by Sandra Brown
“What can we do?”
“We start by trying to determine if he’s for real or just a nut trying to win the attention of his favorite celebrity.” By now he was ushering her through the maze of similar cubicles toward the set of double doors through which she’d entered the CIB.
“How do we make that determination?”
“We go to the authority on the subject.”
• • •
Just as Dean was leaving the house, Liz called from the Houston airport. “You’re already in Houston?”
“My flight from Austin was at six-thirty.”
“Brutal.”
“Tell me.” After a short pause, she asked, “What happened with Gavin when you got home last night?”
“Your basic open warfare, both sides scoring hits and suffering casualties.”
He balanced the cordless phone between chin and shoulder and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He’d lain awake for hours last night, and when he finally did fall asleep, he’d gone comatose. His alarm had been going off for half an hour before it awakened him. No time to brew coffee this morning.
“Well, at least he was home when you got there,” Liz said. “He hadn’t disobeyed.”
Not wanting to recount his argument with Gavin, Dean harrumphed a nonverbal agreement. “What time is your first meeting in Chicago?”
“As soon as I arrive at the hotel. I hope O’Hare isn’t too hairy and I can get through it quickly. What have you got on tap today?”
He outlined his day. She said she needed to run, that she’d just wanted to say hi before her flight to Chicago. He told her he was glad that she’d caught him and wished her a safe flight. She said, “I love you.” And he replied with, “Love you, too.”
After disconnecting, Dean bowed his head, closed his eyes, and tapped his forehead—hard—with the telephone as though he were paying some kind of unorthodox self-flagellating penance.
Rather than getting his day off to the good start that Liz had obviously intended, her call put him out of sorts. Add the blasted heat and Austin’s rush-hour traffic, and he was in a testy mood when he reached his office fifteen minutes late.
“Good morning, Ms. Lester. Any messages?”
Dean shared the secretary with several other people. She was competent. And friendly. His first day on the job, she had informed him that she was the divorced mother of two daughters and that it was okay for him to call her by her first name.
Unless his eyes were deceiving him, and he didn’t think they were, since his arrival her necklines had gotten progressively lower and her hemlines higher. This gradual reduction of textiles could be in correlation with the rising summertime temperature, but he doubted it. Just to be safe, he had stuck to calling her Ms. Lester.
“Messages are on your desk. A fresh pot of coffee is brewing. Soon as it’s ready, I’ll bring you some.”
Fetching him coffee wasn’t in her job description, but this morning he was glad she’d volunteered. “Great, thanks.”
He went into his office and closed the door, discouraging further conversation. He slung his jacket onto the wall rack, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar button. He sat down at his desk and riffled through his messages, happy to see there were no urgent ones. He needed a few minutes to decompress.
He swiveled his desk chair around and adjusted the window blind so he could see out. The sunlight was glaring, but that wasn’t why he dug his fingers into his eye sockets, then wearily dragged his hands down his face.
What was he going to do about Gavin? How many times could he ground him? How many more privileges could he revoke? How many more scenes like the one last night could they withstand? Arguments such as that inflicted damage that was often irreparable. Could any relationship survive constant onslaughts like that?
He sorely regretted smacking him. Not that Gavin hadn’t deserved it for the insulting crack he’d made. Still, he shouldn’t have struck him. He was the grown-up and he should have behaved as such. To lose his temper like that was juvenile. And dangerous. Loss of control could wreak havoc, and he knew that better than anyone.
Besides, he was determined to be a positive role model for Gavin. He didn’t want to preach to him, but to set a good example. Last night, he had sent the wrong message on how to manage anger, and he was sorry for it.
He ran his fingers through his hair and wondered what was taking the coffee so freaking long.
Should he send Gavin back to his mother? “Not an option,” he muttered out loud. No way. For a long list of reasons that included welshing on the agreement he and Pat had reached about their son, but the main one being that Dean Malloy deplored failure. At anything. He threw in the towel only when absolutely forced to.
Gavin had told him—more like accused him—of always being right. He’d said that it must be boring as shit to be so right all the time. Hardly, Gavin, he thought cynically. He didn’t feel right about anything. Obviously he wasn’t doing right by his son.
Or by Liz. Not by a long shot was he doing right by Liz. How long could he put off doing something about that?
“Dr. Malloy?”
Thinking that Ms. Lester was bringing the long-awaited, high-octane coffee, he kept his back to the door. “Just set it on the desk, please.”
“There’s someone here to see you.” Dean swiveled his chair around. “Sergeant Curtis from CIB asked for a minute of your time,” the secretary told him. “Is it all right if he comes in?”
“Certainly.” He’d met the detective only once, but he’d seemed like a stand-up kind of guy. Dean knew that he was a hardworking and well-respected member of the Austin PD. He stood up as Curtis walked in. “Good morning, Sergeant Curtis.”
“Just plain Curtis. That’s what everybody calls me. Do you prefer Doctor or Lieutenant?”
“How about Dean?” They met in the center of the office and shook hands.
“Is this a bad time?” Curtis asked. “I apologize for barging in on you unannounced, but this might turn out to be important.”
“No problem. Coffee is on the way.”
“Make that coffee for three. I’m not alone.” Curtis stepped back into the open doorway and motioned someone forward.
• • •
Despite her sunglasses, Paris feared that her expression was no less revealing than Dean’s.
He appeared to be as dumbfounded as she’d been a few moments ago when she read his name on the office door she was about to enter, unaware, unprepared, unbolstered, and unable to stop the inevitable.
He gaped at her for several seconds before managing to articulate a startled, “Paris?”
Curtis divided a surprised look between them.
“Should I bring more cups, Dr. Malloy?”
That from the secretary.
Dean’s gaze remained fixed on Paris as he replied, “Please, Ms. Lester.”
The secretary withdrew, leaving Paris, Dean, and the detective standing frozen in an awkward tableau like actors who had forgotten their lines. Finally Curtis placed his hand beneath her elbow and nudged her forward. Unwillingly she went farther into the office, into Dean’s space.
And like any space Dean had ever occupied, he dominated it. Not just physically, with his above-average height and broad shoulders, but with the strength of his personality. Immediately one sensed that this was a man of principle, unshakable conviction, and unwavering determination. He could be your staunchest ally or your most feared adversary.
Paris had experienced him as both.
Her throat had constricted, as though every blood vessel leading from her heart had converged there. The oxygen in the room seemed insufficient. She was breathing with difficulty while striving to appear perfectly composed.
Dean wasn’t doing so well either. When it became obvious that shock had robbed him of manners, Curtis motioned Paris into the nearest chair. That snapped Dean out of his daze. “Uh, yeah, please, sit. Both of you.”
As they were taking their seats, Curtis s
aid, “I’m not a detective for nothing. I gather you two know each other.”
She relied on her voice to earn her living, but it had deserted her. She left it to Dean to do the talking.
“From Houston,” he said. “Years ago. I was with the PD and Paris . . .”
He looked at her expectantly, leaving her no option but to take up the explanation. “I was a reporter for one of the television stations.”
Curtis raised his pale eyebrows in surprise. “Television? I assumed you’d always been on radio.”
She glanced at Dean, then shook her head. “I moved from TV to radio.”
Curtis murmured an acknowledgment that said he understood the transition when clearly he didn’t understand at all.
“Excuse me.” Ms. Lester came in carrying a tray. As she set it on Dean’s desk, she asked, “Cream and sugar, anyone?”
They all declined. She filled three mugs from a stainless-steel carafe, then asked Dean if there would be anything else. He shook his head and thanked her.
Curtis watched her leave. When he turned back around he remarked, “I’m impressed. They don’t spring for personal assistants in CIB.”
“What?” Dean looked at him with confusion, then at the empty doorway. “Oh, Ms. Lester. She’s not my personal assistant. She just . . . She’s just very efficient. Treats everybody over here like that.”
“Over here” referred to the annex next door to the main building of police headquarters. It was accessible through a connecting parking garage, which was the route Paris and Curtis had taken. The detective didn’t seem to buy Dean’s explanation for the secretary’s attention any more than Paris did, but he didn’t comment on it further.
Paris wrapped both hands around the steaming mug of coffee, grateful for the warmth it provided. Dean took a gulp of his that probably blistered his tongue.
Curtis said, “I had no idea that I would be reuniting two long-lost friends.”
“Paris didn’t know about my transfer here,” Dean said, watching her closely. “Or if she did—”
“I didn’t. I assumed you were still in Houston.”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
Curtis filled the ensuing gap in conversation. “Up until Dr. Malloy joined us, we used civilians and paid them a consulting fee. But for a long time, we’d been needing and wanting a psychologist on staff, a member of the department, someone with experience and training as a cop as well as a psychologist. Early this year, the funding was finally approved and we were lucky enough to lure Dr. Malloy here.”
“How nice.” She included both of them in her perfunctory smile.
After another short silence, Dean cleared his throat again and addressed the detective. “You mentioned a matter that could be important.”
Curtis sought a more comfortable position in his chair. “Are you familiar with Ms. Gibson’s radio program?”
“I listen to it every night.”
Her head came up quickly and she looked at Dean with surprise. Their eyes connected for several seconds before he turned back to Curtis.
“Then you know she takes call-in requests and such,” the detective said. Dean nodded. “Last night, she received a call that disturbed her. With cause.” Curtis went on to explain the nature of Valentino’s call, then concluded by saying, “I thought you might take a listen and give us your professional opinion.”
“I’ll be glad to. Let’s hear it.”
Curtis had brought the cassette player with him. He set it on the desk, rewound the tape, and after several false starts for which he apologized, her voice filled the taut silence: This is Paris.
By now she knew the dialogue word for word. As it played, she stared into her coffee mug, but in her peripheral vision she observed Dean. Individual parts of him. All of him. Surreptitiously she looked at his hands resting on the edge of his desk, fingers laced. He was slowly rubbing his thumbs together, and that, just that, caused a quiver deep in her belly.
Only once did she allow herself to look at his face. He’d been gazing into near space, but he must have felt her eyes on him because he focused on her sharply. His eyes still had the capability of making her feel like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard.
At one time, years ago, it had been thrilling to be looked at with that kind of intensity. Now it only made her remember things that should have been long forgotten. It resurrected sensations and emotions she had tried to bury and, until a few minutes ago, thought she had. She returned her gaze to her coffee mug.
When the tape ended, Dean asked if he could have a duplicate made.
“Of course,” Curtis replied.
Dean ejected the tape and left the office only long enough to dispatch Ms. Lester on the errand. When he returned, Curtis said, “So you don’t think this guy is just blowing smoke?”
“I want to listen to the recording several more times, but my first impression is that it’s worrisome at the very least. Ever get a call like this before, Paris?”
She shook her head. “Listeners have reported UFOs, terrorist infiltration, asbestos in their attics. One night a woman called to tell me she had a snake in her bathtub and asked if I knew how to tell if it was poisonous. I get at least one proposal of marriage a week. I’ve had one offer of donor sperm. Hundreds of obscene propositions. But nothing like this. This . . . this feels different.”
“Although he’s called you before.”
“A man identifying himself as Valentino calls periodically. I believe this is the same man, but I can’t swear to it.”
“Do you think he’s someone you know?”
She hesitated before answering. “Honestly? I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about that. But I don’t recognize the voice, and I believe I would.”
“You would have an ear for voices,” Dean said thoughtfully. “But it sounds to me as though he’s trying to disguise his.”
“To me, too.”
“So it could be someone you know.”
“I suppose. But I can’t think of anyone who would play such a horrible prank.”
“Have you recently made someone angry?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Exchanged words?”
“I don’t recall an incident like that.”
“Have you said anything that would come across as an affront? To a coworker. Bank teller. Waiter. Grocery sacker. The guy who dries your windows at the car wash.”
“No,” she snapped. “I don’t make a habit of provoking people.”
Ignoring her annoyance, he pressed on. “Have you quarreled with a boyfriend? Ended a relationship? Broken someone’s heart?”
She glared at him for several ponderous moments, then shook her head.
Serving as a tactful referee in a conflict he didn’t understand, Curtis coughed behind his fist. “Couple of rookies, Griggs and Carson, handled this last night,” he told Dean. “They were going to check out the radio station personnel first thing this morning. I’ll follow up with them right now, see if they’ve learned anything. Excuse me.”
Before she could protest—and how could she?—Curtis pulled his cell phone from the holster clipped to his belt and left the office.
Instead of warming her hands, the ceramic coffee mug had grown cold within them. She leaned forward and placed it on the edge of Dean’s desk, giving the mug and the surface of the desk more focus than either warranted.
Unable to avoid it any longer, she looked at him. “I didn’t plan this, Dean. When I came here this morning, I had no idea . . . I didn’t know you were in Austin now.”
“I could have told you at Jack’s funeral. You wouldn’t talk to me.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It would have been inappropriate.”
Leaning toward her, he said, softly but angrily, “After seven years?”
Jack had been the first to say that nobody could get to Dean the way she could. She seemed to be the only person on the planet with a knack for gouging
a chink in his rigid self-control.
Still sounding angry, he said, “I thought the sunglasses were only for the funeral. Have you still got—”
“I’m not going to talk about this, Dean. I’d leave if I could. If I’d known who Sergeant Curtis was bringing me to see—”
“You’d have turned tail and run. That’s your MO, isn’t it?”
Before she could form a reply, Curtis returned. “They’re checking out the janitor, Marvin Patterson. Nothing solid so far. There appears to be some confusion that they’re trying to sort through. Should have some info soon. Stan Crenshaw . . .” Here he paused and looked at Paris. “He’s related to the station’s owner?”
“He’s Wilkins Crenshaw’s nephew.”
“A nepotistic hiring?”
“To be sure,” she said candidly. “Stan does as little as possible and isn’t very good at what little he does. His laziness is irritating and often inconvenient for those of us who work with him, but on a personal level we get along. Besides, it couldn’t have been either him or Marvin, even if one of them would do such a thing. They were in the building when the call came in.”
“Telephones being the high-tech gadgets they are these days, I’ve got the department’s electronics wizard working on that angle. Officers are also talking to the people who work in the nearby pharmacy, seeing if they can pick up something there. Either an employee or a customer who’s got a fixation on you. But . . .” He paused to tug on his ear. “We don’t actually have the commission of a crime here. Just the threat of one.”
“It’s a serious threat.”
“Right,” the detective conceded thoughtfully. “Valentino said he heard the woman talking about him on your show. Do you remember a call like the one he describes?”
“Not off the top of my head. It must have been fairly recent, though, and it was a call that I played on the air. That narrows it down considerably. But I never would have told a caller to ‘dump’ someone.”
“He could’ve been lying about that,” Dean said. She and Curtis looked at him for clarification. “The call from the girlfriend could be an invention to justify—even to himself—what he plans to do to her.”