“The guy in the parking lot jetéd just like that before he reached the railing,” she said. “Then, when he touched down, he used his momentum to vault himself over. I’ve seen so many jetés in my life, it didn’t even register at the time, and it sure as hell wasn’t done with the same finesse and grace Mandy Rose just displayed, but all the same, that is definitely what he did.”
“Steerwhiler is a dancer,” Tristan said slowly, feeling her out, watching for her initial, intuitive reaction. So many times, that was the one that told them the most. “Maybe he was playing some esoteric kind of joke on you.”
A frown puckered her forehead. “There is always the possibility, I suppose,” she slowly acknowledged. “And his build is right. But somehow—” Her fingers twisted together in her lap. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. At this point, I just don’t know.”
“Has your relationship with him changed at all recently?”
“Well, that was the thing, you see. I really was kind of surprised that the flower was from him, because I had thought we were sort of…mutually cooling off.”
“We’ll check to see if he has an alibi,” Tristan said. “And I guess we’ll just have to go from there.” Bloody hell. This case kept getting stranger by the minute.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” he said. “Can you tell me the name of the florist?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“How about the delivery boy? Was he wearing a uniform?”
“No. Just jeans and a sweater, an unzipped jacket and a baseball cap. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Once I saw that flower, I didn’t see anything else. You might check with the security guard at the stage door, though, because the kid probably parked the delivery van in the alley, and he would have had to sign in.”
“Very good, lass. What about the card?”
“Oh! I still have that. It’s on the seat of my car.”
“Joe?” Tristan said.
“I’m on it,” Joe affirmed. He collected Rhonda’s car keys from her and let himself out of Amanda’s apartment.
Amanda returned to the living room, holding aloft a plastic baggie. “Detective Cash said he needed one of these, but then he left without taking it.”
“Put it on the table, Miss Charles,” Tristan directed crisply, keeping his eyes trained on his notebook. “He’ll be back directly.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. She sat down next to Rhonda and yawned widely behind a politely raised hand. Head resting wearily against the back of the couch, she slowly rolled it until she was looking directly at Rhonda’s profile. “You wanna stay here for what’s left of the night?”
Rhonda turned to look at her, giving her a small, close-lipped smile. “Thanks, kiddo. I’d appreciate that a lot.”
“Would it hurt your feelings if I went to bed? I can stay up with you if you’d rather.”
“Don’t be silly; you go ahead. I’ll come crawl in with you when MacLaughlin is done with me.”
Amanda raised her eyes from Rhonda’s face and glanced across the room to where Tristan was seated, scribbling busily in a battered spiral notebook. She leaned over and gave Rhonda a kiss. “’Night, Rhonda.”
“G’night.”
Tristan waited until Amanda left the room, then looked up from his notebook and asked Rhonda casually, “Where’s she off to this time, then?”
“To bed.”
For a brief instant, he went very still as his gray eyes locked with hers. Then he looked at the doorway where Amanda had walked out, glanced back down at his notebook, and said something that sounded like “huh!”—an utterance more exhalation of breath than actual word.
Joe came in and they slid the small card into the plastic baggie. Unfortunately, it didn’t carry the name of the florist upon it. It was just a white piece of bonded cardboard with a minuscule flower in one corner, and the hand that had penned the message was probably not that of the sender. But it gave them a place to start. They spent an additional twenty minutes going over Rhonda’s story, trying to coerce bits and pieces of added information from her memory. Finally, the policemen put away their notebooks and rose to their feet.
“We may need to contact you for further information, lass,” Tristan said. “But for now, why don’t you go to bed and try to put everything out of your mind. If you’re ready, we’ll walk you up to your apartment.”
“Thanks,” Rhonda replied. “But I’m going to go crawl in with Amanda tonight. I don’t particularly want to be alone.”
“Aye, I can understand that. Be sure to lock up behind us then.”
“I will. G’night, Lieutenant, Detective.” She closed the door behind them.
Tristan listened for the sound of the locks being tumbled into place before he started down the steps. “What a bugger,” he sighed, then glanced at Joe. “Want to come down for a drink?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”
A few moments later they were both slumped on their spines on Tristan’s couch, stockinged feet up on the coffee table, Ace sprawled on his back between them. Each man held a stubby glass in his hand, the bottle of bonded on the table in front of them. “So, whataya think?” Joe asked. He inhaled one of his rare cigarettes, blowing a stream of smoke at the ceiling.
“Hell, who knows? Why Rhonda Smith? The guy’s targeted blondes exclusively up to this point. So, why all of a sudden has he gone after a brunette? And how did he find out so much about her? He knew her name, that she was dating Steerwhiler…”
“…Her most vulnerable spot when he sent her that flower, although that might have been sheer luck,” Joe added.
“What do you mean by her most vulnerable spot?” Tristan asked, and Joe told him of Rhonda’s hurt sense of betrayal over the flower.
Tristan went very still for a moment, but kept his thoughts to himself, murmuring only, “That flaming sod.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Eventually, Tristan raised his glass, took a sip of his neat whiskey, and asked, “Do you get the impression Miss Smith has something of a reputation for sleeping around?”
“Yeah. She came right out and said as much, and she’s not apologizing for it, either.”
“No reason she should,” Tristan agreed coolly. “But, if she’s the kind of woman men talk about, then our guy could have overheard a conversation about her damn near anywhere. Dammit. This case grows more bleedin’ wonderful by the day, doesn’t it? The trouble is, it might not even be our mope. She’s the kind of woman who has known a lot of men, and she has probably managed to piss off one or two of them along the way. Hell, Joe, this could easily be our guy, going off on some tangent understood only by himself, or it could be any one of a legion of others.”
“I know. Ain’t police work grand?”
“Hell, yes.” They exchanged weary smiles.
“You know what the irony is?” Tristan said. “If Rhonda wasn’t the kind of woman she is, our guy, if it was he who arranged tonight’s entertainment, probably never would have heard of her in the first place. Yet, it was being a streetwise savvy woman that most likely saved her butt out there tonight. That lass is nobody’s fool.”
“That’s for damn sure. I gotta admit, I kind of admire her. She thinks mighty fast on her feet. So, what’s your immediate gut reaction?”
“That it’s him. Tonight’s escapade had that slickness to it I’m coming to associate with our killer. It was obviously well planned and it was sure as hell boldly executed, and he didn’t panic when it fell apart on him. It just seems to have his mark stamped all over it. What’s your own opinion, then?”
Joe tipped up his glass. “I don’t have your experience in this kind of case, MacLaughlin. But I get the same gut reaction as any other halfway decent cop, and I gotta agree. I sure as hell wish I knew what singling out Rhonda is suppose to signify, though.”
“Yeah, so do I, Joe. So do I.” Tristan sat up straighter. “I guess our next step should be running a check on all the male dancers. God, between Reno and Tahoe—which is too close to ignore—th
ere must be hundreds of them.” He raked both hands through his hair. “But let’s start at the Cabaret, since we’ve got the list we compiled the day we were there. It’s a logical start, and if nothing else, we ought to run a make on the males in the troupe to be sure no one has a record. Miss Smith seems convinced that her man in the parking lot was a dancer.”
Joe left shortly after that. Tristan sat in his darkened living room for a while longer, rubbing his dog’s stomach and thinking about the events of the past twenty-four hours. Finally, reluctant to go out again, but following a compulsion he could not explain, Tristan put his shoes back on, shrugged into his jacket, and left his apartment. He was about to violate his long-held policy of noninvolvement, and the surprising thing was that it wasn’t even for the woman he’d thought he’d perhaps break all his rules for.
He drove downtown to an all-night flower shop.
He was still torn about whether he was doing the right thing or not when he picked out a small spring bouquet to be delivered to Rhonda Smith. Sending her flowers was a flagrant disregard of his career-long canon of strict noninvolvement. As a veteran cop, he was certain he was making a mistake. He knew better than to concern himself in the lives of the people on one of his cases.
There was a lot more at stake here, though, than just keeping his professional distance. By making this one gesture, he was about to negate an entire lifetime spent holding himself aloof from the rest of the world. It sure as hell wouldn’t gain him anything. In the process, in fact, he stood to lose a few of his own hard-earned protective layers.
But still he felt compelled to do it. Somewhere deep inside of him, he had an intrinsic understanding of Rhonda Smith’s sense of betrayal. He knew what it was like to grow up in an area where you were counted fortunate if you were able to scrape together the bare essentials. She had been handed something tonight that had given her a chance to experience, for a brief moment, a wonder that had been lacking in her youth. It had laid open her deepest and innermost vulnerabilities, exposing the core that she had probably learned to protect at an early age for the sake of her own survival.
And if it had simply been left at that, it wouldn’t necessarily have been a bad thing. If nothing else, it presented her with a special memory to make up for the lack that had gone before.
But it hadn’t been left at that. She had walked away unharmed from what was quite probably a practiced killer. But, whether by intention or sheer blind luck, the sender of that flower had seen to it that she had not walked away unscathed.
Hunched over the little counter, Tristan stared at all the cards and realized this case was unlikely to be cracked through the flower connection. Considering every florist in Reno probably carried tags identical to these, it was highly improbable they’d turn out to be the clue that tracked down the sender. The cards were too generic, and if every shop also had these private little counters where a buyer could fill out his own card, all a man would have to do was fill out a card ahead of time, then pick a busy time to make a purchase—or better yet, find a bored teenager hanging around some mall and pay him to go in and do it for him. Tristan wouldn’t hold his breath, waiting for something to come of it from the lab. He reached for one of the cards that read “To Someone Special.”
He hesitated before he wrote anything, pen hovering over the little white card, his natural reticence fighting one last battle with his need to make this gesture. Finally, he compromised.
He allowed himself to get personal when he wrote: “A lass’s first flower shouldn’t be defiled by a man who doesn’t appreciate the importance of a special memory.”
But he preserved his need to maintain a formal distance when he signed it, “Lieutenant T. MacLaughlin.”
Chapter
10
Dance rehearsals were generally held only when a new headliner started at the Cabaret. It wasn’t necessary to hold them on a daily basis, for the dancers had a set number of routines that Charlie only changed three or four times a year. But every few weeks the headliner changed, and for a few days thereafter, the dancers worked with the new star. Then, depending on his or her needs, their rehearsals might continue for an additional day or two to practice new placement or timing, or sometimes to learn entire new routines to be implemented into the headliner’s show.
If there was one thing guaranteed to put Charlie in a particularly foul mood, it was an unexcused absence by one of his dancers. He wasn’t an unreasonable man. He knew they occasionally had other plans that couldn’t be worked around the schedule, and certain illnesses had a way of striking without warning. But his people knew the rules. Practically everyone in the known universe owned a cell phone these days, but if his dancers were among the few who didn’t, there were still regular phones all over town, and they knew they had better pick one up and use it. He could adjust the routines for a day or two. But you never simply shined it on and failed to show—not if you wanted to continue working for the Cabaret. Charlie had a great deal of clout in Reno, and it was professional suicide to thumb your nose at his rules.
When Pete Schriber didn’t come in for Friday rehearsal and didn’t call to say why, Charlie blew sky high. He ranted and raved at the dancers about their innate unreliability for a solid fifteen minutes. There was no pleasing him. He ran them through routine after routine, picking up on the smallest errors and using them to verbally browbeat the offender.
When a stagehand handed him a note and he told the dancers to take five, there wasn’t a dry leotard left on stage. He unfolded the slip of paper, read its contents, and then swore roundly. “People,” he called up to the stage. “I owe you all an apology.”
Rhonda stuck her little finger in her ear and wiggled it. Pulling it out, she examined its clean tip and mumbled, “I must have wax buildup on my eardrums. I could have sworn I just heard Charlie apologize.”
June giggled and Amanda smiled wearily, rubbing the back of her thigh. She’d pulled a hamstring. She had felt it go ten minutes ago, but she hadn’t dared favor that leg for fear of bringing Charlie’s wrath down upon her head. Better to live with the pain now, and baby it with rest and ice packs later, than to bring yourself to Charlie’s attention when he was on the warpath. Straightening, she watched him climb the stairs to the stage. His expression was grim.
“Pete’s in the hospital,” he announced. “And it doesn’t sound good. He was hit by a truck on his way to rehearsal, and from the sound of things, his left leg from shin to ankle is smashed to pieces.”
“Oh, God,” Amanda whispered. “Can they fix him up so he can dance?”
“The preliminary prognosis isn’t promising,” Charlie replied, and they stared at each other in shared horror. It was every dancer’s nightmare.
“Dammit!” Charlie’s fist smacked into his palm. “I was ready to kill him, fire him, or at the very least, rake his degenerate ass over the coals. And the nurse who left the message said he refused to even let them treat him until they agreed to get a message to me. He wanted to be sure I had time to find someone to fill in for him.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he shook his head. “Shit.”
Rehearsal broke up early, and Amanda and Rhonda decided to stop by the hospital to visit Pete before going back to the Cabaret for the evening show. He looked up groggily as they walked through the hospital room door, his left leg in a cast and his eyes heavy-lidded from anesthetics that were just now wearing off from earlier surgery.
“’Lo,” he mumbled, and then grimaced at the effort, running a thickened tongue over dry, cracked lips.
“How are you, Pete?” Rhonda leaned down and kissed his forehead while Amanda placed the flowers they had brought him on the stand next to his bed.
“Thirsty.”
“Want some water?” At Pete’s nod, Amanda picked up the blue plastic pitcher and poured ice water into a glass. Placing a bent straw in the glass, she held it to his mouth. He took a few small sips, ran his tongue across his lips again, then weakly sank back into his pillows.
“What happened, Pete?” Rhonda inquired gently.
“Dunno, exactly.” He closed his eyes briefly. Opening them again, he said, “I was standing on the corner of Virginia and Whatchamacallit? Outside Harrah’s?” When they nodded their understanding, he continued, “There were a lot of tourists all bunched up, waiting for the light to change…and I was in front at the curb. You know how it is in this town—only the tourists wait for the lights.” He gestured for another sip of water. “I was running late, and I was gonna jaywalk, but there was a semi without the trailer comin’ kind of fast down the street, so I waited. Then…don’t know…I heard someone say, ‘Watch it, Mac,’ like someone had fallen against them, and somebody, something, hit me between the shoulder blades, pretty hard, and I got shoved into the street just before the truck got there.” He licked his dry lips. “Driver tried to stop. Too damn close.” Tears filled his eyes. “Someone else grabbed me and tried to pull me back, but my left leg was still in the street. Have you ever taken a look at the tires on those rigs?” A tear trickled over his bottom eyelid. “Fuckin’ monster smashed my ankle like one of those splintery little chicken-bone candies my Mom used to buy me when I was a kid. Oh, God.” His control broke and he stared at them in agony as tears ran down his cheeks. “What am I gonna do? They put three pins in it, and they said eventually I could walk on it again and pro’bly even regain about ninety-eight percent mobility. But I ain’t never gonna be able to dance on it. What the hell am I suppose to do if I can’t ever dance again?”
“Don’t worry about that now,” Rhonda advised softly. “You just concentrate on getting well.”
“If I can’t dance, I don’t know if I wanna get well.”
“Don’t talk like that!” Amanda squeezed Pete’s hand, but she found it difficult to meet his eyes. She didn’t have the first idea what to say to make him feel better. On the one hand, given her family history, it was difficult for her to hear someone say anything that sounded even remotely suicidal. But on the other hand, she was a dancer, and she could most definitely identify with his despair. What on earth would she do if she were in Pete’s shoes—if she suddenly couldn’t dance anymore? She had no family, no lover, nothing at all to fill such an enormous void. Dancing was all she had, and if it were suddenly taken away…
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