New Title 1

by Carol Davis Luce

  "Yes. I remember now," Alex said reflectively. She pushed thoughts of the past away. "Will Tracey be at the airport to see you off?"

  Todd shook his head and snapped a breadstick in half. "We've come to an agreement. We're both smart enough to know that long-distance relationships are the pits. I've been away a little over a month. Last night was sort of a test. It turned out to be a goodbye."

  "How do you feel about that?"

  He stared off into the distance, his expression somber, pensive. Alex wanted to put her hand over his, but resisted. He slowly brought his gaze back to hers. With a widening grin, he said, "Mom, the women at USC are so rad. I'd be a fool not to avail myself of their charms." Laughing now, he added. "They love me. I'm not sure there's enough of little ol' Todd to go around."

  She squeezed his hand. "I think I've lost a son."

  "Have no fear. I'll be back for the holidays. Maybe as early as Thanksgiving. By then I should feel the need to recuperate. Y'know, charge my battery."

  Justin and Casey had spent the day fishing and hiking. On the way home they stopped for dinner at an Italian restaurant that Casey loved. Between slurping yards of spaghetti, she had beamed and said, "Daddy, I love you. Camping with you is so cool. I wish I could be with you every day." He had replied, "So do I." And meant it.

  When they'd pulled into the drive, Dan came out to help them with the camping gear. Casey ran to him, planting a kiss on his cheek, and Justin felt a painful surge of jealousy. He realized he had transferred his jealousy from Yvonne to Casey. Dan was a good man, Justin admitted reluctantly, and a good stepfather. Would he feel better if his daughter had to live with some creep who resented the fact that she was another man's kid? She was lucky to have someone like Dan. It was Dan who wasn't so lucky, Justin told himself as he thought of Yvonne.

  He drove the rented car to a motel in Newport Beach. In the morning, after a much-needed good night's sleep, he would have his interview with Joseph Carlson; then it was back to Reno and his full caseload.

  Chapter 9

  The man was nothing like what Justin had pictured. For some reason he had assumed Alex's ex-husband would resemble physically someone . .. well, someone like David Sloane. There was no comparison. Joseph Carlson, squatting amidst the iron contraptions of the nautilus equipment, was short and balding, with puffy, oversize features. He seemed charged with such an abundance of nervous energy that Justin expected to hear the crackle of static electricity when the man's fingers touched the metal equipment.

  "Hope you don't mind meeting me here," Carlson said, nodding his head to indicate the workout room in the executive offices of Norday Investments. He stepped aboard the treadmill, flipped the switch, and got his feet moving on the conveyor belt. "This is where I conduct any business not related to the firm."

  "You do this every day?" Justin asked.

  "Without fail." He rubbed his sweaty face with a velour hand towel. "You'll find juice and mineral water in the fridge there. Help yourself.”

  "I'm fine, thanks." What Justin needed was coffee. Strong, caffeine-laden coffee. He'd spent a sleepless night—his third in a row—at the Beachcomber Motel where the occupants of the adjacent room had kept him awake, first with the cacophony of a party, then a lover's spat, and finally at dawn, the rhythmic thumping against the wall as the lovers made up.

  "What's Alex got herself into?"

  "I'm not sure. For starters her house was broken into and vandalized. Her cat was killed and she seems to think it was murdered by the same person or persons who broke in."

  "On the phone you mentioned something about a stolen gun."

  "Guns. A twenty-two revolver and a pair of antique dueling pistols."

  Carlson had slowed his pace as Justin talked; now he picked it up again. "What was it you wanted from me?"

  "Some information, Mr. Carlson."

  "You've got my undivided attention for —" he consulted his watch, a gold Rolex—"thirty-one minutes. Ask away."

  "Can you think of anyone who would want to undertake a vendetta where your wife is concerned?"

  Keeping up the same pace, Carlson stared at the far wall as though he hadn't heard. Finally he shook his head.

  "How about yourself?"

  "I bear Alex no grudge. The divorce was about as ugly as they can get. And I must confess, it was I who made it so, but that was three years ago. I can save you the trouble of checking on my whereabouts the night of the fifth. I have no alibi. I took a couple of days off and went sailing on my boat. Alone. No one saw me take her out." Without missing a step, Carlson leaned over the rail and lifted a plastic bottle. He tipped his head back and shot a stream of water into his mouth. He wiped his face again with the towel. "What makes you think it might be a vendetta?"

  "She claims to be getting anonymous phone calls. She's under the impression this person has been, is, some way, hurt by something she did."

  "That puts me right at the top of the list, doesn't it?" When Justin failed to comment, he went on. "Second on the list would be her father."

  "Her father? I thought he was dead."

  "He is. But he still seems to control her life. That house she lives in, he built it for her, you know. We were married sixteen years and I couldn't get her to leave it. I would have built anything she wanted . . . anything." He slowed his pace, took a swipe at his face with the towel. "I met Alex at the University of Nevada in her freshman year. We dated and decided to marry. We went to her father, more as a courtesy than anything, for his blessing. He said, and I quote: 'Over my dead body. And it seems that's the way it turned out. He died a week later.”

  "He felt you weren't good enough for his daughter?" Justin thought of Casey and wondered how he would react when the time came.

  "Not just me. No one was good enough for her. I never saw a man so determined to hold on to someone. And it wasn't because he couldn't take care of himself. It was . . ." Carlson cleared his throat. "Sometimes I think his death wasn't an accident."

  "Suicide?"

  "Yes."

  "How'd he die?"

  "A boating mishap. On Lake Pyramid. The body was never found. As you know, Sergeant, that's not unusual in those waters. Lake Pyramid appears, at times, quite reluctant to relinquish its victims. He may have died, but all those years I felt as though he were reaching out from his watery grave and grasping onto her. Our marriage was doomed from the start." He laughed. The sound was dry and without humor. "And just like her father, I found it difficult to let go."

  "Why was he so possessive? Do you know?"

  "Alex's mother ran off with another man when she and her sister were little. It seemed to devastate him. He came down pretty hard on both girls. Hardly let them out of his sight. I guess the sister couldn't take it. She ran away in her teens. This man was a kook. I mean, a real kook.” Carlson's breathing was heavier now He squirted more water into his mouth. "When Alex and I began to date, she was eighteen. A grown woman. I caught the guy following us more than once."

  They were both silent. Carlson glanced at his watch.

  "I won't keep you, Mr. Carlson. One more question. Do you know David Sloane?"

  "Sloane? Sloane? Oh, yes, Dave. Sure. Used to play racquetball with him years ago." He stared hard at Justin. "What about him?"

  "He was at Mrs. Carlson's the night before the break-in. From what she said he —"

  Carlson cut in, his voice nearly a growl. "Sonofabitch. She denied it. Denied it like she denied everything. Yet I knew . .. I knew there was something going on between those two back then." He hopped backward off the moving belt. A vein throbbed in his temple. "That bastard. He was making it with my wife and buddying up to me at the same time. Christ, I knew —" Carlson looked up at Justin. "Forgive me. Didn't mean to go off like that. Those old battle wounds tend to flare up now and again.” He twisted at the towel, lowered his head. "When I married her, she was something of a plain Jane. I mean, I knew she was beautiful, but she didn't. Then she meets this woman, her best friend now, and this med
dling bitch makes her over into the woman Alex is today. She gets gorgeous and suddenly I'm not good enough anymore.” He wadded the towel and threw it into the corner. "If there is nothing more, Sergeant Holmes, I'd like to get on with my day.”

  "No, there's nothing more." Justin rose.

  "Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.”

  To the man's drenched back as he hurried through a door into a shower/locker room, Justin said quietly, "On the contrary, Mr. Carlson, you've been most helpful.”

  At seven Monday morning Alex awakened to the sound of Hawkins cranking up the power mower just outside her bedroom window. After mowing the lawn, he and the weed-eater in short order took care of the tall grass around the trees and shrubs while a AT&T lineman set Alex up with a new unlisted phone number. While Hawkins was blowing the leaves from the driveway with the noisy contraption strapped to his back, a man from Vanguard Security gave Alex an estimate on an alarm system.

  Hawkins's love affair with the ear-splitting equipment continued on into the afternoon. Then, suddenly, it became blessedly quiet.

  Moments later the doorbell chimed. She looked through the peephole.

  Alex opened the door to Hawkins. He stood on the mat, wet leaves sticking to his boots, a large, stiff red leaf sitting upright on his flannel shirt. The leaf, looking like a bird perched on his shoulder curled toward his ear as though about to share a secret with him. Alex noticed his eyes were more bloodshot than usual.

  "Sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I'm runnin' late—what with the leaves and all. I got another job to go to from yer place, and I was s'pose to be there now. I was wondering if I could use your phone. Y'know, tell 'em I'm gonna be late."

  She hesitated.

  "Won't be but a minute, and you can get on back to what you were doing."

  Reluctantly she opened the door. "There's a phone in the study. Right down those stairs and through that first door."

  He nodded, then tramped down the stairs, leaving a mushy trail of sodden leaves on the carpeted steps.

  Minutes later he was tramping back up, grinding the wet dirty leaves deeper onto the carpet. Alex's hand rested on the knob, ready to close the door as soon as he passed through. He stopped at the top of the stairway.

  "Mighty nice of you to let me use the phone." He leaned against the wall. "You sure got a great place here. I bet the rest of it's somethin', huh?"

  He was rummier than she thought if he expected her to give him a tour through the house. "You'd better get going, you're late as it is."

  "Ain't in no hurry now 'Sides, it was just ol' lady Clifford. She's a widda. I got lots of widdas and divorced gals I do work for. Lots of em are alone... and lonely, too."

  Alex opened the door wider.

  He ambled slowly to it, placed a grubby hand on the frame. "You had a real busy morning here, what with all the vans coming and going." When she made no comment, he grunted, removed the hand from the door frame and stepped out on the porch.

  She had the door nearly closed when he turned and, putting out a hand to halt the door, stared silently at her.

  She stared back. "What?"

  "That ol’ gal that lives up the hill," he said finally. "The one with the bike. She popped over last week when you wasn't home."

  "Klump?"

  "She wanted to know about some building plans." Alex shook her head, confused.

  "Y'know, that art studio you're gonna do. She said she got this notice from the planning committee."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "That you was gonna build it on top the garage. She got real hot about that. Hope I didn't go an' cause no trouble for ya?"Alex sighed. "No, it's okay,” she said absently as she closed the door.

  She turned and leaned against it. Damn it. That was all she needed right now. To be involved in a heated building dispute with a fanatic like Thelma Klump.

  She heard Hawkins's footsteps going down the porch steps. A moment later she heard footsteps across the porch again, then a light tapping. What the hell did he want now? Impatiently she pulled open the door.

  Instead of Hawkins it was Justin Holmes. "Hello," Alex said, feeling a strange tugging in her stomach at the sight of him.

  He stared at her in a peculiar unnerving way. "Was that Otis Hawkins I saw just leaving your house?"

  "Yes.”

  "Do you usually invite your hired help in?" he asked, moving slowly through the door.

  "He asked to use the phone to make a business call. I couldn't very well say no."

  "You have a hard time with the word no?"

  She stared at him curiously.

  "Well, do you? Have a hard time saying no?"

  She struggled to control her voice. "No. No, I don't. What's your problem, Sergeant?"

  "Problem? No problem. Let's just say it would've spoiled my day if I had arrived here to discover that you'd been raped, beaten—maybe murdered—by a man who only wanted to use your phone to make a business call." He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "No problem."

  "Hawkins has been working here for months."

  "Has he? What do you know about him?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

  "Yes?"

  "Nothing. I don't know anything about him. What do you know about him?"

  He turned and closed the door.

  "Well, damn it, tell me," she said.

  "He's not involved in the break-in—at least I don't think he is."

  "Stop playing games with me. Tell me," she said, her voice rising.

  He took her arm and guided her to the stairs. "Do you think we could go upstairs and sit down, before I curl up in your entry hall?" He walked behind her up the stairs. "You're looking at a man who hasn't slept ten hours total in the past three nights."

  In the living room, she said. "Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee."

  "Thank you." With a sigh, he sank down on the couch.

  She poured what was left in the pot into a mug, prepared a fresh pot, then carried the mug into the living room.

  "You'll have to start with this,” she said, handing him the mug. She crossed to the rocker. "It's strong enough to drive you to your knees or, at the very least, grow hair on your chest."

  "Can never have too much, I suppose." He ran a hand over his chest. "Would you mind sitting over here? I'm too tired to shout across the room."

  She moved to the couch.

  "Everything go okay the last couple nights?" he asked, massaging the back of his neck.

  "Yes.”

  He looked down into the steamy mug. "Good."

  "The security people were out today. The alarm will be installed at the end of the month. The phone people were out as well."

  He nodded.

  "Sergeant . . . Justin, what were you doing on the deck that night?"

  "De Solo called me. Said you sounded pretty uptight about some caller. Your line was busy, so I drove over. All the lights were out, but your car was in the driveway. I was coming up the front steps when I heard this ungodly clanking noise coming from the back. So I came around. The awning. No reason to unroll the awning after dark. I suspected something was wrong. The rest you know.”

  "How long were you there . . . on the deck?"

  "A minute or two before you unlocked the door for the cat.”'

  "Someone else was on the deck."

  "I didn't see anyone.”

  "Long before you arrived, I heard footsteps and someone trying to open the slider.”

  "Alex, you were pretty much out of it that night. The mind, under stress, can imagine the weirdest things."

  She expelled her breath, rose to her feet and began to pace the room. "Justin . . . what's happening? What does he want from me?"

  "I don't know" Their eyes met. "I just don't know."

  She walked to the windows and stood looking out. "He keeps a vigil on my house. I think he's been watching me for a long time."

  "Oh?"

  "I've had this feeling—I can't explain it. He knows about
you, and yet he doesn't seem concerned. In fact, I sensed he was intrigued by the challenge. I think he knew you were here the night he called and asked for 'Suzanne.' Suzanne is my middle name, and, he knows it."

  "Can you think of anyone who would want to make your life miserable?"

  "No, not anyone who would do the things he's doing."

  "Did the voice sound familiar?"

  Alex was about to say yes. Decided against it. She was sure the detective had some doubts about her mental state. If she told him that the voice, though muffled and possibly disguised, sounded like a voice from the past — nineteen years in the past to be exact—he was certain to think she was crazy. Dead fathers don't talk to their daughters on the phone.

  "No. But then the voice was merely a whisper." She came back to the couch and sat. "Hawkins. You were going to tell me about Hawkins."

  "Right. Hawkins. Well, here it is. He was convicted and served time for murder. Sixteen years ago, in a drunken stupor, he strangled to death a prostitute."

  Alex was silent. Somehow the news was no surprise to her. Not that Hawkins fit a conventional image of a murderer, there was no such stereotype as far as she knew. It was something else, something that had made her reluctant to let him in her house, or even to talk to him in the yard—a gut feeling, so to speak.

  "He was convicted on a charge of second-degree murder because—before he had killed her— she had bashed in his head in order to roll him.”

  "The man served his time. And as far as anyone knows, he's been clean the two years since his release. I'm only telling you because I feel you have a vested interest."

  Alex nodded. She was a woman living alone in a remote area. With all her other problems she didn't need an ex-con, with booze in the shed and keys to her garage, hanging around, looking for reasons to come inside. He was coming back on Friday. She'd tell him then that she had no more work.

  For the first time since he had come in the door, Alex noticed how exhausted Justin looked. A fine dark stubble covered his face. His eyes were as bloodshot as Hawkins's had been.