by Fiona Brand
Which meant she had taken the time to make arrangements with her lawn-mowing service but not with Taylor. “Did she tell you when she’s due back?”
He shrugged. “The next time I’m scheduled to mow the lawn is two weeks from now, if that helps.”
After dinner, Taylor ran the program Neil had given her to wipe the spyware that had been posing as her old security suite. When her computer was clean, she reinstalled the files she’d saved to disk, then began reviewing the information she still had on the Lopez case. Both Burdett and Bayard would go nuts if they found out she had retained her microfilm and Internet files—in effect, everything the FBI had had on Lopez up until the time she had left.
The room was dim, the computer screen glowing in the dark, before she finished reading the material. Sitting back in the chair, she stretched the kinks out of her neck and shoulders. She had read every word, and some things twice, and she kept coming back to the same conclusion. Since Slater’s arrest the previous year, the only breaks in the case had been the two attempts on her life. Apart from that, the Lopez case was as cold as her own shootings appeared to be.
The fact that the D.C. police department had offloaded her case on the Bureau didn’t mean a thing, either, other than that the FBI had put their hand up for the job. With hundreds of unsolved homicides every year, a nonfatal shooting wasn’t that big a deal. An overworked detective would have taken the break for what it was and handed over the paperwork before the case could get pushed back at him.
Smothering a yawn, she closed the file. Buster, who had spent most of the evening behind the monitor, was sitting on the floor, staring through the glass doors at Letty’s house. Shutting down the computer, she pulled the curtains, blocking the view. Without Letty’s presence, the old villa wasn’t nearly so appealing, and she could do without the reminder about how she’d overreacted the night before.
Fourteen
She called on Neil during her lunch hour. He had managed to track down the server that hosted the account the spyware had been mailing information to, but when he’d failed the security questions relating to the account, the program had tossed him out and now refused to allow him access.
Taylor studied the low-key graphics of the server, a midblue background and a message stating that the user was in breach of the security requirements.
Neil hit a button and the message dissolved. He shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I looked up a physical address for the server. It’s based in D.C.”
Despite the fact that a lot of servers had their offices based in the capital city, the mention of D.C. sent an unpleasant ripple down her spine. Taylor handed Neil another twenty. “What you’ve done is great. If I need any more help, I’ll let you know.”
The last thing she wanted was Neil walking into a dangerous situation. Most servers had prominent logos and advertising. According to Neil, this one hadn’t had anything displayed except the basic log-in menu, then the message locking him out, which was curious in itself. She would pass the information on to Burdett to hand to Colenso although, based on past performance, she wasn’t confident Colenso would follow up on the lead.
A lunchtime yoga class was just finishing when Taylor strolled into the gym.
Mandy, a water bottle dangling from long, elegant fingers, joined her at the front counter. “I just got you a date.”
Taylor almost dropped the file for her one o’clock appointment.
Mandy grinned. “You can thank me later. It’s a double, with me and Dane tomorrow night.” She nodded in the direction of the weights. “You’re with Fischer.”
Taylor glanced across the width of the gym where Dane was talking with Fischer. No prizes for guessing what they were discussing. A split second later Fischer’s gaze locked with hers and sheer panic hit. Biological clock ticking or not, she wasn’t ready.
Friday night. That was tomorrow.
The date was simple, pizza then a nightclub, which meant casual with glitz. In theory that should have been easy, and normally it would have been, but the thought of a date with Fischer terrified her on a basic level.
She’d dated plenty of tough, physical guys, but she had never had such a straightforward physical and emotional reaction to a man before. Aside from that, he intrigued her.
For the first time in her life she understood how women became entangled in relationships they weren’t sure they wanted. With Fischer, nothing was predictable and she wasn’t in control.
After feeding Buster, she showered and changed, keeping it simple—loose hair, black pants and a shell-pink halter top that looked good with her tan. She kept the jewelry low-key and the makeup to a minimum and stepped into heels that pushed her height to six feet. She wouldn’t quite be eyeballing Fischer, but close enough. The effect was elegant, feminine and reserved. She had agreed to the date, but she wasn’t about to serve herself up on a plate. If she gave Fischer an inch he would take the mile.
Checking the load on the Glock, she slipped it into her handbag, collected a cashmere wrap and strolled to the curb to wait. She didn’t feel comfortable standing out on the street with the neighbors’ curtains twitching, but she didn’t want Fischer on her doorstep or inside her house. Within seconds, Fischer pulled up, climbed from the truck and came around to open the passenger-side door. Dressed in dark, close-fitting pants and a shirt made of some light, gauzy fabric, the dangerous, male edge she’d glimpsed was accentuated in a subtle way. The clothing was expensive, but in no way did it make him look soft. She checked his pierced ear, which still lacked the vanity of an earring. Getting into the truck, she decided she would have been disappointed if he’d given in to the cliché.
Friday nights in Cold Peak were reassuringly like Friday nights in any town. The cafés and bars were overflowing, the streets filled with couples strolling. Schoolkids were out in force in their trucks and cars, blasting everyone within a mile radius with their stereos.
The pizza café was cheerful and bustling, with bright red tablecloths and ultraslim waitresses wrapped in long black aprons. After they’d ordered they sat back, conversation stifled by the volume of noise and the music pounding from the club next door.
When the bill arrived, Fischer took charge of it.
Fischer’s gaze connected with hers. “Where I come from, the man always pays for the lady.”
The waitress was already at the counter, swiping the card. If she wanted to cancel the transaction, she would have to make a scene. “Where exactly is that?”
“Louisiana.”
Suddenly, Fischer fell into context. Taylor had once spent a week in New Orleans and when she was there the qualities that set Southerners apart had struck her forcibly. The frank enjoyment of the rituals of courtship—the blunt appreciation of sex—and the slow, relaxed approach that made Southerners appear lazy when they were anything but.
When the check was settled they strolled next door to the nightclub. Seconds later they were caught up in the crush of the dance floor. As Taylor threaded her way into a gap on the floor, a couple moved back, almost hitting her. Fischer’s arm curled around her waist, the heat of his palm burning through the silk of her halter as he jerked her against his chest.
He released her almost instantly, but not before Taylor registered the fact that he was aroused and didn’t seem bothered that she knew it. The moment threw her straight back to the encounter outside the bank, when he’d made no bones about the fact that he found her attractive.
The music changed, a slower, bluesy number. The dance floor emptied out a little, leaving more room. Taylor took a deep breath and went into Fischer’s arms, keeping her distance. The hold was loose and unthreatening; she’d danced this way hundreds of times before.
The music cycled back into a disco beat. Mandy waved at her from the edge of the dance floor, where she and Dane had retreated in favor of edging closer to the bar. Taylor waved back, taking the opportunity to step away from Fischer and fill her lungs with oxygen. Automatically, she scanned the occupants of the
club. The drab lines of a dark suit jacket and the neatly trimmed back of a male head, quickly swamped by bright T-shirts and sequined tops, made her stiffen.
“What is it?”
Taylor studied the jostling crowd, her stomach tight, her heart pounding from more than just exertion. “I thought I just saw someone I knew.”
It hadn’t been the tall guy with glasses, or Lopez. She would have known if it had been Lopez.
Fifteen
Taylor stared at the swirling crowd. “I need to leave.”
She could have made a mistake. It was more than likely the man she had seen sidling through the crowded nightclub had been familiar on a professional level, not a personal one. Maybe an agent or a narcotics cop working Cold Peak’s nightclub scene.
When Fischer’s fingers closed on hers, she didn’t argue. After a quick detour to let Mandy and Dane know they were leaving, they threaded their way outside.
Fischer released her the second they stepped outside. Taylor positioned her handbag to give her easier access to the gun if she needed it. She skimmed the crowded café tables set out on the sidewalk and the groups of teenagers spilling out onto the street, but there was no sign of the man she’d seen in the nightclub.
They turned a corner and strolled toward Fischer’s truck, footsteps echoing in the empty street. With every step the sound of the nightclub receded, but Taylor couldn’t relax. For a split second the man she’d glimpsed had seemed familiar.
Maybe what she was feeling was just another stage of paranoia. But with her track record, she couldn’t afford to make assumptions.
A buzzing sound broke the silence. Fischer flipped his phone open and set it against his ear.
A monosyllabic reply later and he slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Sorry about that. Business.”
At eleven o’clock at night? “I thought your business was personal training.”
He shrugged. “I don’t spend all of my time in gyms.”
The sound of a window closing in one of the apartments overhead made the skin at her nape tighten. Both times she had been shot it had been from apartment buildings. The ones in Cold Peak weren’t as high or as elaborate as either of the buildings in Washington or Wilmington had been, but they were high enough to do the job.
She felt warmth down her back as Fischer moved closer, his proximity distracting.
“Anything wrong?”
She scanned the apartment block. Four up, six across. Twenty-four balconies. Her attention dropped to the parking area out front and the service alley to one side, both of which were well lit. Common sense told her that if there was a shooter, he would be opening a window to get a clear shot, not closing it. “Nothing. I just like to watch my back.”
“Anything to do with this?”
His fingers brushed the scar just below her shoulder blade and adrenaline surged for the second time that evening. The scar was still ultrasensitive, but that didn’t explain the intensity of her reaction, or the sudden conviction that he knew it was a bullet wound. She stepped away, reestablishing her personal space. “It’s nothing. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Fischer’s truck pulled up at the curb outside her front gate. The light she’d left on in the kitchen glowed warmly, but that wasn’t what compelled her attention. Beneath the glare of street lighting the pale glow of paper strewn on the sidewalk in front of Letty’s gate was clearly visible.
Taylor climbed out of the truck and walked over to examine the litter, which turned out to be a collection of envelopes and advertising flyers which had obviously dropped out of Letty’s mailbox. A breeze must have blown the mail across the sidewalk.
Looping the strap of her handbag over one shoulder, she gathered up the papers. When she straightened, she noticed one of the curtains had been partially pulled aside, leaving a gap of a few inches. The previous day, when she had walked around the house to speak to Hansen, the curtains had been pulled.
Shoving the mail down in a pile beneath the mailbox, she glanced at Fischer, who had stepped out of the truck. “Something’s wrong. Wait here.”
She extracted the Glock from her purse, no longer concerned with hiding her enforcement background. The metallic snap as she chambered a round was preternaturally loud as she strode down the front path. Surveying the blank windows and the shadowed areas to either side of the house, she stepped up onto the porch and tried the door. It was locked. A faint scraping sound jerked her head around. Fischer had followed her. She caught the gleam of a key in his hand.
“It was under a pot plant. People are predictable.”
Not always, she thought grimly, as he stepped past her, unlocked the door and pushed it open in one smooth motion.
Glock still in a two-handed grip, she stepped past Fischer and stumbled to a halt as the stench hit her in a wave. Cold light from the streetlamps washed across the hall. Letty was lying crumpled on the hall runner, one side of her head oddly misshapen.
With her hand clamped over her nose and mouth, she crouched down to get a closer look at the wound and the dark stain on the carpet, then rose to her feet and backed out of the hallway onto the front step, taking care not to touch anything.
Judging from the lack of blood, Letty had died instantly. The fact that the blood was dried meant she had been dead for some time, at least a couple of days. In all likelihood she had died the day Buster had moved into Taylor’s place, which meant her body had been here when Taylor had done her nighttime circuit of the house.
The implications began to pile up. If Letty had been dead that long, that meant someone else had moved the curtains, and not just on one occasion but over a period of time. The cold-blooded nature of a murderer who had either stayed in the house, or returned after committing the crime, not once, but on at least two occasions, added a level of calculation to the crime that made her feel queasy.
She reached for her cell phone, but Fischer was already calling the cops. Gulping in fresh air, she stepped back into the house.
Fischer’s hand clamped around her arm, halting her before she got more than a half step into the hall. “I’ll go first.”
She considered arguing, then decided against it. Fischer was physically fit, with a cold toughness that was becoming more and more evident. He didn’t have a gun or her enforcement expertise but, if the murderer was still inside the house, she couldn’t ask for better backup.
Flattening herself against the wall, she let Fischer glide past. A thin flicker of light indicated that he had a penlight, which meant they wouldn’t need to risk switching on lights and thereby compromising any prints left on the light switches. Cold Peak’s finest would have a fit when they found out they had walked through their crime scene, but after what had happened in Wilmington—even though the M.O. was totally different—Taylor needed to know if Letty’s killing could in any way be related to the two attempts on her life.
Keeping one hand clamped over her nose and mouth, she followed in Fischer’s silent wake and began a systematic check of the house. The sitting room was a mess, the television, VCR and stereo gone. Within seconds she had established that the spare room downstairs and the upstairs bedrooms were undisturbed, which made sense if this had been a simple appliance theft. The bedrooms were filled with heavy, old-fashioned furniture; there wasn’t a piece of digital equipment in sight.
Aside from the sitting room, the kitchen was the only room that wasn’t as neat as a pin. The remains of a meal and a number of dirty plates and utensils littered the table and the kitchen counter was covered in dishes that had been washed but not put away.
The scene in the kitchen didn’t make sense. From the partially filled sink and the already cleaned dishes stacked in a drainer, it looked like Letty had finished her evening meal and had been in the process of drying and putting away dishes, which didn’t explain why a fresh mess had been made.
Unless the killer had decided to help himself to a meal from the leavings in Letty’s fridge.
As repulsive as t
he thought was, if that was the case, it was manna from heaven for the Cold Peak PD. Lifting prints off the crockery and cutlery would be child’s play.
When Fischer jerked his head toward the door, Taylor followed him out. As she skirted Letty’s body she noticed a kitchen towel lying on the hall floor and the picture of what had happened became clear. Letty must have been in the kitchen drying dishes when the doorbell had rung. She had opened the front door with a towel in her hand; the thief had hit her on the head, then walked inside. He had stolen the TV, VCR and the stereo, then helped himself to a meal.
The assault appeared to be a straightforward blow to the head with a blunt instrument, no exotic weapons, no weird aberrations, just old-fashioned brute force mixed with a dose of miscalculation that had shunted the Cold Peak appliance thefts into the murder category. Although that didn’t explain why the killer had come back to the house later. Revisiting the scene of the crime wasn’t the kind of behavior practiced by appliance thieves, unless there was more to steal. That clearly hadn’t been the case here because, aside from the sitting room, the rest of the house appeared to be intact and the Buick was still parked in the garage.
Cold congealed in her stomach when she realized that the killer must have been in residence when she had walked around Letty’s house in the dark. With Letty dead and the house securely locked, that was the only explanation for the curtains that had moved. It also pointed to the fact that the killer had either stayed there for at least two days or else come back again at intervals, which posed the burning question: Why?
Apart from that aberration, it seemed cut-and-dried that Letty had been just one more victim in the rash of appliance thefts in Cold Peak, only this time she’d had the misfortune to be at home when the perpetrator had called.
