Stranger in Her Arms

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Stranger in Her Arms Page 14

by Lorna Michaels


  “So I have a bodyguard 24/7.” She hadn’t missed his comment that he’d be with her until the killer was caught. And after?

  Did she care? How could she possibly answer until she knew Jonathan Talbot better? Spending time with him seemed the best way to do that. So she supposed the arrangement he’d planned was best all the way around. She just wished he’d asked her first.

  The waitress appeared with their lunch orders, and they ate in silence.

  Back in the car afterward, Christy asked, “How do you know you’ll catch the Night Stalker soon? Do you think he’s the guy you questioned this morning?”

  “No, he’s off the list.” Jonathan explained about Todd Berlin’s broken leg, then said, “I don’t know if the task force has new information, but my gut tells me this guy’s almost at the end of his rope.”

  “Is that what you go on, your gut?” she asked curiously.

  “No, of course not. I study the crime scene—the location, the killer’s method, the choice of victim. Even what happens after the killing is important. I put all those things together and come up with a profile.”

  Christy considered this, then asked, “Can you share your profile of the Night Stalker, or is that classified?”

  “Not classified,” Jonathan said, “and you need to know for your own protection.” Christy shuddered, and he reached across the console and laid a comforting hand on her arm, then removed it. “Here’s what we have. This man is angry.”

  “Man, because serial killers are usually male?” Christy asked. She wished he’d touch her again. The warmth of his hand made her feel more secure.

  “That, and what we saw indicated that the killer was much stronger than the victims.” He glanced back at Christy. “He may be using these murders as revenge for something that happened during his childhood or adolescence.”

  “Such as?”

  “I can’t tell you specifics, but I’d guess he was bullied or beaten over a period of time. Now he wants control…and payback. Killing’s the only way he figures he can achieve that.”

  “Twisted mind,” Christy murmured, both horrified and intrigued by the picture Jonathan painted. “Go on.”

  “We have two possibilities for his occupation—one, that he has a menial job that doesn’t require much thought so he has time to focus on those old grievances, or two, that he works in security or even law enforcement.”

  “Law enforcement? That’s creepy. Don’t applicants for police work have to go through some kind of psychological screening?”

  “Not really.” His expression turned somber as he added, “And that’s too bad.”

  She studied the hard lines of his face. “Do you want to be there when they catch him?”

  “You bet I do.”

  When they approached the Houston city limits, it was midafternoon. “I have a task force meeting at police headquarters,” Jonathan said. “You’ll have to wait for me.”

  “Jonathan,” Christy said sweetly. “Don’t tell. Ask.”

  She was pleased to see his cheeks flush.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’d let you drop me and I’d hitch a ride home afterward, but I don’t want you to be alone. Will you wait?”

  “Sure.”

  “The, uh, ‘clientele’ in the waiting room’s not classy, but you’ll have to put up with it.”

  Christy chuckled. “Honey, I worked in the E.R. for three years before I moved to orthopedics. I’ve seen it all.”

  Perhaps not, she thought when he left her in a dreary, windowless room filled with people whom the term dregs of humanity might compliment. The lady across from her alternately prayed and cursed in a strident voice loud enough to make Christy’s head ache. A man in an expensive suit sat tapping his foot impatiently. He must be somebody’s lawyer, Christy surmised. Two young girls who looked like hookers and probably were sat in a corner eyeing a man sprawled across three seats. The guy hadn’t bathed in forever, and the pungent stench he emitted was nauseating. Christy moved as far away from him as possible and still wished she could get through the next hour without breathing.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall and wondered how the task force meeting was going and what new information Jonathan would have when he returned.

  Jonathan. She’d learned a lot about him today, she thought, but what she’d discovered generated more questions than answers.

  He was serious about his work. It seemed a calling rather than a job. So why didn’t he do it full-time? He’d said he’d resigned from the FBI to teach at the university level. What made him change?

  What else? she thought. Jonathan was sure of himself, at ease in his body, sure of his professional skills, certain almost to the point of arrogance that his decisions were the right ones. No question she liked his body, too, and she respected his confidence in his work, but arrogance was a big no-no.

  Did it matter? Where they went from here was an unanswerable question. They had spent four days in fantasyland, where the past didn’t matter. Even now, the two of them were hardly operating in the real world, where everything mattered. Physical attraction aside—

  Come on, Christy, she told herself. She couldn’t put attraction aside. It was part of the mix and it colored everything else.

  The door opened and an officer ushered a girl out. Despite her garish makeup and provocative outfit, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The two girls in the corner jumped up to greet her, and the three sashayed to the exit, giggling. The heavyset woman broke off a curse and sent up a prayer on their behalf, then went back to cursing. The homeless man, now asleep, snored loudly, and Christy shrank back in her chair and pretended she were somewhere else.

  Jonathan was prepared for some good-natured ribbing when he entered the conference room where the Night Stalker task force met. The rest of the members were already seated around the table. The sound of paper shuffling and the odor of cigarettes filled the room.

  Detective Luis Ramirez turned in his chair and gave Jonathan a high five. “Hey, pal,” he said. “We heard you forgot about this job.”

  “Yeah, Ramirez,” Jonathan replied, “I put you out of my mind.” He took a seat beside Luis and glanced at the sheaf of papers at his place.

  Marilee Winter from the coroner’s office eyed him with concern. “Armand told us someone hit you on the head. Were you badly hurt?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “A few stitches.”

  “What about your memory?”

  “Wiped out,” Jonathan said, smiling at her, “but I got it back.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy who smacked you?” Detective Dell Cummings inquired.

  “No, he came up behind me. I heard footsteps, but that’s all.”

  “And you don’t remember anything?”

  “Not until I woke up on the beach.”

  “How’d you get there?” Ramirez asked.

  “I don’t kn… Yeah, I do. I was in…a dark place…no air…”

  “The trunk of a car,” Marilee suggested.

  “Yeah, had to be. I must’ve partially woken up.” He rubbed his temple, feeling an echo of the pain, the panic.

  “Well, you’re damn lucky you have such a hard head,” Luis said.

  Armand Frazier, who’d been quiet up to now, cleared his throat. “Okay, people, enough about Talbot. Let’s get to work.” He turned to Jonathan. “What about the guy who lives on San Sebastian? Get anything out of him?”

  “Enough to cross him off,” Jonathan said and explained Todd Berlin’s condition. Then he glanced at the paperwork set before him. “Fill me in on what’s happened since I’ve been away.”

  Frazier pushed his papers aside. Jonathan knew he didn’t need them. Talk about memory, Frazier was a walking encyclopedia. He could tell you every detail about every case he’d worked on in the past twenty years. “No new murders.”

  Luis crossed himself. “Thank God,” he murmured. “Could he have quit?”

  “Doubtful,” Jonathan said. “He’s not likely to quit until he
’s caught or someone kills him.”

  Dell Cummings shook his head. “He’s too smart to get himself killed.”

  Jonathan leaned forward. “He hasn’t chosen another victim because he’s been gone. He followed me to San Sebastian. Once the storm hit, I couldn’t get off the island and neither could he.”

  “So we check our suspects, see who might’ve been out of pocket for a few days,” Armand said. “Agreed?” Murmurs of assent came from around the table, and Armand continued. “Now that Todd Berlin is off the list, we have three good suspects left. Talbot, we’ll give you a minute to read over what we’ve got.”

  Jonathan scanned the material quickly.

  Ramon Torres, former boyfriend of one of the victims, had connections to several others. Currently a parking attendant, he had once worked as a security guard in the medical building where Janice Berlin had been a physician’s bookkeeper. On weekends, he worked as a bouncer at a club in a neighborhood generally considered one of the rougher ones in Houston. And, red flag: he’d been fired from several jobs for harassing women and had an arrest for assault on his record.

  Second, Jackson Ealy, a hospital janitor. Not the job he’d predicted the killer would have, but Ealy was certainly in the right place, Jonathan mused. Ealy had a history of emotional problems. Like many serial killers, he’d never established a relationship with a woman. At age thirty-five, he still lived at home with his domineering mother. Big red flag.

  Finally, Jack O’Neal, a parolee working in an auto parts store several blocks from the medical center. In prison for a series of violent rapes but showed “exemplary behavior” behind bars. Once free, he could have graduated to murder.

  “Any of ’em could have done it,” Jonathan concluded.

  “What insight.” Shannon McGinity tossed her blond hair and spoke for the first time. Jonathan knew she didn’t like him for personal reasons. She’d made a play for him once, and he’d rebuffed her. Gently, he’d thought, but not gently enough. Now she sent a disgusted look in his direction. “Can’t you do any better than that, Doctor Talbot?”

  He gave her a bland look. “No, sorry.”

  “When we catch the Night Stalker, we’ll do it with solid police work,” Shannon went on, “not with some kind of psychobabble.”

  “Can it, McGinity,” Armand said sharply. “We don’t have time for snide remarks here. You talk to Ramon Torres. Luis, you take the janitor. Dell, you’ve got O’Neal. Check their work records, see if anyone was out of town the past week. Moving on, let’s talk about the victims—”

  “Hold it a minute,” Shannon said. “Why question anyone? Why not just check their work sheets?”

  Luis grinned. “Nervous about going up against these guys, McGinity?”

  Shannon reacted on cue. “Nervous? Why would I be? I’m as good a cop as you. I could go head to head with anyone here—”

  Jonathan tried to tune her out. Why this troublemaker was on the task force he didn’t know. Yes, he did. Shannon was right—she was a damn good police officer.

  She kept talking. “Besides, one thing’s for sure. I don’t fit the victim profile. I’m not in a medical field. And look at my hair.”

  “Hair?” Jonathan stared at Shannon. She must be talking about something he wasn’t privy to.

  Marilee noticed his confusion and leaned forward. “Shannon means her hair isn’t the right color. One thing I discovered while you were ‘in limbo’ is that hair color seems to be important to this guy. Every one of his victims’ hair was some shade of red.”

  Jonathan stared at her. His blood ran cold. Medical workers. Reddish hair. Christy. She was a perfect choice for a victim. And the killer knew where she lived.

  Chapter 13

  At the sound of the door, Christy opened her eyes. Jonathan strode into the waiting room. For an instant, she thought he looked troubled, but then he erased the worried expression and smiled.

  He came to her and put out a hand. “Ready to go?”

  Before Christy could answer, the door opened again and several people trooped in. “Hey, Talbot,” one of them called, “want to get a bite? We’re heading for the Tumbleweed.”

  Jonathan glanced at Christy. “Sure,” she said. She’d enjoy a chance to watch him with his colleagues. Except for their brief conversations with Warner and Ellie Thompson, she hadn’t seen Jonathan in a social situation. What would he be like?

  He led her to the group and introduced her. Luis Ramirez, a dark-eyed detective with a sexy smile, shook her hand and winked. “Querida, forget this chump. Let’s slip away and you spend the evening with me.”

  “He has my car keys. Would sitting next to you at the Tumbleweed be okay?” she asked, laughing.

  “Better than nothing. We’ll run off together tomorrow.”

  For a bunch of people who’d spent the last hour discussing a brutal killer, the group seemed lighthearted as they headed toward the door. Christy supposed they weren’t much different from medical people. If caregivers obsessed on their patients, they’d soon be no good at treating them. If all these folks did was think about the murderer, they’d have no emotional energy left to figure out how to catch him.

  They stepped outside into the twilight. In the west, the sun was setting, washing the sky with pink and coral. The air was warm, but the stifling heat of the afternoon had waned. “Nice evening,” Christy murmured to Jonathan as she strolled along the street between him and Luis.

  Suddenly a voice called out, “Dr. Talbot.”

  Jonathan turned. “Ah, hell,” he muttered. “The media.”

  A young woman thrust a microphone at him, and a bearded cameraman hefted a video camera on his shoulder. Jonathan stepped in front of Christy in what she realized was a protective move.

  “Dr. Talbot,” the news reporter said, “can you tell us what you’ve determined about the Night Stalker?”

  “As soon as we have further information, I’ll make a statement.”

  The reporter started to ask another question, but he sidestepped her and moved on.

  “You sure evaded that question,” Christy murmured as they continued down the street.

  “Tried,” Jonathan said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Luis said. “They’ll spin the story however they want. Sensationalism’s what counts in local news, right, J.T.?”

  For a moment, Christy thought Luis had called Jonathan J.D., then realized he hadn’t. But Jonathan had been close to the truth when he’d come up with those initials. She wondered if she’d ever feel comfortable thinking of him as anything but J.D., then questioned whether their relationship would last long enough for “ever” to matter.

  The reporter’s appearance seemed to put a damper on the group’s good spirits. No one had much to say until they were seated around a long table in the Tumbleweed. Off duty, they ordered beers with their barbecue or burgers, and gradually the banter resumed.

  Christy listened with interest, although it was hard to hear over the din. Billed as a down-home Texas restaurant-bar, the Tumbleweed’s ambience was rustic, with sawdust-covered floors, cattle brands on the walls and a menu heavy on barbecue and chili. The place drew a boisterous crowd and featured country and western music. Tonight a group called the Lopin’ Lizards, with a lead singer who did a fair Willie Nelson imitation, was playing. They were enthusiastic and earsplittingly loud.

  Luis leaned across Christy and grinned at Jonathan. He raised his voice. “So, Talbot, you made the most of your time out of mind. How’d you two get together, querida?”

  “I opened my door and he fell at my feet.”

  “Romance,” Luis said with an exaggerated sigh and raised his glass. “Hey, Talbot, a toast.”

  “To what?” Jonathan asked.

  “To finally getting a life.” When Jonathan raised a brow, Luis added mischievously, “And a woman.”

  Christy watched the flush creep up Jonathan’s face. She was both sorry and pleased that her presence embarrassed him.

  Luis turned to Christ
y. “So you just bowled him over, eh? Love at first sight.”

  “Head injury,” Christy corrected him. “That guy really clobbered him.”

  Dell Cummings—big, broad-shouldered and more serious than Luis—remarked, “Too bad you didn’t see him, Talbot.”

  “Yeah, your one chance to ID the Stalker and you blew it.”

  Christy glanced sharply at the freckle-faced blonde who’d spoken, surprised at the rancor she directed at Jonathan.

  Before Jonathan had a chance to respond, Dell said, “Weren’t you listening before, Shannon? He told you the guy hit him from behind. Most people don’t have eyes in the back of their heads.”

  Shannon took a bite of her burger. “Right, but Talbot’s not ‘most people.’ The press thinks he walks on water.”

  “But what do they know?” Jonathan said mildly. Outwardly, he seemed unfazed by Shannon’s hostility, but Christy saw his hand clench below the table. She frowned as she wondered what the source of the obvious bad blood between them might be.

  “She’s a good cop, but she’s a troublemaker,” Luis murmured in her ear. “Don’t pay her any mind. He doesn’t.”

  Good advice, Christy decided, ignored Shannon, and leaned forward to get the attention of Marilee Winters, the other woman in the group. When he’d introduced her, Jonathan had said she worked in the coroner’s office. “Are you a pathologist?” Christy asked.

  Marilee nodded. “Second in command to the medical examiner.”

  “I guess you see some pretty interesting…cases.”

  “Corpses,” Marilee corrected. “My work’s pretty gory for most people’s tastes.”

  Christy smiled at her. “So’s mine. I’m a nurse. Spent three years in the E.R. before I moved on.”

  Dell glanced her way. “An E.R. nurse? Do you still work in a hospital?”

  “Yes, at St. Mary’s.”

  He studied her thoughtfully. “Maybe I saw you there.”

  “You might have if you ever had a broken bone. I’ve been in orthopedics for a couple of years.”

  “Never broke a bone,” Dell said, “but you do look familiar.”

  “She looks like that model, Christie Brinkley,” offered Armand Frazier.

 

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