With Deadly Intent

by Louise Hendricksen

  “Lt. Salgado will probably blame Oren. He's charged him with Dr. Tambor's murder.”

  “Yeah, we were discussing it at the lab.” Gail crushed her paper napkin into a ball, then without looking at Amy carefully began to smooth out the wrinkles. “What do you think?”

  “Oren isn't capable of—” Gail's steady-eyed gaze stopped Amy's blustering outburst. She pressed her fingers against her aching head. “Hell, I don't know what to think anymore. Tell me your news.”

  “I ran those paint chips through the NAP file. Your father was struck by a Mazda RX 7 that had recently been painted a metallic blue.”

  “The same make and model as Elise's.” Amy lowered her cup to the table and leafed through her note book. “You did say me car was once cherry red, didn't you?”

  Gail nodded.

  “It's gotta be the car Elise sold to a man named Roger Norman.” Amy leaned forward. “He and Elise are both from Montana. What if—?” She paused, unsure whether to reveal that the woman she called Elise might not be the “real” Elise at all. Better not, she had no proof. “What if Norman had been her lover and she moved to Seattle to get away from him?”

  “Hey, terrific.” Gail shoved her fingers through her short-cut hair. “The guy comes here, finds out she's engaged to Oren, and kills her.” Her dark eyes widened. “And it might have been him, not Oren who clubbed the doctor over the head and shoved him down the elevator shaft.”

  “You're forgetting the baseball bat had Oren's prints on it.”

  All the animation left Gail's face. “Sorry.”

  Amy lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Did anyone process the rats from my apartment?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Gail held her nose and acted as if she were about to throw-up. “Cause of death—strangulation. Probably a fine wire by the way it cut into the animal's skin.”

  Strangulation. The same method used to kill Cleo. The hair rose on the back of Amy's neck. “Any fleas on the bodies?”

  Gail tapped her forehead. “Smart thinking, old girl.” She grinned. “Nary a one and their stomach contents bears out our conclusion—they weren't alley rats.”

  Amy drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Whoever did it has easy access to animals.”

  “And hates them,” Gail added. “Rats aren't exactly appealing, but geez, what kind of a person could...” She grimaced. “Gives me the chills just thinking about it.”

  Could Oren? Amy's appetite vanished. She wrapped the remainder of her sandwich in a napkin and stood up. “I've a lot of leg work to do.” She gazed down at Gail with an earnest expression. “Thanks. You've been a big help.”

  Gail rose and walked to the door with her. “Watch your step. This character may already have committed two murders. He knows who you are and where you live. A third killing wouldn't faze him.”

  Amy touched the slight bulge underneath her arm. “Dad insisted I pack some fire power and I thought I'd figure out some sort of disguise.”

  “Not a bad idea.” She patted Amy's shoulder. “Take care.”

  Amy found a print shop that'd give one day service. She chose Emily James as her name, Animal Supply Inc. as her business, and made up a California address.

  Next, she bought a wig, a beige blonde one streaked with gray. In the dressing room, she added age lines under the eyes and around the nose and mouth, as she'd learned to do when she'd acted in a college play.

  Still not quite satisfied with her appearance, she took off her dark framed glasses and put in her contacts. A few more details and her disguise would be complete. A thrift store provided her with two changes of clothes and several styles of glasses. When she came out, she looked twenty years older and a good deal fatter.

  Pleased with her transformation she set off for the animal supply houses. She could have phoned them, but she had an ulterior motive for wanting to visit each establishment in person. Although it was definitely against standard protocol, she'd brought the note left by Cleo's killer to Seattle. Now, she intended to find the scratch pad from which it'd been torn.

  By late afternoon, she'd seen everything from tarantulas to Tasmanian tigers and an acrid odor of animal dung clung to her clothing. Unfortunately, none of the people she questioned had cobras or rattlesnakes for sale, nor had they sold any recently. Nevertheless, her time hadn't been entirely wasted. She'd managed to leave each supply house with a sheet of their scratch pad paper.

  After talking to the last dealer on her list, she returned to the car and removed her disguise. With her sheaf of pad samples in hand, she hurried to the Crime Lab to analyze the paper and check their lettering against the fragments left on the torn top edge of the killer's note—none matched. She curbed her disappointment. Tomorrow, she'd start canvassing the pet shops.

  Seventeen

  Amy showered, changed clothes and went to the hospital. She inquired about Simon at the information desk and learned he'd been moved from ICU. Humming a joyful tune, she entered the elevator. Simon had weathered the critical phase, now if he could cope with the aftermath, he'd be home free.

  The door to his room stood open. Inside, the lights had been dimmed. Simon was propped up in bed, but he wore dark glasses so she couldn't tell if he was awake. As she hesitated in the doorway, someone called her name. She smiled when she saw Cam coming toward her.

  He grasped the hand she extended. “I think he's over the hump, Amy. We're not sure about his eyes yet, but aside from some residual muscle weakness, he's managing well systemically.”

  “Thanks to you, Cam.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “Payment in full for the night calls I took while you were out romancing Mai.”

  He laughed out loud and slipped his arm around her waist. “How're you doing these days, old buddy?” His fingers probed her ribs, and he frowned at her. “When are you going to learn to stop and eat occasionally?”

  She grinned and shrugged. “Can't be helped, I don't have you around to nag me.” She jerked her head toward Simon. “Is it all right if I go in?”

  “Sure. He's awake. I was just in there.”

  She smiled and went to Simon's bedside. “How're you feeling?” She stretched out her hand to touch him, and tell him how happy she was to have him alive.

  “What are you doing here?” he said in a sharp tone without turning to look at her. “Who's taking care of B.J.?”

  She recognized the voice, the stiff set of his features, and snatched back her out-stretched hand. He'd crawled into his icy cocoon again. “Arne Olafson will be staying with him.”

  “Fine. Now each of us can get on with our own lives.”

  Her insides began to quiver and she slumped onto a chair. Silence, taut and uneasy stretched between them. She squared her shoulders. She'd not make it easy for him to get rid of her. “Would you like me to read to you?”

  He snatched off his dark glasses and glowered at her. “I don't need you, or anyone else babysitting me.”

  She came to her feet. “You're right. A good boot in the rear would do you more good.” Hot tears ran down her face. She brushed them away as more took their place. The exasperating show of weakness made her even angrier. “Damn you and you're hard-headed independence. It wouldn't hurt you to lean on someone for a change.”

  “Yeah, look who's talking. Well, count me out.”

  Her chest hurt, her body hurt, her throat felt as if a tight band had closed around it. “You ... you bastard. You stubborn, arrogant, egotistical bastard.” Holding her head high, she walked out.

  When she reached her apartment, she prowled through the rooms. Finally, she pulled everything out of the kitchen cabinet, filled a pan with soapy water, and began to clean. Several hours passed before complete exhaustion drove her to bed. Even then she didn't fall asleep until dawn.

  Friday, November 4

  Next morning, before leaving the apartment, she divided the city map into grids. Then, with the Yellow Pages in one hand and a red felt pen in the other, she marked the location of thirty pet shops within the city l
imits.

  Her gut feeling told her the person she sought lived in the Seattle area and not one of the nearby towns. She fervently hoped her hunch was right, if she didn't find him soon, he'd strike again.

  After picking up her phony business cards at the print shop and donning her disguise in a public restroom, she started with the outlying stores and worked her way inward. She soon devised a system. Following a walk through the store to size up the employees, she'd present her card and start asking questions.

  Hour after gray-filled hour, she kept at it and every step of the way Simon's words throbbed inside her head like a sore tooth. She felt empty, cast adrift, and wished she'd never let down her guard.

  Finally, when her tortured nerves quailed at the thought of hearing one more screeching parrot, or the frenzied barking of another Pompoo or Shih Tzu, she went home. As she neared her apartment door, she heard the shrilling of the phone. She unlocked the door and snatched up the receiver. Her heart plummeted when she recognized Cam's voice. “What's wrong?”

  “That's what I'd like to know. Did something happen between you and Simon last evening?”

  “Why?”

  “After you left, he spiked a temp and was restless all night. That shouldn't have happened. He's been on antibiotics since he arrived. So there must be some other reason why he suddenly started going sour.”

  “We quarreled. He..."—her voice broke, she swallowed hard and went on—"he insists he doesn't need me, or want me around.”

  “And you believed him? Ah, come on, Amy, you've had enough psychology to know what's bugging him. Sure the man acts macho, but my guess is, he's damned insecure. You saved his life. How do you think that makes him feel?”

  She flung her purse at a chair, missed, and swore under her breath. “He saved my life once and I was damned grateful. Why should this be any different?”

  “I shouldn't have to tell you the answer to that. How about the two of you trying a reconciliation?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because, I think you may love the guy. Love doesn't happen often, Amy. Don't toss him aside lightly.”

  Love Simon? She sprawled on the couch. No way would she love another man, especially one whose moods shifted as capriciously as Simon's. It hurt too much.

  “What about it, Amy? His system can only stand so much. And you know as well as I do, medicine's no cure-all.”

  She sighed. “I'll give it some thought.”

  “Don't let me down, old friend. I need your help.”

  After Cam hung up, she lay staring at the ceiling. The thought of calling her father to update him on her progress crossed her mind, but she pushed it aside. He'd question her about Simon and if he sensed the two of them were having problems, he'd worry.

  Why did everything have to fall apart at once? She went into the bedroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower. Hoping to wash away her cares, she turned on a cold needle-spray and let it beat against her skin. Her strategy didn't, work—an achy sadness still weighted her down.

  When she reached Simon's floor at the hospital, his room lights were off. Panic squeezed her heart. Had they taken him back to ICU? Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and in the glow from the street lamps she saw him sitting beside the window.

  She went in, closed the door behind her, and eased into a chair near him. when he didn't acknowledge her presence, she stirred uneasily and gave an anxious cough.

  “B.J. told me about Oren,” Simon said quietly. “Do you think we're wrong about him?”

  “I won't let myself even consider it.”

  After several minutes, Simon let out a noisy breath. “So you're out there looking for the crazy nut who dumped the snakes in your basement, aren't you?”

  She thought of lying, but knew he wouldn't buy it. “Yes.”

  He smacked the vinyl upholstered chair arm with his palm. “I knew it.”

  “There may be two people responsible for what's been going on, Simon. I have to find out who it is before someone else gets hurt.”

  “God dammit, Amy, that someone else is you. Don't you realize that?”

  She let the matter lay and briefed him on the information Gail had given her about the hit-and-run car. “This Roger Norman could be a likely suspect,” she finished.

  “It's possible,” Simon said. “I made some calls today. Montana's Department of Labor and Industries has a file on him. He injured an ankle while working as an orderly at Marchmont Hospital.”

  “Marchmont! So he must have known Elise, or whatever her name is.”

  “I suppose. Strange thing is, the IRS doesn't have any records for the last three years.”

  “Not everyone files an income tax return.”

  “No, but employers have to turn in employee deductions.”

  “Maybe he was doing itinerant work.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Simon said nothing more, and since she couldn't think of anything that'd ease the cool politeness between them, she got to her feet. “I'd better go. I don't want to tire you.” She took her time going to the door, hoping he'd give her some excuse to stay.

  Her hand was on the knob, when he said, “Amy...”

  Now he'd tell her he hadn't meant what he said the previous night. “Yes?”

  “Uh ... thanks.”

  Her lip quivered. “For what?”

  In the quiet darkness, his breathing sounded loud and agitated. “For ... for coming by.”

  She waited, but he remained silent. “I was in the"—her voice trembled and threatened to break—"I happened to be in the neighborhood,” she said quickly and left.

  Saturday, November 5

  The following morning as she was finishing her breakfast, a knock sounded at the door. Surprised, she hurried to answer and found Lt. Salgado standing in the hall. Adrenalin speeded her pulse. “Good grief what's happened now?”

  “Let's talk inside.” He pushed the door open and walked into, her living room.

  She gripped her elbows and pressed folded arms against an agitated stomach. “Tell me, for God's sake.”

  He tossed the paper he carried onto the coffee table, took off his tan raincoat, lay it over the arm of the couch and sat down. “I'm here about you.”

  She collapsed onto a chair. “Me? What're you talking about?”

  He rested his hands on his thighs and leaned forward, squinting at her through narrowed eyes. “Where do you get the idea you can do better than the police?”

  She stiffened. “I don't happen to think my cousin is guilty. I'm not waiting until you come around to my way of thinking before I do something. Has someone complained?”

  “Yeah, Kittredge. He's been burning up my phone. Wants to know what the hell we're doing. Says you're trying to track down a killer all by yourself.”

  She felt a rush of elation. Simon cared. Her joy lasted only half a second, then annoyance took its place. The last thing she needed right now was the lieutenant hounding her. “Simon tends to get overly protective. I made inquiries at a few pet shops, that's all.”

  The lieutenant's stare didn't waver. “If you find where the snakes came from, then what?”

  She drew herself up. If she let him intimidate her now, she'd never earn his respect. “I figured if I could show reasonable cause, you might put the place under surveillance.”

  Salgado threw up his hands. “Great. Just great. Before, I had just a screwed-up case. Now, I got an amateur who's trying to play detective.” He wiped a hand over his face. “What next, for Christ's sake?”

  “I'm not an amateur and I'm not playing.”

  He leveled a finger at her. “You stay the hell out of this, doctor, or I'll make it damned hot for you over at the lab. You got that?”

  Eighteen

  Amy opened the folded newspaper Lt. Salgado had left on the coffee table. Centered under the headline—JOURNALIST SURVIVES HARROWING ENCOUNTER—a picture of Simon dominated me front page. “Blast it!” She flung the paper in the waste basket. Now, t
he sadistic freak knew Simon was alive.

  She hurried into the bedroom to finish dressing. As she started to slip her arm into her shoulder holster, she stopped. Up until this moment, she'd avoided thinking too deeply about the gun she carried. Now, her instructor's words came back to her, “Don't ever carry a gun unless you're prepared to use it.”

  She removed the .38 S&W Special and held it in her hand. Would she have the guts to use it? After several minutes of soul searching, she returned the pistol to its holster. She'd better make her first stop the police firing range.

  By ten o'clock, she'd gone through ten rounds of ammunition. One of the officers she frequently encountered while on duty in the mobile crime unit was practicing nearby. When she finished and took off the hearing ear-muffs, he sauntered over.

  “You aren't half bad, Prescott,” he said. “From now on I'll think twice before I make a pass at you.”

  She smiled broadly. “I even surprised myself. Haven't practiced in a couple of years.”

  His holster creaked as he settled his revolver more comfortably on his hip. “Don't pay to let yourself get rusty.” He cocked a knowing eyebrow. “In our business you never know when some nut is gonna make you his target.”

  She holstered her pistol and put on her jacket. “So I've found out.” She picked up her sports duffel and made for the ladies room. Time she got into her wig and hit the streets again.

  Four hours and half a dozen shops later, she pulled into a parking lot on Union, pushed money into a metal slot, and started walking south on Second Avenue.

  In midblock, she entered Rasmussen's Pet Shop. A bell over the door tinkled and a stoop-shouldered man looked up from his figuring behind the cash register.

  “Something I can help you with, miss?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

  “I'd like to look around a bit first, if you don't mind.”

  “Look"—he made a sweeping gesture—"look all you like.”

  She took a pen from her pocket and began to search through her purse. “You wouldn't have something I could write on, would you?”