Because she’d lived here all her life and had never been in a situation when she needed a gun, she reminded herself.
Still…
When she got out of the car, she automatically looked around, mistrustful of the shadows.
She hurried along the gravel path to Nick’s. She thought about using her key and slipping through the private entrance, but she headed instead to the dockside entrance in the rear.
She saw that a few diners remained on the outside porch overlooking the dock and the boats. She slowed her footsteps, still angry, then paused, looking down the length of the dock.
She saw Dilessio’s boat. And there were lights on inside.
She started down the dock at a brisk pace. Then, as she neared his boat, her footsteps slowed and she stopped for a moment. She didn’t want to be an annoyance, hounding him if he really was taking all possible steps.
Screw that. Stuart was in the hospital, in a coma. His parents were aging by the hour.
She started moving again, then nearly jumped when she saw that he was actually outside on the deck. He was seated in a rattan chair, his legs stretched out, bare feet on the rail in front of him. A bottle of beer in his hands, he seemed to be staring at the nothingness where the darkness of the sky met the darkness of the water. She didn’t know if he saw her coming; he didn’t move. She thought maybe he had dozed off—one beer too many?—he was so still. She wondered about retreating, but as she slowed down again, he called out to her.
“Good evening, Miss Montague. Do come aboard.”
“I hesitate, Detective, since I see you are so busy, pursuing your cases around the clock.”
“Actually, I am pursuing a case right now.”
“I always thought that if I grew up to be a homicide detective, drinking beer and staring out at the water would definitely be the best method of approach.”
“Come aboard,” he told her.
She stepped from the dock to the deck.
“Help yourself to a beer, Coke, whatever,” he told her.
“With an invitation that gracious, I might.”
“Duck down a bit when you go in—the cabin door is low,” he told her.
She didn’t really want anything to drink, but the invitation to enter the inner sanctum of his home was too tempting. She went into the main cabin. Galley, dining room and living area blended in a surprising display of spaciousness. The place was organized, neat and clean, not cluttered, but not sterile. She entered the galley area and dug into the small refrigerator. Soda, juice, beer, water.
“Break down, Montague—have a beer,” he called to her.
She reached for a bottle of Miller Lite, then went back outside to join him on the deck.
He had hardly moved. He was all but lying down between the chair and the railing.
“Nice night, isn’t it?” he said.
“The weather is good.”
“And the last thing you want to do is talk about it, right?”
“Were you able to talk to the investigator on Stuart’s case?”
“Yes.”
She leaned against the railing, staring at him, then lifted a hand.
“And?”
“He’s a good guy, Paddy Carnegie. Old-timer. He knows what he’s doing.”
She let out a sigh of exasperation. “And what did he say?”
“He said he’s doing everything he can. He likes the Fresias, and he wants them to be right. But he has no witnesses. No one has come forward and admitted so much as having seen your friend walk onto the highway. The driver who hit him saw him the minute he stepped in front of him, not before.”
She must have shown her dismay, because he was suddenly impatient.
“What were you expecting? Instant gratification? That’s not the way it works. Trust me, you can put years into a case, and it may still never be solved. There’s a chance here, at least, that there will be answers down the line. Your friend may survive.”
“Not may survive, will survive,” she said, and was dismayed at the rather pathetic quality of her words when she had meant for them to be so strong.
To her surprise, he let out an impatient sound, something of a derisive snort. “Because what? You slept with this guy once, he’s going to survive and the truth will be known. He’ll be totally vindicated and all will be well. Wish it worked that way.”
She stared at him coldly and stepped away from the rail. She wasn’t going to dignify his assumption with a denial. “Are you drunk?”
“No, Montague, I’m telling you the way it is. And sometimes, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“You really are an asshole, you know?” she spat out, and started off the boat.
“Montague!” he called.
She paused; she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t owe him anything.
“You’ve got one smart-ass tongue on you. How about, ‘Thanks, Detective, for taking the time to get involved’?”
“Wow, thanks, Detective. You’ve been just great.”
“Look, it’s just that I understand Carnegie’s frustration. He needs a break in the case or he’s up against a stone wall. No one knows what Stuart was doing over the last several months. His parents didn’t know what he was doing. They referred Carnegie to a rag called In Depth. He was working on a story he didn’t want to share with anyone. The managing editor didn’t have the least idea what he was doing.”
Ashley stared at him. “Well, there it is—an answer.”
“An answer? Do you know what he was doing?”
“No. But it’s obvious. He tried to investigate something, the people found out—and they tried to kill him. We’ve got to find out what he was investigating.”
Dilessio stood then in an abrupt, fluid motion, belying any thought that he might have been anywhere near inebriated.
“We’ve got to find out? You’re not even a cop yet. And I’m homicide. Carnegie has this information, and, like I said, he’s a good cop. And if you do find out anything, you take it straight to Carnegie.” He exhaled a breath of irritated impatience. “Or tell me. Hell, just make sure you tell someone, and don’t go looking into anything yourself, understand? And don’t kid yourself. He might just have joined a bunch of rich club kids and gotten into dope. Whether you like it or not, believe it or not, it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”
She was startled to find herself almost pinned against the rail by him. He wasn’t threatening in any way, just determined. He didn’t yell or speak loudly. His voice was low, but the vehemence behind it was startling.
She lifted her chin, ignoring the lack of space between them.
“I can tell you right now, Stuart was on to something. Someone came after me in the garage tonight, after I went to see him.”
“What?” Puzzled, he backed away slightly.
“I didn’t realize there could be a connection, not until this very minute. But I was parked in the hospital garage. When I walked out to my car, someone came after me. I made it to my car and he disappeared. I had thought it was a random incident, that I just happened to be a woman walking alone in the garage when he was there. But maybe it was personal—maybe I was about to be attacked because I do know Stuart, because I spent time with him alone. And maybe whoever did this to him realizes that they didn’t succeed, that Stuart is hanging in and may wake up any day.”
“A person was after you…who? What did they look like? Vagrant? White? Black? Hispanic? Old? Young?”
She shook her head, sorry she had spoken. “It was someone in hospital scrubs. And a surgical mask…. I can’t even say if they were male or female, though I have a feeling it was a man.”
“You were chased by someone in hospital scrubs—at the hospital?”
She exhaled on a note of impatience. “Yes.”
He was silent a long time. Moments in which she became aware of the very little bit of distance between them. He smelled of a recent shower and the sea breeze, along with a whiff of beer. His skin was bronzed, his chest swirled
with dark hair, and his muscle structure was clearly evident. His face, that great face for a drawing, was enigmatic. She didn’t know what lines she might have made with a pencil then. She wasn’t breathing, she realized. She forced herself to do so. Being close was difficult, made more so by his size and something kinetic he seemed to create in the air around him. But then he shook his head, still so close.
“Look, you shouldn’t go creating scenarios just because your friend is hurt and you’re on edge.”
“I didn’t create the scenario. It happened. I filed a report.”
“Then you shouldn’t go to the hospital alone anymore.”
“I’m going to be a cop.” Actually, maybe she wasn’t, not soon anyway. The forensic position did seem too good to turn down. But she wasn’t about to tell Dilessio that now.
“But you were scared tonight.”
“I wasn’t expecting any danger at the hospital. I wasn’t armed.”
“And you weren’t scared enough, maybe,” he said, suddenly angry.
“Why does a conversation with you always turn into a fight?” she demanded.
“This isn’t a fight. I’m just trying to teach you how not to be a fool.”
“What’s your problem with me?”
“I don’t have a problem with you—except that you’re an arrogant beginner with the illusion you’re the only one out there who gives a shit or can make things happen.”
She felt as if she were turning into a pillar of ice. She didn’t blink but kept her eyes on his. “Gee, thanks. Well, thanks for the help, Detective. Excuse me. I think I’ll call it a night.”
“I’ll walk you back to Nick’s.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll be inside in two minutes.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“Why?”
“You thought you were being followed tonight. Cops watch out for cops, Montague.”
“Great. Should I walk you back to your boat afterwards? We can just keep walking back and forth all night.”
“Listen to yourself. You haven’t listened to a single warning I’ve given you.”
“What do you expect from an arrogant beginner with delusions of grandeur?”
He drew back. She thought she could hear his teeth grating, his muscles snapping with tension. “All right, Montague. I’m sorry if I’m blunt. You’re a cute kid, with a lot of the right stuff. I’m older, worn, jaded and I’ve seen way too much stuff go down, okay? Humor me.”
He started past her, taking her arm. He didn’t jerk her, but he had one firm hold. She walked along—stumbled first—after him, smarting anew from his words.
Cute kid?
“There’s a door to my wing right there.”
“Great.”
He scissored over the low wooden wall that separated the dock from the shore. She followed suit, and he walked her to her door.
“Thanks for the escort. We cute kids are always grateful to make it home safe.”
“Great.”
“Well?”
“Open the door and get inside.”
She threw up her hands, reached into her purse…and couldn’t find her keys to save her life. She fumbled blindly through the contents. He was still standing there. Impatient, she went down to her knees and dumped the contents out on the walkway. Miraculously, her keys appeared immediately.
He bent down to help her throw the wallet, pens, lipsticks, compact and other paraphernalia back in.
“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said.
He stood, not replying. She twisted the key in her lock and went inside. “Okay, I’m in now.”
“Good night.”
He turned and started back for his boat. She bit her lip, watching his back. Well, that was it, he was leaving. Over and done. After giving her nothing but facts and discouragement. Had she envisioned another scenario? Him welcoming her onto his boat, discussing the case seriously with her, telling her that together, somehow, they would find the answers?
Of course not.
But she also hadn’t thought he would walk her to the house as if she were indeed a child. That he would stay, make sure she had the key, that she got inside safely.
Had she hoped that he was going to follow her in, check out the room, move close to her again, talk softly in that gruff voice?
Stay?
Cute kid. Why on earth did that asshole appeal to her so much?
She’d never thought of herself as cute. She wasn’t small; she didn’t have a round face or dimple. She might not be a raving beauty, but she knew she was attractive, that her posture was good, that she had, at the least, some essence of sophistication.
He was such a jerk.
But when she stood there, close to him…
Don’t you ever just want to have sex?
Yes, Karen! At the moment, rather desperately, I’m afraid…. With a royal jerk.
When he stood there, insulting her, she just took it all in with indignation, all the time thinking that she liked the darkness of his eyes, the structure of his face. His flesh. His naked flesh. He just had to live on a houseboat, where it was the most natural thing in the world to sit around on deck in nothing but cutoffs.
He turned, and she was still standing there at the door, watching him go.
“Get in and lock that door,” he shouted impatiently.
She closed the door and locked it.
To Jake’s amazement, he returned to the Gwendolyn feeling an unreasonable tension and anger. His neck was sore. It had been a long drive up and back in the one day. And all he felt was frustration, both with the Bordon case—and Fresia’s.
Frustration…with Nick’s niece. She had to slow down.
Frustration…because he wanted to shake her. Only because he wanted to keep her from harm.
No. Because he wanted a lot more. He wasn’t sure why it had taken him so long to notice that Ashley Montague’s eyes weren’t just green. They switched from a cool lime to a deep emerald when she spoke, when she grew angry. She wasn’t just slim, lean and agile; she had really great curves. She smelled subtly of a soft, deep, underlying perfume. Her hair wasn’t carrot red or flaming; it was deeper, like her scent, seductive as a soft, hot whisper.
He opened the refrigerator, meant to take another beer.
He closed the refrigerator.
He looked around the living area of the houseboat. He was sure there had been someone on the Gwendolyn the other night. Nothing was gone, but he knew someone had been here.
And now Ashley had said she’d been nearly accosted in the parking garage.
There could be no relation between the two incidents.
Still…
Jake put on a pot of coffee and sat in front of his computer. He pulled up the records he’d been keeping for years.
Was that it?
Had someone come onto the boat to examine his private files, knowing that he’d kept much of his research on his private computer, rather than at work? Maybe.
Tomorrow he would get someone out to change the locks. He should have had that done today.
He laced his fingers behind his head, remembering his conversation with Bordon.
Smoke and mirrors…
Mary Simmons was convinced Harry Tennant had been crazy. That he listened to voices. Lazarus. Lazarus…awakened from the dead.
Stuart Fresia had been writing a story.
Ashley Montague had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, with sparks of fire. Great breasts. Really nice, tight ass.
He swore out loud, stared at his computer screen and began to type, back taut and painfully tense. He rubbed his nape. Impressions, notes, things that had been said that somehow seemed important, jarring.
Lazarus. The kid had been crazy; he’d listened to voices.
Smoke and mirrors.
Stuart Fresia had been working on a story.
Ashley Montague had great—
He erased the last. Called himself every name in the book. Turned off the computer. Then went back outsid
e to stand on the Gwendolyn’s deck.
Damn, she was close. Right across the grass.
Good. Not good. She shouldn’t be a cop. She didn’t have the patience. She didn’t have…
Not true. She would probably make a great cop. Like Nancy. But Nancy had made a mistake and now she was dead. Other cops had made mistakes. They, too, were dead.
Smoke and mirrors…
Lazarus.
What if the kid hadn’t been crazy? Maybe he hadn’t been listening to voices. One of the sect members might have been called Lazarus.
He wished he had Bordon in front of him again. Wished it were legal to put the man on the rack, force him to tell what he knew.
It wasn’t. But it was galling, because he was certain there was an answer right in front of him that he wasn’t seeing. Smoke and mirrors. Bordon had sworn he’d had nothing to do with Nancy. Jake had never taken her with him when he’d questioned the People for Principle members. He’d taken two trips out there—alone. The first time, she’d gone to question the tourist who had stumbled on the second body. The second time, she’d been busy tracing Bordon’s financial sheets.
Then…she’d been gone.
Strange. Bordon hadn’t met her, but he seemed to know all about her. All about her problems with Brian.
Smoke and mirrors. Lazarus.
Sleep on it, he told himself wearily. Maybe something would make sense by morning.
He locked up the Gwendolyn and went to bed. Sleep eluded him for a long time.
He dreamed again that night.
He was in a forest, a forest filled with mirrors. An old man in long white robes was walking through the trees. Lazarus. Awakened from the dead.
The mirrors dissolved into crystal. Like powder, they drifted onto the breeze. The forest faded away and he was staring at the shore next to the marina. A woman was walking toward him. Slim, lithe, sensual, moving slowly, provocatively. Soft flesh shimmering in the moonlight. Hair seemingly afire.
She was naked.
She walked slowly down the dock.
A moment later, she was on the boat. On him. Another moment later…
He woke abruptly, sweating, swearing.
The dream had been so damned vivid, he was drenched. He shook himself fully awake. Hell, no more coming straight home. He was obsessed. He had to get out. Tonight he would take himself to a club on the beach.
Picture Me Dead Page 18