by Diana Kirk
Andrea bristled. "Why do you say that? What have you got against women in police work?"
"Look, you gals are great in certain situations. No offense, but there isn't a male officer in the Division who wants one for a backup. Very few women can hold their own in a tight situation."
"Why is that?"
"When an officer needs a backup, he doesn't want a female who needs help herself. Most disturbances aren't handled well by women. They end up getting beaten or injured and we end up having to back up our backups. They're all right in some areas, but not on the street! However, if you don't mind me saying so, they are good under covers." He smiled at Andrea.
Her eyes flashed. All traces of sadness had turned to anger.
"If that was a feeble attempt at humor, it missed its mark. Although I suppose you're right. Women just don't have what it takes to be tough-guy heroes. If someone isn't big and strong like you, I guess they shouldn't be allowed to go into law enforcement."
"Hey, wait a min--"
She cut him off, her voice grew louder.
"Tell me, Sergeant, what about those wimpy five-foot cops I saw at the crime scene yesterday? They must keep their muscles somewhere else. Probably in their pants."
"What did I say?" He looked around nervously at the attention the other diners gave them.
"Think about it, Sergeant Krastowitcz. I'll bet you'd rather die than have a woman doctor work on you. They're not real intelligent. Somehow, they manage to sneak into college, then medical school. The quota system, probably. Right? But, they can't hold their own with men, can they? Did you have a bad experience with a woman, or women? Perhaps your mother?"
"What?"
"It's late, I really need to be getting home, now." Andrea rose from her seat. "Thanks for the dinner. It was, um, interesting."
She left the restaurant. She didn't look back to see if he followed. Something deep inside hoped he would, but the man was hopeless. He was so dense he didn't realize that what women police officers lacked in physical prowess, they made up with brain power. In that area he'd come up short.
Stunned, Krastowitcz sat, watching her leave. "Uh. . . wait. Please. You forgot your. . . purse." His voice trailed off, but it was too late, she was gone. He got up to follow, but thought better of it.
The broad was nuts. One of those fucking feminists. Maybe she drove her first husband nuts. Maybe she killed Grafton, after all. Probably asked her to get him a cup of coffee and she did him in.
Reality broke through. Once again, he hadn't triumphed with a woman. Why couldn't he keep his big mouth shut? Especially since she'd bared her soul to him.
God, he hated the nineties. He loved the way women used to be, soft and tender. He was tired of self-sufficient women. If they were, then why would they ever need a man? He was a man's man, by God! And, to hell with her.
Krastowitcz got up and fumbled with her purse. He didn't quite know what to do, so he tucked it under his arm, paid the check, and hurried out. Earlier, he'd hoped there might be the possibility of forming some type of relationship, maybe some-thing deeper. Not anymore. That broad's pussy was probably frozen shut, anyway.
Once inside his car, he took the long way home by way of Grafton's apartment. He glanced up at the darkening sky where the full moon hung like a swollen breast, its reflection undulating on the hood of his car. Why, at this moment in time, did he have to think of breasts?
Slowly his anger subsided. Maybe he might have been a bit insensitive. After all, she was a career woman, a physician at Dorlynd, and probably was insulted by his comment about women cops.
He hadn't really said anything that wasn't true in his book. He was as honest as he knew how to be and if he planned to get to know someone, they needed to know as much about him. And women didn't belong in the police force.
What was wrong with separating the sexes in certain jobs? After all, they had separate bathrooms, didn't they? As far as he was concerned, if women had their way, all the johns would be unisex. Hell, there'd be all types of weird fucking contraptions. He could just see Doctor Pearson putting her lipstick on while he was standing next to her pissing in the urinal. What a laugh.
"Never!" he said to himself. He'd never let a woman steal his manhood, not in his lifetime.
ANDREA STORMED out of the restaurant and into the hot, muggy air. Slowly, reality set in. She shouldn't walk in the down-town riverfront district at eleven o'clock at night.
She reached for her purse.
Gone.
Back at the restaurant. She turned back. No. Krastowitcz would get it. He was a cop. He didn't miss things like that. She'd get it from him tomorrow.
Keys! Her keys were in her purse. Now, she had to find him and ask him for her purse.
Sticky air surrounded her. Where did it come from? Humidity always made her asthma worse. What if she had an attack? Her inhaler was back there in her purse, along with her keys. She had no choice but to swallow her pride and find him. She looked around for a cab.
Nothing.
She could walk back toward the Old Market area, find a cab there. It was only a couple of blocks away. Her footsteps echoed on the pavement.
What a fix she was in. She looked up at the moon. Like an evil eye, it watched her, its pupil hooded by an ancient cataract.
No. Those were clouds. Fear-bumps covered her arms and, even in the July heat, she shivered.
All alone!
Salty beads of nervous sweat formed above her lip and her head throbbed. She had to calm down. Fear alone could bring on an attack. She hurried toward the light. The choking anger had finally subsided leaving a residue of fatigue and resignation to envelope her.
She stopped and turned around.
Had she imagined a man standing at the corner smoking? Must have. She looked around.
Nobody.
A snake-like wisp of smoke curled upward toward the flickering street light on the shadowy street. The forked tongue licked at the insects dancing around the lamp's glow.
Someone hid in the darkness. Someone who smoked.
She turned around and hurried back to the Old Market. Each foot clicked on the pavement. She heard, or thought she did, the faintest delay.
Another click. Someone following? Only off by a second, but she was sure of it now. Her heart pounded. Familiar symptoms of an acute attack surrounded her.
Asthma. Soon her breath would be gone. She would collapse. An assailant didn't even have to touch her. She'd slowly asphyxiate.
She looked back into the blackness that cloaked the area. Not so much as a star existed to light her way. Even the eyeless moon hid from her now. Did she see the faint glow of his cigarette?
Or was it imagination?
Her breath shortened; her steps quickened. The clicking was faster, its rhythm broken, but, now, she heard it clearly.
Someone was following her. The footfalls grew louder.
Gasping for breath and control, she stopped, and looked around.
The clicking stopped.
Murphy's Pub loomed two blocks away. There was only one thing she could do. Run for it--right down the middle of the street. But how far she would get before she passed out? She stood frozen, waiting, considering.
The steps began again. This time without her. He was coming.
No way would she let him take her without a fight. She'd go down swinging. Inertia surged into action. Her lungs burned. She forced the night's humidity into their drowning sacs and jumped into the street running toward Murphy's.
Instinctively, she clawed at her neck. Now, the burning was in her brain. How long could she last without oxygen?
As she crossed the street in front of the pub, a car stopped directly in her path, blocking her escape. Her gaze darted back and forth, searching for an alternate route.
Back?
No. He was back there!
The door swung open.
A scream bubbled in the back of her throat, but her encroaching asthma attack kept it to a keening wail.
. . . ACCORDING TO THE LAW OF MEDICINE, BUT TO NO OTHERS. . . .
The car door blocked her escape. Andrea's labored heart stopped. Krastowitcz got out, tossed her purse at her, and grabbed her arm. "Get in."
Terror turned to initial relief. Then embarrassment. After her tough little restaurant speech, she'd panicked, and had to be rescued by the big cop.
She rifled through her purse, found her inhaler, and immediately took two puffs. One of these times it wouldn't be there and she'd be history. Anger kindled inside, first at herself. The responsible physician acting like a stupid school girl. Secondary flames singed Krastowitcz for having this effect on her.
When she finally got her breath, she turned to him. "Just what do you think you're--?"
Krastowitcz shoved her into the passenger seat. "I said, get in! The streets are dangerous at night, doc. What're you trying to prove? That you can be mugged or raped as easily as the next person?"
His words sapped her fury, mostly because he was right.
"I'm sorry, Gary," she said breathlessly, staring sheepishly at her inhaler. "Maybe I over-reacted at the restaurant, but I get so damned sick and tired of the way men talk about women."
"Look Andrea, I don't want your back up again, but I was just telling you the way cops feel. I wasn't saying anything against women or their minds, just their physical strength. It's not their fault, it's just the way God made them."
"Okay, okay, you've made your point, so drop it." Her breathing slowly returned to normal. She stared out the car window, searching the shadows. "I think I was followed back there. I heard steps, but I didn't see anything. The steps kept getting louder, closer--" She shivered at the memory and the fear.
Krastowitcz slowed the car and slid his arm around her. His heat made her shiver more.
"Probably followed. There are a lot of transients around the Old Market area. The sight of a pretty woman alone on the streets at night probably made more than a few of them take their faces off the bottle."
"I'm sorry. I--"
"Look, I don't want to lecture, but you just can't go around thinking nothing's going to happen. Once you let your guard down, it does." His voice rasped with a sour edge. "I guess I've seen too much," he continued. "But what happens to women who ignore danger makes me puke. It's such a waste. Especially when a few precautions can mean the difference between life and death." He stopped abruptly, an embarrassed look on his face. "I guess I'm on my soap box, again. I'm sorry."
"No, this time I'm the one who should be sorry," she said. "I've got to learn when to quit." Adrenaline still pumped through her veins. The fight or flight syndrome. "I'm so wide awake, I'll never get to sleep tonight."
"Want to take advantage of your insomnia?"
"How?"
"Take a trip to Grafton's apartment and see what we can find? Since you knew his habits, you'll be a big help. And you can fill me in on what he was really like."
The grisly scene of the last time she'd seen Milton replayed in her head. Andrea hesitated. Then again, she was wide-eyed and sleep wouldn't come until the terror wore off. Someone had been following her. Of that she was certain.
But why?
What did he want?
Did he want to kill her, too? If that was the case, she was better off with the cop. Maybe they could find something of value.
Andrea glanced at Krastowitcz. Engrossed in his driving, he was oblivious to her. His chiseled jaw clenched firmly, he seemed stubborn and opinionated. The guy wasn't really so bad, a bit rough around the edges, but there was something. . .. Maybe it was the way his thick black hair curled around his ears, or the way he'd shown up at just the right time.
"Okay," she said. "I'll help, if I can. I won't get any sleep at home." In the safety of Krastowitcz' presence, her fear gave way to fatigue. She leaned back into the soft vinyl seat and closed her eyes.
DAMN! HE'D waited in the drenching Omaha heat for hours, in the heat, aching for her to leave the restaurant.
That bitch. Did she know anything?
His hand shook. He'd been so close. He almost had her. Almost. But he hadn't dared any closer. What was she up to, now? She was always nosing around where she didn't belong. That guy. He'd seen him around. Why'd he have to show up?
He'd have to leave her alone, sometime. That's when he'd make his move.
Did she have the journal?
She was guilty of something. She had to be. And he was going to find out exactly what. Milton always told her every-thing. Everything in that twisted mind of his. Had he taken pictures of her, too?
She'd kept glancing back, trying to discern him in the shadows, but she couldn't see; he was too far hidden in the darkness. The cigarette had been a nice touch. No one knew he smoked.
He knew that scared her from the way she sucked on her inhaler. Maybe he could frighten her more, get close enough to terrorize her, like Milton had been.
Then, maybe he'd hurt her, just a little. Then she'd come up with that journal.
APPROACHING TRENTON'S apartment, an unusual, nervous tremor skated up Suzanne's spine. She knocked and the door opened into a candle-lit room filled with large pillows strewn about the floor.
"Hey, Suzanne, come on in," Trenton said.
The delicious scent of Polo filled her nostrils and she brushed past him. Could she wait until after dinner to bury her face in his neck? "Hope I'm not late."
"Nope, just opening the wine." Trenton's fingers grazed her bare arm, inviting her in. Suzanne sensed his eyes following her. Appraising her skin-tight electric blue dress, he smiled. "Wear that just for me?"
"No one else."
"Sit down, dinner's almost ready."
Suzanne couldn't believe her luck. A gorgeous guy who cooked, too. Trenton served her like she was a queen. A shiver snaked its way down her spine, resting near her groin. She could get involved with this man too easily.
"Mmmm," she said between bites. "What is this?"
"My mama's special stuffed manicotti with Venetian sauce, a family specialty handed down from generation to generation."
"Sure."
Suzanne figured he had the meal sent in, probably Trentino's, but she wasn't going to argue. If he really could cook, he was the catch of the century.
"So, tell me, what's been going on at Dorlynd since yesterday?" He poured her a glass of Mondavi White Zinfandel.
The pale-pink liquid tickled her tongue. This was just the beginning of a very interesting evening. She had to appear composed, not too eager. Play hard to get, for once.
"Everyone's in a turmoil, Trent. Rumors are rampant. Every-one's scared there's a maniac loose in the hospital. I sure hope not, cause I'd hate to meet up with him. Say, this manicotti is great."
"Here, have some more sauce. It's the sauce that makes it."
Trent ladled the delicate sauce over a finger of manicotti.
"Please, no more. I'm absolutely stuffed. I can hardly breathe in this dress, now. I don't want to be too full to enjoy dessert." Suzanne hoped he'd be the dessert. "All the chairmen want a meeting with the Dean. They're squirming and want him to provide protection. Hospital talk is that it's a disgruntled medical student. They're going to revolt and take over Dorlynd." She laughed at her joke. The look on Trent's face said he was dead serious. "You believed me? Ha!"
"You really are a tease." Trent took her hand in his and turned it, palm up.
"I don't know. This is the closest I've been to murder. Pretty uncomfortable, except for meeting the police." She gave him her most sensuous smile.
"You need to commit some crimes. That way you can get more involved with the law."
"No offense, but you're the closest thing to a crime I care to get involved with," she said. She licked the rim of her wine glass, savoring the drops of rich zinfandel.
"And what crime do you associate me with?" Trent leaned forward and brought her palm up to his lips.
Smiling, Suzanne stared at him, slowly dipping her tongue into h
er wine. His lips were both cool and hot against her fevered skin. Electricity coursed up her arm and wrapped itself around her spine. She straightened and he looked embarrassed.
"I'll clear this mess, then we can listen to music."
Trent stood and reached for her plate. Instinctively, she rose to collect the dishes and they collided softly. Trent reached out for her arm to steady her. His touch sent currents of electricity zinging through her. She trembled and leaned against him. As if he read her mind, he slid his hand up her arm and cupped her head to bring her lips toward his.
His mouth was alive and searched relentlessly for the invitation to share her inner warmth.
"Let's do dishes later."
His husky voice wrapped a cocoon of desire around Suzanne. He grabbed the wine and led her toward the sofa. She didn't need any more wine. She'd known from the moment they'd met that she wanted this man, that this was inevitable. She probably should play hard to get, but she'd controlled herself as long as she cared to tonight. A cop could get any woman he wanted. She'd heard about uniform groupies. The thrill of constantly facing death made such men larger than life. Was it the uniform or the wild-man inside that drove women into their beds? She couldn't wait to find out.
MILTON GRAFTON had lived two blocks from Dorlynd in an apartment complex filled with faculty members, students, and administrators. The elevator seemed to crawl up the eleven stories of steel and glass. Krastowitcz slipped the key into the lock and Andrea wondered what they would find. An ugly sensation of guilt intruded, hinging on the act of unfolding the intimate secrets of a once living human being, now no longer in existence. But his essence still existed, if only for as long as they remained in his room. Soon, strangers would clear everything away and Milton would only be a memory, growing more distant over time.
Andrea half-expected him to come walking out of the bath-room talking and bouncing from subject to subject as he zipped.
"Andrea, I think we're getting close. I've got a few tests on the serum and maybe we'll have news for Hardwyn, and a big fat check. It's the Nobel for this one. The only thing Hardwyn ever understands is money. Forget saving humanity. Let's journal today's notes and then we'll go."
