Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  They rocked together, moaning and shouting encouragements to each other with each deep, penetrating thrust. Tommie pulled his hair, felt tears burning the backs of her eyelids. And when the end came for both of them in an explosive climax that left them gasping and trembling, Paulo seized her mouth in a hot, ravenous kiss and whispered huskily, “Turnabout is fair play.”

  Friday, November 13

  The call came at 5:00 a.m.

  Paulo, in a deep, sated slumber, almost didn’t hear it. When the ringing phone finally registered, he opened a bleary eye, groaned, and reluctantly rolled over, away from the silky warmth of Tommie’s naked body. Reaching across the bedside table, he snatched up his cell phone, half wondering at what point during the night he’d had the foresight to place it within easy reach. “Sanchez,” he mumbled, his voice a low, nearly unintelligible growl.

  “We’ve got another body.” It was Donovan, sounding grim.

  Paulo sat upright in bed, rubbing his eyes. “What?”

  “Same MO as the Cruz homicide. Only this time the victim is a stripper.”

  “Shit,” Paulo muttered, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and going in search of his discarded shirt and trousers.

  Groaning softly, Tommie rolled over and switched on the bedside lamp. Pushing her dark hair out of her face, she squinted groggily at him. What’s going on? she mouthed.

  Paulo held up one finger, signaling that he’d respond to her in a minute.

  Donovan continued. “The officer who responded said she’d been stabbed multiple times in the throat and chest. And there was a word written in blood on the bedroom wall. Whore.”

  A dagger of foreboding sliced through Paulo’s heart. “Whore?”

  “That’s what the officer told me. Maybe because the vic was a stripper?”

  “Shit,” Paulo muttered again. He found his dark briefs, tugged them on before continuing the search for his shirt and pants, wondering why the hell they weren’t in the vicinity of his underwear. Tommie pointed, leading him in the right direction. Your shirt’s still in the studio, she mouthed the reminder to him.

  Right. The shirt that she’d torn last night.

  “We’d better go check out the scene,” Donovan was saying.

  Paulo dragged on his trousers. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “You sure? I can be at your place in five minutes.”

  “I’m not home.”

  “Ohhh.” A sly, knowing grin crept into the younger detective’s voice. “Did you and the lovely Miss Purnell kiss and make up, by any chance?”

  “None of your damned business. What’s the address?”

  After Donovan provided the location of the crime scene, Paulo hung up and shoved the phone into his back pocket.

  “What happened?” Tommie had slipped out of bed and donned a black silk robe that caught her at midthigh. She looked tousled, sleepy, and sexy as hell. Paulo wished he had time for a quickie, though he knew that wouldn’t be nearly enough to satisfy his appetite.

  Dragging his gaze away from the enticing vision she made, he said brusquely, “There’s been another murder.”

  “By the same person who killed Maribel Cruz?” Tommie asked faintly.

  Paulo frowned. “We don’t know yet,” he muttered, striding to the dresser and grabbing his badge, wallet, weapon, and keys.

  Tommie followed him down the hallway and past the living room, where the first light of dawn was streaking the sky beyond the windows. She walked him downstairs to the studio, watched from the doorway as he shoved his arms into his torn shirt and shrugged into his jacket, which had also been left behind in his haste to get her into bed.

  At the main door, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “Go back to bed. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay.” She bit her lip almost shyly. “Dinner at nine?”

  Paulo hesitated, then smiled softly. “Sounds good. I’ll bring something this time.”

  She grinned. “Sounds good.”

  Unable to resist, he kissed her again before stepping out into the chilly November morning. As he strode down the sidewalk to his cruiser, he tossed over his shoulder, “Lock the damned door this time. It’s not safe to be leaving it unlocked with a psycho on the loose.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Tommie called after him.

  Her words stopped him cold in his tracks. He turned around, staring at her. “Yesterday when I arrived, the main door was unlocked. How do you think I got inside?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He took a step toward her. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “I locked the door last night. I always do.” She frowned, folding her arms across her chest in an almost protective gesture. “Before we got, ah, sidetracked last night, I was going to ask you how you got into the building.”

  Paulo frowned, the muscles in the back of his neck tightening. “Are you sure you didn’t forget to lock it?”

  “Positive. I’m very mindful of that, living out here”—she gestured to encompass her remote surroundings—“all by myself. That’s why I was so freaked out about finding the door to my loft unlocked on Tuesday night.”

  “Did you ask Mrs. Calhoun about that?”

  “Yes. She’s pretty sure she remembered to lock it. And I believe her. She’s not forgetful like that. In fact, she’s one of the sharpest people I know.”

  Paulo didn’t like the dark suspicion that was taking root in his mind. Haunting images from the nightmare he’d had about Tommie—twice now—had nagged at his conscience all week. Two nights ago he’d pulled a gun on her, nearly mistaking her for the faceless menace in his dream who had erupted from the dark forest wielding a bloody knife. Every time Paulo remembered the look of horror on Tommie’s face, the terror in her eyes as she’d stared at the gun in his hand, he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. And no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn’t—couldn’t—have shot her, nothing eased the guilt he felt.

  It was better to just pretend the whole incident had never happened.

  As if he could pull that off.

  “Did you go out any time last night?” he asked her.

  Tommie nodded. “I ended my last class a little early to take a call from Zhane. I was worried about his nephew and wanted to get an update, and we’d been playing phone tag all day. After I talked to him, I went out for coffee with a friend. I got back around nine, shortly before you showed up.”

  Paulo could tell by her troubled gaze that there was something else, something she wasn’t telling him. “Did anything happen yesterday that I should know about?” he gently prodded.

  She hesitated for a long moment, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s nothing,” she said at length, looking embarrassed. “An old boyfriend stopped by unexpectedly. It threw me off for the rest of the day. I told my friend about it over coffee, and still had it on my mind when I got back home.” She shrugged. “Maybe I was so distracted I did forget to lock the door.”

  Paulo was surprised by the stab of jealousy that went through him at the idea of Tommie being so preoccupied with thoughts of another man—not just any man, but an old boyfriend—that she’d forget something as routine as locking her door.

  Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and grimaced. It was Donovan, probably calling to make sure he was on his way. Pushy bastard.

  “I gotta run,” Paulo said to Tommie.

  “I know. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

  “You didn’t.” He searched her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Positive. Now go,” she said, shooing him away.

  “I’ll check up on you later.”

  “No need. I’ll be fine.”

  But as Paulo drove away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Tommie had been hiding something from him. He hoped it was nothing more serious than her rekindled romance with an old flame.

  That he coul
d learn to live with.

  Her life being in danger?

  Not so much.

  Ten minutes later, Paulo turned down a street flanked by shotgun houses that became smaller and more decrepit as he approached his destination. Overgrown lawns, sagging porches, chipped paint, and an overall look of decay characterized the neighborhood where the latest victim had been found.

  He parked as close as he could get to the white ramshackle house, shoved a tasteless piece of Nicorette gum into his mouth, and climbed out of the car. The crime scene was roped off and already being processed.

  A grim-faced Donovan met Paulo at the front door and walked him down a short hallway to the bedroom, where Norah O’Connor and her team were hard at work collecting evidence.

  “Looks like your guy has struck again,” she said to Paulo without glancing up from her task. “Same MO as before. Only this time we have a pretty good idea how the perp got inside.”

  “How?”

  “He used a spare key hidden in a potted plant on the back porch. It’s the same way the neighbor got into the house this morning when she came over to ask for a jump. She got worried when no one came to the door, so she went around to the back and used the key to get in. That’s when she discovered the body and called 911.”

  Donovan added, “Apparently it wasn’t unusual for her to let herself into the house. She and the victim were always borrowing stuff from each other and keeping an eye on each other’s homes whenever the other was on vacation.”

  “Where’s the neighbor now?” Paulo asked.

  “Went to drop her kids off at day care after one of the officers jump-started her car. She said she’d be back shortly to answer any more questions we might have.”

  Nodding, Paulo absently sketched the sign of the cross over his heart before stepping into the room. As he worked his way carefully toward the eviscerated corpse lying in the middle of the floor, he glanced around the small room, taking in the cheap wood furnishings, the clothes spilling from open drawers, and the trio of empty beer bottles on the cluttered nightstand before his gaze landed on the word WHORE scrawled in blood on the wall above the unmade bed.

  Save for the untidiness of the room, which was the complete opposite of Maribel Cruz’s immaculate bedroom, the scene was exactly what Paulo had expected.

  But as he knelt and got his first good look at the victim, he felt a jolt of recognition that rocked him back on his heels and sent a chill of foreboding lancing down his spine.

  Noting his reaction, O’Connor stared sharply at him. “What’s wrong?”

  Without lifting his stunned gaze from the body, Paulo whispered hoarsely, “I know her.”

  Paulo had met Ashton Dupree for the first time when they were ten years old. He and Rafe had been sent away to a summer camp located an hour’s drive from Houston. Despite Naomi’s best efforts, Paulo had not been looking forward to a whole week of roughing it in the woods, fending off bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and sitting around a campfire every night singing lame songs with a bunch of kids he’d probably never see again. For the life of him he couldn’t comprehend why Naomi—or his parents, for that matter—would subject him to such torture. He’d been homesick before he even stepped foot on the grounds of Camp Cullen.

  All that changed when he met Ashton Dupree, a cute, tough-talking blonde who, like him, thought camp was the worst form of torture ever inflicted upon unsuspecting children, a racket supported by cruel parents who shipped their kids off to camp under the guise of exposing them to “new and enriching experiences.”

  Proving true the adage that misery loves company, Paulo and Ashton had bonded immediately, a pair of misfits who’d grudgingly participated in the camp’s daily activities, but had refused to admit, even to each other, that they were actually having fun. At night Ashton had given her counselor the slip and snuck into the boys’ cabin, crawling into Paulo’s bed and convulsing with giggles until he’d had to clamp his hand over her mouth to shush her. They’d shared a few quick, sloppy kisses and had groped each other under the covers, but that was the extent of their experimentation. Ashton had once confided to Paulo that she was adopted because her real father had liked touching her too much, and even at ten years old Paulo had understood that she was damaged goods, that the emotional scars she bore would probably haunt her for the rest of her life.

  He’d seen her at camp over the following two summers, and then not again for twenty-seven years, when she’d gotten arrested for soliciting an undercover cop four months ago. The moment she was hauled into the station, kicking and screaming and shrilly demanding her rights, Paulo had recognized her. He’d taken over for the arresting officer, who’d already sustained several cuts and bruises in the skirmish and was on the verge of snapping. Overjoyed to see her old friend, Ashton had thrown her arms around Paulo and showered his face with kisses, raising more than a few eyebrows around the busy police station. While Paulo processed her, she’d filled him in on everything that had happened in her life since the last time they saw each other. She told him about dropping out of high school, getting kicked out of her adoptive mother’s home, going through a string of abusive boyfriends that led her to abort three babies. She confided that she worked as a stripper and did “odd jobs” on the side to supplement her income. When Paulo arched a brow at the notion of a thirty-nine-year-old stripper, she’d smiled coyly and offered to give him a private show so he could see for himself that Father Time had been very good to her. Paulo had taken her word for it.

  “What’s really hard to believe is you being a cop!” she’d said laughingly. “My God, Paulo, there’s a reason I used to call you El Diablo. You were the wickedest kid in camp! Remember the time you stole the pack of cigarettes from the camp counselor, then started smoking right in front of him while we were all sitting around the campfire? And you were so cool about it, too. You just leaned into the fire, lit your cigarette like it was a joint, then laid back on your elbows and blew a curl of smoke into the sky. When the counselor started yelling at you, you just told him, as calm as can be, that if you weren’t allowed to smoke, he shouldn’t be, either.” She let out a peal of laughter at the memory. “God, you were my idol! How could you sell out like this?”

  Paulo had chuckled softly. “I guess we all have to grow up sometime.”

  Ashton had sobered, and for the first time since that long-ago night she’d told him about her father, Paulo had noticed a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. The vulnerability of a woman who’d been betrayed by everyone she knew, who’d learned at an early age that trust was a commodity that should never be surrendered too easily.

  Paulo had pulled a few strings to get the charges against her reduced to a lesser fine. When she’d offered to repay him with sex, he’d turned her down, telling her that the only way she could repay him was to get her life together. She’d been offended, had accused him of thinking he was too good for her. And then she’d stormed out of his office, snarling bitterly, “Thanks for the memories. Have a nice fucking life!”

  Paulo had tried calling her, but after several unsuccessful attempts to reach her, he’d given up in angry frustration.

  He couldn’t have known that the next time he and Ashton Dupree were reunited, one of them would be dead.

  Dr. Garrett, who’d looked none too pleased about being summoned to the scene of another gruesome homicide less than a week after Maribel Cruz’s murder, estimated that Ashton had been dead at least twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t commit to a date and time for the autopsy, saying only that based on his preliminary visual examination, he fully expected Ashton’s injuries to be similar to Maribel’s. After getting as much information out of him as they could, Paulo and Donovan left the bedroom to allow O’Connor and her crime lab team to continue vacuuming, photographing, videotaping, measuring blood spatter, and dusting the scene.

  They stepped outside to wait for the neighbor’s return so they could ask her a few more questions. As they stood on the rickety porch, Paulo took inventory of their surrou
ndings. Uniformed officers were making their way up and down the dilapidated street, knocking on doors and talking to neighbors in the hopes that someone had seen something, anything, that might lead to a crucial break in the case.

  Paulo frowned at a group of reporters, cameramen, and curious bystanders gawking at them from behind the police barricade erected at the end of the street. Two sheriff’s deputies were filming the crowd, their cameras clipping off pictures of anyone who seemed out of place or exhibited suspicious behavior. Later, when Paulo and Donovan returned to the station, they would review the tape and compare it to the one from the previous crime scene to see if they noticed any repeat visitors. In cases like these, it wasn’t uncommon for a killer to return to the crime scene to revel in the havoc wrought by his handiwork.

  “The house is mortgaged to a Dorothy Dupree,” Donovan said, breaking into Paulo’s thoughts.

  He nodded. “Dorothy Dupree was the woman who adopted Ashton when she was eight years old. She was a foster parent to several children over the years, but Ashton was the only one she ever adopted. She left the house to her when she died a few years ago.”

  “Maybe some of the other foster kids weren’t too happy about that,” Donovan speculated. “Maybe we need to track them down and check out their stories.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. I can only recall Ashton mentioning one foster sibling all those years ago, but for the life of me I can’t remember his name.”

  “His?”

  “Yeah. A brother. The last time I saw her, I think she said something about him living in Sugarland.”

  “Sugarland?” Donovan whistled through his teeth. “That’s some pricey real estate.”

  “I know. So it’s not likely he would have killed her over this house. But we still need to find him and notify him. And we should talk to her boss and coworkers at the strip club.”

  Donovan was nodding vigorously in agreement. “As soon as I heard she was a stripper, the first thing I wondered is whether one of the club’s customers had become obsessed with her and started stalking her. Whoever killed her knew about that spare key on the back porch. He must have been watching her for some time, learning her habits and routine.”