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The Perfect Man
Copyright © 2013 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published in 2008 by Five Star
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2013 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Curaphotography/Dreamstime, Pixattitude/Dreamstime
Smashwords Edition
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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ONE
RICK CHANCE SAT on the front steps of his new house, and watched as the neighborhood came alive. He had moved to an upscale development in Portland’s West Hills. The homes were large and only ten years old, and they all looked the same.
Most of the people on this block worked nine to five. As the chill of evening approached, cars showed up, people returned, and leisure time began.
A cup of coffee cooled in his left hand. He felt comfortable for the first time in years.
He liked the rhythm of this place. It calmed him and almost made him believe he could belong.
The alarm on his watch beeped, and he sighed. He set his coffee down, then turned his wrist, shutting off the alarm.
The only bad thing about his move to Oregon was that he now lived near his family. And tonight would be the first big family gathering since his return. He wasn’t ready for all the questions, the comments, the sideways looks.
He would have turned Gerald down if it weren’t for Jane. Rick’s big sister had been his only support and comfort during his years away. She had begged him to take part in family events, which he would do until it got too uncomfortable for her. And it would. He wasn’t about to defend himself to these people. He wouldn’t explain himself either.
Rick picked up the mug, downed the last of the coffee, and went inside the house. Time to find something to wear. Since he was the family’s black sheep, he figured it was only right to dress the part.
***
Natasha Morgan stood knee-deep in garbage. Her khaki pants were ruined and so were her shoes. Good thing she didn’t spend much money on her work clothes.
The stench—a mixture of rotting meat and sour milk—was incredible.
Tasha resisted the urge to wipe her nose. She’d done that once already and it had been a mistake.
The sun reflected off windows of parked police cars. Tasha had to be careful which way she faced so that the light wouldn’t blind her. She glared at the precinct itself—a white brick building that had faded to gray—wishing some other detective would come out here and help, even though she knew she wouldn’t dig through garbage to assist another team.
Her partner, Lou Rassouli, used his gloved hands to take another bag of garbage off the pickup truck. Lou was a barrel-shaped man with biceps the size of her thighs and strong hands, scarred from years on the street. His face was lined—compassion lines, she called them, because they could ease into the most sympathetic features she’d ever seen.
The bag was a self-tie white plastic, and he was having trouble opening it. Finally, he ripped out the bottom of the bag and dumped the contents onto the precinct parking lot.
“How much more do we have?” she asked.
“Half the truck.” Lou sounded discouraged. They had found the garbage at Damon Pfeiffer’s building, but had been unable to determine which bags were his. So they’d had to take the entire Dumpster load.
Even so, Tasha had a horrible feeling this would be a dead-end. It seemed that nothing they did could tie Pfeiffer to his brother’s murder.
“What do you think we’re going to find?” she asked.
“If we’re lucky, a note Pfeiffer wrote to his brother, threatening to kill him. It would be really nice if he signed and dated it.”
“Seriously, Lou.”
Lou grabbed another bag, then grinned at her. “That’s the nice thing about garbage. You never know what you’re going to get.”
Tasha shook her head as Lou dumped the next bag. When she had gotten promoted to detective she somehow hadn’t imagined herself sifting through someone’s garbage. Some silly part of her had expected to solve crimes in less than sixty minutes with the help of her trusty partner and a sudden flash of insight.
Actually, the insight came often. She had a knack for this job. But the problem with insight was that it didn’t stand up in court. She needed evidence too. And in this case, especially, evidence was particularly hard to find.
The sun went beneath a cloud, sending a chill across the lot. It was getting late. Tasha sighed as Lou threw more bags onto the pile. Not only would they have to search, but they’d have to clean up this mess as well. The lieutenant wouldn’t appreciate losing a corner of the precinct parking lot to a mountain of garbage.
Lou tossed the last bag in the mix, then put his hands on his back and stretched. “Most of this stuff is going to be pretty easy to sort through. Food scrapes, coffee grounds, things like that. It’s the other stuff we gotta keep an eye on.”
She sifted through a stack of magazines, all of which were addressed to an apartment below Pfeiffer’s. She picked them up by the corners and shook them. Little subscription cards fell out, but nothing else.
“People don’t believe in recycling any more,” she said.
“Any more?” Lou asked. “Like they ever did.”
He kicked aside some beer cans and started on the outer edge of the pile. Then he looked up at her. “Say, Tash, don’t you have a thing?”
She had just tossed aside an unidentifiable ball of slimy material. “A thing?”
“Tonight. Don’t you have a family thing?”
She froze. “What time is it?”
He had to push aside his glove to read his watch. “Almost five.”
Tasha swore. “It’s not just a family thing, Lou. It’s Brooke’s rehearsal dinner, and I’m covered in garbage. Oh. My. God.”
Lou gave her a sympathetic look. He knew how much trouble Tasha had with her family. They had never understood her—particularly her desire to take such a challenging job. They would hate it if she canceled. She’d be in trouble if she were late, and they’d never let her forget it if she showed up covered with filth.
But she had no choice. She had to stay here.
“I’ll cover for you,” Lou said.
She shook her head. “This mess—”
“Won’t be that hard to go through, especially if you send one of those desk jockeys out here on your way out.”
“Lou, no.”
He grinned. There was a yellow dab of something stuck to his chin. “You’ll owe me.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“I know, Tash. But you don’t dare miss this one.”
She knew it. She had even told him to push her if she balked. In a fit of weakness, she’d agreed to be Brooke’s maid of honor. It had been a big mistake. She’d been forced to attend showers and girl parties. She’d even had to host one herself, which would have been a nightmare if it weren’t for Lou’s wife who volunteered to help her.
Tasha simply wasn’t good at girl things. She had never placed a priority on them, and for the most part, she didn’t enjoy them. She hadn’t been kidding when she said she would rather be sorting through garbage than going to the dinner.
“Tash,” Lou said. “
You made me promise to get you there. I’ll drive you if I have to.”
She nodded. “I’m going. I’m sorry, Lou.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll think of suitable payback.”
She had no doubt about that. She had a hunch she’d be paying for this one for a long, long time.
***
It had taken Herbert Beebe two days to find the house. The streets in Portland ran on a grid pattern, but the house was in a neighborhood filled with oddly named housing developments. The streets in those places shared names: Paradise Drive, Paradise Avenue, Paradise Court. The house numbers didn’t run in order either.
The place was a deliveryman’s nightmare.
Beebe finally located it on a quiet block. The house was large and beautiful. From the outside, no one would be able to see the horrors that happened inside.
He took a deep breath. His hands were shaking.
“I’m here, Jessamyn,” he whispered, hoping she could feel his presence through the locked doors, the thick walls. “I’m here, and I’m finally able to help.”
TWO
TASHA PAUSED OUTSIDE the Harborside Yacht Club, trying to compose herself. She had raced home, taken a hot shower, and dried her hair. Nothing had completely taken the stench of garbage out of her nose. She applied perfume, something she usually avoided, more for herself than for anyone else.
Her blond hair was already flying out of its neat bun, and her feet ached. She wasn’t used to high heels at all. She felt ridiculous in the pale green gauze dress she bought a few days before. She was more comfortable in her work clothes. This dress made her feel like someone she wasn’t. Someone her family wanted her to be.
There was nothing more she could do about her appearance. Considering how filthy she’d been at five o’clock, just the fact that she made it here looking slightly presentable was a victory.
She sighed and opened the large glass doors. Immediately the restaurant’s view caught and held her, just like it was supposed to. The walls facing the Columbia River were made of nothing but glass. The setting sun glinted off the water, and shone whitely on the mountains beyond. For a moment, she didn’t even see the yachts docked at the edge of the pier or the patrons sitting under umbrellas outside. For a moment, all she saw was her beautiful city, stretched out like a jewel on the river’s edge.
“Nice, huh?” The voice in her ear was rich and masculine, so deep and resonant that it made her shiver. She looked over her shoulder at the man standing just behind her. In fact, she had to look up to see his face—and she rarely looked up at anyone.
He had rugged features, square jaw, prominent cheekbones, and dazzling blue eyes. His dark hair was a little too long, and his dark mustache was too shaggy for modern style. But on him, it worked. He looked like a poster boy for a Western—a man who would be as home in chaps and spurs as he seemed to be in his faded blue jeans, tailored white shirt, and expensive corduroy blazer.
“The view,” he said as if she hadn’t understood him. “It’s nice.”
“Um, beautiful,” she said, wondering if pretty dresses made her act like the imbecilic debutante her mother had always wanted her to be.
“I think the view’s the best part about this restaurant.” He sounded regretful.
She wouldn’t know. She’d never eaten here before. She’d managed to avoid the place.
He smiled. It was a self-deprecating look that changed his ruggedness into something close to movie-star handsome. “Not used to talking to strangers?”
Sure she was. She talked to them all the time. Interrogated them was more like it. She wondered what this man—this yacht club member—would do if she told him she was a cop.
His smile would probably chill, then he’d say something polite and disappear into the restaurant. Men did that to her when they found out what her job was. They seemed to think it made her some kind of leper. Or they asked to have their parking tickets fixed, which annoyed her even more.
His smile faded. “I’m sorry. I’m embarrassing you.”
“No,” Tasha said. “I’m the one who should apologize. It’s been a long day, and I was just trying to get my bearings before going into the fray.”
“The fray?” he asked.
She waved toward the private room her family had rented. “Rehearsal dinner. I’m not good at these things.”
“I prefer the bachelor parties myself,” he said.
At that moment, so would she, but she bit that comment back. Her cousin had asked her to be on her best behavior for the wedding. Tasha suspected “best behavior” also applied to the showers, rehearsal dinner, and other events before the wedding itself.
“But at least rehearsal dinners have food.” He held out the crook of his arm, as if he expected her to take it. “Shall we?”
She frowned. “Are you going to a rehearsal dinner?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“The same one I am?”
“Probably, given that this place only has one private room large enough for friends and family.”
“You’re going to the Halliwell dinner?”
“Actually,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m going to the Flesner dinner, but I suspect they’re one and the same.”
She felt a blush warm her cheeks. How long had it been since she blushed? Her first day in the precinct, years ago, when she’d been a rookie. She’d learned then that blushing only resulted in more teasing and a general lack of respect. Somehow she’d learned to control the blush, so it was a surprise that it had returned.
“You’re a friend of Gerald’s?” she asked, ignoring the man’s arm.
“No,” he said. “He’s my nephew.”
Tasha frowned. “But you look like you’re the same age.”
The man raised his eyebrows, seemingly startled. “I’m four months younger,” he said in mock indignation.
“And he’s your nephew?”
He shrugged, apparently used to this. “My sister—his mother—is twenty years older than I am. I was, as my parents put it, a surprise.”
“I’ll bet.” Tasha glanced across the crowded restaurant. Silverware clanged and something fried smelled sinfully delicious. No one had seen them yet, not even the maitre d’. She wondered if she could hide in the entry all day.
Then she realized what the good-looking man beside her had said to start the last interchange.
“What’s wrong with Gerald?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Gerald. I asked you if you were his friend, and you said, ‘No’ in a tone that implied if you weren’t related, you wouldn’t speak. What’s wrong with Gerald?”
He dropped the crook of his arm. Apparently she had gone into interrogation mode. No one expected it from a tall willowy blond in a suit, let alone one wearing gauze.
“Before I put my foot in it farther,” he said, “who’s he marrying? Your sister?”
“My cousin.”
“A close cousin?”
Tasha glanced toward the door leading to the private party. She couldn’t see inside, but she knew Brooke was in there, waiting. They had been close once, as little girls playing Barbies. But as Tasha got more athletic and interested in the law, Brooke had watched her as if she were a subspecies of bug.
To Brooke’s credit, she had tried to understand. And she had always included Tasha, even though the inclusions were torture. Like the time she had chosen Tasha to be a member of her homecoming court.
Like this wedding.
“A close cousin?” Tasha repeated. “I guess so.”
His magnificent eyebrows met in the middle. He had obviously noticed her pause. “Bridesmaid close?”
The blush hadn’t completely faded. Or if it had, it was making a return appearance.
“Maid-of-honor close,” Tasha mumbled.
“Wonderful.” He let out a sigh and looked away. The sun was glinting off one of the yachts, sending a stab of white light into the restaurant.
“You were going
to tell me about Gerald.” She didn’t want this conversation to end. She was enjoying it. If Lou were here, he’d say she was flirting.
Which was nonsense of course. She never flirted. She left flirting to Brooke.
“Gerald.” Her companion sounded like he wished he’d never heard his uncle’s name. “He’s not a bad sort. He’s probably the marrying kind. He’s stable, reliable—”
“Dull,” Tasha said.
He looked back at her. In just a few moments, she had forgotten the power of those blue eyes. “You know him?”
“No,” Tasha said. “But you’re implying that there’s something wrong with stable and reliable.”
He sighed again, clearly a man who was trapped. “Listen, I got stuck with Gerald my entire childhood. I’m sure he’s a great guy. He’s just not...”
His voice trailed off.
“What you consider a great guy?”
He ran his hand through his dark hair. It caught the light, then fell slightly out of place. Carelessly attractive. So few men could actually pull that off, but he could.
“He was, you know, the kind of kid who got hit with the ball instead of catching it.” Her new friend sounded exasperated. “I know that guys like Gerald are taking over the world right now, and I suppose it’s their revenge for being picked last at baseball, but every time the family got together—and that was once a week whether we needed it or not—I had to spend time with Gerald. I tried to teach him how to shoot baskets. I tried to teach him how to play catch. I tried to teach him how to run, for godsake. He couldn’t even do that.”
Tasha laughed. “Then he and Brooke are suited. Because I tried to teach her all that stuff too, and she didn’t want to sweat. ‘It’s icky,’ she used to say.”
He smiled.
“You’re not the best man, are you?” Tasha asked.
“Best man for whom?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
“The guy Gerald chose as his best friend,” she said deliberately misunderstanding his misunderstanding.
The Perfect Man Page 1
