by Beth Ciotta
“Standard procedure,” Joe said, propping the luggage against the wall. “Secured crime scene.”
Her heart sank with the knowledge that, since the tape was unbroken, JP most probably wasn’t home. “But, there wasn’t a crime.”
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small black leather case. “Even if it looked like an accident, until the investigating officers had sufficient proof, like the results of a preliminary autopsy, they’d treat the incident as suspicious.” He opened the flap, slid out a skinny, silver tool.
“What are you doing?”
He squatted and concentrated on the door knob. “What’s it look like?”
Figures he’d know how to pick a lock. As her keys had disappeared with her purse, it made sense, and there was an odd fascination in watching him perform a task she’d only ever feigned in episodes of “Spy Girl”. She could learn something here. But she was eager to find Jean-Pierre, and the longer they stood in the hall the greater the chance someone would come along and question their presence. “Put your toys away, special agent man.”
He glanced up as she retrieved a spare key from behind the art deco wall sconce. “Unbelievable.” He took the key, unlocked the door, and after tearing away tape, shifted the luggage inside and flicked on a wall lamp. “Didn’t you learn anything from your sister’s run-in with that stalker?” he asked as she followed him in and shut the door.
She knew he was referring to the fact that she and Lulu used to keep a spare key hidden beneath the welcome mat of their Jersey home. But, a sarcastic retort lodged in her throat when she zeroed in on the place where Luc had taken his last breath. Her gaze bounced from a near empty bottle of merlot, to a soul wine glass, to the blood soaked carpet.
Her temples throbbed.
Joe’s voice pierced through the white noise blaring in her ears. “Generally, the police don’t double as a cleaning crew.” He gently grasped her forearm. “I should have warned you.”
Her throat constricted. Her fingers tingled. “I’m fine.” Liar. Warped images attacked her mind with blinding speed. Red seeping into orange and white. Blue splattered with red.
Blood.
A body. A nose. A hand.
Grim images of assault and pain hammered at her conscience, inflicting terror and remorse. Unable to catch her breath, she loosened the laces of her bodice with trembling hands.
Joe wrapped one arm around her waist. “Look away. Focus on something else.”
He tried to move her into the kitchen, but she resisted. “I don’t want to focus on something else. This is important.” She conjured the peaceful image of her martial arts teacher. Center yourself, she heard her Master Chai instruct. Breathe deep. In and out. In and out. “Can’t panic,” she said to Joe. “Have to deal.”
“Then deal.” He tightened his grip, held her steady. “The blood’s triggering memories. Don’t stifle the images. Talk it out.”
Heart pounding, she stared at the stained carpet. Blood. Panic. Run! “They’re chasing me.”
“Who?”
“The cowboys.” Heel to bone. Spike through flesh. Pain! “I fought back. I hurt them. One’s howling in agony. The other’s … down. Silent.”
“Unconscious?”
“Maybe. Or dead. I don’t know. I ran. With the gun.” She pressed a hand to her queasy stomach. It felt like someone was jamming knitting needles into her brain. She turned away from the blood, into Joe’s arms. “I remember aiming and shooting. I remember hearing a gunshot. What if I hit him? What if he’s dead?”
“You said they were chasing you. Why?”
“They were angry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She pushed out of his embrace, palmed her clammy forehead. “I can’t remember.”
He grasped her shoulders, urged her to meet his gaze. “Did you know them?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
She wasn’t sure of anything. The night was a jumbled blur. She massaged her throbbing temples, tried to focus.
“You knew them enough to classify them as cowboys,” Joe pointed out, his voice grim.
She shook her head. “Cowboy hats. They wore cowboy hats. I can’t remember their faces, but I remember those hats. One black. One brown.” A hand. A nose. Heel to bone. She glanced down at her foot, remembered Master Chai’s advice on thwarting an attacker. “I think I broke the tall one’s nose. The one in black.”
Joe disregarded her comment, as if breaking a man’s nose was no big deal. “Were they guests of your boyfriend?”
Her stomach bumped up to her throat. “You’re even more beautiful in person.” She pushed back the seductive voice, blinked at her stern-faced companion. So intense. “What are you talking about?”
“The man you went to visit. The man with no face. Were they friends of his?”
“No.” She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she was certain they weren’t on friendly terms. She narrowed her eyes. “And he wasn’t my boyfriend.”
He didn’t comment, but she could tell he didn’t believe her. She wanted to curse him, to defend her virtue. She was not an impetuous bimbo! But her skin flushed at a fuzzy memory of a man plying her with wine and promises. Guilt struck her speechless.
Joe worked his jaw, glanced around the apartment. “We need to clear out of here. If there’s anything you want or need, grab it now. I’ll take a look around, see if I can find a clue that will lead us to Jean-Pierre.”
Sofia moistened her lips. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
Joe hitched back his suit jacket, slid his hands in his pockets, and studied her as if assessing her mental stability.
She resisted the urge to tame her purple head-banger spikes. So what if he didn’t like her hair? She refused to care. “I’m not going to fall apart, Bogart. I appreciate your concern, but I resent being kept in the dark. Give it up.”
He nodded. “All right. The police chalked up Luc’s last words as drunken rambling, and it probably was, but he did mumble an American name amid indecipherable French.”
Dread coursed down her spine. “What was the name?”
“John Wayne.”
“The actor?”
“Maybe he was watching one of the Duke’s old westerns just before he passed out. He was a screenwriter, right? Maybe he’d been researching the guy for a documentary and simply had him on the brain.”
“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t look so concerned.” John Wayne. Westerns. Cowboy. The conclusion was instantaneous. The urge to retch swiftly followed. Aware that Joe was watching her, she schooled her expression and gestures. He’d shut her out if he thought she couldn’t handle the ugliness and danger. He’d done it before.
So she suppressed her anxiety, her fear. She glanced down at her purple and black striped stockings and platform Mary Janes. She channeled Abby Geyser’s morbid calm. “Luc was trying to identify his attacker. But, he was drunk and delirious from the head wound. A head wound inflicted by the cowboys.”
Joe shook his head. “There’s no evidence to support a breakin or foul play. Nothing’s out of place. The police dusted for prints and, aside from Luc’s, only came up with yours and Jean-Pierre’s. I asked.”
“They were here. I know it. And you suspect it. They were looking for me.” And instead they found Luc. Guilt cramped her stomach. Deal, Sofia, deal. She slowly turned and headed for her bedroom. “They must have my purse. One mystery solved anyway.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, distant, monotone. She opened her top dresser drawer, took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. Abby would smoke. It would totally be within character to light up. Good thing. She’d never needed a calming hit of nicotine as badly as she did now. She glanced at Joe, who stood on the threshold, daring him to recite the Surgeon General’s warning.
He said nothing.
She lit up.
“My address is on my driver’s license. My keys were in the zippered compartment along wit
h my wallet.” She cocked a hip against the dresser, inhaled smoke and a heady dose of tranquility. The tranquility part was no doubt psychosomatic. But her senses definitely cleared as she contemplated the scenario. “They let themselves in. I don’t know where Jean-Pierre was … is, but thank God he wasn’t here. He couldn’t have been. He wouldn’t have let Luc polish off three-quarters of a bottle of wine.”
“Pretty early in the day to tie one on,” Joe said.
Sofia crossed to her closet, fished out a small suitcase, and tossed it on her bed. “Luc’s career is … was … in a slump, and his love life was a shambles. He drank to cope. He also leaned on Jean-Pierre. More than he should have.” Her hands shook as she searched out essentials—underwear, shoes, fresh clothes, phone charger—and stuffed them into the open suitcase. She craved a stiff shot of whiskey, her Nona Viv’s cure-all, but Abby would probably drink beer. She wondered if she had a Corona in the fridge, took another calming drag of the cigarette. “Jean-Pierre didn’t confide in me much where Luc was concerned, but I’m pretty sure their friendship was on the skids.”
“The reason Jean-Pierre was depressed?”
“Not the main reason, but it certainly didn’t help.” She glanced back and caught Joe staring at her and massaging his chest. He looked uncomfortable, but then he too schooled his expression. The man sizzled with repressed emotions. “You okay?”
“Heartburn.” He adjusted his tie, stifled whatever he was feeling. Still, the air was charged with something potent and dangerous.
“I have some antacid tablets in the medicine cabinet. I’ll grab them and pack a few essentials. Don’t worry, I’ll hurry.” She tried to ease past him but he blocked her way. She made the mistake of looking in his eyes. His dark gaze swirled with heart-stirring tenderness. His unspoken compassion roused tears of grief and anger. She blinked them back. Please, don’t touch me. If he touched her, she’d crumble.
“Even if your cowboy scenario proves true, Luc’s death isn’t your fault.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Logically, I know that. But surely, you of all people understand why I feel somewhat responsible.”
He worked his jaw, nodded, and then stepped back into the hall. “Which way to Jean-Pierre’s room?”
She wondered if he’d ever spoken to anyone about Julietta, but now wasn’t the time to ask. They had to get out of here. They had to find Jean-Pierre. She pointed to the door to his left, and then headed for the bathroom. “I’ll get your antacids and meet you in a minute.”
They couldn’t get away from each other fast enough.
Sofia closed the bathroom door, allowing her the privacy to collect herself. Keep moving. If she stopped, she’d think and feel. Emotions were plentiful, some confusing, all turbulent. She flushed her cigarette down the toilet, but stalled at the vanity mirror. The girl staring back at her was a stranger. Toss up as to which was most bizarre; the electric-blue false eyelashes, the vixen lipstick, or her hair. On second hard look, Joe was right. Her hair was pretty radical and really, really purple. She looked like hell, or more pointedly something from hell. And yet, she didn’t regret the disguise. As long as she was someone else, anyone else, she wouldn’t have to deal with Sofia Chiquita Marino’s internal chaos.
She acknowledged Abby Geyser with a curt nod and flung open the medicine cabinet. She nabbed the jumbo bottle of Rolaids, her toothpaste, deodorant, soap, face crème and cleanser, and packed them into her travel organizer case, along with cosmetics, a box of semi-permanent hair color, a razor, and her toothbrush. When she reached back for dental floss, her gaze fell on the pills she’d bought Jean-Pierre to help him with his insomnia and anxiety. Considering the stress-reducing drug a Godsend, she washed down three capsules with a Dixie cup of tap water, and tossed the bottle in her bag.
Fifteen-minutes. She should be feeling the effect in fifteen-minutes. Relief. Non-addicting relief. Unfortunately, Jean-Pierre had snubbed the natural supplement in favor of Valium.
Jean-Pierre’s medication.
She searched the shelves. Gone. His toiletries were also missing. He’d packed up his toiletries! Maybe Joe was right. Maybe he’d slipped away for some down time!
She rushed into the hall and collided with her dark-suited companion. “His toiletries are missing. You’re right, Joe. He went somewhere!”
He held up a piece of paper boasting Jean-Pierre’s handwriting, and smiled. “Vermont.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rainbow Ridge, Vermont
We need to talk.”
Rudy jumped a good two inches at the sound of Jake’s voice. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that, Leeds.” He minimized the article he’d been reading on poltergeists, swiveled his chair away from his computer monitor, and focused on the two men standing on the threshold of his office. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more, the late-night visit, or their state of undress. They’d obviously rolled out of bed for this tête-à-tête. Jake, who according to Afia slept in the raw, had slipped on a pair of sweat pants but hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Murphy wore a rumpled-T-shirt, but no pants, just his boxers. At one time he would’ve appreciated the beefcake on display, Jake had a fierce six-pack, but just now Rudy’s mind and heart were full of Jean-Pierre. He assumed the men hadn’t dressed for fear of waking their wives, but couldn’t imagine why this couldn’t wait until morning. “If this is about the prowlers …”
“It’s about Jean-Pierre,” Jake said.
“He’s fine,” Murphy added, before Rudy could think the worst. “In fact, he’s on his way.”
Rudy furrowed his brow. “Here?
“Seems Afia and Lulu weren’t the only two intent on arriving early,” Jake said as he moved into the room and sat on the edge of the brown leather club chair.
“The reason you haven’t been able to reach Legrand is because he’s been in transit to Vermont.” Murphy shut the office door and then crossed and settled on the matching ottoman. “Between three connecting flights and layovers, traveling time amounted to eleven and a half hours. Once he landed in Burlington, I assume he rented a car.”
“Provided he doesn’t take any wrong turns,” Jake said, “he should be here shortly.”
Rudy leaned back in his desk chair assimilating the news. What a relief! “How did you learn this? When?”
“Bogie called me a few minutes ago,” Murphy said. “He found a scribbled note in Legrand’s bedroom relaying his new itinerary.”
“What was your brother doing in JP’s apartment?” Rudy asked. “I thought he and Sofia were in Arizona.”
The stone-faced protection specialist rested his forearms on his knees, clasped his hands, and leaned forward. “There was an incident.” He glanced at Jake.
The P.I. ran a hand over his face and eyeballed Rudy. “Luc’s dead.”
Rudy sat in shock while Murphy stated specifics as relayed to him by Bogie. Luc Dupris, a former lover of Jean-Pierre’s, the man who’d invited him to LA thereby tweaking Rudy’s insecurities and tempting him to stray in a moment of jealous insanity, was dead. As he didn’t personally know the man, he didn’t experience true grief. He did however, regret that the man had suffered. Bleeding to death from a head wound. What a way to go. He blew out a tense breath. “So, Jean-Pierre doesn’t know?”
Jake shook his head no. “Listen. I know this Luc was a sore spot with you and JP. Maybe it would be better if I broke the news.”
“No. Thanks, Jake, but it should come from me.” He palmed his forehead. Wow. Talk about a helluva bomb.
“There’s a slim chance that it could be worse,” Murphy said.
Rudy and Jake spoke as one. “Worse?”
“I told you that the police declared Dupris’s death accidental. Bogie’s not so sure.” He went on to explain Sofia’s supposed run-in with two hostile cowboys and Luc’s last words.
Rudy traded looks with Jake, a bad feeling settling in his bones. “So, Bogie thinks the same men who tangled with Sofia killed Luc?”
Mu
rphy shrugged. “No, that’s Sofia’s take. Bogie doesn’t know what to think. So far he hasn’t been able to nail down one piece of hard evidence to support any of Sofia’s theories. All he has is her word and his gut feeling that she’s in danger.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Rudy said. Thank God Jean-Pierre hadn’t been home. Nausea—acid sharp—roiled in his stomach and dank sweat beaded on his brow. The man he loved could have been lying in the morgue tonight. He shifted in his seat. “Your brother should bring Sofia here so we can keep her safe.”
“Bogie will protect her,” Murphy said.
“That’s if she truly needs protection,” Jake added.
Rudy’s head spun as he swiveled around and signed off the Internet. Casper was the least of his troubles. “Sofia can’t remember when, where or why she tangled with those … cowboys?”
Murphy grunted. “Apparently, she blocked it out.”
“Selective amnesia,” the blond P.I. surmised. He glanced at Murphy. “You don’t want Lulu to know?”
“Until I have concrete information, I’d prefer that we kept this between ourselves.”
Rudy groaned. “Keeping secrets from loved ones, even when we only mean to protect them, usually backfires.” He shot Jake a meaningful glance. “Right?”
“Sorry. I tend to agree with Murphy on this. Why upset Lulu if this is simply an exaggeration of some kind on Sofia’s part?”
“I’m not saying nothing happened,” Murphy put in. “But whatever caused the amnesia could also be causing her to mind to play tricks. Bogie says she’s already cited a couple of instances reminiscent of a “Spy Girl” episode. She could be confusing fiction and fact.”
Rudy shifted in his seat. “But then, that means I can’t tell Jean-Pierre about Sofia’s suspicion that Luc may have been murdered.”
“Why plant that seed if it’s bogus?” Jake asked. “Why make it any rougher on JP?”
Rudy shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m getting suckered into another lie.”
