a saint. No live woman could possibly compete.” Their gaze locked in an angry stare.

  He sprang to his feet. “That's crap. Pure crap.” Holding himself ramrod stiff, he got his notebook from the alcove and stalked up the stairs.

  Tuesday, November 1

  She caught the early morning ferry to Anacortes. In addition to her father's phone, she'd brought along the gray fibers found in Oren and Elise's apartment. If she could complete the errand for her father quickly, she hoped to go on into Seattle.

  At Cellular One, Inc., the clerk said the phone looked as if someone had smacked it with a hammer. He gave her a transportable unit in its place. Her initial goal accomplished, she drove to Seattle and took the elevator to the Crime Lab.

  She was hanging up her coat when Gail came in. After they'd exchanged greetings, she asked Gail if she'd completed the laser analysis on the paint flakes found on B.J.'s clothing.

  Gail flopped into a chair. “Did it first thing this morning. The vehicle's had three paint jobs.” She bent down a slim finger tipped with pink-pearl nail polish as she ticked them off. “First navy, then cherry red, and finally metallic blue. I'll run them through the National Automotive Paint File soon as I get a chance.”

  “Nice going, Gail.” Amy jotted the information in her notebook. “If we're lucky, that'll give us the year and make.” She flung her friend a pleading look. “We need a break right now so speed it up if you can. Heard anything about the autopsy on Dr. Tambor?”

  Gail jerked upright. “I read there might be a link between him and Oren's fiancee. Do you think he tried to run your father down?”

  Amy shrugged. “At this point, nothing would surprise me. What about the autopsy?”

  “Haven't heard a whisper.”

  Amy frowned. The paper trail usually kept them fairly well informed. “The M.E.'s office must be hand carrying their reports. I wonder what they're trying to keep under wraps?”

  “I'll give you a jingle if I find out.” Gail got up and started for the door. “You going to be in the area at lunch time?”

  “Depends on how long it takes to go over the physical evidence I brought in.”

  In the lab, she mounted gray fibers found at Elise and Oren's apartment and slid them under the polarizing microscope's objective. Hm-m-m, surface scales—that eliminated wool. Long smooth sides on the filament suggested a synthetic. The infrared spectrometer verified her hunch.

  She had just finished writing down her conclusions when the director came up t
o her. “I hear you're doing a bit of moonlighting for your father.”

  “Only until Oren's case is cleared up.” She picked up her notes. “I brought in some modacrylic polymer fibers. They're straight, a lustrous gray in color, and somewhat thicker in diameter than Orion rug fiber. Got any ideas what they might have come from?”

  He shook his head. “They're using synthetics for everything these days.” He patted her shoulder. “Good luck, and tell your father I wish him well.”

  Gail came over and leaned on the counter. “How about a wig or hair piece?”

  Amy clapped her on the back. “You're a genius.”

  “But of course.” Gail grinned and tossed her head. “Need anything else?”

  Amy shook her head. “Not right now. After I talk to the detective in charge of the Tambor case, I'm going to run by the apartment then dash back to the island. I hate that evening traffic.”

  Gail studied her with a concerned expression. “Try to get some rest, Amy. Remember, you're on vacation.”

  Amy twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “I'd almost forgotten.” She picked up the receiver and dialed a friend in the police department. He gave her a number. She called and reached Detective Lieutenant Joseph Salgado. She identified herself and asked what she wanted to know.

  “Can't tell you much, Dr. Prescott. They've put a tight lid on this one. And speaking of lids, who the hell does that sheriff on Lomitas Island think he is? A guy has to pull information out of him a strand at a time.”

  She spent the next ten minutes answering his questions. When he'd learned all she knew, he said, “Thanks, you've saved me a lot of foot work.” He tapped his pencil on the desk. “I have only one good lead. On Friday, the doctor withdrew ten thousand dollars from his bank account.” He made a sound deep in his throat. “Some messy can of worms, eh?”

  “Cash or check?”

  “Hundred dollar bills.”

  “His wife know anything about it?”

  “Nope. Didn't have an inkling.”

  “Any trace of the money?”

  “Negative.”

  “Did it look as if he planned on leaving town?”

  “No bus, airline, or boat reservations, but there are other ways out of this burg.”

  “Perhaps the elevator shaft seemed easiest.” When the lieutenant made no reply, she went on. “Do you know the time of death?”

  “Late Saturday night or early Sunday morning.”

  “Anything more you can tell me?”

  “I've already said more than I should have.” His pencil began to tap again. “Keep me posted, doc. I don't like surprises.”

  On her way to pick up some extra clothes at her apartment, she pondered the bits of information she'd accumulated. An illicit affair, a gray wig, and ten thousand dollars—she could easily fit them into a scenario involving Elise's murder.

  Whoa girl, enough of that kind of nonsense. At the beginning of her training, she'd often made assumptions on insufficient evidence. She tried not to fall into that trap anymore.

  When she arrived at her apartment, she fit her key into the lock. At her touch, the door swung inward and a putrid odor assaulted her nostrils.

  Death. The familiar smell jammed her heart against her ribs. “Oh ... God.” Not here. Not here too.

  She forced herself to assume the observer mode she'd learned when she'd assisted with autopsies. From this above-the-scene position, she could see, hear, observe, and catalog without the odors affecting her as much.

  But, despite her dogged professional approach, a chill climbed her spine. The building hadn't had many burglaries. Few of the tenants had possessions worth ripping off.

  She scanned the kitchen and living room and saw no one. Her muscles clinched tight, she ventured a few steps farther. A wave of heat hit her in the face. Her gaze swung to the thermostat. Someone had turned the switch as high as it'd go.

  On the floor, a few paces away, her great grandmother's cobalt blue wine carafe lay shattered into bits. Some of the pieces had been ground into fine glass splinters.

  He always destroyed the thing she cherished most. Apprehension rippled along her skin. How did he know?

  She swallowed and the dry clicking noise sounded loud in the hot silence. On tiptoe, she started down the hall. When she neared her bedroom, she wavered. Cornered burglars killed.

  Crouched in a ready-to-run stance, she listened. No sound. No sound at all.

  The door stood ajar. She gave it a hard boot with her foot and flattened herself against the wall. A foul repulsive stench belched forth nearly tilting her stomach.

  Nothing in the room had been disturbed. Perspiration beaded her forehead, her upper lip. Could he be in the closet? She plucked up her courage and yanked open the door. Empty, except for her clothes.

  The source of the odor must be in the bathroom. Clamping her jaws together to control the waves of nausea, she headed for the half-open doorway.

  The mirror came into view and she gaped at it. In red marking-pen, someone had scrawled across the glass surface. SNOOPERS GET DEAD. VERY VERY DEAD. Below he listed their first names: hers, her father's, and Simon's—each one with a slash mark through it. She quivered. She'd nearly lost her father. Would Simon be next?

  She moved closer and her scalp prickled. The same writing. The smeary letters slanted erratically right and left as they had in the note she'd found under Cleo's collar.

  On her left, a yellow flowered shower curtain screened the tub from view. The body must be there. She braced herself and jerked open the curtain.

  In the partially-filled tub floated three, very dead, hideously swollen rats.

  She gagged, bent over the toilet, and lost her breakfast.

  Grabbing a towel from the rack, she staggered out of the apartment. The police had to be told. To protect the crime scene, she made her way to the public telephone on the first floor and phoned Lt. Salgado.

  “You'd better bring a photographer,” she said, after she'd explained her reason for calling. “You'll need pictures of the message he left.”

  “I know that. Believe it or not, the police department does manage to function without supervision from the lab.”

  “Oh ... sorry. I didn't mean to imply—”

  “Forget it. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  When he arrived, she noticed Lt. Salgado's appearance didn't match his tough, hard-edged voice. He was tall, stoop shouldered, and had thinning black hair. Pendulous bags under his eyes spoke of sleep loss and chronic overwork. Earlier in his life, someone's fist had redesigned his nose. It now meandered over his lined face.

  He questioned her in the hall while his men dusted the apartment for fingerprints and snapped pictures. This time circumstances compelled her to reveal the true facts of how Cleo had died and about the threatening note left with the body.

  After the technicians had finished and the dead rats were carted off to the lab, Salgado motioned her into the bathroom. “We're dealing with a sick person here,” he said. “One that knows you, your father, and Kittredge.”

  She stared at the ominous message. “How do you figure that?”

  “In each message he's left you, he's used only first names.”

  “But I've never met Dr. Tambor. Neither has my father.”

  He narrowed his eyes and his features took on a sly, secretive appearance. “I was thinking of your cousin.”

  “No, no.” She shrank against the wall. “No, not Oren. We're friends. True friends. Have been since childhood.” Her voice gathered strength. “He couldn't have strangled Cleo and he wouldn't have done a thing like this.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That's an emotional opinion, Dr. Prescott, not a scientific one.”

  She wrapped her arms across her chest and clutched her elbows as if she were freezing. He's found new evidence. Something that links Oren to more than just Elise's death.

  His gaze probed hers. “A person in your profession should know people are seldom what they seem to be.”

&
nbsp; After he left, her stomach continued to churn, triggering jets of fiery acid. Oren wouldn't do anything that'd hurt her, or her father. He ... he just couldn't have.

  She rushed down to ask the apartment manager to have a new lock put in, then she hurried back upstairs. Keep busy, don't think. When the shock wore off, she'd be able to sort things out in a more rational manner. She telephoned the island and arranged for installation of dead bolts on the cottage doors.

  The locksmith said he could be at the cottage by 2 p.m., so she dialed her father's number. She hoped he wouldn't ask a lot of questions. He'd have to know what had happened, but she had a feeling he was already beginning to doubt Oren. Perhaps, if they were together when she told him, she could explain—she shivered—explain what?

  Simon answered the telephone on the first ring. “He's taking a nap,” he said when she asked for her father. “You want me to give him a message?”

  She sighed. Simon would put her on the hot seat regardless of whether he heard her story now or tonight. She recounted her day starting with the more mundane events and finishing with the horror in her apartment. But, she remembered to omit Salgado's reference to the previous message she'd received.

  When she finished, he didn't say a word for a long anxious moment. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked softly, “Are you all right?”

  His gentleness caused tears to gather in her throat. “I was pretty shook up at first, but I'm okay now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I'm"—her voice broke—"that's a lie. I'm scared, real scared. He's targeted Dad, now you ... Simon, what if it wasn't Dr. Tambor?”

  He drew a ragged breath. “Come home, Amy. Lock your car doors and keep them locked. And don't get out of the car while you're on the ferry. Do you"—his voice dwindled, and he started again—"do you have a gun?”

  Oh, hell! After Cleo died, she'd searched for the damned thing, but hadn't found it. Since then, she hadn't found the right moment to ask her father if he had the .38. She inhaled and let the air trail from her mouth. “Yeah, I have one, but I don't have it with me.”