He handed her a scratch pad, then pulled a raveled stocking hat over his sparse gray hair. “I go to my home now.” He waved toward the back of the shop. “Darryl, my clerk will help you.”
She waited until the door closed behind him before she started her inspection of the place. After spending the last three days in pet shops, she'd learned good lighting, clean cages, and healthy animals were the mark of a thriving business. As she wandered narrow, dimly lit aisles, she saw dull-eyed birds and monkeys in grimy cubicles and knew Rasmussen's didn't fit in that category.
She edged around a reticulated python's glass container and nearly stumbled over a slightly obese man who squatted in front of some shelves. Ah, this must be Darryl. He sat on an unopened carton of dog food, beside him lay a wickedly curved box opener.
He shot a narrowed sideways glance in her direction and mumbled something she couldn't catch. She leaned closer. “I beg your pardon?”
Dark, turbid eyes glittered in the clerk's flushed face. “You spying on me?” he asked in a sibilant whisper.
She drew back. Did he know her? Had he seen through her disguise? Goose bumps prickling her skin, she eyed the box knife and inched by him to a spot where the aisle widened. “I'm Emily James.” She held out her card.
Darryl grasped it between thumb and slim forefinger. His nails were bitten and ragged. With a noncommittal grunt, he bent his mop of frizzy brown hair over the card. After a full minute, he cupped the elbow of his left arm and lumbered to his feet. “So?”
“We have a client who's starting a private zoo.”
He scratched the pustular red rash spreading outward from the edges of his mustache and frowzy Van Dyke beard. “What they lookin’ for?”
He had a low-pitched voice and she had to lean closer in order to catch the words. The unwashed smell of him made her step back a pace. “He wants to begin with elapids and crotalidae.”
Darryl pooched out his bottom lip and tossed his head in an effeminate manner. “Cut the technical lingo, lady. I'm no zoologist.”
“Oh, sorry. He's interested in acquiring four cobras, some rattlesnakes and two fer-de-lance.”
“Can't help you.” He returned her card and went back to moving cans on the shelf.
She thought fast. “One of the clerks at Pet World said Rasmussen's sometimes filled special orders—if the price was right.”
Darryl hunched his shoulders, but didn't turn around. “He's off his trolley.”
She shifted her feet. “Why don't I leave my card. Perhaps, Mr. Rasmussen might...”
The clerk made a quick movement, and when he rose to his feet the blade of the box knife pointed at her belly. “Leave the old man out of this.” He took a quick step forward and she shrank against the gerbil cages behind her. “You got that?”
She edged sideways. “Yes. Yes, of course. I didn't mean to upset you. I'll try another shop.” She darted between the display counters and dashed through the front door.
Once outside, she slowed and sauntered toward the parking lot. Darryl was definitely, the flakiest character she'd encountered, but that didn't make him a killer. As she walked along, she mulled the matter over from several angles.
By the time she reached the car, she'd made her decision. Muddy-gray make-up base with deeper age lines and wire-frame glasses changed her appearance. A voluminous black coat, wool head scarf and thick muffler completed her transformation. Pleased with her handiwork, Amy lifted a bulging shopping bag from the back seat.
Head down, her shoulders bent, she trudged to the opposite side of the once-proud street and squeezed into a roofed, bus shelter. Behind her, spray-can graffiti decorated boarded-up windows of a store. In front of her, pink-haired punk rockers in black nailhead jackets, mothers with clinging children and suited-business men stood shoulder to shoulder.
Traffic hurtled by. Grit and scraps of paper swirled in the metallic, carbon monoxide breeze while the pallid afternoon sun crept down crumbling walls, brick by brick.
She'd been watching the pet shop forty-five minutes when the clerk came out, locked the door, and crossed the street at the corner. While following him at a discreet distance, she noticed he guarded his left arm from the bumps of passersby. On First Avenue, he made his way to the bus stop and boarded the Metro bound for Judkins Park. By lengthening her stride, she managed to scoot on at the last minute.
Bounding like a scared jack rabbit, the bus traveled south on First and turned up the hill on Spring Street. She tucked her chin inside her muffler, grabbed the overhead bar to hold her place in the crush of homeward bound commuters and tried to keep her quarry in view. Her venture might lead nowhere, but Salgado wouldn't listen unless she had more than intuition to go on.
The bus wound up Seneca and started south on Boren disgorging passengers along the way. Suddenly, she noticed Darryl's frizzy head among the disembarking throng at the back exit. She clawed her way to the door and leaped off.
Up the block, Darryl caught the green light, ran across the street, and entered a cocktail lounge called Pandora's. As soon as the signal changed, she charged after him.
A raucous happy-hour crowd packed the place. Music blared and strobe lights flashed in sync on silver foil walls. Couples danced with arms locked in tight embrace.
She set her bag on a chair upholstered in lavender with teal velvet trim and gazed around the shadowy interior. A number of the patrons wore elaborate dresses and had meticulously coiffed hair.
One of the women drifted by and Amy's gaze fastened on something a few inches above her remarkable cleavage. Black chest hair! Good grief, she was a man, and so were most of the others.
She glimpsed Darryl heading in the direction of the men's room and positioned herself so she could watch the door. Men and “women” entered and left, but the clerk remained inside. An hour passed and waiters began to give her hostile glances. She shifted to another spot and waited another thirty minutes. No one stayed in a restroom that long. He must have gotten by without her seeing him.
Pursued by a compelling sense of haste, she grabbed a bus and returned to her car. During the short drive to the Public Safety Building, and while she removed her disguise in the restroom, a vague notion nibbled at her mind. Sometime in the past few hours she had learned something important, only she couldn't pin it down. She shoved the matter to the back of her mind and hurried out.
Upstairs in the Crime Lab, she met her director. He peered down at her and frowned. “You look terrible. Your vacation doesn't seem to be doing you much good.”
She scrubbed at the age lines she'd forgotten to remove with a piece of tissue. “Would you mind if I took a few more days off?”
His frown grew more pronounced. “I know what you're doing, Amy, and I don't approve.” He sighed and ran a hand over thinning brown hair. “I'll check the schedule and let you know before I leave.”
She flung him a grateful look. “Thanks. I'm hoping my investigation will pay off soon.”
“Watch yourself. We need you around here,” he said and wandered off.
The instant she was alone her disturbing anxiety returned and she began to scurry about. After numbering the day's collection of scratch pad sheets, she checked the printed headings with the note she'd found tucked under Cleo's collar, and analyzed the paper content. From time to time she stopped to massage her aching neck muscles, then rushed on.
She was down to the last of the batch when the director came by to okay her extended vacation. She explained what she was doing.
“Hm-m-m-m.” He stared at the off-white page that had Rasmussen's Pet Shop printed across the top, then over at her note. “Both are Times Roman typeface.” He placed the original sheet over the newly acquired one and carefully aligned the letters that remained on the torn upper edge. “They're a perfect match, Amy.”
Her heart gave a thump and for an instant her chest felt too small to contain it. She steadied her voice. “I'd better check the paper before I start celebrating.”
He patted her
shoulder. “I'm going home. It's been a long day. Don't stay too late.”
“I won't.” Her right eyelid twitched and she squeezed her lids together a couple of times before she mixed a small section of the paper with sodium chloride and formed it into a disk. Scarcely daring to breath, she focused the infrared light onto the mixture, and turned on the spectrophotometer. She waited while the machine produced its graph of peaks and troughs, then compared it with the one from the note.
Hallelujah! The pattern of the absorption bands corresponded with those of the note. Darryl must be the culprit!
She scowled and pulled at her lip. How could he be? She'd never seen the man before. What possible connection could he have with her and Simon and her father?
She sat with slumped shoulders trying to fit him into the puzzle. Only one concrete fact had been confirmed—someone who had access to Rasmussen's animals had strangled Cleo, put the rats in her apartment, and had very likely brought the snakes to the cottage.
Could the clerk's connection to them be through Elise? Amy found a pad of paper and began to jot down notes. If Darryl was gay, surely he wouldn't have killed Elise and the doctor because of jealousy. Whoa, now, maybe he would. What if Dr. Tambor had had a male and a female lover?
From what Amy had learned so far, Elise thought little of two-timing a man. However, she didn't sound like a woman who would tolerate being treated in a similar manner. What if she found out about the doctor's duplicity and decided to get even by blackmailing him and his lover. That would explain the money the doctor withdrew from his account.
She stared at the scribbles she'd made. Suppose Darryl resented the doctor's betrayal and the doctor felt equally betrayed by Elise? Such a scenario would give each of the men a good reason to do away with Elise. It would also give Darryl ample reason to harbor a smoldering anger against the man he'd thought loved him alone.
Amy shoved the notepad aside—speculation wouldn't do. Quickly, she recorded the results of the tests she'd run and dialed Lt. Salgado's number. She'd established a link between the pet shop and Cleo's death, that should be enough to warrant keeping the place under surveillance.
Much to her exasperation, she found Lt. Salgado had gone out. Despite her protests, no one would tell her where he could be reached.
The needling anxiety at the back of her mind grew stronger. What if she'd tipped Darryl off? Would he leave town, or ... or would he ... Oh, dear Lord. She grabbed her coat and hurried out.
Twenty minutes later, she brought the car to a squealing stop in the hospital parking lot. She dashed inside and caught the elevator. On the way up, she took slow, deep breaths and forced herself to be calm.
Her fears for Simon's safety were silly. She glanced at her watch—a half hour before visiting hours ended—plenty of time to rehash what she'd learned with Simon. Perhaps, by now he would have gotten over his resentment, and they could be friends again.
When she got off the elevator and started down the corridor toward his room, she noticed a uniformed policeman strolling up and down but ignored him. Friday and Saturday nights always brought an influx of crime victims and wounded criminals to the trauma center.
She stopped at Simon's door and was about to turn the knob when someone grasped her shoulder.
“What're you doing on this floor?” the pudgy, young officer asked. “Why are you trying to get into Mr. Kittredge's room?”
The blood drained from her face. “Has something happened to Simon?” The officer's blank stare infuriated her. She grabbed his coat with both hands. “Tell me, dammit. Is he all right?”
Her shrill voice raised heads and brought Cam running. Suddenly, the door beside her opened and Simon stood there in his rumpled pajamas. He regarded each of them in turn. “What the hell's going on out here?”
A singing sound erupted inside her head, the room tipped, and her legs gave way. Cam helped her to a chair in Simon's room and held a crushed ammonia ampoule under her nose. The fumes made her eyes water, but her stomach returned to where it belonged.
“Have you eaten anything today?” Cam said.
She forced her brain back through jumbled time. “A piece of toast.”
Cam smacked his forehead. “What am I going to do with you?”
She bristled. “I had more important things on my mind.” She glanced around for Simon and found him leaning against a nearby wall. His face seemed strained and his eyes held a bleak expression.
The police officer, his arms folded, his features grim, guarded the doorway. Her attention swung back to Simon. “Why is he here?”
Cam left the room and Simon started to move to the chair next to her, but changed his mind and sat on the bed. “At dinner, we had cherry cheesecake for dessert. I didn't want mine, so I set it on the window ledge for the pigeons. Naturally they ate it. Thirty minutes later all four of them were dead.”
Nineteen
“Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid?” She stumbled into the bathroom and lost what little food she'd eaten.
After sponging her face with cold water, she joined the others. “Sorry,” she said. “Nervous reaction I guess.”
Cam, who'd returned with a cup of soup, patted her shoulder. “Sit down. I'll get something to settle your stomach.”
A muscle along Simon's jaw bunched, otherwise his expression remained wooden and unreadable.
The policeman came over to her. “I'm Officer Sampson. May I see some I.D. please?”
She fished her wallet from her purse and blurted out how she'd followed the edgy pet shop clerk to a gay bar only four blocks from the hospital. “He may not be the guilty party,” she said. “But someone around that store is. My tests prove Rasmussen's scratch pad paper is identical to the note I got when—” Simon's accusing look brought her up short. Damn! She'd blown it.
“What note?” he asked in a steely voice. “You never mentioned a note.”
She swallowed. “I got it the day Cleo died.” She turned to the officer. “Cleo was my dog.” She swung back to Simon. “I didn't want you and Dad to worry.”
“What did it say?”
She carefully avoided meeting his blazing eyes. “About the same thing as the message on my apartment mirror.”
“Don't try to feed me that crap, Amy.”
She jerked her head up. “It said, ‘You're next, Amy.'” She thrust out her chin. “What could you have done if you'd known?”
He stared her down. “So you decided not to tell anyone and play Joan of Arc instead.” He glared at her. “Who the hell gave you the right?”
“That's not getting us anywhere, Kittredge,” Officer Sampson said. “Have you reported your findings to Lt. Salgado, Dr. Prescott?”
“I tried, but couldn't reach him.”
“I'll take care of it right now.” He marched out the door.
Cam came in with a glass of lemon-lime soda. “This should do the trick. Sip it slowly.”
She thanked him and leaned her head against the chair cushion. What a ghastly, ghastly day. She studied Simon over the rim of the glass and could find no trace of the man who'd looked at her with such desire a few nights ago.
“How soon can I get out of this zoo?” Simon asked suddenly.
Cam's dark-eyed gaze shifted from Simon to her and back to Simon. “It's imperative your eye drops be administered as instructed.” His lips twitched ever so slightly. “And the antibiotic injections must be continued. However, I'd consider discharging you tomorrow, if you had some qualified person to look after you.”
“I could do it,” Amy said.
“No way!” Simon slid off the bed and paced back and forth, his trim new cast slipper scuffing the linoleum. He came to a stop in front of Cam. Feet spread, hands on his hips, he barked, “I'm sick to death of being taken care of.”
Cam stared back at him, his face stern. “It's either my way, or not at all. Your sight and health are at risk.”
Simon glowered at him. “How long would I have to have her around?”
; "Have to have her around.” He sounded as if he'd been sentenced to share a cell with her. She had to restrain herself to keep from flinging something at him. She certainly hadn't reacted in such a surly manner when her father insisted Simon stay at the cottage.
“Three days,” Cam said in a cheery voice, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling around him. “Maybe less if your fever stays normal. Amy's a fine doctor, I trust her implicitly.”
“Bully for you.” Simon stomped to the far side of the room and sat down with his back to them.
Cam motioned to her and she followed him out. “He can leave before noon, if that's convenient.”
“I'll be here.”
“The supplies you'll need will be at the nurse's station.”
She made a wry face. “How about something to sweeten his disposition?”
He folded his arms and grinned at her. “I've done my part to get the two of you together. The rest is up to you.”
Simon stalked up to them. He'd put on a robe and fitted a slipper over his bare foot. “I'm going to your car with you.”
She'd have hugged him if she'd thought for a minute he'd have let her. He acted tough, but his caretaker instinct took precedence over his anger. Much as she welcomed the opportunity to make things right between them, she couldn't allow him to take the risk. She opened her mouth to protest, however Officer Sampson's arrival made her protest unnecessary.
He contemplated Simon's aggressive stance for an instant before switching his attention to her. “The lieutenant says I'm to accompany you to your car.”
Simon took her arm. “I'll do it.”
Officer Sampson narrowed his eyes. “When you get out of here, you can do as you please. Until then, you'll stay in your room.”
Simon bunched his fist. “Go to hell.”
“Don't make things difficult, Kittredge. Dr. Prescott is my responsibility, not yours.”
“No point in making an issue of it, Simon,” she said. “I'll be all right.” He let go of her arm. As she went down the hall, she glanced over her shoulder. Simon stood where she'd left him, frustration lining his face.
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