After my shocked brain assimilated the fact that a wiry male in pale pink and rubber gloves had Diane in a stranglehold, I lunged. My creamed toes almost went out from under me on the slick tiles but I gained enough momentum to throw myself at the man.
He was so intent on his victim that my sudden attack caught him off guard and sent us both crashing into the counter that ran the length of the treatment room. Bottles and vials went flying as I screeched at the top of my lungs.
“Jon! Erik! Anyone!”
Wish I could tell you I employed some lethal guerilla tactic I learned in the military. Or one or two of the slick moves Mitch has taught me. Any offensive and defensive maneuvers I might have picked up, however, flew out of my head when Diane’s attacker turned and came at me. My frantic brain recorded an image of eyes slitted with fury, lips drawn back in a snarl, and what looked like a purple birthmark on one side of a nasty jaw. Then I was pummeling the bastard with greasy fists while screaming my head off.
He got in some pummeling of his own. I took a sucker punch to the stomach, then a backhanded blow that sent me reeling into the table where Diane lay limp and gasping for breath.
The table gave me precious leverage. Hanging on to it for dear life with slippery fingers, I lashed out with my left foot. First time I ever wished I was wearing combat boots! Even without them, I put enough force behind my bare foot to crunch his groin.
Grunting, he doubled over. I locked my hands together, intending to bring them down on his exposed neck, but he recovered far faster than I’d anticipated and came up swinging. I dodged the blow aimed at my jaw by contorting backward over the table again. Another blow was on the way when the door to the treatment room crashed back on its hinges.
“Lieutenant! What . . . ?”
That’s all poor Jon got out before the attacker spun around. Cursing, he slammed a rubber-gloved fist into the spa attendant’s face. Jon went down like a swatted fly. The attacker leaped over him and ran.
I was still bent backward over the table. Un-contorting, I fought for purchase on the tiles with my lemongrassed toes. By the time I’d gotten my feet under me and gave chase, there was no sign of the attacker in the center court.
Panting, I thrust through the bronze doors, rushed past the startled receptionist, and hit the front entrance. I burst out onto the steps just as a dark sedan tore around the corner of the building. Spitting up a plume of dust and gravel, it sped down the drive. I wasn’t 100 percent certain, but it sure looked like the same dark sedan I’d spotted in the rearview mirror on the drive to the spa! I squinted through the plume of dust but all I caught were the first two digits of the license plate.
“Dammit!”
Gathering the pale pink robe around my papered limbs, I rushed back inside.
“Call nine-one-one,” I instructed the gaping receptionist. “Tell them one of your customers has been assaulted.”
More than one, actually. Jon had taken a hit, too, but I was in too much of a hurry to correct myself. When I reentered the treatment area, I found a half dozen people crowding the entrance to Diane’s room. I pushed past customers with heads wrapped in towels and faces wearing varying shades of shock to find Erik on his knees, holding a towel to the nose of a dazed and profusely bleeding Jon.
Diane was sitting up on the table. Supported by red-haired Susannah and another attendant, she held a trembling hand to her throat. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated and stark with terror.
“You okay?” I asked over the pumping of my heart.
“I’ll . . . live.” The words came on a hoarse croak. “What about . . . you?”
I would feel the elbow hit and shoulder punch later. Right now the adrenaline was still firing on all cylinders.
“No serious damage done.”
She swiped her tongue along her lips and swallowed with obvious pain. “Is he . . . ?”
“He’s gone. He must have run out a back door while I was running for the front. Bastard had a car waiting for him there. He spun around the corner and took off. Hopefully,” I said with a glance at Susannah, “the spa’s security cameras got a good shot of him and his vehicle.”
“Someone go call our security service,” she said to the small crowd still hovering at the door. “And get this woman a cup of tea with honey!”
My gaze shot back to Diane. “Who was he?”
“I never . . . saw him . . . before.”
“Did he say anything?”
She dragged her tongue across her lips again and let her shoulders slump. When she raised her head, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such raw misery in anyone’s eyes before.
“I have to talk . . . to that investigator from . . . CID headquarters.”
GUESS I don’t need to tell you the El Paso police weren’t real happy with the victim’s decision to clam up until Special Agent Sinclair could hop a plane and boogie on out to West Texas.
The responding officers recorded the facts of the assault. When they tried to pry a possible motive out of Diane, though, she shook her head and reiterated her desire to speak with CID. That earned her a real nasty look and a ride to the station in the rear cage of the black-and-white to talk to the detective assigned to the case.
I scrambled into my blue exercise suit and followed in the minivan. The new car smell got my nose twitching again but I had started to feel the ache in my stomach so I couldn’t fully appreciate the car’s delicious aroma. As soon as we were beyond the red rock canyon walls, I flipped up my cell phone and dialed Mitch.
“What’s up, Samantha?”
He sounded terse and distracted. I suspected the near-hysterical torrent of Spanish I could hear in the background had something to do with his distraction.
“You out on patrol?”
“I was. Right now I’m shepherding five coyotes to the detention center.”
Coyotes, I knew, was Border Patrol slang for drug runners.
“Where are you?” he wanted to know.
“On my way to EPPD’s northeast station.”
“Why?” His voice sharpened. “What happened?”
“Someone tried to strangle Diane at the spa.”
“Holy Christ!”
“She’s all right,” I added quickly, “but the attacker got away. She says she doesn’t know who he was. She won’t say more, though, without the presence of a certain CID agent.”
“Guy by the name of Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
“He called me a little while ago. Wasn’t happy that I’d butted into his investigation and . . . Yo! Hombre! Yeah, you! Siéntese!”
“You’ve got your hands full. I’ll let you go.”
“Wait! If I know you, Samantha, you probably beat off Diane’s attacker.”
“I did. Would have taken the creep down, too, if not for the blasted lemongrass.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain later. Call me when you can.”
THE El Paso Police Department’s northeast region borders the Fort Bliss military reservation all the way up to the New Mexico border. As a consequence, its detectives have established a strong working relationship with the CID detachment on post. A fact Detective Mark Ruiz pounded home once Diane and I had been escorted inside the pink adobe command center.
A lean, intense type with curly black hair and babe-magnet chin whiskers, Ruiz did serious justice to a pair of snug jeans and a rumpled white Oxford shirt open at the neck. A loosened red tie hung crookedly below that strong, square chin.
“I contacted the CID duty officer.” His serious brown eyes raked over my slick face and uncombed, towel-tossed red mane before lingering on the vicious finger marks ringing Diane’s throat. “They just called to say Special Agent Hurst is on his way to the station.”
“Oh, Lord.”
My low mutter didn’t escape unnoticed. The detective shot me a narrow-eyed look. “You got a problem with that, Lieutenant?”
I didn’t think this was the time to reveal that Comb Over and I had something of
a history, none of it good, and shook my head.
“Wait here,” he instructed me. “Sergeant Roth, come with me and we’ll take some photographs of your injuries.”
Sunday must be a relatively low crime day in the ’burbs. I took a seat in the waiting room opposite a father and son who’d come to report a stolen bicycle. The only other occupant was a middle-aged blonde in leopard-print spandex tights and a ratty, faux fur jacket. Gripping a paper cup of coffee in hands tipped with bloodred nails, she glared at me, at the man and his son, at the desk sergeant, and everyone who passed by.
Special Agent Andrew Hurst received an especially nasty glare when he stalked into the station. From me, not Faux-Fur Gal. In justification, I should point out that the look I gave him was a direct response to the one he zinged at me. He must have been doing some Sunday-morning yard work when the CID duty officer contacted him. At least I hoped that was the reason for the leafy green twig decorating the sparse strands plastered across his otherwise bald head.
“Where’s Sergeant Roth?”
“Detective Ruiz is digitizing her bruises.”
Nodding, he turned to the desk sergeant and showed his credentials. “I’m Special Agent Hurst, CID. Is there an interview room where I can speak with the lieutenant privately while we wait for Detective Ruiz?”
“Second door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
We relocated to the small, cheerless room done in institutional beige.
“Sinclair is catching the next flight out of D.C.,” Hurst informed me. “He expects to be here by six our time. Now what’s this all about?”
I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much. Then we sat and pretended to be polite until Detective Ruiz escorted Diane into the room. The impatience stamped on the detective’s sexy, whisker-shadowed face suggested their session had included more questioning than mere photography, with less-than-desirable results.
Ruiz and Hurst did the man thing, crunching each other’s fingers, while Diane slid into a seat beside me. She looked awful. The finger marks ringing her throat had already started to purple. Much worse was the lost, almost desperate look in her eyes.
“I’m tempted to charge her with obstructing a law enforcement investigation,” Babe Magnet bit out to Hurst. “The sergeant knows more than she’s telling us.”
They both cut Diane swift glances. It took a visible effort on her part, but she lifted her chin and returned their look. “I’ll tell you everything I can after I talk to Special Agent Sinclair.”
“Then you’ll keep your butt planted in that chair until he gets here.” Ruiz turned back to Hurst. “I’m assuming the assault is related to the shooting incident and vehicular homicide Sergeant Roth was involved in a couple weeks ago. Anything you want to fill me in on before I interview the lieutenant?”
“Sorry, Mark. I’m just an assist on this one. Special Agent Sinclair will have to coordinate release of information to civilian authorities.”
“Right.” His jaw worked. Ruiz didn’t appear real happy about the way the military community had closed ranks. “I’ve contacted the homicide detective working that case. He wants in on this interview, too. In the meantime, we’ve got our patrols on the lookout for the dark sedan Lieutenant Spade saw leaving the spa. Sergeant Roth, wait here. Lieutenant, come with me.”
I accompanied him to another interview room and related my perspective of the incident at the spa. He pumped me on the shooting, too, before leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands across his middle.
“Interesting that you were present both times Sergeant Roth was attacked. Are you a great believer in coincidence, Lieutenant?”
“Well . . .”
“I’m not.” Head cocked, he studied me thoughtfully. “You ever think maybe you were the target, not her?”
Okay, I’m not ashamed to admit it. My eyes popped and my mouth sagged open in surprise. I must have looked like a hooked trout as my cheeks puffed in and out.
“I . . . Uh . . .”
Took a moment for my brains to unscramble. When they did, I dumped the list of disgruntled inventors that had instantly materialized inside my head.
“I wasn’t the one in Oliver Austin’s sights the day of the shooting. He took aim at Diane. And the guy at the spa . . .” I shook my head. “He couldn’t have mistaken her for me. We don’t look anything alike.”
“It was just a thought.” He shoved to his feet. “I’m going to run the description you and Sergeant Roth provided through the National Crime Information Center database, see if I get a hit on that birthmark. If I do, I’ll need you to make a positive ID. You can leave then.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stick around until Sinclair shows.”
“Why should I mind?” The sarcasm was so thick it almost bounced off the walls. “I’m only the investigating officer. You military types are running this show.”
Properly put in my place, I sat and twiddled my thumbs for a while. Went to the bathroom. Dug my zipper clutch out of my jacket pocket and treated myself to a full-octane Coke to soothe my frazzled nerves. After that, I altered a few minor details of the composite the sketch artist had pulled together and hit the vending machines again for some stale peanut M&Ms.
Then I sat with Comb Over and a very subdued Diane in the waiting room for several loooong hours. When Special Agent Blue Eyes walked into the command center I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Too soon, it turned out, because another familiar law enforcement type walked in with him.
Tall, wavy-haired, and good-looking in a brooding, Al Pacino kind of way, FBI Agent Paul Donati swept the waiting area with hooded eyes. He nodded to Hurst and gave Diane a thorough once-over before turning to me.
“Hello, Samantha. Sinclair warned me you were involved in this.”
I shot Blue Eyes a look of reproach. “Wish he’d warned me that you were.”
I’d butted heads with Paul Donati during the hunt for the rogue agent who torched my lab, and, oh by the way, arranged two gruesome murders. Almost four, if you count Mitch and me. For some reason the FBI seems to think it’s their job to take down that kind of slime. They don’t particularly appreciate outsiders messing around in their investigation.
Kind of like Mark Ruiz. The detective made little effort to disguise his impatience after the newcomers duly identified themselves.
“How about we get this show on the road? Lieutenant Spade, I’ll have to ask you to wait here while we interview Sergeant Roth.”
I started to protest that I’d been cleared for this but Sinclair sent me a silent warning and drew Ruiz aside. After their little chat, I ended up with Andy Hurst in an airless observation room, listening and watching through a one-way mirror while Diane confessed to a horrifying tale of murder and blackmail.
“It started in Afghanistan,” she related slowly, painfully, “over a couple of beers. I’d been out on perimeter patrol earlier that day. We took some sniper fire; one of our team got hit. I was pretty shaken. The whole squad was. Then, when I got back to base and checked my email, I found one from my lawyer. My in-laws had filed another petition in family court to get custody of my kids, using my extended absence as justification.”
She put her elbows on the interview table and dropped her head in her hands. When she lifted it again, her face was dead white.
“I was pissed when I met Oliver Austin that night. Really pissed.”
“Oliver Austin?” Ruiz echoed. “The shooter you took down here in El Paso?”
She nodded. “I don’t remember exactly what I said. I swear I don’t. All I know is that Ollie let me rant on and on. Then he . . . Then he asked me how much it would be worth to get my in-laws off my back.”
None of the three men in the interview room moved so much as a muscle. I wasn’t that controlled. Feeling sick, I locked my arms around my waist.
“I laughed,” Diane whispered. “Just looked at him and laughed.”
“You didn’t name a price?” Sinclair asked when she broke off. Eyes hau
nted, she shook her head.
“No! I swear! I thought he was kidding until I saw the look in his eyes. Speculation, I guess you would call it. Or calculation.”
My fingers gouged deeper into my waist. I had to remind myself to breathe as Diane continued.
“Some other guys came up to us and Ollie dropped the subject. He never brought it up again. Ever. It scared me, though. That conversation. That look in his eyes. That’s when I decided to let things cool between us.”
She was begging them to believe her, but they had their cop faces on. All three of them. They kept silent, forcing her to continue.
“Ollie was due to rotate back to the States in a few weeks. I asked my squad leader to detail me to a forward firebase until he left. You can check with Sergeant Barry Houseman. He’ll verify that.”
“We will.”
Swallowing, she continued. “Ollie emailed me after his departure. I didn’t answer.”
“You sure about that?”
Confusion blanked her face. “I’m su . . . Oh, wait. I may have replied once. When he wrote that he’d been hospitalized. I remember now I sent a short email wishing him a quick recovery. Then . . . Then . . .”
The sick feeling in my stomach intensified. I knew what was coming, but it still hit hard.
“Then,” she forced out, “I got word my in-laws had been murdered. I requested an emergency curtailment and flew straight to Florida. It was awful. Horrible.”
“Did you talk to the police? Tell them about Austin?”
“I started to. But . . .”
“But?” Sinclair prompted.
“I called the VA hospital. They told me Ollie was still there so I knew he couldn’t have committed the murders.”
Blue Eyes didn’t buy it. His voice as sharp as a serrated blade, he laid into her. “It didn’t occur to you Austin might have tapped one of the contacts he’d made smuggling heroin to do the Florida job?”
“I didn’t know Ollie was smuggling dope. I . . . I had my suspicions. He always had some kind of deal in the works. But I never knew any details. I swear! Until this morning.”
She dragged her tongue over her lips, looking as sick as I felt.
Now You See Her Page 14