Torrance stopped chewing. “Oh, shit. Don’t tell me you slept with her?”
“No.” Jerry gave his former partner a dirty look. He took his first bite of the siu bao, savoring the flavor. “But the thought did cross my mind. If I was single, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”
Torrance snorted. “I’m sure Annie would be happy to know that,” he said, referring to Jerry’s wife. He looked over the selection of food on the table and speared a shrimp roll. “But what if Tao was, say, sixteen years older than you? The same age difference between her and Wolfe? What if she was seventy? Would you still find her attractive?”
Jerry laughed. “That’s not the same thing and you know it. She and Wolfe definitely had an affair. That’s a fact. Sheila admitted it to Morris.”
“It’s only half a fact. She never told him the name of the student.”
“You didn’t see the e-mails. It has to be Wolfe.”
“You mean the e-mails you illegally hacked into?”
“No, the e-mails that I paid someone else to illegally hack into,” Jerry said with his mouth full. “Asshole.”
“I thought you said there was nothing specific in them.”
“Not in so many words, no.”
“You can’t prove anything. People flirt all the time.”
“I can read between the lines, Mike. She told her fiancé she had an affair with a student.” Jerry waved to a passing waitress and pointed to their empty teapot. “I’d bet my left nut it was Wolfe.”
“Tao’s a sex addict, isn’t she? God knows how many students she was screwing. Flirty e-mails or not, you need proof. I know you don’t like this guy, but stay objective.” Torrance forked another pot sticker. “I still think the lady took off. There’s just no evidence otherwise. And Gardener’s kind of . . . big. She could still attract a twentysomething, but she was gonna marry him? I’d have second thoughts, too.”
“That’s mean,” Jerry said, mildly offended. “Morris is a nice guy.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to insult your friend.”
Jerry ignored the jab. “My client is a nice person. Good job, makes a lot of money, lives on the East Side. Used to play for the Packers. He’s a catch.”
“Maybe you should date him.”
“Fuck you.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a minute, then Jerry said, “I’m at a dead end.”
“I figured.” Torrance sighed. “I hate to say it, but I told you so. Tao freaked out, and she walked. I never really thought this would go anywhere—you know I don’t hand you live cases. So you tell Gardener you tried, collect your big fat fee, and go on your merry way. What’s the problem?”
“Speaking of fat fees.” Jerry pulled a small white envelope out of his jacket and slid it across the table. “Here’s your cut. Thanks for the referral. But I’m telling you, something doesn’t feel right about this.”
“Thank you kindly.” Torrance eased the envelope into his shirt pocket. “But don’t think you’re not paying for lunch. I’m not spending my money to eat in this shithole.”
“If I’m buying lunch, you need to do me a favor.”
“Depends.” Torrance’s mouth was full of dumpling.
“Can you run a detailed background check on Wolfe?”
Torrance almost choked. “Are you nuts? That would be a violation of Wolfe’s privacy. He’s not officially a suspect in her disappearance because she’s not officially missing. And you want me to tap into the department’s resources to find out who he is? Why don’t you do it?”
“I can access only so much. That’s why I called it a favor, moron.”
Torrance stifled a belch. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
They ate in silence for a moment.
“So how’s the investigation into the St. Clair murder going?” Jerry asked. “Any juicy details you can share with me?”
“You fishing for inside info?”
“Always.”
Torrance wiped his mouth with a paper napkin before speaking. “You know she was killed before she was dumped in the water, right?” His voice was low.
“I heard she was stabbed a bunch of times.”
“Forty, to be exact.” Torrance glanced around. “But according to the autopsy results, she was actually dead before that. The fucker sliced her throat, cut her carotid. She likely bled out in three, four minutes. You won’t see this in the paper. Not until we catch the guy.”
“So the stabbing was postmortem. That’s a lot of rage.”
“Oh, yeah.” Torrance nodded, sipping his tea. “Somebody hated her. Or loved her.”
“Or both,” Jerry said.
CHAPTER : 31
“I’m starving,” Sheila said when Ethan entered the room.
And she was. She’d spent the entire day watching chick movies on the WE channel—Pretty Woman was on now—and she hadn’t seen Ethan since early that morning. Her stomach growled as if to punctuate her words.
Ethan reached into his satchel and pulled out a plastic bag knotted at one end. He tossed it to her on the bed, where she caught it with both hands. She peeked inside. Half a roast beef sub on whole wheat, hold the mayo. Good.
“Six inches enough?” he said.
She gave an impish grin. “Usually. But it depends on what the guy does with it.”
Her joke brought a small smile to his face. Reaching into his bag again, he tossed her a bottle of Diet Coke. It landed in front of her on the crumpled blanket. She almost couldn’t remember what it felt like to eat a proper meal at a table.
“Did you eat?” She muted the television and sat cross-legged on the mattress. She twisted the plastic cap on the soda and it hissed. Still sealed. He was no longer drugging her.
“Not hungry.”
“Want half my sub?”
“I would think three inches would be supremely unsatisfying,” he said, and she laughed because she was supposed to.
He was still a monster, and she was still kidnapped, but she was making progress, and she wasn’t about to do or say anything to change that. Things had improved significantly over the last few days and she didn’t want it to regress. She had free rein of the basement, no more chains, no more handcuffs. She was allowed to use the toilet by herself and take a shower. Ethan had even brought her a few books to read—romance novels, not her thing, but better than nothing—and they were on the nightstand.
It was bearable. But she still had a lot of work to do.
He slumped on the leather sofa, seeming completely out of energy. His eyes were lost inside the dark circles surrounding them, and he hadn’t shaved in days. She watched as he stifled a yawn.
She took a bite of the sandwich. He’d remembered to ask for extra cucumbers and green peppers this time. “Yummy,” she said. “Thank you. Let me know if you want some.”
She had learned it was better to pretend things were normal, that she wasn’t being held against her will, if she wanted things to stay smooth between them. Ethan was still wary, but he was more engaged and more willing to talk. The gun still had a home in the waistband of his jeans, but he no longer kept his hand constantly poised over the butt to remind her of it. Getting it away from him entirely was her next goal.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A surprise?” She feigned curiosity, though her stomach tightened at the word. She put her sandwich down and wiped her mouth with shaky hands. The last surprise had been a necklace belonging to a dead girl and a wall full of dismembered corpses. Ethan reached into his satchel again and his demeanor perked slightly. He pulled out several items, reciting the names of each as he laid them neatly on the cushion of the leather couch. “Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer, facial soap, body lotion, shower puff, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. Even got you dental floss and lip balm.” He glanced up at her. “You like Aveda products, right?”
Sheila almost choked on the last bit of food still in her mouth. “They’re all I use.”
“Good. I also brought you some antibiotic cream for your wrists and ankles, and, uh, some pads.” He dug into his bag again. Indeed, he’d bought her a travel pack of Stayfree maxi pads. “I couldn’t remember when your time of the month was, but I figured it was coming at some point.”
“Thank you.” She stared at the items, her voice faint. “That’s very thoughtful, Ethan. I appreciate it.” No way was he going to kill her. He wouldn’t buy her all this stuff and then kill her, right? Something had changed. The question was, what?
“You’re welcome. I know you’ve been showering with bar soap, but Abby always says that stuff is drying if you wash your hair with it.”
Abby. It was the first time he’d mentioned his girlfriend since Sheila had been here. Were they even still together?
She pointed to an unfamiliar blue-and-white tube. “What’s that?”
Ethan held it up. “Diaper rash cream. I noticed before that you’re pretty red . . . down there.” His face had a funny expression. Embarrassment? Another first.
There was also a change of clothes—two pairs of Puget Sound State University sweatpants, two T-shirts, and a sweatshirt, all brand-new, tags still on. A few pairs of cotton bikini panties. Socks. For a kidnapper, he was being quite considerate.
Her mind reeled as she tried to make sense of it. He was showing kindness? Now? What did that mean?
“Thank you,” she said again. The roast beef sub lay half-eaten on her lap and she pushed it away, appetite gone.
Ethan settled back into the sofa and nodded toward the TV. Julia Roberts was laughing at something Richard Gere had just said. “Turn up the volume, will you?”
An hour later he was snoring, splayed out on the couch with his arms up over his head and his mouth hanging open. She hadn’t noticed exactly when he’d nodded off, but a loud snort had gotten her attention. When she glanced away from the television to look at him, she was shocked to see him passed out.
She was wearing her new clothes. There was no reason for Ethan to have bought her all these things unless she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Whatever his plans had been, they had obviously changed. When she’d first arrived, she was chained and in diapers. He’d told her he was going to kill her. Now a neatly folded stack of clean clothes was beside her, with a month’s worth of toiletries in the bathroom.
As if she was going to be here awhile.
She watched him from the bed. His body was relaxed and unmoving, his nostrils flaring in and out in rhythm with his snoring. The butt of the gun poked out about three inches from the top of his jeans, covered slightly by his T-shirt, which had pulled up to reveal the brown patch of hair that trailed from his belly button to his crotch.
Her captor was asleep.
Her mind flooded with possibilities.
If she was jackrabbit quick, she could have the gun out and pointed at him before he was fully awake. She could keep it trained at his head, as he’d done with her so many times, and she could make him tell her what the code was to get out of this room. With a gun to his temple, surely he’d give it to her.
But what if he refused? Sheila frowned. Of course he’d refuse. Should she shoot him in the leg? The arm? Leave him immobilized on the sofa, writhing in pain? He’d have to tell her then, wouldn’t he?
She swung her legs silently over the edge of the bed, her mind made up, then stopped as another thought occurred to her.
How many bullets were in a gun that size? Was it fully loaded? Was there some kind of safety mechanism she had to turn off before it would fire? She cursed herself for not taking Morris up on his offer to teach her how to shoot a gun. Then again, Morris had hunting rifles, which probably didn’t work the same way at all. Was she supposed to just point and pull the trigger? What if she missed? Did the gun reload automatically or would she have to do something to . . . chamber it? Was that even the right word?
The questions swirled around her head like ingredients in a recipe doomed to fail. The longer she stared at Ethan’s motionless body, the more desperate she felt to make a move, but she couldn’t decide if the risk was worth it. What if he came at her? She wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between his eyes. Assuming she could hit her target.
Then what? With Ethan dead and no code to get past the door, what next? The gun looked so small and the door was heavy—she had banged on it plenty of times when he wasn’t around. It felt thick and impenetrable. Could bullets that small blast through it? If they couldn’t, she’d be stuck down here with his dead and rotting body. Oh, God. She’d die a slow, painful death from starvation because nobody knew where she was. Hell, she didn’t know where she was.
Unless . . . unless there was a phone in Ethan’s bag somewhere. She had never seen one, but that didn’t mean one didn’t exist. Her own phone might be in there. Wherever this place was, it had cell phone reception—he had made her call Morris’s answering machine from her BlackBerry and the message had gone through just fine.
Yes, it was definitely worth the risk.
She planted her bare feet on the floor and stood up. She eased toward Ethan, afraid to breathe.
Three steps in, he opened his eyes.
“Don’t even think about it.”
His voice was perfectly clear. His hand moved to the butt of the gun. Her heart sank. “What are you talking about?” she said, backtracking. “I was going to the bathroom.”
He sat up slowly, never taking his eyes off her. “Don’t fuck with me, Sheila. You should see the look on your face. You were going for the gun, weren’t you?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t even know how to use it.”
He took the gun out of his waistband and rested it on his thigh, keeping his finger on the trigger. “I thought things were better between us. Why do you want to fuck that up?”
“Okay.” She relented immediately. Ethan’s face was pink with anger and this was not the time to play stupid. “Okay, I was looking at it. It makes me nervous, Ethan. It scares me.”
“I thought we were building trust. This really disappoints me.” His bleary eyes were sad.
Sheila stood her ground. “Trust? You want to build trust? You can start by getting rid of that thing. What do you need it for? I can’t overpower you, and even if I could, I don’t know the codes to get out. I’ve done nothing since I’ve been here to make you not trust me. You could cut me a little slack and get rid of the gun.”
Ethan seemed to be listening. He slipped the gun back into the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think harder.”
He chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”
“I thought your mother was dead,” she said, taking advantage of the opening. The tension had passed. They were okay again.
“She is.”
“Did you kill her?”
Ethan didn’t blink. “Ha. Right. I was just a kid when she died.”
There was a minimum age requirement for monsters? “Sorry,” she said, attempting to sound sincere.
“I know you don’t give a shit. That’s okay. Neither do I. She died in a house fire.”
“What happened?”
He snorted and settled back into the sofa. “You want to know this stuff? Fine. My father left us when I was five and my mother went batshit crazy. She died when I was ten. Burned the house down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not? The death of a parent is one of the most damaging things that can happen to a child.” Or an adult. Her father’s face flitted through her mind. She pushed it away.
“You trying to headshrink me, Dr. Tao?”
“Just making conversation. Were you in the house?”
“Yep.” His voice sounded robotic. No anger, grief, or bitterness. His jaw stayed relaxed. “I was locked in the closet, as usual. Neighbor smelled the smoke, heard me screaming, pulled me out. It was all very dramatic. Would have made a great after-school special about the dangers of playing with candles.”
“The
y couldn’t save your mother?”
“Her dress caught fire.” The corners of his mouth twitched and she realized with horror that he was trying not to smile. “She died in the hospital three days later. Third-degree burns over eighty percent of her body.” His face looked dreamy. “I like to imagine that she was in great pain when she finally went, but she was unconscious and never woke up.”
Sheila shuddered.
“I got a nice, fat inheritance when I turned eighteen,” he continued, his eyes blank and staring into nothing. “Insurance from the house, the trust she had from the grandparents I never met. Came to just over two million bucks.”
Sheila’s shock was genuine. “That’s a lot of money.” And it explained a lot. The souped-up vintage motorcycle, for one. A thought occurred to her then. “Do you own this place? Whatever this is?”
“This is my house, yes.”
“So why pretend to be a poor, starving student?”
“When did I ever pretend?” Ethan shrugged. “People assume. I don’t correct them.”
“You’re awfully young to be a millionaire.”
“You think so?” He finally turned his gaze toward her. “How much money does Morris have, anyway?”
Somehow their conversations always drifted back to Morris, which frightened her. “I don’t know, I’ve never asked him. It never mattered. I make my own money, you know that.”
“Just making conversation.”
Silence filled the room and she felt a desperate need to say something before Ethan retreated inside his head. Taking a deep breath, she blurted, “So why do you do what you do?”
His blank gaze became more focused. “Which is what, exactly?”
“You’re a master’s student in psychology.” She cleared her throat and spoke in her best professorial voice. “Why are you the way you are? What possesses you to do the things you do?”
He laughed, his face a picture of delight. “What, you want me to headshrink myself? That’s a first. Planning to teach a course on antisocial personality disorder, Dr. Tao?” He saw her expression and laughed again. “What, you don’t think I can diagnose myself?”
“That’s your diagnosis?”
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