Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  All he wanted was to get home. The sooner he got home, the sooner he could take a cold shower.

  An image of Tommie flashed through his mind, her dark hair fanned out across the red sofa, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses, her beautiful, luscious breasts heaving beneath his ravenous gaze.

  Paulo groaned, his groin tightening painfully.

  Oh yeah. A cold shower was definitely in order when he got home.

  The colder, the better.

  As the stranger watched the dark Crown Victoria accelerate onto the southbound ramp, his blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the noise of the freeway. His fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly the bones in his knuckles protruded.

  How he would have loved to use his car as a battering ram against the police cruiser, forcing it off the ramp and sending Paulo Sanchez plunging to his death. How satisfying it would have been to watch the cop’s bloodied, broken body pulled from the wreckage of his vehicle and loaded into the coroner’s van.

  But, no, he had other plans for the detective.

  By the time he was through with him, Sanchez would pray for death.

  And I’ll be happy to oblige him, the stranger thought with a cold, sinister smile.

  Two hours earlier he’d been incapable of smiling.

  From his hiding spot behind the tree outside Tommie Purnell’s building, he’d watched as the detective arrived in his unmarked cruiser. Sanchez had gotten out and walked to the main door with that trademark cocky swagger, oozing with the confidence of a man who knew he wouldn’t be turned away. She’d let him inside, had led him upstairs to her cozy, beautifully decorated loft.

  And the stranger had spent the next two hours torturing himself with images of Tommie screwing Sanchez, her voluptuous body glistening with sweat as she writhed beneath him, clawed his back with those long nails, panted, and screamed his name while he drove into her.

  Rage burned through his veins, and his stomach twisted violently at the pain of her betrayal. Lying, cheating whore!

  Her beauty was as treacherous as her faithless heart. She used it as a weapon of seduction, teasing and enticing, luring her unsuspecting victims to their downfall.

  But soon she would atone for her transgressions.

  Soon she would pay the ultimate price for her seductive promises, her careless whispers.

  Your time is coming soon, he thought, staring determinedly through the windshield. Oh yes, very soon.

  Chapter 9

  Wednesday, November 11

  “My time’s almost up—”

  A collective groan of protest went up from the faculty, staff, and students who had packed the large campus theater that morning to hear about Tommie’s exciting career with a world-renowned dance company, her travels around the country, and the popular artists who now relied on her choreography skills for their music videos.

  “Thank you for that,” Tommie said, smiling at the audience. “I’m glad you’re enjoying our talk, but if I keep you too long, your other instructors will have me permanently banned from the university.”

  “Most of them are here, too!” someone called out, drawing a round of hearty laughter.

  Tommie grinned. “Then allow me to petition on your behalf for extra credit.”

  More laughter filled the hall.

  After another moment Tommie continued. “Before I let you go—and I’m afraid I must—I just wanted to share some final advice for all of you dance majors out there. Aspiring professional dancers need to go above and beyond to gain a cut above the competition. The reality is that dancers today are stronger, more flexible, and more talented than ever. It takes real focus and dedication to get that extra edge you will need to get noticed.

  “When I auditioned for the Blane Bailey Dance Company, the odds were seriously stacked against me. For starters I was already considered over the hill at twenty-nine—far too old to be trying to break into the world of professional dancing, especially in New York City. I’d never belonged to a professional dance company, and unlike most of the other dancers I was competing against, I hadn’t trained at the School of American Ballet, Juilliard, or any other prestigious institution. And, um, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly built like a ballerina.”

  Someone gave a low, appreciative whistle.

  Tommie grinned. “Just for that, I’ll give you extra credit!”

  The audience laughed.

  “The point I was making,” she continued when the noise died down, “is that even though I faced impossible odds, I understood what I had to do in order to achieve my dream of dancing for the company. I had made the necessary sacrifices and put in the hard work so that when the moment of truth came, I was ready.

  “Do you know the major difference between an amateur and a professional? The professional has devoted her life to doing what she loves, while many amateurs just dabble on the side. They’re often left wondering why their skill level isn’t on par with the masters’, and they end up looking for shortcuts that’ll make them as good as the pros. Let me just tell you right now, there are no shortcuts. Becoming a skilled dancer takes more than talent. It takes hours of practice a day, study, good teachers, and a good learning environment. You already have excellent teachers and an excellent learning environment here at the university. The rest is up to you.

  “I’ll leave you with one of my favorite quotes by legendary choreographer George Balanchine. ‘I don’t want people who want to dance. I want people who have to dance.’ If the latter describes you—if you enjoy dancing so much that you’ve become obsessed, that you absolutely have to dance—then don’t let anything or anyone stop you. Thank you, and au revoir.”

  The darkened theater erupted into thunderous applause.

  As Tommie smiled and bowed gracefully, she was transported back in time, back to when she’d still been a member of the Blane Bailey Dance Company and the audience had been filled with the enraptured faces of people who’d come just to see her. They’d presented her with elaborate bouquets, a profusion of lilies wrapped in tissue and tied with satin ribbons, her due for her featured role in the company’s evening performance. After accepting the flowers at center stage, she’d gestured to her fellow cast members, encouraging them to join her in taking another bow because she’d learned the hard way never to hog the limelight.

  But those days are behind you, Tommie reminded herself. You have a great life, inspiring and teaching a future generation of dancers.

  News of her guest lecture to dance students at the University of Houston had generated such a buzz that the faculty coordinator had been forced to open the event to the entire university, which meant moving the venue to the largest theater on campus. To Tommie’s surprise, every seat in the house had been filled.

  Afterward, a throng of people lined up to speak with her, shake her hand, and tell her how much they had enjoyed her lecture and demonstration. She answered more questions, dispensed more advice, passed out her business card, posed for photos with attendees, and autographed whatever they asked. Some presented her with playbills and programs from her dance performances. One chemistry professor even had a copy of an old catalogue from her brief stint as a lingerie model; the cover featured her in a provocative pose, dressed in skimpy red underwear. The young instructor nearly swallowed his tongue when Tommie, with a naughty grin, scribbled her name in the blank space between her parted legs. He was still blushing and stammering his thanks as she turned away to grant an interview to a local reporter who’d shown up to cover her visit.

  Her host didn’t come forward until the last attendee had departed the theater. Renee Williams was the university’s director of dance. She was an attractive, forty-something woman with skin the color of mocha and the limber, flat-chested physique of a ballerina. She’d danced in New York City and abroad until injury forced her into early retirement. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, she’d founded a contemporary dance company and embarked on a second career in academia. She and Tommie had been introd
uced to each other by Zhane, who knew “everyone who was anyone” in Houston’s happening dance community. The two women had hit it off right away; within a day of meeting each other, Renee had invited Tommie to be a guest lecturer at the university.

  “I think that went rather well,” she remarked, approaching Tommie.

  “I’m so glad they enjoyed the presentation.”

  “Enjoyed it? Honey, they couldn’t get enough of you! Or didn’t you notice the way they were hanging on to your every word?” She grinned broadly. “I’m going to be the most popular faculty member on campus for bringing you here today.”

  Tommie laughed. “From what I could tell, you already are the most popular professor on campus. Your students cheered when you walked out onto the stage. Thanks for that glowing introduction, by the way.”

  “I meant every word. I really want you to be our artist in residence this spring, Tommie. Promise me you’ll give it some thought.”

  “If she does, I’ll be offended.”

  Tommie and Renee turned as they were joined by a tall, lean man with dark eyes, an aristocratic nose, prominent cheekbones, and a thin black mustache over a wide, generous mouth. His bronze skin hinted at Native American ancestry, as did the silvery black hair secured in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He was elegantly casual in a gray cashmere sweater and fine wool trousers. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers and smiling warmly at Tommie, whose own smile had slipped a notch. Richard Houghton, the artistic director at the Houston Metropolitan Dance Company, always had that effect on her.

  Planting her fists on her nonexistent hips, Renee demanded of him, “And why would you be offended if Tommie agreed to do our spring residency?”

  “Because I’ve been trying to convince her to come dance for me,” Richard said without breaking eye contact with Tommie, “and she keeps turning me down. If she accepts your invitation, then I’ll have no choice but to take her rejection personally.”

  “You really shouldn’t,” Tommie said evenly. “As I’ve told you before, I enjoy running my own dance studio. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying. These are for you,” Richard said, passing her the bouquet. “I ran out to get it while you were tending to your adoring fans. I was fortunate enough to find a florist near campus.”

  “Thank you, Richard,” Tommie murmured, accepting the flowers. “They’re lovely.”

  “Then they’re perfect for you.” When he smiled, his eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners. “I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture this morning. The stage loves you.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Renee chimed in. “She’s a natural. I’ve been inviting guest artists to the university for years. Not only was this the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen. It was also the first time no one left before the presentation was over.”

  “Except for Zhane, apparently,” Tommie said, smiling wryly as she read the text message Zhane had sent to her cell phone. Had to run, sugarplum. Ma called. More family drama. You were fabulous. Call you later!

  “I saw him as I was heading out to the florist,” Richard said. “He looked really stressed, said he might have to miss rehearsal tonight.”

  Tommie frowned. “Did he tell you what was going on?”

  “No, but I assumed it had something to do with his family. Which is nothing new.”

  “I know that’s right,” Renee muttered, shaking her head in grim disgust. “Between his mother always hitting him up for cash, his sister’s baby-daddy drama, and his brothers being in and out of jail, I don’t know how Zhane keeps his sanity. Those people are lucky he hasn’t cut them off. Do you know they’ve never been to any of his performances? Not one!”

  “Zhane has a very big, forgiving heart,” Tommie murmured, typing a response to his message. R U OK? Will check on u later.

  “He’s very lucky to have such devoted friends.” Although Richard’s words encompassed both women, he only had eyes for Tommie. “Will you be at Friday night’s performance?”

  Annoyed by the hopeful look on his face, Tommie replied, “I’ll be there. Renee and I are coming together,” she added, linking her free arm through the other woman’s, half wishing they could pretend to be lovers so that Richard would back off.

  “Actually,” Renee hedged, looking guilty, “I’m bringing a date that evening.”

  “What?” Tommie exclaimed, staring at her. “You didn’t tell me that!”

  “I was going to. After your lecture this morning.” Renee grinned sheepishly. “Just in case you tried to cancel on me.”

  Tommie scowled, shaking her head at her. “I can’t believe you’re dumping me. That’s messed up.”

  Renee laughed, squeezing her arm. “Please don’t be mad at me. It couldn’t be helped. I met him two weeks ago, and we’ve yet to go on our first date. We’ve been trying to coordinate our busy schedules, and Friday night was the only time that worked for both of us.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip. “Want me to ask him if he has a friend?”

  Before Tommie could respond, Richard interjected dryly, “I’m sure Tommie doesn’t need your help finding a date. Besides, she doesn’t need to bring a companion to the performance. She’s there to support her friend Zhane.”

  “Of course,” Renee agreed, mouth twitching as she met Tommie’s gaze. Tommie didn’t have to guess what the other woman was thinking. Could he be more obvious?

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Tommie said to her, “Since you’re abandoning me on Friday, you can make it up to me by treating me to lunch. I’ve got some time before I have to get back to the studio for my next class.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” Renee said, grinning as they headed from the theater. “I already made reservations at Sylvia’s.”

  “Mmmm. How’d you know I was in the mood for some enchiladas?”

  “Girl, when it comes to food, you’re easy to please.” Renee hesitated a moment. “Richard, would you like to join us for lunch?”

  Tommie’s heart sank. She held her breath, hoping he would turn down the invitation.

  He divided a glance between her and Renee, clearly tempted to accept the offer. But after an agonizingly prolonged moment he shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d better take a rain check. I have a lot of things to do before rehearsal tonight.”

  Tommie was so relieved she could have pirouetted across the stage. Instead she smiled and thanked Richard for attending the lecture and buying her a bouquet.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, gazing hungrily at her.

  Once they reached the bustling parking lot, Tommie told Renee she’d drive to the restaurant so that Renee wouldn’t have to lose her parking space. As soon as they were inside Tommie’s sporty red Mazda, Renee burst out laughing.

  “Oh my God! What on earth did you do to poor Richard?”

  “Hell if I know,” Tommie muttered, backing out of the parking space.

  As she pulled away, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Richard standing by his car, staring after the Mazda with an odd little smile on his face.

  A chill went through her.

  She thought of what she’d told Zhane yesterday. It’s like he knows a secret about me, or thinks he does. It’s creepy.

  Had Richard Houghton learned about her past? Tommie wondered uneasily. Did he know about the scandal that had derailed her professional dancing career?

  If so, what did he intend to do about it?

  Paulo began his day at the morgue going over Maribel Cruz’s autopsy results with the Harris County deputy chief medical examiner. Dr. Wilhelm Garrett was in his late fifties with thinning brown hair, a gray beard, and a ruddy, congenial face that belied his brusque, humorless temperament. He was a busy man who lacked the patience for dealing with the inquisitive detectives who attended the autopsies. The only people Garrett preferred to deal with were the ones who came to him on steel gurneys, the ones who couldn’t talk back or ask questions.

  Like Maribel Cruz.

  Worki
ng a tasteless wad of Nicorette gum around his mouth, Paulo surveyed the body that had been pulled from a massive stainless steel refrigerator bearing other corpses. Dark brown eyes stared dully from slitted, bluish lids. Her neck was laid wide open to her spine, the strap muscles severed. Spaced narrowly apart over her left chest and breast were eleven stab wounds that had been inflicted in rapid succession, one right after the other, with a force so brutal that there were hilt marks in her flesh. She’d incurred multiple cuts to her forearms and hands while trying to ward off the slashing motions of a wide, sharp blade.

  Paulo listened impassively as Dr. Garrett recited the other injuries Maribel had sustained, injuries not visible to the naked eye. Her left lung had been punctured seven times. Her carotid arteries were almost transected. Her aortic arch, pulmonary artery, heart, and pericardial sac were penetrated.

  In short she’d suffered a very violent, painful death.

  “No fibers or skin cells were embedded beneath her fingernails,” Garrett explained, his voice a flat monotone in the cold, sterile room reeking of antiseptic solution and formaldehyde. “No presence of seminal fluid. However, there was vaginal penetration.”

  “She was raped?”

  Garrett shook his head. “Based on my examination, I would say the intercourse was consensual.”

  “You’re telling me the victim had sex on the morning she was killed?” Paulo asked, thinking of the mystery visitor in the unidentified black car.

  “That’s right. There were traces of latex and a spermicidal lubricant inside her vagina, so it’s safe to assume her partner used a condom.” Garrett frowned. “Not that the condom would have done her any good.”

  Paulo looked sharply at the doctor. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it have done her any good?”

  Garrett met his gaze levelly. “Because she was already pregnant.”

  When Kathleen Phillips found Paulo standing on her doorstep thirty minutes later, not only did she look surprised. She looked petrified.