He wasn’t sure he didn’t want it, either.
After a brief conversation with the Crowne Plaza’s manager, Soldier hung up the phone. “They’re on their way,” he said, but Betsy only nodded.
A few minutes later hotel security arrived at the door in the form of one Walter Lemsky. Lemsky was a tall, thin man, a former Chicago cop. He had sharp black eyes that looked like they didn’t miss much. The two men shook hands and Soldier introduced himself.
“Yeah, I reco’nize you,” Lemsky said as he released Soldier’s hand. His nasally voice was gruff, the flat tones pure Chicago. “You’re with the Seattle PD,” he continued. “Robbery and Homicide, right? Read your books.” Soldier noted the man said he’d read his books, not that he’d liked them. Christ, everybody was a critic.
Lemsky was cordial and gentle with Betsy, asking her questions and taking notes. He’d apparently already requested that the day maid, Mrs. Fionorelli, be sent up, for a few minutes later the woman appeared at the door, meekly entering the room.
The maid’s answers to Lemsky’s questions were brief but certain. Sì, the dog had been in the room when she’d cleaned it. No, she hadn’t let anybody in. No, she most certainly had not put the piccolo cane in il frigorifero!
The poor woman appeared genuinely appalled at what had happened to the animal, and looked at Betsy with concern in her eyes.
The computer printout listed the times the door had been keyed open. The times matched both Betsy’s and Housekeeping’s estimates. The lock had not been forced, and no unauthorized entries had been made.
“Mrs. Fionorelli?”
The maid gazed up at Soldier with fear and wariness in her faded brown eyes. Her white hair was pulled back and knotted at the nape. The uniform she wore was clean and she was tidy, but the job of hotel maid could not have been an easy one for a woman of her years. Soldier thought of that old song, She works hard for her money . . . And now she was practically being accused of trying to harm a guest’s dog.
“Mrs. Fionorelli, when you clean, do you close the door while you’re in the room?”
She shook her head. “No, signore. I leave the door open to get puliti i tovaglioli, eh, the clean towels, you say, from my cart. Empty the trash, sì? Like that? But always, I am careful of the piccolo cane.”
“When you were in the room, where was the dog, the piccolo cane?”
Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands in a nervous gesture. “He runs under the bed when I come in, signore. He stays there and, eh, does the growl to me the whole time I am here, but he does not bite me. He just stays under the bed, yes?”
Soldier looked around the room. The proximity of the door and the closet were such that, with her back turned to make the bed, the maid wouldn’t have seen anyone slipping through the door and into the closet.
“Mrs. Fionorelli, did you open the closet door while you were here?”
“No, signore.”
He asked her a few more questions, then dismissed her. On her way to the door, she patted Betsy’s arm. “Sono molto spiacente per le vostre difficoltà, mancanza.”
Betsy smiled. “Grazie, signora.”
“You speak Italian?” Soldier asked.
“I saw The Godfather three times.”
“Well, that just about makes you fluent.” He gazed into her eyes, but she glanced away, then lowered her head.
Lemsky sat on the desk chair while Soldier walked to the window. The drapes were open now and he could see all the way down to Pike Place Market. Beyond the rooftops and chimneys were the cold waters of Puget Sound. The sun formed a hazy disk in the sky, quiet declaration to the day’s impending decline.
“We can try to get some latents from inside the closet,” Soldier said to no one in particular, “but I’m willing to bet we won’t find anything we can use.”
“I agree,” Lemsky said. Looking around, he puffed his cheeks then let out a breath. “Okay. Perp comes in while the maid’s busy. Hides in the closet until she leaves. Grabs the mutt, shoves it into the fridge. Then, when the coast is clear, he hightails it. Exits aren’t keyed, so his departure don’t show up on the computer.”
“And the maid didn’t hear him come in,” Betsy said, “because Piddle was growling the whole time. Even if he had been aware of an intruder, the maid wouldn’t have paid any attention since she thought he was growling at her.”
As Soldier turned, his gaze was met by Betsy’s worried stare.
“But the question is, why? Why on earth would someone sneak into my room and put my dog in the refrigerator? I don’t get it at all.”
Soldier moved to the bed and sat near her. He could see confusion and frustration in her eyes, but he didn’t have any solutions to offer her. “It’s been my experience,” he said, “that stalkers have their own reasons for doing what they do, and it seldom makes sense to anyone but themselves.”
“Do you think it’s the same guy? The one that wrote me the note?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid I do. I’m not much on coincidences.”
Soldier rose from the bed. “I’m going to call this in,” he said. “Maybe they can get some useful prints, but this is a hotel room. There are probably thousands of prints all over the place.”
“Detective McKennitt?” Lemsky indicated with a nod of his head he wanted to have a word out of Betsy’s earshot. She had her face buried in the blanket, cooing to the mutt, so Soldier followed the security man outside.
Lemsky leaned close to Soldier in a conspiratorial manner. “I sure don’t like this,” he said under his breath. “I mean, this kinda gives me the creeps. She’s a real nice lady. I don’t like to think of what this guy might try next.”
Soldier felt his entire body go rigid. He didn’t like to think of what the guy might try next, either.
Lemsky tilted his head down and raised both brows. “It probably ain’t none of my business, but, uh, you gotta thing for the lady?”
“What do you mean?”
Lemsky shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, pal,” he whispered, “I’m a cop, too. I been attracted to my share of lady victims over the years. There was this one gal, bee-u-ti-ful. A real sweetheart. She was a witness to a murder. I was assigned—”
“We should discuss jurisdiction,” Soldier interrupted. “As far as I can tell, no crime has been committed. I have no real evidence that anybody put the dog in the refrigerator, even though we both pretty much know somebody did. But with no evidence of a crime, there’s no crime scene. No crime scene means no jurisdiction. My hands are tied, leaving security in the hotel’s hands.”
Lemsky lifted his chin. “Okay, then. But because I got the same gut feeling you got, I’m going to have to assign somebody to stick with her while she’s a guest in the hotel. That’s why I asked if you had a thing for the lady.”
Soldier pursed his lips. He blinked, and in that flash of darkness saw Betsy’s pretty face, her smooth cheek, soft mouth. He saw her glaring at him as though he were the lowest life-form on the planet, the sparkle in her eyes as she challenged him. He glimpsed the white column of her throat and his own mouth on it. And in his head, he heard her soft moans as she wrapped her naked legs around his hips.
Studying the carpet at his feet, he blew out a breath. “Whether I have a thing for the lady isn’t the issue here. Her safety is.” Raising his head, Soldier met Lemsky’s stare. “But I’ll, uh, I’ll watch over her while she’s here at the conference.”
A knowing glint flared from Lemsky’s eyes. “But it’ll be official business. Nothing personal.”
“No. Nothing personal. She’s the potential victim of a crime, and I’m her watchdog.”
The hotel detective snickered and shook his head. As he started to move away, Soldier’s words stopped him.
“Tell me something, Lemsky,” he said. “That murder witness in Chicago?”
Lemsky nodded.
“So, what happened to your bee-u-ti-ful lady victim?”
Lemsky’s face split into a wide grin. “Who, Gr
acie?” He chuckled. “I married her. Twenty years, three kids. Life’s good.” He winked. “Gotta watch out for dem cute ones, pal.”
By that evening, things had settled down a bit. The fingerprint guys had come and gone, Soldier had ordered Betsy some food, and her dog had thawed from pupsicle to room temperature and seemed none the worse for wear. As for Betsy herself, she had been distracted and flustered and had clung to the small animal as though he were a life buoy that would save her from going under.
Soldier had wanted to put her in another room, but because of the conference, every vacancy in the hotel was filled. He’d quietly arranged to trade his room on the fourth floor for Betsy’s on the third, but she was reluctant to do so at first. The independent little wench.
It took some doing, but he was finally able to convince her that she’d be safer in his room, under his name, and nobody would know of the switch except for the two of them and Lemsky.
Now, sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in his former room, Soldier watched Betsy unpack her suitcase with one hand while holding the mutt in the other.
Soldier raised his arms. Wiggling his fingers in a come-to-papa gesture, he addressed Betsy. “Hey. Why don’t you give me the dog so you can rest? I’ll take Piddle with me and go down to your room. You can get some sleep.”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll just hang onto him for a while.”
“Betsy,” he cajoled. “A dog that small must have a bladder the size of a Rice Krispie. It’s been hours. Why don’t you let me take him out?”
She stopped unpacking and nodded her head. “Oh. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
He rose from the bed and took the dog, leaving her looking lost and bereft.
“By the time I get back,” he said softly, “dinner should be up. After we eat, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Wh-What kind of questions?”
Can I sleep with you tonight? And tomorrow night? And the night after that? “We’ll talk about it later. Lock the door behind me. Don’t let anybody in except me or Lemsky. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
Betsy locked the door and peered through the fish-eye to see Soldier’s distorted figure disappear from view.
What in the hell was she doing? She didn’t even know this man, and now she was staying in his room? In frustration, she ran her fingers through her hair as she paced the carpet. She felt like a caged animal who had once known freedom and wasn’t prepared to accept her change in circumstances.
Fury curdled her blood at how she had to change her schedule, her very life, to keep herself safe from a complete stranger.
In frustration, she fell onto the bed on her stomach and opened her purse, digging through it until she found her notebook. She would call Paris. She needed to call Paris. It would be very early morning there, so hopefully her adventuress mother would be in her own bed in her own hotel room.
It took a few minutes to make the connection, but finally a sleepy female voice said, “Oui?”
“Loretta? Loretta, it’s me, Elizabeth.”
There was a moment of silence while the woman on the other end of the line obviously came a little more awake. For a moment it sounded as though she pressed her hand over the receiver and spoke in French to someone in the room. She must have removed her hand, because abruptly Loretta Tremaine’s strident voice came through loud and clear.
“Elizabeth! Why are you calling? Is everything all right there? Is it my Pids? Has something happened to Piddle?”
Betsy swallowed her instant regret. Things never changed. Loretta . . . never changed. If she had expected maternal words of comfort, the joke was on her. Again.
But she had wanted, needed, to hear her mother’s voice. With Daddy out of the picture, there was only her mother. It had always been a contentious relationship, but it was the only one Betsy had.
“Actually, everything’s fine, Loretta. I just wanted to see if you’re having a good time. Um, are you alone?”
“Oh, that was just Richard,” she said in a light, dismissive tone. She did not elaborate. “Elizabeth, darling. It’s four in the morning here.” Her voice deepened. Betsy recognized that tone. It was Loretta’s attempt at being a Concerned Mother. “If it’s not Mummy’s doggie, then what is it? Have you been in an accident?” She gasped. “They didn’t let your father out by mistake again, did they? Dammit, don’t they realize he’s a danger—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Betsy said through a strained laugh. “The thing is, Loretta . . . well, it’s possible I’m being stalked. I’ve received some odd phone calls and a note, and today, at the writer’s conference, somebody broke into my room.”
She didn’t dare tell her mother how close her dog had come to being a frigid fatality. “Detective McKennitt—”
“McKennitt? McKennitt . . . McKennitt. Oh, yes, now I remember. The one you wrote that deliciously scathing review about last year?”
“Yes, well, he has a new book out now, but, well, never mind. It’s more that—”
“Now, Elizabeth. I rather liked his book. By his writing, he seems rather manly,” she purred. “Is he a manly man, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Loretta. Infinitely manly. But the point is—”
“Well,” scoffed Loretta, “stalking. I’m speechless.” That would be the day. “Are you sure you’re not just imagining all this? I mean, you’ve always had an overactive imagination. Perhaps the stress of being rejected by so many men has finally caught up with you, poor darling. Perhaps—”
Hot tears burned the corners of Betsy’s eyes. Keeping her voice as steady as possible, she said, “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Loretta. I’ve got to go now. Really, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re being stalked, or some such thing. What kind of maman would I be if I didn’t worry so over my little chick? What’s that detective’s name again, the illiterate Neanderthal you despise?”
“Soldier McKennitt. But—”
“You say he’s watching out for you?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s not the one stalking you.”
“No.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Is he as good-looking as he sounds?”
Betsy resisted the urge to scream. “I repeat. He’s manly, Loretta. A manly man. Naked gladiators should be so manly. He’s tall. He’s dark. He’s got blue eyes. He’s handsome as they come. Broad shoulders, perfect teeth, long, muscular legs. Beautiful . . .”
She was going to say that Soldier had beautiful hands, but that would be too personal. She wanted to keep that part for herself. He had touched her with his beautiful hands, and it might never happen again.
Betsy recalled the gentleness of his touch, the warmth of his fingers as he caressed her cheek and talked to her when she’d been so afraid. No, she would keep his beautiful hands in her own memory and not give it away so frivolously to a woman who would neither understand nor care.
“Loretta,” she sighed. “Go back to sleep.”
“Well, all right. Now, you’re to call me if anything juicy should happen. Don’t do anything foolish, and do listen to your detective.” Only Loretta Tremaine would give a daughter advice that involved the use of the word juicy.
“He’s not my detective, Loretta,” Betsy insisted. “He’s not my anything.” But her protests met only silence. Her mother had already hung up.
Soldier was careful not to be seen on his return trip from the small park across the street from the hotel. The dog had lived up to his name on every bush and blade of grass, and Soldier had to grudgingly give the little guy credit. He’d held it in for a long time, through his near-death experience and for hours afterward when Betsy had cradled him close. Who would have thought a dog named Piddle would have an iron bladder?
Glancing up and down the empty hallway as he slid the plastic key into the lock, he pushed the door open and quickly entered. The bathroom door was shut and he could hear water running.
Soldier grimaced. A
shower might do Betsy some good, but the thought of all that hot water sluicing over her naked body didn’t help reduce his lust at all. The poor woman had enough trouble without her bodyguard coming on to her.
The last thing she needed was his hands running all over her flesh, kissing her soft, plump skin.
No, she didn’t need that, but he sure as hell did.
Shaking the images from his brain, he sprawled on the bed and made a grab for the phone. After three rings, Taylor answered.
“Hey, Tayo. How’s it hangin’?”
“Long and low, brother, long and low. How’s the conference?” He could hear Taylor munching on something that sounded like a potato chip.
Soldier let his gaze wander to the closed bathroom door. “There’s been an interesting development here.”
“Yeah? Don’t tell me, don’t tell me! You fell for the lovely Ms. Tremaine and now you’re going to elope to Niagara Falls?” He snickered into the receiver.
“As a matter of fact, she is here, and I did meet her.”
Taylor choked on his potato chip. “You are shitting me! That’s great! Did you give her hell? Did you rough her up a little? Do you need bail money?”
“Uh, no. No bail, but—”
“So what’s she look like? Is she wartless?”
“Totally.”
Taylor’s voice rose a notch. “She’s young, isn’t she? And pretty, I’ll bet? And you fell for her, didn’t you? Ha! Son of a freakin’ bitch! I can’t believe it!” He started to howl with laughter.
Soldier realized that the shower in the bathroom had stopped. She’d be out in a few minutes, so he had to make this quick. “This is serious, Taylor. Somebody tried to whack her Chihuahua.”
A momentary pause. “Whack her Chihuahua? Sounds kinky. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Hey, have you whacked her—”
“Shut up, you numbnuts! Listen. I’m certain Betsy Tremaine is being stalked. The guy has made two direct contacts. He left her a note, then broke into her room here at the conference. She’s in the initial impact and denial phase, but pretty soon it’s going to hit her like a freight train and she’s going to implode. I’m going to try to get her to let me take her home.”
The Damsel in This Dress Page 6