“Knee?”
“Shoulder. Screwed up my shooting. I still get twinges raising my arm over my head.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “I’m not. I don’t think I was really cut out for the life of an itinerant under-appreciated female basketball player.”
“That would have been way too much for your family.”
“You got it,” she said, and dug into her food.
***
They spent most of the meal talking about trivial things: sports, movies, favorite books. At the end of it, Tasha knew that Rick was the most pleasant dinner companion she’d ever had, but she didn’t know much more. She couldn’t figure out how to work the conversation toward his sadness.
And any more personal discussions would mean telling him she was a cop. And she wasn’t ready to see that wary look in his eyes.
“You seem far away,” he said.
The waitress had just brought them the cookie platter. It was a large plate filled with Stars’ specialty: cookies of every shape and size. Some were frosted, others were old-fashioned favorites like raisin and chocolate chip. And all were the reason that most people came to Stars.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking how pleasant this evening was.”
He smiled. “It was nice, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “Maybe we could repeat it.”
She couldn’t believe how bold she was being. She usually let the man make the first move—laziness on her part, generally, although sometimes it was self-protection. No sense in being vulnerable if there was a chance she could get hurt.
The smile left his face. He suddenly looked trapped. “I don’t know.”
Tasha froze. Had she misread him? She thought they were enjoying each other. She thought they had both been attracted to each other.
Rick looked down at his long slender fingers. “My life is a little complicated right now. I’m not sure I should involve someone else in it.”
“Oh?” she asked, then felt stupid. He was brushing her off. She didn’t need more explanation than that.
He raised those magnificent eyes to hers. “I really like you, Tasha, and I’d love to pursue this. But I got some things going on in my life...” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain—”
“No need.” She made herself smile, but the movement felt odd on her face. “I misunderstood. Just forget I said anything.”
“Tasha, really—”
“It’s all right, Rick.” She glanced at her watch. “I should go.”
“Tasha, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She gave him a small smile. “It’s all right, really. I enjoyed myself. Honestly.”
How many times had she learned in interrogations to listen to the word “honestly”? It covered so many lies. She gathered her purse, opened it, and found her wallet. Somehow she managed to do so without her hands shaking. She hadn’t been this embarrassed in years. Maybe ever. She pulled out a twenty and set it on the table for her share of the meal.
“I’d at least like your number.” He was throwing her a bone.
She wasn’t willing to take it. Her face flushed. The warmth coursed through her, making her even more uncomfortable.
She slid out of the booth.
“When things ease up for you, you can get it from Brooke and Gerald. They’ll know how to find me.” She was brushing him off now, letting him know that the bone wasn’t necessary. It was probably rude of her, but she wasn’t sure she cared—not when she was this embarrassed. And it wasn’t like she’d ever see him again.
He was sliding out of the booth. She held out her hand, preventing him from coming closer.
“Thanks, Rick, for the fun afternoon. And for getting me out of that awful reception. I appreciate it.” Then she turned her back on him and hurried out of the restaurant.
It was all she could do to keep from running to her Mustang. That was the first time her advances had ever been rejected by a man, let alone a known womanizer. Was she losing her edge? Or had he simply needed someone to hide behind at the wedding?
Or maybe he found her the most attractive woman there—the best of a small field that he no longer wanted to play once he returned to the real world.
Whatever it was, it had left her feeling young, awkward and unsettled. And more than a little angry. What right did he have calling her beautiful, flirting with her like that, asking her to meet him at Stars, dancing with her so closely, being near her through the entire wedding and rehearsal dinner, if he hadn’t been interested? He had no business leading her on.
She could have had a very nice evening chatting with her new friend Howie, whom she had been very careful not to lead on. And he had appreciated it, dammit. He had appreciated it a lot.
Now she’d have to answer to her mother for leaving the reception early, and she had no excuse at all.
Somehow she found herself on Burnside, heading toward the bridge. She didn’t remember pulling out of the parking lot or taking the back streets to get to Burnside. But here she was, the bridge looming tall before her.
It showed just how flustered she was. And how disappointed. She had never met a man like Rick before.
She hoped she never would again.
***
Rick stared at the plate of cookies for the longest time. She hadn’t even touched them. Not a taste of the very thing she said she liked best about Stars. He was half-tempted to have them boxed and deliver them to her himself—except that he didn’t know where she lived. He didn’t even have her phone number, and there was no way to get it without disturbing newlyweds on their wedding night.
He wondered if Jane had it, and decided he didn’t even want to open that door.
The waitress came by and poured him a cup of coffee that he didn’t want. He was too busy berating himself to stop her.
My life is a little complicated right now.
I’m not sure I should involve someone else in it.
I really like you, Tasha, and I’d love to pursue this. But I got some things going on in my life...
I’m sorry.
She must have thought he was giving her the brush-off. That was what it sounded like. That was probably how he intended it. Subconsciously. He knew better than to bring someone he cared about into his life right now. That had been his biggest mistake in Chicago.
I’m sorry.
The thing was, he liked her more than he had ever liked anyone he’d ever met. He thought Tasha was stunning and she was great company. They liked the same books, the same movies, even the same parts of Portland. They seemed extremely compatible, and he had destroyed the evening with a few simple sentences.
I’m sorry.
He made himself take a chocolate chip cookie, but he couldn’t force himself to eat it. This was the end. He wasn’t going to let the Creep run his life in Portland the way he had in Chicago. Rick had left Chicago so that he would have a real life, so that he would be free to do whatever he wanted.
It wasn’t working out that way.
He would get rid of the Creep, and then he would call Tasha. Somehow. He’d get someone to give him her number. Or he’d dig it up himself. How many Natasha Morgans were there in Portland?
He’d find her.
Just as soon as he was ready.
TWELVE
TASHA HAD THE crime scene photos spread across her desk. Desmond Pfeiffer lay naked on the hardwood floor of his living room, legs sprawled awkwardly, arms splayed. His head looked like a crushed melon, blood forming a pool around it.
She knew his brother had killed him. She just couldn’t prove it. Something was missing. She just didn’t know what.
“You should have those photos memorized by now.” Lou sat on the edge of her metal desk, his cheap suit—the brown one—wrinkled from spending the afternoon in a hot car.
His desk was covered with notes from the Pfeiffer file as well. It was the only murder in Portland in the last three months—the murder rate was down for
the first time in years—and they had been on the rotation.
Portland had ten homicide detectives, and the cases were passed through the department. Tasha had been on the squad for three years, and this was her twenty-fourth murder investigation. The others had been pretty straight-forward: a shooting in a convenience store, a few domestic abuse cases that had gotten out of hand, and several gang-related incidents. She had served on the serial killer task force her very first summer—and they had closed that case with incredible rapidity. The FBI had damned them with faint praise by saying they had done good work, considering the killer had been ready to be caught.
The Pfeiffer case, though, was different. This time their perpetrator was smart, and even though she and Lou knew who the perp was, they couldn’t find anything to pin the murder on him.
Cases were not prosecuted by hunches.
“I keep thinking I missed something,” she said.
“What do you think, it’s going to leap off the photo and grab you?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
She sighed. “Well, maybe we’re looking at it from the wrong angle. Maybe Damon didn’t do it. Maybe someone else killed Desmond.”
“Yeah, and my wife thinks I’m the second coming of Brad Pitt.”
Tasha looked up at that. “Ah, come on, Lou. I’m sure she does. She stays with you, doesn’t she?”
“Only because Brad’s in a happy relationship, or so she tells me. I’m not sure how she knows.” Lou pushed one of the photos aside and peered at the one beneath it. They showed the body from different angles, taking in different parts of the room.
Desmond Pfeiffer had been a former Nike employee who had invested his savings in something he had called “a wild hair idea.” It was one of the first sports merchandise stores on the web, one that specialized in autographed shirts and cards and collectibles—long before anyone else had.
He’d pulled in close to two million dollars the first year, then, seeing that his idea wasn’t unique and was about to fold, had sold the business to his brother Damon for a quarter of the business’s on-paper worth. The problem was that the bottom fell out of the e-merchandise business—especially the sports stores—shortly after that, and Damon lost everything.
Even if the bottom hadn’t dropped out, Damon might have lost everything. He was not the businessman his brother was. He’d invested in too much inventory, paid too much for it, and expected to reap huge profits, which he spent before he made them. Instead of coming out of the business rich, as his brother had, Damon found himself a half million dollars in debt.
“Why is a man naked at nine o’clock in the evening?” Tasha asked, still staring at the photos. The coroner had been able to put the time of death around nine—Desmond had come home at 8, talked to a friend at 8:30, and his body had been discovered at 9:30. He hadn’t been dead long when the crime scene team had arrived.
“Tash, if you gotta ask me, your love life’s going worse than I thought.”
Tasha felt a blush build in her cheeks and she silently cursed it. A legacy from her dismal weekend. She didn’t even want to think about it—especially the way she had run off after Rick turned her down. Later that night, she realized that if she had laughed and stayed, he wouldn’t have known how interested she was in him.
The beauty of hindsight.
“The coroner checked the body,” she said. “No sign of sexual activity.”
“Could’ve been just starting,” Lou said.
“And she hits him over the head?”
“Expectations,” Lou said. “You know, maybe he wanted to and she didn’t. Maybe he was trying to force himself.”
“There was no evidence of a woman’s presence.”
“There’s no evidence of anyone’s presence. There’s no fingerprints anywhere in that place.”
“The housekeeper was there that afternoon.”
“Yeah, and when he came home, he didn’t touch the sink, or maybe the toilet, the refrigerator, a table, something? Come on, Tash. We know our perp’s smart, so let’s give him some credit here.”
“That’s a lot to wipe down in a short amount of time.” She leaned back in her metal office chair. It squeaked. She needed to get some WD-40 and fix it, but she hadn’t had time.
“How long does it take to bash someone’s head in, huh? Maybe fifteen seconds. Two minutes if there’s a struggle.”
“But there’s no sign of one.”
“Who’d know?” Lou asked. “His brother’s his only family, and Damon says he never visited the place. You find anyone who’s been inside that house?”
“No.” She tapped her index finger against her mouth. “But that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“It was a Parade of Homes house.”
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes people buy them already furnished.”
“So?”
She looked at her partner. She loved Lou, but he wasn’t strong on domestic things. “A man who buys a house already furnished isn’t going to move the furniture around.”
Lou grinned. “Oh, baby, this could be good.”
“Maybe.” She picked up the phone. “What year did he buy that house?”
“Last year, same as when he sold the business.”
Ready to retire at the ripe old age of 35. Well, at least he’d enjoyed a few months before someone shattered his skull.
“Who are you calling?” Lou asked.
“A realtor friend,” Tasha said. “I want to find out who handled the house. She should have that information at her fingertips.”
“Think she’s still got pictures?” Lou asked.
“Let’s hope so,” Tasha said.
***
Rick was in the upstairs den, working on his Internet computer. He’d bought the computer at the same time he’d bought the house, and put a DSL line into the den. The computer was the fastest available, and he appreciated it when he tried to download.
He had the television tuned to WGN so that he could watch the Cubs game, but the sound was turned off. He found the announcers annoying now that Harry Carey was dead. The radio was playing oldies, and a book lay open on the couch. This room was his play room—the couch, long enough to handle his six-four frame, was in the very center of the room. Toward the back was a recliner with a reading lamp next to it. The television was on a pedestal and could be turned so that it could be seen from anywhere in the room.
The only thing the den lacked was a phone. When he holed up in here, he didn’t want to hear from anyone.
He was researching the latest surveillance equipment—something he should have done the day before. Instead, he had gone directly to Beaverton where all the electronic stores were and let sales people talk to him as if he were an idiot.
He wasn’t quite an idiot, but he realized that all things electronic had advanced more in the past month than he had in years. Once upon a time, he knew everything there was to know about cameras and video, but that was five years before—the dark ages, in the electronics business.
So, instead of trusting the sales people, he went on the web to see what he could find. He wanted tiny cameras, the kind that could hide anywhere and be impossible to detect. He also wanted them to be motion activated, so the next time someone set off a perimeter alarm, he could see it and record it.
He wasn’t even sure he could get the equipment he wanted in Portland. He knew that a few places in Chicago had them, but they were stores that gave him the willies—places that you walked into and instantly knew you were in Paranoia Heaven, with men who wished they’d been hired by the CIA but were probably too uptight to pass the exam. He’d like to avoid those places if he could, but if he needed to go to one to get state-of-the-art equipment, so be it.
Let the Creep follow him back to Chicago. That would serve him right.
The thought of the Creep made Rick reach for the window. The blinds were down, even though it was noon. He couldn’t sit
by an open window any more—he was worried that he was being watched.
Another gift from the Creep.
Rick lifted the slats of the blind and peered into the street. No cars. No people, except for the elderly woman across the street. She was sitting near her picture window, watching his house. He’d tried to talk with her to see if she’d seen anything unusual, but every time he went over there, she closed her curtains. He had no idea why she was afraid of him. Maybe she just didn’t like company. Or maybe she worried about men who spent their days at home.
If that were the case, she was going to have a lot to worry about. The new economy meant a lot more men stayed home and telecommuted—especially in the Northwest.
Rick let the blinds drop and went back to his web search. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw stats appear on the TV screen. He grabbed for the remote and turned on the sound. The announcer’s voices clashed with the Beatles who were singing one of Rick’s favorites, “Paperback Writer,” but he didn’t bother to shut off the radio or even turn the volume down.
He wouldn’t have the TV’s sound on for long. Just for the at-bat.
One of the many things Rick missed about Chicago was spending his afternoons in Wrigley Field or even at Comiskey Park. Chicago had been a sports heaven. Portland, home of Nike, had only one professional sports teams to its name—the Trail Blazers. Rick liked basketball, but he wanted to spend hot afternoons in uncomfortable seats, drinking a cold beer, and watching men whack at a round ball with a big stick.
Maybe some day he could move back. When the Creep was gone, and he didn’t have anything to worry about any longer.
A long fly deep into left field. Looked like it was going to go out of the park for a moment, before it did a sudden dive and bounced near the ivy-covered wall. It was a double.
Rick muted the TV and heard a chime. He frowned, turning toward the radio as if it could explain itself. The Stones weren’t getting any satisfaction, and so far as Rick knew there hadn’t been chimes in that song before.
Then he realized that was the sound of his doorbell.
The Perfect Man Page 7
