by Nora Roberts
“I see what’s in your eyes.”
He would, she realized, and felt the warmth creep into her cheeks. “It’s only that I know he doesn’t trust me—my feelings. Or, I suppose, the endurance of my feelings. It’s not his fault.”
“He was always one to pick things apart.” There was brotherly disgust in Mikhail’s voice. “Never one to take anything on faith. I’ll speak to him.”
“Oh, no.” This time, she laughed. “He’d be furious with both of us. All that Slavic pride and male ego.”
Instantly Mikhail’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” She grinned at Rachel. “Not a thing. I’ll just wear him down in my own way. In fact, I’m going to start tonight. I’m cooking dinner. I thought maybe I could call your mother, find out if he has a favorite dish.”
“I can tell you that,” Rachel offered. “Anything.”
“Well, that certainly widens my choices. Do you think she’d mind if I called her, asked for some pointers? My kitchen skills are moderate at best.”
“She’d love it.” Rachel smiled to herself, knowing her mother would hang up the phone and immediately start planning the wedding.
It was after midnight when Alex let himself into Bess’s apartment with the key she’d given him. He was punchy with fatigue, and his head was buzzing from too much coffee. Those were usual things, as much a part of his work as filing reports or following a lead. But the sick weight in his stomach was something new.
He would have to tell her.
She’d left the television on. In an old black-and-white movie a woman screamed in abject terror and fled down a moonlit beach. As he shrugged out of his jacket, Alex moved across the room to switch it off. Before he reached the set, he saw her, curled on the couch.
She’d waited for him. The sweetness of that speared through him as he crouched beside her. For so many years now, he’d come home alone, to no one. Gently he brushed the dark red curls from her cheek and replaced them with his lips. She stirred, murmuring. Her eyes fluttered open.
“I’m just going to carry you into bed,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
“Alexi.” She lifted a hand to rub over the cheek he hadn’t shaved that morning. Her voice was thick with sleep, her eyes glazed with it. “What time is it?”
“It’s late. You should have gone to bed.”
She made a vague sound of disagreement and pushed up on one elbow. “I was waiting up, but the movie was so bad.” Her laugh was groggy, and she rubbed her eyes like a child. “It zapped me.” She circled her shoulders before leaning forward to kiss him. “You had a long day, Detective.”
“Yeah.” And maybe, because she was half-asleep, he could put off the rest. “So have you. I’ll cart you in.”
“No, I’m okay.” She sat up, yawning. “Did you eat something?”
“I caught a sandwich. I’m really sorry, I tried to call.”
“And got the machine,” she said with a rueful nod. “Because I’d forgotten the paprika and had to run back out to the market.”
“You cooked?” The idea both touched him and accented his guilt.
“I amazed myself.” It felt good to settle against him when he joined her on the couch and slipped an arm around her. Cozy, right, and wonderfully simple. “Your mother’s recipe for chicken and dumplings—Hungarian-style.”
“Csirke paprikas?” Normally it would have made his mouth water. “That’s a lot of work.”
“It was a culinary adventure—and the cleaning lady will probably quit on Monday, after one look at the kitchen.” She laughed up at him, then scrubbed her knuckles over his cheek when she caught the look in his eyes. “Don’t worry. It’ll heat up just fine for tomorrow’s lunch. Then again…” She snuggled closer. “If you’re feeling really guilty, I’ll take you up on that ride to the bedroom—and whatever else you can think of.”
But instead of chuckling and scooping her up, he pushed away to pace to the television and snap it off. “We have to talk.”
His tone had nerves skittering in her stomach, but she nodded. “All right.”
He thought it might be best—for both of them—if they had some of the brandy she had offered him during an earlier crisis. Trying out the words in his head, he walked to the lacquered cabinet.
“It’s bad,” she murmured, and pressed her lips together, hard. Her first thought was that he had changed his mind about her. That he had finally taken that good look she’d been afraid of and realized his mistake.
“It’s bad,” he concurred, then brought the snifters to the couch. “Here. Drink a little.”
“It’s all right. I don’t make scenes.”
He tilted the brandy toward her lips himself. “Just a little, milaya.”
She closed her eyes and did as he asked. He couldn’t say that sweet word to her in that loving tone if he’d changed his mind. “Okay.” A deep breath, and she opened her eyes again.
“There was another murder last night.”
“Oh, Alexi.” Instantly the image of Crystal LaRue’s mangled body flashed behind her eyes. “Oh, God.” She caught his hand in hers and squeezed. “Last night?”
“The desk clerk found her this morning. They had an arrangement. She only used that room for work, and he was ticked that she hadn’t checked out and slipped him his usual tip.” He was taking it slow, deliberately, so that the general horror would pass before he hit her with the specifics. Again he tipped the brandy up to her lips. “She’d rented the room three times last night. He caught a glimpse of the third john when they went up, so we’ve had him looking over mug shots most of the day.”
“You’ll catch him.”
“Oh, yeah. There’s no doubt about it this time. He didn’t find the guy in the books, but he gave the police artist a fair description. We’ll be broadcasting it. This time we should have his blood type, too. DNA. Couple of other things.”
“You’ll have him soon.”
“Not soon enough. Bess, the woman…” His fingers tightened on hers, but he told her the worst as gently a she knew how. “It was Rosalie.”
She only stared, and he watched, helpless, as the color simply slid out of her face. “No.” She was tugging her hand from his, but he only held tighter. “You’re wrong. You made a mistake. I just saw her. I just talked to her a couple of days ago.”
“There’s no mistake.” His voice toughened, for her sake. “I ID’d her myself. Rechecked that with prints, and the desk clerk’s ID. Bess, it was Rosalie.”
The moan came out brokenly as she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. “Don’t,” she said when he tried to gather her close. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
She sprang up, needing the distance, desperate to find something to do with the helpless rage that was building inside her. “She didn’t have to die. It isn’t right. It isn’t right for her to die like that.”
“It’s never right.”
It was his tone, the cool detachment of it, that had her whirling on him. “But she was just a hooker. Don’t get involved, right? Don’t feel anything. Isn’t that what you told me?”
He went very still, as if she’d pulled a gun and taken aim. “I guess I did.”
“I wanted to help her, but you told me I couldn’t. You told me it was a waste of my time and energy. And you were right, weren’t you, Alexi? How fine it must be to always be so right.”
He took the blow. What else could he do? “Why don’t you sit down, Bess? You’ll make yourself sick.”
She wanted to break something, to smash it—but nothing was precious enough. “I cared, damn you. I cared about her. She wasn’t just a story line to me. She was a person. All she wanted was to go south, buy a trailer.” When her breath began to hitch, she covered her mouth with her hands. “She shouldn’t have died like that.”
“I wish I could change it.” The bitter sense of failure turned his voice to ice. “I wish to God I could.” Before he realized the glass was leaving his hand,
he was heaving the snifter against the wall. “How do you know what I felt when I walked into that filthy room and found her like that? How the hell do you know what it’s like to face it and know you couldn’t stop it? She was a person to me, too.”
“I’m sorry.” The tears that spilled over now spilled for all of them. “Alexi, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He tossed back. “It was the truth.”
“Facts. Not truth.” He’d tried to soften the blow, to cushion her when his own emotions were raw. He’d needed to comfort. His eyes had been dazed with fatigue and pain and the kind of grief she might never understand, but he’d needed to shield her. And she hadn’t allowed it. “Hold me, please. I need you to hold me.”
For a moment she was afraid he wouldn’t move. Then he crossed to her. Though his arms were rigid with tension, they came around her.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she murmured, but he only shook his head and stroked her hair. Grieving, she turned her face into his throat. “I wanted to make it a lie somehow. To make you wrong so it could all be wrong.” She squeezed her eyes closed and held tight. “She was somebody.”
He stared blankly over her shoulder as he remembered one of the last things Rosalie had said to him. She treats me like somebody. “I know.”
“You’ll catch him,” she said fiercely.
“We’ll catch him. We’ll put him away. He won’t hurt anybody else.” Though her words still scraped against him, he rocked her. He would tell her the rest and hoped it helped. “She had a knife.”
“I saw it. She showed me.”
“She used it. I don’t know how bad she hurt him, but she put up a hell of a fight. It’s recorded.”
“Recorded?” Eyes dull with shock, she leaned back. “My God. The tape. I gave her my mini recorder.”
“I figured as much. For whatever consolation it is, the fact that you did give it to her, and she decided to use it, is going to make a difference. A big one.”
“You heard them,” she said through dry lips. “You heard—”
“We got everything, from the deal on the street until…the end. Don’t ask me, Bess.” He lifted a hand to cup her face. “Even if I could tell you what was on the tape, I wouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t going to ask. I don’t think I could bear to know what happened in that room.”
Calmer now, he searched her face. “I’ve only got a few hours. I have to go in first thing in the morning. Do you want me to stay with you tonight, or would you rather I go?”
She’d hurt him more than she’d realized. Perhaps the only way she could heal the wound was to admit, and to show him, that she needed comfort. Needed it from him. Drawing him close, she laid her head on his shoulder.
“I want you with me, Alexi. Always. And tonight—I don’t think I’d make it through tonight without you.”
She began to cry then. Alex picked her up and carried her to the couch, where they could lie down and grieve together.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Judd flexed his hand on the steering wheel as he turned on West Seventy-sixth. He wasn’t nervous this time. He was eager. The idea of bringing Wilson J. Tremayne III—a U.S. senator’s grandson—in for questioning in the murders of four women had him chafing at the bit.
They had him, Judd thought. He knew they had the creep. The artist’s sketch, the blood type, the voiceprint. It had been quick work on that, he mused. Flavored with luck. Bess’s tape had been one of those twisted aspects of police work that never failed to fascinate him.
It was Trilwalter who’d identified Tremayne from the sketch. Judd remembered that the boss had taken a long, hard look at the artist’s rendering and then ordered Alex to the newspaper morgue. The desk clerk had picked the reprint of Tremayne’s newspaper picture from a choice of five.
From there, Alex had used a connection at one of the local television stations and had finessed a videotape of Tremayne campaigning for his grandfather. The lab boys had jumped right on it, and had matched the voice to the one on Bess’s tape.
It still made him queasy to think about what had been on that tape, but that was something he didn’t want to show to Alex. Just as he knew better than to let Alex spot his eagerness now.
“So,” he said casually, “you think the Yankees have got a shot this year?”
Alex didn’t even glance over. He could all but taste his partner’s excitement. “When a cop starts licking his lips, he forgets things. Miranda rights, probable cause, makes all kinds of little procedural mistakes that help slime ooze out of courtrooms and back onto the street.”
Judd clenched his jaw. “I’m not licking my lips.”
“Malloy, you’ll be drooling any minute.” Alex looked over at the beautiful old building while Judd hunted up a parking space. The Gothic touches appealed to him, as did the tall, narrow windows and the scattering of terrace gardens. Tremayne lived on the top floor, in a plush two-level condo with a view of the park and a uniformed doorman downstairs.
He came and went as he pleased, wearing his Italian suits and his Swiss watch.
And four women were dead.
“Don’t take it personally,” Alex said when they got out of the car. “Stanislaski’s rule number five.”
But Judd was getting good, very good, at reading his partner. “You want him as bad as I do.”
Alex looked over, his eyes meeting, then locking on Judd’s. There wasn’t eagerness in them or excitement or even satisfaction. They were all cold fury. “So let’s go get the bastard.”
They flashed their badges for the doorman, then rode partway up in the elevator with a plump middle-aged woman and her yipping schnauzer. Alex glanced up and spotted the security camera in the corner. It might come in handy, he thought. The DA would have to subpoena the tapes for the nights of the murders. If they were dated and timed, so much the better. But, if not, they would still show Tremayne going and coming.
The schnauzer got off at four. They continued on to eight. Side by side, they approached 8B.
Though the door was thick, Alex could hear the strains of an aria from Aida coming from the apartment. He’d never cared much for opera, but he’d liked this particular one. He wondered if it would be spoiled for him now. He rang the buzzer.
He had to ring it a second time before Tremayne answered. Alex recognized him. It was almost as though they were old friends now that Alex had pored over the newspaper shots and stories, the videotape. And, of course, he knew his voice. Knew it when it was calm, when it was amused and when it was darkly, sickly, thrilled.
Dressed in a thick velour robe that matched his china-blue eyes, Tremayne stood dripping, rubbing a thick monogrammed towel over his fair hair.
“Wilson J. Tremayne?”
“That’s right.” Tremayne glanced pleasantly from face to face. He didn’t have the street sense to smell cop. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time.”
“Yes, sir.” Never taking his eyes off Tremayne’s, Alex took out his badge. “Detectives Stanislaski and Malloy.”
“Detectives?” Tremayne’s voice was bland, only mildly curious, but Alex saw the flicker. “Don’t tell me my secretary forgot to pay my parking tickets again.”
“You’ll have to get dressed, Mr. Tremayne.” Still watching, Alex replaced his shield. “We’d like you to come with us.”
“With you?” Tremayne eased backward a step. Judd noted that his hand eased down toward the doorknob, closed over it. Knuckles whitened. “I’m afraid that would be very inconvenient. I have a dinner engagement.”
“You’ll want to cancel that,” Alex said. “This may take a while.”
“Detective—?”
“Stanislaski.”
“Ah, Stanislaski. Do you know who I am?”
Because it suited him, because he wanted it, Alex let Tremayne see the knowledge. “I know exactly who you are, Jack.” Alex allowed himself one quick flash of pleasure at the fear that leaped into Tremayne’s eyes. “We’re going downtown, Mr. Tremayne. Yo
ur presence is requested for questioning on the murders of four women. Mary Rodell.” His voice grew quieter, more dangerous, on each name. “Angie Horowitz, Crystal LaRue and Rosalie Hood. You’re free to call your attorney.”
“This is absurd.”
Alex slapped a hand on the door before Tremayne could slam it shut. “We can take you in as you are—and give your neighbors a thrill. Or you can get dressed.”
Alex saw the quick panic and was braced even as Tremayne turned to run. He knew better—sure he did—but it felt so damn good to body-slam the man up against that silk-papered wall. A small, delicate statue tipped from its niche and bounced on the carpet. When he hauled Tremayne up by the lapels, he saw the gold chain, the dangling heart with a crack running through it that was the twin of the one they had in evidence. And he saw the fresh white bandage that neatly covered the wounds Rosalie had inflicted as she fought for her life.
“Give me a reason.” Alex leaned in close. “I’d love it.”
“I’ll have your badges.” Tears began to leak out of Tremayne’s eyes as he slid to the floor. “My grandfather will have your badges.”
In disgust, Alex stood over him. “Go find him some pants,” he said to Judd. “I’ll read him his rights.”
With a nod, Judd started for the bedroom. “Don’t take it personally, Stanislaski.”
Alex glanced over with something that was almost a smile. “Kiss off, Malloy.”
They had him cold, Alex thought as he turned into Bess’s building. They could call out every fancy lawyer on the East Coast, and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. The physical evidence was overwhelming—particularly since they’d found the murder weapon in the nightstand drawer.
Opportunity was unlikely to be a problem, and as for motive—he’d leave that up to the shrinks. Undoubtedly they’d cop an insanity plea. Maybe they’d even pull it off. One way or the other, he was off the streets.
It went a long way toward easing the bitterness he’d felt over Rosalie’s death. He hoped it helped Bess with her grief.
He’d nearly called her from the station, but he’d wanted to tell her face-to-face. As he waited for the elevator, he shifted the bunch of lilacs he held. Maybe it was a weird time to bring her flowers, but he thought she needed them.