Picture Me Dead

by Heather Graham

  “And a hunk, too,” Karen commented, then turned to him. “Not that everyone likes the brooding type, you know. I mean, I’m not sure he’s the type to ever loosen up, just have fun. I don’t even know the guy. But…well, you know…he seems very serious. And take you. You’re a cop, dedicated to your work, but yet look how much fun we had the other night. I hope I remembered to thank you for such a great evening.”

  Len smiled at her. “You did,” he said softly. She was close to him. Friendly, warm…eager? He suddenly wanted to know her better. A lot better. “So…you’re coming with us to celebrate Ashley’s promotion, huh?”

  “Of course, since we’re invited. We don’t mean to horn in.”

  “You won’t be horning in at all.”

  “There’s my place,” Karen pointed out.

  He pulled into the driveway. “Cute little place. You live alone?”

  “I do. It’s not a mansion, but I own it. Well, the bank and I own it.”

  “Great.”

  “Want to come in and see it?”

  “I’d love to. Are you sure it isn’t too late?”

  “No, no, not at all. I get up about six-thirty every morning, but I never go to sleep before midnight. Please, come on in. I can make coffee, tea…whatever. Or you’re welcome to a beer. Whoops, sorry, you’re a cop, and you’re driving….”

  “We could have a beer—and then the coffee,” Len said.

  Karen smiled slowly. “Sure.”

  They went in. Karen proudly showed him her place. It was small, but nice, and old, considering the area.

  “There are a number of places from the late twenties around here. Back then, of course, we would have been in the boondocks, the eye of the swamp. No, what am I saying? The Everglades isn’t really a swamp since the water is always moving.”

  He laughed. “I get what you mean.”

  “Well, I’ll get that beer…and put the coffee on for after,” Karen said.

  She got the beer, turned on the stereo, and they sat on the antique sofa in her living room, talking about their jobs. After a while, she caught him staring at his empty bottle. “I’d offer you another, but…driving under the influence and all.”

  “Well, yeah, another glass would be good, but…”

  “Hey, this is a fold-out bed. You’re welcome to stay.”

  She was right beside him, her long legs curled beneath her. Their faces were close. He touched her chin. “I don’t know that I could make myself stay on the sofa,” he said softly.

  He heard the soft inhalation of her breath. “I’m not sure I’d want you to stay on the sofa,” she told him.

  He leaned close and kissed her lightly. When they broke apart, her lips were moist, her breathing erratic.

  “I’ll get you that beer,” she murmured.

  She disappeared in the kitchen for what seemed like a long time. Then he heard her call his name, and he turned. She was in the doorway to the bedroom. No subterfuge. She was naked. Long, lean, beautiful—and naked.

  He wondered why he felt such a sudden surge of fury.

  Seemed like all women were sluts these days.

  The tension in him increased.

  He rose, feeling his fingers knot at his sides in anger.

  “I’ve got your beer in here,” she said. Soft voice, sexy, sensual.

  Slut.

  “Is it?” he replied, just as softly. She left the doorway. He followed. She had moved to the bed and she was stretched out invitingly. He stared at her for a long moment, feeling every muscle in his body tighten. This was Ashley’s friend. Ashley.

  “Officer?” she teased softly.

  He moved toward her. And then she screamed.

  But only for an instant.

  Ashley parked her car in her spot, then went around the back, hoping the terrace would be empty. A few of the tables held customers, but they all seemed to be couples, out for an intimate evening. She ignored the walkway to the terrace and hurried along the path to the docks instead.

  As she neared Jake’s houseboat, she slowed her footsteps, hesitant. He had said he wanted to talk to her, but still, she felt awkward.

  She didn’t realize she was barely inching forward, her steps silent. She stared at the boat. The drapes were drawn, but she was certain the lights were on inside. An uneasy feeling crept over her, and she moved more slowly still.

  When she reached the boat, her heart was hammering. She stepped carefully from the dock to the deck, then stood still for several long seconds before she walked to the door, hesitated, then raised her hand to knock. The door swung inward.

  She’d been wrong. There were no lights on inside. Just as she was ready to call out his name, she heard a whoosh of noise, a warning that came too late. She tried to turn, tried to scream but she was caught from behind, unable to see a face, the breath knocked out of her and her scream turned to a soundless gasp.

  She found herself flying through the air, and she landed hard, a massive weight like living rock on top of her. She opened her mouth to scream again, desperately gulping in air, trying to shake off the brilliant burst of stars that had shot through her head when she landed.

  A hand clamped over her mouth.

  Her scream died in her throat.

  Lucy Fresia awoke suddenly, not knowing what had roused her. She looked around the darkened room and saw nothing.

  She gave herself a rueful shake, half smiling. Their constant vigil was beginning to wear on her nerves.

  She leaned back in her chair. Stuart lay on his bed, in the same position he had maintained since he had been brought in. The room was quiet, the muted night-light dim, and all was silent.

  She bolted up suddenly.

  Silent.

  It shouldn’t be silent! She should be hearing the sound of the respirator, that slow, even, constant whooshing that had been a part of her world for what seemed like forever now.

  She flew to her son’s side. His face was turning blue.

  She stared at the monitors. Dead.

  Stuart wasn’t breathing. His heart wasn’t beating.

  Dead…

  No!

  She raced to the door, threw it open and screamed for help. Stuart’s nurse came flying down the corridor. She saw the situation and shouted for someone at the nurses’ station to call a code. Lucy was shoved out of the way as hospital personnel came running down the hall and into the room.

  Lucy started to scream, the life seeming to drain from her own limbs. She began to sink to the floor, still screaming in disbelief.

  Sobs shook her. She couldn’t even pray.

  She just kept screaming, “No!” until someone came by with a hypodermic needle and stuck it into her arm.

  “Ashley?”

  The hand moved from her mouth.

  “Jake?” she said incredulously.

  The living rock moved aside. A hand came down and found hers in the darkness, pulling her to her feet. For a moment, even the darkness seemed to spin.

  A light came on, flooding the Gwendolyn. She was staring at Jake. He was wearing swim trunks and nothing else. His hands were on his hips, and his eyes were hard. “What the hell were you doing snooping around?” he demanded.

  “I wasn’t snooping!” she returned indignantly. “You said you wanted to talk. What the hell were you doing? Do you beat up everyone who comes to visit you?”

  “You were tiptoeing on board. And ever since someone broke in…”

  “It was dark. I wasn’t sure if you were here, if you were sleeping, if…what do you mean, someone broke in?”

  “Someone broke in the other night. And they’ve been here again. I can tell.”

  “Were you robbed?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Don’t tell me not to be ridiculous. That’s a perfectly logical supposition. Why would anyone come just to invade the precious domain of the great Detective Dilessio? Just so they can say they were on his houseboat?”

  He stared at her with irritation and turned, walk
ing up the few steps to the deck. She followed him. He was pacing the narrow deck surrounding the cabin of the houseboat. He paused, staring down the length of the dock toward Nick’s. Ashley stared, too.

  Nothing moved.

  He turned suddenly. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. I like being body slammed against the floor. And it’s just great when your whole head is ringing.”

  She nearly ducked in fear when he stretched out a hand to touch her. She managed not to. His fingers found her skull and massaged.

  “Seriously, are you all right?”

  “Shaken, but fine,” she said. His tone could change so quickly.

  His hand dropped. He stared into the night again.

  “Jake, what the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then…?”

  “This is the second time someone has been on the boat.”

  “And nothing’s gone?”

  “No. Not that I can see.”

  “Then why would someone come aboard?”

  “I don’t know. They must be looking for something.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you lock your door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the lock picked?”

  “No.”

  “Then….”

  “This time, it’s really my own fault. I should have had the locks changed.”

  She hesitated. “Who else has a key?”

  After a long moment, he shrugged. “Nick keeps one.”

  She felt her spine stiffen, her jaw start to lock. “Nick would never, ever come aboard your boat without your permission. And if you think he’s careless with your key, you’d better take the damned thing back. I’m sure the only reason he has your key is so he can help you out, let workmen in when you’re not here, or—”

  “I have complete and absolute faith in Nick,” he interrupted.

  She fell silent for a moment. “Then?”

  He shrugged. “Years ago…I had another key.” His lashes fell over his eyes for a minute. “My partner had one. A long time ago. Not Marty…a different partner.”

  “The woman who died?” Ashley said softly.

  His eyes pinned hers. “Yes.” He looked back to the lights that softly illuminated the area around the bar. Then he shrugged again. “I didn’t even think about it then. I didn’t think about it at all…until recently. I thought her husband might have it…but he denies it.”

  “Maybe he’s not telling the truth.”

  “Maybe he’s not.”

  “Why don’t you get a fingerprint team out here, see if they can find anything?”

  He nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced.

  His eyes touched hers. “I’m willing to bet whoever’s been aboard the Gwendolyn won’t have left any prints. Whoever it is was wearing gloves.”

  Ashley was silent for a minute. “Nothing was missing when you came in, but you’re certain someone has been aboard. Wearing gloves. I really don’t want to doubt you, but do you think you could be feeling a little paranoid because…well, because an old case that most people considered over and done has arisen again?”

  He smiled, a little ruefully, and said, “No, I’m not paranoid, though I may be a little obsessive/compulsive. I live alone. I know where things are. And I know when they’ve shifted…just a little. You know, things have moved. The papers on my desk are at more of an angle. The rug at the bottom of the stairs is off a fraction of an inch. Stuff like that.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. Someone must think I have something. But I don’t have the least idea what.”

  He turned and started back inside the houseboat. She frowned, watching him. He paused and turned back. “Are you coming?”

  “I, well, I just came because—”

  He’d already gone back into the cabin. She slowly followed him.

  “Are you staying?” he asked her.

  She was startled by the bluntness of the question. She didn’t know whether to be indignant that he had tackled her, concerned that he seemed so convinced his living space had been invaded, or simply angry that they could be so intimate that they should, at the very least, be friends—and that he had treated her like garbage at the morgue.

  “Why did you want to talk to me?” she asked, forcing a certain sharpness into her voice.

  He arched a brow. “To apologize, of course.”

  Her outrage melted like ice on a summer’s day. She shouldn’t have been so quick to forgive.

  “Are you staying?” he repeated.

  She found herself nodding.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jake stepped toward her, and she found herself in his arms. His lips were almost bruising, lava wet and hot, and his tongue did things to the inside of her mouth that seemed to lick into her insides. He made love with a kiss in a way that touched her where he did not, made her ache inside, wanting, longing, hoping to prolong, desperate to have everything, him, inside her, instantly. She struggled to put some distance between them. The hardness of his erection was instantly evident beneath the thin fabric of the bathing trunks he wore. Her fingers rimmed the elastic band, lowering it, eliciting a low groan like a growl from the back of his throat, even as his tongue thrust more deeply into her mouth. He continued to kiss her, his own hands moving beneath the fabric of her knit blouse, beneath the lace of her bra, fingers moving against her flesh, finding the nipple, rotating with an erotic pressure over and around it. She somewhat fought the sensations, intent on her own quest, until her hands closed around him. Stroked. He was smooth, pulsing like thunder.

  Their kiss broke; her blouse wound up over her head, tossed somewhere within the cabin. Then his lips were at her throat. She clung to his shoulders, aware she was off the ground, then sitting on the kitchen counter as the clasp of her bra was set free with a deft movement. She struggled to kick off her shoes, aware of his hands on the button of her jeans. She was suddenly sliding against him as he dipped both his hands beneath the denim of her pants, cupping her buttocks as he slid the jeans from her body. His trunks were already on the floor. She was lifted high again, his arms locked around her, then lowered onto the pulsing heat of his erection and held there against him for several long seconds before she found herself seated on the counter again, the world spinning around, aware of nothing but the insanity of needing him there, part of her, hard and vibrant within her. Tears sprang to her eyes as she gave herself up to the urgency of wanting him. Her arms were so tightly wrapped around his shoulders that he had to strain to set her away far enough that he could press his lips to her shoulders, seize her breath, tempt her with the hotness of lips, teeth and tongue, devour her with hands and mouth, even as the erotic tempo maddened to insanity.

  A bomb could have exploded outside and she wouldn’t have known. The sound and pulse of her heart eclipsed reality. She was only vaguely aware of their damp flesh, the ripple and stretch of his muscle and form against her, the reality of the counter on which she sat. She was locked around him, tense, desperate, sounds escaping her, no words. She strived and arched, pressed, writhed, with ever greater insanity, touching sweetness, reaching higher until she tightened around him in a vise, spiraling into a climax so volatile, she was amazed not to feel herself fly apart. As he shuddered into climactic expulsion himself, his grip upon her was a powerful force that locked them together in a seizure of shattering ecstasy that seemed to rip through them both like violent waves of aftershock.

  Her head fell against his shoulder. She couldn’t be sorry she had forgiven so easily, fallen so quickly, for she didn’t think that she’d ever been touched so tenderly as when he lifted her against him and held her like a cocoon of silk, maneuvering the few steps to his cabin as if he held the most precious cargo. She landed on his bed, which was still disheveled from the night before, and a second later he was lying beside her. His arms curled around her, and she smiled. After several moments, she turned b
ack to him.

  His eyes were hard and serious, and for a moment she was caught in whatever deeper emotion darkened his stare, but she found she had to ask softly, “I forgot to ask whether you were apologizing for tackling me when I came aboard or for being such a jerk when I saw you at the morgue.”

  A bit alarmed by her own statement, she held her breath, uncomfortably aware of everything physical around them, the feel of the bed and the sheets, the damp power of his arms around her, the planes of his face, the fall of his hair, the darkness of his eyes.

  “Both,” he said after a moment. He reached over, moving a damp lock of hair that had glued itself to her cheek. “Both. You took me by surprise this afternoon. I didn’t even know you owned a pencil, much less had such an incredible talent. I guess I was angry because I should have known. Come to think of it, you owe me an apology.”

  “I owe you an apology?”

  “You could have told me that you were considering a move from the academy into the civilian force.”

  “Well…” Her voice sounded scratchy. “It’s not like we’ve been best friends for years or anything. As if I really know you…or you know me.”

  She was surprised by the ruefulness of the smile that touched his lips.

  “Maybe I felt I did know you a bit. I mean, think about it. How many guys in the force know you have a tiny flower tattoo at the base of your spine? Or about that little scar on the inside of your upper thigh?”

  She flushed, wishing she didn’t do so with such embarrassing speed.

  “Actually, I wasn’t certain you even liked me.”

  He laughed, pulling her closer. “You do have one hell of a temper on you, Ms. Montague.” His laughter faded; his eyes were serious. “And the tenacity of a bull terrier.”

  “And you’re pure walking tact and charm?”

  He shrugged. “You scalded me, you know.”

  “I see no scars. Nothing permanent.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly, “More permanent than you know.” The simple statement left her with a strange feeling of euphoria. And his lips brushing against hers were more intimate, it seemed, than anything they had previously shared.