Charade

by Sandra Brown

  With trembling hands she opened the plastic bag, dumped out a small mound of cocaine, and, with a playing card, cut two neat lines of it on a chipped mirror. He leaned over and snorted them through a short straw, then rubbed the excess into his gums. The hit was potent.

  “Ah, better.” He sighed. Splaying his hand in the middle of her back, he bent her forward over the dresser and unfastened his pants.

  “Not now!”

  “Shut up.” He tried to wedge his hand between her legs, but she kept them tightly clamped. He slapped the side of her head again, harder this time, and she cried out. “Open your legs and shut up,” he growled.

  “I don’t want to do it like this.”

  “All right.” His tone was silky, but his face was twisted and ugly. He wound a handful of her hair around his fist and forced her around to face him, pushing her to her knees and cramming his erection into her face.

  “If you don’t want it like that, we’ll do it like this. See how nice I am? You like this better? Huh?” He pulled her hair tighter. “And if you hurt me, I’ll tear every frigging hair out of your head by the roots.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do it good.” Tears of pain and humiliation streamed from her eyes as she looked at the sleeping child. “But in the other room.”

  “I like this room.”

  “Not here, please. The baby.” She sobbed.

  “Jesus, you’re ugly when you bawl like that.”

  “I’ll stop crying. I will, I swear. Just please don’t make me—”

  “The kid’s asleep,” he whispered. “But I can wake him up. Come to think of it, it might be educational for him.” He made a move toward the bed.

  She clutched his legs. “No, no.” Her pleas were almost soundless.

  “Then get to it.”

  Half his pleasure was derived from watching from above as she avidly went about it, her mouth working hard and fast. In desperation she tried to get him off as quickly as possible and put an end to it.

  He was too smart for the bitch. Having caught on to that trick, he held back for as long as he could. When he came, he brayed like a jackass.

  Miraculously, Michael slept through it.

  After supper, he settled down to watch TV. The news was on every channel. He flipped from one to the other, waiting out the crap until Vanna White came on.

  A cute redhead on one of the channels caught his attention. He’d seen her before but hadn’t paid much attention. Her face was okay, but she had no tits to speak of. A picture of a kid had been positioned behind her right shoulder. She was speaking earnestly into the camera.

  “…was neglected. Both his parents were drug abusers. He’ll have some difficulties bonding, but he has unlimited potential to become a bright, healthy, emotionally stable child. With the right family giving him the affection and guidance he needs, he…”

  Murphy listened with mounting interest. When the story was over and the redhead turned the newscast back over to the dorky anchorman, Murphy looked hard at the boy playing in the corner of the room with that dirty, stuffed bunny of his.

  The kid was a nuisance. He didn’t make much noise, and he’d learned the hard way to stay out of Murphy’s way. But Michael was always interfering with something he wanted to do—screw, snort, you name it.

  He had to watch everything he did in his own house. Because of the kid, she was always nagging him about this or that. Don’t do that where Michael can see you; don’t say that where Michael can hear you. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Jesus! It was enough to drive a man freaking crazy.

  And that goddamn caseworker was always poking her long, skinny nose into his business. She was probably the one who’d put the cops onto him the last time he’d had to work over his old lady. So he’d knocked her around a little. She’d needed it. He’d come home and she wasn’t there. When she finally showed up, she wouldn’t give him a straight answer about where she’d been. What was he supposed to do, let her get away with shit like that? He should never have agreed to let her do that bead stringing, either. It gave her too much independence.

  But his major problem was the kid. Almost every time she got out of line, it related to him. If the little fart wasn’t around, life would be a lot more pleasurable.

  Adoption, the redhead had said. Not for orphans necessarily, but for kids whose parents had grown sick and tired of them and wanted to get rid of them. Garage-sale kids. It sounded good to him.

  He glanced at her as she sat working with her beads. She’d go totally apeshit if Michael was taken away permanently. But sooner or later she’d get over it. What choice would she have? Or maybe she wouldn’t get that upset if she knew that Michael had been adopted into a good home. Whatever the hell that was.

  Murphy slurped his beer as Vanna turned letters, but his mind was on the redhead. She might have the solution to his problem.

  It bore thinking about.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Cat?”

  “Good lord!” She jumped and reflexively flattened her hand over her lurching heart. “I didn’t know anybody was in here.”

  The television studio was dark and, she’d thought, deserted.

  “Nobody is. Just me. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Alex eased himself out of the anchorman’s chair behind the news desk and sauntered toward her. Fright had rooted her to the floor.

  In the dark, the television cameras looked like life forms from an alien environment, with their myriad cables coiling around them and snaking along the concrete floor like electronic umbilicals. The monitor screens were unblinking, sightless eyes. At this late hour, when they were no longer performing their high-tech functions, the studio equipment assumed the shapes of nightmarish creatures.

  Until recently, such a silly notion would never have crossed Cat’s mind. As it was, she was seeing ghosts and goblins everywhere.

  “How’d you know where to find me?” she asked.

  “I was told you usually take a short-cut through the studio on your way out.”

  “Who told you that? How’d you even get in here?”

  “I talked my way past the guard.”

  “They’re not supposed to let anyone into the building who isn’t authorized.”

  “Old Bob extended me a professional courtesy.”

  “Old Bob?”

  “We’re already on a first-name basis. Once I told him that I was a former policeman, he couldn’t have been more accommodating. He served on the San Antonio PD before retiring and becoming a rent-a-cop.”

  “That former-cop camaraderie must come in handy.”

  “It opens closed doors,” he said with a shrug. “Are you cold?”

  Arms folded across her chest, she was hugging her elbows, but she hadn’t been aware of it. “A little, I guess. I hadn’t really noticed.”

  “Or are you shivering because of what happened in here this afternoon?”

  Her eyes snapped up to his. “How’d you know about it?”

  “I was here.”

  “You were here? Why?”

  “I’d come to see you. I arrived just after the fire truck got here. In the confusion, I talked my way past Old Bob, but I didn’t make it as far as the studio. It was cordoned off, and they wouldn’t let me through.

  “I asked one of the cops what was going on, and he told me. I identified myself as a friend and asked to see you, but his orders were to let absolutely no one in.”

  She wished she’d known that Alex was in the building. Everyone had been solicitous, but he was a stalwart presence she would have liked to have there following the incident. Keeping her eyes downcast, she murmured, “Accidents happen.”

  “You’re sure it was an accident?”

  Her soft, nervous laugh didn’t convey much conviction. “Of course it was an accident. I just happened to be seated in that chair when the light fell.”

  “Show me.”

  He followed her to the news desk. There were four swivel chairs behind it. Two were for the anchormen, on
e for the weatherman who chatted with the anchorman before moving to the station’s famed “weather center” on the other side of the studio. The fourth chair was for the sportscaster.

  “As you know, I’m rarely on the set during a telecast. All my appearances are prerecorded. When I record them, I generally sit here,” she said, placing her hands on the back of the sportscaster’s chair. “Today, I was about halfway through my opening remarks when it happened.”

  She pointed upward. The broken studio light had already been replaced with a new one. “Third light from the left,” she told Alex.

  “It fell from the grid and crashed onto the desk?”

  “Here.”

  The fresh scars in the Formica were clearly visible. A crescent-shaped chunk was missing from the edge of the desk, as though someone had taken a huge bite out of it.

  “I’m lucky that didn’t happen to my skull,” she said, running her finger along the jagged gouge. “The light missed my head by inches and almost fell directly into my lap. Made a heck of a racket. Broken glass. Crushed metal.”

  She attempted a grin, but it was feeble. “Needless to say, I had to do a second take.”

  “Did anyone offer an explanation?”

  “Within minutes the studio was full of people. Bill left a sales meeting and rushed down here. Someone called 911. That’s why the fire truck was here. Paramedics, too, although neither I nor anyone on the crew was injured, which was a miracle.

  “After a while, the police, along with our rent-a-cops, shooed everybody out so the mess could be cleaned up. Bill was on a rampage. He demanded an explanation from the lighting technicians.”

  “And?”

  “They didn’t have one. He threatened to fire them all, but I persuaded him not to. It could never be proved whose negligence had caused it to fall, so it would be unfair to punish the entire lighting crew.”

  “Did they inspect the light?”

  “Yes. Apparently the bolt was loose.”

  “So it was negligence.”

  “Either that or it had worked its way loose.”

  “Worked its way loose?”

  “Something like that,” she snapped. She was impatient with his skepticism and frightened because it closely coincided with her own.

  “Hmm.”

  “I hate it when you do that!”

  “Do what?”

  “That ‘hmm.’ Implying that whatever I’ve just said is—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Well, what do you think happened?”

  “I think you had the bejesus scared out of you, and it was no accident.”

  She folded her arms over her chest again, a subconscious, self-protective gesture. “That’s crazy. Who’d want to harm Kurt?”

  “Kurt?”

  “The sportscaster.”

  “The light didn’t fall when Kurt was on the set. It fell when you were.”

  “So, you’re saying that the light was rigged and timed to fall on me?”

  “Yeah. And that’s what you think, too.”

  “Don’t presume to know what I think.”

  “It’s an easy guess. Otherwise you wouldn’t look like a jigsaw puzzle that’s about to come apart.”

  Knowing it would be useless to deny her jitters, she decided to play devil’s advocate. “Assuming you’re right, why would anyone want to harm me?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “But you’ve got a hunch.” He laid his finger against her lips to halt her protest. “I sensed something was wrong the other night when you saw the strange car parked in front of your house.”

  “I was apprehensive. Anybody would be.”

  “You were disproportionately apprehensive,” he argued. “As though you’d been anticipating trouble. Even before that night, you were acting like a basket case. Any particular reason why?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  Suddenly drained of energy, she lowered her head and massaged her temples. “You win by default, Alex. I don’t feel like sparring tonight.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

  “Because it…” She hesitated. “Because I’m going home to bed.”

  She turned to go. He fell into step with her. “Is your boyfriend still at your house?”

  “He isn’t my boyfriend.”

  He stopped.

  She stopped, turned, and looked at him meaningfully. “Not anymore.”

  “I see.”

  They tacitly agreed not to pursue her relationship with Dean Spicer and continued on their way out of the building, stopping to say good night to Old Bob.

  He beamed at Alex. “Thanks for the autograph.” A copy of Alex’s book lay open on his desk. “It’s my kind of read.”

  “Enjoy it,” Alex said to his new fan as he held open the heavy metal exit door for Cat.

  “You bribed him,” she accused.

  “It was something to fall back on if swapping stories about the good old days didn’t do the trick.”

  “How did you know I’d be here tonight? I usually don’t work this late.” The parking lot was virtually empty. Even the late news crew had left.

  “It was another lucky guess. You weren’t at home.”

  “You went by the house first?”

  “And chance bumping into Spicer again? Not on a bet. I called and got no answer.”

  “What did you want to see me about?”

  “I wanted to hear your version of the studio accident.”

  “Before that. Why’d you come to the studio this afternoon?”

  They had reached her car. Propping his elbow on the roof of it, he faced her. “To apologize in person for hurting your…uh, Spicer.”

  “He wasn’t badly hurt,” she said. “Embarrassed more than anything, I think.” Alex seemed on the verge of saying something else. When he didn’t, she unlocked and opened her car door. “Apology accepted, Alex. Good night.”

  “Look, Cat, the guy’s a drip. What do you see in him?”

  “Well, for one thing he saved my life,” she retorted.

  “So you feel obligated to him.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “How obligated?”

  “Stop it, Alex.” She had tried to shout, but her voice cracked. “Just shut up and…and leave me alone. I told you I don’t feel like fighting with you tonight. I…today…you…”

  To her utter mortification, she burst into tears.

  “Aw, hell,” he said, pulling her against him.

  She wanted to resist but hadn’t either the physical or emotional strength to do so. His arms held her while she cried. After several minutes of hard weeping, she raised her head, accepted the handkerchief he offered, and blew her nose.

  “That incident with the falling light has you more frightened than you know, Cat.”

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not crying over that. It’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I really don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Jeez, you’re stubborn.” He moved her aside and relocked her car door. Then he turned her around and gave her a push in the opposite direction. “Come on.”

  “Where? I just want to go home.”

  “I don’t mean to be unkind, but I’ve seen scarecrows who’d put you to shame. I’m going to see that you get something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Within half an hour they arrived at his apartment carting two chicken dinners from KFC. Rather than set the table, they decided to eat off trays in the living room. He sat in the corner of the sofa, Cat on the floor in front of the coffee table.

  “I have to admit, this is good,” she said around a mouthful. “You’re a nutritional saboteur, you know. Burgers and fries. Fried chicken.”

  “Cops subsist on fast food. I defy you to show me a cop who likes tofu, yogurt, and wheat germ.”

  She laughed a
s she saluted him with a plastic spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy. He wasn’t laughing. In fact, he was studying her intently. “What?” she asked uneasily.

  He blinked himself out of his momentary trance. “I was just thinking how mercurial your moods are. Not me. My bad moods last for days, weeks, even months if the writing’s going badly. You had a crying jag, and you’re cleansed. Maybe men should learn to cry.”

  “Don’t let my appetite deceive you. My body was demanding the nourishment I’d denied it the last thirty-six hours or so, but I’m still depressed.”

  “Why? Spicer leave in a huff?”

  “Yes, but Dean’s not the reason I’m depressed.” She picked at a half-eaten biscuit, pinching off a piece and rolling it between her fingers. “Chantal, the little girl who recently had the kidney transplant, died this morning.”

  He muttered an obscenity, steepled his fingers, and covered his mouth and nose with his hands. After a moment he said, “I’m sorry, Cat.”

  “Me, too.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was mercifully quick. She rejected. Total shutdown of kidney function. Nothing went right. She died.” She dusted the biscuit crumbs from her hands. “Her adoptive parents are devastated. So is Sherry. Jeff cried like a baby when we got the news. Everyone on the crew that produced the piece on her is grief-stricken. She’d become our…our poster child, a shining example of how an unfortunate child’s future can be rerouted.”

  “She can still be your poster child.”

  “Alex, she’s dead.”

  “I fail to see—”

  “I meddled in these people’s lives,” she interrupted in a raised voice. “I made Chantal love them. I made them love her. They took her into their home, went through that ordeal, witnessed her pain, and suffered it with her. And what have they got to show for that emotional roller-coaster ride now?”

  She made a sound of disgust. “A televised funeral, that’s what. Reporters swarming around Chantal’s tiny casket and badgering them for a comment. Their grief is a media event. All thanks to me.”

  She propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. “I was feverishly working at my desk tonight, trying to get my mind off Chantal’s death and onto something positive. But all I could think about was the trauma I’d put that couple through.”