"Tell me about the woman you were with last night," Harry said in a soft voice Mal recognized too well. Harry used that voice to cajole confessions out of the toughest customers, and every warning bell and whistle in Mal's brain went off.
"What do you want to know about her?" he asked calmly.
Harry walked to the window and threw back the drapes, letting horridly bright sunlight into the room. Mal closed his eyes hard, then opened them slowly. The light turned Harry's gray hair a silvery white, and Mal had to squint against the unnatural brightness.
"I don't know how to tell you this." Harry slumped slightly, rounding his shoulders as he stared out the window. "Shoot, Mel. I didn't even know you were seeing anybody."
Mel didn't jump in to tell his old friend that he hadn't been, and still wasn't seeing anyone.
Harry took a deep breath and jammed his hands into his pockets. "The handyman found a body in the stairwell an hour ago. A woman in her late twenties, early thirties maybe, blond hair, no ID."
Blond hair. As clearly as if Frannie stood before him, Bridger saw the way she had dragged her fingers through those pale, ragged strands. There was bound to be a number of blondes in this hotel, he reasoned. It could be anyone. Still his heart thudded much too fast.
"There's no handbag, so we figure maybe it was a mugging that went bad," Harry continued. "The killer got her throat clean and deep with a very sharp knife. Sam says whoever cut her got the carotid artery, so she lost consciousness just a few seconds later. She was dead within minutes." Harry's voice was gentle, almost consoling, as if to assure Mal that she hadn't suffered.
"Mal," he continued softly. "The desk clerk thinks she might be the woman who came in with you last night. I hate to ask you to do this…"
Mal knew what was coming, even as deep inside he prayed to be wrong. This happened to other people. He delivered the bad news, he didn't endure it himself.
"We need you to take a look."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
All Mal could think about, as he followed Harry down the long hall past the elevator, were Frannie's words as she'd stepped into this hallway last night. Tomorrow, I take the stairs.
He'd seen a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime, more than anyone should ever have to see. Strangers, mostly. A friend, once. It was never easy but he was tough, a cop for fifteen years, a homicide detective for the past five of those years. The prospect of viewing a dead body never unnerved him.
Until now.
He didn't know Frannie Vaughn, not really. A few hours of shared misery, a kiss or two or three, a promise of something wonderful that never came together … but as he approached the metal door with the word stairs stamped at eye level, his heart nearly stopped.
Mal tried to prepare himself for the worst as he followed Harry down a flight and a half of stairs. The stairwell was narrow and steep, the walls sported crude graffiti and ancient stains, and the concrete steps were cracked and crumbling. The air was stale, with an underlying, unidentifiable stench wafting from the dark corners. It was a lousy place to die, and he'd brought her here.
Mal's steps slowed as he and Harry neared the crime scene. His feet were like lead, his heart like a block of ice in his chest, and with every step it became harder to breathe. It couldn't be her. Frannie was alive and bright and beautiful, color in a black-and-white world, peace amidst turmoil. The desk clerk had to be wrong. Dear God, just this once…
They passed a uniformed officer who had been posted at the third-floor exit to keep the crime scene clear. Voices grew louder, gruff, lowered voices that echoed in the stairwell. Mal saw the blood first, a splash pattern that shot across a step at the bottom of this flight. He couldn't breathe, but he descended behind Harry. I'm sorry, Frannie, he thought as his momentum carried him down the stairs. God help me, I never should have brought you here.
He saw Sam Wingate, a member of the crime scene division, leaning over the body, silently and efficiently doing his job. There was more blood here. Too damn much blood.
He caught a glimpse of blond hair curving across the concrete, lying so obscenely close to a pool of blood his vision swam slightly. As his vision cleared he noticed that the hair was too long and a shade too dark. It wasn't Frannie.
[[…half page missing…]]
…hearing her soft thank-you, but no one would ever know it. No one. Every now and then his fingers would twitch without warning. No one seemed to notice. Harry kept trying to remind him that he was on desk duty this week, and Mal kept ignoring him.
Eventually Harry gave up and filled him in on what little they had. He already knew that the body had been discovered by the handyman, Stanley Loudermilk, just over an hour ago. Loudermilk was not too bright, and had apparently become hysterical when he found the victim. He'd then checked to make sure she was dead, covering himself with her blood in the process. The guy was a ready-made suspect, but there was no murder weapon at the scene and none on Stanley, and the time lapse was so short he would have had to stash it nearby. Their lone suspect was currently at the hospital being treated for shock. He'd been escorted by two uniformed officers.
The desk clerk Clarence Doyle, the same old man who had signed Mal in and taken his money last night, hadn't seen anything. Big surprise. He'd taken a glimpse of the body and declared absently that it might be the blonde who'd come in with Bridger, though he hadn't paid close attention and couldn't be sure.
Mal followed Harry through the lobby and into the sunlight, trying to blink away the morning and dismiss the headache that was threatening to take his head off, trying to wipe away the fear that had consumed him when he'd thought it was Frannie lying dead in the stairwell. He'd never been that scared before. Never. He didn't like it.
"Go home," Harry said, turning to confront Mal before he reached his car. "You definitely need a day off, pal. Get some sleep. I'll keep you posted, I promise."
"You'll keep me posted?" Mal leaned forward, one eye practically closed as he tried to glare at his friend. "I don't like the idea. Somebody killed that woman right under my nose, and I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Then some half-blind old man says it might be a … a friend of mine, and scares ten years off my life."
"I didn't know you were seeing anybody."
"I'm not," Mal snapped. "And don't try to change the subject. I'm going to be a boil on your butt until this case is solved."
"In other words," Harry deadpanned, "your usual self. A pain in the ass."
Mal grinned, even though he didn't feel like smiling at all. He was tired, he hurt all over, and he had a curious and insistent urge to see Frannie Vaughn to make sure for himself that she was still breathing. He wanted to touch her and prove to himself that her skin was as warm and soft as it had been last night. He wanted to lay his mouth over her neck, to feel for himself that the blood pumped strongly through her veins.
This was business. "Frannie Vaughn left the hotel during the estimated time frame for the death. Last night she said she was going to take the stairs instead of that ancient elevator, which means she either stepped over the body, or there's a good chance she saw something. I think we ought to talk to her."
"I think I ought to talk to her," Harry countered.
This time Mal's smile was a real one. Painful but real. "She knows me. She'll talk to me."
Under his breath Harry said, "Dagnabit," and turned away. "Well, come on then."
Mal followed obediently. His head hurt, and it was an abominably bright morning. "You got a pair of sunglasses in your car?"
Harry laughed at his distress, but then what were friends for? "In the glove compartment. Where does this Frannie Vaughn live, anyway?" he asked as he opened the driver's side door.
Mal collapsed onto the passenger seat and reached for the glove compartment. "I don't have any idea."
* * *
Frannie felt almost human again. Two cups of coffee and a long hot bath had almost done the trick. She'd happily discarded her sweat
er and skirt for a comfortable pair of pale green shorts and a matching T-shirt. There would be no heels for her today, even though it was a Wednesday. A pair of thick white socks covered her feet.
Three latherings of her hair had removed the styling spray Darlene had been more than generous with, and her hair was drying in soft curls rather than stiff spikes. She might be able to live with this haircut after all.
Focusing on her hair and getting her third cup of coffee just right almost took her mind off the man she'd left sleeping soundly in the Riverwatch Hotel. It even almost helped her to accept the fact that she no longer had a job, even though she was good at what she did.
She was usually unfailingly sensible, and she had enough money in her bank account to see her through a few months with no problem, longer if she was frugal. With her experience as a computer programmer she should be able to find a good job quickly—if she was willing to relocate to a bigger city.
But she loved this old house. It was small and always in need of one repair or another, but she'd put so much of herself into the place she couldn't let it go. Just last year she'd painted it a creamy yellow with white trim, and planted azaleas around the small front porch. The garden in the fenced backyard was bigger and more productive every year. She'd painted her bedroom a very pale pink, and was planning to paint the bathroom next. The claw-foot bathtub in the single large bathroom was decadently deep and comfortable. It was home. How could she give all this up?
Maybe this time off would give her the chance to do something with the second bedroom. Right now it was home to her computer … and every piece of junk she owned, as well as several storage boxes. With a little work, it would make a nice home office.
She hadn't really had a home growing up, not a haven like this house had become. Her mother had gone from husband to husband, from town to town, from man to man. Every time Frannie felt she was making a place for herself in a new home, whether it was a nice house or a trailer or a small apartment, there would be a fight or a tearful scene, and she and her mother would be on their own again. For a while, anyway. Lois Vaughn loved men, and she was never long without one. Unfortunately, she also had terrible taste where husbands were concerned.
Frannie's mind drifted again and again to Malcolm Bridger. Going to that hotel room with him had been reckless and stupid and downright dangerous, but she'd never felt anything other than safe in his company. She could close her eyes and remember how his body felt against hers. Dancing. Kissing. Just holding on. She could close her eyes and see him sleeping peacefully atop the chenille bedspread, his brown hair on a white pillow, his face rough with dark stubble and his chest rising and falling rhythmically. Looking downright adorable.
When someone knocked on her front door, she was glad of the interruption.
She opened the door and froze at the sight before her. Malcolm Bridger stood there, hiding behind dark glasses, conjured up by her senseless daydream. Don't panic, she told herself. It's just Bridger. In spite of her resolve to remain calm, her heart lurched in her chest.
Bridger looked bigger in the sunlight. Taller, broader, meaner. He wore the same suit he'd worn last night, only now it was wrinkled and limp. His jaw was rough with stubble that had been attractive on a sleeping man but just appeared slovenly on a man in a rumpled suit. He didn't look adorable at all. He looked like pure hell.
"Frannie…"
She slammed the door in his face.
A muffled and harsh bark of laughter came from the other side of the door. A bright, joyful laugh that wasn't Malcolm Bridger's, she knew.
Frannie rested her forehead against the closed door. The thought came, too late, that she shouldn't have slammed it in Bridger's face. He probably thought she was a basket case, a lunatic. She really should open the door again, she supposed. She didn't move.
The knock came again, softer than before. Frannie took a deep breath and opened the door slowly, and this time she saw that Bridger was not alone. An older man, another cop, she knew without bothering to look for the badge on his belt, stood just behind him. He was, no doubt, the man who'd laughed when she'd slammed the door.
This time Bridger stuck his foot in the doorway so she couldn't shut him out again.
"Frannie." Exasperation came through in the way he said her name, exasperation and more than a touch of weariness. "We need to ask you a few questions."
For a moment she was confused, but her confusion quickly turned to anger. Last night had obviously been some sort of setup. A sting gone wrong, a misdirected scam. Was she a suspect of some sort? When he'd spoken to her at the bar had he thought she was—her heart constricted in another wave of panic—a prostitute?
It was the story of her life, wasn't it? All her Prince Charmings eventually turned into slimy, disgusting toads. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"Miss Vaughn," the older man said as he nudged Bridger aside and took his place before her. "You're in no trouble, no trouble at all."
The officer had a soothing voice, a nice smile, and kind eyes. Frannie immediately relaxed.
"I'm Sergeant Harry Dixon. We hate to disturb you, but there was an incident this morning at the Riverwatch Hotel, and we're questioning everyone who was there."
"Oh." She opened the door wider and stepped back, relieved. "I thought…" Her eyes cut to Bridger. "Never mind. Come on in. I've got coffee."
They stepped into her house, right into the living room. "None for me," Sergeant Dixon said with a smile.
Frannie looked at Bridger, narrowing her eyes slightly as she studied his face. She hadn't expected to see him ever again, and here he was standing in her living room just a few hours after she'd slunk from the hotel bed they'd shared. She felt so guilty. For sneaking out while he slept—for being there with him in the first place.
"I'd kill for a cup," he mumbled. "Black." He didn't remove his sunglasses, but continued to hide behind them even though the light in her house was dimmed by barely opened venetian blinds.
Grateful for the excuse to leave Bridger and his sergeant behind for a few minutes, she fled to the kitchen to gather her composure while she poured a mug of coffee. There was no reason for alarm, she told herself as she chose a large white mug with a hand-painted sunflower on one side. They'd ask her a few questions about their incident, she'd tell them she didn't know anything, and then they'd be on their way.
There was no reason to be so embarrassed, either, even though Bridger probably thought she made a habit of getting sloshed and picking up strange men in bars. That couldn't be further from the truth, but she didn't need to explain herself to him. She didn't care what he thought.
What a lie that was, she admitted to herself as she slowly made her way to the living room. She cared very much. When she handed Bridger the mug of coffee she couldn't make herself look squarely at him, sunglasses or no sunglasses.
He took the cup without touching her. They engaged in a ballet of cautious movements, the way she offered the mug, the way he took it—first balancing the bottom of the mug on his palm and then taking the handle just as she released it. She didn't want to touch him at all, not even an innocent brush of fingers. Ha! Nothing about Bridger was innocent.
"Have a seat," she said, motioning to the white sofa. Dixon smiled and sat, withdrawing a small notepad from the pocket of his suit and snapping it open. Bridger lowered himself slowly, cradling the warm mug with both hands. She could almost feel sorry for him. She didn't feel so great herself. His head probably ached the way hers did, and he was probably hungry.
"What time did you leave the Riverwatch Hotel this morning, Miss Vaughn?" Dixon asked, pencil poised above the notepad.
Frannie opened her mouth to answer, but Bridger was quicker. "A little before seven," he growled.
She shot him an accusing glance. Had he been lying there pretending to sleep while she quietly dressed and slipped from the room? While she covered him with the blanket? While she whispered, "Thank you"? She could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, hot and unwanted
. She couldn't very well deny her embarrassment now.
"Let the lady answer for herself," Dixon said with a hint of impatience.
"He's right," Frannie said as she sat in the rocking chair by the window. "I think it was ten till seven, to be exact."
Dixon made note of her answer.
"Did you take the stairs?" Bridger asked gruffly.
Dixon glanced sideways at Bridger, annoyance on his sturdy, pleasant face.
"Yes," she said, directing her answer and her attention to the man she'd spent the night with. She couldn't see his eyes behind the dark glasses, and it was just as well. Everything she'd seen and felt last night was obviously a lie. The connection, the security. If Bridger could play it cool, so could she.
"Did you see anyone?"
Dixon leaned back, evidently resigned to Bridger's interference. Eyes down, the sergeant gave his attention to his notepad.
Frannie took a deep breath. Her mind hadn't exactly been clear as she made her getaway, and she had to think for a moment. "A man in the hall, changing a lightbulb." Mentally she took the trip again, down the shabby hallway, past the elevator to the stairs. The stairwell hadn't been any more enjoyable than the elevator, and by the time she'd descended one flight she was wishing she'd endured another jolting and slow ride in that contraption.
"A woman on her way up, between the first and second floor," she added after thinking for a long moment. "I ran into her, literally. She was running up with her head down, and I wasn't exactly paying attention, and we collided. We spoke for a minute then moved on."
On the couch, Dixon's head popped up and Bridger leaned forward, tense and tight. "Describe her."
"Like I said, I wasn't paying a lot of attention." As she'd made her way down the stairs her only thought had been to get out of the place, but she couldn't say that, could she?
BRIDGER'S LAST STAND Page 4
