A Perfect Stranger

by Ryan, Jenna

  “You like positive, I like simple. Just so we’re clear.”

  “As Mississippi mud. Now, about Lugo.”

  He twisted off the top, drank deeply. “He said he’d be staying in the city until you got back. That might or might not be true.” Lowering the bottle, he asked, “Do you have a laptop?”

  “You dropped it by the front door.” She uncapped a bottle of orange juice. “Why would he hang around?” she mused. Then she considered. “How old is he?”

  “Fifty-eight.”

  “Muscular and tall?”

  “Five-six and stocky with a hump on his back.”

  “Charming. Do you have the name of his hotel?”

  “Give me five minutes on your computer and I will.”

  She started toward him, dangerous in a way only a man on the edge would understand. “And then?”

  Because he knew what she was thinking, he used the beer to cover a burgeoning smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Darcy, but I’ve dealt with reporters before. I go in alone, you follow me. So we’ll save time and do this together.”

  Setting her tongue on her upper lip, she tipped her head to the side, strolled closer and assessed him from top to bottom. “You’re a man of mystery and surprise, Marlowe. I foresee all kinds of problems between us.”

  “I see them here and now.”

  Humor sparkled in her eyes. “You can drop the guard. I told you I wouldn’t play the seduction card, and I meant it.”

  Was he on guard? Maybe. Probably. Didn’t mean he had to ditch a rather intriguing situation. He just had to make sure he didn’t get tangled up in it.

  Taking another drink, he let his gaze slide over her face. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  The sparkle blossomed into a smile. “Oh, I believe that. Your kind isn’t afraid of any woman.”

  “I’m a kind?”

  “Very much so. You’re immovable, inscrutable, emotionally distant, and if I were a female rat, I wouldn’t even consider exposing my ass to you. Unfortunately, you’re also hot and sexy, and I’m going to guess chock-full of bad-boy vices. Makes you irresistible to a female like me. Therefore—” letting a sly look steal across her face, she hooked her finger around the front of his T-shirt and gave a tug “—my feeling is, we should get this out of the way now, before we move on.”

  A thread of amusement, mostly dark, wove through his system. “I’m not a gentleman, Darcy.”

  “Well, I’m shocked.”

  Eyes glittering, he let the darkness have its way, set the bottle down and trapped her jaw between the fingers and thumb of his right hand.

  “Lady, this is one mistake I’m going to enjoy.” Leaving no time for second thoughts, he covered her mouth with his.

  HE TASTED LIKE SOMETHING forbidden, something she should run from and not look back.

  He went in deep, and he savored. He made light and color shimmer to life in her head. When he finally stepped back, it took several long moments for the drumbeat he’d created in her blood to subside.

  Now that, she thought through a lovely warm haze, was a kiss.

  He didn’t say a word afterward, just stared into her eyes, then turned and walked out.

  Darcy knew his mind was working. On what, she wasn’t sure. But that was enigmatic for you.

  He returned a moment later with her laptop. The haze vanished when he told her where Umer Lugo was staying.

  It took them twenty-five minutes to reach their destination in Marlowe’s Land Rover. During that time, Darcy rattled off a dozen questions, most of them concerning the state of Lugo’s mental health.

  “The Declaration Inn.” She read the dimly lit sign from the parking lot off the westbound Interstate. “Aka the Bates Motel. I see five cars, three of them old and rusty, outside four doors. The only visible lights are in the lobby, and there’s no one behind the desk.”

  Marlowe surveyed the low structure as they got out of the car.

  “Question,” she said as they navigated the ravaged lot. “Why do you suppose Lugo is staying in a place like this?”

  With his fingers wrapped around her bare upper arm, Marlowe swept the line of doors. “I don’t know.” He glanced down when she turned her ankle. “You probably shouldn’t have worn heels.”

  “If I’d known about this parking lot, I’d have worn combat boots.” And full camo gear, she thought, although the pale pink dress that stopped just above her knees and crisscrossed in the back was definitely cooler. “I hope the manager isn’t a weirded-out mama’s boy.” She peered through the spotty glass. “Still no one in sight.”

  “Easier for us to find Lugo’s room and get inside.”

  “It’s a fine line between cop and crook, isn’t it?”

  “Ex-cop.”

  “And the line gets finer.”

  The lobby door creaked, but no bell announced them. In fact, the only sound came from a pair of droning flies and a whiny Merle Haggard song emanating from the dusty wall speakers.

  Steadier now on the cracked linoleum tiles, Darcy eased her arm free. In her mind, she was still going over a kiss that had left her breathless and oddly light-headed. At this moment, though, and given the circumstances, distance was more prudent.

  She ran a finger down the open register while Marlowe checked out the shadowy back room. “There’s someone named Jones in three,” she told him. “A double X in eleven and a squiggly line with two big rabbit ears in five.”

  “Anything that looks like Lugo?” Marlowe asked from the inner door.

  She ran the list. “Lucky number seven.” Then she glanced at the Peg-Board. “There’s no key.”

  Returning to the desk, Marlowe took her hand. “Let’s go.”

  Drawing a gun she hadn’t realized he was carrying from the waistband of his jeans, he nodded forward.

  At the door of room seven she gave two firm taps. “Mr. Lugo? It’s Darcy Nolan.”

  Five seconds ticked by. “Mr. Lugo?” she tried again. “Are you there?”

  No light came on.

  “Door’s paper-thin,” she noted. “Unless he sleeps with earplugs, I’d say he’s—Oh, God, you’re not. A credit card?”

  Seconds later, Marlowe opened the door to an expanse of black, the smell of must and Rambo playing on a very old TV.

  He located a tippy floor lamp. The low-watt bulb cast a long shadow over a pair of twin beds, an open bottle of Bordeaux and an unzipped suitcase.

  Darcy swung in a slow circle. “Well, this is really icky. Even on the lam, Janet Leigh wouldn’t have showered in a motel room that had splotchy walls and vermin in the once green carpet.”

  “There’s a reason he chose this place,” Marlowe told her. He switched on a second lamp.

  It didn’t help, only made it possible for Darcy to step over the more suspect stains.

  Her eyes landed on the desk behind him. “Laptop.”

  With a gleam in his eyes, Marlowe opened it, leaving Darcy to search the bathroom.

  Palms braced on either side of the computer, he scanned the screen. “There’s something here.”

  “Mr. Lugo?” she called at the bathroom door. Reaching for the knob, she paused, then shrugged and went for it. “Mr. Lugo?”

  The first thing she saw was a dirty window with just enough light trickling through to reveal yet another empty room. Still, she felt strangely deflated as she lifted the hair from her overheated neck. Whatever the man’s program might be, his absence wouldn’t help them uncover it.

  “What’s on his computer?” she called back.

  “Looks like an unsent e-mail.”

  Humor speared through her when she spied the drawn shower curtain. “Bet it’s filthy,” she murmured. But she gave the thin plastic a tug anyway.

  And felt her mind freeze.

  The faucet wasn’t running, but there was water in the tub.

  “Looks like Lugo was working on a report for his client,” Marlowe said from the other room.

  The sound of his voice fractured her temporary para
lysis. With her eyes on the bathtub, she backed toward the door. “Unless he brought someone with him, he won’t be finishing it.” The words wanted to stick, but she forced them out. “Lugo’s dead, Marlowe. He’s got a bullet hole the size of a quarter in the middle of his forehead.”

  Chapter Three

  Darcy had seen death before in the Amazon rain forest. And all things considered, the circumstances had been much more grisly. But she hadn’t expected Lugo to be there when she’d opened the curtain.

  “Drink this, Darcy.”

  She felt something cold in her hand and, looking down, saw a bottle of mineral water.

  “Thanks.” From her perch on the bed, she regarded Marlowe, then the now-closed bathroom door. “I’m okay. Shocked, but not in shock. It’s just…” The memory repeated in garish neon. “He’s fully dressed, Marlowe. Shirt, pants, tie. And yet the only visible blood relates to the bathtub. So he was what? Running a bath when the killer came in? Killer forced him into the tub?”

  “It’s as good a theory as any. You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?”

  “Positive. Believe me, I got a very good look at his face.”

  Crouched in front of her, Marlowe trapped her chin so he could bring her gaze in line with his. “I called a friend of mine, Darcy. He knows Lugo hired me to find you. His name’s Val Reade.”

  A single brow winged up. “Reade, as in the detective who punched an elderly woman in a bar brawl?”

  “There’s a story attached to it, but yeah, that’s him.”

  Another man’s face superimposed itself over Lugo’s. Light brown hair, a little curly, wholesome features. A faint smile appeared. “I was one of the reporters who cornered your friend after his disciplinary hearing. Wrong place, right time. Elaine needed two filler pages before deadline.”

  “Did you write the article?”

  “I started to. I had another piece to do about a political scandal in Alabama, so Elaine filled in the missing pieces.” The smile grew. “She’s not as diplomatic as me when it comes to matters of dubious police behavior.” A sigh rose when she looked at the bathroom door. “Frankie wasn’t big on murdering people.”

  “Frankie’s not in control now, Darcy.” Marlowe ran his thumb over her jaw. “Are you okay here if I go back to the desk?”

  “Marlowe, I’m an army brat. I’ve heard and seen true horror. This is—” she searched for a fitting word “—tidy by comparison.” Standing with him, she sipped her water. “Tell me, do all P.I.s erase rules like this?” When he merely glanced at her en route to Lugo’s computer, she took another drink. “Figured that.”

  As he tapped the keys, she circled the room, letting her mind return to the attack at her house. She wanted to lay the blame at Vince Maco’s feet, but it was possible he’d hired someone to attack her so he could deal with Lugo.

  She caught the distant wail of sirens and moved to the window. “You’ve got about ninety seconds before your ex-cronies arrive, Marlowe.”

  “Let me know when you see the lights.”

  The word accomplice sprang to mind, but she blocked it and rested a shoulder against the window frame. “Are you plucking out any clues as that information whizzes past?”

  “Only the e-mail he didn’t send. Recipient unknown, text incomplete.”

  “Sounds like he was interrupted. Or he thought the tub might be full and he went to check on the water level. What does it say?”

  “That the target’s been located and the end is imminent.”

  “Efficient, ominous, and more personal than he knew.” She thought for a moment while she watched the horizon. “It also shows he was doing his job, so why kill him? Vince is nasty, but as far as I know, he follows Daddy’s instructions.”

  “As far as you know. Three years might change a person’s attitude.”

  “I see headlights. Three sets, and another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction.”

  The tapping continued. With each click, Darcy pictured Lugo’s face. With each click, the face came closer, grew clearer.

  Pushing on her temples, she turned from the window. “The rules you’re ignoring are going to get you arrested in a minute.”

  A man’s voice reached them from outside. “M, it’s Val.”

  One last series of taps as gravel crunched in the unpaved lot, and suddenly he was behind her.

  Val Reade strode in ahead of six uniformed officers. His eyes flicked from Darcy to Marlowe, then back again in mild suspicion. “Why do I recognize you?”

  “Disciplinary hearing, three months ago. I was one of the people firing questions at you.”

  His expression cleared. “Thank God. I was afraid I might have hit on you.”

  “And been rejected?”

  “It’s been known to happen on rare occasions.” His almost twinkling eyes moved to the man behind her. “Still in the tub?”

  “Just as Darcy found him.”

  Val motioned to the uniforms. “How hot was the water?”

  “Room temperature.”

  “Which borders on body temperature at the moment.” Val ran a hand through his brown curls. “That’ll hinder the medical examiner. Did you know him?” he asked Darcy.

  “No.”

  “Any idea who he was working for?”

  “Possibly Frankie Maco. But that’s assumption, not fact,” she added at a look from Marlowe. “Frankie’s the only person I can think of who’d bear a grudge strong enough to send lawyers and P.I.s after me three years down the road.”

  “I’ll check him out.”

  “You?” Surprised amusement colored Marlowe’s tone. “The captain put you in charge of the case?”

  Val scratched his neck. “The word shorthanded came up during his telephone tirade. For some reason, Blydon likes you. You called me, I called him, case is mine. Now, Darcy, you and I need to have a nice long talk.”

  “About the discovery of Umer Lugo’s body, or the attack outside my home?”

  He stopped scratching. “You were attacked?”

  “Guy got away,” Marlowe said. “On a bicycle.”

  “Has all the earmarks of a three-ring circus, doesn’t it?” Darcy remarked. “Except for…” She indicated the bathroom.

  “That’s a big exception.” Pulling out his notebook, Val cast a level look at Marlowe. “And given the outcome, I hate to think who else might wind up in the same condition.”

  HE’D MISSED HER. She’d been underneath him, pinned and struggling, ripe for the taking. Then, wham, she hadn’t been, because Lugo’s P.I. had decided to play hero. He’d ruined the perfect opportunity with a broadside tackle that had shocked, infuriated and freaking hurt.

  He’d pay for the bruises he’d inflicted. He’d pay like the lawyer had paid, only not so easily, not without pain. Oh, yeah, shooting off vital body parts was starting to sound real good about now.

  In the end, though, it was all about Shannon. No, wait, call her Darcy. Live the charade. Until the charade ended and life became death ever after.

  “Gonna get you, Darcy doll,” he promised.

  Shaping his thumb and index finger into a gun, he aimed at the TV set in front of him. He grinned as he pulled the imaginary trigger.

  Then he pulled out his iPod, popped in his earbuds and bopped to the music of The King.

  NIGHT MELTED SLOWLY into day. Marlowe spent most of both sweltering in the Center City police station.

  Lugo’s laptop had been bagged and tagged. So had his suitcase and wallet. Pictures had been snapped, the body removed, the motel room taped. Forensics would be dusting and sweeping throughout the weekend, and both Lugo’s paralegal and his ex-wife had been notified.

  It was a police matter now. Legally, Marlowe knew he could wrap things up in Philadelphia early Saturday morning and be back in his office by mid-afternoon.

  So why wasn’t he blowing off what had the potential to become a complicated tangle of red tape, blurred lines and emotions he had no desire to awaken? Why wasn’t he putting as much d
istance as possible between himself and a beautiful blue-eyed blonde who was bound to screw up the structure, the fabric and the dubious integrity of his not yet unscrewed life?

  Because those questions were far too heavy to think about, let alone deal with, he spent another night at another bar with Val, a long one that ended with him collapsed on the sofa while Val snored and muttered on a cot across the room.

  He let his friend sleep the next morning, made a stale pretzel and coffee work as breakfast and, ignoring a hangover the size of Texas, headed out to purge his mind of the few loose ends he’d neglected to mention to the police.

  On the drive back from the Declaration Inn, Darcy had told him about a man named John Hancock. He’d recently taken a room at her neighbor’s boardinghouse. Probably nothing to it, but the cop in him couldn’t let it go without a cursory look.

  Only a look, though, he promised himself as he worked his way through the vaguely seedy streets of Val’s neighborhood to Darcy’s southwest Philly home. A look, a chat, an unimpassioned goodbye. End of case.

  As he parked, Marlowe took note of a sunburned man pushing a hand mower around the front lawn of Hannah Brewster’s boardinghouse.

  A woman and a somewhat older man sat on the shaded front porch. The woman, in an odd flowered muumuu, used her foot to rock the hanging swing while she waved a folding fan in front of her face.

  Her eyes brightened when Marlowe took the stairs two at a time. “My goodness, someone has more energy than me this fine August morning.” Elbowing her companion, she stood.

  Marlowe kept his smile easy and leaned a hip against the railing.

  Beside her, the forty-something man with the receding hairline offered a rather feral smile. “Glad to know you. I’m Hancock from Houston.”

  By way of northern England, unless Marlowe had his accents wrong. And he doubted that, since his mother came from southern Scotland.

  “Hannah Brewster.” The woman smiled broadly. “My husband Eddie’s inside watching a ball game.” Shielding her eyes, she peered through the bushes. “And that’s Cristian, mowing the lawn. He’s my cousin Arden from Oklahoma’s middle boy.” She patted her chest. “Arden died, oh, it must be fifteen years ago now. I feel terrible we couldn’t make it to the funeral, but Eddie was laid off at the time, and we didn’t dare borrow against our properties. As it is, we’re down to three from four, two on this street and a much older one on Faldo Road.” She used her fan to slap at a wasp. “Would you like some iced tea, Mr…?”