“Change your mind?” Lou asked.
“No,” Tasha said and pulled open the interrogation room door.
Rick looked up as she stepped inside. Those blue eyes met hers—how could Lou think they were Paul Newman eyes? They were all Rick—and she felt a shiver of pleasure run down her back. A shiver she tried to instantly ignore.
“What’s going on, Tasha?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” she said, as she took off his handcuffs. Somehow she managed to do it without touching him.
She put the cuffs in her belt.
“Tasha, there’s no need to play bad cop with me. I know you—”
“Detective Morgan,” she said.
“What?”
“I’m Detective Morgan.”
He was silent for a moment as he rubbed his wrists. She stood over him, towering over him on purpose so that he’d have to look up when he faced her.
“So this is official, huh?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No,” she said. “I’m just asking questions.”
“And if I give you the wrong answer, will you arrest me?”
She leaned on the table, sitting close enough to him that she could feel his body heat against her leg. Then she punched the recorder on.
“What happened back there, Rick?”
He sighed. “I’m being harassed.”
“By whom?” She kept her voice soft.
He raised his head. He didn’t look dangerous. He looked like the man she’d met at the wedding, the fun, flirty guy whom she’d wanted to kiss. If she hadn’t seen him drag Flegal across the yard, she never would have thought him capable of violence.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“But you know you’re being harassed.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He leaves stuff. He makes calls. He—”
“You’re being harassed by a man?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rick looked away for the first time since he started answering questions. He was going to lie. People always did that when they lied—except for the really good ones. They never broke eye contact. Either was an unnatural way to pursue a conversation.
“If I knew why, maybe I’d be able to stop him.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No,” Rick said.
“Why not?”
“I take care of my own problems.”
Tasha nodded and stood. She glanced at the one-way mirror, wondering what Lou was thinking. Then she rounded the table and took the other chair. She scooted it back and put her feet on the desk.
“What does all this have to do with your behavior this morning?”
Rick shook his head. Then his gaze met hers, direct and personal. It was as if she could feel him touch her and she was all the way across the table from him.
“Look, you have to understand, Tash—Detective—why didn’t you tell me you were a cop?”
“This morning,” she prompted, as if he hadn’t tried to get personal again. “What happened this morning?”
“This harassment’s been going on for three years. It’s the reason I moved away from Chicago. Apparently the Creep’s followed me here—”
“Get to this morning, Rick.”
At the sound of his name, he stopped and glared at her, obviously annoyed that she used his first name and wouldn’t let him use hers. He was getting angry. Good. She wanted to see how out of control his anger was.
“I thought the delivery guy was him.”
“Why?”
“Something he said.”
“What did he say?”
“No one sends me flowers,” Rick said. “The only flowers I get, the only presents I get, are from the Creep. Usually he leaves them on my doorstep. Today, when I saw the flowers, I thought he’d finally gotten enough nerve to ring the doorbell. I didn’t see a delivery van and he wasn’t wearing a shirt or uniform from the floral shop. So I thought he was the Creep. He kinda looked the way I thought the Creep would look, you know?”
Tasha knew. Rick kinda looked the way she thought the perfect man should look, so she knew very well. “And that made you hit him?”
“I never hit him.”
“You dragged him across the yard. He couldn’t get up.”
“Because he was crying,” Rick said.
“Because you hit him.”
“I never hit him.” Rick flung his head back in exasperation, nearly rocking his chair to the side. “I yelled at him, but I never hit him.”
“You yelled at him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you menace him?”
“Is that a legal term?” Rick asked.
It was. Menacing was illegal under Oregon law. “Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know what it means,” Rick said.
“Did you threaten him?”
“I don’t think it got that far.” Rick let out a short breath. “You have to understand. I thought he was someone else.”
“And that would have made it all right?”
Rick leaned forward as if he were trying to convince her. “I’m in my home, a home that has felt like it is under siege. Then the guy who is attacking me—I think—shows up at my door. I have the right to yell at the guy.”
“But not beat him up.”
“I didn’t touch him.”
“You did touch him,” Tasha said. “I saw that. Your neighbor, Mrs. McGilicuty, says you threw the flowers off the porch and then slammed him against the column so hard that he fell to the ground.”
“I did throw the flowers,” Rick said. “That scared him so badly he nearly peed his pants. He slid down without my help.”
“And that made you angry.”
“Damn straight it did.”
“So you hit him.”
“I did not hit him.”
“Then why was he on the ground?”
“Because he was afraid.”
Tasha let out a small breath. She had him pinned and she didn’t want to. But she had promised Lou she’d do this by the book. “He was afraid of you.”
“Yes.”
“Because he thought you’d hurt him.”
Rick’s face flattened, as if he realized that he had trapped himself, but to his credit, he responded. “You heard him. He thinks the whole world wants to hurt him.”
“And you obliged.”
“I did not,” Rick said.
“But you were angry.”
“Yes.”
“You said you were angry when he cringed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought he was the Creep and I wanted to beat the bastard to a bloody pulp and I couldn’t do that if he was crying.”
It wasn’t the answer she expected—neither the honesty of it or the tone of it. “But he’d probably be crying when you were done with him.”
“I would hope,” Rick said, still rubbing his wrists. “But I couldn’t do it when we started. I mean, that would make me a bully and I’m not a bully.”
A bully? When was the last time she’d heard that term? She had to work at not looking surprised. “Oh, what are you then?”
“A man who is defending his home.”
“Against flower delivery men.”
“I didn’t know who he was.”
“The flowers should have been a clue.”
Rick let out a loud sigh—an annoyed sigh. But he hadn’t done anything with his hands, aside from rub his wrists, and he didn’t seem like a man who could be pushed to the brink of control by the littlest thing.
“Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.
“You can have one if you want, Rick,” she said. “But I haven’t arrested you.”
“Then I’m free to go, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
He pushed away from the table and stood. “I can’t say it was a pleasure
.”
“Rick,” she said softly, “who’s Jessamyn?”
He was almost to the door, but when he heard the question, his shoulders slumped. He did not turn around, but he didn’t answer her either.
“Flegal said the flowers were for Jessamyn. He also said that you seemed pretty reasonable until he mentioned the name Jessamyn. Then he said you wanted to know what was going on with him and Jessamyn. Who is she?”
Rick still didn’t answer. His head was down. Tasha wondered if Lou could see his face. It wasn’t reflected in the mirror.
“Is she your wife?” Tasha asked.
“No,” Rick said almost inaudibly.
“A friend?” Tasha’s stomach had tightened. Part of her didn’t want to know the answer. That was why she had held onto the question until the last possible moment.
“No.”
“Then who is she?”
Rick turned around. He had a trapped expression on his face. Trapped and panicked and slightly sad.
“Rick? Who is Jessamyn?”
“Me,” he said.
EIGHTEEN
WHATEVER TASHA HAD expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. She was glad she was sitting down. She stared at him for the longest moment, trying to imagine why he would call himself Jessamyn, and then not liking the answer she came up with.
Was this why he hadn’t wanted to date her? Saying his life was complicated was a good way of deflecting questions about his sexual preference. He wouldn’t have to explain himself in any way. And he hadn’t.
That would explain his kindness too—what she had taken for interest had just been genuine kindness. But it didn’t explain his anger at the person he called “the Creep” unless—
Unless Rick’s Jessamyn persona was supposed to be secret and this Creep was going to reveal it.
Rick was staring at her expectantly. She was supposed to say something here, but she really was speechless.
She tried anyway. “What is it about your Creep friend that upsets you anyway? The fact that he knows your real identity?”
“He doesn’t know,” Rick said. “That’s not even the issue—”
“Oh, so it’s the fact he thinks you’re a woman?”
“No, not really,” Rick said.
“Then what is it, really?”
“I’m Jessamyn Chance.”
She stared at him for a moment, letting the words reverberate in her brain. Jessamyn. Chance. She hadn’t put the names together. It was like knowing a Rick Steele and then having him admit to being Danielle. She would have made the same mistake then, not putting the Danielle and the Steele together.
He let out an exasperated sigh. “I suppose you don’t read anything published past 1940.”
“No,” she said.
“I run into people like you every once in a while. It’s kind of a reverse snobbery. I mean—”
“I know who Jessamyn Chance is,” she said. “I mean, I thought I knew who Jessamyn Chance is. I mean—you write romance novels?”
He didn’t move. He looked like he was frozen in place. Then he said, “Yes.”
She shrugged. She wasn’t sure herself. “You don’t look like a romance writer.”
“What’s a romance writer supposed to look like?” he asked.
“Barbara Cartland.”
“I’ll be sure to put on a pink peignoir the next time I see you.” His blue eyes were flashing. He was angry now, and she didn’t feel any violence from him. None. Just plain old fury. “And I don’t write romance. I write contemporary romantic suspense.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked. “I thought romantic suspense is a subgenre.”
“I thought you didn’t read anything published past 1940.”
“You said that. I didn’t. I read all sorts of stuff. I’ve even read your novels.” Then she blushed. She had read his novels. They were good, suspenseful, and extremely sexy. So sexy in fact that the last one—
Oh, she did not want to go there.
“What’s wrong with my novels?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Then why did you stop?”
“I thought Jessamyn Chance was a woman.”
“Everyone thinks Jessamyn Chance is a woman. If you tell anyone, I’m in deep trouble.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, everyone but my agent and my editors.”
She was still sitting. He was standing. The difference suddenly made her feel at a disadvantage, as if she were the one who was being interrogated.
“I’m the only one who knows?”
“You and whoever is outside that door,” he said. “And whoever listens to the damn tape. You hold my entire career in your hands.”
“I thought authors went on tours and TV talk shows.”
“Jessamyn Chance is a recluse. Not quite as mysterious as J.D. Salinger. I’ve been seen at least. Not me, really, but my ex-girlfriends—”
“Girlfriends?”
“A reporter sees a woman and goes away happy. They can report on the way she looked—”
“So the girlfriends know.”
He shook his head. “They acted confused whenever they approached because they were confused and why in the hell am I telling you this?”
Tasha shrugged. “Because I asked?”
He put a hand over his eyes and rubbed them. “I guess you could have a field day with all of this.”
“I could blackmail you,” she said.
He let his hand drop.
“If I weren’t the law-abiding type.” She grinned.
He didn’t. “That’s not funny.”
“It sort of is, considering where we are.”
“This is my career, Tasha—Detective Morgan. Romance readers don’t like male names on their books.”
“That’s why The Bridges of Madison County did so poorly?”
“It’s not romance,” Rick said.
“I thought you don’t write romance,” Tasha said.
“Oh, for god’s sake.” He spun, reached for the door again, and then stopped. “Look, I know I’m in trouble with you. I also suspect that the delivery guy isn’t pressing charges or you would have arrested me by now. Am I right?”
She didn’t answer him. She hadn’t expected him to know procedure that well.
He turned. “Am I right?”
“I wanted to find out how dangerous you are,” she said sullenly.
“Then let me tell you.” He came back into the main part of the room and sat in the chair across from her. His gaze fell on the recorder. “Do we have to keep taping this?”
She hit the stop button, and pulled the tape out, holding it in her hand. He stared at it like it was made of gold. “How dangerous are you?”
“I wrote science fiction and mystery novels under my own name,” he said. “They were pretty mediocre.”
“I don’t want your literary history,” she said.
He held up a hand to keep her quiet and to her surprise, she stopped talking. “A couple of those novels sold. Mid-list books, no great shakes. They appeared and disappeared.”
She tapped the tape against her palm. He could justify himself later. Even though she was interested. But she wasn’t interested as a cop. She was interested as a woman.
A woman who had felt a deeper disappointment than she wanted to admit when she thought Rick Chance wasn’t interested in her—couldn’t be interested in her, ever.
“Then my parents died, and as a kind of grief therapy, I wrote a book in which the couple—who weren’t married—survived their plane crash, and found the person who tampered with the plane—”
“I read it,” Tasha said softly.
“—and it was mostly from the woman’s point of view, and the romance was central to it, because my parents were extremely romantic—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “Anyway, as a lark, I sent it to my agent, who loved it. She told me to put a woman’s name on it, and we sent it out. And then we sold it—t
o a romance market, not that big, really, and I realized that my family might read it, and if they did, then they’d see my folks in the characters and they were already upset enough at me, so we decided—me, my agent, and my editor—that Jessamyn Chance was a recluse who didn’t do book tours which was all right, really, because we didn’t expect the book to do any better than my other books.”
“Then it became a bestseller.”
He nodded. “My editor changed her mind and wanted me out there, but I wouldn’t go. My agent tried to talk me into going out on tour too, but by then, I found out how freeing it was to be someone else, at least on paper, and I didn’t want to lose that. So I said no. And I stuck to it.”
“Well,” Tasha said dryly. “I guess that makes you a very dangerous man.”
He looked away. Then he placed his hands flat on the table and rose slowly. “Never mind.”
She had hurt his feelings. She hadn’t expected to do that. She hadn’t even thought about it. This topic was very sensitive for him, for reasons she didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, Rick,” she said, and winced. She’d lost all pretense of being a cop now. Now she was a woman, listening to him. “Sit down. Please. Go on.”
He studied her for a moment, as if he were waiting for her to say something snide.
“Please,” she said again. “Sit.”
She wasn’t sure why she was urging him. Something in his face, maybe, or that damned connection from the weekend. Or the way she wanted to touch his hand, reassure him that she was still here, still interested, despite his outburst, despite her earlier anger.
Or maybe she wanted him to come up with something so that she wouldn’t keep thinking of the way he’d dragged that poor deliveryman across the yard.
Rick sat down. “I’m being stalked. Harassed by a man who thinks I’m the husband of Jessamyn Chance.”
Tasha caught her breath. “He wants you out of the way.”
Rick nodded.
“Has he threatened you?”
“He’s been threatening me for the past eighteen months. He’s the reason I moved to Portland.”
Suddenly she was a cop again. “Didn’t you report this to the Chicago police?”
“I did,” he said. “Without telling them about the romance writing.”
The Perfect Man Page 10
