Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Paulo’s expression hardened, became more grim. “You have to change the locks. ASAP.”

  “I know. I’m calling a locksmith first thing on Monday morning. And I’m getting my cell number changed, too.” The thought of receiving another creepy phone call sent a chill down her spine.

  “Did a number come up on caller ID?”

  She shook her head. “It was unavailable.”

  “Figures. Have you noticed anything missing from the loft?”

  “No. But then again, I haven’t been looking.”

  “Start looking,” Paulo said tersely. “Tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated. “What was the victim’s name?”

  “Ashton. Ashton Dupree.”

  Something in his low voice prompted Tommie to ask, “Did you know her?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Paulo.”

  He said nothing. But his silence spoke volumes. Ashton Dupree had meant something to him.

  Telling herself she was crazy for envying a dead woman, Tommie murmured, “Would you mind telling me what she did for a living?”

  Paulo frowned. “She worked at a strip club.”

  Tommie felt the blood drain from her head. “What did you say?”

  “She was a stripper.”

  “Oh my God.”

  He stared sharply at her. “What?”

  “I don’t believe this,” Tommie whispered. “I used to be a stripper.”

  Paulo’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”

  She shook her head, dread coiling in her stomach. “Four years ago, I moonlighted as an exotic dancer at a strip club in San Antonio. I’d been working there for three months when one of the other girls got killed and—”

  “I remember. Sebastien was the primary on the investigation. The press called it the case of the Spider Tattoo Killer.” Paulo stared at her, incredulous. “I never knew you worked at the Sirens and Spurs.”

  “It wasn’t for very long,” Tommie explained. “I was desperate, at a low point in my life. I took the job naively hoping to get discovered by a talent agent. It had happened to one of the other dancers who worked there, so I figured it could happen to me. But it didn’t work out that way. I became good friends with the girl who was murdered. It was only by the grace of God that the killer didn’t set his sights on me instead.” She shivered, chilled by the realization that she hadn’t been so lucky this time. The eerie phone call she’d received at the hospital was proof that she’d come into a madman’s crosshairs.

  And she could tell by the look on Paulo’s face that the same thought had occurred to him.

  “My God,” Tommie whispered as another idea struck her. “It’s like this killer is recreating my life. First with Maribel, who was a legal secretary like I was, right down to working at the same law firm. And now with Ashton, a stripper. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  Paulo was silent, his jaw tightly clenched, his eyes glittering like obsidian. She could see the synapses in his brain firing rapidly as he turned possibilities over in his mind.

  Sounding as if he were thinking aloud, he said, “If what you’re suggesting is true—if you’re the ultimate target—then we have to consider the possibility that the killer is someone you know, not the other victims.”

  Tommie suppressed a horrified shudder. She couldn’t imagine anyone she knew being capable of brutally murdering innocent people.

  “Have you ever had a stalker?” Paulo asked.

  She shook her head quickly. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She gave him a look. “I think I’d remember something as terrifying as being stalked.”

  “What about an obsessed fan? Someone who sent you disturbing letters and e-mails?”

  She frowned. “I’m not a movie star. My fans were people who have a genuine appreciation for the arts, for ballet—”

  Paulo cut to the chase. “You’re an amazingly gifted dancer, Tommie, but with all due respect, not everyone who came to watch you perform limited themselves to admiring how well you do pirouettes and pliés and evoke emotion. You have to know that there were men in the audience—and more than a few women, I’d bet—who were only interested in getting an eyeful of your big tits and your juicy ass in those tight leotards and revealing costumes you wear.”

  Tommie gasped, torn between laughter and affront at his crass language. “Paulo!”

  He shook his head at her. “I’m not into theater or dance, but I’d sure as hell fork over my last dime to watch you perform any day of the week. Obviously I’m not alone. You sold out theaters and concert halls—”

  “As part of an ensemble,” Tommie interjected.

  Paulo gave her a knowing look. “I appreciate your modesty, querida, but I hope you don’t expect me to believe there weren’t people who came just to see you.”

  “I was part of a dance company,” she reiterated emphatically.

  “Your dance company wasn’t with you on Wednesday morning when you packed out that campus theater. Don’t forget I saw the news coverage that evening. Those people came to see you and you alone, Tommie. So again I ask, do you remember receiving any fan mail that made you uncomfortable? Ever meet or correspond with any fans who seemed obsessed with your work or tried to get a little too close to you?”

  Tommie frowned. “I don’t know—”

  “Think.”

  She flinched at his brusque tone. “Do you have to be so pushy and mean?” she groused.

  He didn’t crack a smile. “I’m not your friend or lover right now, Tommie. I’m a homicide detective who’s trying to stop a sadistic monster from killing again. If your hunch is right, then we’re running out of time.”

  She stared at him, chilled to the bone. “What do you mean?”

  Paulo’s expression was grim, as if he’d rather not say what he knew he had to. “This predator isn’t wasting too much time between killings. Three, four days seems to be the pattern, although it’s true that we only have two murders to go on. My partner and I are worried that he might strike again soon. If your theory is correct—that he’s trying to recreate your life, as you put it—then he’s working forward, not backward.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What was the first job you ever had?”

  “Out of college?”

  “No, when you were a teenager.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “I worked at Sonic.”

  “Okay. The killer didn’t start off by targeting some hapless teenager serving chili cheese coneys and cherry limeades at Sonic. He started in your adulthood, when you worked as a legal secretary. After that you got the side gig as a stripper. What came next?”

  Tommie sighed. “When I moved to New York, I did what any self-respecting starving artist did—I waited tables.” She paused. “Are you telling me that the next victim could be a waitress?”

  “I don’t know. It’s entirely possible that he might target a waitress aspiring to become a dancer. That’s the common denominator here—dancing. According to her supervisor, Maribel Cruz enjoyed dancing as a hobby and had always dreamed of becoming a ballerina. Ashton Dupree was an exotic dancer. See the pattern?”

  Tommie nodded mutely.

  “That’s why I think you got on the killer’s radar through your dancing. That’s why I’m leaning toward the possibility of him being an obsessed fan, someone who attended all of your performances, collected all of the memorabilia—brochures, playbills, ticket receipts, anything with your name or face on it. Someone who was there that night in February, who watched you smile and autograph programs for Maribel and Ashton and maybe even for him. That’s why it’s so important for you to remember any strange letters or e-mails you may have received over the years.”

  “I’m trying,” Tommie muttered, rubbing her temple as she felt the onset of a headache. “My days with the dance company are somewhat of a blur now. We were on the road most of the time, living out of suitcases and maintaining long, grueling schedules. Most
of our fan mail was routed through the public affairs coordinator. Sometimes people wouldn’t know a dancer’s name, so they’d just write to our artistic director and say how much they’d enjoyed so and so’s translation of a piece, or thought so and so didn’t give a strong enough performance. Many people didn’t write directly to us because they knew, with our demanding tour schedule, that it could be months before they received a response.

  “But, yes,” she continued with a wry chuckle, “I do remember getting the occasional oddball fan letter. A couple years ago, after attending our debut production of Black Orpheus—in which I danced in the lead role as Eurydice—one guy wrote to let me know that he’d dreamed about sharing the stage with me as Orpheus. He said the dream was so vivid that he woke up weeping and reaching toward his bedroom floor, as if he were Orpheus rescuing me, Eurydice, from the underworld. In case you’re not familiar with the story, it’s about—”

  “Two lovers who are reunited after death,” Paulo finished impatiently. “I know the story. I took Greek mythology in high school. What I don’t know is why you weren’t freaked out by some nutcase telling you he dreamed that you were his long-lost lover.”

  Tommie shrugged. “I figured the guy was harmless. A bit of a screwball, but harmless. He didn’t make any lewd sexual overtures or say something off the wall about the two of us being destined for each other. I didn’t feel in the least bit threatened by the letter. In a nutshell, he just wanted to tell me how moving he thought my performance was.”

  “Did he ever write to you again?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Paulo frowned. “Do you still have the letter?”

  “No, I didn’t keep it.” She grimaced. “My studio apartment in New York was so ridiculously tiny, I tried not to accumulate too much stuff. Which was hard, because I like buying and collecting things.”

  “Do you remember receiving any other strange letters?”

  “Nothing that alarmed me enough to tell my director or call the police.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “What about the lecture you recently gave at the university? Afterward, when people came up to meet you and get your autograph, did anyone strike you as odd?”

  Tommie pursed her lips, deep in thought for a moment. “There was a young professor. A chemistry instructor, if I recall. He had a copy of an old catalogue with me posing on the cover. That was a little odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a dance catalogue. It was from my brief stint as a lingerie model.”

  Paulo looked intrigued. “You were a lingerie model?”

  “For about a month.”

  “How’d that come about?”

  Tommie arched an amused brow. “Are you asking as a homicide detective, or as a curious male?”

  He blinked innocently. “A detective, of course.”

  “Of course.” But she gave him a look that told him she knew better. “Anyway, when I first got to New York, I knew I really wanted to break into professional dancing, but I went on auditions for just about everything, just to see what doors might open for me. I had casting directors offering me roles in their porn flicks and music videos, telling me that with a body like mine, I could make a killing as a porn star or a video vixen. I had no interest in becoming either. But a girl’s gotta eat, so I chose the lesser of the evils and signed on as a lingerie model with a fledgling modeling agency. I’d already worked as a stripper, so I had no qualms about going from one photo shoot to another dressed in nothing more than skimpy lingerie beneath my trench coat.”

  She let out a small sigh and lifted a shoulder. “Anyway, it was a short-lived gig. A month after I’d signed the contract, the modeling agency went bust. Even though I received some interest from other small agencies, I decided it was time to get serious about my dancing aspirations. Not many people even know about me working as a lingerie model, and the catalogue I was featured in didn’t have a wide circulation. So I was surprised that the chemistry professor had a copy of it.”

  Paulo frowned. “Do you remember his name?”

  “No. I’d have to ask my friend Renee Williams. She’s the director of dance, and the one who invited me to lecture at the university.”

  “Then do it,” Paulo said shortly. “Get the guy’s name from her. I’ll check him out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paulo scowled at the mock salute she gave him, but let it pass. “Did anyone else rub you the wrong way after the lecture?”

  “Other than Richard?” Tommie said sourly.

  “Who’s Richard?”

  She immediately felt contrite for bringing up his name. “Richard Houghton is the artistic director at the Met. But I didn’t mean to imply that he might be the killer,” she added hastily.

  “Why does he rub you the wrong way?”

  She shrugged. “The way he stares at me makes me uncomfortable. And he’s not a very nice guy, contrary to what Zhane thinks. I don’t trust him.”

  “But you think he might be interested in you.”

  “I think that’s a safe assumption. He brought me flowers after the lecture,” she said, hitching her chin toward the elaborate floral arrangement on the dining room table.

  Paulo followed the direction of her gaze. “Nice. Looks expensive.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So if you dislike the guy so much, why’d you accept flowers from him?”

  “Because it would’ve been rude not to. Besides, every ballerina loves to receive bouquets after a performance,” she grumbled sheepishly. “It’s in our DNA.”

  “Ah.” Paulo nodded, lips quirking. “So other than accepting his flowers, have you ever given Richard any reason to think he might have a chance with you? Have you ever gone out with him?”

  “No way. And he’s never asked, thank God.”

  “So his only crime is giving you expensive flowers, staring at you, and possibly being an asshole?”

  Tommie glared at him. “Are you making fun of me, Detective?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said with a straight face. When her eyes narrowed, he added, “Richard Houghton is going on my list of people to check out.”

  “Fine. But just for the record, I don’t think he’s our guy. An asshole, maybe. But not a killer.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Paulo said dryly. “Do you have any enemies?”

  She snorted. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Some more than others. What about you?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve always had people who didn’t like me. Sometimes it was justified, other times not.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t make friends very easily.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she was embarrassed.

  Paulo said quietly, “That’s not the impression I get from watching you and Zhane together. You two seem like you’ve known each other a lot longer than seven months. And you told me before that you had a lot of friends back in New York.”

  “I did. But they were rare, a special breed of people. They didn’t judge me.” She shook her head, feeling like she was digging herself deeper into a hole the more she talked. The more she revealed. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “I think I understand,” Paulo murmured.

  Tommie met his gaze. And, somehow, she knew he did understand. And that scared the living daylight out of her.

  Glancing away, she cleared her throat. “You asked me about enemies. I wasn’t very popular with the other dancers in my company. I’m sure more than a few of them were happy to see me go. But I certainly wouldn’t suspect any of them of being a ruthless killer. Ruthlessly competitive, yes. But not ruthlessly homicidal.”

  “What about ex-lovers?” Paulo prodded. “You said an old boyfriend stopped by unexpectedly yesterday.”

  Tommie nodded tightly, anger flaring in her chest at the reminder of Roland Jackson’s visit.

  “You said it threw you off for the rest of the day. Why?”

  She shook her hea
d slowly. “If it’s all the same to you, Paulo, I’d rather not discuss it.”

  He stared at her for a long, tense moment, then nodded wordlessly.

  Rising from the floor, Tommie grabbed her empty glass from the table and headed toward the kitchen. “I need more wine. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” He sounded surly.

  Was he jealous of Roland? Tommie wondered. Did he think she and Roland were getting back together? If only he knew!

  “What was the name of the attorney you reported to at Thorne and Associates?” Paulo asked her.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, frowning. “You mean the one who sexually harassed me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “His name was Harold Van Gundy. Why? Is he going on your list, too?”

  “Of course. He has motive for wanting to hurt you—you got him fired.”

  “He got himself fired,” Tommie muttered, opening the refrigerator. As she poured wine into her glass, she was struck by a chilling new thought.

  Leaving her drink on the counter, she walked to the doorway and stared across the living room at Paulo, who was still sitting and brooding by the fire.

  He glanced up at her, frowned at the troubled look on her face. “What is it?”

  “I just thought of something. We’ve been spending all this time trying to figure out if the killer is someone I know. But I’m not the only one who came into contact with both of the victims. You did, too.” She paused. “So what if the killer is actually someone you know?”

  Chapter 20

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Paulo said in a low, flat voice.

  Tommie nodded. “Of course. You’re the detective here, not me.”

  He held her gaze another moment, then rose to his feet and walked over to the sofa. He sat down heavily, closing his eyes as he shoved stiff fingers through his black hair. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Tommie joined him a moment later, silently passing him a glass of wine.

  He arched a brow at her. “I thought I said I didn’t want any more.”