Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “It’s nothing you can smoke,” Cat remarked.

  He flashed a reptilian grin. “That’s funny.”

  Still grinning, he returned the bowl to the table. “So this is how TV stars live. Classy. A lot better than the pigsty I share with my old lady and kid, huh?”

  Cat declined to agree with the obvious. “What are you doing here at this time of night, Mr. Murphy? What’s so urgent that you have to see me now?”

  He strolled into the living room and threw himself onto her white sofa, planting his boots on the matching ottoman. “Hey, chill, okay? You came to see me first, remember? You started this, not me.”

  “Started what?”

  “This shit about Sparky. I hadn’t thought of that little runt in years, then you came along with your cop friend in his fancy car and stirred up a bunch of shit about him.”

  He snickered as his good eye traveled up and down her body. “Sparky’s asshole was no higher off the ground than yours.”

  He made her skin crawl. She felt particularly vulnerable standing before him wearing only her bathrobe. Which of the house phones would be easiest to reach from this room? How quickly could she dial 911? Was there a sturdy lock on her bedroom door? She didn’t know. She’d never needed it before.

  She called upon her acting skills to conceal her fear. “You’re wrong about Mr. Pierce. He’s not a cop.”

  He guffawed. “Who do you think you’re bullshitting, lady?”

  “I defer to your superior knowledge of policemen,” she said beneath her breath, then left it alone. “Furthermore, why should it bother you that we asked a few questions about your friend Sparky?”

  “Wasn’t no friend of mine.”

  “So what do you care?”

  “I don’t. But it got me to thinking.”

  That must have been a stretch. “About what?” she asked.

  He toyed with a silver button on his leather vest. “You think you got the little cocksucker’s heart, right?”

  “It’s a possibility. But unless you came here tonight to confess to three murders, and to making threats to me through the mail, I don’t see what concern it is of yours. So why don’t you take your filthy feet off my furniture and get the hell out of my house?”

  He winked at her with his good eye. “You’re a regular chili pepper, aren’t you, Red? You got a real smart mouth on you. Do you fuck as fiery as you talk?”

  If she allowed him to provoke her, she would be playing right into his dirty hands. Instead, she folded her arms at her waist and tried to appear bored. “It’s late, Mr. Murphy. Please state your business and leave.”

  He laid his head back on the pillows of the sofa, repositioned his feet on the ottoman, and nestled his butt deeper into the seat cushions.

  She would have to burn that furniture.

  “The little bastard’s not mine.”

  “Pardon?”

  Grinning in his mean, sinister way, he repeated, “Kismet’s bastard’s not my kid. Sparky knocked her up.”

  Concern for her furniture vanished along with her fear. Mindlessly, she sat down on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “You’re not Michael’s father?”

  “Ain’t that what I just said?”

  “Sparky was his father.”

  “Yeah. It’s a wonder Kismet didn’t slip the kid after that accident, the way she was banged up and all. Been a hell of a lot better for me if she had, but the little sucker held on. Eight months after Sparky was wasted, his bastard was born.”

  Cat’s mind was racing ahead of him now. She didn’t need him to tell her the significance of this, but he did anyway.

  “After you left, the kid jabbered ’bout seeing you at some picnic. He seemed real taken with you. Just like you are with him.” His earring swung away from his cheek as he cocked his head and pretended to ponder life’s mysteries. “Now I wonder why that is?”

  Maybe he was more clever than she and Alex had given him credit for. It was frightening to think that his level of intelligence could equal that of his meanness.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she lied.

  “The hell you don’t,” he said around a chuckle. “It ain’t no accident that you and that spooky little dickweed hit it off. You got his daddy’s heart. You…uh, what’s a good word? You connected with the kid. Like kindred spirits. Karma and shit.”

  Michael’s picture in Sherry’s files had indeed had an inexplicable impact on her. Or was it inexplicable?

  “I don’t know for certain that I got Sparky’s heart,” she said huskily.

  “I’m saying you did.”

  “Say whatever you like.” She stood to signal that his visit had come to an end. “But say it someplace else. Now that you’ve imparted your message, I don’t think there’s anything left for us to talk about.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, see? We got a lot to talk about.”

  “Such as?”

  “Money.”

  That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “What money?”

  “The money you owe me.”

  She plopped back down onto the chair arm and regarded him with incredulity. “I’m not following you.”

  “Then let me spell it out for you. If Sparky had lived, he’d’ve had to put up with all the crap I’ve had to put up with. I took his kid and raised him—”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart,” she inserted sarcastically.

  “Damn straight.”

  This time it was she who guffawed. “You took Michael because he came with Kismet, and you wanted her back after Sparky died. Not because you loved her, but because you couldn’t tolerate being passed over for another man. You’ve been punishing her for it ever since.”

  He kicked aside the ottoman and surged to his feet. “The goddamn cunt begged me to take her back.”

  Cat forced herself not to recoil. He was a bully, and, like all bullies, he relished seeing fear in the eyes of his victims. He might slit her throat—or cut out her heart—with the knife sheathed in his belt, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cowed.

  “I’ve put up with her and her whelp for four stinking years,” he said. “The way I see it, I got something coming to me for that.”

  “I don’t think you really want what you’ve got coming to you.”

  “Listen, bitch.” He poked her in the chest with his index finger. “You’d have died if it weren’t for me. I told that doctor he could take Sparky’s heart. You’d be history if I’d said no.”

  “That may or may not be true.”

  “I say it is. I want something in return for saving your skinny ass.”

  “Ah. Here’s where the money part comes in.”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  “You want me to pay you for my heart?”

  His narrow lips parted in a slow, sly grin. He reached out and yanked hard on a strand of her hair. “Knew the minute I clapped eyes on you, you were a smart chick.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Alex was charged.

  His creative juices weren’t just flowing, they were spurting. His fingers couldn’t move as rapidly as his brain fired signals, but he could live with that frustration as long as the words kept coming.

  He’d finally shaken off the mind-numbing writer’s block. He was back on track, better than before. As the clauses and phrases streaked through his mind, he transferred them to his computer screen.

  The telephone rang.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He tried to ignore the intrusive ringing and continued to type. At this time of night it would probably be a wrong number anyway. Or Arnie. Arnie called every day or so to ask if he was still seeing Cat. When he said yes—he couldn’t lie to his agent—he got a lecture on borrowing trouble.

  The phone rang again.

  Don’t stop, he ordered himself. Get this sentence down before it escapes you. If you stop now, it’ll be gone forever. It’ll disappear into that vast void that sucks in
precise words and inspired phrases right after they peep at you from behind your subconscious and just before you can snatch them.

  The phone was on its fourth ring.

  Ignore it. You’ve been waiting for a night like this for weeks, he reminded himself. Everything’s coming together. You’ve worked that knot out of your plot—granted, not quite in the way you expected, but maybe this way is stronger. The action is unfolding fast and furiously; the dialogue is good and crisp. It packs a punch.

  Whatever you do, dumb ass, don’t pick up the phone!

  He snatched up the receiver. “What?”

  “Alex, can…can you…I wouldn’t bother you, but…”

  “Cat? Are you all right?”

  “Actually no. I’m not.”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  He dropped the receiver and turned off his computer, but not before saving the fine work he’d done. He crammed his feet into his running shoes, switched out the light, locked the door to his study, and raced from the condo.

  Tom Clancy was probably interrupted all the time. He might have sold another million copies of Patriot Games if not for life’s little interruptions. And Danielle Steele had nine kids. Think how many times a day she was interrupted.

  Cat opened the door as he jogged up her front walk. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You’re as white as a sheet. What happened? Why’s your hair wet?”

  “I washed it.”

  “You washed your hair? After calling me in what sounded like a life-or-death situation, you washed your hair!”

  “Stop yelling at me!” She pointed imperiously toward the living room. “I had a visitor. Cyclops.”

  The biker had left a clear imprint of himself on her sofa and ottoman. Alex expelled his breath and raked back his hair. “Christ. How’d he get in?”

  “I let him in.”

  “You what?”

  “He threatened to hurt Michael if I didn’t.”

  “He could have hurt you.”

  “But he didn’t!”

  “Now you’re yelling. What’d he want?”

  “Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said. “I’ve used a whole can of air freshener, but I can still smell him in here.”

  She led the way. Her cow-pattern kettle was simmering on the stove. She asked if he wanted a cup of tea. A belt of straight whiskey, maybe, he told her. But no tea, thanks.

  She poured herself a cup, added a teaspoon of sugar, and sat across from him at her kitchen table. Her fingers looked translucent as she folded them around her cup.

  “What’d he want, Cat?”

  “Money.”

  “In exchange for Sparky’s heart, right?”

  Her eyes swung up to his. “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve read about such. A person receives transplanted corneas, or a liver, or skin tissue. Once he’s well, a member of the donor family shows up and demands payment.”

  “I’ve heard of it too,” she said, nodding forlornly. “It was cited in our group sessions as one of the reasons for donors and recipients to remain anonymous.” She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her hands up and down her arms. “But I didn’t know anyone could actually be that mercenary.”

  “Cyclops could.”

  “He’s so repulsive. Where he touched my chest and hair with his dirty fingers, I felt like I’d been raped. I took a long, hot shower.”

  She lifted the cup of tea to her lips but could barely hold it steady while she sipped from it. It clattered against the saucer when she replaced it. “I hated to bother you, Alex.”

  “No bother,” he lied.

  “I didn’t know who else to call. I could have phoned that Lieutenant Hunsaker, but I have very little confidence in him.”

  Alex supposed he should take that as a compliment. “You did the right thing. You shouldn’t be alone tonight. Did you have any trouble getting Cyclops out of the house?”

  “Not really. I called his bluff and told him that he’d get money from me over my dead body.” With a weak smile, she added, “He said that could be arranged.”

  “He could have killed you, you know.”

  “I pointed out that killing me would be a dumb move if he wanted money from me.”

  Alex considered it a miracle that Cyclops hadn’t hurt her. At the same time, he was angry with Cat. “You played the smart-ass, didn’t you? I can just hear you spouting off wisecracks. Why in hell did you wave those red flags in his face?”

  “Well what would you suggest I do? Cringe and cry and show him how frightened I was? I also had Michael and Kismet to consider. He’ll probably take out his frustration on them.”

  “Was he frustrated when he left?”

  “To say the least. I guess he thought he could intimidate me into writing out a check tonight. He was furious when I refused. I told him in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t give him a cent.”

  “To which he said…”

  “That I’d be sorry.”

  Alex, too, was worried about Michael and his mother, but he wanted to allay Cat’s concern. “He’ll think long and hard before raising a hand to Michael again. Just a few weeks ago, he barely escaped a long jail sentence.”

  “I hope that’s a deterrent, because blood ties won’t stop him. Michael’s not his child.” She recounted what Cyclops had told her. “Maybe that explains why I became infatuated with Michael’s picture before I even met him.”

  Alex leaned forward across the table. “What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Cat. I raced to your rescue. Doesn’t that entitle me to hear the nitty-gritty?”

  “It’s silly.” She gave a small, mirthless laugh, a slight shrug, and tinkered with her spoon—all dead giveaways that she was stalling.

  Finally she said, “From the time doctors began performing heart transplants, there has been discussion over whether characteristics of the donor could be passed to the recipient.”

  He took a moment to absorb that, then said, “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s ridiculous, of course,” she declared, a little too loudly. She took a moment to compose herself. “The heart is an organ. It’s apparatus, physiological machinery. A person’s heart, where his or her soul resides, is something entirely different.”

  “Then why did you automatically link your attraction to Michael to the possibility that his father was your donor?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. And so did Cyclops.”

  “He doesn’t care who donated what to whom,” she said heatedly. “He just sees a way to make a buck. He hates Michael because he’s Sparky’s living legacy to Kismet. He’s punishing her for choosing Sparky over him. He’s made her life hell. No wonder she looks so haunted.”

  “They’re not your responsibility, Cat.”

  She looked at him as though he’d just urinated on the American flag. “Of course they are! They’re human beings, and they’re in danger.”

  “I admire your altruism, but you can’t save all the unfortunates of the world.”

  “If Cyclops hurts them, I couldn’t live with myself. Could you? Doesn’t a human life mean anything to you?”

  He felt a wave of angry heat flood his face. “I’m going to ignore that because you’re upset and, I hope, don’t realize what you’re saying. I’d like nothing better than to pound the shit out of George Murphy and see to it that he never touches Kismet and Michael again. But there are millions of victims just like them all over the country.”

  “I know I can’t save millions, but I’d like to help them.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of giving him money?”

  Their shouting match had depleted her energy. Her shoulders slumped forward, and she rested her head in her palm. “I would never surrender to blackmail, but he made it clear that if I don’t, I’ll regret it. One way or another.”

  Then she raised her head and looked at him. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked frightened. “Alex,
I want to call it off.”

  “Call what off?”

  “This insane search for my stalker. I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks. I’m convinced that someone with a perverted sense of humor was playing mind games with me, that’s all.

  “The phony obituary was his grand finale. He did what he’d set out to do—rattle my cage. But now he’s finished playing his little game.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” she snapped. “But I don’t want to overturn any more stones. Every time I do, there’s an ugly worm underneath. I’m afraid to open my mail for what I might find. A one-eyed, tattooed biker with homicidal tendencies, whom I’d never even heard of until a few days ago, is now trying to extort money from me and threatening my life.

  “I jump at my own shadow. I no longer feel safe in my home. I can’t concentrate on my work. My appetite’s shot to hell, and I don’t even remember when I last slept through a whole night without waking up, listening for the bogeyman. I don’t need any more of this crap.”

  “It’s not that easy, Cat. You can’t just call it off.”

  “I can. I am.”

  “Well I can’t and I won’t,” he stated firmly as he came to his feet. “You don’t close the files on an investigation just because you don’t like the looks of the evidence you uncover.”

  “Oh, stop with the cop talk. You’re no longer a policeman, and this isn’t a bona fide investigation. Nor is it a plot for one of your novels. This is my life!”

  “Right. And I’m trying to protect it. I’d like you to live past the fourth anniversary of your transplant.”

  “So would I.” She paused and drew in a shuddering breath. His gut clenched. He wasn’t going to like what was coming next. “That’s why I’m going to California and stay with Dean till we’re beyond the date. It’s all arranged.”

  Alex placed his hands on his hips. “Oh really? When did you arrange it?”

  “Before you arrived.”

  “I see. You called me to rush to your rescue, but I’m only a temporary wing for you to hover under until you can run back to Daddy Dean, is that it?” He snorted derisively. “And you accused me of using you just for sex.”