by Cassie Miles
"Not if their client plans to hurt somebody," Jake said. "I know that much."
"But I doubt a murderer would tell the details of his plot," Ted said. "If this guy is anything like the Fisherman, he's clever."
"Very true." O'Hara sat on the arm of the sofa nearest Ted. "And why do you think he's fixated on Blair?"
"That's obvious. The Fisherman probably meant to kill her before. Then she had the accident, and it wasn't viable to grab her. She's unfinished business."
David felt Blair stiffen beside him. She said, "But he didn't kill me. Last night he could have drowned me in the swimming pool. But he didn't."
O'Hara leaned toward Ted. "Why do you think he did that?"
"Beats me."
"David?" O'Hara turned to him. "Got any theories?"
The encouraging light in his eyes and the modulation of his voice reminded David of his own interview techniques: let the subject keep talking. Never contradict. Make him think he's important, that his opinion counts. Hope that he spills something incriminating.
Now David understood what was happening. O'Hara wasn't really looking for theories; he was subtly interrogating them. Were they suspects? He and Ted and lake? He phrased his suspicion in a theory. "If this is a copycat, he could be someone intimately familiar with the details of the earlier crimes. Like somebody who was a reporter at the time."
O'Hara locked gazes with him. "Continue."
"It might even be a cop," David said.
Weathers glanced up sharply. "Not a cop."
But he could be. The Fisherman could be Kevin MacKay or Justin Hunter. Or any of the men in this room. David didn't have any answers.
He knew only one thing for sure. He needed to get Blair out of harm's way as soon as possible.
Hours later, with everyone gone and the town house calmed down, Blair cleaned up the dinner dishes. She had missed her daily swim, but it was her choice to forgo the exercise. She wasn't quite brave enough to go back in the water. Nor did she want to add any more weight to David's load.
He seemed to have recovered his usual equilibrium, but it was hard to tell for sure. He'd spent most of his time on the telephone, hunched over his desk. He was arranging something but wouldn't tell her his plans. "Not until I'm sure I can pull this off."
"Does this plan include getting out of town?"
He'd smiled. "Definitely."
She liked the idea. A vacation sounded fantastic. It had been too long since she'd gone away, except for the occasional visit to her parents in Tucson. Maybe they'd take a lovely trip to Maui? Blair frowned to herself. She wasn't up for tanning and preferred to keep her scars covered. How about Maine? She and David could take long walks on windswept beaches.
Her fantasies of a getaway caused a slight twinge of regret. It didn't seem right to abandon their investigation. On the other hand, she wasn't opposed to a strategic retreat. If she wasn't within range of the Fisherman, she wouldn't be a victim.
But someone else would die. Another innocent woman.
Though it didn't seem as though she and David were making progress, they had to keep trying. They couldn't turn their backs and walk away.
David came into the kitchen with the mobile phone. "You didn't have to clean up," he said. "I'd have helped."
"Or called your brilliant cleaning lady." She tossed down the dishrag. "You can finish up."
He held out the phone toward her. "This call's for you."
How odd. Nobody knew she was staying here, except for her parents who she warned in case they called her condo and found her gone. "Hello?"
"It's Reinholdt."
Dr. Reinholdt from the medical examiner's office? "It's after eight o'clock. Working late?"
"We're under a lot of pressure here, investigating the Fisherman killing."
"You mean the copycat?" she asked.
"That's our problem," he said. "Everybody wants a definitive answer. Was Pamela Comforti killed by the same person who committed the other murders?"
She didn't envy his dilemma. Technically, a medical examiner wasn't supposed to make those sorts of judgments. Their job was to provide the facts and let the detectives sort out the conclusions. "There was one major difference," she said. "That odd-shaped circle on the abdomen."
"Right," he said. "And there's her age. Pamela Comforti was at least ten years older than any of the other victims."
An important variation. Serial killers generally fixated on the same general type of victim. "However," she said, "from what I could see, she was in excellent physical condition. Her hair was red, not gray."
"You see my problem," Reinholdt muttered. "I can't say that this was the same guy. Or somebody else."
"Did you have a specific question for me?"
"Right," he said. "The other vics were gagged. This one had tape over her mouth."
"Actually, there was one other with duct tape. I'm sure I noted it at the time of the autopsy."
"Let me check."
Through the phone, she heard him shuffling papers. The sound brought back memories of Dr. Reinholdt's big, cluttered desktop with files spilling in all directions. Behind him in the medical examiner's office was a wall of bookcases, also messy, and plastic models of the human heart and brain. In the corner hung a life-size plastic skeleton that the staff decorated for seasonal occasions. "How's Mister Bones?"
"Since it's almost summer, he's wearing sunglasses and baggy shorts."
Blair grinned as she strolled away from the kitchen to the living room. "Mister Bones always was fashionable."
"Not really. The shorts are neon pink and green. I wish I could convince you to come back here and help us monitor his style."
"Me, too."
"Anytime you say the word, Blair. We've got a place for you."
A pleasant warmth spread through her. It was nice to be wanted. "Thanks."
"Aha, here it is," he said. "Residue of masking tape on the third victim. Damnation! I thought I might have another clue."
"Is there anything else I can do to help?" she asked.
"I'd love to have you come down here and review our autopsy. You might pick up something we missed."
"I doubt that," she said. Reinholdt and his staff were thorough and capable. "But I promise to stop by more often."
"Listen, Blair." His tone held a chiding note. "I heard about the attack on yqu. And I also heard that you refuse to have a police bodyguard."
"Don't worry. I'm fine. In fact, I'm thinking about leaving town for a few days."
"Excellent plan! You take off and forget all about this stuff."
They said their good-nights, and she disconnected the call. She didn't want to leave the investigation. She thought of Reinholdt working late in his office and O'Hara with his far-fetched scheme of speculating on the crime and Weathers struggling with the police evidence. She belonged in that world.
As David joined her in the living room, she said, "About this trip—"
"It's all set up. We leave tomorrow morning."
Blair wasn't sure she liked the way he'd taken charge without consulting her. If he'd purchased plane tickets to Maui, he might have to cancel. "I don't want to quit. We should keep investigating."
"We will be," he said. "We're driving south to Canon City, home of the maximum security penitentiary. I've arranged for us to talk to Eddy Adderly."
The Fisherman himself.
Chapter Twelve
Perfect! Blair fell back on the sofa and laughed out loud. A vacation with David didn't mean an idyllic trip to Maui or the Bahamas or even the windswept shores of Maine. In a stroke of genius, he'd managed to combine the need to get out of town with continuing their investigation. "David, you're fantastic."
"So, you'll go?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"I'm glad you're pleased." He eyed her curiously. "Most women don't burst into laughter when faced with the prospect of visiting a maximum security prison to meet a serial killer."
"You should know by now that I'm..." She puzzl
ed for a moment, trying to come up with exactly the right word. "I guess I could say that I'm unique."
"I've noticed," he said dryly.
Her uniqueness wasn't exactly a plus. When she was growing up, her mother often disapproved of her behavior. "Mom always wanted me to fit in, to be more ladylike. She'd say, 'Blair, dear, quiet down.' 'Blair, dear, nobody likes a pushy girl. A pushy girl will never be prom queen.'"
Instead of joining her on the sofa, David sat in the chair beside her, keeping a buffer between them. His long legs stretched out in front of him. "Were you?"
"Was I what?"
"Prom queen?"
"Definitely not. But I did have a date with the captain of the lacrosse team. I wore a strapless red dress and a white orchid corsage."
"Pushy girl makes good," he said. "That must have made your mom happy."
"Not really."
With a sigh she leaned back against the sofa pillows. Blair knew she got away with her smart-aleck attitude because she was also fairly attractive. It seemed cocky to say so, but facts were facts. Her features were proportionally well balanced, and her anatomy was sound. Simple as that. It wasn't a gift she asked for and had never fully appreciated until after her accident when she was in a wheelchair with Frankenstein pins in her leg or hobbling around' on crutches with people staring at her for all the wrong reasons.
She missed being pretty. Maybe, in her heart of hearts, she yearned for the very things her mother had planned for her: a home with a white picket fence, children and a loving spouse.
"Tell me more," David said.
"Too boring. High school was something I got through, not especially remarkable. I didn't really come alive until med school and interning."
"Why?"
"The challenge. I like working hard."
"As a medical examiner," he said.
"An occupation that makes my mother want to scream. She'd say, 'Blair, dear, you could be a pediatrician.' 'Blair, dear, even a psychiatrist.'"
"But that's not you."
"Afraid not." She was happiest when she was up to her elbows in an autopsy, searching for clues, finding the key that would unravel a crime. "I've been thinking that I might try to go back to work."
David's blue eyes shone with quiet approval. "Good for you."
"Obviously, they're shorthanded at the Coroner's Office if Dr. Reinholdt has to stay this late. I could probably help out."
For the first time in ages, she had a positive feeling about returning to her profession in spite of all the reasons why she shouldn't—the lack of stamina, the shaky wrist, the headaches.
Could she dismiss those physical symptoms? They hadn't suddenly disappeared. She held up her right hand and studied it. Rotating the wrist from side to side, she felt a strain. Her fingers weren't shaking but they would. If she thought about any of her pains, they would return. "I might be making a mistake."
"You can do whatever you put your mind to," he said. "I've always known that about you."
She appreciated his sentiment but couldn't quite accept it. "How have you always known?"
"Remember, Blair, I was with you after the accident. I saw the surgeries you went through. I saw you at physical therapy, sweating up one T-shirt after another."
"Thank you for that lovely image."
"Lovely to me," he said. "You didn't quit."
"But I wasn't one hundred percent. And I never will be." And for five long years she'd refused to face that fact. She'd cut back on her lifestyle and managed to scrape by on disability insurance and her dwindling savings. She hid out in her condo with the shades drawn, pretending that daily swims and workouts on her exercise bike were enough of a life for her. "Maybe seventy percent is enough."
"You're more than enough." A half smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "You're plenty woman to handle anything."
His calm support touched her. Within his strong lean body was a core of strength and sincerity that stirred her blood. He made her believe she could do anything.
"Determination," he said. "That's what makes you unique."
A gush of affection flooded through her. She wanted to bolt from the couch, throw herself on top of him and kiss him so hard that his teeth rattled. The only thing holding her back was the memory of last night's panic attack. It wasn't fair to David if she started something she couldn't finish. Maybe tomorrow.
She cleared her throat. "When we go to Canon City, let's get one room instead of two."
"I'll make the reservations."
When he stood and headed toward his office, she wanted to grab him and hold on. But making love tonight would be...too soon. She couldn't stand it if they finally got into bed together and it wasn't perfect. Better to go slow. Better to wait.
David booked them a suite in a Canon City motel with two important features: a two-person whirlpool tub in the room and a huge swimming pool in the center courtyard.
While he was checking in, Blair disappeared.
He found her in the courtyard, standing near the edge of the pool and staring down into the cool, turquoise waters.
Carrying both their overnight bags and his laptop, he came up beside her.
"I want to swim," she said.
"I suggest you put on your bathing suit first."
"Do we have time?" she asked. "Is there anything else we need to do today?"
"Our meeting with Eddy Adderly isn't until tomorrow afternoon. Today, we relax."
She took her bag from his hand. "First, we swim."
He led the way to the elevator and down the hall to their room. Since David's regular occupation meant he was on the road more often than not, he was an expert when it came to motel rooms. This corner suite on the second floor was better than he expected for a small town. The bedroom was separate from a decent-size living area with a stocked refrigerator, table and chairs, and a desk with a hook-up for his computer. Opposite the cabinet that held the television was a huge, oblong Jacuzzi whirlpool tub, beige with gold faucets. A little tacky, but not bad.
Blair was less judgmental. "I love this! We can bubble around in our own private hot tub while we're watching the tube."
Bubbling around together sounded good to him. "Should we start with the Jacuzzi?"
"Swimming first."
Water sports had never been his favorite thing. Though he'd always been athletic, he gravitated toward skiing and team sports, many of which he covered when he worked at The Post as a sports reporter. Of course, he knew how to swim. He just wasn't fond of it. He hated being cold.
Without unpacking the rest of his clothes, he slipped into his trunks. As soon as the air-conditioning hit his arms and legs, he was chilly. He shivered. The only good thing about swimming was that he'd get to see Blair in that sexy blue swimsuit.
Unfortunately, when she came out of the bathroom, she already had her long terry cloth robe cinched tightly at her waist. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds, but her smile seemed forced.
"I'm a little nervous," she said. "Getting attacked in the pool was traumatic. I'm not sure how I'll feel about getting into the water again."
This small flash of vulnerability was endearing. "We'll take it slow," he promised.
"No way." She tossed her head, and her short brown hair ruffled. "One of the best things about swimming is the rash when you dive in, and the water swirls around you."
"The cold water," he said. David preferred wading, allowing his body to gradually accustom itself to the temperature. "I've never been the kind of person who plunged in."
"We'll see about that."
He grabbed one of the motel robes from the bathroom and followed her down the carpeted hallway to center courtyard. The vaulted ceiling rose four stories above the pool area, which was separated by a half wall of planters and shiny, green foliage. There were only three other people in the pool, two kids splashing around in the shallow end and another man doing laps.
Blair paused at the deep end. Her voice was a whisper. "I was so scared when the lights went out. The w
ater made me feel disoriented. I couldn't tell where he was."
He grasped her hand and squeezed. "It'll never happen again."
"I'm glad you're with me, David."
She tilted her head up. Her luminous eyes searched his face for encouragement that he was glad to give. At that moment he would have done anything for her. "I'm glad, too."
"Dive in with me."
He winced. "Without even sticking my toe in the water?"
"Please, David." She slipped the robe off her shoulders. "If I'm scared, you'll be right beside me."
He nodded, wishing she'd asked for something less difficult. Like fighting off twenty thugs. Or battling a killer anaconda.
"We dive on three," she said. "One. Two..." Her robe was off, arms arched above her head. "Three."
Her entry into the water was smooth and splashless. He threw his robe toward hers and belly flopped. Cold! Very cold! His entire body screamed with shock. Freezing water blasted his face, his chest, his entire body. He clawed to the surface with a gasp.
She bobbed a few feet away from him. "It's nice. Not that chilly."
"Ice water," he sputtered.
"I'm so glad we're doing this. I love swimming. It's so sensual."
"If you're a polar bear."
While he frantically trod water, she rolled to her back. Her arm lifted in a graceful stroke. God, she was beautiful. She looked like a magical water sprite.
He lumbered along beside her, taking choppy grabs at the water and kicking hard. His ability to float was less than zero. Every part of his body conspired to sink, which meant he had to work twice as hard to swim. Probably a good thing. The exertion would warm him up.
After two laps he decided he might survive.
After four laps, he was bored. Swimming back and forth didn't hold his interest. In other repetitive exercise, like jogging, you at least had a change of scenery.
At the deep end, she caught hold of the side. She lifted both arms above her head like a dancer about to perform a twirl. With a smile, she slipped below the rippling turquoise waters. When she returned to the surface, liquid sluiced from her shoulders, dripping like diamonds. With her hair slicked back, he could appreciate the natural beauty of her features. Delicately arched eyebrows. High cheekbones. "Come down with me, David. Keep your eyes open."
