“No, it’s still there.” He dropped his hand to his side again as he turned to look at her. “I forgot about picking you up for dinner.”
Sasha closed the door. “Now there’s something every woman loves to hear,” she commented drolly. “That she’s forgettable.”
Sasha Pulaski might be many things, Tony thought, trying not to stare at the way the electric-blue dress she had on clung to the outline of her breasts, but forgettable was certainly not one of them.
He tried again. “The reason I forgot,” he told her, “was because there’s been another homicide.”
Every other thought flew from her mind, crowded out by horror as she looked at him. “At the hospital? When? Who?”
She was firing questions at him like a seasoned veteran at a target range. Taking a deep breathe he addressed the first one. “No, not at the hospital. At the Greater Anesthesiologists of New York’s office.”
That wasn’t good, she thought. She felt a chill had gripped her heart. She already had patients who wanted to know if they could deliver their baby at another hospital. People were getting leery of PM. “The killer’s spreading out his base?”
In response, Tony shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“But you just said—”
“The victim was a doctor,” he told her. “Dr. Tyler Harris.”
Sasha’s eyes widened in disbelief. This was becoming very, very weird. “Ty?”
“You knew him?” It was a rhetorical question, given the tone of her voice.
“Everyone knew him.” She couldn’t believe it. Ty, who liked being the center of every gathering. Ty, who was funny and gregarious. Murdered. It just didn’t seem possible. “He was one of those people who had a story for everything and was willing to share it at the drop of a hat.” A bittersweet smile twisted her lips. “They used to say that he didn’t need to bother with applying anesthesia, he could just talk the patient to sleep.” The nightmare was escalating. “When did it happen?”
“One of his associates found the body at five.” Tony looked around. Her apartment looked warm, homey, with just enough scattered around to give it a lived-in look. In contrast, his apartment was as personal as a bus depot. “He called the police and then the doctor’s wife. We found Mrs. Harris holding him when we arrived.”
Maybe it wasn’t the same person who had killed the people at PM. “He was still alive?”
Santini’s expression was grim as he said, “No.”
His meaning sank in. She looked at him in horror. “Oh God, that poor woman.”
Interest entered his eyes. “You were acquainted with her?”
She didn’t want him to misunderstand. “Only by reputation. Hers,” she emphasized. “Linda Harris is a very jealous, suspicious woman. She thought that every woman in the room was after her husband, that every woman was out to take him away from her.” Sasha’s words played back to her in her head. “I guess now she won’t have to worry about that.”
“Jealousy.” Santini said the word as if he was chewing on it. Sasha looked at him. “Ordinarily, that would be a motive for us to explore.”
Tyler Harris’s wife was a shrew, but she didn’t think that the woman was capable of murder. Still, she wondered about Santini’s reasoning. “But?”
“But,” and it was an all-important but, “Harris had one of those notes in his hand. Or on the floor next to him, actually.” That was where the note had been when he’d arrived on the scene. “The patrolman who was there first said that Mrs. Harris pulled the paper out of the doctor’s hand, thinking it was some kind of suicide note.”
Or love note, Sasha thought. That was probably what was running through the woman’s mind. “Any chance that she planted the note?”
He couldn’t help the weary smile that came to his lips. She was making noises like a police detective. “The note’s not a piece of common knowledge. We’ve kept that from the media.”
She knew how that worked. The police held back some small, telling piece of information that only the killer would know. “Smart.”
“Thanks.” He was enjoying this bit of conversation and reminded himself that he’d come here to apologize for not showing up at seven, and then he’d go home. He’d done the former, in a fashion. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite get himself to follow through on the latter. He didn’t want to go home to his studio apartment, to the emptiness. Not yet. “Any chance I might be able to get a cup of coffee?”
According to the rules of engagement set down by Rita Riley, her best friend in college, Sasha knew that she was supposed to be indignant at how easily she’d slipped his mind. In keeping with that, she should be showing him the door. But then again, last time she’d heard, Rita was on her way to divorce court for a second time.
Sasha smiled and nodded. “I think the odds are pretty favorable. Come with me.”
Turning on her heel, she led the way to the kitchen. The woman, Tony noted almost against his will as he followed her, looked almost as good going as she did coming.
Chapter 10
Tony sat down on the outermost stool and rested his hands on the counter. It wasn’t a kitchen that had room for a table, but it was a bright, cheery-looking space, even under artificial light. It seemed hard to imagine that creatures like serial killers and stalkers existed in the same world occupied by someone like Sasha Pulaski.
For a moment, there was no other sound than that of the coffeemaker, percolating. He watched Sasha stretch as she reached up into the cupboard for two mugs. There didn’t appear to be an ounce of excess fat on her. He wondered when she found time to work out, given her schedule.
Rousing himself, Tony focused on the reason he’d been late. The anesthesiologist no longer worked at Patience Memorial, yet he’d been killed. It seemed to him that everyone associated with the hospital was at risk.
“You know,” Tony finally began, measuring out his words slowly, “maybe you should go on vacation for a while.”
The mugs secured, she turned around and placed both on the counter beside the coffee machine. Amusement curved her lips. “Are you propositioning me, Detective, or trying to get rid of me?”
If her question surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Neither. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
She looked at him for a long moment. A warm feeling descended over her, wrapping her in its arms before dissolving again. She smiled at him.
“Thanks for the thought, but that’s just what we’re trying to avoid at PM—a mass exodus by the staff.” The last few weeks, especially after finding the orderly, had been hell. This newest development was just going to make things worse. But she had no desire to flee. Only a fierce desire to catch whoever was responsible for the killings. “It’s bad enough that the patients are getting jittery.”
Other than looking into whether any patients had lodged complaints against any of the victims, he hadn’t given the patients at the hospital much thought.
“Oh?”
Sasha nodded. Because the coffee was still brewing, she leaned forward over the counter, sharing a moment with him. “I’ve had some of mine ask if they could deliver their babies at another hospital.”
“This guy’s not killing patients,” he pointed out, “just staff members.”
“Still not a warm and toasty thing to contemplate.” Sasha searched his face for any additional clues. “You think it’s a man?”
He tended to think of all brutal crimes in terms of men having committed them. He supposed, in a way, there was a bit of the old-fashioned chauvinist left within him. The department shrink would have accused him of being sexist. “Most serial killers are.”
Sasha recalled one of the books her father had in his library. It was an encyclopedia of serial killers. All aspects of law enforcement had always fascinated her father. “But not all.”
“No,” he allowed, “not all.”
The coffee machine had settled down. Sasha took the pot and filled first his mug and then her own. With an econ
omy of movement, she set out a container of milk and placed the sugar bowl within his reach. Santini ignored both. He liked his coffee like his world—black.
She added enough milk into her coffee to make it turn into a light shade of chocolate. She took a sip before asking, “Have you eaten?” And then she flashed a smile that was just a tinge rueful. For a second, in light of the newest development, she’d almost forgotten. “No, of course you haven’t.” And he had the look of a hungry man about him, she thought. “I can throw something together for you.”
Tony shook his head, taking another long sip of the black liquid and letting it course through his veins. “You don’t have to bother.” It wasn’t meant so much as a protest as a dismissal. “Coffee’s fine.”
Her parents had always emphasized the importance of hospitality to her. Even when they had next to nothing, they always made it a point to share with anyone who came to their door. Her smile broadened. “No bother,” she assured him.
Another, more forceful protest rose to his lips, but died there for lack of conviction; he was hungry and the only thing in his refrigerator was a third of a loaf of bread. The last time he’d looked, the slices were tinged with green and growing greener.
Closing the refrigerator with her elbow, Sasha deposited two kinds of peppers, green and red, and a package of chicken onto the counter. She turned her attention to the crowded carousel of spices in the corner and began selecting containers.
“How do you feel about curried chicken?” she asked him, her voice echoing from inside the lower cabinet as she squatted there, locating the largest frying pan she had.
Her bounty in her hand, Sasha rose again and placed the pan on the largest burner when he didn’t answer. She slanted a glance in his direction.
“Never thought about it one way or another,” he told her with a shrug.
She put her own interpretation to his words. Taking a drop of oil, she jiggled the pan until the single drop coated the surface.
“Never had it?” was her conclusion.
She was good, he thought, then shook his head. “Not that I recall.”
Like a child facing the prospect of a new toy, she grinned. “Ah, a fresh palate. This should be fun.” Recruiting a heavy chopping block, she began dicing peppers with a steady rhythm he found almost hypnotic. She made quick work of the peppers and turned her attention to the chicken. “So, Detective,” she began cheerfully. “What’s your story?”
He thought they’d already covered that. But since she had given him coffee and was determined to feed him, he decided to humor her to an extent. “I just told you. There was another homicide and—”
Sasha looked up at him. The rest of the sentence disappeared. He lost his train of thought as he felt something stir inside him again. Damn it, he was overtired, he thought. Overtired and stimulated at the same time. Not a good combination, he told himself. Cops got sloppy when they were both. And he couldn’t afford to get sloppy. On or off the job.
“No,” Sasha countered firmly, shaking her head at what he was about to say. “Your story,” she emphasized. When he said nothing, she tried again. “What’s behind the badge, Santini?”
His eyes met hers when she turned to look at him. “Muscle and bone.”
It was, she thought, like playing chess. He blocked her every move. “You ask a lot of questions, but you never answer any.”
“Maybe because the answers don’t make a difference.” He didn’t welcome people into his life. There were no invitations issued. Not anymore.
Meaning his answers would be evasive. She didn’t want him to evade her. She wanted the truth.
“The answers always make a difference,” she told him, then paused as she studied his face. “Who are you, Detective Santini?”
“Just a guy trying to get to the bottom of things.”
He was defining himself by his work. But there was more to him than that. Much more.
“When you’re not trying to get to the bottom of things,” she insisted. “What makes you laugh?”
That was simple enough to answer. “I don’t laugh.” The last time he had, it was with Annie, over some silly thing she’d done.
Sasha stopped chopping. Her hand on her hip, she looked at him for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was filled with compassion. And understanding. Because she’d been there herself. “You need to change that, Detective Santini.”
Watching Sasha move around the tiny kitchen brought back memories. Memories that he’d thought he’d buried when Annie had been taken from him. But being here with this woman tonight after a long, hard day, sipping coffee and watching her prepare a meal, felt damn near normal.
When was the last time he’d felt normal? When had he felt like something other than a machine, going through the paces because he knew if he stopped he couldn’t go on? Couldn’t go on because he’d been to the other side, been allowed to glimpse what life could be like for him, and now he missed it like hell.
But that was for only him to know. Him and no one else. Not even a woman with hair the color of midnight and a smile that cut clear down to the bone.
“Maybe,” he said very slowly, toying with what was left in his cup, “for the space of the evening you could stop calling me Detective Santini.”
“Fine.” Pausing, she poured him a fresh cup, then continued working. “What would you like me to call you?”
“My given name’s Anthony,” he reminded her.
“Anthony,” she repeated with a nod, saying the name as if she was tasting it, one letter at a time. “Yes, I remember. Tony.” A smile seemed to vibrate around the name. “I’m Sasha.”
A small ring formed beneath the mug. Tony erased it with his thumb, then set the mug back on the counter. “I know.”
She hadn’t meant to suggest that he’d forgotten it. Sasha had no doubt that somewhere within the recesses of his memory, Detective Santini could access everything he’d ever come across.
“I meant, for tonight. You keep calling me Doctor.” They were both guilty of trying to keep their distance. She no longer wanted to. “Maybe we should both stop standing behind our titles.”
The moment seemed to stretch out forever. “Maybe,” he allowed.
He was agreeing, but Sasha heard the caution in his voice. Swiftly, she gathered up everything on the chopping block and deposited it into the frying pan. Turning the heat up, she stirred the peppers, chicken and onions together, then began adding the battalion of spices, one by one.
A smile feathered along the corners of her mouth. She slanted another look at him as she stirred. “Now tell me something personal.”
Maybe coming here was a bad idea after all. Something had drawn him here. The need to apologize for not calling wasn’t the real reason. He could have left a message on her answering machine if that were the case.
He’d wanted to see her. And now, he was paying the price. “What?”
She lowered the heat and covered the pan. “Well, for all intents, this is a date.” Saying the word felt strange. And yet, what else could she honestly call this? “We’ve known each other for what, six weeks now?” She didn’t wait for affirmation. She knew exactly how long she’d known Tony. “I think it’s time we shared something more than coffee.” Lifting the lid, she stirred once, then replaced it again. “So, tell me something personal.”
The coffee cup was empty. He debated taking a third mugful, then decided against it. “You’re a very attractive woman.”
He wasn’t going to get away that easily. “Something personal about you.”
“I’m not a very attractive woman,” he responded gamely.
Sasha laughed and shook her head. He was a challenge, she’d give him that.
“Okay, I’ll go first.” And then she sobered just a little, the way she always did when she thought about Adam and how quickly his life had been cut short. “My fiancé’s name was Adam and I thought I was going to die when he did. I almost did, inside.”
“What brought you a
round?”
“My parents and sisters.” If it hadn’t been for them, that dark place she’d slipped into would never have let her go. “Adam was my first and only real relationship. That night in the hospital parking structure, when I first saw Angela, it brought it all back to me.” She took a deep breath, realizing she’d gotten far too serious. “You have to find who’s doing this.”
There was no doubt in his mind how this would be resolved. “We will.”
The smile she flashed told him that she believed him. He would have thought an intelligent woman would have been more skeptical.
“Okay,” she said, stirring again. “Your turn.”
He didn’t want a turn. Didn’t want to bare his soul to anyone. He’d long since left behind the notion that confession was good for the soul—if he’d ever believed it in the first place.
“I didn’t agree to this game.”
She heard things in his voice, heard barriers being reinforced. Her heart went out to him.
“What are you afraid of, Tony?” she asked softly.
“Same thing you are.”
She turned down the heat beneath the frying pan even further, allowing the ingredients to simmer, before she turned all her attention to him.
“You’re afraid of feeling something again?” Before he could shut out her questions, she came around the counter to stand next to him. “That’s the only way we have of proving that we’re alive, Tony. Feeling.”
Feelings were highly overrated, he thought. “I’ll prove I’m alive by catching this bastard.”
“And then the next one? And the next one after that?” she guessed.
Now she understood, he thought. “Yes.”
He was running. Hiding from himself. Just as she had been, she thought. Even now, there was this urge to flee. But she knew she couldn’t give in to it. She had to stand up in order not to be dragged down. “When do you have time for you?”
Maybe he’d given her too much credit. He would have thought she would have caught on by now. “With any luck, I won’t.”
Her Lawman on Call Page 11
