by Mary McBride
Maggie dropped them off at the big house on Westbury Boulevard. She was going on to the tow lot downtown to retrieve Sara Campbell’s car and keys. Once the redhead was out of the car and standing on her own sidewalk, she seemed to relax a little. When Joe asked her if she had a spare house key, it was the first time he’d heard her laugh. A rich alto with husky undertones. Just like her voice.
“A spare, Lieutenant? I have a spare, an auxiliary spare, a son of spare and a few more. Can you tell I don’t like to be locked out of my house?”
The one she came up with wasn’t all that well hidden, in his estimation, in a dead-giveaway wrought-iron turtle by the front door. When he snickered that no thief would ever think to look there, she started looking so distressed that Joe immediately regretted his remark, and added, “Hey, what self-respecting thief would use the front door anyway?”
He followed her into a two-story marble and gilt foyer, and he must have sucked in his breath or given some other indication that it reminded him of an art museum or the Rotunda of the Capitol in D.C. because Sara Campbell immediately said, “It’s a little gaudy, isn’t it? I’ve pretty much kept to the back of the house ever since my parents died last winter.” She shrugged and offered him the smallest of smiles. “Come on. Follow me.”
He did, down a long, polished, paneled hallway along which the cream-colored carpet sank a good two inches under his feet, and Joe became uncharacteristically concerned about the wet soles of his boots and the jeans and flannel shirt he’d worn since yesterday morning. Money was one thing. Edie’s family had had money. But this much wealth was, well, almost institutional. Who’d ever think there was such profit in candy bars and all-day suckers?
“This is nice,” he said, feeling he had to say something. The place kind of demanded it.
“This is nicer.” Sara turned right, shrugged off her trench coat and tossed that along with her handbag onto an enormous leather couch. “God, it’s good to be home,” she said with a long, deep sigh.
It was nicer, Joe thought as he looked around. While the rest of the house fairly screamed money and lots of it, this room whispered total comfort from its booklined walls to its big brick fireplace and dark peg-and-plank floors. The shutters on the windows were the same dark wood. Sara turned on a lamp, and its mellow light further burnished all the rich patinas inside the cozy space.
“Have a seat, Lieutenant Decker.” She gestured toward a muted plaid club chair that looked big enough for two. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee. Would you like some? Or some tea?”
There was a note of confidence in her voice that he hadn’t heard before either at the hospital or in the car. All the frown lines on her forehead had smoothed out, and her tense mouth had relaxed to the point where it appeared almost sensual. So sensual Joe had to pull his gaze away.
“Coffee would be nice, thanks.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.” She shivered slightly and rubbed her upper arms. “It’s a little chilly in here. If you’d like to light a fire, the matches are just to the right of the hearth.”
After the kindling crackled and the pine logs began to blaze, Joe leaned back in the chair, staring into the flames, trying not to remember other winters, other fires, especially ones in the ramshackle Victorian where he’d been so happy. During the last three years, he’d been pretty successful in fending off all those memories, but they were making a hell of a comeback now, and he didn’t like that one bit.
He snatched a magazine from a stack on the coffee table and began to thumb through it in search of a distraction. It was a bad choice, he realized, when page after page of pouty lips and lithe limbs flashed before his eyes. He tossed it on the table, wondering, where was Field and Stream when he needed it?
“Lieutenant?”
Sara Campbell’s face appeared in the doorway, smiling for no particular reason Joe could imagine other than making him want to smile almost sappily in return.
“The coffee’s on,” she said. “Give me two minutes to take a shower and change, all right?”
“Take all the time you need,” Joe said with a sigh, fairly certain that she would anyway, and not all that reluctant to enjoy the warmth of the fire and to savor the peacefulness of this room a little while longer. Well, hell. The Ripper had been at it for nearly a year and a half. He didn’t suppose another hour or two would make all that much difference.
“What do you mean, you don’t remember?” Joe clicked his ballpoint pen closed, then clicked it open again.
“I don’t remember.”
“Let’s try this again, Miss Campbell. The pickup hit your left front fender. The guy jumped out. He opened your door and grabbed you. Pulled you out of your vehicle.”
“Yes. I remember that.”
“And?”
“I screamed. I struggled. I remember hitting him and trying to scratch him, only there was no place to scratch because of his coat and gloves and that mask.”
“Right. Then you pulled off the mask.”
“Yes. There was a kind of tassel on the top, and I grabbed it as hard as I could.” She took a sip of her coffee and put the cup in the saucer with deliberation. “Everything’s a blur after that, Lieutenant. I’m sorry.”
Joe clicked his pen again and recrossed his legs. Blur wasn’t going to cut it, dammit. He was usually a better interrogator than this, but he kept getting distracted by the geography of Sara Campbell. She’d changed out of a loose tunic into a black wool turtleneck that fit her like a wet suit and a pair of jeans that might as well have been denim skin. Ordinarily he didn’t notice women’s clothes, but ordinarily clothes didn’t curve and swell and sway the way Sara Campbell’s did.
Her hair was damp from her shower, framing her freshly scrubbed face in soft auburn curls and brushing against the high neck of her sweater. She looked good in black, he thought. Edible. Like licorice.
He cleared his throat. “You looked at him after you yanked the mask off, right? Before he slugged you?”
“I must’ve looked at him,” she said.
“And? Dark? Light? Mustache? Anything?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He put the pen in his shirt pocket and let his notebook flop closed. The little growl that issued from his throat was one of frustration, but it made the woman wince.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, drawing her feet beneath her and retreating further into the pillowed corner of the big couch. She gazed at the fire a second, then at him. “Look. I know the accident was his fault. I know he assaulted me. But I’d just as soon forget it ever happened. You don’t have to arrest him, Lieutenant. I have no intention of pressing charges.”
Leaning his head back, Joe closed his eyes and let out a long breath. Okay. He hadn’t wanted to frighten her, but maybe that was unavoidable. “Are you familiar with the Ripper, Miss Campbell?” he asked quietly.
“Sure. Who isn’t?”
He straightened, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and fixed her with the most intense gaze, the most grim expression he knew how to muster. “I think that was him. Yesterday. The guy in the ski mask.”
Her eyes grew a little wider, and her mouth tensed. Otherwise, she held absolutely still. “What are you saying?”
“That we’ve been chasing a phantom killer for nearly eighteen months, and until yesterday, nobody—nobody but his victims—had ever seen his face.”
She stared at him, her green eyes growing wider, her breath quickening a little, her lips compressing into a pale line.
“You saw him. When you pulled off that mask, you saw his face.”
“But I didn’t!”
He kept his voice level but insistent. “You saw him.”
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “Oh, God. Maybe I did. Maybe. But I just don’t remember.”
“Just close your eyes a minute and try.”
Her green eyes disappeared behind long, dark lashes, giving Joe an opportunity to let his eyes freely and boldly survey each and every curve o
f black wool and faded denim. He should have felt guilty. Like a Peeping Tom. But he didn’t. There was no malice in his gaze, and God knew there was no intent of harm or anything else. He was just taking in the view. An enchanted tourist in Sara Campbell’s corner of the world.
The weather must have taken another cold turn because, while he gazed at Sara, he heard sleet pattering on the windows and wind slapping at a shutter somewhere. The sounds of the storm made the room feel all the more cozy, and suddenly he dreaded leaving, going back to the station house and inevitably to his cold, spare apartment with its unmade pullout bed that hadn’t seen its sofa incarnation since he’d first wrestled it open nearly three years ago.
While Sara, behind closed eyes, tried to conjure up the face of the Ripper, Joe found himself trying to imagine the bed where she slept. It would have to be even more cozy and inviting than this. A big bed. Maybe brass. With a comforter as thick as a pillow, but weightless all the same. Soft white sheets where her fragrance lingered, and her warmth...
The pager on his belt emitted a harsh series of beeps, jerking open his eyes and putting an end to his reverie. It was just as well, he thought while he unclipped the little black box and read the message in its window. Maggie. Back to business.
Sara Campbell’s eyes were open, too. The sudden beeps had brought her bolt upright on the couch.
“May I use your phone?” Joe asked.
“Sure.” She pointed to the rolltop desk on the opposite side of the room. “It’s right over there.” She stood and reached for her cup and saucer. “I think I’ll have a refill. Can I bring you some?”
“No, thanks.” As he started punching numbers into the phone, he decided not to bother telling Sara that he doubted she’d have time to drink that second cup.
Sara stood at the kitchen sink, gazing into the back yard where sleet pelted the red bricks on the patio and weighed heavily on the limbs of the big blue spruce. Her headache had subsided to a nagging little throb. She rolled her neck, testing the stiffness there, finding that it, too, had eased.
God, it was good to be home, she thought, even if her homecoming had been delayed by 18 hours or so. The accident and the subsequent detour to the hospital only made her savor her sanctuary more. Once Lieutenant Decker was gone, she’d make that long-overdue grilled cheese sandwich and uncork the bottle of Merlot to celebrate.
Or, she thought, maybe she’d invite him to stay and have lunch with her. It was nearly ten-thirty, and she doubted if he’d had any breakfast. Of course, if he was on duty, the wine was probably out of the question, even if he did strike her as somebody who didn’t necessarily play by the rules. She always thought homicide detectives were middle-aged men who wore suits and ties rather than thirtyish hunks in jeans and flannel shirts. Joe Decker looked more like a lumberjack than a cop.
Not that she’d ever seen a lumberjack, she thought, turning from the window to fill her cup. Not that she’d seen the infamous Ripper, either. When she searched her brain, no face came into focus. She could see the ski mask, even feel its wet navy wool on her fingertips. But the face simply refused to materialize no matter how hard she tried.
Lieutenant Decker was still on the phone when she returned to the den so she scooted into her corner of the couch and sipped her coffee, idly perusing him—okay, ogling—while he sat at the rolltop desk, seemingly unaware of her return. His hair was longish, a light brown shot through with just a hint of gray, making Sara revise her estimate of his age to forty, plus or minus two. When he turned a little to his right, she could see his profile, which included a jaw that looked like granite and a nose that looked like it wasn’t quite that hard and had been broken a time or two. Football, she speculated. No, soccer. His jeans, rather than disguise his legs, seemed to emphasize the bunched muscles of his thighs and the long, strong muscles of his calves. He’d look great in shorts.
Her gaze drifted over the leather shoulder holster he wore. It seemed more sexy than dangerous. She couldn’t hear his conversation, but she tuned in to the deep baritone of his voice. That was sexy, too. Then it stopped. He put the phone in its cradle and swiveled in the chair as if he knew she’d been there all along.
“That was Maggie. She’ll be here in a few minutes with your keys. The Land Cruiser wasn’t driveable, so she had them tow it to the dealership for repairs. She figured that’s what you’d want.”
“That’s fine,” Sara said. They could keep it for all she cared. Maybe she’d call them later and see how much they’d give her for it.
“I’m sure they can arrange for you to have a loaner while they’re working on it.”
Sara nodded, thinking it was sweet that the lieutenant was concerned about her transportation or lack of it. Maybe she would ask if he wanted a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of Merlot, after all. No. His partner was on her way. There wasn’t time.
He glanced at his watch, then stood up. A sudden vision of soccer shorts made Sara smile as she watched him walk around the back of the other couch. She felt a tiny pang when he picked up his leather jacket and shrugged into it. But then he picked up her trench coat, holding it up, open.
“Ready?” he asked.
Sara blinked. Ready? “For what?”
“We’re taking you down to the station house to go through some mug shots.”
It only took a second for her heart to start pounding and her hands to get clammy and that feeling of panic to rise in her throat like an inaudible scream. Then Sara remembered her plan. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before she said, “I’d rather not.”
Now it was Decker who blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said I’d rather not, Lieutenant.”
Chapter 3
His eyes narrowed, and a muscle jerked in his cheek. Decker was obviously used to calling the shots, Sara thought, and he probably didn’t even know the meaning of the word no. Well, he was about to get an education. She wasn’t going to leave her house. Period. That thought alone was enough to slow her racing heart and to keep her from breaking out in a cold sweat.
He was holding her trench coat almost fiercely, the way a matador holds his cape before a bull. “You’d rather not,” he muttered.
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay. Well...” He shook his head slightly, then draped her coat over the back of the couch. “I guess it doesn’t have to be right now. I can come back for you later this afternoon. Four o’clock? How does that sound?”
“Terrible,” she said, crossing her arms.
“Well, you give me a time, then, Miss Campbell.”
It was almost a shout, but not quite. The more annoyed Decker became with her, the more Sara relaxed, the more she reveled in her ability to say no. She hadn’t been completely sure of her resolve yesterday when she’d announced her plan to Dr. Bourne. But suddenly she knew she wasn’t going to cave in to other people’s demands. She was free. Truly. It felt almost like having wings!
“I don’t want to go to the police station at all. If you’d like to bring the photographs here, Lieutenant Decker, I’ll be happy to look at them.”
“That’s against regulations.” His eyebrows were almost touching as he scowled at her. “What about tomorrow if you don’t want to go today?”
“I don’t want to go ever.”
He rolled his eyes and practically growled at her. “I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever heard of agoraphobia, Lieutenant?”
“No,” he snarled. “What’s that? Fear of fuzzy sweaters?”
“Oh, that’s cute. No, it isn’t. It’s what I have. I have panic attacks when I leave my house. So I’m never leaving my house again. Ever!”
He stared at her as if she’d grown a third eye, a second nose and an additional mouth. One that was frothing. “That’s crazy!”
This time he did shout, so Sara shouted back. “It is not crazy, you jerk. It’s just neurotic.”
When Maggie honked a few minutes later to announce her arrival, Joe stalked out
to the car. He nearly wrenched the door handle off getting in, then slammed the door with such vengeance that his partner almost spilled her large paper cup of coffee.
“Jeez, Decker. What’s with you?”
“Not our witness, that’s for sure.” He swore and slapped the dashboard with his open hand. “She won’t come to the station house. Ever!”
“What do you mean—ever?”
“Well, Mag, I guess I mean never, no way, not in a million years and over her dead body. That pretty well sums it up.”
Maggie took a sip of coffee. “What the hell did you say to make her so angry?”
“She’s not angry, dammit. She’s nuts.”
“She seemed pretty sane to me.”
“Ha!” He hunkered down in the passenger seat, hitting his knees against the dash, swearing again.
Maggie turned off the engine with a sigh. “Did she come up with any kind of description of our guy?”
“No.”
“Then she has to come look at the books. Did you explain it to her?”
“She wants us to bring the books to her.”
“We can’t do that. It’s against regulations.” She gave a snort, glaring at the huge house. “Who does this Campbell woman think she is, anyway? The Queen?”
“The queen of nuts,” he muttered. “She says she’s got... Aw, hell. What was it? Ag-something. Agoraphobia.”
“Aw, jeez,” she said softly.
Joe twisted his head toward her. “What? You’ve heard of it?”
Maggie nodded. “Yeah, I have, actually. I have an aunt who hasn’t been out of her house in nearly a dozen years. She used to be able to come to my mom’s for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but now she can’t even do that.”
“Oh, great.”
“Poor Aunt Rose. She couldn’t even go to her daughter’s wedding.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” Joe snapped, but at the same time he was remembering the look of fear on Sara Campbell’s face when he’d told her it was time to go. Still, he couldn’t even pretend to understand. Panicking when a masked man wrestles you from a car was one thing, but to panic over walking out your own front door didn’t make any sense to him.
