by Ryan, Jenna
“I’ll meet you in the main parking lot.”
Darcy spied the doubt in Marlowe’s eyes. Grinning, she tweaked his chin. “Relax. Val’s meeting me outside the hospital. You can walk me to my car. So neatly encapsulated, how could anything happen?”
“Said the iceberg to the Titanic.” He wrapped a light hand around her throat. “My gut and our witness say it wasn’t Kazarov who attacked you in the washroom last night, Darcy.”
“I was there when you questioned her, remember? Come on, Marlowe, she saw you, me and more than one pink elephant during that conversation.” At his level expression, she quelled a flicker of impatience. “Why don’t we compromise? Comet can come to the hospital with me.”
“You don’t mind that?”
“Not if it gets me what I want.” She leaned in close, her mouth inches away from his. “Speaking of what I want…”
She meant to close the gap between them slowly, but Marlowe pulled her against him, chest to thigh, in one quick swoop.
His kiss sent her mind and her senses reeling.
She sighed out a breath when he raised his head. “You’re some good kisser.”
He smiled, and leaned in for what she thought would be another kiss. Instead, he whispered in her ear, “Don’t ditch him, Darcy. Small as he is, Comet’s never lost a fight.”
Amusement stirred. “Don’t worry. I won’t test him tonight.” She pressed a finger to his lower lip. “And while we’re on the subject of tonight, how about I meet you at my place when you’re finished here?” She nibbled his lip. “You bring the wine.”
She heard the faint rumble in his throat when she ran her tongue along the side of his jaw. And laughed when his mouth came down hot and hungry on hers.
THE SKY HAD AN UNNATURAL cast to it. Darcy didn’t pay much attention to the bruised and swollen clouds until she and Comet pulled into the hospital parking lot. Obviously more concerned than her, the little man hopped out, surveyed the area before he fell into step beside her.
As lightning forked down over the Delaware, she waved at Val, several yards ahead.
“How’s Kazarov?” she asked when they caught up.
“Faking it, if you ask me.”
“The head injury’s real enough, Val.”
“What about Tilda?” Comet asked.
“You know her?” Darcy and Val stared, but it was Darcy who asked, “Did you mention that to Marlowe?”
Comet shrugged. “Nothing to mention. I’m asking for a friend of mine.”
Darcy smiled at Val. “Kind of surreal, isn’t it? My head’s spinning.”
“Well, your feet are dragging,” Val noted. “Don’ tell me you have an aversion to hospitals, too. Honey, you and Marlowe are such a pair.”
“I’d love to explore that with you, Detective, some other time.” She resisted even more when he steered her to the right. “Why are we using the emergency entrance?”
“It’s the fastest way in. In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve seen far worse out here lately than you’re likely to encounter in there.”
“Tell you what. You wheel Kazarov outside and I’ll—” She broke off to stare at the side of the building. “Whoa,” she said softly. “Talk about pink elephants.”
Val fanned a hand in front of her face. “What is it, Darcy?”
“Val, I swear I saw someone I recognize.”
“Who was it?”
She shivered off the sensation of maggots crawling down her spine. “It was Trace, I’m sure of it. I saw Trace Grogan between the bushes and the hospital wall.”
HE HAD TO BACKPEDAL quickly, almost had to run.
Had she seen him? He wasn’t sure. It was getting dark, and not a pretty, starlit kind of dark. Black clouds were massing over the river.
His heart thudded. Sweat pooled under his arms. A trickle of it ran down his back.
Luckily, the music pulsing in his head blotted out the worst of it. Burning, he was burning inside. Gotta make it happen tonight. Thunder and lightning were better than the moon and stars anyway. It would be wild, a sexual frenzy. And then…
His heart raced faster. A smile stole across his lips. His tongue flicked at the saliva in the corners. He wanted to tremble, but he wouldn’t. No, no, have to keep it together. Have to catch her. Have to kiss her.
Have to kill her.
MARLOWE SPENT SIXTY minutes online after Darcy left. He swore there was a time bomb ticking in his head.
Sitting back, he ran a finger under his lower lip and contemplated the names on the monitor. There were no other lists on Umer Lugo’s laptop. He was convinced that one of these people had wanted to locate Darcy, aka Shannon Hunt.
Not the Macos. He’d pretty much eliminated them. That left Nelda Hickey’s son, a missing news anchor and one or more members of the emotionally disturbed Constantine Lyons clan.
He had no photos, no clues that made sense and no solid leads. All he had were his instincts, and he figured those had taken him as far as they could at this point.
So what was he missing? What were all of them not seeing, not realizing, not questioning?
Why were there no photos? the cop in him wondered. Why so many mystery people? Although he sensed that last thing was a coincidence, the question didn’t sit well.
On the plus side, there were numerous pictures of R.J. Wilkie. The fifty-something man was or had been dark-haired with patches of distinguished gray at his temples. On paper, he came off jowly, but he’d obviously been handsome enough to make it in the off-hours television news world. Married with two teenage kids, he’d been under contract to a well-known media group when he’d vanished.
Had he also been obsessed? Marlowe didn’t think so. Couldn’t say why, but the idea simply didn’t gel.
On to the Memphis-born impersonator. Now there was a definite possibility, right down to the Tennessee twang. Ah, but Darcy, who’d lived in a number of different states, said that twang hadn’t rung true for her.
Was she right or being cleverly faked out by a man who made his living mimicking celebrity accents? Val had been told he did a killer Sinatra as well as an excellent Mick Jagger and Cher. Although it hadn’t been mentioned, Marlowe imagined he could also do a damn good Elvis.
So why were there no photos of him sans stage makeup? Why, with such a famous mother, had there never been photos?
Rocking his neck from side to side, Marlowe traded one mystery for another.
Constantine Lyons and family.
The old man was proving difficult to contact. Not surprising, really, considering his advanced age and the relative buoyancy of his corporate holdings. He could afford to have legions of people running all manner of interference for him. He could more than afford to keep his son and grandsons’ mental and emotional issues out of the press.
When approached, the only grandson who was accessible talked about racing and nothing else. The rest of his life was off-limits and removed from the public eye.
Val’s computer beeped as a message came in from Blydon. Opening it, Marlowe saw a single name printed in caps.
HICKEY
Scrolling down, he studied the man’s face. Computer techs had taken him from Ozzy to ordinary, or close enough that Marlowe would know if he’d seen the guy.
He hadn’t, but then again, if Hickey could do Ozzy, Frank and Cher, who knew what other personas he might be able to adopt on a daily basis.
Feeling out of sorts and edgy, Marlowe went to the credenza to pour himself a mug of coffee.
He didn’t recognize Hickey’s unadorned face, and even altering it in his mind, he came up empty. Height, last known weight, build—all were average numbers at best. Similar to Kazarov, in some respects. Except that Ivan Kazarov was the genuine article, traceable from date of birth to hospital bed.
Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, Marlowe returned to the Lyons clan. Rumor suggested a disturbed son. How disturbed were they talking? Somewhat unstable or completely over the edge?
Setting the oldest grandson as
ide, the middle and youngest were also questionable. No one he or Blydon had contacted in California was willing to talk about them.
Taking a last drink of bitter coffee, Marlowe regarded the ceiling tiles. “Helluva case you got me into, Lugo. One part ecstasy to nine parts crap.”
Should he play with fire and let the ecstasy rule? Or stay focused on the crap and the danger that wormed through it? Danger that felt close enough to touch. Close enough to snap its jaws on the woman he…
Whoa.
Marlowe brought the mug down with a jerk. What had he almost thought? Love? Was that the word? The feeling? The truth?
His blood ran cold at the idea. But God help him, it might be true.
Lowering his gaze to the floor, he ordered himself to back up. And back away, before it was too late.
He’d shut his emotions down a long, long time ago. That was his defense mechanism.
He’d screwed up his life and his head. He’d turned his back on the light and allowed the dark to take over. If he hadn’t, the pain would have consumed him by now. Pain spurred by memories—of sirens and red and blue flashes, and the eerie strains of carnival music.
Of a single deadly gunshot…
He swore as he pictured the moment, brought his eyes up, let them harden. No way was Darcy going to die.
So why the hell was he still here while she was at the hospital? If he wanted to keep her safe, distance wasn’t the answer.
When he started to set his mug aside, the bottom bumped against the filing cabinet. Some of the coffee sloshed over the sides.
Since Val’s files were covered with stains, he wasn’t overly concerned. He gave the folders a shake to dislodge the worst of the spill and set them on a shelf to dry.
He would have left it at that if the name on the third folder hadn’t caught his eye. The name—and the DMV snapshot that slipped out to land on the credenza.
Mostly because it was turned toward him, Marlowe regarded the blown-up shot. He’d seen better, but who couldn’t say that about their driver’s license picture?
Instead of returning the photo to the file, however, he found himself studying it. The longer he did, the edgier he became. Something felt wrong to him, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
He honed in on the eyes. Windows to the soul, if you believed. Not right was all he saw. The shape was off. Same thing with the nose and mouth. As for the ears…
The truth hit like a blow to the stomach. “Dammit!” His insides gave a single vicious twist. His throat went dry.
Shooting off from the cabinet, he grabbed his keys and his gun, checked the clock. It was closing in on eight-thirty.
Darcy would be at the hospital, would have been there for more than an hour by now. Sixty-plus minutes, in a large building, with corridors that crisscrossed like a maze and a reduced night staff probably already in place.
As he ran, he pulled out his cell, punched Darcy’s name. The line was busy.
Swearing, he pushed past a man in cuffs and two more with black eyes. He hit Blydon’s number and the stairs simultaneously, but had to slow to a jog as he approached the entrance.
An incoming group of people, police and civilians, blocked the doorway.
Blydon didn’t answer. Pressing his phone off, Marlowe wedged himself through on the side. He would have made it if a woman in the back hadn’t separated herself from the officer next to her and rushed over to wrap the fingers of both hands around his arm.
Sobbing hysterically, she threw herself against his chest.
Chapter Sixteen
“Said blue shoes. Sang it, sort of. Did a dance. Then he got mad and knocked me down. I thought he was gonna do me. Something stopped him. Grabbed my cart. Shoved it. Took off.”
Matilda’s voice resembled sandpaper. Her knobby fingers worried her hospital blanket. She stared for a moment before her eyes left Darcy’s face and went to the curtained wall in front of her.
“Seen that look before. Crazy man. Got no feeling ’cept for what he wants. Gonna get it no matter what. Said he’d do me later. That’s all I remember. Watched my cart run away, then the park went fuzzy.”
Darcy showed her the police drawing of Ivan Kazarov. “Was this the man you saw, Matilda?”
The old woman rocked back and forth against her pillow. “Saw him, yeah. Didn’t stop, just ran past like the devil was after him. Saw three men, all running. Tallest one was best. He yours?”
“Not exactly…”
“You want him to be yours, I bet. Don’t blame you.” She rocked some more, then stopped and reached out a finger to touch Darcy’s hair. “Pretty,” she said. “Soft.” Her vision clouded. “Keep seeing blue shoes. Both times I saw him, singing ’bout blue shoes.”
Darcy let her touch, but patted her wrist to keep her on track. “Was the song ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ Matilda?”
A wispy smile revealed large gaps between the old woman’s teeth. “Singing like Elvis. I remember it now. Blue shoes…”
She started to hum. Because it seemed to make her happy, Darcy motioned for Comet to stay there while she slipped away to join Val on the other side of the curtain.
“This isn’t telling us anything,” he muttered. “We already know about the Elvis deal.”
“We also know that Kazarov isn’t the person who attacked her. Which means—” she shivered “—he’s not the one who’s been attacking me.”
“What we have, Darcy, is a lunatic with a weird proclivity for Elvis and a guy with a mystery agenda who appears to be a New York Yankees fan. Doesn’t exactly make the picture any clearer.”
“It separates some of the elements. Matilda said, ‘Both times I saw him, singing about blue shoes.’ Both times, Val. When he stole her cart and used it to try and knock Marlowe down, and again when he attacked her in the parking lot at the street shelter. Same song, same guy.”
“Same guy, same no description. Unless there’s someone out there singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ constantly, we still can’t put a face to whoever’s after you. I suppose we could go with Trace Grogan, except no one’s actually seen him, in the hospital or on the grounds.”
“I saw him.”
He held up a hand. “I believe you. I’m just saying.”
Darcy heard her cell phone ring. However, when she reached into her shoulder bag, it wasn’t there. Had she left it on Matilda’s bed?
The ringing stopped. She glanced at the curtain. “Do you still want me to talk to Kazarov?”
Val rubbed a bloodshot eye. “If the orderlies ever finish changing his sheets.”
“It’s been over thirty minutes. I’m sure they’re done by now. Give me a second, okay?” Stepping around the curtain, she found Matilda still singing to herself and Comet cheerfully chatting to someone on her cell phone.
“Don’t you worry about her. I’m here, and so are the cops. We won’t let no one kill her.” He looked over, grinned. “Here she is now. You can talk to her yourself.”
Darcy took the phone. “Who is it?”
“Said she’s your godmother.”
She winced and took a deep breath. “Nana, hi…No, that wasn’t a new boyfriend…No, we haven’t been drinking. I’m sorry, I haven’t got much time, but here’s a brief version of the story…”
HE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE to go. He knew exactly what to do. Opportunity was what he needed now.
Marlowe wasn’t here. Too bad about that, but he’d still suffer when she was dead—assuming he loved her, and he probably did.
“Gonna leave you all shook up, Mr. P.I. Gonna make the Darcy doll mine forever.”
Excitement simmered. He prepped his gun, stuffed it into his pants, rearranged his top to cover it and took a last walk around the seventh floor.
Spotting a stationary trolley, he snagged one of the items on top. When the song started up in his head, he began to get hard.
LIKE THE GUARD OUTSIDE Matilda’s door, the officer watching Kazarov gave Comet a strange look as he scuttled past. Waving him off, Val ushere
d Darcy and the little man into the room.
“Give me a minute. I seem to have lost some patrolmen.”
From behind Darcy’s shoulder, Comet sneered. “Guy don’t look like a killer to me.”
Darcy cocked her head at the man whose eyes remained firmly shut. “Is there a specific look associated with the hit world?”
“Yeah, and it’s tougher than a has-been boxer with a cauliflower ear and a bent nose.”
Perching on the bed, she leaned over Kazarov. “I work with a guy who pretends to be asleep almost as well as you do, Mr. Kaarov. I recognize the signs.”
A pulse jumped in Kazarov’s neck. Without opening his eyes, he offered a reedy, “Call me dead meat, sweetheart, ’cause that’s what I’m gonna be soon enough. Old Conly’ll see to that.”
“Who’s Old Conly?” Darcy asked.
“Boss man.” Kazarov began to drift. “Knew I was crap as a killer. Only ever did one guy, and I got lucky with him. Heart wasn’t in it, Conly said. Hired me as a backup to his lawyer. Lugo went with the safe bet. He figured once he had you flushed out, he could do the rest. But outfox a crazy fox? Nuh-uh, Umer, don’t think so. And I was right. There’s Lugo, floating in a tub, and his mission’s nowhere near complete. Maybe things are even worse now. Enter me. The big screwup.” Kazarov’s slurry voice faded in and out. “But I got ideas. Oh, yeah. I’ve got a plan to flush and trap.”
Comet tugged her arm. “Mind if I find a bathroom?” he whispered.
“No, go ahead.” She studied Kazarov’s face. “Are you still awake?”
“Yeah. Lotta painkillers. Lotta pain.”
Unsure how hard to push, Darcy continued. “It isn’t that I’m not grateful, but why are you telling me all this and not the police?”
A laugh gurgled out. “Feel like I know you. Maybe feel bad, too. Got a kid myself, a girl. Don’t see her much. Thirteen. Pretty kid. Blonde, like you. Hope she lives longer.”
Fear bounced from Darcy’s stomach to her throat. “Longer than who?” she asked.