by Mary McBride
Maybe that was why he’d beat it out of there so fast this afternoon, he thought while he gazed around the hellhole he called home and compared it to the palace on Westbury Boulevard with its cool marble and thick carpets and museum-quality works of art. Not that he thought all that glitz meant much to her, but it was her customary glitz all the same. Way out of his league even when he’d been the proud owner of a three-story Victorian. Now that he resided in the black hole of Calcutta, she was more than out of his league. She was out of his universe.
He’d left her without suggesting they go out on an official date sometime partly because he didn’t want to hear her say no, partly because he was hoping she’d invite him back to her sweet sanctuary for another firelit dinner.
Well, she didn’t, did she?
That’s what happens when you take your eye off the ball, Decker. That’s what you get when you stop playing cop and start playing house, you jerk The lady’s safe now. She doesn’t need you anymore.
What he needed was to put a good night’s sleep between himself and Sara Campbell. He shrugged out of his shoulder holster, then didn’t even bother taking off his shoes when he slung himself out on his squeaky, bar-across-the-backbone bed.
It was still dark when his phone jolted him awake. Joe glanced at his watch before he answered. It was six-thirty in the morning, which meant he’d slept about five hours even though it felt like five minutes. He reached for the receiver without getting up.
“Decker.”
“We’ve got trouble, partner.”
Maggie’s voice made him sit straight up. “Tell me.”
“It turns out our Peeping Tom was in the psych ward at the state hospital in Bronson when the Ripper killed victims four and five. Guess why he was in the psych ward.”
“For confessing to another crime he couldn’t possibly have committed,” Joe answered flatly.
“Bingo.”
He swore softly into the phone.
“There’s more, Joe.”
“What?” He didn’t like the way Maggie’s voice dropped to an ominous register.
“A woman was killed last night. About two o’clock, the ME thinks. From the looks of it, she’s victim number eight.”
Joe swore again. “I’ll change clothes and be right there, Mag.”
“Wait a minute. There’s more. The woman was found in the back seat of her Land Cruiser in an alley just off Ninth and Prospect. That’s just—”
“A couple blocks from Sara’s house.” He finished for her even though his heart was clogging his throat. He swallowed hard. “Maggie...”
“I know. I’ve already put you on today’s sick list so you can get right over there. In the meantime I asked Fuller and Bristol to check in on her while they’re on patrol.”
“You’re a peach, Mag. Talk to you later.”
He hung up, stuffed his last clean pair of jeans and a shirt into his gym bag and was out the door in three minutes flat.
When her front doorbell rang at six forty-five, Sara was pouring herself a second cup of coffee. She shoved the pot under the drip basket and put her half-filled mug on the counter with a thud, then raced to the door, hoping it was Joe Decker, thinking that it had to be because nobody else would ring her doorbell at such an ungodly hour.
She called, “Who is it?,” anticipating his rich and familiar baritone in reply. It’s me, babe. Open up. But the answer that came through the closed door wasn’t what she wanted so badly to hear.
“Patrolmen Fuller and Bristol, ma’am. Just checking to see if you’re okay.”
Not as okay as she’d been one second before, Sara thought bleakly. She opened the door. “Good morning.”
The taller of the two men touched the brim of his cap. “Morning. Sorry to. disturb you. Sergeant O’Connor asked if we’d stop by and see how you’re doing this morning. Is everything okay, Miss Campbell?” He peered over her shoulder several times while he spoke, inspecting the foyer behind her.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. Why wouldn’t it be? she wondered. With the South Side Ripper behind bars, she wasn’t in jeopardy anymore. Maybe Maggie O’Connor thought Sara was such a wimp at the lineup the day before that she’d come totally unglued overnight. “I appreciate your stopping by. Thank Sergeant O’Connor for me, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The tall policeman, Fuller, was still peering into the foyer behind her, seemingly reluctant to leave her doorstep.
Well, maybe he just wanted a glimpse of the gaudy Campbell mansion, she thought. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Or could I pour you some for the road?”
“No, thanks. We...”
The sound of a souped-up engine approaching fast on Westbury drew their attention from Sara, and the cops had barely turned to look when Joe’s Mustang whipped into the driveway and slid to a stop beside their patrol car. He was out of the car and trotting up the sidewalk faster than Sara’s heart could turn a complete somersault.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” the shorter of the two patrolmen said.
“Thanks for stopping, guys,” Joe said just before his gray eyes locked on Sara. “Are you okay, Miss Campbell?”
It took a second for it to register on Sara that the formality was for the sake of their audience. “I’m fine, Lieutenant,” she responded, taking the hint.
“Well, we’ll take off now,” Patrolman Fuller said.
“Thanks again, guys,” Joe said, stepping aside to let them pass, but not taking his eyes off Sara.
“Thanks,” Sara called, not taking her eyes off Joe.
They stood there, Joe on the doorstep, Sara just inside, for the longest moment. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she was having a panic attack until she suddenly realized it wasn’t that at all. She was having a Decker attack.
She stepped back and he came in, closing the door behind him.
“Thank God—” he said.
“I’m so—” she said.
Their words overlapped, and the next thing Sara knew she was overlapped by the cold leather of Joe’s sleeves and he was holding her so tight she almost couldn’t breathe.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Damn. I should have stayed last night. I should have known.”
Sara had never felt so okay in her entire life. Well, except for not being able to inhale or exhale while her rib cage was clamped in the vise of Joe’s arms. She pressed her hands against his chest just a bit, easing back a few inches, lifting her face to his. “I’m so glad you came back.”
There was that look again. Intense. Sensual. Heartstopping. That gray gaze dropping to her mouth. And this time Sara was determined not to let that imminent kiss escape her. She lifted on tiptoe, whispering his name.
He made a kind of whimpering sound deep in his throat just before he lowered his head to kiss her. Then his mouth covered hers with such sheer hunger that Sara felt as if she were being consumed—by Joe, by flames, by the flood tide of desire that swept through her.
His hand moved under her sweater, cool against her burning skin, while his warm tongue teased the seam of her lips, drawing forth a little moan that Sara couldn’t have stifled if she’d wanted to.
It was that unmistakable signal of surrender that seemed to bring Joe back to reality. He lifted his head, and in mere seconds Sara watched his wolfish hunger turn to sheepish remorse. He let her go, then ripped his fingers through his hair, cursing softly.
“I’m sorry. That just kind of got away from me.”
Sara, whose own restraint felt harder to come by, who wasn’t sorry in the least, could only imagine what might have happened if that had indeed gotten away from this man’s fierce control.
She fashioned a wobbly smile on her wet lips. “Me, too,” she said. “But I’m still glad you’re back.” Then she blinked. “Why are you back, Decker?”
Sara hadn’t read the morning paper yet or listened to the news, so over coffee in the kitchen, Joe explained why he was back. The professional part, at least.
“But I thought that man I saw in the lineup yesterday had confessed,” she said.
“Turns out he’s a professional confessor, not to mention a nutcase.” He immediately regretted his choice of words when Sara narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “No, I mean a card-carrying psycho. A real nutcase.”
“Oh. As opposed to being an imitation one, I guess.” She laughed then, just a little, before the amusement left her eyes and worry crept in. “It makes sense that I didn’t recognize him, then. So, if that man wasn’t the Ripper, we have to assume he’s still on the loose. Right? Where was this poor woman attacked? On the South Side, again?”
Joe hadn’t yet told her where the most recent victim had been discovered. He put down his coffee cup and took Sara’s hand when he did. “Three blocks from here.”
“Oh, my God,” she breathed.
“It gets worse, I’m afraid. Her body was found, in a Land Cruiser.”
It looked as if she almost stopped breathing, and it was another moment before she said, “He thought it was me, didn’t he? The Ripper thought he was killing me.”
“It looks that way.”
She pulled her hand from his and went to the coffeepot, then proceeded to pour more hot liquid onto the counter than into her cup. She just stood there shaking.
Joe took the pot from her hand, replaced it on its warmer, took her cup and put it down before she dropped it. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Sara. He can’t get past me to get to you. I won’t let him.”
Standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her, this time protectively, not with the outright lust he’d displayed a little while ago. Regretting that lapse in control, he whispered against her hair, “I was out of line earlier, Sara. I’m here to protect you. That’s all.”
“Well, then I was out of line, too. Don’t apologize for that, Decker.” She gave a tiny sigh, leaning her head against his shoulder. “What are we going to do now? About the Ripper, I mean.”
“What we should do now is move you away from here.” Even as he said it, he could feel her body tense against his, and he wasn’t at all surprised when she said no, she wouldn’t go, couldn’t go. “In that case,” he told her, “we just stay here and wait.”
“How long will you be assigned to stay with me?” she asked.
“Assigned,” he murmured, reluctant to tell her he wasn’t here in an official capacity, that the department’s budget wouldn’t stretch to protect her life. Unwilling, too, to give her the impression that he’d rather be here with her than anyplace else in the world. “As long as it’s necessary.”
“That’s good.” She relaxed a little more against him.
“So I guess you’re stuck with me, Campbell, for the duration.”
“I’d say it’s more like you’re stuck with me, Decker.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I ever pulled that man’s mask off. I should have just handed him my car keys and told him to have a nice day.”
“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t ever have had the chance to eat green noodles and purple lettuce.”
She laughed. “Oh, I see. This is all a part of your culinary destiny. then.”
“Maybe.” Maybe a lot more than that.
His destiny, Joe decided a few days later, in addition to eating weird food, was taking cold showers and doing a batch of punishing push-ups and sit-ups each night after Sara had gone to bed. After going three years without being attracted to any woman, much less turned on by one, he wasn’t used to feeling like a randy teenager twenty-four hours a day.
Distracted as he was by her face and the flair of her hips and the fit of her sweaters, it was a good thing the Ripper hadn’t made a move since he’d killed his eighth victim Thursday night. It was Sunday night. All quiet on the Campbell front. Well, except for the ache in Joe’s groin.
He put another log on the fire, then wandered to the kitchen where Sara had disappeared a while before. From the hallway he could hear the clamor of metal pots and pans, and above that Sara humming another oldie, only slightly off key. That made him smile, but it was the unexpected sight of her with flour on her face, in her hair, all over, that made him laugh out loud.
“You look like you’ve been snorting coke,” he said, touching the flour-dusted tip of her nose. “I might have to arrest you.”
“Not until I’m done with this, Officer.” She began to pour batter into a round metal pan.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a birthday cake.”
He remembered that he’d read her date of birth on her driver’s license and that he hoped she lived to see the ripe old age of thirty-one. Had it only been last Monday, he wondered, that Sara Campbell was merely the stats on a driver’s license? In less than a week, she’d worked her way into his every waking thought, his every aching thought.
“For you?” he asked.
“For me.” She was wielding a plastic spatula, coaxing the last of the batter from the bowl. “Want to come to my party tomorrow, Decker?”
“Sure. I’m assuming it’s here.”
“Home, sweet home.” She licked a bit of batter from her finger, and Joe almost groaned at the sight.
“And who else is coming to this party?” he asked, watching her lush derriere as she bent to slide the cake pans in the oven.
“Let’s see. There’s me. There’s you.” She closed the oven door and stood up, turning to him with a grin. “That’s it. A party of two.”
He was absurdly relieved. “Do we get to wear funny hats and play pin the tail on the donkey?”
“No. But we get to play dress-up and drink copious amounts of champagne.”
“I like the champagne part. The dress-up part isn’t going to work, though, unless you have a tuxedo in my size just lying around somewhere.”
She was at the sink, rinsing things. “I thought we could have one delivered from one of those rental places.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “How long does it take to bake those things?”
“About half an hour. Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Decker.” She shot him a suspicious look over her shoulder. “This wouldn’t involve going anywhere, would it? Because if it does...”
Chapter 8
“I really don’t want to do this, Joe,” Sara muttered as he backed out of her driveway. “I really, really don’t want to do this.”
“Well, I really, really, really do.” Once on Westbury, he drove east, which wasn’t the way to their destination, but he wanted to make certain they weren’t being followed. Not only that, he wanted to cruise around the streets where the Ripper had cruised the night before. Since Sara didn’t know where his apartment was, she would be none the wiser for the detour.
The streets were quiet on this cold Sunday evening. The snow that had fallen earlier in the week was piled high along the curbs. Joe didn’t think he’d be so lucky as to see a guy wearing a ski mask out for a stroll, but if the guy had pinpointed Sara’s neighborhood somehow, he might be lurking somewhere out here.
“This is where the murder happened last night,” Sara said. “Isn’t it?”
“Pretty close.”
She shivered, then reached to make sure her door was locked. “Your door’s locked, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t want to unnerve her any more than he already had, so Joe turned onto Westbury and headed southwest toward his place. Oncoming headlights revealed Sara’s pale, tense face. “Relax, birthday girl. We’ll pick up my tux and be back to your place in no time. Jeez, I hope it doesn’t smell like mothballs. I never thought about that.”
“When was the last time you wore it?”
He had to think about that a minute. Obviously it was more than three years ago, before Edie died. Then, suddenly, he remembered. It was the night she received the Woman of the Year award from the local bar association. When the memory surfaced, he expected it to be accompanied by the customary constriction in his throat. But this time it wasn’t.
> “I’m sorry, Joe. Forget I asked. I know the memory must be painful,” Sara said.
“No. That’s okay,” he said, amazed that it wasn’t painful at all. It was just what it was—a memory. Bittersweet, perhaps. But not painful. “The last time I wore it was to a bar association dinner just over three years ago. It’s been hanging away in a garment bag ever since.”
“Well, if it smells like mothballs, we’ll have almost twenty-four hours to air it out. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll wear mosquito repellent instead of perfume, then we’ll both reek.”
The streets grew narrower and the buildings shabbier as they drove. Sara, he figured, had never been in this section of the city before. He drove past his building, ashamed of the way he’d let his life deteriorate, imagining she’d see something about him that he never wanted anybody to see—the disrepair of his soul. This had been a lousy idea from the start. Dammit. But he’d started it, so he might just as well finish it. He circled around the block and parked between two old rustedout pickups in front of his redbrick hellhole.
At least somebody had swept out the leaves and candy wrappers that always blew into the dim little lobby, he thought when they entered. He sniffed the stagnant air, replete with cooking oil and decades of poorly housebroken pets.
“Second floor,” he said, leading a quiet Sara up the stained, worn stairs. He paused after inserting his key in the lock of the scuffed and battered door. “Expect the worst,” he said, trying to grin. “My cleaning lady quit a year and a half ago.”
He gritted his teeth, turned the key and pushed in the door.
When Sara stepped over the threshold, the last thing on her mind was critiquing the decor. All she wanted to do was find a chair and sit. Her heart had begun to thump erratically as soon as she had gotten out of the car, and her head felt as light as a helium balloon. If she didn’t sit down, she thought, she was going to throw up.
