by Joanne Pence
She’d run a warm bath for him and ordered him to take it after handing him a large terrycloth robe and the razor she used for her legs. She’d even put a fresh blade in it.
As he bathed, she’d covered the comfortable sofa with sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. Normally, she wouldn’t have dreamed of allowing a strange man into her home, let alone to her bath and to sleep on her sofa, but he seemed in too much pain to be harmful.
Besides, something about him touched her. She had no idea why. How many women ended up dead because a pitiable stranger had appealed to their compassion? Was she crazy, or what?
When he’d come out of the bath, with his absurdly white legs protruding from the bottom of the robe and his feet bare, he’d looked so exhausted that she was sure she would be safe that night. Her life as well as her honor.
Damn.
She hadn’t liked the way he’d grimaced as he’d lowered himself onto the sofa, so she’d suggested she take a look at his ribs.
He slumped wearily. “If they were broken, you couldn’t do anything about it, so why bother?”
God, but he was negative. “I could wrap them for you,” she said. “At least you wouldn’t feel as much pain with each breath.”
He kept the bottom of the robe clutched close about his waist as she slid the top off his shoulders. His arms and shoulders were milky white, while his chest, back, and rib cage were livid red and purple.
“You poor man!” Just looking at him made her wince. She found an old pillowcase and tore it up. As she wrapped it around his ribs, she said, “When you were passed out, you mentioned being late. Is there anything I can do to help you with that? Anyone you need to call?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You were muttering those words. You sounded agitated.”
“You must be mistaken.” His voice was firm, almost harsh, and his eyes bored into her.
Once she finished with the padding, she lifted the robe back onto his shoulders and gave him two Aleve.
While easing him down onto the pillow, she wrapped one of her arms around his shoulders in support. As she lowered him, bending with him, their eyes met. His were like pools of dark coffee, rich and penetrating. Heat swept over her.
As soon as he was firmly down, she pulled her arm away and stood, stepping back from him, her face nearly as red as his bruises.
She wasn’t a horny teenager anymore, but a thirty-plus divorcee. Okay, so maybe it had been a long time since her last fling, but this guy was a stranger, a not-very-handsome, brusque, mysterious stranger.
So, maybe she was a horny divorcée? Get over it, Rogers.
He’d fallen asleep immediately, and this morning, he’d awakened while she was having her usual breakfast of a couple of slices of unbuttered toast and black coffee. Each day she started out as if she were on a diet; unfortunately, something usually got in the way of calorie counting long before the day was over. Sometimes, even before breakfast was over.
She gave him more pain pills along with a couple of poached eggs, toast, and coffee, shocked at herself for cooking an almost traditional breakfast. Angie would be proud.
Her mother had always given her poached eggs when she was sick, so it seemed like the right thing to feed him. Personally, she hadn’t eaten a poached egg since she’d left home, and hadn’t missed the watery concoction one little bit.
It’d also been years since either bacon or sausage had found their way to her refrigerator, not because she was a vegetarian or anything, but because they were too fattening. Also because toast or chocolate-flavored granola bars made for a quicker and easier breakfast. The fanciest she ever got was Egg-O waffles with diet margarine and lite syrup. She debated leaving Max alone while she ran over to Safeway to buy sausage, but decided she’d do it only if he seemed hungry. Since he hadn’t finished his toast before falling back asleep, she guessed he needed sleep more than toast or sausage anyway.
Now, hours later, he began stirring and muttering.
The doorbell rang. The clock read 1:30, and she slapped her forehead.
She had to decide, quick. Did she dare tell Angie she’d taken some stranger into her home? It was bad enough she’d been stood up. Even to herself, she sounded really pathetic. How embarrassing was that?
Angie placed her hand on the door handle, ready to push as soon as Connie buzzed it open from her third-floor apartment.
Instead, after a long wait, Connie appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Angie,” she said brightly as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Connie wore one of her more garish dresses—a day-glo pink with V-neckline and short skirt—plus she was all made up. This was not the appearance of a woman at death’s door. Or of one who’d just crawled out of a bed of passion. More like looking to crawl into one.
“Were you just leaving?” Angie asked. “Heading for your store, maybe? Or…somewhere else?”
“No, not at all,” Connie replied cheerfully.
“Why didn’t you buzz me in?” Angie was confused. “What are you doing down here?”
“I figured it was you,” Connie answered.
Angie wondered if her apartment needed cleaning, or something. “I went to the shop to meet you for lunch.”
“Oh, shoot! That’s right.” Connie looked contrite. “With all the excitement of my date, I forgot to tell you I had a dentist appointment this morning.”
“Oh, dear!” Angie hated going to the dentist. “Was it so painful you decided to stay home all day?”
“He had to use a lot of novocaine…and it took forever to wear off. My face puffed up like a chipmunk’s. I couldn’t go to work like that. Slurred speech, face swollen. What would people have thought?”
“Well, you look fine now,” Angie said with a compassionate smile. “Shall we go? I can’t wait to hear every little detail of your date last night.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Connie folded her arms. “Not enough for a five-minute break, let alone an entire lunch. He stood me up.”
Angie didn’t think she’d heard right. “Dennis Pagozzi?”
“Neither hide nor hair. Look, I’ve got to go.”
Angie stared at her. “Wait! I can’t believe it. He’s Butch’s nephew.”
“Believe it, Angie.” Connie’s mood deteriorated with each word. “The guy must be flaky. It was embarrassing. But on the other hand, what else is new? It isn’t the first time a blind date’s ended up that way for me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
Angie’s indignation over her best friend’s treatment soared. “What a slime bucket!” she cried, throwing her arms outward. “I never thought Butch’s nephew would be such a…a…”
“Dickhead?”
“Exactly!”
“Who cares?” Connie said.
“That’s the attitude!” Angie’s jaw was firm, her whole being determined to make things right. “I’ll find the perfect man for you. The world needs more love it in.”
“Sure it does.” Connie said without conviction. “And while I’m holding my breath, I’m going back inside to nurse my sore mouth.”
“Connie, wait!” Angie cried as Connie turned away. None of this made any sense. “What’s going on?”
Connie stepped inside the foyer to the apartment building and left the door open a crack as she faced Angie again. “Nothing. I told you. I just want a break today. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
“But—”
Connie sighed. “You’re so pushy, Angie.”
“I’m pushy?” That took her aback. “Well, yes. Maybe sometimes. With good reason—”
“Good-bye!”
Angie quickly yelled as the door swung shut, “I don’t suppose you have time to go to coffee and tell me again what it was like when Paavo proposed?” She heard the click of the latch. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
She hated herself for having missed a good deal of her very own marriage propos
al, having keeled over in a dead faint at Paavo’s words. It wasn’t shock, she was sure, but just an accumulation of everything else that had happened that particular evening.
Someday, she might even convince herself of that. On the other hand, she loved hearing about the proposal from Connie who, among others, had witnessed the whole thing.
Hands on hips, Angie stood facing the closed door. That dentist story didn’t hold an iota of truth. Connie never dressed up for her dentist, and always said the last thing she wanted to do around one was to look like she could afford to pay for bridges, root canals, or anything cosmetic.
If Connie didn’t live on the third floor, Angie would have tried to see just what was going on inside her apartment. Never before had things been so strained between them that they’d held a conversation out on the street or, come to think of it, had she been given such a brush-off.
She didn’t even get to tell Connie about her brainstorm regarding her neighbor Stan and Helen the shoemaker.
As she walked back to her car, the sense that whatever was causing Connie to act so unusual had something to do with last night struck her. She checked her wristwatch—just for fun, waggling her ring finger to watch the diamond sparkle as she did so. There wasn’t time now, but tonight would be soon enough, and if no one had been murdered today, Paavo could join her in sleuthing it out. Besides, he loved the food at the Wings of an Angel.
Chuck Lexington hit “Send” on one E-mail and another popped open. He didn’t much like computers, didn’t like all the technological changes that he’d had to learn since the old days when he was a law enforcement officer. He’d enjoyed that time, even though he’d put in so many hours his wife had walked out and his kids had grown up without him ever getting to know them. Now, he felt more like a clerk, sitting and staring at a screen for hours at a time. The phone rang while he was reading yet another E-mail. Without looking up, he answered.
“This is Joe Neeley at McDonald’s down on Main Street,” a male voice said. “I was told you’re Veronica Maple’s parole officer. She applied for a job here and was supposed to show up this morning, but she hasn’t arrived. Do you know if she was released?”
Lexington wasn’t sure what to make of the call. Maple wasn’t one to consider serving Big Macs. “I don’t know how you heard that. Her release isn’t for a couple of days.”
The question, though, made him uneasy. Nothing about Veronica Maple was ordinary, and especially not the woman herself. As they spoke, he pulled up her records on the computer.
“I was wrong.” The information on the screen shocked him. “She was let go this morning.”
“Thanks.” The phone went dead.
Lexington stared at Maple’s records with growing fury. How the hell had her release date changed without him being notified?
Something about the phone call bothered him as well. Lexington hit star-six-nine on his phone. Some aspects of high tech he liked. “The number of your last incoming call was four-one-five-three-nine-two…”
He scribbled down the number. Four-one-five was San Francisco’s area code. He used the reverse phone directory on his computer for the full number. It belonged to a woman named Constance Rogers.
He jumped to his feet. What the hell was going on? And where was Veronica Maple?
Connie raced up two and a half flights of stairs to her third-floor apartment. On the last half-flight, she slowed down to catch her breath, smooth her dress, adjust her bra, and push at her rock-hard hair so that it’d pouf up a bit. One bad thing about this short hairdo was that gel tended to make it flatten against her head and look like a bathing cap.
Max just might be awake.
Something about him drew her to him. She liked the way he looked at her, like she was somehow special. That must have been it. Even—okay, it was colossal admission time—she liked having someone who needed her in her house, in her life. The words and tune of a schmaltzy Broadway musical tune popped into her head, As long as he needs me…
She waltzed up the rest of the stairs humming to herself, then quietly unlocked and opened her apartment door. No sound came from the living room. Tiptoeing to the doorway so as not to disturb him, she peeked at the sofa.
It was empty.
He must be in the bathroom. The door was open. Cautiously, she approached. It, too, was empty.
Was he in the kitchen? Hungry, perhaps? Some runny eggs and a piece of toast weren’t enough for such a tall man’s appetite. What had she been thinking? She should have used her Safeway Club Card and bought both sausage and bacon—and maybe splurged on a quart of chocolate Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond or maybe Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.
The kitchen’s appliances were last updated at least thirty years earlier. The miracle was that they still worked. The room had an almost art deco look to it with small white appliances atop sheets of ancient linoleum in a yellow, red, and black plaid. Red accessories made the room bright and cheerful, but nothing more.
At the far end of the kitchen the back door was ajar. Outside steps led down to a small yard where trash-cans were kept until garbage day, when they were rolled along a small alleyway to the main street. She always kept that door locked.
Max’s clothes, which had been folded and draped neatly over a kitchen chair, were gone, and in their place was the terrycloth robe she’d lent him.
He wouldn’t have snuck out on her like that, would he? She wanted to believe he’d merely stepped outside for a moment, maybe to have a cigarette, and would be back soon. She wanted to believe anything except that she’d done it again—that she’d again opened her home and heart to a man whose own troubles left no room for her or her feelings or desires. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with that type again—her ex had been a complete course in needy personality.
Good thing she found all this out about him before she got any more involved! And even better that she hadn’t mentioned him to Angie. This way, she could forget she’d ever met Max Squire, or that he even existed.
Too bad she’d kind of liked him.
As she stepped into her cozy living room, her mind froze. Her big, brown shoulder bag lay open on the oak coffee table. When she picked up her wallet, her heart sank.
All her cash—about a hundred eighty dollars’ worth—was gone.
Chapter 4
“Isn’t that sweet?” Angie thought. She’d returned home after her unhappy encounter with Connie and was on the sofa going through her mail when she came across a letter from Bon Appetit magazine. It was an offer for her to become their Bay Area correspondent, since the current one had resigned to become a full-time cookbook writer, and they were aware of her through the occasional but always wonderful restaurant reviews she wrote for the regional magazine, Haute Cuisine.
They enjoyed the whimsical style of her writing and thought she would add sparkle to the stories she wrote for them.
“Sparkle?” she murmured with a smile. She did have plenty to sparkle over these days, that was for sure. Diamonds, champagne, Paavo, love.
The offer from Bon Appetit dropped unnoticed to the floor as she stared dreamily out the window. The magazine had recently had a particularly nice spread on savory tea sandwiches…
Sidney Fernandez, known as “El Toro” by friends and enemies alike, stretched out on the back seat of his black limousine and watched the bright neon glow of the city at night. He loved his limousine. He loved the plush red leather seats, the fully stocked bar with all his favorite liquor, the television, the satellite phone that worked even when he was in a valley or beside a high-tech office building. He loved the way he never had to worry about parking. He just had Raymondo drive him around and around, picking up friends and acquaintances, and once in a while pulling up to a gas station so he could use the crapper. That was the only thing still needed so he’d never have to leave his limo at all—a toilet.
He didn’t even care if he never took a bath or a shower again. He washed up for other people, not himself.
He was getting so rich, so powerful, no one would have the cojones to object to his stench anyway. Come to think of it, they already didn’t.
“What you laughing about, Toro?” a nasal voice asked, snapping him out of his reverie.
“None of your business, Ju-li-us,” Fernandez replied, harshly eying the nervous, sharp-nosed goateed man. “So keep your trap shut.”
Julius Rodriguez sulked, as usual. Fernandez didn’t give a damn. He owned the guy. Rodriguez had been one of Fernandez’s men since they’d started out as one of many street gangs in Los Angeles. Lots of guys from the barrio wanted to call him “Hu-li-o” but since Julius—like Sidney Fernandez himself—was third generation and his knowledge of Spanish was limited to swear words and common phrases, he preferred the Anglo pronunciation. Anyway, Fernandez also found “Julius” more in keeping with being a big shot’s main man.
“I was just wondering,” Julius said. “Where we going?”
“No place. I’m thinking.” Fernandez’s three hundred pounds lumbered over onto his back, so his head lay on a stack of pillows covering the armrest, his feet braced against the one opposite.
Julius perched on the seat facing him. “No place. Great.”
Fernandez glared at him. “Is she out yet?”
“She’s trouble.” Julius stared out the window. “You can’t trust her.”
“Who says I trust her? I want this job. That bitch owes me.”
“And then?” Julius asked.
Fernandez smirked. “That’s for me to know. So, she out?”
Julius sighed. “She got out today. I took care of everything for her. She’s ours now.”
Fernandez sat back and shut his eyes. “Bueno.”
After a few more blocks of silence, Julius said, “Why don’t we go find ourselves some chicks? I’m tired of just sitting.”
Without moving, Fernandez ordered, “Get out.”
Julius stared at his boss. “You joking?”