Unfortunately, all that her rules got her was an empty social calendar and the feeling that she was somehow unworthy, even with her many accomplishments.
She went straight to the pay phone and punched in her pin number, calling the person she should have called when this first happened. Marty. Her assistant. Her friend. In her eyes, he was the perfect man. He’d make some guy really happy someday.
And apparently, that’s what he was up to at that moment. When the call went through, another man answered. Tipsy, buoyant, enthusiastic.
Joan hung up. Lately, Marty had been about as lucky as she had with men. Good for him for scoring. She didn’t want to intrude on that.
So, what now? Joan sat down in a plastic swivel chair, noting how stupid her sockless running shoes looked with her skirt. After the police arrived, she’d demanded to fill out the report immediately, hoping that the sooner they had a description, the sooner they could get the creep off the streets. The police complied, whisking her away to the station before she had a chance to change or even grab her purse.
And now, three hours later, after sitting with an artist and reviewing mug shots and telling her story a dozen times, she was stuck at a McDonalds without a ride, wearing these dumb shoes, afraid to go home.
Get tough, Joanie, she thought. If you don’t face it now, you’ll never want to go back.
Screwing up her courage, Joan removed herself from the chair and marched out to the street. It took her three shouts before a cab stopped.
Her sense of dread increased with every tick of the meter. When the cabbie finally pulled in front of her house and asked if this was the place, Joan didn’t know if she could move.
“Lady? You okay?”
“Hold on. I have to go in, get some money. No purse.”
“Meter’s running.”
“Be right back.”
She controlled her breathing, pushing it deep into her stomach, and got out of the taxi.
No burglar alarm. Dark house. Dead guard dog. She didn’t even have her keys. But the rear patio window was probably still open. That was in back, past Schnapps…
Joan followed the bushes around her home, moving quick and confident, refusing to look at her poor dog or the stake that was meant for her. The police, after checking out her house, had closed the patio door. An officer on her case had volunteered to hang around her house until she came home, and Joan kicked herself for refusing the offer. She figured she had Max, and the cop had been too good looking. Now, apprehension mounting, she wondered how she was going to get inside. Break her own window?
No need. The patio door was unlocked. Joan went into the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and found her purse on the floor where she’d dropped it. After digging out her wallet, she walked out the front door and paid the taxi driver. The cab turned around in her circular driveway, and Joan watched the tail lights disappear down the hill. She felt very alone.
Back to the house. The front door knob was covered with white powder. The police had determined this was the entry point, and had gone ahead and checked for prints even though she made it clear that the man wore gloves. Joan didn’t know if she should admire them for the effort, or be irritated that they didn’t believe her.
Once inside, Joan turned on her large screen television and changed the channel to CNN, grateful for the nonstop voices. She flipped on more lights, checked to make sure the doors and windows were all locked, and threw away her toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, and shampoo. Anything he might have touched. Then she emptied her underwear drawer into the washing machine, her silverware drawer into the dishwasher, and started each of them on the highest heat setting.
She had an urge to vacuum, to scrub the bathtub and drain the Jacuzzi, but exhaustion was getting the upper hand. Her last effort to cleanse the house was changing her sheets, and then she kicked off her gym shoes and collapsed onto the bed.
Joan was able to relax for almost a full minute before paranoia reared its head. She picked up the phone and found it still disconnected. Her cell was in her car. Sleep would be impossible unless there was a phone next to her. Joan got out of bed.
She was padding through the living room when she saw the front door open. The scream was out of her mouth before he got into the room.
“Hello, Joan. Miss me?”
Same goatee. Same black outfit. Same gloves. He had some kind of metal device in his right hand. Lock picks. Joan willed herself to move, to run, to attack—anything but remain planted there like a deer in headlights. She took off toward the kitchen and went straight for the knife rack. With a steak knife in each hand, she turned around to face her tormentor.
He was standing in the kitchen, regarding her calmly.
“I knew you’d be a fighter. Perhaps I should burn you at the stake rather than impale you on one.”
“Get away from me.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that, Joan.”
“What the hell did I ever do to you?” Joan’s voice came out steeped in desperation. She was close to cracking.
“To me? Nothing. The English may feel differently.”
The guy was off his nut. That was good. She dealt with crazy people all the time in the business. She could handle crazy.
Joan moved her left foot, widening her stance. She assumed a defensive position, each hand holding its knife in a death grip. If he took another step forward, she’d try an attack. Keep him talking, don’t telegraph it.
“You’re crazy.”
“I know about the tattoo. I know about the adoption. I know who your parents really are. Don’t you wonder how I know all of that?”
With an easy, deliberate move, he took a bottle and a rag out of his left pocket. Something to knock her out while he dropped her on that sharp piece of wood.
Not in this lifetime.
Joan lunged. The man was nimble, trained. He dropped to one knee and trapped her wrist in his armpit, then lifted up his forearm to block the other knife.
But Joan didn’t attack with the other knife. She went straight for the crotch, bringing her leg up and connecting hard. Her knee hit an athletic supporter. He closed his legs on her foot, trapping it. Joan dropped the knife in her pinned hand and grabbed his shirt. Then she let herself fall onto her back and flipped him over her head, her free leg planted on his chest.
The intruder released her wrist. Joan rolled onto all fours, still in attack mode. Before he could get up, she struck with the knife, aiming for the neck.
He saw the blow coming and moved to block it. The swing was deflected, but she still managed to bury the blade two inches into his shoulder. She released the knife and scampered for the front door.
“Joan? I really think you’re overreacting.”
Max, coming into the house.
“Max!” She ran right into him, yanking at his arm. “Come on!”
Max grabbed her, tried to hold her back. “You need to calm down.”
This was the wrong time for talk. They needed to get out of here.
“There’s a—”
That’s all she got out. The intruder had pulled the steak knife from his shoulder and flung himself at Max, plunging it into his back. Max dropped to his knees. Joan shoved the intruder, but he backhanded her across the forehead, sending her sprawling onto the driveway just a few feet away from Max’s Lexus. The car was running, the headlights on.
Phone, she thought. Call for help. She tugged the door open and slammed it closed, hitting the lock button. She looked around for Max’s cell. It wasn’t there.
“Dammit!” Joan looked out the window. The intruder was hunched over Max, working on him with the steak knife. She couldn’t tell if Max was dead or alive, but then she saw it; a feeble twitching in his hands.
Joan leaned on the horn. The intruder stopped his attack and stared. Joan opened the window. “Leave him alone!”
“Is this your boyfriend, Joan?” The intruder grinned. “Handsome devil. But I can fix that.”
He began to cut a
way at Max’s face.
Joan thought about hitting the gas, running into him, but it would kill Max too. She clenched her teeth. Fight or flight, Joanie? Fight or flight?
Joan DeVilliers got out of the car.
The intruder stared up and her, his eyes widening. He let go of Max’s hair and stepped over him.
“My, you are a brave one, aren’t you?”
Joan pushed aside the fear and slowed her breathing. She didn’t get to be a black belt taking a correspondence course. Joan could fight, and she could win. This guy was above her weight class, but she’d beaten men before. Joan planted her bare feet on the driveway and centered herself.
The man moved well, liquid and flowing. Like a snake, Joan thought. He was smiling and confident, but that could work to Joan’s advantage. So far, she’d been reacting out of fear. He was underestimating her. If she stayed focused, she’d have a chance.
Time slowed down, as it often did when she was fighting. Sound seemed to disappear, and her opponent became sharper, clearer. Instead of treating him as a threat, she mentally divided him into different strike points. Joan could break boards with her hands and feet. Bones weren’t much thicker.
He came in on her left, feinting with a hook and then round-housing with his right. Joan slipped the punch, spun, and landed a solid reverse kick in his face, dead center. She straightened her leg on impact, hitting him with all of her hundred and fifteen pounds.
It sent the intruder sprawling onto his back, his head bouncing on the asphalt, his nose a mashed tomato. Like many tournament fights, it was over in a heartbeat. Joan had knocked him out, cold.
For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. Her brain told her to finish it, go for the death blow that she’d practiced so often but always pulled short in matches. But could she? Could she actually kill an unconscious man?
Joan approached cautiously. His eyes were closed, and he looked more pathetic than threatening. She knelt on his chest, raising her fist, aiming for the neck…
And couldn’t do it.
A moan, from the doorway. Max. She got off her assailant and hurried to him. He was curled up in a fetal position, bleeding from several holes in his chest. His face looked like a lasagna. She turned his head to the side so the blood wouldn’t run down his throat, and then felt in his jacket pocket for his phone. Joan dialed 911 and considered what she should do with the intruder. Tie him up somehow?
It didn’t matter. When she looked down the driveway, the man was no longer there.
“Beverly Hills 911 Emergency, this is Mrs. Schmidtt.”
“My name is Joan DeVilliers. I need an ambulance and the police here as soon as possible. I’m at 1445 Hillcrest.”
“Can you explain what happened?”
“I was attacked.” Joan’s voice broke. “Again.”
The O’Hare Hyatt Regency was one of the larger hotels in the area, with over a thousand rooms. The eight-story building had been constructed in a U-shape, with parking all around it. Tom circled slowly, trying to find a space. Even the handicapped spots were full. He put the Mustang in the Courtesy Bus slot.
The lobby was buzzing. The majority of people milling about were white males over fifty, many sporting novelty T-Shirts with slogans like GET HOOKED ON LURES and KISS MY BASS. The duo made their way to Check-In and waited for the smiling concierge to notice them.
“Are you gentleman here for the convention?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Detective Mankowski, this is Detective Lewis.”
They held out their badges. The girl’s smile held. She was young, blonde, attractive. Upon noticing this, Roy sidled closer, becoming Alpha cop.
“What can we do for you, Detectives?”
“We need your help in a homicide investigation. We’re looking for a suspect believed to be registered here. He’s manning a table at the convention.”
“I can check to see if he’s registered. His name?”
“All we have is the first name. Bert.”
“That may be tough. We have over fifteen hundred guests currently registered, and they’re organized by last name.”
“Can you look them up by address? We believe he’s from Milwaukee.”
“I can try.” She pushed a few buttons on her computer. “Okay, here. We currently have a hundred and sixteen guests with a listed Milwaukee address.”
“Anyone named Bert?” Tom tried to crane his neck over the top of the computer to see the screen. “It might also be variations—Robert, Herbert, Albert, Norbert, Cuthbert, Dilbert…”
“Q*Bert.” Roy grinned. She batted her eyelashes at him. Tom had never seen a woman actually bat her eyelashes outside of television.
“It’ll take a moment, I’ll have to go through them name by name. Okay, here’s a Robert. Signed in as Bob, not Bert. Not a seller. Whoever bought table space in the convention center gets a special room rate. Let’s see. Michael. Jeffrey. George. Chris. John. Here’s one. Albert Blumberg. He has a booth and he did sign in as Bert.”
“Can we have his room number and table number?”
“He’s in room 714, booth number 18-A. I’ll give you a convention map.”
“Any others?”
She spent a minute going through the rest of the names. A fat guy in a shirt that read MASTER BAITER walked through the lobby, proclaiming the auction was about to begin. It thinned the crowd considerably.
“No others. He was the only one.”
They received a convention map and left the front desk, heading down a hallway to the Normandy Room, a huge warehouse-sized open space packed with people and display booths. Every direction they looked had tackle or men discussing tackle. A voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
“Next up, mint in box with papers, a Creek Chub Sucker #3900 in frog scale. Bidding starts at two hundred dollars.”
“Two Benjamins?” Roy sneered. “That’s why it’s called a Sucker.”
Tom consulted the map and led them through the ranks and files of booths, zigzagging to 18-A. The table was actually a glass display rack, showcasing several dozen brightly colored lures in neat rows. The man behind the display was thin, tall, in his fifties.
“Albert Blumberg?”
“No. He had to step away for a moment. I’m minding the store. You interested in one of his baits?”
Tom took a quick look in the case, noting all the prices were triple digits or higher. He doubted there was a layaway plan.
“Is he back in his room? We really should talk to him personally.”
“I think so. He was bringing down more lures to display.”
“He’s tall, right? Long hair? About my age?”
“Wrong guy. Bert is short, short hair, big nose. Could be around your age.”
Tom nudged Roy over. “You stay here, I’ll check the room. Call if he shows.”
“You do the same.”
Tom took out his cell phone, making sure it was on and set to vibrate. A ringing phone was not a wise thing for a cop to have on him in precarious situations. The loudspeaker thundered. “Sold, for seven hundred and fifty dollars!”
There was scattered applause. Roy shook his head.
“Seven-fifty. What kind of damn fish can you catch worth seven-fifty? I cast that out, better reel me in a Mercedes.”
Tom wove his way though the crowd and located an elevator, entering alongside two elderly men who were discussing worm burns. Tom exited on his floor and followed the hall to 714. He opened his jacket and stood to the left of the door before knocking.
“Hold on a second.”
The voice seemed to match the one on the phone. Tom tensed a notch. The door opened.
The man was average height, with wavy brown hair and a closely clipped mustache. He was a couple pounds overweight, which showed in his hound dog jowls. Familiar looking, but Tom couldn’t place him.
“Are you here about the Luny Frog? I can’t go any lower than fifteen hundred. Not a single penny.” He blinked. “Okay, fourteen hundred.”
“Ber
t Blumberg?”
“Yes, that’s me. The bait is in excellent-plus condition, and it’s the first production model, complete with egg sinker. That fourteen hundred is firm. Solid. In stone. I won’t go lower.” Bert smiled, unsure. “Fine, I’ll take thirteen.”
“I’m not here about the Luny Frog.”
“Are you sure? You look so familiar. Wait a sec… Thomas?”
Tom was surprised that the man knew his name. “Detective Tom Mankowski. How did…?”
“The resemblance is uncanny. You’re number five, right?”
The List - A Thriller Page 4
