A Perfect Stranger

by Ryan, Jenna

  THE STARS WERE WINKING at him as he worked through his agitation by the river.

  Voices bounced in his head like rubber balls. They grew louder, became a cacophony of useless words and stupid advice. Nothing he wanted to hear.

  So he glowered at the river and pictured a pair of faces as if they were trapped inside TV screens. Buoyed by the idea, he aimed his imaginary gun. Oh, yeah. Now this was acting out.

  He popped the P.I., right between the eyes. Watched him bleed, enjoyed it. As for the Darcy doll…

  “It’s just you and me, babe,” he drawled in The King’s Tennessee accent. “We’re gonna do it up right when I get you by your pretty self. I can feel the burn already. We’re going down, honey. Just like the man, you and me are gonna leave the building.”

  Slam-bang finish. Concert done.

  Chapter Seven

  Marlowe spent the night on Darcy’s living room sofa. It wasn’t where he wanted to be, just where he needed to stay if he had a hope in hell of resisting temptation. She’d offered him her guest room, but that was too close. He needed separation and for her not to wake up until he toppled into a more familiar nightmare.

  He didn’t expect to see headlights outside the window at 2:00 a.m., but his Clapton ring tone never surprised.

  “Is that you out there, Val?” Dropping back, he studied his laptop, typed another word into the coded box.

  His friend chuckled. “Man, you define the word insomnia. Okay to come in, or does your boardinghouse have a ‘no visitors after midnight’ policy?”

  “I’m not at the boardinghouse. I’m at Darcy’s.”

  “What? Oh, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t…Why did you pick up?”

  “Because I’m sitting on her couch, getting a migraine trying to break into Lugo’s files.”

  “Is the front door open?”

  “It will be.”

  The six-pack Val deposited on the coffee table was ice-cold and pearling. “Any luck?”

  “I found Lugo’s tax return for last year.”

  “He stored that in his laptop? Hell, I download a few raunchy pics, then worry all night that some joker in Internal Affairs will get his paws on them and blab to Blyden.”

  “Raunch isn’t illegal. Lugo’s tax return was.”

  “By how much?”

  “Five, six hundred K. That’s after a talk with his former partner and still no off-the-record client list. The number could go higher.”

  Val sat back. “Six hundred thou’s not an outrageous amount considering some of the cases he’s taken on.”

  “He has two Swiss bank accounts and a third in Costa Rica.”

  Val raised a beer can. “Any balances?”

  “Not yet.” Because he was hot and his mind kept going upstairs, Marlowe reached for one of the cans. “I should be able to do this. Get into Lugo’s head and his computer.”

  Val’s grin was slightly lopsided, his words somewhat slurred. “Homicide was your specialty, not hacking.”

  “I was crap in Homicide.” His gaze slid to the staircase before he dragged it back. “Did the cabdriver come through with a description?”

  “It matches yours and Darcy’s, but still doesn’t take us anywhere.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Independence Mall. Guy paid, hopped out, disappeared into the crowd.”

  “Any fingerprints?”

  “Only about ten thousand, from door handle to seat belt. We’re running them, but there were twice as many smudges that won’t translate into anything, so I’m not holding my breath.”

  “What about that strip of blanket he used on Darcy during the first attack?”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t expect.” Val started to drink, but paused and followed Marlowe’s eyes to the stairs. “You, uh, think she’s the type to settle down?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Could be she’ll change her mind if she’s right about Maco. Erase son Vince from the picture, old Frankie expires in a few months, and in slides a lower-profile nephew or niece to take the reins. Vendetta dies.”

  “Sounds good.” Marlowe swallowed a mouthful of beer. “If it’s a Maco who’s after her. She’s done a lot of controversial stories, Val, ruffled more than a few powerful feathers.”

  “Whose business and personal nests we’ve been taking apart twig by twig. So far we’re batting zero. She’s done some damage, sure, but nothing a good PR team couldn’t spin back into place. Darcy reports facts. There’s no malice involved.”

  While Val’s remarks made sense, they didn’t solve the problem. And they sure as hell didn’t explain the discovery of a garrote in Darcy’s closet.

  Val polished off the six-pack, then slumped into an awkward sideways position and started snoring. Because of that, Marlowe didn’t hear Darcy come down the stairs or realize she was there until he caught a glimpse of leg.

  His eyes slid from knee to thigh. For the sake of his sanity, he stopped them there.

  He needed something to relieve the sudden dryness in his throat, but with the beer long gone, he could only force his gaze back to the screen. “Why are you up, Darcy?”

  “Hello to you, too.” She moved, and he heard a faint swish of fabric. Silk? “I’m up because my mind refuses to shut down for more than an hour at a time. When it does, it spins in crazy sleep circles that result in even crazier dreams.”

  Marlowe struggled with an old image that had recently taken a new twist. “You could try sleeping pills.”

  “I could try beer, too.” She nudged Val’s ankle with her bare foot. “Like Detective Reade here.”

  Marlowe didn’t look over. “He’s off duty.”

  “I don’t mean to judge, but don’t you think he needs help?”

  “We all need that, Darcy. Val knows he has a problem. He’ll deal with it when he’s ready.”

  “So shut up and go back to bed.”

  He skimmed through another file. “My mother swears by warm milk.”

  She reached out to play with his hair. “Maybe it’s you who needs warm milk. Why the black mood?”

  He supposed it could be the barely-there red silk robe. Or that her legs went on forever. Or that the scent she wore made him think of sex in a Moroccan bazaar.

  Locking down his hormones, he continued to tap keys. “She doesn’t have a record.”

  “If you mean Mrs. B, did you expect her to?”

  “I never expect. I only investigate.”

  “I realize how it looks, but it wasn’t necessarily Hannah who left the garrote in my closet. On the other hand, I’d rather it was her than a stranger.”

  “That’s not very likely, Darcy.”

  “I’d have said the same thing about you having a mother.” When he didn’t respond, she bumped his arm. “Oh, come on, Marlowe. Tear yourself away from that thing for five minutes and relax. Your brain needs a break.”

  So did another part of him. Setting an elbow on his knee, he ran the side of his hand over his upper lip while he searched. “Go upstairs, Darcy. I’m not ready for this, and I don’t think you are, either.”

  Another sigh escaped. “Maybe not.” She glanced at Val. “Is he okay there?”

  “Better there than behind the wheel.” Marlowe shifted in an effort to ease his cramped muscles. Although he still didn’t look, he relented a little. “She lives in Palm Springs with my father. He’s a cosmetic surgeon. She’s a surgical nurse in a different field. She’s never had a cosmetic stitch in her life, and doesn’t plan to. My father holds her up to his undecided patients as the perfect example of a woman transitioning gracefully through life’s seasons.”

  “Really.” Delight colored Darcy’s tone. “I think I’d like your parents.”

  “You would.” He scrolled down. “They’re good people, with busy, active lives. They gave me a lot of slack growing up. Explore, discover, explore more—that’s their philosophy. Mine’s a little different.”

  “Yes, something about a rat’s ass springs to mind. But I’ll give you a break
there, because—well, because I’m surprised and pleased you told me anything at all.”

  “They have a…” But something on the screen had him trailing off as he zeroed in.

  “Marlowe?”

  A slow smile formed on his lips and deepened as he took in the display. “Come to Papa.”

  Darcy angled closer to look. “Did you—My God, you did! You accessed Lugo’s private client list.”

  DARCY’S HAIR WAS STILL damp when she dropped her gear on the sofa and shot straight to her office desk.

  “Come on,” she urged her computer. “Boot up.”

  Marlowe cracked open the adjoining door. “Who works here?”

  “No one right now. Elaine’s been told to downsize, so when one of the reporters quit, she didn’t replace him. If our circulation keeps improving…Oh, come on, sweetheart, boot up.” She gave the reluctant modem an encouraging pat. “New equipment wouldn’t hurt, that’s for sure.”

  “What time is it?” Marlowe asked.

  “Security doesn’t let anyone in the building until 6:00 a.m.”

  “So we’re alone.”

  “Well, yeah. Would you come to work at this hour if you didn’t have to?”

  “Darcy?” As if cued, a voice reached them from the corridor. “Is that you?”

  “Okay, you might if you were Elaine. Yes, it’s me,” Darcy called back. “I need something from the archives.”

  “At six in the morning?” A tall woman with short, dark hair and a pair of glasses sitting on top of her head strode in. “You’re never here at this hour. Hello, Mr. Marlowe. I thought you must be Trace.”

  Darcy’s finger hovered above the mouse. “You expected to find Trace in my office?”

  “In any office. He’s not particular whose space he invades. He just makes sure to do it in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “And you let him?”

  “No, I don’t let him. Why do you think I’m here? Speaking of.” She whipped her glasses off and swung them between her and Marlowe. “No problem if this leads to a circulation-boosting exclusive. Otherwise, I wouldn’t say no to an explanation.”

  “I did a story when I first came to the magazine.” Darcy clicked, scrolled. “About a singer from Tennessee.”

  “Nelda Hickey. She’s dead.”

  “I know. She overdosed three days before our October issue hit the stands—with her story prominently featured inside.”

  “That was a lucky coincidence.” Elaine tossed a look in Marlowe’s direction. “I don’t mean to sound callous, but that issue sold very, very well. Nelda was a looker, and she had a legion of country music fans.”

  “She also had a son,” Darcy recalled, “who threatened to sue us for publishing the article.”

  Elaine dismissed that. “Not a leg to stand on. I put Legal on alert and never heard another word. We printed what she told us, most of it verbatim.”

  “What do you know about the son?” Marlowe asked.

  He was perched on the windowsill, in faded jeans and a green T-shirt. With his hair messy and with two days’ worth of stubble on his face, he looked scrumptious—a fact, Darcy noticed, that wasn’t lost on her editor.

  Lips pursed, Elaine tapped her glasses to her throat. “Rumor has it he’s been in rehab nine or ten times. He’s probably about thirty. I’m not sure, but I think there might be some other problems. Nelda mentioned having to deal with blockhead child psychiatrists as one of the reasons she turned to meds.”

  “I found the article,” Darcy said from her desk. “And a photo of her, but there’s nothing on her son.”

  “Police might have a file.” Marlowe hopped down. “Where does he live?”

  “He threatened to file charges through a lawyer in Memphis,” Darcy recalled. “He might be there.”

  Still tapping her glasses, Elaine made a circuit of the office. “I see a wealth of possibilities developing here. Promise me this story’s ours when it’s resolved, Darcy. Or, hell, now for that matter.”

  “No story now.” Val came in, looking pale and wearing sunglasses.

  Elaine raised a brow. “Cop?”

  “Yes.” Darcy smiled a little at her skeptical expression. “There’s nothing else here, Marlowe. Even our Tennessee affiliate doesn’t mention a son. I’ll copy the relevant articles, but I have a feeling he stayed, or Nelda kept him, in the background as much as possible.”

  Val pushed on his left temple. “Darcy, you recognized two other names on Lugo’s private list, right? I didn’t just dream that.”

  “Yes, they were—”

  “On the list,” Marlowe inserted smoothly.

  He didn’t have to look at Elaine. Darcy could see the avid gleam in her editor’s eyes from across the room. Quickly copying the necessary files, she slipped the disk into her purse.

  “Are we done here?” Marlowe asked.

  “Say yes.” Val worked his jaw to loosen it. “I’m in serious need of caffeine.”

  “I can help you with that, Detective.” Elaine pulled out her BlackBerry. “I have a great little deli on call. They’re a twenty-four-hour deal, and they deliver. Come to my office, and you’ll be swimming in coffee before you know it.”

  That wasn’t all he’d be doing if Elaine had her way. It wouldn’t help. Val didn’t know the other names, and hungover or not, Darcy suspected he was too smart to fall for her tricks. Still, Elaine was nothing if not hopeful.

  Marlowe nodded toward the door. Shutting down, Darcy collected her bags.

  She was a step ahead of him when she heard the crash on the other side of the wall—followed by a woman’s short, sharp scream.

  “GROGAN NEEDS SERIOUS HELP.” Hunched over a table in the deli Elaine had mentioned, Val gently kneaded his eyelids. “I’ll grant you, taking a cell cam into the women’s washroom and hiding out in one of the stalls is messed up. But getting caught while trying to sneak a peek up the skirt of a woman who’s old enough to be his grandmother, that’s sick.”

  Marlowe watched for Darcy at the entrance. “The Peeping Tom thing was an afterthought, Val, a bonus from his perspective. The building’s being rewired. He was using a cutout on his side of the wall to listen in on our conversation.”

  “Doesn’t make him any less sick.” When the coffee arrived, Val pounced on it. “Keep it coming,” he told the server.

  Over his cup, Marlowe saw Darcy approach the table. “How did you get in?”

  “Kitchen entrance.” She lifted her hair so the wall fan could cool the skin on the back of her neck. “The owner likes me.”

  Not a hard thing to do, he reflected.

  Kicking back, he let the tension go and enjoyed the view. “What’s happening at the magazine?”

  “All hell’s still breaking loose, but while Elaine’s assistant might want to press charges right now, she probably won’t. Means there’ll be something extra in her Christmas envelope.”

  “Sick,” Val repeated.

  “Take heart, Detective, there was some payback involved. Her scream startled Trace so badly, he banged into the wall and gave himself a black eye.”

  Val polished off his coffee, exhaled loudly. “Back to business. What was that dead singer’s name?”

  “Nelda Hickey.”

  “Okay, we search for information on the son. And the other names you recognized?”

  “Wilkie and Lyons,” Darcy replied. “You might recognize R.J. Wilkie’s name. He anchored the news hour for a local cable station.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells. Did you know him?”

  “Met him. Asked if I could interview him. Never heard from him again. He went on vacation and just dropped out of sight.”

  “Dropped out as in missing person?” Marlowe asked.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Why did you want an interview?”

  “Human interest, mostly. I’m not all about scandal and exposure. Sometimes warm and fuzzy’s a pleasant counterpoint. R.J. appeared to fit the bill.”

  “What’s th
e story with Lyons?” Marlowe asked.

  “No story, I just recognize the name.”

  “From?”

  “Other media sources, the occasional high-profile fundraiser. LyonsCorp is an amalgam of maybe ten heavy-duty tool companies, acquired over the lifespan of its founder, Constantine Lyons, who’d be in his mid-nineties by now. Constantine’s one and only son gave him three grandchildren, all boys, all now in their thirties. The oldest races cars, primarily in the Southeast. One of the others—I’m not sure which—was arrested for possession of an illegal weapon. I think he might have gotten into drugs, as well. But of course, Granddad hushed it up.”

  “And corporate headquarters are?”

  “In Los Angeles.”

  “Like the Macos.”

  “Like them, yes, but grandson’s rumored drug problem aside, there was no connection between the families that I ever heard of.”

  Marlowe picked up a menu, but didn’t read it. “Are you sure those are the only names you know?”

  “I went over the list five times, Marlowe. I have an excellent memory for names and faces. I’m sure. I’m also late for an appointment. Make mine to go, Randy,” she called to the counterman.

  He gave her a wink and two thumbs-up.

  Marlowe’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly how well do you know that guy, Darcy?”

  Late or not, she took a moment to lean in and show him just enough cleavage to kindle a fire in his lower body. “Well, let’s see. We had dinner together last month, once at his place, once at mine. He broiled a really succulent leg of lamb.” She made a slow circle on his forearm with her finger. It wasn’t until he glanced up that he saw the tease dancing in her eyes. “Gotcha again. I know him because I work out at the gym three times a week.” She moved closer to whisper, “With his wife.”