Roses After Midnight

by Linda Randall Wisdom

  Celeste felt guilt tease the back of her mind, but she didn’t voice an apology for almost taking his head off. Instead, she returned to leafing through her notebook to review their last interview with Barbara Miller. She remembered the woman was a landscape artist who worked in oils and that she owned a successful gallery that featured local artists. She tapped her pen against the edge of the desk. “One more thing. Every victim has been fairly successful in her respective field. None has a husband who works nights. In fact, none is married. They’ve all been single.”

  “Which means he’s a rapist with a skewed moral code. He doesn’t go after married women. It’s already been said the roses left on the pillow are his way of romancing them.” He began juggling his balls again, this time four of them. Then he started tossing them one by one to Celeste, who tossed them back to him.

  “So does he need to target single working women to feel superior in some way or because he feels they’re his equal?” she mused.

  “Or because he thinks they need romance.”

  “But they all had men in their lives.”

  “Janice Bowen and her fiancé broke up,” Dylan said.

  The gears in Celeste’s brain started clicking away. “That didn’t happen until after the rape, but for all we know they might have been having problems before then. And Lori and her boyfriend had recently broken up.”

  They stared at each other as if a silent conversation flowed between them.

  “What about the others?” She rapidly skimmed her notes. “Did you write anything down about their love lives?”

  “Marie Richardson had a boyfriend, but they weren’t getting along,” Dylan added. “Nothing on Barbara Miller. You?”

  Celeste shook her head. “Zip. We’ll have to ask her.” She reached into her desk drawer and withdrew a chocolate truffle. She nibbled on the sweet as she continued studying her notes.

  “How can you eat that so early in the day?”

  “I didn’t have time for breakfast,” she said defensively. “Besides, it’s like having a chocolate doughnut.”

  “Not even close. And you make fun of my eating habits.”

  “Chocolate is like a basic black dress. It goes with anything,” she said loftily, finishing her candy. “I think we’ll need to not only ask Barbara if there’s a man in her life, but if there’s also been problems lately with her love life.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. I think it should be our number one question,” Dylan said.

  Celeste nodded. “It’s at the top of my list. But first you’re going to have to feed me. I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”

  Dylan snapped his notebook shut as he stood up. “We’ll leave now so we can hit a fast-food restaurant on the way. I don’t want you embarrassing me with a growling stomach.”

  Later, pacified with a sausage and biscuit, a food choice that would have horrified her mother, Celeste felt better. She and Dylan parked in the small side lot next to the Miller Gallery. They paused at the bay window that displayed two paintings.

  Dylan studied one canvas that looked like slashes of red, black, yellow and bright blue. “Is it me or does that picture make you feel incredibly depressed?” he asked.

  Celeste did her own perusing. “There’s an awful lot of black paint splashed across it.”

  “Your professional take?”

  She shrugged. “This isn’t a Rorschach test.” She noticed movement inside the gallery. “She sees us. We better go inside.” With Dylan on her heels, she pushed open the door.

  “Barbara.” With a warm smile on her lips, Celeste walked up to the woman with her hand stretched out. “How are you doing?”

  Celeste knew Barbara Miller was in her late forties, but she took great care of her looks, shaving a good ten years off her age. She wore a black knit tunic top and slim-cut pants, her only accent a bold silver belt that hung loosely on her hips. Silvery-blond hair was pulled back in a braid. The shadows under her eyes were minimized with concealer and her pale features were highlighted with a bare hint of blush. It was her eyes that struck Celeste the most.

  This was a woman who was very afraid.

  “Why haven’t you caught him yet?”

  Celeste remembered the woman was someone used to being in control. The sad thing was, in the space of a few hours, Barbara had lost that sense of control, leaving her feeling vulnerable.

  Curtains now covered windows that looked out over the rear of the building. An extra dead bolt guarded the rear door and a new security alarm keypad had appeared on the wall by the door. Celeste wondered if it had been done since news of Lori Ritter’s death hit the papers.

  “I should have done it long ago,” Barbara said, noticing the direction of Celeste’s gaze. She threaded her fingers together, then released them. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Sensing the woman needed to keep busy, Celeste and Dylan accepted her offer and followed her to the rear of the building.

  “Erin, we’ll be back in my office,” she called out to her assistant, a young woman in her twenties. “If anyone calls, just take a message. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  The decor of Barbara’s office depicted the woman before her life changed. Brightly colored pillows splashed color across the oatmeal-colored fabric chairs and couch.

  Celeste accepted the coffee as she seated herself on the couch beside Dylan. Barbara chose a chair to Celeste’s left.

  “I realize this is difficult for you,” she said.

  “Difficult?” Barbara laughed without humor. “They tell you to go forward. It’s not easy to do when you have constant reminders. And now women are dying.”

  “Yes, now women are dying,” Celeste said firmly. “Detective Parker and I are doing everything possible to track this person down before anyone else is hurt. As you know, this man hasn’t left any evidence that will help us find him. I know you don’t want to relive that night, but we’re hoping if you think about it, you might remember something. Perhaps something happened when you were first awakened, or maybe you remember something about his voice, or maybe even something else that you may have dismissed before?”

  Barbara closed her eyes and shuddered. She shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I just can’t. The bastard talked to me as if he were my lover, and when he talked, he whispered. There was no accent, no way of saying words that gave a hint. When he was finished, he bathed me as if I were some precious possession of his!” Her face twisted with revulsion. “He acted as if we were a couple.”

  “I once read an article about you, where you said you paint from your soul,” Dylan said.

  “How would I paint him?” she asked, easily guessing what was coming.

  He nodded.

  She sat very still, except for her hands, which restlessly picked at the nap of her pants.

  “Orange,” she said finally.

  “Orange?” Celeste and Dylan looked at each other.

  Barbara nodded. “Not the color, the scent. When I paint, I paint using all my scents. I keep bowls of potpourri around or I burn candles. He wore gloves, but I could smell orange on his skin, on his arms. Maybe an orange-scented soap. Does that help?”

  “It definitely could,” Celeste agreed. “Does anything else come to mind?”

  Barbara shook her head. It was clear she didn’t want to try any longer.

  “We thank you for talking to us,” Celeste said, sensing the interview was over. “If anything else occurs to you, please call us.”

  “As much as I want this disgusting animal caught, the last thing I want is to remember more,” Barbara said. “But now I understand why I can no longer abide orange juice.”

  “Well, that last five minutes reminded me of my last date,” Dylan muttered as they walked back to their vehicle.

  “Her practically pushing us out the door?”

  “That—and the paints, except she wanted to use finger paints.”

  She sighed. “Okay, I’ll bite. She wanted to paint your picture
using finger paints?”

  Dylan feigned impatience. “No, she wanted to paint me with her finger paints.”

  “If anyone heard us, they’d think we don’t care,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, if we didn’t make jokes, we’d be fitted for those cute little white jackets with all the buckles,” he told her. “You’re the one with the psych degree. You’d know that better than most.”

  “I do.” She grimaced as raindrops hit her face. “I’m ready for some dry weather!”

  “Look on the bright side. We have another lead.”

  “Let’s see if anyone else mentions orange-scented skin.”

  Dylan glanced back at the building. “She’s scared as hell.”

  Celeste nodded. “Yes, she is, and as a result she’s made herself a prisoner in her own territory. I bet her house is just as secure as the gallery. The sad thing is, she won’t be free until she’s ready to free herself.”

  Chapter 11

  C eleste didn’t see Luc when she walked into the restaurant that evening, but she knew he was there. All she had to do was feel that flutter inside her stomach and tingle along her nape.

  She hadn’t bothered telling Stryker she wasn’t about to pursue Luc. That she kept private. She’d allowed few men into her life. She didn’t feel the need to have one around full-time and she hadn’t met anyone who could handle her job. She’d come home from more than one date convinced she was better off with her fish.

  Since the evening was slow, she and Flip decided to use their free time to rearrange the tables.

  “What are you doing?” Luc scowled at them as he walked in.

  “It looks nicer this way,” Celeste explained, pushing a chair back up against a table.

  He looked around. “Feng shui?”

  Flip giggled.

  “More like easier to navigate around the tables whether you’re entering from the dining room or the entryway,” Celeste said.

  Luc looked around and could see that the subtle changes she and Flip had made with the tables accomplished exactly what she’d said.

  “Just no lace curtains on the windows,” he murmured as he walked around the bar and pulled out two bottles of sparkling water. He set them on the bar along with two ice-filled glasses. He poured the water into the glasses and added a twist of lime and a straw to each. He glanced at Flip. “Isn’t it time for your break?”

  “Uh, no—oh.” She looked from one to the other. “Yes.” She scurried out of the room.

  “It didn’t take you long to clear the room,” said Celeste.

  “It’s a gift.” He carried the two glasses over to one of the tables and set them down. “Have a drink.”

  She took the chair next to him. “It’s not time for my break.”

  “Boss’s prerogative.” He glanced at the straw he’d put in the glass, then discarded it. “Never did like them. Guess I put it in out of habit. I worked as a bartender my junior year in college.”

  “Hear any good stories?” She sipped her drink.

  “There was Warren, who came in every night to lament about Sheila after she dumped him for Tony. I learned a lot more about Sheila than I ever wanted to know,” he recalled. “Including her habit of chewing bubble gum during sex.”

  “That must have been sticky,” Celeste said deadpan.

  “Only when she blew bubbles.” He waited a beat. “I still want to help out with your case.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  He must have read the expression on her face. “And your partner disagrees.”

  “Civilians aren’t allowed to get involved—for many reasons. Liability is just one of them.”

  “Then, spend some time with me tomorrow. Pick my brain about the people who work here, my recollections of the victims,” he suggested. “I promise to be good, so your partner won’t have to come along.”

  “Gee, Luc, you’re making it sound like a date,” she laughed.

  “Spend tomorrow with me,” he said again, his expression softening.

  Celeste could think of a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t spend time with him.

  “We’re in the midst of a difficult case,” she said slowly. “It’s not a good time for me to take a day off.”

  “Even to interview someone who might be able to help with the investigation?” he pointed out. “I would think your superiors would be happy that you have the chance to talk to an outside source.”

  “Outside source,” Celeste murmured. The idea of spending the day with Luc was tempting. She might even get lucky and…no! She gave her brain a smack for veering off the straight and narrow. She meant she might get lucky and indulge her curiosity about Luc, the man. One look into those bottomless deep blue eyes was enough to send any woman thinking about things that were better off unthought.

  That was her story and she was sticking to it.

  “Maybe you can come up with something we haven’t thought of,” she conceded.

  “I’ll pick you up at nine. If what you gave me was your real address.”

  “It’s where I’m presently living.” She finished her drink and stood up. “Time to get back to work before the boss catches me slacking off,” she confided with a whisper. She picked up his glass.

  Celeste was aware of Luc’s gaze as she walked back to the bar.

  She considered her meeting with Luc tomorrow to be work, but there was a part of her that wondered if it wasn’t really a date.

  He followed her to make sure she got home safely. That was why he stayed out here and watched as her apartment lights went on one by one. It had started raining again an hour ago, but he didn’t notice the rain or cold weather. Watching over her gave him a warm feeling. And when the time came, he’d show her just how much she meant to him. He would give her everything she deserved and more.

  Bare skin moved against bare skin. Parted lips as soft as silk slid across his chest. The words whispered were erotic, praising him. Her hands were equally magical as they trailed downward until they found the spot he ached for her to touch. He arched up, alternately cursing her and giving her his stamp of approval for what she was doing. He never begged, but he begged now. With her lips against his ear, her hands loving him, he knew he was in heaven.

  With a gasp he sat up and opened his eyes.

  Luc was alone in his bed.

  Heaven had turned to hell.

  He felt as if someone had taken his body and twisted it into one incredible aroused knot. He pushed himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, he splashed cold water on his face. He doubted even an ice bath would cool off the fire that was going on below his waist. He was as hard as a rock.

  Hands planted on the counter, head hanging down, he gulped in precious air that had been missing only seconds before.

  It had all been so real! Celeste had been there in bed with him, showing him what it felt like to really feel something. To allow his emotions free range as if he didn’t have a care in the world other than to make love with her.

  Even though the air was chilly and he was naked, he didn’t feel cold.

  Luc lifted his head and stared into the mirror. He didn’t need to turn on a light. He’d always had excellent night vision. It helped if you were breaking into someone’s house in the middle of the night.

  In six hours he would be picking her up to spend the day with her. The purpose was to discuss the Prince Charming case, but he knew—he was sure they both knew—there was more to it than that.

  How ironic that the man who vowed to not spend even five seconds with a cop was planning on spending an entire day with one.

  Of course, when he made that vow he hadn’t counted on a woman who provoked him into breaking too many of his self-imposed rules.

  He muttered a curse and stumbled back to bed. Maybe if he fell asleep right away his haunting dream would return. For a brief second he teased himself with the question, What would have happened if his life had turned out differently? If his mother had kept him and raised
him in a house filled with love and warmth. All he wanted was the chance to better his odds. Except, Luc was a realist all the way down to his bones. If he had been a privileged child, he might not have met up with Paulie and Jimmy and he wouldn’t have the good life he had now.

  The way he looked at it, no matter what happened there was no chance on earth for him to ever have something serious with Celeste. So he’d take what time he could get and file everything away in his memory.

  Because he knew she would walk away from him. If his mother, who should have loved him, didn’t want him, why would a woman it would be so easy to love, but who feared to give in to that emotion, want him?

  There were too many thoughts whirling around in Luc’s head for him to easily return to sleep. He lay awake and watched the faint streaks of light eventually make a path across the ceiling. He shouldn’t have allowed his unconscious to conjure up the dream of what could have been. It only cemented the fact that what could have been would never be.

  Considering he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep, Luc felt pretty alert when he parked in front of Celeste’s apartment building. He guessed the building was a good thirty years old and not as well maintained as it could be. He also figured that security wasn’t a major consideration here.

  Celeste’s apartment was on the second floor. He didn’t miss the fairly new dead bolt on her door. He should have known she would choose a good one. He doubted he would have been able to pick it during his heyday as a sneak thief, and he’d had the magic touch to finesse even the most difficult lock.

  He knocked and waited.

  “Right on time.” Celeste greeted him as she opened the door. “Coffeepot’s still on if you need caffeine. I can promise you that I make a mean cup of coffee even if it doesn’t resemble mud like Tank’s.” She walked through the tiny living room and into an even tinier space that doubled as a kitchen, with a bar instead of a table. She poured coffee into a large mug and handed it to him.

  “Tank’s coffee takes a lot of getting used to,” Luc admitted, examining the mug. He glanced at her.

  “A generic place,” she murmured, as if there was a chance of their being overheard, “but I managed to bring along a few of my personal things. Extra-large coffee mugs are a necessity for me.”